Page 16

Chapter sixteen

P olitical congregations all sucked, regardless if they were human or supernatural. Bob wasn’t a fan of them. Having to start his day smooching up to the humans to get the rights to subterranean lands was a painful experience. Mediating a potential shifter war in Haven sounded like torture. But he couldn’t run away from his responsibilities.

Bartholomew had stayed at the Station to coordinate patrol squads with Shorty and Pete. He had several of the rookies reviewing all the files for any more reports of missing shifters. Bob knew it was terrible timing to leave in the midst of all that work. But when Constantine called saying that the meeting with the matriarch of the Coleman clan was set up, Bob couldn’t say no.

As soon as he arrived at Reapers, he rushed to his room to shave, shower, and look presentable. If Mrs. Ella was making the trip herself, then Bob couldn’t afford to offend her by not looking his best. Ella Coleman was a true Southern lady and had the same sensibility for dressing as Death did. Bob pulled on a pair of slacks, boots, button-down shirt, and black tie. At least the tie had skulls on it. Bartholomew said it was only fitting Death’s intern rock skulls in one of his outfits. Bob admired the combination before leaving his quarters on the first floor.

He took the stairs to the loft two at a time. The leadership was supposed to arrive around four. He had at least thirty to get himself situated and relaxed.

“Bob, have you seen my new camera?” Constantine shouted as soon as Bob opened the door.

“What camera?”

“The one on my new drone,” the cat informed him. “Look at this.”

Bob moved across the loft, towards the back where Bartholomew’s post was located. The main monitor on the wall had a clear, aerial view of Texarkana’s Spring Lake Park, on Summerhill Road.

“Boss, that is a hell of a shot,” said Bob. He admired the clear quality of the shot.

“It’s one of the military’s prototypes.”

Bob gave a side glance at Constantine, not sure if he should ask the obvious question. “Do I want to know?”

“Katrina sent me one.” Constantine informed him.

Katrina was the intern for the horseman War. She had become like a second daughter to Bob. A very irrational thought, since he knew Katrina was over seventy years old, even if she looked like a mid-twenties girl. After a crazy mission with Isis, that took both the girls to hell, Katrina had become part of the family. She was also the only person who could get Isis to take a vacation without complaining.

“Is she going to get in trouble for that?” Bob wasn’t sure how much power Katrina had these days.

When they met, War had demoted Katrina from General to Major for accidentally bringing temporary peace in the Middle East. With all the chaos going on in the world lately, Bob was sure Katrina was back on top, infiltrating all the militaries of the world.

“Do you know anyone that could stop that girl?” Constantine asked, as he controlled his drone away from the park and back to Nash. “This baby is going to be so much fun during our night missions. Do you know it comes equipped with rockets?”

“The world is not ready for you and a more deadly drone,” Bob informed him.

Ding.

The bell at the entrance of Reapers went off.

“Our guests are here,” said Constantine. “Would you mind letting them in while I bring this baby back home?”

“Sure thing.”

Bob moved to the desk where the cameras and controller for the doors were located. He took a seat behind Bartholomew’s command center and checked the camera feed for the front of the building. Mrs. Ella and two others stood outside. Bob pressed the speaker button.

“Hello, please leave all weapons inside the security chamber after entering. The second gate will not open until you are fully clear.”

Bob listened for a potential reply, but nothing came. Instead, one of the men returned to their vehicle and climbed inside.

“Interesting,” Bob mumbled.

Mrs. Ella had a long, blue dress on with an enormous hat. She removed her hat and nodded at the camera. Bob considered informing them about the microphone but decided against it. If they didn’t want to talk, he would not force them. He unlocked the main door, and Mrs. Ella and her security entered the screening area.

The room was custom made for Reapers. They had a similar one at the back for vehicles. The area detected not only human weapons, but spells, curses, and any form of supernatural weapon imaginable. It also provided an incredible X-ray of whatever being was inside. Bob was sure Reapers was more secure than the White House, even though it probably didn’t appear like it from the outside.

The pair finished their screening, leaving three automatic weapons, five sets of knives, and throwing stars in the room. For shifters as powerful as they were, they were not taking any chances. Once inside, Bob headed toward the kitchen area to make some coffee. Everything was better with the magic brew.

“Is it me or is clearing our security taking longer and longer?” Constantine mentioned as he finished landing his drone on the roof of Reapers.

“Everyone wants to see what they can get away with,” Bob told him.

“That is madness,” said Constantine. “Oh good, you are making coffee. Make mine extra strong with a dash of Irish Cream.”

“On purpose?” Bob asked as he prepared mugs for the visitors.

“Had a painful conversation with Pestilence.”

“Aren’t all your conversation with that one painful?” Bob pulled the bottle of Irish Cream from the cabinet.

Constantine had developed a strange liking to it, so they always had several bottles on hand. At least alcohol had no effect on the cat. He was afraid to find out how a drunk Constantine would be.

A soft knock came from the front door of the loft.

“Come in,” said Bob.

The elegant Mrs. Ella stepped in, followed closely by a young shifter in flannel. The contrast between the two was jarring.

“Welcome, Matriarch,” said Constantine, jumping on the kitchen island to be eye level with his guest. “We are thrilled you could make it in such a short time.”

“We are in your debt, Master Constantine,” Mrs. Ella replied with a curt bow to the cat. Bob forced himself not to roll his eyes. “We came as soon as you called.”

“Please have a seat,” said Bob from behind the island. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be lovely, intern,” Mrs. Ella replied. “Black, please.”

Bob smiled. At least she knew how to properly drink coffee. A very good sign to start their meeting.

“And you?” Bob asked her security.

“No, thank you,” he said in a thick, southern accent.

Bob wondered how real it was. It seemed too thick to be natural. He learned earlier in the year that many of the transients were adopting a Texas drawl to confuse the natives. They also were pretending to be less educated and smarter than they were, to fool those they met. The one thing the young man couldn’t fool was the number of muscles in his body. He was Bob’s height, but with at least fifty pounds of muscles more than Bob. On average, Bob did not consider himself a small man, but if a fight broke out, he would need to cheat to win.

“You said this was important.” Mrs. Ella went straight to the topic as soon as she made herself comfortable. “What is it?”

“Has anyone from your clan gone missing recently?” Constantine asked.

“Missing?” Mrs. Ella replied.

“We received reports of missing shifters in the last week or so,” Bob provided the information as he sat the coffee cup down.

“Not that I know of. Lucas, double check for me please,” Mrs. Ella ordered, and the young man left the loft to make his call. “A few missing people don’t sound urgent enough to bring me here. What is really going on?”

“Have you been having any problems with the new packs that have moved into Haven?” It was Constantine’s turn to be direct.

While the Colemans were a powerful pack of werewolves, going back for centuries, they were not the only ones. Bob rarely had issues with any of their members. The matriarch kept a tight hold on her people and maintained order and peace in her area. But they were also known for running many of the underground fight clubs in Haven. Something Bob believed was a very lucrative investment.

“Nothing that we can’t handle,” she replied softly before taking a sip from her drink. “This is delicious, Mr. Bob.”

Bob blinked. It was the first time since she had used his name. “Glad you enjoy it. My blend. Beans imported from Guatemala.”

“Why am I not surprised you have imported beans?”

“We have people everywhere, not as hard as it sounds or impressive.” Bob brought a large mug for Constantine, adding the Irish Cream in front of the guest.

“I didn’t expect you to like your coffee spiked, Master,” Mrs. Ella told the cat.

“I have been experimenting with different things,” he said, then licking his own brew. “Been watching too much TikTok, and they had a video of a guy adding Irish butter to his coffee. Let me tell you, not as exciting as he made it out. This is much better.”

Mrs. Ella laughed, and Bob only closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe his boss had actually tried that challenge. It was a crime to add sugar and cream to a perfect cup of black coffee. To add butter was sacrilegious.

“I’m assuming that’s not the only thing you have to tell me,” Mrs. Ella told the pair.

“Nope, not at all,” Bob replied. “We’ve been hearing rumors of turf wars in Haven. You know the rules.”

Mrs. Ella didn’t answer, just sipped her coffee quietly.

“Your pack is being accused of kidnapping,” Constantine dropped the bomb, and Mrs. Ella choked on her coffee.

“What?” she asked after clearing her throat. “That is absurd, and you know it. Why would we go to that level?”

“We are not saying you did it,” Bob said calmly. “Just sharing the rumors. If a war starts in my city, it won’t be pretty for either side.”

“Are you threatening us, intern?” Mrs. Ella leaned forward in the chair.

“A threat means there is a possibility that we won’t do it,” Constantine clarified. “You and your people have my utmost respect, but we have one mission here. To keep Haven a neutral territory for everyone. We can turn a blind eye to certain activities as long as everyone involved is profiting and safe. War is a different story.”

“You have a city full of supernaturals, Constantine. Do you have enough allies behind you to keep order?” Mrs. Ella asked.

“Allies?” Constantine laughed. “We don’t need allies. I have two Reapers and an intern. Last time the truce in a Haven was breached, we burned that city to the ground. Or did you forget the Great Chicago fire of 1871?”

Mrs. Ella blanched and sank in the chair. “Hundreds died in that fire.”

“No, thousands were saved,” Constantine corrected. “The packs had escalated their attacks on the humans. It was only a matter of time before the world discovered the supernatural beings were real. That alone would have created panic and chaos. You know how humans react when faced with the unknown. Or do I need to remind you of Salem?”

Constantine scratched the table with his claws. The silence stretched between the group until Lucas walked inside.

“Mother, everyone is accounted for,” said Lucas. “Only Will and a few of the young ones are planning to go out to see a band this evening. Should we cancel it?”

Mrs. Ella shook her head. “Just make sure they all check in when they get back.”

“On it.” Lucas walked back to the balcony to disseminate the orders.

“See, everything is under control,” Mrs. Ella told them. “Anything else?”

“We are all on the same side, Ella,” Constantine told her. “But I will not endanger the lives of millions of beings for the petty actions of a few. If a war erupts in our town, there will be no survivors.”

“I’m too old for games, Master,” she answered. “The last thing I’m looking for is bloodshed. I’ll keep you informed if I hear anything.”

“Thank you, Ella,” Constantine told her.

She gave a half bow to the cat and stormed out the door.

“That went better than I expected,” said Bob.

He stood to watch the duo march down the stairs with a purpose.

“She doesn’t have to like it, but she knows we are right,” Constantine replied. “A war between shifters would get bloody. Humans would take notice, and that is the last thing we need.”

“My god!” Eugene shouted as he busted through the door. “I almost got ran over by the angriest shifters I’ve seen in years. Probably as angry as that gang we battled that time when they stole my drugs.”

“Hi, Eugene,” Bob said to Pestilence’s intern.

“What took you so long?” asked Constantine.

“Hey, some of us have work here.” Eugene dropped his messenger bag on the kitchen island and took a cup of coffee. “Not everyone can just chill at home watching YouTube and pissing off competitors. Did you find who hacked you?”

Eugene took a seat in front of Constantine, wiggling his eyebrows like a five-year-old. Bob couldn’t deny it. Isis was right; Eugene looked like a young Fresh Prince. If Will Smith ever needed a double to do flash backs, he should call Eugene.

“Why are you bringing that whole thing back up?” Bob slapped Eugene over the head lightly. “Do you know how long it took him to stop rambling around it?”

“Who are you telling? I have thirty-seven messages complaining about it,” Eugene added. “Just making sure I didn’t miss anything.”

“Everything is back to normal,” said Constantine. “The threat was removed. But speaking of threat, I need to know the truth. You know I don’t trust your horseman. Are you still dealing Ecstasy in my city?”

“God no,” Eugene admitted. “Death went full wrath on the Mistress, and we stepped away from that business.”

“Where are they getting it from?” Bob asked.

“Getting what?” Eugene asked.

“Didn’t you get Bartholomew’s message?” Constantine asked this time.

“That he needed backup to head to the Cave, yes.” Eugene patted his messenger bag. “That is why I’m here. Ready for tropical night with the devil.”

“What about the rest of the message?” Bob urged.

“There was more?” Eugene pulled out his phone and found his text. “Ooops.”

“‘Ooops?’” said Constantine.

“Yeah, I didn’t read the rest,” Eugene confessed. “I read Cave and pretty much left the lab.”

Bob and Constantine glared at Eugene in silence. Eugene raised his hands to clarify.

“In my defense, it’s flu season.”

“So?” Bob answered for the duo.

Eugene dropped his head to rest on the chair. “How many variations of the flu can we actually make? In the last four years, I have made at least eight. It’s so boring. This was a great excuse to escape while I still had my mind. Fifth is testing some combination of chickenpox and the Spanish flu.”

Bob shook his head. It still blew his mind how narcissistic Pestilence was. She refused to learn the names of her interns. Instead, they were labeled based on the number of decades they had been in her service. Eugene was still considered the Rookie of the team. Days like this were a reminder of how grateful he was to work for Death.

“That sounds awful,” Bob admitted.

“Tell me about,” said Eugene. “But if he does perfect it, it will bring us millions. Not a bad day at the Pestilence lab.”

“I keep forgetting that you are all in the business of killing humanity,” Bob reminded Eugene.

“We work for Pestilence. What do you think we do?”

“Why doesn’t that bother you?” Bob pushed a little harder.

“I see it as the circle of life,” Eugene replied. “We just help the circle move a little faster. Then I stopped thinking about it because it gets pretty depressing. What do you want me to test?”

“Give it up, Bob, they are all brainwashed,” Constantine explained. “It’s a necessary evil to work for the horsemen. I’m sure they feel the same about us.”

“We just threatened to wipe an entire clan of shifters if they didn’t behave,” Bob reminded himself. “I guess we are not much better.”

“Exactly,” said Constantine.

“That explains the angry guests.” Eugene nodded. “Now back to me.”

“Of course,” said Constantine.

“We have three dead bodies we found in the last three days,” Bob filled him in. “One had traces of Ecstasy.”

“Not mine,” said Eugene quickly.

“You already told us that,” Bob pointed out. “But could you see where it came from?”

“I should be able to,” Eugene said. “Bring me a sample of all three and I can compare to see if the others have any as well.”

“We can absolutely get you those samples as well,” Bob confirmed, pulling out his phone to make the call.

“Now, where are we going and when do we go?” Eugene asked, his smile a little too bright for Bob’s taste.

“You and Constantine need to find the location for the Cave,” said Bob. “I need to head back to the Station for those samples and check on the team.”

“We can make that happen,” said Eugene, saluting.

“Please be careful tonight,” Bob told him. “Don’t have too much fun, and come back alive.”

“Have faith in me. I got this.”

Bob wasn’t sure what else to say. Eugene was an amazing scientist, but clubs and music had a way of distracting the young man. At least he was immune to any form of poison, including alcohol. Nobody could drug him and take advantage of him. He wasn’t immune to bullets, and that made Bob very nervous. But he was going with Bartholomew. Between the two of them they should be good. At least Bob hoped.