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That damned dragon owes me some answers, and he’s not getting off the hook this time.

11

Blair

Cleo slaps a newspaper down on my desk on Monday morning. There, in a story on the front page, is a blurry image of a golden dragon snatching a woman off the sidewalk.

“Care to explain?”

I glance down at the paper for a second before turning my gaze back to my computer. “The Mariners are looking good this season.”

“I wasn’t talking about the sports section.”

I know she wasn’t, just like I know I’m not about to acknowledge the write-up below the fold about how they still haven’t identified the rogue dragon who kidnapped a woman in downtown Seattle Friday night.

My name hasn’t come into it, mainly because there are very few people who know exactly what I am. Even when Elias and I went public as the founders of Morgan-Blair—the company Elias now runs—we didn’t disclose what kind of shifters we were, exactly. Cleo knows, but she’s one of the few at the Bureau who do.

Some might call it dishonesty, but frankly I don’t see how it’s anyone’s business what’s lurking beneath my skin.

Kenna’s name hasn’t been brought up in the press, either, and thank the gods for small blessings. She doesn’t need to be dealing with that, too.

“Blair.” Cleo’s voice is hard, and when I glance up at her, she’s scowling at me. “What the hell is going on?”

It’s a mark of the years we’ve spent in contentious cooperation that I don’t bat an eye at her language. She can speak to me however she wants, doesn’t mean she’s going to get an answer.

“It’s handled,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back in my chair.

“Doesn’t look handled.” She sits in one of the chairs across the desk, red eyes flashing with irritation. “Looks like a big damn mess.”

“It’s not a problem.”

That might be a lie. Might not be a lie, either, since I didn’t have any cops showing up at my door this weekend to arrest me. Just a call from a very confused and disappointed kraken, though even for Elias I didn’t feel the need to explain myself.

No, the only person I owe an explanation to is the same one who still has the power to blow this whole thing up in my face.

And I wouldn’t even blame Kenna if she did.

I couldn’t help but look her up on the Bureau’s internal chat software this morning. There, right next to her name, was a little green checkmark letting me know she’s here in the building, working down in the communications department. I haven’t seen her, and even reined myself in from calling Nora to find out how she was on Friday night after Elias let me know Nora drove her home.

It’s been burning me up all weekend. The guilt. The shame. The lingering, insane urge to seek Kenna out, apologize to her, an urge that would probably just lead to more harm than good.

Cleo shakes her head. “Blair—”

“I’m not discussing it,” I say firmly, shutting the conversation down. “How are preparations going for the visit from HHS?”

She purses her lips, but lets it go. “Good. Just waiting on final confirmation from Harrison on when he and his staff will be arriving.”

The HHS Deputy Secretary has been a pain in the ass the last few months. Demanding increased transparency about Bureau activities, hyper-critical of every cent spent, despite that money having been allocated to keep our programs running.

“Any idea how much shit he’s planning to shovel our way?”

“Harrison’s going to be a problem,” she says, all business. “He’s ready to come in here and swing his arrogant damn prick around, work the PR and public perception angle. And let me tell you, this little kidnapping story isn’t going to play well into that. Not even after all the shit with Sorenson last fall.”

Nonsensically, the whole Sorenson ordeal stirred up even more anti-monster sentiment, rather than highlighting the depth of hypocrisy within the US government when it comes to paranormal relations. But it turns out having a sitting congressman use confidential Bureau information to stalk and kidnap his ex girlfriend didn’t do anything to sway those who already had their minds set against paranormals integrating into human society.

“Allow me to play devil’s advocate for a moment,” Cleo leans forward to rest her elbows on the desk. “What if there was a way for us to beat these bastards at their own game?”

“I’m listening.”