Hell Hath No Fury

By Dan Felkins

The world is different now . . .
The return of the ancient Atlantean races has brought with them sinister magic, alien beings, and a new world order where technology is outlawed. Opposing these invaders is the Human League of Nations, who cling to their advanced weaponry to expel the Atlantean threat. Those caught in between these two superpowers must fend for themselves.
In the fledgling city-state of Aurora, Rachella, a mysterious Vanir woman, is accused of assassinating a senator. She denies any involvement, but her subsequent escape from police custody indicates otherwise. As Detective Swan leads the hunt to recapture their suspect, Rachella makes it her goal to find those responsible and exact a harsh revenge. The once peaceful city is now a warzone, and everyone soon realizes that to scorn the likes of Rachella is to bring the full fury of hell down on them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524689124

Dan Felkins

Dan Felkins is a United States Army veteran and has served the City of Denver as a police officer for over two decades. He has lived the adventure and now wishes to write them. Dan has a great love for action/adventure stories with a strong leaning towards military, science fiction and fantasy genres. He is heavily inspired by the likes of Robert E. Howard, Robert Jordan, Harold Coyle and Don Pendleton, just to name a few. Dan is also the creator of the Ninth Dimension Role Playing Game which can be found at ninthdimensionbooks.com. This is a free site with all of the core rules of the game at the player’s fingertips. Log in and join the adventure!

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© 2017 Dan Felkins. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/03/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8913-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9130-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8912-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Glossary

Timeline

Credits

About The Author

PROLOGUE

384 Victorious Drive: The Stanford Hotel

28 March 2165 (110 years since the First Atlantean War)

2126 HRS.

S enator Augustus Kleindecker gave a polite wave toward the server, declining the champagne she offered on a silver tray. It was fast approaching 9:30, and the hours he had spent defending the Atlantean trade bill to the Aurora State Senate were beginning to catch up with him. The benefit was held in one of Aurora’s five-star hotels. He had hoped the dinner and a little champagne would allow him to unwind a bit before he went home and prepared for tomorrow’s tedious schedule. The main course, however, had been a little too rich for his taste, and the two glasses of champagne only succeeded in giving him a slight headache.

The senator had to force himself to look interested as a guest speaker took the podium for the third speech of the night. The problem with being a prominent figure in a fledgling city-state was that his table was always close to the stage, and he was watched as much as whoever was currently in the limelight. It was always proper to keep up a good appearance, even if he was thinking of a good night’s sleep, and so he stifled his yawns with deep breaths and an occasional cough or clearing of the throat.

After the guest speakers and several honorable mentions, the event finally ran its course. Now the senator’s only obligation was to entertain the patrons at his table with some polite small talk before retiring to a warm bed and a glass of cognac. Unfortunately for the senator, not everyone he was sitting with was in sync with his line of thinking.

Abeldeen Grafton was the CEO of IronForge Automotive, the leading independent manufacturer of vehicles in North America since the Atlantean invasion. She was a typical Ǣsir woman with a ruddy complexion and dark brown eyes that dared others to lie to her. She was also a blunt conversationalist who never pulled her punches, and she had a certain aura about her that made people forget that she was just over one and a half meters tall—a common trait among her kind.

That, Kleindecker was certain, was for everyone’s benefit. The Ǣsir were a rough and tumble people, and only a fool would judge any of them by their diminutive size.

Kleindecker was no fool, and when Abeldeen challenged him, he was ready.

I think you are missing my point, Senator, Abeldeen said with as much politeness as her Ǣsir temperament could muster. Neither the Atlantean High King nor his overlords can be trusted. You forget that my people have slaved under their yoke for 10,000 years. I know of Atlantean tyranny firsthand, as do several others here. If you open up a trade agreement with them, you may cause a rift in the benign social structure we now share. In the meantime, the Atlanteans will use your treaty as a foothold and perhaps attempt to take over our fledgling state. We have fought too long and hard for this little oasis of freedom. Do not destroy all we have built for the sake of Atlantean luxuries.

Kleindecker absorbed the businesswoman’s impassioned statement with a political ear, just as the other guests at the table had done. The we she kept referring to was her attempt to make him believe that she was concerned for the State of Aurora, but he was certain that we really meant the IronForge Corporation.

It was not that he doubted the Ǣsir woman’s patriotism; quite the contrary. Many of the state’s citizens—whether they were human, Atlantean, or Morphian—were survivors of that damned and useless war. But the senator knew Abeldeen’s list of priorities, and IronForge was always at the top.

Aurora was to be the oasis of calm between the High King’s armies and those of the Human League of Nations—the HLN. Aurora’s independence was crucial to that dream, but what kind of freedom required being dependent upon smugglers and bandits for the resources they could not produce on their own? Aurora was only six decades young, and there was no doubt that trade would be essential to the fledgling state’s survival. Only the Atlanteans had both the desire to engage in trade and the means to defend their supply lines. Kleindecker believed that the Atlantean Royal Family was the State of Aurora’s only viable option, and he said as much to the CEO of IronForge.

The Ǣsir smiled politely, with the effect of a flowering weed sprouting through sunbaked clay. You are not behind your podium, Senator, she said with a hint of an edge to her voice. It is me you are talking to, not one of your idealistic interns.

Forgive me, Madame, Kleindecker responded. I sometimes forget the appreciation your people have for being blunt, so allow me to speak freely.

Grafton’s facial expression actually softened, and her eyes betrayed her eagerness to hear what he had to say.

The war is over, Kleindecker said. The High King retreated back across the Atlantic Ocean nearly a hundred years ago, and all reports indicate that he is satisfied with his hold upon Europe and Asia. Now, I am sure the HLN would just love to take those landmasses back, but they have a hard enough time securing the Americas and the Pacific Rim without worrying about conducting a counter-invasion against the Atlanteans. It is time to rebuild. Peace must be settled, and one of the ways to do that is to establish some kind of relation.

You humans have a word for that sort of agreement, don’t you, Senator? a third guest, Dr. Kleth interjected. I believe such a deal is considered Faustian?

Kleindecker smiled, not because Dr. Kleth had referenced one of the senator’s favorite operas in which a scholar makes a deal with the Devil, but because his audience was playing right into his argument.

Dr. Kleth was Morphian, an unnatural blend of two or more otherwise unviable species, in this case a humanoid amphibian. He had large, bulbous eyes, webbed digits, and the ability to breathe above or below water, a trait that made his occupation as a marine biologist the natural choice.

The senator did not understand the science behind it, but it was within the power of the Atlantean wizards to fuse genetically different organisms to create a chimeric being. Through such means, animals were given intelligence, opposable thumbs, and a bipedal stance; others remained bestial ranging from horrific abominations to creatures of benign grace. Such were the legends of Pegasus, the Minotaur, and other beasts of myth.

The High King used these created races either as shock troops or as weapons by unleashing thousands of monstrous creations to wreak havoc upon his enemies. Humanoid Morphians were rarely accepted in Atlantean society as anything better than second-class citizens; many were nothing more than slaves. Humans—not all, but many—saw Morphians as monsters, no matter how intelligent they proved themselves to be. Aurora was one of the few civilized societies that gave Morphians equal footing, and thus was a haven for many wishing to escape the oppressive heel of the High King and the deadly prejudice of the HLN. It was such prejudice that validated the senator’s argument.

Would you prefer an alliance with the Human League, Dr. Kleth? Or should we risk more lives in trying to communicate with the marauders who control the wastelands between here and the Mississippi River?

A silence enveloped the table as the senator’s reasoning struck home.

Kleindecker continued as if he were back at his podium. A president of pre-invasion America once commented that the only time the people of Earth would forget their differences and come together as one, would be when an alien race arrived from the stars to threaten us. The arrival of the High King proved that president correct—partially. Of course, the threat didn’t come from the stars, but from Earth’s past. The result, however, was the same. The Human League of Nations is a conglomeration of Anglo, Latino, African, and Asian cultures without a shred of their previous bigotry. All of that suspicion, anger, and hate was collected and unleashed against races of Atlantean descent. But something else happened as well.

The other guests waited patiently. Kleindecker was not only a good speechmaker, but also an excellent storyteller.

Aurora happened, he continued after the appropriate pause. "A city-state where all races are welcomed, as well as all of the ideas, philosophies, and religions that come with them. People stopped hating each other and they did not bother to hate their new neighbors because they realized that you can’t be an elitist when there is so much diversity. We, my friends, are the heart and soul of a reality that was only a dream in Earth’s past.

"So for me, the answer is obvious. The Atlanteans do not share the same bigotry as our other neighbors. Did they not make peace with the people of China and India without the bloodshed that occurred in Europe? The HLN, however, are too paranoid about anything non-human to broker any kind of relationship with a mixed community such as ours. Those resources that we can draw upon must cross the wastes to get here, while shipping from the Atlantic can flow easily down the St. Lawrence River and into our ports. Think of the resources that would be available if we did not have to rely on smugglers for reasonable trade."

And what of the HLN, Senator? Abeldeen asked. How do you think they would react to your little deal with King Atlaes?

Kleindecker recognized the Ǣsir’s change in tactics and took it as a sign that even she saw some wisdom in his plan. They will either learn from us or continue to see us as a potential threat. In the latter case, we will benefit from a strong ally. Kleindecker smiled eagerly. But if they learn from us, then maybe they will remove their collective heads from their asses and get back in the game of world economics.

The table shared a laugh and several of the guests raised their glasses in a toast to salute the senator’s words. Even Abeldeen Grafton nodded in acquiescence before using the senator’s words to redirect the conversation to economics. Shortly thereafter, the senator gracefully took his leave from the table and headed out of the hotel conference room with his aide, Daryl Wherry, and his two bodyguards.

Masterfully done, sir, Daryl commented between the handshakes and small talk that occupied the senator as he made his way to the door. I think you might have changed that old battle-axe’s mind.

Careful, Daryl, Kleindecker said through a grin as he waved at potential campaign contributors. That ‘old battle-axe’ can squash me like a bug. Think of what she can do to you.

Sorry, sir, the aide replied, sounding sincere but unabashed. I was just commenting on how you won her over. I was beginning to think you would lose her support if you went public with your stand on this bill. Now I’m beginning to think differently.

Kleindecker waited until he and his entourage were out of the ballroom before replying. Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you Daryl? After all, I was only trying to explain my position.

You won hearts and minds in there, Senator, Daryl said proudly. Just as you did today with the Senate. I can’t wait until you run for governor.

"Now you are jumping the gun, son. That’s a whole other ballgame."

As Daryl pushed the down button at the elevators, Kleindecker gave his aide a serious look.

Did you sense something? From Abeldeen, I mean.

Daryl smiled mischievously. One of the many qualities that helped him achieve his current position with Senator Kleindecker was that he was a Naturalist. Naturalists were really no different than other dimensional channelers, in that he could tap the energies of the Ninth Dimension and cause certain effects. The difference was that a Naturalist was rarely taught by a master channeler; instead, his abilities were more intuitive. Naturalists were also narrowed in the scope of the powers they created, and were usually bound by the needs and desires of adolescence. Wizards—a layman’s term for a channeler—on the other hand, had the same gift but struggled very hard to master the spirit energy of the Ninth Dimension. A student of channeling sometimes took decades to learn how to direct spiritual energy.

Senator Kleindecker often referred to his aide as a psychic, but this was a human term on the same scale as wizard and sorcerer, and showed the senator’s ignorance in that study of learning. Before the Atlanteans arrived, paranormal activity was considered the stuff of fiction and given little credence. Daryl thought it was funny how the human race still held onto the beliefs of their ancestors. The term psychic inferred that Daryl’s powers stemmed from his mind, while a wizard was forced to conduct lengthy rituals to perform feats of magic.

The truth was that there was no difference between what most people thought of as wizards and psychics. In both cases, the mind guided powers fueled by one’s own spirit. What mankind had forgotten over the years was that such powers were all the same. The energies came from the Ninth Dimension, and the will came from whoever summoned them. It was those same powers the Atlanteans had mastered over 10,000 years ago, and enabled them to jump forward in time to invade the modern world of the 21st century.

Even Daryl was not totally aware of all the complex variables that made magic and psychic phenomenon a reality. Daryl’s abilities came naturally, while others spent a lifetime learning the craft that entitled them as Dimensional Channelers. Being an educated man, however, Daryl knew the basics.

Daryl’s abilities involved reading impressions from other people. Without even trying, he could detect a lie or know instinctively when someone concealed emotions, no matter how good an actor that person was. If he really concentrated, he could read minds or communicate telepathically. His gift had gotten him into trouble when his powers first manifested, but they now served him well in his chosen profession of politics and diplomacy. Such powers actually brought a code of honor among politicians, since getting caught in a lie was all too common an occurrence. As for Daryl, such powers were the best thing to happen to his world since the opposable thumb.

What Kleindecker wanted to know was obvious, and Daryl made him wait only until they were inside the elevator and the doors had closed.

She’s in! he said triumphantly. Congratulations.

Kleindecker could not suppress a smile, but he was all business as the elevator descended the 40 floors to the main lobby. If you are right, she still has her own board of directors to contend with.

I wouldn’t worry, sir. She’s a strong-willed woman; I don’t think her board of directors can stand against her once she makes up her mind.

It’s too bad you can’t use your talents to make some of those other senators see some sense, Kleindecker grumbled, his thoughts returning to the day’s grueling session. But, I guess, he concluded with a sigh, that if you could do that, then the Atlanteans could make us all do their bidding with a mere thought, couldn’t they?

I don’t know of anyone who could force their will over another’s with just a thought. I’m afraid the old methods of intimidation and manipulation are still the easiest ways of accomplishing that.

Don’t underestimate logic and reason, Daryl. They are powerful tools as well.

Daryl laughed. How could I, after the way you made Abeldeen Grafton turn on a dime? We all have our gifts, Senator.

Kleindecker shot a glance toward his aide and made a disgruntled noise. Now you’re just kissing ass, Daryl. Then jokingly, he added, Well done.

They descended in silence, until the senator caught the perplexed look on his aide’s face.

What is it, Daryl? You look like you just bit your tongue.

Daryl seemed hesitant, and then finally spoke as the elevator doors opened. "That comment you made about the HLN not trusting anybody non-human. I can understand their fear of Morphians, but how can they consider the Atlantean races non-human? It’s been proven that we are all made of the same genetic stuff?"

You have to remember, Daryl, what kind of belief systems that particular claim tramples on. The idea that humans shared this world with other races that are arguably genetically superior not only offends monotheistic beliefs, but blew away everything the modern science community believed in as well, particularly evolution. The HLN are strong supporters of both.

Hypocrites, Daryl commented as he allowed Kleindecker and one of his bodyguards to pass through the front entrance the hotel doorman had opened for them. If you ask me—

The vision came so abruptly that it startled the young aide into stunned silence. He was trying to make sense of it all as the limousine pulled up to the curb and the doorman stepped forward to open the rear door. The bodyguards were alert but relaxed, and there was nothing visible that could have explained his dread.

He looked to Kleindecker as the politician waited for his aide to approach the car.

The senator seemed to say something.

One brief moment, the senator was standing there, and the next, his head exploded in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter. A splash of gore washed across Daryl’s face as he stood dumbfounded at the scene before him, and it was not until the senator’s body collapsed lifelessly to the ground that Daryl realized that he had been screaming.

CHAPTER 1

Headquarters: Aurora State Police Department

29 March 2165

1733 HRS.

D etective-Sergeant Zael Swan stood at the back of the video room, his attention fixed to four color monitors centered on a single figure in the interrogation room down the hall.

The subject had her hands shackled in front of her and sat in an uneven-legged metal folding chair. The lights within the room were brighter than average and positioned toward the subject, also by design. The intent was not to blind her, but they were bright enough to ensure that she did not have a clear look at her questioners. Even the temperature within the room increased significantly when it suited the detectives. It was all designed to keep her unbalanced, uncomfortable, and distracted. It wasn’t working.

Sergeant Swan was a skeptic by nature, but even he thought they would have made short work of this one. She had been placed at the scene by several witnesses; investigators had recovered the murder weapon; and when she’d been captured, they’d found a significant amount of cash, more weapons, an employee’s passkey, and a complete diagram of the Imperious Hotel where a sniper had assassinated Senator Kleindecker. The case should have been open and shut.

Detective Simone St. Croix, Swan’s partner, tried to make some headway with the interview, but with little progress.

Detective Kevin Martel took second chair and attempted to use his talents as a Naturalist to glean additional information. His own interrogation of the suspect had been a dismal failure.

Sergeant Swan was ready to concede round two would gain nothing more.

Behind the sergeant, a group of individuals took keen interest in the interviews. Captain Lavoie, the head of the Major Crimes division, divided his attention between the questioning and the whispers of the lead prosecutor, Walter Philimon.

Senator Marcus Letatinni acted as the civilian oversight for the police department. Swan didn’t care for the man very much. Letatinni knew next-to-nothing about police work, but was always butting in and demanding change, probably for no better reason than to keep the pot stirred or justify his position.

Then there was Marshal Chz’Ka, the department head. He was the only Morphian in the room, standing nearly two meters tall and glaring at the interrogation with his amber eyes. The lion-humanoid hybrid wore black and grays with a full duty belt and weapon.

Swan didn’t much care for him either. It wasn’t because Chz’Ka was a Morphian—the two simply had a rift between them that was over ten years in the making.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Swan was greeted by the two dejected faces of his detectives. A glance at the monitor showed a suspect who had scored another victory but didn’t seem to care.

It was up to him.

***

Let’s go over it again.

The voice was a different one, but that was to be expected. Already she had been interrogated by three others, so it was no surprise that they would send a fourth.

How many would they send all together?

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to give them what they wanted, no matter how many of these detectives they sent after her.

When he entered, she had been sitting backward in the metal folding chair, her legs straddling the seat and her arms propped on the back to provide a makeshift pillow.

Reluctantly, she lifted her head and allowed the harsh light to blind and burn her red-rimmed and weary eyes. Normally, those brilliant blues would have sparkled with a hint of mischief, but interrogation rooms did not provide normal conditions.

The air here was stale, and the temperature was uncomfortably high. The heat, bright lights, and endless questions were supposed to break down her resistance and make her confess, or, at the very least, make her tell them what they wanted to hear. A weak-minded person would probably have told them anything if it meant an end to the relentless interrogation.

She had endured much harsher methods of questioning in her short 54 years on this earth. The Anunnaki channelers were the worst. Compared to those bastards, this was a walk in the spring sun.

In spite of it all, she could not help but let out a laugh as she stretched backward, maintaining her balance with a grasp on the chair. Her lithe back arched and muscles stretched. Coppery red hair fell away from her smooth cheeks, revealing the pointed ears that marked her for a member of the Vanir race—one of the original nine Atlantean races.

She swallowed the chuckle quickly, though—not only to conserve her energy, but to keep at least some semblance of submission toward her captors. If she came across as too cocky, they would never let up.

Her smile remained as she reached her arms beyond her head and breathed deeply to ready herself. Maybe this one would take notice of her figure and be distracted enough to go easy on her—it had worked in the past.

But she didn’t think it would with this guy. He was a professional.

In fact, this crew might have been a lot more congenial than others who had put her to question; but in their own way, they were as tough as any she had faced. It was a safe bet that none of them would be swayed by simple tricks of seduction.

J’ai soif, she said humbly as she straightened her posture. She was growing very bored with this game. Can I have some water?

Parlez-vous Français?

Juste un petit, she replied. But my American is better.

"Then we will stick to Anglais," the voice said.

At least this one sounded civil.

First, I would like to go over your statement, he continued. Let’s begin with—

I cannot speak— she cut in, more firmly than she had intended. Then she altered her tone and spoke more softly, —if my throat gags on its own dryness. She aimed an expression of innocent pleading under the lights. It was a practiced look, honed to perfection since she’d begun begging a craftsman’s wage when she was barely ten. She did not wish to put this one on the defensive. After all, he was the first male interrogator so far who did not act like a complete idiot.

The two before him had tried to intimidate her with harsh words and threats, but all that piqued was her indignation.

After those two clowns had been reigned in, they sent in a female who had been polite and encouraging, but found out all too quickly that her subject would not fall for sympathy tactics and woman-to-woman camaraderie.

She might have shown that interrogator some respect had the detective not regarded her as a dim-witted chit like the males had.

Funny. They accused her of being an assassin, but they still treated her like a petty thief. Where were their heads?

A moment of silence lapsed before the door opened and a pair of hands set a coffee-stained pitcher and paper cup before her.

She refrained from jumping at it like a starved woman facing her first meal in days.

Her patience was rewarded when the questioner took control of the items just a little too quickly.

So he hoped to snatch it out of my hands did he?

Very well, she didn’t mind if he served her.

She held out her cuffed hands to accept the half-filled glass with a sultry thank you, and took a modest sip, returned the cup to the table, and waited patiently.

The silence, followed by the unneeded clearing of his throat, told her that the questioner knew he had lost ground with her. She rubbed it in with a self-satisfied smile as he began to speak.

That caught him off guard as well, and he stumbled over his carefully prepared speech.

The name— then more firmly, —the name you gave the officers, Shelly Grim-moy-er?

Grim-mwah. She punctuated the mwah as if blowing a small kiss. G-R-I-M-O-I-R. Grimoir. It’s French-Canadian.

French, he corrected with a chuckle, gaining initiative once more. Just French. And it’s fake. Her identification card flew from out of the brightness and skidded across the table. It’s a good forgery. No one here knew it was a fake until we cross-referenced it with the city’s database.

Damn right it’s good, she thought. I paid enough for it. Then she said, Bravo, Detective. You caught me trying to become an honest citizen of your little city-state. Tell me, what is the penalty for illegal immigration here? Are you going to kick me out?

Really? he asked, somewhat amused. Seeking asylum from King Atlaes, are we?

He wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t care. She was merely passing the time. I never set foot in that backwater country, she stated defiantly. I grew up in Thunder Bay. And as one might guess, life can be tough there for a little pointy-eared girl like me. Those Canadians still hold a grudge against my kind. I came here looking for a fair shake since you proclaim ‘Equality for all races.’ As a Vanir I thought I would fit in, but I see you speak the same lies as those Human League fascists you so vehemently oppose.

"Equality for all law-abiding races, not those who commit murder, the voice said a touch too dryly, but the interrogator soon regained his composure. Besides, I don’t buy that. The amount of cash it must have cost you to procure that document means you are well financed."

Papa was rich, she told him with a little venom. That hardly makes me a murderer.

"Whoever killed Senator Kleindecker was also well financed. Very well financed."

Your point?

Why were you in the penthouse suite of the Imperious Hotel?

Who says I was in the penthouse suite of the Imperious Hotel?

The night manager, two bellboys, and a cleaning lady. It seems you are a hard person to forget. Now answer the question.

I already told you people, I was invited up there for a drink by a gentleman I met in the bar, but I never got into the suite. I rode the elevator with your witnesses but all of them got off on lower floors. I got off at the penthouse—

But no one answered the door to the suite, he finished for her with a touch of impatience. "That’s what you said in your statement. So tell me, Shelly, why would a man ask an attractive lady such as yourself up to his suite and be so rude as to not bother to accompany her to the room or answer the door once she got there?"

Maybe he heard about the reputation of Vanir women, she said with a devilish grin, and got nervous.

The detective took her answer as an attempt to stall, but he refused to give her the opening. We found the rifle.

Now that was interesting. What rifle? she asked impatiently.

The Centauri Arms 1050-series sniper rifle. It was hidden in an air duct on the roof. You know what else we found?

A Centauri sniper?

Not quite. Again he sounded amused. What would you say if I told you your fingerprints were all over it?

Liar, she thought. What kind of amateur do you think I am?

I don’t know, she replied. Why don’t you tell me my fingerprints were all over it, and we’ll find out?

Look, Ms. Grimoir—

Shelly. Call me Shelly.

—Or whatever your name is, you are looking at some serious trouble here. The weapons we found in your hotel room are enough to get you several years of imprisonment.

I told you people already, those must have belonged to whoever rented the room before me. I had no idea they were even in there until your thugs broke down the door.

Those ‘thugs’ were state policemen, the detective retorted. Some of whom were hospitalized after you resisted arrest. For that you can add on another ten years—minimum.

I was barely dressed when they attacked me, she replied stiffly. Had they arrived just ten minutes later, she would not have been there now. I thought they were going to violate me. What was I supposed to do, lie on my back and take numbers?

The whole city is crying for your head, you know, he continued. And the Senate is demanding swift justice over this whole debacle. If the thought of imprisonment does not concern you, then think about this. If you are found guilty of killing the senator, you will be looking at the death penalty within a week of your conviction—unless— he added for emphasis, —unless you give us something to go on here.

An impatient sigh was her only response, so he continued in a more urgent tone. Cooperate with me. He almost sounded like he was pleading. If you were a co-conspirator and didn’t actually pull the trigger, I can recommend a fifty-year sentence and drop all other counts. The Vanir are a long-lived people. You will still have a life to live when it is all said and done. That sure beats a date with the executioner.

As he let that sink in, she threw him another bone and put on a considering face.

He added. We know you weren’t working alone. Give me some names at least.

I have no names to give you, she said through clenched teeth.

So you were working alone. Who hired you, then?

You’re a fool if you think I had anything to do with that man’s murder, Detective.

The detective’s voice hardened. Well, if you don’t want to tell me what you know, then why don’t I tell you what I know?

This shouldn’t take long, she muttered.

If he was offended, he didn’t show it. I can put you and no one else within one flight of stairs to the hotel roof. You were found with a passkey to access that roof when you were arrested. You were also found with two handguns, a military rifle, twenty-thousand in cash, and a map of the hotel. What do you think a jury is going to say to all of that?

It wasn’t my room, I already told you. Those were not my things.

And the jewelry?

What about them?

They’re talismans. Did you use them to escape the Imperious unnoticed?

She shrugged. I don’t know anything about them, really. They were gifts. I have only had them for a couple of weeks.

And the sword?

A devilish grin flashed across her face. Yeaahh—you might want to be careful with that. I think it’s alive. Her look promised she would speak no more of it.

A tense moment passed between the two when the detective switched gears and asked softly, Why did you kill him?

"I didn’t kill anybody, she nearly whispered back as she maintained her grin. Least of all your damned senator."

But you are a killer, aren’t you?

She let loose a laugh and had the audacity to blush. I don’t think so.

I have three officers in the hospital who would say otherwise, Ms. Grimoir, he countered. They think you have had intense training. Were you in the military somewhere?

As clumsy as those apes were, I can see why they might have thought that.

Submit to questioning under supernatural influence, he challenged.

Supernatural influence. That’s what they called it when one of their sorcerers picked through a subject’s brain. It was within her rights to refuse such methods while in this state. True, it would confirm that she didn’t kill the senator; but conspiracy to commit murder might prove just as bad.

Contemplating her rights gave her another idea, and she cursed silently under her breath for not thinking of it sooner.

I have the right to get a lawyer, yes?

True, the voice said warily. But not until we’re done here.

She sighed dejectedly and dropped her head to her folded arms. What else do you want to know?

***

Sergeant Swan smiled behind the glare of lights. Maybe she was breaking. He hoped she would soon, but she seemed to be holding out a lot longer than they were. The marshal wanted results, and quickly. The trouble was that she was not yielding to even some of their more extreme tactics of interrogation. Nothing seemed to work—threats, intimidation, sympathy, empathy, logic—even appeals to humanity had failed. He thought of his counterparts in other city-states, those who were allowed more extreme methods of interrogation, but brushed that notion aside. Torture would be as useless as anything else they had tried on her—although it would serve her right if they could get a little payback for what she had done to those street officers who had arrested her.

Swan had read the reports. This was not another pretty face with an attitude. Three of the cops who had attempted to take her down admitted that they believed she could have killed them any time she wanted. Even without that sword of hers, she was dangerous. Swan believed them—he had known one of those officers since the academy, and knew him to be a hard man, not easily bested.

No, beating a confession out of this one would prove disastrous even if it were allowed. Besides, something gnawed at him. He knew she was lying, at least until she denied killing Senator Kleindecker. The trouble was that she was sticking to her story very well. The word professional had screamed at him since the first interview, but a true professional would not have made the mistakes she had. The truth was that he didn’t think they would have caught a true professional. Maybe luck was on their side for once. Now that would be a nice change.

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Her groan was most satisfying.

***

She related the tale for what seemed the hundredth time. The words flowed out of her mouth almost as if someone else spoke them.

Yes, she was in the bar. Yes, she was with a man. Yes, she could describe him. No, he was not part of any conspiracy that she knew of. Her lies were planted carefully within folds of the truth and most of her falsehoods were never spoken at all, only implied. It was a good story, one that might even hold up in court of law—not that she intended to go that distance—provided she could ever get out of this damned interrogation room.

CHAPTER 2

A fter another hour and a half in the interrogation room, the sergeant of the homicide unit emerged somewhat drained from the experience.

The two uniformed officers posting guard outside looked as he himself had felt. Everyone had been taxed to their limits.

After assuring them that they were almost done, he joined his team in the monitor room, making sure the door was shut tight before leaning on it for support. He rubbed the bridge of his nose to release the stress.

Tension crackled in the air, its primary source being that from the marshal.

Marshal Chz’Ka was standing across the room with hairy arms crossed over his barrel chest. The feral eyes in his lion-like visage stared down at Swan almost challengingly, and the detective knew what the marshal wanted to hear. Unfortunately for both of them, the Morphian wasn’t going to get it.

Elle est une fille dure. the detective finally said, breaking the silence.

Chz’Ka emitted a low growl. He did not understand French and it was a pet peeve of his when his subordinates spoke it around him. What is that supposed to mean? Chz’Ka’s voice growled from the corner of his maw. It seemed English came easier to the Morphian if he spoke that way. Swan always thought it made the marshal sound more pissed-off than he actually was.

She won’t admit to assassinating the senator, Swan said.

Do you think she did it, Sergeant? Walt Philimon asked.

I’m not sure, Swan admitted. Kevin? What do you think?

Detective Martel shook his head. I can’t get a read on her, boss. She is as closed to me as a steel door.

That’s another indication of professional training, Simone added.

I agree, Swan said, nodding. I was thinking military.

She would not have lasted a single week in any army with that attitude, Detective Blane Thraska countered. He was a Fomorian Renegade whose background with various Eastern-Seaboard mercenary outfits preceded his retirement into civilian life. His transition to the police department had been a natural one.

Detective Simone St. Croix had served in Aurora’s Citizen Soldier program until the birth of her daughter five years ago and was quick to agree with Thraska’s assessment. Blane’s right. I don’t think her training came from any army. Government sponsored, maybe, but not military.

Sergeant, Chz’Ka interrupted. I think the question the prosecutor was asking is do we have enough to charge her?

Oh, we can charge her, Swan confirmed dryly. Getting anything to stick would be the real challenge.

Why is that? Senator Letatinni asked.

The evidence we found in the room was carefully hidden, and unless we find any forensic evidence tying her to it, her claim it was planted there without her knowledge can raise reasonable doubt. Her claim of self-defense when the patrol officers went in to get her is also plausible, just not probable, and we have nothing to really tie her with the murder of the senator. At this point, if we charge her with anything, a good defense will dance rings around us. Judging by her assets, I’ll bet she can afford the best.

I don’t believe this! Senator Letatinni protested. We have witnesses, we have the murder weapon, and we have a suspect! What’s the problem?

We don’t have anybody identifying her as the shooter, Swan said with grudging patience. We really can’t tie her to the murder weapon, and she’s only a suspect under circumstantial evidence. If we charge her now, we risk losing. I need more time.

You said you found her fingerprints on the murder weapon!

Every cop in the room rolled their eyes at the senator’s exclamation, except Swan, who was trying hard to keep from choking the senator out right then and there.

That was a bluff, Senator, Chz’Ka interceded before Swan said something that would have gotten him fired. It failed.

The senator threw up his arms in exasperation. Well that’s just great! What about the key and the hotel diagram? Were you bluffing then as well?

They were found with the weapons and the cash, Swan replied. All of those items were hidden in the mattress box spring at the hotel room she was captured in. If we can’t tie her to those guns, we have reasonable doubt.

Senator Letatinni glared at Swan for a long moment before turning on the Morphian. Marshal! he snapped. I want to speak to you. Outside.

Captain Lavoie, a stout human who would reach his mid-60’s as well as retirement within the year, happened to be standing by the door as Letatinni stomped toward it. He stirred from his relaxed mode just enough to open the door and held it until the marshal and Prosecutor Philimon made their exit.

Of the five remaining people in the room, Lavoie was no more affected by the senator’s tantrum than he was of the assassination of a Senator Kleindecker. The homicide captain had seen too much in his 38 years on the job to be fazed by this situation, and he was too close to retirement to give a damn about anything except his pension. He mouthed the words, Be right back, before shutting door tightly to keep the outer conversation private.

***

So what happened in there? Swan demanded in French as he focused on Detective Martel.

Martel was the newest member of the homicide unit. He was a Naturalist and read others’ emotions, making him a human lie detector. He was Swan’s first choice for the initial interrogation in spite of his lack of experience. What Swan didn’t count on was the suspect’s ability to not only take control of the interview, but shield herself from Martel’s powers.

Once it was clear I couldn’t read her, Martel stated honestly, she saw I was getting flustered. After that it was all about pushing my buttons.

I thought you psychics were supposed to be all serene and tranquil? Thraska chided.

Let the record show that this stereotype is coming from a man who traded in his furs for a suit and tie, Martel retorted before ducking an incoming pen.

You’re one to talk, Blane, Simone added. It took her all of three minutes speaking Fomorian before she lit your fuse. What was that all about?

Thraska actually looked embarrassed. She’s Vanir, he said after a brief pause. Our races never liked each other. The answer was a cop-out, and it was his turn to duck the pens.

I’ll say this much, Thraska added after the barrage. She speaks Fomorian like—a Fomorian.

What do you mean? Swan asked.

Blane shrugged. It’s like she spent a lot of time with a Fomorian wolf pack. Like since she was a kid.

Is that even possible? Martel asked. Everyone knew the enmity between these two races.

Anything is possible, Thraska replied. But it isn’t probable that she would have done so and kept that pretty face.

Swan shook his head, once again very thankful that he didn’t live in the violent world outside his city. Simone? What was your take?

Detective St. Croix was of mixed-Atlantean blood. Her father was half Titan and her mother was Thirion. The result was a tall woman with broad shoulders and a thick build. She wore her hair in an