Authors: Amelia Atwater-Rhodes
B
ARELY FORTY-EIGHT HOURS
later, Alysia stood in the parking lot, leaning against the bumper of her one-year-old Subaru and wondering what on earth had possessed her to accept this job.
For the last two years, she had worked in SingleEarth’s IT department. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t much challenge in it, because it was just a job, an excuse to keep up to date and fill the time before she moved on. This new job, working as a mediator at Haven #4, wasn’t glorious, either, but it was an entry-level position on SingleEarth’s crisis team, where someone like Alysia could really make a long-term career.
Long-term. Career. There are two concepts I never thought I’d be interested in
.
Yet here she was, standing in the middle of nowhere while the brisk December wind cut through her, despite her jacket and gloves. Most of the trees in the forest around her were pine, but there were enough bare branches and old, fallen leaves to give it a tired feel.
Haven #4 was set in the woods of western Massachusetts like some kind of bizarre college campus. The buildings were connected with old-fashioned cobbled paths that always made Alysia wonder why an organization dedicated to peace and inclusiveness for all creatures who lived alongside humanity—shapeshifters, witches, vampires, and other oddities Alysia had only ever heard of—couldn’t design a Haven that was wheelchair-friendly.
Of course, Alysia had never met a witch, shapeshifter, or vampire with mobility issues. The witches had even been able to mostly fix Alysia’s bum knee, which had gone to hell again after she’d spent hours kneeling on the floor of the Café au Late. She flexed it now experimentally and hoped she would not need to climb too many stairs to move in. The witches could bring down the recent swelling, but magic could not undo scars that her body now accepted as part of itself.
Her introspective pause gave the welcome wagon time to arrive, in the form of two Haven #4 mediators. They reintroduced themselves warmly, as if they were not all standing under an ominous winter sky.
Alysia had looked up the files of her soon-to-be coworkers, so she knew that the young-looking girl who called herself Lynzi had been in SingleEarth since the 1960s and had been walking the planet Earth for almost a thousand years before
that. The woman with her was Sarik kuloka Mari, a tiger shapeshifter. The word
“kuloka”
translated to “of the tribe,” but Mari wasn’t a real Mistari tribe; it was the name adopted by the few tigers who had abandoned the Mistari homeland and culture and chosen instead to live as citizens of the United States.
Sarik’s features were the striking blend of African and Asian common among tiger shapeshifters, but she had straightened and lightened her hair so it was a shade paler than Alysia’s, and the makeup and clothing she wore dulled her honey-colored, almond-shaped tiger eyes and hid a body built to turn heads. Even her perfume was something subtle and floral, appropriate for a woman whose job was to make people trust her.
Alysia didn’t discriminate much by species. At that moment, the important part was that the two nonhuman girls were probably each able to bench-press Alysia’s weight one-handed. That was nice, since Alysia had not been looking forward to lugging her belongings inside with only human strength and a bad knee.
“This is all you have?” Sarik asked as she and Lynzi maneuvered a large trunk out of the back of the car. The trunk was too bulky for any one person to carry easily, even if it didn’t weigh a ton, but Sarik and Lynzi together were able to manage it. Alysia took her laptop bag and a large duffel containing mostly computer peripherals, which left only one large suitcase behind.
“I’m not much of a material girl,” Alysia replied. Someone from Haven #1 had taught her the term. Some people
connected it to spirituality and some people connected it to Madonna, but one way or another, they tended to smile or chuckle when Alysia used it.
Alysia’s apartment was on the second floor. Lynzi unlocked the door and handed Alysia the key as she explained, “It’s nothing fancy, but Haven Number Four is residential, so we have a fitness room and recreation areas, and you have access to all that.”
“Almost all,” Sarik amended. “There’s a section of the grounds currently being used by a pair of orphaned Mistari cubs we took in a few days ago. I’m sure you heard about them.”
Alysia raked her memory, but nothing relevant surfaced. “I tried to go over everything I could about Haven Number Four before accepting the position, but I must have missed it.”
“An organization-wide memo went out when the cubs were found, calling for someone who speaks their language,” Sarik explained. “I assumed you’d have seen it.”
“I probably did, but I didn’t know any tigers yet,” Alysia answered, “so I wouldn’t have given it much thought.” SingleEarth had thirty-seven Havens in the continental United States, plus one in Alaska and many in other countries. Memos along the lines of “I need an expert in …” or “Does anyone speak …” shot along the network constantly. “Are there any other important guests I should know about?”
“You met Diana Smoke when you interviewed,” Lynzi answered, “but she was only here until we filled your position and will probably head out once she’s sure you’re settled. Her
responsibilities don’t let her stay anywhere long. Where do you want this trunk?”
“Just put it anywhere for now,” Alysia answered as she set her bags on the couch. The one-bedroom apartment wasn’t a palace, but it was a huge step up from the studio she had previously rented. It was also fully furnished and rent-free because mediators were expected to live onsite.
At the sudden intrusion of classical music, each of them glanced toward their phones—except Alysia, who had surrendered her company-provided phone at Central and was still waiting for #4 to provide the smartphone upgrade they had promised.
Lynzi’s first words after “Hello” were “Yes, I’m with Alysia.” Alysia’s ears were not good enough to pick up the reply, but obviously the conversation was not intended to remain a mystery for long. “Keep her there. I’ll bring Alysia right down. Thanks.” Lynzi hung up and, shaking her head, said, “That was Mary, from the admin building. I’ll show you the way. Sarik, do you mind bringing the rest of Alysia’s stuff up?”
“No problem,” Sarik answered. She asked Alysia, “Do you want me to lock up after, or just leave the keys inside?” Alysia didn’t need to speak; her reaction must have shown on her face. “I’ll lock up,” Sarik said. “If I can’t find you, I’ll leave the keys at the front office.”
“I imagine it’s a bit of culture shock, coming here from Central,” Lynzi remarked as they left the apartment.
“A bit,” Alysia admitted.
“After we see what Mary needs, I’ll give you a tour of the
place and introduce you to some of our residents,” Lynzi assured her.
Can she possibly be as nice as she seems?
Alysia wondered. There were not many Tristes in SingleEarth. Her experience with them so far had shown most of them to be powerful beyond comprehension, and arrogant enough to match. Yet Lynzi seemed to be happy playing tour guide.
The lobby of the administration building was utterly nondescript; it could have been any office waiting room. Chairs and couches offered comfortable places to sit and wait while reading one of the popular magazines on the coffee table. The back wall had pamphlets for advocacy and support groups. Some were well-known domestic violence hotlines and shelters, like American Humane. Others described symptoms of “rare” diseases that tended to actually mean the patient had blood that wasn’t entirely human. The pamphlets didn’t say anything about magic or the paranormal but suggested appropriate people to contact about relevant symptoms.
The woman there waiting for them, flipping through a pamphlet on psychorizia, was dressed in a snappy skirt suit and jacket and was—as far as Alysia knew—completely human.
“Madeline Brooks, isn’t it?” Alysia asked, offering an open smile and a handshake to the anchorwoman of one of the national news stations. CNN, ABC, something or other; Alysia couldn’t recall which one. “I’m Alysia Marks. What can I do for you?”
Alysia was almost certain she knew exactly what had brought Madeline to SingleEarth, because she had recently put quite a bit of effort into avoiding this woman’s camera
crew—not entirely successfully, though at least she had only been a nameless background figure instead of an interviewee.
“I’m trying to do a follow-up to Tuesday’s coffee shop holdup,” Madeline said. “One of the victims gave me your information.”
Like many successful reporters, Madeline had a warm, glowing smile and the kind of aura that invited those around her to open up and speak freely. The feeling she inspired was a lie and a trap, but Alysia had always been good at guarding her tongue.
“I would love to help you out,” Alysia said, “but I’m afraid that any information I have is privileged. Why don’t I give you the contact information for our public relations department? They can tell you more about our organization.”
“Your own story wouldn’t be privileged,” Madeline said. “How did you happen to be there?”
“I was just trying to buy a coffee,” Alysia said, with the same innocent charm that had helped her talk her way out of interrogation rooms in the past. “I gave my card to the others because my organization works with trauma survivors, and being held hostage is a traumatic situation. Mary,” she said, turning to the receptionist, “would you help Ms. Brooks here schedule an interview with PR? I’m sure she would love to hear more about our support groups.” With a smile, she turned back to Madeline and added, “It’s always great to get the word out.” She offered her hand, which Madeline shook, because that was what common courtesy demanded. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for another appointment. Madeline, thank you so much for your time.”
Alysia might have been at this particular Haven for less than an hour, but even a lowly member of tech support knew SingleEarth’s company line for reporters. The good people at public relations would feed Madeline Brooks an appropriate story about trauma survivors and the hardships faced by homeless shelters. They would also point her toward organizations that would make a better story for human prime-time news and appreciate the spotlight.
Lynzi followed Alysia into the office in the next room, as if she were the person there for the appointment Alysia had just invented.
“Don’t you think you should stay to make sure she’s effectively sidetracked?” Lynzi asked.
Alysia shook her head. “As long as I’m in her sight, she’ll want to make me the story.”
Lynzi nodded.
As a Triste, Lynzi could have just wiped Madeline’s mind of any interest in Alysia, but she had pointedly stepped back and let the newcomer handle it. That wasn’t trust; it was a test.
“So, did I pass?”
Lynzi feigned surprise for half a second before laughing and saying, “Yes, you passed.”
“How often do people around you forget that you’re the senior member here, and probably the most powerful?” Alysia asked. It was the most polite way she could think of to ask about
what
Lynzi was. Tristes were so rare; it had been surprising to find one in this out-of-the-way spot.
“Most people do—once,” Lynzi answered. “It’s why my teacher chose me. Do you know much about Tristes?”
“A little,” Alysia answered. “I had a friend a while back who was offered training.”
Tristes were like vampires, in that they were not born but made. The process of training and initiating a student was much more intensive than with vampires, however, who were often made and discarded at a whim, only to be picked off by hunters not long after.
“Offered by whom?” Lynzi asked.
“Pandora,” Alysia answered, knowing exactly why the mention of that name made Lynzi wince. Pandora’s methods had left scores of survivors—if some of the worst could even be called that—in SingleEarth wards with broken minds and bodies.
“I was taught by Tatiana,” Lynzi said, “but I am familiar with Pandora’s ways. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
Alysia nodded, startled by the compassion and openness in Lynzi’s response. She
shouldn’t
have been startled—this was SingleEarth, after all—but though she had spent two years at Central, that complex was a small city in itself, with lots of room to get lost in and many people minding their own business.
Lynzi must have sensed the awkwardness Alysia felt, because she turned away and set her hand on the windowpane as she remarked, “We should make sure all your belongings are inside and get your keys back from Sarik, before the storm breaks.”
T
HE SLEET SLAPPING
against the windows had woken Jason well before sunrise, two hours after he had fallen asleep at midnight. He slipped out of bed and away from Sarik, who muttered an incoherent protest, grabbed his pillow, and continued to sleep.
Sarik had been anxious the entire day before, so he was grateful that she slept now. She had asked for a meeting with Diana, only to be denied when an emergency came up at another Haven. The only thing she had confided to him was that Alysia looked familiar.
Alysia had admitted that she had been no angel before she came to SingleEarth, and everyone knew her file was full of unaccounted-for time. Alysia was a stranger to Jason, though,
and unlike Sarik, he had a vampire’s regrettably perfect photographic memory to call upon as he looked at the newest member of SingleEarth Haven #4.
Still, Sarik’s anxiety had rubbed off on him, and now he felt restless.
He crossed soundlessly into the living room and left the bedroom door open a crack so Sarik would know he was still nearby if she woke. It had been a long time since the night terrors had broken her sleep, but the way she tossed and turned before succumbing tonight warned him that they were a possibility now.
Normally, work helped him focus and calm himself, but tonight he was frustrated by an impossibly slow network that continually dropped signal and interrupted even the simplest Web page or download.