anymore. We’ve got a case, came through the normal channels from an American number. Missing persons. Anonymous client sent me a list of names. Money’s already been wired to us. Everything’s there. Figured you’d want to know.”
Elise pushed the chair back and stared at the wall above Summer’s computer monitor.
The email was phrased too casually, considering the contents. It irritated Elise. Some things called for a little more panic than McIntyre’s usual no-fucks-given attitude.
Of course, he couldn’t have adequately conveyed the strangeness of the situation even if the text had been all-caps, underlined twice, and concluded with a dozen exclamation marks.
The case had come through “normal channels”—meaning that someone had left a message on McIntyre’s anonymous voicemail—but most of America no longer had reliable electricity. That meant no phones, and no computers to access the Hunting Club’s website in order to find their phone number in the first place.
That also meant no banks for wiring money.
McIntyre was right. Elise did want to know what the fuck was going on. She wanted to know very badly.
In her return email, she said, “I’ll look into it. Have Anthony contact the Northgate pack so they can send him down to Hell for me. I’m going to want him on this one.”She hadn’t heard from her friend and fellow kopis Anthony Morales in months, but she needed him on Hunting Club cases.
Elise sent her response before skimming the names, which McIntyre had attached to his original email. She didn’t recognize any of the ones that she read. And there were many. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. She scrolled through quickly, but the document seemed endless.
These missing persons could have populated an entire city.
She clicked the button to print the names, and a clattering across Summer’s server room drew Elise’s attention to an old HP Inkjet stashed in the corner. Sir Lumpy leaped off of her lap, startled by the noise.
Elise got up and studied the first page as subsequent portions of the list printed. There didn’t appear to be any slant toward male or female, nor any predominant race. They may as well have been randomly selected from the phone book.
The first question would be how these people had disappeared, and when. Many people had gone “missing” during The Breaking. Many more had died in riots, while others had been slaughtered by the infernal forces that clawed their way to Earth. Still more had been abducted for slavery in Hell—the same booming slave trade that Elise had been trying to end for months.
She doubted that it was coincidence that someone would have gone out of their way to send her agency, the Hunting Club, this list of names.
“How did you contact me?” she muttered, tracing a finger along the email header. There was no way that the anonymous person emailing them could have gotten into Hell and left a sticky note for her. He must have somehow asked one of her people to leave the message, although Elise had no clue who the enigmatic “B” could be.
A man spoke behind Elise, loud enough for her to hear it over the printer.
“Hey there.”
For a moment she thought it was James, even though it didn’t sound like him. Hope did strange things to a woman’s sense of hearing.
But that faintly accented drawl didn’t belong to her aspis. It belonged to another man that she had expected to never see again.
She turned to find Lincoln Marshall standing in the doorway to Summer’s cottage.
His hips were hugged by torn, dirtied jeans with tattered hems that looked like they had been worn through a tornado. There was a gun holstered at his right hip. His hair actually touched his ears. The scruffiness suited his chiseled features.
At the sight of him, Elise momentarily forgot how to breathe. The memory of having him torture her was too fresh. Too raw.
She was torn between wanting to kick his face in and wanting to tear his jeans off.
“Lincoln,” she
Elise pushed the chair back and stared at the wall above Summer’s computer monitor.
The email was phrased too casually, considering the contents. It irritated Elise. Some things called for a little more panic than McIntyre’s usual no-fucks-given attitude.
Of course, he couldn’t have adequately conveyed the strangeness of the situation even if the text had been all-caps, underlined twice, and concluded with a dozen exclamation marks.
The case had come through “normal channels”—meaning that someone had left a message on McIntyre’s anonymous voicemail—but most of America no longer had reliable electricity. That meant no phones, and no computers to access the Hunting Club’s website in order to find their phone number in the first place.
That also meant no banks for wiring money.
McIntyre was right. Elise did want to know what the fuck was going on. She wanted to know very badly.
In her return email, she said, “I’ll look into it. Have Anthony contact the Northgate pack so they can send him down to Hell for me. I’m going to want him on this one.”She hadn’t heard from her friend and fellow kopis Anthony Morales in months, but she needed him on Hunting Club cases.
Elise sent her response before skimming the names, which McIntyre had attached to his original email. She didn’t recognize any of the ones that she read. And there were many. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. She scrolled through quickly, but the document seemed endless.
These missing persons could have populated an entire city.
She clicked the button to print the names, and a clattering across Summer’s server room drew Elise’s attention to an old HP Inkjet stashed in the corner. Sir Lumpy leaped off of her lap, startled by the noise.
Elise got up and studied the first page as subsequent portions of the list printed. There didn’t appear to be any slant toward male or female, nor any predominant race. They may as well have been randomly selected from the phone book.
The first question would be how these people had disappeared, and when. Many people had gone “missing” during The Breaking. Many more had died in riots, while others had been slaughtered by the infernal forces that clawed their way to Earth. Still more had been abducted for slavery in Hell—the same booming slave trade that Elise had been trying to end for months.
She doubted that it was coincidence that someone would have gone out of their way to send her agency, the Hunting Club, this list of names.
“How did you contact me?” she muttered, tracing a finger along the email header. There was no way that the anonymous person emailing them could have gotten into Hell and left a sticky note for her. He must have somehow asked one of her people to leave the message, although Elise had no clue who the enigmatic “B” could be.
A man spoke behind Elise, loud enough for her to hear it over the printer.
“Hey there.”
For a moment she thought it was James, even though it didn’t sound like him. Hope did strange things to a woman’s sense of hearing.
But that faintly accented drawl didn’t belong to her aspis. It belonged to another man that she had expected to never see again.
She turned to find Lincoln Marshall standing in the doorway to Summer’s cottage.
His hips were hugged by torn, dirtied jeans with tattered hems that looked like they had been worn through a tornado. There was a gun holstered at his right hip. His hair actually touched his ears. The scruffiness suited his chiseled features.
At the sight of him, Elise momentarily forgot how to breathe. The memory of having him torture her was too fresh. Too raw.
She was torn between wanting to kick his face in and wanting to tear his jeans off.
“Lincoln,” she
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