Page 62 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

T he sound of ocean waves carried to Charles and Tenrael’s front porch from the beach just a few blocks away.

Charles could smell the sea salt as well as a hint of coffee and frying bacon from a nearby café.

He enjoyed the scent of bacon, even though eating meat made him violently ill.

He sat with a slice of cherry pie, a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade, and the biography of a woman who’d spied for the Union during the Civil War.

Tenrael and Ish were inside the house, where Ish had been working his way through Mel Brooks’ movies.

The last that Charles had seen, Ish had been laughing through History of the World: Part I.

Tenrael, who was a night person, was probably still asleep, and Charles might very well climb back into bed with him after finishing the pie.

Charles had just about everything he’d ever wanted. He was even smiling.

Until a black Jeep parked at the curb in front of his house and he saw who was inside.

Not for the first time in his long life, Charles wished he could tolerate booze. He sighed, set down his dish on the little table beside his rocking chair, and waited for Achilles and Dee to join him on the porch.

They had a dog with them, a scruffy yellowish beast that wagged its tail, sniffed Charles’s leg, and then sprawled contentedly on the weathered boards.

Both men looked good. Achilles had apparently opted to keep the beard, his hair was carefully styled, and he wore a dark suit and white shirt.

He resembled one of those handsome real estate agents who put their smiling photo on their For Sale signs.

Dee, on the other hand, reminded Charles of a musician who was successful enough to live comfortably but didn’t spend his free time jet-setting or taking drugs.

He wore jeans and a plain black tee, and his curly hair had grown long enough to tie into a disorderly ponytail.

“Nice place,” Achilles said by way of greeting. “In this neighborhood, I bet you could get over three million for it.” Now he sounded like a real estate agent too.

Charles suppressed a chuckle. “I bought it for four thousand dollars in 1929. I’m not planning to sell.”

Achilles and Dee nodded, and the three of them fell silent.

Charles noticed that they wore matching wedding bands.

Sometimes he still marveled at the freedoms gay people enjoyed nowadays, although he was also acutely aware of how fragile those freedoms were and how much progress still needed to be made for all those who remained disempowered.

“Do you want to come inside?” Charles finally asked. “Ish would like to see you.”

“How’s he doing?” Dee looked concerned.

Charles shrugged. “Sometimes he’s entirely lucid and brilliant. Sometimes he’s in his own world. Mostly he’s somewhere in between.” Honestly, Charles didn’t know how much of this was due to Ish’s long, terrible captivity, and how much was his nature. He was the only angel that Charles had ever met.

Achilles leaned back against the porch railing, arms loosely crossed, and Dee stood beside him. They could have taken the other two chairs—the porch held three now—but then they wouldn’t be facing Charles.

“The Supreme Court ruled that it was illegal to dissolve the Bureau,” said Achilles.

“I’m aware.” It was one of several favorable rulings that had occurred since HQ was destroyed.

“Those of us who want our jobs back can have them. And they’ll likely be recruiting some new agents too.

” Achilles glanced at Dee, who didn’t appear surprised by this but was clearly a little bemused.

Charles wasn’t as talented as Townsend had been at identifying promising recruits, but Charles was sure that Dee would make a very fine agent.

Like everyone else, he was flawed. But he was also a good, brave, talented person.

Achilles waited a moment, and when Charles didn’t answer, continued.

“They’re trying to decide where to build the new HQ.

Probably somewhere more centrally located within the Western Division.

I hear they’re planning a park for the old site.

There will be a memorial there for the agents and local residents who died that day. ”

“Abe would be amused, I think,” Charles remarked.

Abe’s talent for communing with spirits had always given him an unusual take on death; he viewed it as a transition rather than an end.

Even when his beloved Thomas had passed away, Abe had confided that his own sadness was a selfish one born of loneliness rather than grieving on Thomas’s behalf.

He’d been comfortable knowing that Thomas had simply moved on.

“Hey, I have a question about Abe,” said Dee. “It’s been bugging me, and Achilles doesn’t know the answer. I saw a lot of agents get shot up by Spurling and his friends, but none of them died. The ibburs did a quick healing, right?”

Charles shrugged. “Something like that.”

“But when you shot Abe, he died, even though he had an ibbur in him. From what I hear, Townsend—also possessed at the time—was originally killed by gunshot too. How come?”

This was a reasonable question, although Charles shuddered slightly at the memory of killing Abe, who had been in the Bureau as long as Charles and was a friend.

But the killing had been necessary. Charles knew that then and was equally convinced of it now.

It had certainly been what Abe wanted. In fact, Abe had been eager for some time to rejoin Thomas.

“The difference, Dee, was that neither Abe nor Townsend wanted to survive. Abe had to sacrifice himself to avoid being possessed by a dybbuk. Townsend… well, he knew something was coming, and I guess he decided he’d be more helpful on the other side.

He’s the one who shepherded all the ibburs to us when you granted that wish.

” And he was damned smug about it too, lecturing Charles even as chaos reigned.

But Charles would spare everyone else knowledge about that.

Townsend deserved his due as a hero too.

Dee appeared satisfied with this explanation. He shifted his feet nervously, however, and sighed. “It’s not over, is it? The fight.”

“It’s never over. If you want to get philosophical, I suspect that it’s not even a fight—it’s a push-pull rhythm, like a heartbeat. As long as it remains in balance, life continues.”

He’d thought about this a lot and had discussed it at length with Tenrael.

While this notion wasn’t exactly comforting, it wasn’t entirely awful either.

It meant that life had a point. And it meant that every single effort, no matter how small, mattered.

Every time someone did something to keep the balance from tipping the wrong way, the heart gave another beat.

Charles took a sip of lemonade and leaned forward. He needed to say this next part out loud. “I used to think of myself as a monster. And people have used that term for shifters like Edge, for fantastic creatures like Ralph and Jerry, for vampires like Marek and Clay, for?—”

“For djinns,” Dee said.

“Yes. But they’re wrong. The real monsters are those who try to tip the balance the other way, and who persist in those efforts without remorse or redemption. Do you see?”

“Yes,” said Dee and Achilles in unison.

“So we eternally fight the monsters rather than becoming them, and in a way, that’s beautiful. Each of us can make that decision, no matter our species or our past or even our current circumstances.”

Charles realized he was lecturing. Maybe Townsend had rubbed off on him. He sat back in his chair and waited, because he knew they hadn’t yet reached the real reason for this visit.

“I got a call from Washington, DC,” Achilles said.

Ah. Now they’d gotten there. Charles raised his eyebrows.

Achilles was frowning. “They want me to be the new chief. Me . That’s ridiculous. You’re the chief.”

“Not by choice, and not any longer.”

“But I told you, they’re reconstituting the Bureau, and I’m sure they’d give you back your old job, and then?—”

“I told them you should be chief.”

Achilles gaped. Dee didn’t look surprised, which was interesting. But Achilles was a deer caught in headlights.

“Why the fuck would you tell them that ?” he demanded.

“Because I’m done. We both know I did a piss-poor job of dealing with the most recent crisis.

No, don’t argue—it’s true. People died. We all nearly died, and then the war would have been lost. No more heartbeat.

The only reason that didn’t happen was because the two of you kept things going.

Yes, you had a lot of assistance. But you led.

“And the other thing,” Charles continued before Achilles could protest, “is that I’m old.

Not so long ago, you came to me with the intention of resigning.

Well, imagine how I feel. I’ve worked for or with the Bureau for nearly a century.

I’ve seen so many people I cared about hurt or killed.

I’ve—” Damn it, he was going to cry. He never cried.

“I want to enjoy time with Tenrael. I want to help my father heal and get to know him. I want to sit on my porch, listen to the ocean, and eat pie.”

Dee pulled a plastic packet of Kleenex from his jeans pocket and handed it over. Charles wiped his eyes and blew his nose, thankful that neither of them was making a fuss about his show of emotion.

“I’ll still help if I’m needed,” Charles conceded. “Consulting work. But only when necessary.”

“I get it,” Achilles said quietly. “But me as chief?”

“All anyone will ask of you is to be the best hero you can be.” Charles chuckled wryly. “Which is a huge expectation. But it’s one you can fulfill.”

Achilles stood silently for a moment, and then an expression of acceptance and determination settled onto his face. “In The Iliad , my namesake rejoined the war because he was furious. It was ugly. If I do this, it’s not because I’m angry.” He clasped Dee’s hand. “It’s because I love.”

Charles glanced at the front door and saw Tenrael standing there, magnificent. Smiling at him. “Love can be an excellent motive,” Charles said.

He stood and brushed crumbs from his legs. “Come inside, have some pie, and visit Ish. The Bureau can manage a bit longer without us.”

Tenrael stepped aside and Charles paused to kiss him, hard. Then the new chief and Dee and the dog followed him inside, where it smelled of sweet warm cherries. Ish’s laughter filled the living room, and the bookshelves overflowed.

Home , Charles thought. Family . Things worth fighting for.

“Thanks, Townsend, you old bastard,” he whispered.

Then he headed toward his sunlit kitchen, ready to slice more pie.