Chambered: The Bureau, #10

By Kim Fielding

Agent Dash Cooke likes simple assignments: annihilate the dangerous monsters and move on. He likes a simple life too: a furnished apartment that he switches out for a new one every few years and no messy personal connections.

Then his boss gives him an assignment that's not simple at all.

Reports claim that a beautiful old house in Sacramento is haunted by a poltergeist, but Dash soon discovers a very different type of spirit. Henry will be destroyed if Dash evicts him. And suddenly Dash's life has become very complicated indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tin Box Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223588504

Kim Fielding

Kim Fielding is pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. Her books span a variety of genres, but all include authentic voices and unconventional heroes. She’s a Rainbow Award and SARA Emma Merritt winner, a LAMBDA finalist, and a two-time Foreword INDIE finalist. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. A university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time, she also dreams of having two daughters who occasionally get off their phones, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a cat who doesn’t wake her up at 4:00 a.m. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others. Blogs: kfieldingwrites.com and www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog Facebook: www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites Email: [e-mail] Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Porto, Portugal

2022

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Under the brilliant sun, a breeze played up from the river and carried the scent of salt from the Atlantic, six kilometers away. Dash Cooke leaned back in his chair and twirled the stem of a wineglass between his fingers. With most of a bottle of vinho verde gone, he was a little buzzed—just enough that as he watched the tourists waiting in line for their Douro River cruises, he felt amused rather than annoyed. Hell, maybe once he’d finished the wine, he’d shell out fifteen euros for a ride of his own. Or maybe he’d just wander up and down the narrow cobbled streets until he got hungry or tired. Or maybe—

His phone rang.

He was positive he’d put the damn thing on silent, but in addition to feeling the vibration in his shirt pocket, he heard the tinny ringtone that he’d assigned to his boss’s landline.

Fuck.

Dash ignored it. He even considered tossing the phone into the river and stalking away. The ringing stopped but then immediately resumed, voicemail be damned. And, old habits dying hard, he finally picked up the call with a deep growl.

Yeah?

The chief wants to speak with you.

Even from thousands of miles away, Agent Holmes’s voice made Dash shudder slightly. Aside from the chief himself, everyone at the Bureau was terrified of Holmes, and not just because—as assistant to the boss—he knew all the secrets.

Still, Dash managed a bit of resistance. I’m on vacation.

Holmes didn’t bother to answer, and the line beeped, indicating that he’d connected Dash to the chief.

Agent Cooke! It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it?

As usual, Chief Townsend sounded avuncular and jolly, like a man making a social call. But Dash, having worked for the Bureau for nearly two decades now, knew better. Although loyal to the agency and his boss, he was well aware that Townsend always had a reason for what he did, always had a set of complex plots in motion. And the guy didn’t have any qualms about collateral damage if it furthered his schemes.

Dash scowled. I’m on vaca—

I’m glad Holmes was able to track you down so quickly. Cellular phones, my boy—they’ve made such a difference in communication.

You made me take a va—

I need to meet with you right away. New assignment.

I’m in Portugal. It was your recommendation, sir.

Actually, it had been more than that. Dash hadn’t taken more than a few days off in years, which was fine with him. But then the chief had called him into his office, said he was being forcibly placed on a month’s leave, and handed him a stack of glossy brochures advertising the allure of the Iberian Peninsula. Dash had grumbled about it, but now that he’d been here a week, sipping wine and strolling around while admiring tile-fronted buildings, he was enjoying himself. Sleeping better than he ever had.

Now, apparently, Townsend had other ideas.

Agent Holmes is arranging your journey home. Tomorrow you’ll fly from Porto to Paris to Los Angeles. He’ll text you the details and will arrange for someone to pick you up at LAX. We’re even paying for you to fly business class—how about that for a treat? The chief chuckled.

Although Dash knew resistance was futile, he had to try. Sir, it’s my vacation. First one in forever, remember?

I know, I know. A pity. But you’re the agent best suited for this assignment, and it can’t wait until your vacation ends. You can resume travel once you’ve completed the mission. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.

And that was the end of the call.

Though Dash’s mood remained foul, he did have to admit that business class beat the hell out of the cheap seats. The food was better, for one thing, and his seat folded flat into a bed long enough for his six-foot frame. Problem was, his inner clock said it wasn’t time for sleep, so he resorted to staring sullenly at the in-flight movies.

By the time he arrived in LA at 5 p.m. local time, he was exhausted and crabbier than ever. The rookie agent who picked him up looked worried, as if Dash might obliterate him at any moment. He wasn’t far off the mark.

Holmes give you my address? Dash growled as he flung his carryon suitcase into the trunk of the Bureau’s Mercedes.

The agent, whose name Dash hadn’t bothered to remember, quailed visibly. I’m supposed to take you to HQ, sir.

Fuck. Not even time for a shower and change of clothes. Well, Townsend would just have to deal with Dash being rumpled.

As the crow flies, it wasn’t far from the airport to HQ—only twenty miles or so. But at this time of day, traffic crawled on the Ten. The baby agent attempted light conversation twice, which was more than Dash would have given him credit for. But after the second time Dash firmly shut him down, the kid remained quiet.

Dash closed his eyes but still couldn’t catch a nap. He’d always been a shitty sleeper. When he was a kid, he used to get up in the middle of the night, slip out of the house, and wander the neighborhood for hours. If his family hadn’t lived there long—which was the usual case—he sometimes got lost. Oddly, that never bothered him.

Would you like me to drop you off in front, sir?

Returning from his reveries, Dash felt a twinge of guilt over his rudeness to the other agent. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that the chief was… the chief.

Nah, Dash replied. Go ahead and park in the garage.

After they pulled in, the kid offered to help Dash with his luggage, which was completely unnecessary but sort of sweet. Dash traveled light—always had, even before the Bureau—so he grabbed his small suitcase, shooed the kid away, and proceeded somewhat reluctantly into the building.

As always, the vast main lobby was stark and nearly empty, every sound echoing off the white marble floors and unadorned walls. Agent Ricketts was on duty at the reception desk. He’d been there when Dash left and would probably remain there for a couple more months while he recovered from a run-in with a characteristically ill-tempered oni. He seemed cheerful enough, though, and waved as Dash made his way to the elevator.

Back already? Ricketts asked.

Chief calls, I come.

Yeah, I know how that goes. Hope it’s a good assignment, at least.

Nodding, Dash pressed the elevator call button. He idly wondered what Ricketts considered a good assignment. Maybe one with no oni. Dash defined it as one where he could drop in, obliterate a few monsters with a minimum of fuss, and have a nice simple report to file afterward. In fact, he sort of specialized in those kinds of jobs. Let the other agents deal with sensitive shit, like negotiating with gnomes and sasquatches or consulting with witches. He’d rather blow away a serial-killing were-scorpion any day.

Townsend’s office was on the top floor, of course, and today the elevator felt especially slow. It gave Dash too much time to think, and he wasn’t in the mood for that.

At long last he exited the elevator and opened the double doors to the chief’s reception area, where he met Agent Holmes’s baleful glare. At some point in the past, an encounter with an ogre had left him heavily scarred and wheelchair-bound. It hadn’t improved his disposition either.

His greeting wasted no time. He’s waiting for you.

In the twenty years that Dash had worked for the Bureau, neither the chief nor his office had changed. The office had solid, old-fashioned furniture, ancient framed newspaper articles on the walls, good views of the mountains, and the pervasive scents of cigarettes and booze. As for Townsend, he appeared to be somewhere around sixty, but he’d looked that way for two decades now, so his age was a mystery. He was a big man whose large belly strained his suits; thin white hair trailed across his scalp.

Now he sat behind his desk, a cigarette between his fingers and a highball glass full of whiskey close at hand. Smiling, he gestured Dash to one of the uncomfortable low-slung chairs in front of him.

Welcome back, son! I trust your flight was comfortable.

Dash parked his suitcase and collapsed into the seat. You have an assignment for me? One that’s time-sensitive?

Instead of replying, Townsend stood and walked to the bank of windows. He moved lightly and gracefully, as if most of his bulk was helium instead of meat and bone. With his back to Dash, he gazed outside and smoked. After a few moments, he turned to face Dash.

"All living things exist within certain parameters, yes? A goldfish must swim. A pine tree must affix itself to the ground with roots and grow upward toward the light. A vampire must drink blood."

So I’m going after vampires? They weren’t Dash’s favorite assignment; he preferred his foes to be less human-looking. But he’d staked quite a few over the years and wouldn’t object to doing more.

The chief shook his head. No. I’m making a point. All living things are constrained by their nature, but circumstances and sometimes choices can make a great deal of difference. That goldfish may remain an inch or two long and have a short, unhappy life in a tiny tank—or it can grow to over a foot in the wild. A pine may be tall and straight, or at high elevations it may be stunted and gnarled. A vampire may choose to drink donated blood instead of killing.

Perplexed, Dash wished he had a drink. Booze, not blood. Or better yet, that he were back on the banks of the Douro. He waited for the chief to get to the point.

That goldfish and that pine tree have little input into their fates, but the story’s different with us, isn’t it? With humans and almost-humans and most of the beings we encounter in our work with the Bureau. We are what we are. We’re all given certain raw materials, but we have some control over what we do with those materials. Whether, for instance, we behave like monsters.

The chief watched Dash expectantly, as if Dash was supposed to glean something important from this little lecture. But Townsend apparently enjoyed being cryptic and his meanings were frequently opaque. So Dash considered his boss’s words carefully. Behave like monsters.

Are you talking about Grimes and Tenrael, sir? Charles Grimes had been a Bureau agent once, long before Dash’s time, and had continued to contract with the Bureau now and then when his assistance was needed. His partner, Tenrael, was a demon, and Grimes was… one of those almost-humans that the chief had referred to. But they were good guys, at least in Dash’s estimation. Hard, yes, but not ruthless or cruel.

Townsend smiled as he shook his head. Not them specifically, no, but they’re excellent examples. They each have the potential to wreak terrible harm—and perhaps sometimes they’ve been tempted to do just that—yet instead they protect others. They remain who and what they have always been and find ways to channel their nature toward… well, toward good, I suppose. They are not monsters.

Yeah, I get that. I’d trust either of ’em with my back.

"As would I, son. As I have, in many cases. As I will again soon."

Frowning, Townsend returned to his desk and sat. He pulled the half-full whiskey bottle out of the drawer, and held it up,