The dark blue of my front door seemed like a beacon of hope in the winter landscape, half-stumbling as I was from car to house. Gone were any dreams of tea and a relaxing evening, replaced instead with dreams of a good night’s sleep; after the day’s events, I assumed I’d be worn out enough to collapse for the entirety of the next day, or at least until noon. The whole business of figuring out whether I’d accept the offer to take a break from CENCA, seeing what they’d deduced from the site of the portal, and whether or not Stanton might still want to be friends with me—that could wait until I woke up. Probably.
Instead, my brain revived as I brushed my teeth; by the time I made it to bed, I had to put in earbuds and blast piano music, hoping to drown out my brain’s elaborate, cringey, and overly-critical movie adaptation of the day. It worked long enough for my body to pay more attention to exhaustion than mental distress, for a few hours—then I bolted wide awake with a single thought possessing my brain: I had left my duffel bag at the scene, and my (very capable) coworkers were pouring over its contents, searching for clues.
Sure, it was unlikely they were doing it right away, considering it was—I checked my phone—one in the morning, but it wasn’t impossible.
And well, after that mental thunderbolt, sleep was out of the question. I had to fix it, somehow, or resign myself to never sleeping again without sedation.
I resolutely told myself that having a bag there was hardly criminal. I was known to be on the scene already. I could say that it contained materials I thought I might need to figure out Cal’s portal, a grab-bag of random stuff just in case. If there were any extra-normal stuff in the bag that I wasn’t supposed to have—
I’d be arrested, wouldn’t I? Locked up. Stanton would be so disappointed—after all he’d done to help me.
It wasn’t too late. Maybe I could break into the department, explain it all, and get my stuff back before they looked too close.
My feet hit the ground, cold washing over me, before my brain caught up. No. That was insane. Absolutely idiotic. All it would do was confirm that I was acting suspicious. There had to be some other way to fix this—maybe burn the house down? I could blame Cal. He came back for vengeance. Except that would implicate him more, and if we ever managed to clear his name, either I’d have to admit to committing arson myself (and get arrested that way), or leave it as a dangling loose end. Which wouldn’t work. Stanton had a strong personal policy against loose ends, and would want to make sure his work partner was protected. Or would until he found out his partner was a criminal.
Sighing, I rubbed my eyes and shivered a bit. Not too bad—I was still wearing my civvies, not pajamas, due to a leftover childhood habit: never sleep unprepared. But it was enough that I grabbed a sweater from its lump beside my bed.
If I did anything, it had to be here, in my house, where I could work on it before talking to anyone. I was aware enough that I was sleep-deprived and irrational to decide against trying to talk to someone, but not aware enough that I could leave the decision for the next day. I had to do something.
If they traced the bag back to me, and found it suspicious, they’d want to search my house. Therefore, I had to make sure there was nothing for them to find. If the time came, Cal could shrink down and hide in my pocket or the lining of my mattress or something, but assuming that I wasn’t supposed to have extra-normal stuff in my house, that would be the biggest red flag, and, therefore, the thing I’d have to take care of first.
So: hide everything. Well, some things. The rest I’d give over to the authorities to avoid suspicion (allowing me to plead that I ‘didn’t know’ and was going to ‘do better’), but I’d keep important stuff back. Stuff that I could make a portal out of, or use for hiding or defense—that kind of thing.
Standing up, and rubbing the fabric of my sweater to warm it up faster, I considered my options.
I could hide the stuff I wanted in my (attempted) office, which was really just a room full of old boxes. Then even if anyone from CENCA did find my stash, I could just say that I had forgotten they were there. Except it would be obvious that I’d gone in the room, due to dust disturbance. So if I wanted that to work, there couldn’t be dust. Taking into consideration anyone noticing the odd cleanliness of the room, it’d be easy enough to plead that I had stress cleaned recently, since cleaning at this hour would, indeed, be tied to a lot of stress. I’d have to dust the whole house, for starters.
In the back of my mind as I stretched, tracing my next steps in my head, was the fact that I didn’t even know if I had broken any of CENCA’s rules. No one had told me whether or not I was allowed to keep extra-normal paraphernalia from cases. But, right now, I couldn’t afford to hope for the best. If I was in breach of contract, I could not get caught. If anyone at CENCA decided I was suspicious, they’d watch my house, they’d find out about Cal, and both of us would be toast. This might all be for nothing, but better be prepared than not.
Cal dragon woke up the third time I bumped into a wall (after bumbling my way downstairs). I allowed myself no lights, hoping to avoid the attention of any neighbors who might be awake, but consequently I couldn’t see. My next target was to find my night vision goggles, but I was having obvious problems; they were somewhere in the downstairs closet, and that I was all I knew.
There was a faint fluttering of wings, and a blob of darkness settled onto the carpet beside me, quelling my mumbled irritation at having smacked my hand against the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” he asked sleepily. “It’s dark out.”
That was a fantastic question. “Burying evidence” felt like the wrong answer. “Cleaning.”
The shape of Cal tilted his head. “Why? Also, have you slept?”
“A bit, but then I couldn’t go back to sleep.”
“I thought you didn’t like cleaning. But you’ve decided that it will help you sleep?”
“Kind of.” Now that I had the right door open, I took the risk and clicked on the closet light, just long enough to find the relevant box. “I’m not sure what is going to happen tomorrow, so, I thought I’d try and make sure I don’t have to worry about it.”
“I… I guess that makes sense.” He paused. “Wait. No it doesn’t. Are we having people over?”
“Maybe? I don’t know if CENCA will want to do a more thorough investigation on me now.”
“Ah.” He stayed silent, sobered, as I hauled the box onto the carpet, reaching to pull apart the flaps but finding instead that it was taped shut. Without a word, I pushed it toward him, and he sliced open the tape with a claw. “But why in the middle of the night? You need sleep.”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep.”
Not waiting for a rebuttal, I dug through the old, mostly defunct gear before groping my way to the goggles. I was aware I was being a bit… manic was the word that came to mind. That could be a problem, but if I could harness the feeling properly, ride it out, it would give me the energy to do what I had to. As long as I didn’t sit down first.
Let’s see. The main goal was to dust most everything I could. Afterwards, I couldn’t vacuum (far too loud), so I’d have to sweep instead. Not everywhere, but where there was wood, linoleum, or tile: the stairs, the kitchen, the bathrooms. I’d vacuum in the morning, at a more normal hour, and make sure I hadn’t missed anything, but if I didn’t have time I could at make sure to get the major problems out of the way.
“Are you sure you need to do this now?” Cal finally asked. “Why do you think they’ll come? I thought Stanton told you to take a break from work, so he’d probably discourage anyone from coming around.”
“I left a bag at the portal site,” I replied, feeling along the night-vision headset and trying not to feel how stupid my slip-up was. “I can’t remember what I put in it. Even without that, though, someone could show up here to interview me about the… incident. Interviews typically happens at HQ, but well, you never know.”
Cal breathed a long sigh, as if resigned, either to my potential fate or his. “Do you need any help?”
Squeezing the night-vision contraption onto my head, I looked down at him and sneezed. Maybe this dusting thing was a good idea. “Hmmmmm. Not for now. If you can sleep, you should. Also, sometimes you trail ash and don’t realize it, and I don’t think I can see well enough to catch it all.”
He liked sleeping in the fireplace in the basement, and didn’t always clean off afterwards. Thankfully, my carpet was a dark charcoalish color, which was not something I usually appreciated, but, well, silver linings.
He winced. “Fair enough. I’ll stay up with you, though. I’m awake now, and all that.”
“Don’t feel like you have to,” I said, venturing back into the closet for cleaning supplies. Or at least the ones downstairs. My cleaning system was a mess, and the different components I’d need were half down here, half up there. “This isn’t because of you. This is just my brain being stressed out and I have to do something about it. And also I have to fix my mistake.” Or try to, at least.
Heavens, I was a terrible fugitive harborer, wasn’t I.
Cal shrugged. “I assumed as much. Of the two of us, you’re more likely to heap yourself with unnecessary guilt.”
I huffed a small laugh. “Okay, yeah.”
Cleaning is often better with friends, I’ve found, and as dismal as the night was, it was not exception. And besides good company, he proved useful, too. You see, night-vision goggles are enormously helpful if you’re trying to move around in the dark, but they’re nothing like clear, good light—so I ended up tripping over myself, furniture, boxes, cleaning paraphernalia, stairs, and anything else my toes could find. Cal’s job quickly became warning me of imminent toe stubs, or pulling things out of my way. Besides that, without much more than a nod of assent on my part, he kept me company with stories and anecdotes from his home, or bits of trivia about Skailorn dragons.
For example, he regaled me with how his brother had accidentally stowed away on an elven ship once, and nearly got declared kidnapped, or he explained to me that dragons don’t yawn while sleepy. He referenced hiding under the couch on his second day here, after an all-night stakeout had dragged me into fatigue (and yawning). Context was everything, he continued; dragons only yawn when they’re either thoroughly comfortable with their company, or trying to send a subtle threat—powerful dragons are
“comfortable” even among enemies.
Instead of yawning, dragons blink when sleepy, eyes filming over with the semi-transparent scale they have instead of proper eyelids, much like the geckos I had always wanted to have as pets.
After an hour of cleaning, it became a relevant topic; he was slowly leaning like he would topple over, blinking ponderously. I had seen it happen before, and part of me wanted to video-tape it, a memento for when he was gone—a reminder of how funny and cute he could be, sometimes more like a puppy or a kitten than a dragon. Maybe it was because he was still young.
But I wouldn’t do anything of the kind. Keeping a video like that on my phone would be horrendously idiotic. It would practically beg the universe to send an agent to check my phone records, for some random, mundane reason, and then they’d find it, and I’d get thrown in jail.
I still didn’t know if CENCA held executions, but Cal’s homeland might.
But… that stirred something in my mind. What it was, I hadn’t placed it yet. Something about phones and finding things.
Thankfully, it didn’t take me too much longer to finish my goal. Sorting items, packaging, dusting, sweeping, putting away cleaning supplies—it passed in a blur of growing weariness and quiet conversations that lulled my mind back into rest. Nothing unusual, and the inkling of an idea that had escaped me stayed forgotten. Barely remembering to remove my sweater, I collapsed in bed, and Cal curled up around my bedpost and followed suit.
Except, about ten minutes later, I my eyes snapped open, realization smacking me in the face with a frying pan.
The phone! I had lied to Stanton that I’d received an anonymous tip, in an attempt to cover up why I was at Cal’s portal site. CENCA would want to check my phone, look at the number, see if they could call back or track it down.
I jerked upright.
Then would come the interrogation. Why did I lie? What was I hiding? They’d search my house, they’d find Cal. He’d get turned back over to his emperor, I’d get turned over to my government. Stanton and my sister would never want to hear me spoken of again.
There was really only one thing for it.
Well, probably more than one, but by now, realizational frying pan or not, I was beyond exhausted, sleep-deprived, and oddly hungry. I had less of a plan than ever, but as the one thought I did have wouldn’t require me to leave my house, it felt perfect.
Without pausing to give it a second thought (or even a first), I grabbed the phone off my bedside table, picked up the hockey stick from behind my door, tip-toed down the stairs, set the offending instrument on the tile of the bathroom floor, and slammed the bat down with as much force as I could. The screen cracked and splintered. Later, I’d have to make sure that the storage chip inside was also properly (and believably) broken, but that would work for now.
The tension in me ebbed, replaced with something that wanted to be relief but hadn’t grown up yet. Placing the hockey stick against the ground, I leaned on it, the relief withering into desperation to have been asleep like, a week ago. But it was enough. Whether or not breaking the phone would throw Stanton off the trail, I had given myself more time to figure out my next step.
Only after I cleaned the bathroom and threw my phone down the stairs—for an “oh no my phone fell down the stairs” excuse—did I remember that I owned no other alarm clock.
It’ll be okay, I soothed myself, my first thrill of worry dying down, typically I wake up when it gets light. And even if I don’t, well, not waking up in time will help confirm that my phone is broken. And I may not have to show up tomorrow, anyway.
Before I could spend too long worrying about if Stanton would forgive me for the portal incident but draw the line at missing a day of work, the fatigue I’d been pushing off finally pushed back, dragging me to sleep.
The next thing I knew, I was pulled reluctantly into consciousness by the sound of something pounding downstairs, and Cal hissing at me from under the bed: “Jeanne! Jeanne!“
“Is something wrong?” I said, as best as I could, though I’m afraid it came out more like “ishumthing rung?” I floundered under my bedspread, swimming my way back to the surface
“Someone’s at the door!” Cal whispered. “And they’ve been knocking on and off for a couple minutes. I don’t think they’re leaving.”
The full weight of the situation thudded into me, carried by the bright sunlight stabbing my eyes as I surfaced from the bedspread. Bright sunlight—bright enough to tell me that it had been full day for several hours at least. Jolting off my bed, heart thundering against my collarbone, I scrambled for both gun and hair elastic, mind spinning through multiple four-letter words that, when of sane mind, I hate even thinking.
It’s way too late in the day. That has to be Stanton or someone else from CENCA.
Stanton had said he was giving me a second (well, third) chance, but as high up in the Wing as he was, he might not have final say. Maybe someone had found the duffel bag and it was as incriminating as I had feared, convicting me of a crime and revoking Stanton’s kindly-tinged opinion of me. Optimistically, maybe they were just trying to ensure I was okay, since I hadn’t answered the phone; maybe they weren’t here to arrest me on sight.
All that and more flooded through my brain before I finished shoving my gun (safety on) into my pocket and throwing my hair in the messiest ponytail this dimension had ever seen—my hands shook too much for anything else.
A thousand similar thoughts continued to flood me as I half-walked, half-stumbled down the stairs, tripped over the phone at its base, and got a sliver of the screen stuck in my bare foot. Hopping, trying to get it out, I crashed up to the door and yanked it open.
“I’m so, so, so sorry,” I gasped, gingerly letting my foot back on the ground, “my phone fell down the stairs and my alarm didn’t go off and—sorry, what?”
Standing on the snow-covered welcome mat was a complete and utter stranger. Not only did I not recognize them on a personal level, I could not, for the life of me, place what species they were.
Huge, round, silvery eyes stared up at me from the depths of a hood? Scarf? It was hard to see much of them at all. They were swathed in scarves and a long coat that fell to their feet, edges dragging on the ground. But I could see grey, rough-hewn, skin, fringed with something that looked like a cross between moss and a beard—and those eyes. No pupils, just glowing spotlights staring into my soul.
“That’s… alright, I think.” Their voice was muffled, but it sounded deeper and richer than I was expecting from a being that stood little higher than my waist. “I can tell that, like myself, you are not much accustomed to the sunlight hours.”
I blinked. What could that mean?
In a way, my rumpled clothing, bedhead supreme, and (probably) bags under my eyes were a good explanation of why he might think that. But I suppose my actual question was: “is that important?”
“Yeah, I, um. I was sleeping,” is what I said instead. “Sorry I didn’t hear you knock sooner. Can I help you?”
“I don’t know,” they said. “I find myself in an odd situation. I apologize for bothering you, but you seem to share a similarity with myself, even if you are a human, and I don’t know anyone else I might turn to. May I come in? The sun is too much to deal with in my present state.”
The sun? Maybe they were some kind of midget vampire. Vampires weren’t grey, though, unless they were turning to ash.
But that was for later. Now, the situation was: an extra-normal needed help. Regardless of my current… state, this was quite literally my job, my business. So, trying to not feel too self-conscious about the mess I was in (and thankful that at least my house was clean), I stood aside and let them in, the tread of their footsteps thudding heavily against the floor as they passed.
Something told me that I might not get that break Stanton had offered me.
To Be Continued….
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