Authors: Megan Morgan
Muse turned around. “Well, it’s something we all have to do someday, isn’t it? Some of us sooner than others.” She flashed June a tight smile.
“Maybe. But for all of us, it could be sooner than we know.”
“That’s not very comforting, is it?”
June sagged. “I guess not.”
June went back to the living room and sat down in front of the TV. Muse remained in the kitchen. The silence was heavy and sad.
Muse brought her a cup of black coffee a few minutes later. June took it from her trembling hand. Was the tremor produced by her condition or her state of mind?
“How did you know I like it black?” June asked.
Muse snorted and sat down beside her. “Really?”
“Guess it’s a surface thought, huh?”
“As soon as you saw me brewing coffee your preference popped up, like a bubble on the surface of a lake. You’re not even aware of it.”
What other things popped up to the surface? Much more than June wanted to know about, probably.
“I’d like to learn how telepathy works,” June said. “It seems interesting.”
“I’ve had it all my life, and I doubt I could explain it. You can either do it, or you can’t.”
They sipped their coffee and watched the morning news. In the middle of a story about a carjacking, the screen suddenly cut away and a perky newswoman popped on.
“Breaking news,” the woman said, with barely-contained excitement. “Members of the Paranormal Alliance—the group led by the infamous Sam Haain—have convened for what appears to be an impromptu meeting, perhaps a protest, in Jackson Park, between South Lakeshore and the East Lagoon. We’ll get cameras out there and bring you first-hand coverage as soon as possible.”
June looked at Muse.
“A meeting?” Muse said.
“A protest.”
“We need to wake Sam up.”
June ran to the hallway. She almost knocked on Sam’s door, but pushed it open instead. No time for politeness.
The room was muted in shadow, sparsely furnished like the other bedroom. Sam lay on one side of the double bed, on his stomach, in jeans and shirtless. Despite the news, June stopped short. The sinuous, dusky curve of his back and the span of his broad shoulders occupied her attention for a moment. He had his face turned away, and his hair scattered across the pillow, one arm dangling off the bed.
“Sam.” She touched his shoulder. His skin was warm and damp with sleep sweat. “Sam, wake up. Something is—”
Sam slept so close to the edge of the mattress with one arm dangling off it for a reason, apparently. Lightning fast, he snapped his head up, grabbed the shotgun on the floor—unnoticed by her until that moment—and flipped over, pointing the barrel at her.
She backpedaled, hands up. “Jesus Christ! It’s just me. Damn!”
He lowered the gun and dropped it on the bed next to him.
“Are you out of your mind?” he snarled. “Sneaking up on me in my sleep? I could have blown your head off!”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on you!” She pointed toward the living room. “Something is going on. You need to get out here.”
He sat up, placing a hand on the gun. “Is it Occam again?”
“No, I don’t know what it is. You don’t have to bring your gun. It’s on TV.”
“I’d love to shoot the TV.”
He didn’t bother with a shirt and hurried out to the living room after her. She got an eyeful of his sculpted chest and flat, tight abs. His body was nice as hell, his skin tanned and mostly hairless. She stifled her hormones. Bigger things were going on right now.
Muse stood in front of the TV, hands clasped to her chest. The newscasters were nattering back and forth.
“The Paranormal Alliance is gathering in Jackson Park,” Muse said. “Some sort of meeting or protest. They’re getting cameras out there.”
“Why didn’t I know anything about this?” Sam demanded.
“Probably because you’re in hiding?” June said.
“Aaron should have known something was about to go down and informed me, though.”
“Maybe my father didn’t know anything,” Muse said. “Maybe it’s spur-of-the-moment.”
Sam pushed his hair back from his face. “Get me some coffee.”
June looked at Muse, unsure whom he was addressing. Muse didn’t move.
“Yes, master.” June scowled and walked to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, news crews finally arrived at Jackson Park. In that time, Sam sucked down two cups of coffee, and Trina emerged from the bedroom and sat on the arm of the couch. They were all silent, except for Sam occasionally swearing under his breath at the reporters to get on with it.
The first shot of Jackson Park showed a grassy field full of people. Some were holding signs. They were shouting. A reporter named Jack Johnson told the viewers the Paranormal Alliance was gathering for an unknown reason, in an ominous tone suggesting everyone should pack their children in their minivans and get out of the city before the miscreants blew it up.
He pulled a person over for an interview. June perked as a woman with vibrant red hair stepped into the frame.
“Cindy!” June said.
“That’s my girl.” Sam clenched his fists.
“My name is Cindy Preston,” she told the viewing audience. “We’re here today to protest on behalf of Sam Haain and demand the police investigate the incident at the Institute, which has led to his current state of persecution.”
“So well-spoken,” Sam said.
“I have a feeling she practiced that,” June said.
“You’re here today to demand justice for your deposed leader?” Jack asked.
“Sam Haain is not an assassin.” She put her hands on her hips. “He’s not a boogeyman. He’s not some cold-blooded killer. He was set up. The Institute has been doing terrible things to paranormal people and conducting dangerous experiments. It’s time someone investigated this properly.”
“What does the Paranormal Alliance intend to do here today, Ms. Preston?”
“We intend to stand here and shout until someone listens. We’re going to protest. We’re going to raise hell. We’re not leaving until someone tells us they’ll do something about this mess.”
“Do you have any idea of the whereabouts of Mr. Haain, Ms. Preston?”
“Hopefully he’s not in this hellhole of a city.” She advanced on him, dwarfing him with her Amazonian size. “Wherever he is, I hope he sees this. I hope he sees the support we’re giving him. We don’t believe in the image you guys are trying to portray.”
Jack was slowly backing away from her. “You don’t believe he participated in the murder of Eric Greerson?”
Cindy grabbed the microphone. “This city is full of lies! Half the idiots in charge wouldn’t know the truth if it took a shit on their faces!”
Jack tried to wrestle the microphone from her. “Ms. Preston, we’re on air. Don’t be vulgar.”
“You haven’t seen vulgar yet!”
The scene switched back to the studio, where the female newscaster sat with a tight-lipped expression.
“Good lord.” June slapped a hand to her forehead.
Sam laughed.
“We now have some more information,” the newscaster said. “Paranormal Alliance members are telling us this protest was organized via e-mail, social media, and text messages overnight.”
They flashed back to Jackson Park, where another reporter stood with a much more benign-looking woman: young, clean-faced, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“I know her.” Sam scooted to the edge of the couch. “Vanessa Bree. She’s the secretary of our South Chicago charter.”
“What we’re hearing,” the news reporter said, “is that you were contacted via e-mail about this last night?”
“Yes,” Vanessa said. “I heard about it on Twitter before I got an e-mail, though. They were telling us all to meet here, that we were going to do something about the way they’re treating Sam. We just want them to investigate what happened.”
“Who was sending the e-mails?” the reporter asked.
“I don’t know. We have officers. It probably came from one of them. People were talking about it on Facebook and Twitter.”
“Do you believe Sam Haain is innocent?”
“I do.” Her posture was tense. “They need to do a real investigation. The Institute has done some bad stuff, and most people don’t even know about it. Sam’s a good guy. He’s not a killer. We want someone to find out what’s going on instead of taking the Institute’s word for everything.”
Sam leaped off the couch, fists clenched in the air. “Yes!” He circled the couch. “Finally. I knew they wouldn’t sit around and take this crap forever.”
“What will this accomplish, though?” June asked. “This isn’t the first time they’ve held a protest since you vanished. So far it hasn’t helped anything.”
“It’s perfect timing,” Muse said. “With Ethan taking the information to the FBI.”
“And if we can make Occam hand over Micha,” Sam said, “it’ll be all the pieces coming together at once.”
The news was eager to cover the events. The crowd grew bigger over the hour. More members were interviewed. The reporters wondered about the possibility of someone of import addressing the situation.
Sam stood in front of the TV, instead of sitting. He’d put his shirt on, which was a pity, and had another cup of coffee, which was dangerous given his already hyper state. June debated taking a shower, but she didn’t want to be naked and wet if something went down.
“They should riot,” June said. “You know the Powers That Be only care when their pretty things start getting smashed up.”
“We’re not violent,” Sam said. “Despite what Robbie led people to believe.” He whirled around to face Muse. “I know what I need to do. Contact your father.”
Muse frowned at him. “Do you think that’s safe right now?”
“As safe as it’s ever been.”
Muse widened her eyes. “Sam, you can’t.”
“What’s your plan?” June asked. “For us non-telepaths in the room?”
“I have to go,” Sam said. “To the protest.”
June boggled. “Don’t you think that’s—oh, I don’t know—crazy? I know the party is about you, but that doesn’t mean you’re invited.”
“I’m a shapeshifter. No one will know I’m there.”
“There’s a little problem with that,” Trina spoke up. She’d been silent through all of this. “Some glamour generators can see the imperfections and abnormalities in your glamour. If there are others there, they’ll know you’re not who you appear to be.”
So Occam wasn’t as special as he claimed to be—other shapeshifters could sniff their own kind out, too.
Sam turned on Trina. “First, we don’t use PC science-speak in this house.”
“This house?” June said.
“I’m a shapeshifter. There’s very few of us. There’s only six registered with the Paranormal Alliance and almost five hundred members total. The odds of running into another one are slim. And even if I do, I know what they look like, and I can avoid them.”
“The entire Paranormal Alliance probably isn’t there,” Muse said. “So there’s that, too. But Sam, I don’t think this is a good idea. At all.”
“I can’t just sit here.”
“Let my father send in some people to snoop around.”
“Your father’s people aren’t as good as I am. I’d rather you don’t go with me, either. I don’t want to put you in danger.”
Muse’s whole face jerked and twitched. “I like that idea even less,” she said. “You going without your bodyguard?” Her gaze hardened. “Is this because of last night? What I did to Occam? You think I’m becoming careless?”
Sam’s words flashed into June’s head, about Muse’s perceptions and agility being off. Muse snapped her gaze to June.
“Shit,” June gritted out.
“Fine.” Muse drew herself up. “Go. Have fun. I’ll stay here and guard everyone. That’s all I’m good for now, in my weakened state.”
Sam sighed. “Muse, I need to know what’s going on, and the less people I put in the line of fire, the better. I’ll be back before dark, I promise.”
“I’ll go with you.” June stood. “You’ll need somebody to watch your back, if not her.”
“I just said it’s dangerous.” Sam held a finger up to June. “That’s why I’m not taking her. Did you just miss that entire conversation?”
“Yes, but you can disguise us, and if you have to let go of me or something, people are less likely to recognize me. They’ll recognize her on sight. She’s always around you.” She took a deep breath. “Sam, you can’t do this alone. And if you go by yourself, we’re all going to be worried sick. Please, let me come with you. Just like when we went to Old Town. Watching out for each other, remember? I trust you, you trust me? This is not the first dumb quest out into public we’ve taken.”
He was silent, his eyes shining in the light coming through the window. The ghost of their conversation, about trust and Sam’s intentions with her and the vampires, hung heavy on the air.
“Fine,” he said. “If you really want to risk your neck again.”
Muse turned and stalked off to the hallway. Sam’s decision had to burn. June would make it up to her later, if Sam didn’t. She tried to project thoughts in her direction that she just wanted to protect Sam, and she wasn’t trying to slight her.
“But no shenanigans, Sam,” June said. “You don’t do anything crazy. I’ve survived this long. I’m not letting you get us killed, or worse, arrested. We go there, check it out, and come right back.”
The bedroom door slammed. Trina still sat on the arm of the couch, eyeing June, eyebrows raised.
“I’ll be lucky if I get killed or arrested,” Sam said. “Because what Muse is going to do to me when I get back will be much worse. I hope you’re happy.”
“I’m not.”
* * * *
June’s skin itched with anxiety every time they went outside. They took public transportation, hand in hand, as they’d done to get to Old Town. Aaron could get them a ride when they needed one, but moving alone, in secret, was much safer. Sam was once again a woman—apparently, a fetish for him—buxom, with long dark blond hair and wearing a flowery halter dress. June was a ginger-haired man dressed like a hipster, complete with thick-framed glasses and tattered skinny jeans.
They got as close as they could to the park and walked the rest of the way. The sun made her sweat, rivulets creeping down her spine under her fake clothes.
“I notice the SNC never protests on Aaron’s behalf,” June said. “I wonder why that is?”