Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) (3 page)

It must have been very difficult, being Sloane.

Andy pressed the button that would broadcast the conversation going on in the other room. Ciara was talking. “—opinion, do you feel Miss Marchen is overly inclined to put the needs of individuals on the ATI spectrum above the needs of individuals who are
not
on the spectrum?”

“In my
opinion
, the snow bitch has always been too soft on the stories,” said Sloane. I tensed. She continued: “If it was up to me, we’d kill them all. Princes, princesses, goosegirls, it doesn’t matter. Slit their throats and let Grimm sort them out.”

“So Miss Marchen shows mercy when it isn’t warranted?”

“No,” said Sloane. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table, and nodded toward Ciara’s files. “You have a write-up on me in there?”

“You know I do,” said Ciara.

“It probably says something like ‘Sloane Winters is impulsive, temperamental, and poses a possible danger to herself and others. While she is a highly effective field agent, the need to team her with individuals who will balance her moods cannot be overstated. Her aggression is often focused toward individuals who suffer from placement on the ATI spectrum. Recommend she be working with or under one or more individuals who show increased empathy to people in that situation.’” Sloane’s smile was sudden, and seemed to contain too many teeth. “There’s probably a lot of correction fluid on the second to last sentence. ‘ATI spectrum’ is pretty new language. Not what we used to call people like you and me.”

“What was that?” asked Ciara, sounding horrified and fascinated in equal measure.

“Cursed. They called us cursed, or story touched, or both, and they said I always had to be paired with a princess or a second son, because otherwise, I’d burn down the world.” Sloane kept smiling. “I think Henry’s too soft because I think you’re all too soft. Let me slit a few throats and see how the fairy tales back off this region. If you’re not willing to do that, Henry’s what I need to keep me under control.”

“Damn,” breathed Andy. “Girl’s a menace.”

“She knows what she is, and she makes sure she doesn’t take it out on us,” I said. “That’s the definition of a hero in my book.”

On the other side of the glass, Sloane was still smiling. “They’ve taken my muzzles away before,” she said. “That should be in your files too. Take a look at how that always ends, and get back to me, huh?”

# # #

Sloane sauntered into the observation room like she didn’t have a care in the world, and scowled when she saw the coffee cup in my hand. “I came for coffee,” she said. “If you have consumed all the coffee, I am going to straight-up fucking murder you, and drink a latte out of your skull.”

“You forgot to mention poison,” I said, taking a sip from my cup and making an exaggerated “mmm” face before turning my attention back to the window. Demi was stepping into the room. Out of everyone on my team, I was most worried about her. Not because she was going to slip and say something she shouldn’t: because she had been as victimized by Birdie Hubbard as I was, if not more, and we were still figuring out where her fault lines were.

I had known I was on the ATI spectrum from the time I was born. Skin as white as snow was a pretty big indicator. But Demi . . . her world had been perfectly normal, up until the day Sloane had crashed into her music theory class and dragged her out by the arm. She’d been given no warning of what the world wanted her to become: she hadn’t even known the Bureau existed until we’d dropped her off the deep end and told her to get to work. We hadn’t been fair to Demi in a lot of ways. We’d done what we had to do in order to save the world. Sometimes I wasn’t sure she could forgive us for that. After all,
her
world had essentially ended the second she saw Sloane’s smiling face.

“I’m trying not to poison people this week,” said Sloane. “I figure it’ll make it more surprising when I spike your food with ground glass.” She sashayed more than stomped to the coffee machine and snagged a cup. “So what, are we having a party in here? Andy, what are you doing? You haven’t had your review yet.”

“Yeah, I have,” said Andy. We both turned to stare at him. He shrugged. “I’m not on the spectrum, remember? HR sent a normal auditor yesterday afternoon to ask me a bunch of questions. Which were nowhere near as invasive as the ones you people seem to be getting. I mostly got ‘do you worry about being killed by your coworkers,’ and ‘are you interested in moving up within the Bureau.’ That sort of crap.”

“I don’t think questions about murder are normal in most agencies,” I said. “You didn’t tell us you’d already had your review.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to make you self-conscious before you’d had your brain picked.” Andy sipped his own coffee. “I can’t do much to make this easier. That was something I could do, and so I did it.”

“Thank you.” On the other side of the glass, Demi was rattling off her full name and looking at Ciara like she was afraid the other woman was going to unhinge her jaw and swallow the diminutive Pied Piper whole. I grimaced. “Better start another pot. Demi’s going to need it when she gets out of there.”

“I think chamomile tea might be a better bet,” said Andy.

I pressed the button to let us hear what was happening.

“Now, Demi, I understand that your awakening on the spectrum was triggered by Agent Winters,” said Ciara, looking down at her notes. “How did that make you feel?”

“Um,” said Demi. “Like I was losing my mind, or being pranked, or maybe both. For a long time, I thought this was all some sort of a really lousy joke, you know? Like a reality show on MTV, only probably not MTV because fairy tales aren’t edgy enough. Only I never signed any waivers, and then I saw things that couldn’t be real, and I guess I came to terms with it. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Ah, yes, choice.” Ciara turned a page. “Were you given a choice about whether or not to become active?”

It felt like my heart stopped in my chest.

We had been facing a pathogenic Sleeping Beauty scenario, an airborne narrative that could have taken out the entire city, maybe even the entire state. There are variations of the story where the kingdom, not just the castle, goes to sleep. If our target had been living one of those variations, we could have lost the
country
. So I’d done what needed to be done. I’d sent Sloane to find me a Pied Piper, someone who could pipe the disease into rats and send them off to drown themselves. She’d found Demi.

Sloane was supposed to be the villain of our team, but I was the one who’d insisted Demi be handed her flute and told what to play. I was the one who’d looked at a scared teenage girl and forced her to become a fairy tale. If I had the same scenario to run over again, I would do the same thing. I would destroy Demi’s life over and over, if that was what it took to save the world. But if they already thought I was favoring fairy tales over regular people, how was this going to look?

“Yes,” said Demi. “Agent Marchen explained what would happen if I didn’t. My family lives in this city. My grandmother lives here. I love my
abuela
. If there was something I could do to save them, I had to do it, no matter how bizarre it sounded. I didn’t really believe what she was telling me, so I guess on some level, I didn’t give informed consent, but she did her best to make me understand, and I’m not sorry. I’ve saved a lot of lives.”

“You’ve also endangered some lives, Demi. Birdie Hubbard was able to subvert your story, and you did some damage. How does that make you feel?”

“Sad,” said Demi. “Like I failed. But not like my team failed me. They didn’t set me up to be taken, and as soon as they knew I was gone, they started trying to get me back. Henry made sure I didn’t have to go away for rehabilitation—she got me back on the field team. My family wouldn’t have understood if I’d disappeared. I owe her a lot for that. She didn’t have to do it. It would have been easier to let me go.”

Easier, yes, but not better, especially not since Demi was active because of me. I sipped my coffee, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel Andy looking at me.

“Shit,” said Sloane. “Who knew the kid was so good at telling stories?”

“Not me,” I murmured. Demi wasn’t lying—quite—but she was twisting the truth like a beanstalk, turning it into something she could climb.

“I see.” Ciara made a note. “Do you feel like Birdie was in the right for wanting to let the narrative take over? There are more people on the ATI spectrum than most would suspect. Letting the narrative do as it likes might have some positive effects.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, you can tell that to the dead.” Demi frowned. “I may be a Pied Piper, but I know where most of the stories would be casting their peasants. My friends and family deserve better than a supporting role in some princess’s happy ending. And if the narrative tried to turn someone I care about into a Cinderella or a Katie Woodencloak, I would find a way to kill it where it stood.”

“Katie Woodencloak—that’s not a name I hear often,” said Ciara. “Where did you hear about that story?”

“Our archivist gives me homework. I do it, ma’am, because I want to be better at my job, and because I never want anyone to get the drop on me the way that Birdie did, ever again.” Demi’s expression hardened. “I’m still me when I’m the Pied Piper. I’ve always been a Pied Piper, I just didn’t know it. But when Birdie twisted my story around to make me bad, I wasn’t me anymore. I was an idea somebody else had. I didn’t like feeling that way. If knowing more about stories most people don’t remember can help keep me from ever needing to feel that way again, then I’m happy to learn.”

“I see.” Ciara made another note. “You were planning to be a concert flautist before all this started. Has that changed?”

“Since I don’t want the entire audience to follow me home, yes,” said Demi. “I’m going to stay with the Bureau. I’m going to learn everything I can, and someday, when the Bureau says I’m ready, I’m going to have my own field team. It turns out I like saving the world.” Demi’s smile was fleeting but sincere. “I think I could wind up being pretty good at it if you give me enough time with the right people.”

“Do you feel that your current teammates are the ‘right people’?”

Demi glanced toward the two-way mirror before focusing on Ciara and nodding firmly.

“Yes,” she said. “I really do.”

# # #

“We’re almost out of coffee,” said Sloane.

“That’s probably a good thing, since I’d like to sleep again this century.” I looked down into my empty cup. I couldn’t help wishing I had something to put in it, like more coffee, or better yet, whiskey. This whole process was nerve-wracking, and not only because I couldn’t tell whether we were giving the right answers. I had downplayed the more problematic aspects of the truth. Demi had outright bent it. Sloane . . . Sloane had been Sloane, which was both the best and the worst we could have hoped for.

Now it was down to Jeff, and I wanted nothing more than to stick my head between my knees and hyperventilate until someone told me the review process was over.

“I’m going to call for pizza,” said Andy. “We can’t survive on donuts alone.”

“Great,” I said. “It should get here right about the same time as my pink slip.”

“Don’t be silly, Princess,” said Sloane. “You’re not gonna get a pink slip. You’re gonna get an all-expenses-paid trip to rehab, and find out firsthand why I’ve always been so resistant to going back there. Won’t that be fun?”

“Not funny,” I said tightly.

“I wasn’t joking,” said Sloane. There was genuine regret in her voice.

What we all called “rehab” was a prison slash counseling center for people afflicted by spectrum-related complications. We called it Childe. Sloane had been sent there repeatedly over the years, after her Wicked Stepsister nature attempted to rear its ugly head and make her start spiking everybody’s drinks with strychnine. She had managed to avoid rehab during her most recent bad patch only because I had vouched for her, and I hadn’t been fully active yet. She seemed to be under control, but how certain was that? What would happen if I was replaced by somebody who didn’t understand that her constant threats and back talk were how she blew off steam and kept herself from doing something that couldn’t be undone?

Sloane smiled sadly as she saw the realization march across my face. “Now she joins the party,” she said. “You’ve been pretty focused on what happens to you if this shit goes south. What happens to the rest of us, Henry? Demi’s barely trained. I’m on a short list to be shipped to Siberia. Jeff’s had one flare too many.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Andy, putting a hand over his phone. “Everybody needs a big guy who can smile for the media.”

“Thanks Andy,” I said.

“Anytime,” he replied, and went back to ordering pizza.

“We’re the best field team this office has had in a hundred years. We close more cases and avert more stories than anybody, because we’re
close
to those stories,” said Sloane. “That also makes us dangerous. The records will bear that out.”

“How would you know that we’re the best field team in a hundred years?” I asked.

Sloane smiled. Technically. She showed me all her teeth, at least. “Because I was on the last best field team.”

“Um, wow.” The voice was Demi’s. We all turned to see her standing in the doorway. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“We watched your interview,” I said. “You did good. And we saved you some coffee.”

“Thank God.” Demi made a direct line for the pot. “You really think I did good?”

“I really do.”

“Did you notice that the lady from HR has blue hair?” Demi waved her hand at the level of her hairline, just to make sure I understood what she was saying. “It was weird.”

“She’s a Bluebeard’s Wife,” I said.

Sloane jerked. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“I
knew
I got narrative off of her.” Sloane shook her head. “I didn’t want to dig too deep. She could’ve been a princess, and then I would’ve had to spend too much energy on not strangling her.”

“On behalf of the ATI Management Bureau, we appreciate your restraint,” I said.