Yesha Writes.

Mostly, I thought about love.

I don’t know where I latched on to the concept. It certainly wasn’t from my parents. Their eventual divorce felt inevitable even in the early years. I knew--knew, even as a child!--that they did not love each other. My father’s parents were little better (though when my grandmother got her own separation at the age of eighty-eight, that was a touch more surprising). If anything, it was my mother’s family that contributed to my fantasies. My Mimi and Poppop have been together since they were teenagers, both endlessly, lovingly frustrated by each other, forever laughing over card games and movie dates.

But I don’t think they were the spark. My imaginary romances were of a different kind. They were slower, harder, less easily won. Yes, I wanted to believe in love at first sight. Somehow I never did. I carried those flower-scented dreams with me, close to my chest, fluttery and full-bloom and battering at my ribcage. I wondered if that was what love smelled like.

But things die.

One of my best friends tells me that I fall for anyone who shows me kindness, and God damnit if she isn’t right. There lies a path to heartbreak. People lie. People pretend. And I--I, who had forever fantasized about that hard won romance that survived trial and tribulation, put myself in the middle of many a relationship I should have left. And it sucked.

The most brutal one was the best. I stayed for four years with someone who made me love like I’d never loved before--who made me laugh--who celebrated me--who lived with me--and who could never stay faithful to me. Not once. Not ever. And the first time he admitted as much, I remember looking at the bath bomb in my hands (gold glitter, jasmine and honeysuckle scented), and thinking I could never smell it the same ever again.

I carried that with me, too.

Moving on from what you thought could be forever rips a part of you away. I once thought--however stupidly--that he and I would be forever. I wanted it so bad that I could feel it in my heart, inhale it the same way as all those flowers. I could reach into my imagination and touch it. The dream didn’t collapse so much as fall apart at the foundation. I was left with the wreckage. He didn’t care enough to look.

I’m older now. Sometimes I look ahead and I see myself alone forever. I think about Stevie Nicks and how she never found someone, either, contenting herself with the company she has. Maybe that’s enough. I swipe through dating sites and think about everything that could go wrong.

And sometimes, I dream a little again.

There was one night I went on a date without realizing it. It was rainy. I didn’t feel quite like going out, but I was asked and he seemed nice enough, so I did. We talked at the bar for hours. We trekked around the drizzly city late at night, sharing his umbrella. And then he kissed me, and when he did it was like the whole sky opened up and fell back into my chest again. God, I’ve never been kissed like that. But he was there for one night, and only one night, and I knew it. His cologne was a halo around us as we tangled up together to talk on the attic carpet, teenagers again.

And then he was gone.

I texted him the next day. “What was that cologne you were wearing?”

“Prada Black.”

And it isn’t love. I know that much. I don’t know what prepped me to hold my sanity together--the wreckage of my last Great Love or the knowing that this was temporary--but I went out and bought a little bottle of it, spritzing it over my pillows. At night I curl up in the bed and bury my nose into the dusty scent. I imagine what it might be like, to feel that kind of connection to someone for longer, to have courtesy and kindness be the mainstay, to part ways with a smile and a kiss and another day not be a promise lingering in the wind.

--- 

It’s 2001, December. I am terrible with dates, but this one I remember--and I only remember that because it was quite cold out and only three months after 9/11. That kind of thing sticks in your brain. The two towers crumbled in New York, the whole country listened to Darryl Worley as if he might become a classic, and my hair was brown.  I was only seven.  

Nearly two decades have passed. I couldn’t possibly outline the night if someone asked. All I know was that the babysitter was four years older than me, maybe five. I’ve tried to scrub that night from my brain the same way I scrubbed my tongue and throat with the toothbrush for weeks afterward, wondering why I couldn’t get the foul taste he’d jammed into my mouth out. 

My hair was brown and I felt guilt. Guilty like I had asked for this. Guilty like I even knew what happened to me--and I didn't, not for at least five years more, a whole decade before I could speak it aloud to someone who might even care. 

He was nearly caught by my mother.  

I often wonder what would have happened if she’d found him. 

I don’t think it would have changed anything. --- The year was 2009. I was a brunette and sixteen with a twenty-two year old boyfriend. 

Sometimes he would twist his hand around my ponytail and pull it taut, my head resting into the palm of his hand, and tell me seriously about how I’d saved him from his porn addiction. I didn't know how to feel about that. I couldn’t even fathom myself as attractive. How could I be? How could I be a subject worthy of desire when that taste still burned on the back of my tongue? 

The babysitter still came by sometimes. He was in college. Once he tried to hug me and I skittered away, tears springing to my eyes. My mother asked what was wrong with me and demanded I apologize. 

I did.   --- The year was 2010, and I called it quits with a boyfriend who fantasized about biting into my neck and holding a knife to my spine. I was a brunette.  

“You know it doesn’t matter, right?” He told me. It was the third time we’d had this talk. I knew where it went. His fingers knotted tight in the back of my hair and tugged meaningfully. “You’ll come back. You always do. You like to think you’re strong until the moment you have to be without me.”  

My ponytail ran clear down to the small of my back. That week I went to a hairdresser and cut it clear to my shoulders, and as every stray inch hit the floor, I wondered if a haircut was the only way to erase the memory of his hand around my throat. The next day I drove in my beat-up Windstar to a Hot Topic and purchased a massive bottle of red hair dye, and--defiant of the directions, ignorant to laws of color--slathered the whole thing over my scalp until my skin glowed crimson.  The year was 2010. My mother bemoaned the transformation. 

I was a redhead, and no man had ever touched my hair. I scooped away the fringe behind my head and marveled where it vanished. No more tugging, pulling, stares from men far too old to look at me. The choppy dye job made me a child again.  

Perfect.   --- The year was 2013, and I was purple--then blue, then orange, then pink. I put as many miles between myself and another poor decision as I could, but it wasn’t enough. He’d show up at my workplace and sit at the same table for hours, watching me, as if the decade between us wasn’t questionable.  

He told me he loved me. He told me he wanted to marry me. 

Then he got me so drunk I couldn’t stand and used me. 

Escape felt impossible. I oscillated between colors and hoped that one of them stuck, that one of them could be a magical shield between my skin and those ​hands, hands that bruised, hands that hurt, hands that grabbed a hold of my hair and twisted my head too sharp. Some nights I stood in the safety of my shower and wondered if I could shave off enough skin that he couldn’t smell ownership and would skitter away like a roach.  

It wasn’t enough.  

The year was 2014 and he was following me.  

I’d told him ‘no.’ I’d told him ‘please.’ I’d begged, I’d cut off contact, I’d moved and erased every picture and thrown away every dress and struggled not to cry when a man touched me. Still he followed me. When we stood before a judge--he a respectable man in his thirties, I a faux-red child--the judge glanced between us and said simply, “I think I see.” 

I was not granted the protective order. In a daze I made a hair appointment and stumbled into the chair. My haircutter took one look through the history of ill-placed colors lining my scalp and sighed, breaking out his clippers.  

“It’ll all have to go if you want it to be even.” 

It all went. I closed my eyes as the buzzing whirred past my ears and pretended that I was shaving off pieces of every finger he’d ever laid on me. When it was done we burned it all out with bleach.   --- The year is 2018, and I am bleached blonde.  

They say the body takes anywhere from seven to fifteen years to completely replace itself--or as much as it can. Some nights, when it gets too much and too heavy, I sit in the bath and soak until my skin is soft and shave until I think the top layer is as worn away as I can make it.  

No one touches my hair. Every once in a while I’ll look at my roots and measure them with my eyes, wondering if it is ​safe, if there is security in returning there and going back to 2010, if I’m far enough away that it doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m not ready yet. But maybe, maybe, maybe. I even think sometimes about having all the length back again--swooping and long, ready to braid or tie back or weave ribbons through.  

But my experience isn’t just my own.  

I watch Dr. Blasey Ford sit before a panel of men who have no doubt wound their own hands through a woman’s hair and pulled, and I wonder if it is just coincidence that she and I have the same hairstyle. Did she, too, try and burn out all those hands with bleach?  

I have no way of knowing.  

My grandmother tugs on a lock of my hair and I’m back with her in the kitchen. 

She doesn’t know. Judging by the way she treats Dr. Blasey Ford, she’ll never know. 

“You have such pretty hair naturally. Won’t you stop dyeing it?” 

Technology as a whole, she mused absently, had come even farther. How long ago was it that they were using telegrams? Now you took a picture on your phone and it was global in mere seconds. It excited her something terribly, but even her exuberance at the newness was tempered with caution. Better technology meant better cameras and heat sensors and traps and communication. She supposed even Jason Voorhees might have been stymied by kids who thought to SnapChat him. But that was where knowledge came in. As quickly as technology had sprung up, her knowledge was still a vast pool, a shark in the water. Cameras were fallible, and heat sensors could be tricked. People made mistakes. Traps sprang without their prey. It was just a matter of patience, caution, and knowledge. Dahlia inspected her skin tone and spread a light color correcting creme over her face, applying a layer of foundation after. Touching up with a hint of blush, she combed her wayward brows and plucked them to perfection. Out came her eyeliner. Oh how she loved eyeliner; back in the day she used so much that these modern sticks would never have lasted her. Now she preferred to keep it simple. She coated her eyelashes with a layer of mascara and applied her lipstick: bright, vibrant pink. Too much pink? She asked herself. No. Never too much pink. She hopped from the counter and pranced through her sunny pink-and-white bedroom, candy cane stripes on her wall and plush pillows on her bed and billowy, pink curtains drawn over long windows. Delving into her closet, Dahlia pried out a pair of jeans and a white top, throwing on a pink necklace to match her sparkly pink nails. She appraised herself in the mirror and blew herself a kiss. How she had ever thought to go out in public before makeup was a continual source of wonder and embarrassment for her. “I’m lovely.” She smiled broadly at herself and did an experimental twirl. Now for shoes. Reaching under her bed, Dahlia pulled out a steamer trunk overflowing with them. She positively, absolutely adored the things. Heels, flats, boots, platforms, wedges--anything was good by Dahlia so long as they were cute. She’d once picked a fight with a Seraph after he broke one of her favorite heels. It had not gone well for her--but it had not gone well for him either, the smug, suit-wearing bastard. Rifling through the packed case, she pulled out a pair of three inch, strappy bubblegum heels with a large stone set on the front of them. How perfect--a perfect outfit for a perfect day. She pulled on her purse and hopped down the stairs two at a time, never afraid of falling. Jangling her keys about in a hand, Dahlia stepped into her living room (also decorated mainly in pink, grey the compliment this time) and peered through the French doors into her dining room. “I’ll be back!” Wiggling her fingers in a wave, she gave a sad smile to the man duct taped to her dining room chair. His eyes were huge with horror, sweat rolling in beads down his forehead. “Now now, don’t sweat all over that chair. It’s an antique, I’ll have you know, straight from Russia. You stay put right there until I get back.” The man had no choice. He tried to say something, but it came through the tape as only a muffled mmmmmmph. “What was that? Oh, I’m sure you can tell me all about it once I come home and deal with you. Toodles!” Popping her pastel pink earbuds into her ears, she turned up her music and bounced out the door, locking it securely behind her. --- Click click click click click click click click click-- Tiffany rested her head against the window, staring directly at Jeremy, wondering when he would turn the damn blinker off. It had been on for the better part of two miles and no sign of stopping yet. Midlothian Turnpike was hell enough without the infernal noise. Click click click click click click click--He hummed something absently and she wondered if he even knew it was on. “Blinker’s on,” she announced finally. He gasped as if shot and smacked it down. “Well that’s embarrassing. I’m becoming an old man.” “You’re twenty-two.” “I’m aaaaancient.” She rocked her head back against the window and stared outside at the yellow street lights flickering by. The sky was an inky black bleeding into blue, the headlights carving a path through the deserted streets. Night shifts sucked, especially in the Midlothian area. At least there was something to look at in Richmond; up in the suburbs, there was nothing but fast food and grocery stores and banks and dentists. They passed a 7-11 converted into a pizza place and Tiffany wondered why it was that the convenience store did so poorly around here. She assumed it had something to do with all the rich people. “You aren’t mad at me or something, are you, girl?” Jeremy asked anxiously. “Huh? No. No, why?” He heaved relief. “Oh, good. You were just quiet is all. I was worried you were annoyed with me or something.” “Over the blinker? Sure,” she joked. “But no. We’re solid. I’m just tired.” “Yeah.” Nodding sympathetically, he took a turn past the gym. “You work hard, lady. You should take a break from that restaurant every once in a while.” “Nah, ‘cause then my parents will really think I’m not doing anything.” “Oh God. Are they still hounding you about college?” “Yep,” she sighed. “I tried to tell them I wanted a year off before I committed.” “Didn’t listen?” “Nope.” “Aw. I’m sure they’ll come around. They love you no matter what.” Tiffany side-eyed Jeremy and wondered what he meant by that. His parents no longer spoke to him. Apparently accepting their daughter as a son was not possible.

And then the doorway to his office slammed open.

“Dooooogwooooood, darling.” Dogwood jumped and sent the .22 LRs he was blessing skittering across his desk. He had two options: accept the tempting pillowy-softness he knew was coming, or jump out the window now and head for the state line. In his moment of paralyzed indecision, a pair of thin, strong arms caught him squarely around his shoulders. “Dogwood, mon amour, my dearest.” A sultry voice purred into his ear. Too late. Dogwood seriously considered playing dead until she released him. “H-hello, Aishe.” He answered, and cursed his treasonous tongue. He would teach it a lesson later. In a brief moment of panic, he watched as one of the bullets tipped and skittered off the edge of the desk, no doubt in a fearful bid for freedom. He felt for them; demons were scary business. Doubtless they were frightened of the life to come. “I th-th-think I need to g-g-get that.”

“Don’t worry, dollface. I’ll grab that for you.” His worst nightmare appeared like a vision of gold silks and ink black, every tiny fragment of her jewelry sparkling the way he knew she had to from head to toe. God help him. He’d repented so much and still he couldn’t stop sacrificing himself to her attentions. “You have to scoot back your chair, though. Did you get the update on Link?”

“The update?” He managed dryly, sliding back from the desk. “What update?”

“We have a meeting, dollface.” She dropped to her knees and Dogwood wondered why God was testing him. “New guy arrived yesterday. His name is Anthony. Seems like a real sweetheart. Did you meet him?”

“O-o-oh? N-no, I didn't.” Talking about other people was safe. “To t-t-take Vince’s p-place?”

“Mhmmm. Yeah, he’ll be good at point.” She slipped back out and her butt brushed against his shin. Dogwood wondered if dying was a reasonable reaction. “Come on. You want me to help you put all these crates on a cart?”

Please. Never leave. “N-no,” he managed thickly, doing the sign of the cross a thousand times in his head. “I’ll b-be just fine. Thank you for your offer, Aishe.”

She grinned and set the bullet on his desk, dusting off her knees. “Well, at least now I can say I’ve been under your desk for you.”

Oh. Dogwood’s brain-selves screamed and tried to force the unbidden mental image into a very small box in a very small drawer in a very small chest in the back of his mind where only spiders lurked and like hell he was going back there. He had vows to take. A deep breath, and he reminded himself of his future. Unfortunately, Aishe was extremely commanding. She stood there still, a lioness over her prey, a finger curling her hair and biting her lip way too enticingly at him. “I’ve been a bad girl, Father,” she giggled. “I need confession.” “I’m n-n-not ordained yet, Aishe.” He adjusted in his chair far too quickly and it tipped, crashing to the hard floor with a teeth-chattering thud. She yelped in surprise. “Are you okay?” Rushing to his aid, she helped him right himself and inspected his head carefully, long black nails dancing over his skin and feeling him out. “I th-think so,” He responded, comfortable in her presence at last. “You’re just bumped.” Aishe peered carefully into his eyes and touched his hair, trying to straighten it. “If you get a headache, please see Rose, okay?” “Okay.”

Once more she smiled at him, and he wondered--not for the first time--if her golden lipstick washed off under holy water. “Well, I’m gonna go get the new guy and squirrel him into the meeting room. See you then, dollface.”

“R-right.”

She’d been right. He checked Link, the Agency’s communication bulletin, and there it was: they had a four o’clock meeting. He didn't bother reading the details. It was already three forty-eight, so he wheeled out his cart and dragged each of the crates onto its wobbly surface. The wheels rattled ominously, but he was so used to pushing it that the creaking and banging hardly bothered him. After seven years he still was not used to the discomforting smallness of the through-ways in the Agency. Security had assured him several times the design was purely strategic, but that did not stop him from scurrying as quickly as possible through them.

Aishe and someone he assumed was the new guy emerged ahead of him. The comment she’d made about him serving well as ‘point’ made sense now; he was a wall of muscle, towering above the others even as he tried to make himself smaller. His hair was a sandy brown, thick eyebrows set over equally dark eyes. Dogwood wondered for a half a second what it felt like to be powerful.

“Dogwood! My boy!”

The priest lurched as another man joined him. Jeremy grinned and wolfishly clapped him on the back, his curly hair bouncing. “It’s all good, dude. Just me. No girls. What’s happening?”

“N-n-nothing much.” Jeremy loved the gym and it smelled like he’d just been. Dogwood did his best not to breathe too deeply.

They bustled past the garage doorway just as a young Korean girl burst through, Biggie Smalls blaring through earbuds flapping out of her purse.

“Tiffany!” Aishe purred, latching onto her. “Not late yet?” She asked breathlessly. “I just came from the restaurant.” Their youngest member at only nineteen, Sun-Hi Tiffany Yoo split her time between the Agency and her parents Korean grill down in Richmond. Her long, thick black hair was wound up in a bun, and she had short nails with chipped blue polish and thick, clog-like shoes. She usually wore skinny jeans or capris and a plain t shirt. Today she wore dark denim pedal-pushers, a grey v cut and a blue windbreaker. “No, not yet. We’ve got maybe thirty seconds.” “Oh good. I can’t be late again.” “Darling, you have the best excuse to be late. You’re the busiest of all of us.” “Yeah.” Tiffany huffed and nearly found her foot under Dogwood’s cart wheel. Gasping, she skittered along the hallway closer to Jeremy. “Bro, why do you smell!? Haven’t you taken a bath?” Dogwood tuned them out. It was hard to hear over the rattling of ammo anyway. Into the meeting room they turned, the large, dark carpet inside absorbing all the light. It was a suffocating room with only a large, round, black table and plush chairs that rolled. Xi was already inside. “Xi, doll!” Aishe laughed and slid from Sawyer’s arms, bounding over to hug him. The older man smiled and placed his hands high up on her shoulders. “How are you, Daddy?” “Be professional, Aishe,” Xi warned her kindly. Dogwood’s eyes strayed to a darker corner of the room where another man sat. His dark, shaved head glinting in the light, Joshua Marcus III never looked friendly. On paper he was another agent just like them. Officially, he held the ominous position of their Agency’s Watcher.

His presence was a necessary precaution. Only once in the history of the Agency had a branch gone rogue; a Demon infiltrated the ranks of the Western branch and used their Chief as a puppet until its discovery nearly a decade later. Ever since then the Outside Agent was a requirement. Usually a failed FBI recruit or particularly promising trainee at a police academy, an agent was assigned from D.C. after rigorous mental testing. They were required to report back to the federal offices (referred to as the Rock) once every week--once a day if anything suspicious or even slightly ‘off’ happened. Often the Watcher lived near the Agency rather than inside, and reported back to D.C. monthly for additional testing, training, and reevaluations. Joshua had been with them for six years and had yet to soften his relationship with his peers. The only person he even seemed to like was Desch--and Desch, for his part, didn't seem to like anyone. The seniormost agent leaned in a chair beside his spotter Christiane, the two as mismatched as could be. He was slanted and bore an almost frightening resemblance to a hawk, and she looked very much like a golden retriever made human and sour, her silky blonde hair tied back behind her nape.

“Christiane!” Aishe cried out enthusiastically. Christiane tried to shrink behind her partner. He was not sympathetic. “Comment allez-vous?” “Ça va,” she murmured, sinking further into her seat.

Fortunately she was spared by Verna’s arrival. She barged in the meeting room with a gym bag slung over her shoulder, still dressed for her workout and somehow smelling better than Jeremy. Flinging her stuff to the side, she eyed the clock and managed a fist pump. “Just under the wire. And if I’ve made it on time, then the unlucky bastards today are…”

“Rose and Cass aren’t coming today,” Xi answered her.

“Alright, fine, then that just leaves--”

Their mechanic Sevon Williams hopped through the door, the only one aside from their leadership who’d made any attempt to look nice. His long dreads were tied back, a clean button up and some jeans the perfect accent. Verna checked him in the side with her gym bag anyway.

“That guy! Lucky you weren’t in basic with me, Sevy, or you’d be doing burpies ‘til you cried.” She bore down on a chair fearlessly close to Joshua and Xi and dropped her bag under the table. “Please,” Xi motioned for some order. “Everyone have a seat. Thank you for the ammo, Dogwood, I’m sure everyone will help themselves to their share.” “Ammo? Thanks! I was thinking of running by to ask you about that.” “Verna, please.” He stretched in his seat and sighed, pulling his long black hair back into a ponytail. “I called this meeting because I wanted to talk to you all about a very serious spike of activity in the area.” A rustle passed around the room. Most of the scanners had been quiet for close to three months. Activity was bad, but lots of it was worse--and likely meant something nasty was happening. Xi drank heavily from a water bottle and rocked back in his chair. “I just returned from a crime scene, and I have something to show you all.” Reaching into his pocket, Xi withdrew a small black box. Designed by their R&D specialist, it was a reader that they set on the scenes of crimes wherever they were called. It read levels of otherworldly interference in the air (most of them had no familiarity on what exactly that meant), analyzed them, and shot back a small glow on the front. Different colors all signified different species: green was for Sirens, red was for Vampires, and so on. The front of the box he withdrew was a bright, sickening purple. Demons. “This isn’t the first one, either. Our readings from the perimeter instruments have picked up at least two in the immediate area.” Rubbing his tired eyes, Xi finally added, “And a third one. But Cassidy thinks it might be a Level Three--a demon Prince.”

“Has Miss Begbie gotten that mass tracker working?” Joshua asked thinly. “She stated last quarter she would have it operating within two months. Last I heard, it still wasn’t functional.”

“Seeing as she is creating a brand new piece of equipment, I would give it time,” Xi answered, his voice equally tense. “She’s doing as well as she can with her responsibilities. Point being, we are all going to up our training and defenses. No one is going out on a mission without a partner, alright?” Xi rubbed his tired eyes, a long, drawn out pause following. “I’m not losing any of you to possibilities.” “Level Three, huh?” Aishe asked finally. The sultry smoothness of her voice slid into an equally unreadable neutral. “Alright then. I wonder what they want here?” “Do they ever want anything specific?” Jeremy scoffed. “Oosually,” Christiane murmured, her accent thick. “Zey oosually ‘ave some sort of plan.” “I can still strip on Tuesdays and Thursdays, right?” Aishe interjected, playfulness seeping back into her voice. “I don’t need an escort for that, do I? Some of you all might scare the patrons, unless it’s my lovely Dogwood, who might need a little show. Seen tits, honey?”

“I can do it,” Verna responded, sparing the terrorized Dogwood the ordeal of conversation. “And I’ll bet big and burly over there wouldn't mind either. Right, Anthony?”

Joshua rapped his knuckles on the table impatiently for attention. A huge purple welt marred his forehead. It looked painful.  “So what’s the plan for dealing with these threats. You know, our job?” “We haven’t even located the threats yet,” Xi answered patiently. “We need a location.” “You’ve got at least one hell of a hunter.” Joshua motioned at Desch, who did not look happy at the call-out. “Send them hunting.” “I’d rather not send any agents into the potential gaping trap of a Level Three, thank you,” the Chief answered testily. “I think I’ll wait until--” “Until we’ve got a situation?” “Well then!” Tiffany clapped her hands together, “Look at that ceiling. What a lovely ceiling. Do we have someone cleaning that? They do a great job.”

Sevon smacked his palm on the table. “If we have any spare monitors, Chief, I could put them in the cars. That way our patrols could have more than eyesight to give them a little warning, if you feel me. How about I install monitors in the car, we figure out where the hot spot on all these energies are comin’ from, and we can triangulate a plan from there? Seems more solid than just doin’ a crazy hunt is all, and safer.”

For a fleeting moment Anthony reconsidered his choices. He wasn’t there yet. He didn’t have to do this. Once he saw the Agency itself, he knew it was too little, too late, but until then… He clenched tight on the bag strap and wondered if he could just sling it over his shoulder and jog back into the airport, hitch the next flight back to Oklahoma and forget this whole death sentence.

The Watcher in the front seat stared back at him.

“Sorry.” He tossed the bag into the van a little too hard. It echoed hollowly. “Coming.”

Their ride was long and silent. His companion didn’t even turn on the radio. Instead Anthony busied himself by watching the curving ridges of Virginia roll past the window, every slope and dip the new stage of an uncertain world.

Forty minutes later they rolled into a large, sprawling shopping center. WESTCHESTER COMMONS read a bright sign at the entrance. Commons to what? He looked further down the road and saw it disappear into a country lane, the all other exits dipping off onto the highway. A large movie theatre, a few craft stores, a dance studio, and a few fast food restaurants (Taco Bell, Chik-Fil-A, Five Guys) surrounded a pretty grass lawn that was meant to be a gathering place.

But the rest of it? The whole southern half of the complex was nigh on empty. Only a ski store (in Virginia?), a gym, and a Buffalo Wild Wings occupied the vast swath of blank storefronts. An entire section had boards stacked over the front windows, a Christmas mural two months overdue for a change painted cheerily over its warped surface. Just as he was wondering who in their right mind thought that was a good idea, the passenger van idled along the back of it.

Oh.

The Watcher punched a button on the dash and part of the building shuddered. A garage door cleverly concealed by siding and a few crates rolled up. Was this it? Anthony checked his expectations. A secretive government group called the Agency--and it lived in a strip mall that couldn’t quite fill its vendor slots?

They rolled inside and he adjusted his opinion again. The garage was clean, with a few black SUVs, sedans, and equipment vans lined up by model. A black Tesla perched in the far corner by a charging station, a tidy mechanic’s workspace not far from there. The Watcher parked, so Anthony hopped out and grabbed his stuff from the back.

“This way,” his escort said.

“You can talk,” Anthony said aloud, realizing in the same breath how rude that sounded. “Sorry. Just wasn’t sure for a bit here, y’know?”

The Watcher looked bemused and said nothing once more. Before they could make any headway, a door out of the garage swung open.

“Smith!”

“Chief Piotrowsky.” The Watcher--Smith, apparently--delved his hand into his pockets and produced a phone. “Just sign, would you?”

Chief Piotrowsky was a handsome man with shoulder-length dark hair, narrow, dark eyes, and black nails. Anthony watched them shine as he signed with his finger on the screen. “Feels like I’m signing for a package. This is a bit inappropriate for people, isn’t it? When you all sent me Barry, he had a good laugh about that one later.”

“They are packages in a way.”

Piotrowsky frowned uncomfortably and shook his head. “I’ll take it from here. Thanks, Smith. Tell them back at the Rock I said ‘Hi’.”

Anthony lingered in the shadows, uncertain of what to do. At long last, the Chief turned his dark gaze on him.

“Hey there. Nice to meet you. Antonio Martin?”

“Just Anthony, Sir,” he managed, offering his hand. “Nice to put a face to the voice.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s been a bit since we talked. I was almost worried you wouldn’t take my offer.” The Chief smiled and appraised him up and down. “Sorry, I almost didn’t believe the dossier. Looks like they were right about you.”

“Thanks for not saying ‘how’s the weather up there?’ or something like that.” Anthony managed a nervous grin. “But I can tell you it’s hell to find pants that fit quite right.”

“Well, that’s true. I’ll have to get our guys to source for your uniform. You’ll have to give me your inseam later. Six-foot-six, yeah?”

“Yessir.”

“Please, it’s Xi. Just Xi. Want the tour?”

It wasn’t like he could refuse. “That’d be awful kind of you.”

The hallways were narrow and labyrinthine. Somehow he’d expected cubicles and halogen lighting, tired interns and forever-empty coffee pots--at least from his experience with the county lockup and courthouses. The walls were a soft copper-brown, white baseboards and chair railing running throughout.

“Welcome to your new home.” Xi rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “It’s not much, but I hope you like it alright. I wish I could say you’d get to spend more time outside than you will, but we mostly don’t, given the nature of the job. It’s imperative that people don’t locate us too easily, so there isn’t a lot of coming and going from the base unless it’s for patrol or missions. Fortunately, mostly everything we need is inside here. I’ll take you to your room first. Besides, I’m sure the others will want to meet you.”

Anthony craned his neck to look as they passed open door after open door. A small doctor’s office and what looked like a forensics table, a kitchen, a gym--Xi walked quickly, so he only caught glimpses. A woman hunched over a row of computers in another. Somewhere down the hall came the soft sound of laughter.

“Oh no.” Xi huffed a chuckle. “What in God’s name is she up to?”

They reached the end of the hall, a final door awaiting them. Xi rapped several times with his knuckles and pushed it open, revealing a small common room. A few couches cluttered around a tiny coffee table, all facing a TV with a couple of old gaming consoles. Around the perimeter were other, smaller doors to what looked like bedrooms. Light streamed down through a skylight, augmented by the chunky white Christmas lights strung around the ceiling.

And a short woman was shirtless on the table.

A woman with a brown mohawk whooped and flung jolly ranchers at the other woman’s chest. At the table, a dark skinned man with tight-cut ringlets of hair tried to hide his smile and just buried his face in his hands, another very unenthused older man staring up at her.

“Come on, Desch!” The woman on the table shimmied and got another peal of laughter from the other two. “Give a lady a smile or something!”

“Aishe,” Xi snapped. “God, please get off the table.”

Mercifully she was wearing a bra, because she spun around to face the newcomer with a shameless grin on her lips. Out of respect, Anthony lowered his gaze to the floor.

“Oop, Bossman here to take us down.” The dark man shot up to his feet. “I swear this was a legitimate operation, Sir. We’ve got permits.”

“Yeah!” Aishe laughed aloud before tempering her smirk. “We have permits. I’m a professional. I was just trying to get a smile out of Desch. Thought I might just, you know, do a little dance…”

“Aishe?” Xi groaned. “Your shirt. Please.”

She flung on a tank top and finally Anthony felt free to look her over. She was very short--maybe not even five feet tall--with long, bleached blonde hair and black, thick eyebrows framing golden eyes. Her lips were full and her body--well, he tried not to notice that too much. She had curves to rival the state. Her nose was the only straight thing on her; a sharp, angular line that only served to make every other swirl and dip of her more fascinating in contrast. A tiger’s eye stud glimmered from her eyebrow and a gold one from her nose and a third just under her lip, her ears rimmed with hoops and studs in a thousand patterns.

Anthony wondered if love at first sight was really as far fetched as he’d thought.

“We’ve got a newcomer.” Xi seemed to age a thousand years in the fifteen seconds they’d all been together. “Anthony is going to take the new slot.”

“Oh?” And Aishe flashed him a grin. “Charmed. I’m Aishe. Can you give good piggyback rides, or is all that height just for looks?”

“Aishe,” Xi groaned.

“Err, I haven’t done that in a bit, but I expect I’ll be put through my paces then, ma’am.”

“That wasn’t a no.” She looked triumphantly back at the others. “It’s possible.”

Xi pushed onward, motioning back at the others one at a time. “That’s Barry back there. Desch is the most senior Agent, so he’s an excellent resource. And Verna--”

If Aishe was a handful, it looked like Verna--the woman with the mohawk--might be too. She practically appeared in his face, poking and prodding at him. “Hey, you ain’t a slab of nothin’ and sinew like I got Barry in.”

Barry--the darker man in the back--stared off into the distance like he was seeing a battlefield. “Lucky him. You don’t have to go through the notorious Verna Welcome Warmup then.”

“I’d hope a big boy like him has a little swing in his fists.” Aishe grinned brightly, running her tongue over the ridge of her lip. “Where are you from?”

“Oklahoma. The Agency poached me from Colorado, though.”

“Well damn. You’re good, one hundred percent pure American beef, huh?”

Barry snorted so hard he doubled over, hiding his face even as Aishe grinned at her own joke. Xi sighed and adjusted her shirt to hide her bra straps.

“Will you please show him the run of the place and not scare him off?”

“Yeah, Dad. Don’t worry.” She swatted off his hands and stuck out her tongue at him. “I’ll get him set up nice. You got an appointment with the Rock or something?”

“No. Joshua.”

Every face in the room either grimaced, groaned, or rolled their eyes. Aishe pinned her mouth together to suppress what Anthony now suspected was a trademark grin. “Well you have fun with that! Let me know what else we’re doing wrong now. Figures we got the worst Watcher in the whole damn Agency.”

Xi didn’t answer that, but his face told a story of its own. “Behave. I’ll be back later.”

“Gotcha, gotcha.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone with the others. Desch returned to whatever he was reading, but three pairs of eyes zeroed in on him.

“So.” Aishe grinned cheekily. “Why’re you in?”

“Huh?” Anthony almost laughed. The flashback to the county lockup was uncanny.

“What’d you do? What almost got you?” Verna bent over a chair, stretching out her hamstrings. “You’ve gotta tangle with something supernatural to get recruited into the Agency. What was yours? I punched out someone that was stalking a friend of mine.”

“Said ‘someone’ was a vampire.” Aishe laughed. “The Rock said they’d never heard of anyone doing that and living before.”

Barry grimaced. “Mine was a doppelganger.”

Anthony nodded and pointed back at the other man. “Same here.”

“Oh shit.” Verna pumped her fist enthusiastically. “These stories are always the trippiest. How’d yours go?”

“Err…” Anthony shuffled the bag off his shoulder and let it onto the ground. “Short version? It jumped my brothers and me. Got the best of them, didn’t manage to get me. Got charged with their deaths.”

“Yeah.” Barry nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, that’s how that one works usually. Usually it’s the Agency that gets people cleared from those ones.”

“Yeah, if Mr. Xi hadn’t gone and gotten me sprung, I’m pretty sure the prosecutor would’a hung me out to dry for murder.”

Aishe said nothing. She just tilted back her head and appraised him with those golden eyes, a half-smile on her face that concealed her every thought. For a moment Anthony wondered if she could see straight through him, through the layers of the button-up shirt and to his tattoos, straight down onto the pores of his skin where all the worst of him lived so close to the surface. But almost as soon as he saw it, her eyes brightened and crinkled again, that permanent laugh bubbling up to her throat.

“Well,” she said, offering him a hand. “I can show you your room. Then I can show you where you’re gonna get the weapons to take some doppelgangers out again. Sound good?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

---

Joshua had never really cared for camping. The only time he’d ever really gone was probably thirty years ago; as best as he could recall it had rained the whole time. His older brother swore they’d all gotten terribly feverish and sick from a combination of the weather and his father’s poor attempts at cooking, a story his father had gone to his grave insisting wasn’t true. Joshua had to admit it sounded very plausible, considering their father. He sighed and pulled his black coat tighter around him, muffling the jostle of bullets. All misgivings about camping aside, the Shenandoah was still pretty. The trees were just now recovering from the winter and tiny buds of green poked their hopeful heads from long branches. The water was clear and the current strong in the river he kept meeting; it glowed crystalline and threw sparkles across the stripped trees, flecks of color across white and grey bark. Sunlight pooled in the flat rocks, and if you sat still for long enough schools of tiny white fish would scurry around the shallows in search of food. The deer were bold here. Already he’d come within arm’s reach of a doe. In his mind he’d named it Eighty-Three, after the bright yellow tags in her ears.   It was magical enough to make him not hate camping as much. But he hated long drives, too, and the drive had been nearly four hours of blistering silence and intermittent arguing between Desch and Christiane in the way only those two could argue, and he crossed a trip back out in his mental ledger of potential family vacations. A stick scraped Joshua’s bald head. He swerved and scowled at it, taking another step down the hill. The trail was very steep and only growing steeper. He wondered just how long it would take until he caught up with his quarry. He fiddled with the earpiece he wore. “Any sight?” “Negateef.” Christiane’s French accent was too strong for his taste. She was good at her job, but Joshua wished her partner would talk instead. “Not’ing yet.” “This trail is getting steep. I might need help bringing it back up.” “We will assist, mais w--” Christiane fell silent. Joshua halted, an instinct born of ages of special training. “Feefty yards.” That was all Joshua needed to hear. He delved into his fleece pocket for the Beretta and peered cautiously down the hillside thick with bramble and dead leaves. Sure enough, a lone figure in what looked like a grey flannel, shaggy blonde hair, and hiking gear moseyed his lonely way toward the falls. Joshua crouched out of sight. “You guys his set up?”

Christiane opened the link; he heard the beginning of a derisive snort and it went dead again. Probably Desch. At long last she replied. “Yes. Eyes on you.” Joshua clicked off the mic and peered over the ledge again. The hiker had nearly reached the falls; the roar of the water would be enough. He seized the opportunity and launched himself down the path,  hurtling through brush and trees and barely keeping his balance over logs supposed to serve as stepsohSHIT. His foot caught the edge of a fallen stick. He felt the fall before it even began and threw his whole body into it, rolling across his shoulder and back onto his feet, but it was too late. The hiker turned, blue eyes wide, staring at the middle aged black man picking himself back up from the leafy path. “Freeze!” Joshua yelled, training the Beretta on the hiker. Naturally, the target ran. Joshua squeezed off three shots before running after his quarry, chilly air whipping across his bald head. Christiane was yelling something in his ear, but the damn accent made it near impossible to understand her and he just kept going. Down, down the path they ran, across stumbling blocks of rocks and leaves. The hiker was fast, but Joshua had training and a couple years of college track under his belt. He lowered his shoulders and launched himself from the high ground, catching the kid around his waist and dragging him down; as one they rolled down the path, their descent stopped only by slamming into a boulder. Pain. There were fingers around his neck now, wild blue eyes like cold fire, a hateful sneer born of desperation and rage boring into his; Joshua tried to put his feet between himself and his attacker but the hands stayed, far too long and strong to be normal, the air throttled in his throat and his lungs burning and stars sparking in his vision. Joshua gathered up the last of his strength and bellowed in the hiker’s face. He flinched just enough and Joshua grabbed a handful of the blonde hair, wrenching him down onto the pathway-- BANG The shot rang clear and true into the hiker’s back; Joshua covered his face just in time to shield himself from the shower of blood. “Zere. Are you okay?” “Just fine,” Joshua grunted, gasping for breath. He worked his way down towards the body and flipped it over with his foot just in time to see the pale face ripple and shift. He’d heard of this before, but never seen it in practice. He watched with sick fascination as the clothes shuddered and grew loose, the backpack straps sliding from its shoulders, boots falling off feet that no longer existed. The kid’s expression warped like the ocean tide, morphing and twisting until an eerie gray blank took its place, eyes sinking into nothing, the nose flattening, cheekbones dissolving until the only thing staring back at him was mirrored reflection of his own face. It was a grisly reminder that it could have been him, lying dead in a ditch, this thing masquerading to his wife, to his sons, slipping into his clothes as easily as he did-- “Ees eet ze doppelganger?” Hands shaking, Joshua touched his mic. “Yeah. This is it.”

But that was all secondary for now. The police cruiser pulled to a stop in front of the hospital and he murmured his thanks to the escort, kicking open the door and very nearly biting it on the soaked pavement. He straightened up only to drive his toe straight into the curb. What a start. Grinding the ball of his foot to numb the pain, he followed the waiting security personnel into the emergency room.

No one but the staff awaited him. Good. They’d followed his instructions. A couple of nurses huddled behind the counter. One of them cried softly into a napkin, blood tangled in her curling hair and dripping on her flower scrubs. Another day he might have stopped and soothed her, but if the situation was as they said, he had no time. Another nurse carded him through the shut doors and kept her eyes pinned to the floor.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and kept going.

The hallway was a wreck. Little brown patches of blood speckled the floor. In one of the rooms he could see a doctor tending to a bad slash on his hand, a similar one still gushing from his shoulder. Security and a few staff had piled overturned tables at the far end of the hall. He nearly laughed. If it were really what they said, no number of tables would protect them.

“Hey.” One of the security jogged over to him, still breathless. “You’re the guy, right?”

“Yes. Where is she?”

“Room one twenty-four. We tried sedation and it didn’t kick in.” For not the first time that night, Xi watched as the guard appraised him up and down, doubt creeping in the corners of his mouth. It was a natural reaction, all things considered. They’d come armed with handguns and sedatives and body armor. For his part, he’d shown up in a Dior coat. “Do, uh, you need anything?”

“No,” Xi replied smoothly. “Thank you. Not unless you have a ponytail holder on hand.”

One of the nurses offered hers silently. He caught up his long black hair with a few quick twists and gave her a thankful smile before stepping around the makeshift barrier. Things only got worse the further he went. Shattered glass scraped around his shoes, the grate protecting the overhead lights swinging free and the sparking of a broken bulb telling a tale all its own. More blood. Something scraped loudly against the floor. Quietly he patted his chest pocket and made sure he had all he needed.

Room one twenty-four. Inhaling deep, Xi stepped over the threshold. First things first: more blood. It was smeared in wide strokes over the linoleum. The blood pressure machine lay on its side, the cuff dangling over an empty hospital bed. All of the cabinets were open wide, their contents spilling down the counter and across the floor, pill bottles still rolling. The only chair in the room was overturned and missing one of its metal legs.

He almost missed the girl crouching in the corner.

She was very small and her posture made her smaller. Her knees were bent clear to her chest, bracing herself with one arm and clutching a scalpel soaked in blood with the other. Greasy black hair strung around her face, two wild hazel eyes a sharp contrast to the track marks dotting her tan arms and dark bruises on her throat. He took one more step into the room and she raised her weapon threateningly.

“It’s okay,” he soothed. This was a child. How had a child caused all this chaos? He almost suspected the report was right--but something stilled him. No. If she were one of them, it made no sense that she’d react this way to him. “I’m not one of them.”

“Our Father which art in Heaven,” she answered shakily. “Hallowed be thy name…”

“Thy kingdom come,” he added. “Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. What’s your name?”

She didn’t move. Xi crouched to her level and pulled the large steel cross from his coat pocket, holding it before her. Nothing. He wrapped both his hands around the icon and pressed, then showed her his palms.

“See?” He murmured encouragingly. “Nothing. Now your turn.”

The cross screeched horribly as he skated it over the floor, but she picked it up all the same, wrapping her bloody fingers around it as if it were a liferaft. A litany of line items scrolled through his mind: no rash, no burning, no smoke, no smell…

“So this really works?” She asked at last, wriggling the cross in her hand. “Really really?”

“Well, it isn’t actually the shape that does anything.” He settled down in the blood lotus-style, already resigned to the dry cleaning bill for his coat. “It’s the metal content. But testing indicated some of the staff felt better about it in a cross shape, so we kept that one on hand. We have a few different styles, I just defaulted to that one if I’m honest.”

“Are the demons gone?”

Xi almost smiled at her and thought better of it. “For now. You’re safe.”

Her reproachful stare was haunting. “You can’t be sure. You can’t ever be sure.”

“I’m as sure as one can be, unfortunately. You could say I’m something of an expert. I am part of a group they call in for things like this. Where did you see the demons? How are you so sure that they’re demons? It looks like you’ve been through the wringer.”

Those hazel eyes sparked and flashed like a fire. “I’m not hallucinating it. I know what a trip feels like. It followed me.”

“Followed you?” He echoed. “Followed you from where?”

Once again the child fell silent. No good pressing yet. Instead he reached out his hand. “I’m Xi Piotrowsky.”

“Like the letter?”

“X-I, but yes, said like the letter ‘Z’. What’s yours?”

She didn’t take the hand. He pulled it back. “Aishe Sarraf.”

“Pakistani?”

“And French.”

“You’re a long way from France. Where do your parents live?”

“Nice.”

“As in France? Who is your guardian here?”

“No one. I came alone.”

That complicated things. Xi mulled over his options before saying, “Well, let me tell you what. If you’d let staff look at you--”

“I’m not crazy!” She yelled.

“No, you’re not,” he soothed immediately. “You’re utterly sane, and that’s the most terrifying part of this. But if I’m right, you’re going to start withdrawing soon, and you’ll need medical attention for that at least. They’ll bandage you up and I promise I’ll stay the whole time. What do you say?”

Aishe lowered the scalpel. She was maybe sixteen and far, far too young to be in the state she was in, and all at once Xi wanted to strangle everyone who’d laid their hands on her.

“You promise?” She whispered.