After our unique meeting four years ago, where I narrowly escaped being eaten by demons, Duncan trained me to hide my unusual aura—the thing the demons were attracted to in the first place. Some humans have extra abilities; I’m blessed with the psychic ability to see auras. I can perceive things beyond the physical senses (taste, smell, physical sight, touch), and it gives me access to the visual perception of the astral body, also known as “psychosoma.” My power just needed a little honing. Since then, I’ve come to understand most people are a single color or hues of that color, unlike me. Demons, on the other hand, give off a variety of auras; unnatural power generally results in an unnatural aura. My regular mental shields are strong, but they need to be stronger in order to keep my aura hidden. The most effective method is to mentally sing songs, much to the amusement of Duncan and anyone else who can read minds.
So, I have constant background music playing in my head, which has become as natural as breathing. However, when my emotions flare, I add another layer of protection by purposefully singing any given song. The great thing about music? There’s something that fits every situation, every mood. Take the time I found my Uncle Charlie in a compromising position in the pool house with a former teacher of mine—“Love Shack” by the B-52’s seemed appropriate, until I accidentally sang it out loud to a very embarrassed Miss Jacobs. Still, they were once childhood sweethearts—who am I to judge?
Bagging the two bodies, a severed head, arm, and torso in clear plastic like some grisly dry cleaning, I drag them to the spacious trunk. As I drop the head into the trunk, the demon’s milky eyes spring open; I jump back and let out a tiny squeak—not a good look for my carefully cultivated badass image.
Grinning, Duncan peers into the trunk. “He’s still dead, Locks. It’s just an involuntary reaction after death.”
I straighten my spine. “I knew that, it just caught me off guard.” I slam the trunk shut and stalk to the front passenger door.
Grabbing a clean cloth from the glove compartment, I sit in the front passenger seat with my legs dangling outside the car and begin cleaning my swords.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Duncan rolls his eyes. “Can’t you do that at home?”
I give him my death stare, hoping to convey his imminent demise should he continue this conversation.
He ignores me. Guess I need to work on my death stare.
Chapter Three
Natia
As a Taurus, when life gets chaotic, music is your stress reliever.
T he razor-sharp blade glistens as the cloth runs along it, and my feet bounce to the beat of Guns N’ Roses’s “Patience.” Duncan shakes his head but gives me a few minutes to finish before starting the black SUV. I know, so predictable for a secret organization that kills supernaturals.
Laying my shiny swords on the back seat, I swing my legs into the car and sit awkwardly, trying to avoid getting the leather seats dirty, as no doubt I’ll need to clean them, too.
Duncan glances at me. His lips twitch. “It’s pointless, Locks; you’ll need to clean the seats anyway.”
Grumbling, I realize he’s correct and relax. “In the upcoming bid for funding, we should suggest employing a cleaner for these tasks.”
Duncan chuckles. “I can see them going for that instead of, say, the latest weapons technology or improved surveillance equipment.” I concede the point but sulk the rest of the journey.
***
Twenty minutes later, I’m hauling the last of the bodies across the concrete floor in the underground garage of the Seattle SIP headquarters to the morgue for inspection and destruction. The SIP, or the Supernatural Intelligence Protection (evidently, they didn’t employ a marketing company when naming the department), is a secret government agency that investigates and destroys supernatural beings who are a threat to humans. There are over one hundred SIP departments across the US, and several hundred on the planet. They prioritize cases with the largest body count or the ones associated with the most influential people and companies. Politics.
Heading up the Seattle office is Charlie, also my uncle. Think it’s a coincidence that a family member is heavily involved in a supernatural organization? It’s not. My initial kidnapping was meant to lure Charlie into a trap—they got sidetracked by my weird aura. To top the secretive nature of my family, my grandfather’s multi-billion-dollar company is also responsible for many of the weapons used to combat the creatures we face on a daily basis. So, while the Waterfords are human, we are deeply embroiled in the supernatural world.
Uncle Charlie, Duncan, and three other men stand by and watch as I struggle with the weight. I glare at them. What happened to teamwork? Having your back? Gallantry? Grumbling, I start singing “Patience” out loud for the benefit of all present.
Duncan snorts. “She’s been singing that since we decided she was on clean-up duty.”
“‘Decided,’ my ass,” I grumble under my breath.
Uncle Charlie’s lips quirk as he shakes his head. “Debriefing—command room, now.”
I stare down pointedly at the state of my clothes and point to the various unidentifiable substances in my hair. “Can I have ten minutes to get washed up?”
“You can have five,” he replies crisply over his shoulder as he marches away.
Groaning, I hotfoot it to the showers.
Ten minutes later, I stroll into the command room, having scrubbed my skin pink and detoured to the kitchen for some chocolate Whoppers and water.
Uncle Charlie’s eyebrow tics. “You’re late.”
“Sorry, couldn’t find a towel. I could’ve come naked?”
Uncle Charlie’s round face turns an interesting shade of red. No, wait… it’s more purple, an unpleasant contrast with his silver hair and moustache. The rest of the team snigger but don’t comment; infuriating your commanding officer further isn’t wise.
Plonking my ass in the chair next to him around the lengthy oval table, I braid my long, damp, caramel-blonde hair. Uncle Charlie insists I cut it shorter—he believes it could be dangerous if someone were to get a hold of it in a fight. I countered I could whip it around to blind someone. Let’s just say we agreed to disagree.
As well as myself, Duncan, and Aaden—the best intelligence and surveillance expert in the world (sometimes I wonder if his brain is coding in green zeros and ones like The Matrix)—Zee, Joan, and Jack, our newest recruit, are packed into the command room. I notice immediately that something is off about Jack—his red aura has become clouded. But what else is new, really? The guy has been nothing but rude to me ever since he arrived. He catches my stare and scowls. In my usual fashion, I give him a sickly-sweet smile then proceed to ignore him. True, I can be polarizing at times… but it’s a bit annoying to be immediately disliked by someone I barely know. All the same, I take another quick glance at his aura. Auras are generally positive, but they can become faint or clouded depending on someone’s mood or recent experiences. I had covertly checked out Jack’s personality test, but it didn’t reveal anything negative from his past. Huh. Maybe he’s just naturally sour?
Uncle Charlie’s voice cuts through my musings. “How did you do it?”