Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

L os Angeles

2024

“My master wishes to see you.”

Owen glanced at the demon filling the open doorway of Owen’s tiny Bureau office. “Well, your master wishes you to wear pants at work, but you’re not.” Owen returned his gaze to the computer screen.

“If he commanded me to do so, I would obey. But he has not. He has merely suggested it, which I am free to disregard if I so choose. In contrast, he has not simply suggested that you come speak with him.”

“Fuck.” Owen took a few deep breaths. “It’s past six on a Friday night. I need to finish entering my field notes on the vampire I dealt with in Vegas, and then I get to go home, eat a gummy, and space out in front of the TV.”

But Tenrael crossed his arms and waited. Not only was it impossible to get any work done when a demon was staring at the back of one’s head, but Owen didn’t really want to piss him off. Tenrael could plague one’s sleep with nightmares, and Owen already had plenty of them as it was.

“Fine.” Owen hit Save and powered down. The notes could wait until Monday. It wasn’t an especially interesting or important assignment anyway. Vampires loved Vegas, and it was official Bureau policy to leave them be as long as they weren’t causing undue harm. If an occasional gambler woke up feeling a little extra dizzy, well, they should have known that Sin City would drain them dry. This particular vampire was a concierge at one of the high-end casinos, and she kept her noshing on guests to a minimum. Owen had confirmed that nobody she’d had contact with had turned up dead, had reminded her that the Bureau had its eyes on her, and then he’d made the long drive back to LA.

He followed Tenrael down the corridor toward the elevator. As always, Owen found himself intrigued by Tenrael’s black-feathered wings. They were large, but they shouldn’t have been nearly big enough to lift the demon’s considerable muscle weight in flight. Nevertheless, Tenrael could fly. Maybe the lab nerds downstairs knew how. For his own part, Owen thought it was unfair that he was bound by the laws of physics in ways that a lot of NHSs weren’t.

The hallway was long and Owen’s body ached. That’s what happened when you spent over two decades getting beat up. Eventually, even the Bureau’s skilled doctors could do only so much. Maybe once he got home he’d have some CBD along with his THC and maybe a soak in the apartment building’s jacuzzi. But only if nobody else was using it. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

“What does he want?” Owen asked when they reached the elevator.

“I do not know.”

“Of course not. Man, he’s almost as cagey as Townsend was.”

Tenrael didn’t respond.

The hall leading to the chief’s office was empty. Tenrael’s bare feet made hushed sounds on the marble floor, while Owen’s dress shoes were only a little louder. He wished he owned footwear that would make a definitive statement, like the boots he’d worn growing up. Even without spurs jangling, those boots were noisy.

Tenrael pushed open the double doors without knocking and swept through the reception area, mostly unused nowadays. Agent Holmes had retired after Townsend’s death, and the new chief apparently didn’t want an assistant. He probably didn’t need one, with his own personal demon always at his side.

The door to the inner sanctum stood open and Tenrael went in, followed by Owen, who couldn’t avoid a look around. It had been nearly two years since Townsend’s death, and like most of the older agents, Owen wasn’t yet used to the new chief. The office used to have a 1950s vibe, with metal filing cabinets, stacks of paper everywhere, and yellowing newspaper articles mounted on the walls. It had always carried heavy odors of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Now it was redecorated in slightly battered dark-oak furniture and smelled more like a candy shop, which seemed weird.

The chief stood at the window, gazing out at the mountains. He was tall and thin, dressed in a suit that looked straight out of the 1940s, and the last of the sunlight made his white hair glow. He must have heard Tenrael and Owen enter, but he didn’t turn around.

When Tenrael padded over to him and sank to his knees, the chief reached over and stroked the top of his wings. It was an intimate gesture, a tender one, and it made Owen’s throat feel tight.

The chief didn’t say anything, and Owen didn’t say anything, and Tenrael didn’t say anything, and the three of them were on track to stay there forever. But finally Chief Grimes spoke. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“Fuck, did that vamp kill someone after all? She seemed pretty clean, but?—”

“Your father has died.”

At first those words made no sense at all, as if they’d been in ancient Sumerian instead of plain English. When Owen’s brain finally comprehended them, it made a ridiculous leap and for a moment assumed that the Vegas vampire had drained Owen’s father dry. But no, this had nothing to do with vampires.

“What?” Owen demanded.

“Your father. It was a stroke. And it was several months ago, but from what I understand it took this long for your family to track you down. I don’t know how they eventually learned you work for us, but they did, and I received the message from Washington this afternoon.”

Owen tested himself for any emotional reaction and found nothing. Not happiness or sadness or relief. “I don’t have any family.”

Grimes twitched his shoulder. “Somebody’s trying to contact you.”

“That somebody can go fuck themselves.” Owen turned, intending to stalk back to his office.

“Wait.” The chief’s voice was commanding.

Owen did stop, but not happily. “Those bastards haven’t been in my life for over twenty-five years. I don’t care if the whole lot of them drop dead.”

While Tenrael’s expression remained placid, the chief frowned. “Families are complicated. Sometimes you think you understand your blood relatives, but you don’t. And sometimes it’s better to make your own family instead of sticking to the ones you were born to.” He dug his fingers into Tenrael’s feathers as if anchoring himself, and Tenrael leaned against him.

“Thanks for the advice,” Owen said sourly. “I’m going to go finish my report now.”

“I’m sending you to Copper Springs.”

Owen crossed his arms. “The hell you are. You might run the West Coast division, but you don’t run my personal life.”

If the chief was annoyed with this impudence, he didn’t show it. He looked at Owen, his eyes an odd pale green like an antique glass bottle, and his voice so quiet that Owen had to strain to hear. “I didn’t want this job,” Grimes said. “I left the Bureau a long time ago, and I was content doing PI work with Ten, maybe a little consulting work on the side. And then Townsend died.”

Owen gave a small nod. “He was shot.” Although he still wasn’t clear on the details—and neither was anyone else he’d spoken to—they’d all previously assumed that Townsend was practically immortal. Rumors had it that he’d run the division for almost a century, and while that might have been exaggeration, he’d never aged in the two decades that Owen knew him.

He’d been killed by one of their own, an agent named Dash Cooke, but somehow Cooke had retained his job. Owen had worked with Cooke and his partner now and then after Townsend’s death. Neither of them wanted to talk about it, so Owen hadn’t pushed. When it came to the Bureau, sometimes the wisest thing to do was to chalk it up to Weird Shit and get on with your life.

“Townsend came to me several months before he died,” Grimes said. “I’m sure he didn’t tell me everything he knew, but he did share some important information. And he asked me to take over after his death. I refused. But you know how he was—once he set his mind on something, things usually went his way. I eventually agreed, so now here I am. Stuck.” He spread his arms to indicate his entire office. Owen thought that Grimes might have looked more unhappy about his situation if he hadn’t had his demon lover kneeling beside him.

“What does any of that have to do with me?” Owen demanded.

“It has to do with everyone. Something’s coming. I’m not sure what, but I can feel it. I need all my agents in the best possible position to deal with it, and in your case, my instincts tell me that means you need to face your past. You’re right: I can’t dictate your personal life. But I can control your professional duties. We’ve had reports of suspicious activity near Copper Springs. You’re going to check it out.”

Owen gritted his teeth. He could refuse, but that would get him fired. He was still a few years short of retirement age—in the Bureau, retirement age tended to come early—and he didn’t have a lot of savings. More importantly, he couldn’t imagine what he’d do with himself outside the Bureau. He’d spent almost his entire adult existence as an agent, and he didn’t have much else in his life.

“What kind of suspicious activity?” he growled.

“Finish up your report, go home, and take the weekend off. Monday morning I’ll have a summary for you and a car ready to go.”

Even while knowing that he’d already lost this battle, Owen couldn’t quite surrender. “I have to fucking drive to Wyoming?”

“You can fly into Casper and rent a car, if you’d rather. Myself, I like to leave the flying to the professionals.” He smiled slightly and squeezed Tenrael’s shoulder. “I like a road trip better.”

Owen, who was too big to fit comfortably into commercial airline seats, tended to agree, but he wouldn’t give Grimes the satisfaction by saying so. He scowled instead, mumbled something that wasn’t really a word, and stomped out of the office.