Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L os Angeles

2001

“I understand your last assignment was quite exciting, son.”

“Yes, sir.” Owen Clark willed himself not to fidget in the car seat like a schoolboy. Chief Townsend, settled comfortably behind the wheel of the Lincoln Town Car, was looking at the road rather than at Owen. But he would know if Owen squirmed; Owen was sure of it. Chief Townsend knew everything.

The chief piloted the car down the crowded 405 as if certain everyone would get out of his way. And somehow, everyone did. He cruised as if traffic weren’t an issue, and returned to the topic at hand. “We don’t often get an anzu on the West Coast. They’re a little tricky to handle.”

“This one barbecued Agent Gao.” Owen shuddered at the memory of Gao’s screams and the odor of charred flesh.

“Agent Gao is getting the best treatment available. He’ll return to active duty eventually. He’ll have some scars, to be sure, but scars are honorable souvenirs. Like Agent Becker, for example. His are impressive, aren’t they?”

Agent Becker’s face was a map of deep claw marks, and judging by the way he moved and the cane he used, he’d been wounded elsewhere on his body as well. He spent most of his work time down in the Antarctic—the Bureau’s chilly basement laboratory—and the rest of it running training sessions. Owen hadn’t yet spoken directly to him and had no idea whether Becker shared the Chief’s opinions about scars.

“Did you enjoy the assignment?” asked the Chief.

How was he supposed to answer that? “It was interesting. I’m glad we were able to protect the public from that monster.”

“But you had to destroy a member of a critically endangered species, which is a shame. It’s a pity the anzu wasn’t reasonable.”

Owen and Agent Gao hadn’t even tried to reason with the thing. As it spewed fire and lashed out with its talons, diplomacy hadn’t exactly been an option.

“Sir, am I being punished for poor performance on that assignment? Is that what we’re doing today?”

The chief laughed so heartily that Owen could feel it through the car’s bench seat. “Son, if I intended to punish you, I’d be quite capable of accomplishing that without leaving HQ.”

Owen shuddered again. He didn’t want to imagine what that punishment might entail. The chief was terrifying—everyone thought so, even the most senior agents. The only one who didn’t was Townsend’s private secretary, Agent Holmes, who had scars even worse than Becker’s, and who was also scary as heck.

“Then what are we doing?”

Instead of responding, the chief exited the freeway and somehow managed to make every darn green light as he drove down the street. Owen still had a poor handle on Los Angeles geography and wasn’t sure exactly where they were. Near Beverly Hills, maybe. It looked like a fancy neighborhood, in any case. When the chief pulled into a restaurant parking lot and stopped in front of the door, a valet trotted over.

Chief Townsend hauled himself out of the car and bent down to give Owen an impatient look. “Come on then, boy.”

Owen, who’d never in his life used valet parking, scrambled to obey. There were no valets in the little town where he’d grown up. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether there were valets anywhere in Wyoming. Well, maybe in Jackson Hole, but he’d never been there.

The chief looked to be in his mid-fifties, and his ample belly always strained the buttons of his old-fashioned suit vests. Yet he always moved with surprising speed and grace, and Owen had to hustle to keep up.

The interior of the restaurant was swanky in an understated way, with neutral colors, dim lighting, and expensive-looking artwork. Each table was nearly surrounded by a low privacy wall, and although the sound system played music, Owen wasn’t hip enough to recognize the genre. All of the employees looked like fashion models. Even though Owen was wearing a decent suit and looked presentable enough, he knew he was big and awkward and that everyone could instantly tell he was nothing but a hick who grew up with cow shit on his boots.

But nobody said anything rude, and the hostess who led them to a table at one side of the room smiled as she handed them menus.

Owen glanced at the listing and managed not to wince at the prices. He assumed his boss was paying—or, more likely, the Bureau. But he could eat for a week off what one meal was going to cost.

“Kind of fancy for lunch,” he said, when the silence grew oppressive.

“A good meal can be enjoyed at any time.” Townsend reached into a pocket, pulled out a cigarette case and lighter, and lit up, leaving Owen uncertain about whether to point out that smoking had been banned in California restaurants since the nineties.

When the waitress appeared a moment later, she simply set a highball glass and bottle of whiskey in front of the chief. “What can I get for you?” she asked Owen cheerily.

“Uh… a Coke? Please.”

“Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

Townsend took a swallow of his drink before answering. “We’re expecting one more person. But we’ll have a double order of arancini and a plate of mussels while we wait. Oh, and an order of focaccia.”

As soon as she was gone, Owen leaned forward. “Another person?”

With one of his enigmatic smiles, Townsend spent a moment watching his cigarette smoke waft toward the high ceiling. Owen watched too, thought for a moment that the smoke looked an awful lot like a human figure, and then blinked the illusion away. The chief was weird in every sense of the word, and his proximity was getting to Owen.

“So,” said the chief suddenly, startling him a little, “how long have you been with the Bureau, son?”

“I, uh, finished training six months ago.”

“Yes, of course. And have you enjoyed your time thus far, the anzu notwithstanding?”

“Of course, sir.” Then Owen, whose parents had taught him that lying was a sin, took a deep breath. “I mean, it’s been harder work than I imagined, sir. And, um, sometimes pretty scary.” Actually, sometimes downright terrifying, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud.

Townsend stubbed out his cigarette, immediately lit another, and refilled his glass. “But you wish to stay with us?”

Owen’s gut clenched. “Yes!” he blurted, probably too loudly, then added more quietly, “Very much so.”

“Why? You’re a strong young man and reasonably bright. You could have any number of jobs, I’m sure. Why take one that endangers your life?”

“Because I feel like I’m doing some good. Saving people, maybe. Making a difference.”

“Hmm.” Townsend drained his glass again, spent a few moments staring pensively at the whiskey bottle, and then poured a refill. “You were a cattle rancher, yes?”

“My parents had a ranch.” It hadn’t been a particularly successful one, as one disaster or another always seemed to plague them. By the time Owen reached high school, his dad was trying to make ends meet by working in the oil fields, which left Owen, his mom, and two older brothers to run the ranch. It hadn’t gone well, and the bank took over the place around the time that Owen left home. He didn’t know what his family had done next.

“And what interested you in the Bureau specifically? There are many ways to help others.”

Before Owen could answer, a waiter came by with his Coke and then the waitress appeared with what seemed like a lot of food. Townsend immediately filled his little appetizer plate to overflowing while Owen eyed the unfamiliar dishes with some trepidation. “Help yourself,” said Townsend, gesturing, and Owen took some focaccia to be polite.

He hoped that would be it for the conversation, but no such luck. Townsend raised his eyebrows and swallowed a mouthful of shellfish. “You were telling me why you applied to become an agent.”

“I got rescued by a dragon.”

Townsend simply waited. Owen suppressed a groan. Apparently he was going to have to spill the whole story, even though he was certain that the chief knew it already.

“After I left Wyoming, I got a job as a stable hand at Yosemite. It was just a seasonal thing. When I had time off, I went hiking. Anyway, I didn’t really know what I was doing, and one day I wandered off the trail and got lost. It was stupid of me. I didn’t have the right supplies for camping and didn’t know how to manage being in the wilderness. We have mountains in Wyoming, but they’re not like that. Well, I spent two nights there, frightened to death. Turned my ankle and could hardly walk. Got sick from drinking stream water. I thought I was done for.”

The chief, who’d been working his way through the appetizers, motioned for him to continue.

“I’d pretty much given up, sir. I was just sitting against a rock. Then I looked up and….” He paused, remembering the astonishment he’d felt at the time. “At first I thought it was a bird. A turkey vulture or even a condor. But it came closer and I saw… a dragon.”

“Were you scared?”

Owen shook his head. “I probably should have been. But he was so beautiful, you know? And it was just… magical. A real-life dragon! Then he landed and turned into a naked guy with strange eyes. First he made sure I wasn’t actively dying and then he yelled at me for being an idiot, which was fair enough. He changed back into a dragon, sir, and made it clear I was supposed to ride on his back.”

The dragon had taken flight, and Owen, who’d never flown even in an airplane, was almost overcome with wonder and delight. He’d forgotten all about the pain and nausea and shame and about every dumb thing he’d done and the unhappiness he’d recently fled. That time in the air had been by far the most perfect minutes of his life.

“The sun set while we were flying, which I guess was good—nobody saw him when we got closer to people. He left me near the stables and turned into a man long enough to make sure I could handle the last part on my own, I think. But he also told me about the Bureau. He said once I got my act together, maybe I should apply. Then he was gone.”

“Ah.” Townsend nodded a few times. “Agent Crespo— former Agent Crespo, I should say. He’s only a contractor with us now but always has a good eye for potential recruits. I’ve found a few agents thanks to him. And you decided to take his advice?”

“Because of dragons, sir. With the Bureau I can help people, and I can do it while meeting dragons. And sasquatches. And demons! And, uh, whatever Charles Grimes is.”

That made Townsend chuckle. “That’s right—he consulted on one of your cases last month. He is an interesting fellow.”

Interesting was one way to put it. Grimes was intense and sort of eerie, and his lover was an actual demon—which still kind of shook Owen. He still wasn’t used to human gay couples being open about their affection.

He took a bite of bread and washed it down with some Coke. “I wanted a job—a career—where I could help folks and do it in the company of… of the extraordinary.” That was the best he could explain it.

And fortunately, that was enough, because the chief finished off the appetizers, glanced toward the restaurant entrance, and smiled. “Ah. Our guest has arrived.”

Owen turned to look… and saw the love of his life.

Okay, that was an exaggeration, but nonetheless Owen’s heart sped, his face flamed, and his mouth went dry.

When Owen was twelve years old, he became a little obsessed with Pandev Palace , a sitcom about a royal family from a mythical Eastern European country who ended up living in middle-class American suburbia. The premise was ridiculous, but the writing was good and the actors talented, so the popular show won Emmys. But what Owen didn’t admit to anyone—barely admitted to himself—was that the real attraction for him had been the actor who played the Pandev family’s teenage son.

Criss Tempest.

Owen had spent far too much time daydreaming about him, had mourned when the series was dropped after three seasons, and had gone to see the handful of non-Pandev movies Tempest starred in afterward. Right about the time when Tempest’s film roles seemed to peter out, Owen had fled Wyoming, and he hadn’t had much time to fanboy about anyone since.

And now here was Criss Tempest—older but definitely recognizable—slouching toward them with a scowl on his face.

“Townsend?” he demanded, not sparing a glance for Owen.

“Yes, and this is Owen Clark. Please join us, Mr. Tempest.” The chief waved at the chair next to Owen, but Tempest grabbed it and moved it to the head of the table, so Owen was to his left and the chief to his right.

The waitress was hovering, and Tempest gave her an impatient look. “Whiskey highball, double.” Not even a please .

“Of course,” she said and hurried away. If she recognized Tempest, she didn’t show it. Maybe they got a lot of famous people here.

While a busboy cleared away the empty appetizer dishes, Townsend lit another cigarette and Tempest read the menu. That gave Owen an opportunity to gaze at him in what he hoped was a relatively subtle way.

Tempest at twenty-three—the same age as Owen—was still beautiful, with a Greek-god face and impossibly blue eyes. His dark hair was carefully styled and his clothing expensive. But there was a tightness around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes and a general sense of brittleness. He reminded Owen of the coyotes that skulked around the ranch in the spring: hungry, distrustful, yet defiant in their will to survive.

His parents had shot coyotes whenever they could.

The waitress arrived with Tempest’s drink and took their food orders. Townsend asked for both steak and salmon, Tempest wanted a fancy-sounding salad, and Owen, who’d forgotten to peruse the offerings and sort of panicked, ended up blurting “Hamburger.” Although it made Tempest snort, the restaurant must have offered burgers, because the waitress simply nodded.

Tempest glanced at Owen’s bulk—which made Owen want to squirm—and asked the chief, “Who’s this ape? Your bodyguard?”

Townsend chuckled as if this were very funny. “As I said, this is Owen Clark. My newest agent. I invited him because I thought you might find his perspective helpful.”

Tempest downed a healthy portion of his drink. “I already have an agent. I’m not looking for a new one.”

“Oh, you misunderstand, son. He’s not a talent agent. He’s a field operations employee of the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. I run the West Coast division.”

For a moment, Tempest simply stared. Then he downed the rest of his highball in one long swallow and slammed down the glass. “What the hell is the Bureau of… whatever?”

“We’re a federal agency charged with overseeing the actions of sentient NHSs—that’s nonhuman species—and, when necessary, stepping in to keep the peace.”

In fact, although the Bureau’s mission had begun fairly simply nearly a hundred years ago, nowadays it was considerably more complex. They dealt not just with anzus, vampires, shapeshifters, and dozens of other species, but also with humans who got tied up in certain magic or paranormal activities. As Owen had been reminded many times during training, the agency’s jurisdiction and powers were broad. But Townsend didn’t mention any of this.

Tempest leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking decidedly unhappy. “You’re cops. Fuck. Look, if you’re going to fucking arrest me, stop playing shitty games and just slap on the cuffs. But you’ve got nothing on me. I’m clean.”

However Owen had expected his day to go when he woke up that morning, it wasn’t like this. He really wished the chief had explained things before they got here.

Townsend, on the other hand, seemed calm and even slightly jolly, as if all of this was great fun. “We are not going to arrest you. We do have some law enforcement responsibilities, but we’re not police officers in the strict sense of the word. We are agents. The dictionary defines an agent as one who exerts power, and I think that describes us well enough.”

The explanation, such as it was, did nothing to tone down Tempest’s anger. He grabbed Townsend’s whiskey bottle and poured a good amount into his own glass before taking another big drink. He shot a quick glare at Owen, as if this was somehow his fault, before returning his attention to the chief.

Owen was having a hard time reconciling this surly man with the character he’d played on TV. Sasho Pandev was an optimist, always telling jokes and urging his more staid family members to lighten up and enjoy life in their new country. Of course Owen knew that had been just a role, not the real Criss Tempest, and also, ten years had passed. But it was hard now to even imagine this man’s eyes dancing with innocent mischief or his mouth broadening into a grin.

“Why the fuck am I here?” Tempest finally demanded. “I was told we were going to be discussing a job.”

The chief nodded. “We are.”

“Your Bureau makes movies too?”

“No. I’m here to offer you a position as an agent.”

Owen wondered who was more astonished at this—him or Tempest. It was Tempest who spoke. “I’m an actor, not a… cop.” He spat out the last word as if it were something bad-tasting.

“You’ve been an actor, yes, and you’ve done very well with it. But in recent years you’ve found yourself increasingly struggling to obtain parts. Many people have difficulties making the transition from child performer to adult. And son, there have been issues with drugs, with drinking”—he hefted the bottle as if to demonstrate—“and a few brushes with the law. You’ve spent more time in the scandal sheets than on marquees.”

Tempest had gone white. “That’s none of your fucking business,” he growled, his hands clenched into fists.

“No, but recruiting qualified agents is my business. You have talents that could serve the agency well. You’d do much more good here than you would clutching at increasingly poor projects and watching the last of your money evaporate. We can provide access to excellent counseling and treatment for substance dependency. You wouldn’t be the first agent to take advantage of those services.”

“I won’t?—”

“It’s a rewarding job, son. You won’t get rich from it, but you’ll be comfortable enough. You will have a meaningful life and a good share of excitement. Ask Agent Clark—that’s why I brought him.”

When Tempest turned his gaze on Owen, it was filled with such fury and loathing that Owen wanted to sink under the table. Which wasn’t fair—this hadn’t been his idea. He hadn’t had a clue what the chief was up to.

But the chief also had a point.

For the first time, Owen spoke to Tempest. “We save lives. We get to interact with creatures other people only read about in fairy tales. It’s like we’re in on this big, important secret, you know? And the other agents, I really like working with some of them. I feel like I’m a part of something that matters.”

Well, that was more soul-baring than he’d intended. He wanted to tell Tempest that the Bureau accepted agents from all sorts of backgrounds—some of them weren’t even human—and nobody seemed to care where you came from or who you slept with. The job could be scary and even deadly. But nobody had rejected Owen, which was more than he could say about his own flesh and blood. He kept his mouth shut, though. Tempest continued to stare at him, and Owen thought he saw a small waver, a bit of thawing in those intensely blue eyes.

“Where are you from?” Tempest asked. “I bet it’s somewhere with a lot of cornfields, like Nebraska.”

Owen felt his cheeks redden. “Copper Springs, Wyoming. Cattle, not corn.”

The corner of Tempest’s mouth twitched. Then suddenly he scrambled out of his chair and spat, “I’m an actor, not a fucking cop.”

He walked briskly through the restaurant, as if he were being pursued. Or as if he feared he might change his mind. He looked back once, caught Owen’s eyes, and then hurled himself out the door.

Townsend sighed as he poured a refill. “Shame. I’d hoped he’d at least consider it. He would have been an asset. Would have saved himself a great deal of grief as well.” He shrugged, then brightened. “Ah, here’s our lunch.”

“But… sir.”

“You might as well eat your hamburger. The Bureau’s going to have to pay for it anyway. When our entrees are done, we’ll discuss your next assignment.”

Owen, who was a big man with a big appetite, echoed the chief’s shrug before digging in. He hoped the Bureau would send him somewhere exciting.