Chapter Text
Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?
Or to put it in the terms most of us heard in Sunday Service growing up: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? They were among the last words Jesus uttered before he expired. According to the Bible, even the Son of God endured unbearable agony at some point, making him just as human as the rest of us. To be mortal is to feel pain. To suffer. To die. But I doubted Jesus ever clung to his cross, felt every wound, and suspected, deep in his heart, that he deserved the pain.
My three-story French Colonial home had been uncharacteristically empty when I pulled up the long gravel drive at a quarter to midnight. Over the last year or so it had become a hub of therian activity with wereleopards coming and going at all hours. The pard I'd inherited from Gabriel was a collection of misfits with very few places to go, specifically groomed by their leader and his skinwalker sweetie, Raina, to accept whatever abuse was thrown at them. My house had become a sort of flophouse for displaced therians in the meantime. Add to that the attached ballroom my girlfriend had grafted on, which Claudia had turned into a gym, and my house was seldom quiet. But tonight, the windows were dark, their shades pulled, and no one was home.
It suited me just fine. I wanted to be alone anyway.
Slanting silver lines filtered through the kitchen blinds, reflecting off the pots and pans hung from my ceiling rack, casting moonlight onto spotless hardwood floors. Nathaniel hard at work, as usual. At this time of night, he was probably running around micromanaging costume and set designs for the upcoming burlesque show Transgressions. It was due to kick off in six months, debuting on Broadway during New York Fashion Week.
I wanted to picture the joy on Nathaniel's face when he flounced onto a Broadway stage wearing a sequined costume and a smile. But in my head, the image was a dull, fuzzy gray like an antique TV set gone on the fritz. I couldn't bring anything into focus, let alone paint it a nice, rosy color. The inside of my head was muted monochrome, black words on a blazing white screen, heartless in their clarity. I kept opening my email, checking and rechecking the message as if the words would somehow have changed since I read them the first time.
To: https://AnitaBlakeFBSA.gov
From: https://AdamDoucetteFBSA.gov
Subject: Your License
As per request from Agent Clay and the Topeka FBSA Field Office, your credentials have been suspended pending a professional mental health evaluation. Please report to me in Branson to turn in your badge and sidearm at your earliest possible convenience. Please consult with the Branson Field Office for further steps if you have any questions about the rehabilitation process.
Agent Adam Doucette, FBSA Field Director.
The words were simple and utilitarian, not a consonant out of place. No warmth behind a single vowel. Nothing to indicate his feelings on the matter. And worse, no follow-up email or phone call to ask what the hell had gone wrong. He didn't seem to care enough to ask. No one had called, despite the messages I'd left or the emails I'd sent, trying to explain myself. As if there were any excuses for it.
And why should he care, after what you did? an insidious little voice whispered at the back of my mind. You really thought you were so much better than the rest of them. You're not better, just more arrogant. Never thought you'd be one of those people did you?
The tightness in my chest was unbearable. I wanted to rip at my chest with my nails until they came away with streamers of flesh. I wanted to snap my ribs like brittle twigs and rip out my own heart, stomping it into paste on the polished floor. But most of all, I wanted to scoop out my insides until I was as hollow as a vase, able to be filled with something more worthwhile.
The bags under my eyes were heavy, but the weight of the Browning in my hand was heavier. I'd turned the Glock in at the Branson Field Office hours ago. It only left me with a handful of authorized weapons and a whole hell of a lot more illegal ones stashed in a safe in the basement. It was a dozen more guns than I needed. Deceptively small, compared to some of the things I'd wielded in the past. Thirteen-round magazine, .9mm bullets, semi-automatic. It weighed a little over a little over two pounds while loaded. The finish was still worn, despite how well-taken care of it was.
The Colt Detective Special I kept on my nightstand was lighter, 21 oz, with .38 special ammunition. The same bullet diameter, when you got down to it, but a .9mm carried double the pressure. That made the .9mm faster, yes, but heavier bullets like the .38 penetrated deeper. Either way, dead is dead. I'd chosen the Browning as my duty pistol because of the superior magazine, but now...
Which was better, faster or heavier? Did I want to take chances a bullet would be moving too fast to hit anything vital?
"Anita?" a voice asked tentatively.
I jerked in surprise, the Browning assuming an automatic firing position without my conscious permission before I'd even located the sound. The figure ducked out of the kitchen faster than my eyes could track, wisely clearing my line of fire before the word could catch up with my sluggish brain. When the familiar timbre finally registered, I felt worse than I had just a moment before. I clicked the safety back onto the Browning and set it down gingerly, lest I shoot him by accident.
"Nathaniel?" I called back.
A braid swung into my line of sight first. The dim light made it look almost black, but under stage light, it shone a rich mahogany. The eye that peeked around the corner next was pale in the moonlight but was actually the color of lavender close up. Jeanette had taken to calling him her flower-eyed boy and encouraged him not to hide them behind glasses or contacts. A few seconds later the rest of him appeared. He'd grown several inches since I'd seen him last and filled out a dress shirt and slacks combination well. It was the first time I'd seen him in something so distinctly male that it caught me off guard. So he hadn't been at Transgressions tonight. Was there a funeral earlier in the day and people had forgotten to give me a heads-up?
"Are you okay, Anita?" Nathaniel asked, taking a tentative step around the archway that led into the kitchen proper. He stopped at the kitchen island, rather than sink into the chair across from mine. I wondered just how bad I must look if even Nathaniel was keeping his distance. He was normally content to curl up next to me on the couch or rub his cheek across my calves like a cat while kneeling on the ground.
"M'Fine," I mumbled.
Pay no attention to the drawn blinds or the .9mm on the table. Nothing to see here, move along folks.
"You're sitting in the dark," he pointed out.
"I'm tired and my eyes hurt," I lied. "I was going to have a drink and go to bed."
Nathaniel's head cocked to one side like a dog who'd heard a strange sound. His expression wasn't closed-off, exactly, but it was wary. He took a step closer, hands fluttering like pale butterflies at his sides as he considered whether or not to touch me. I wasn't a hugger and got especially volatile when I was upset. It was a bad combination when we were alone during times of high emotion. His first instinct was to fawn until the problem resolved itself.
"Coffee is probably a bad idea," he said after a moment. "Do you want me to make you some tea? I picked up some chamomile earlier this week. Cherry has been having nightmares, and it helps her sleep."
I winced at the mention of Cherry. She was a nurse at a therian clinic by night and a daytime secretary for Jeanette on her off hours. She'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time last August and had been assaulted by the son of a Council member. Knowing Fernando was as crispy as the last potato at the bottom of the deep frier didn't change what he'd done. A dead rapist didn't negate the rape. I knew that firsthand. She was yet another in a long line of people I'd failed.
"Sure," I said. Anything to get him out of the house faster.
Nathaniel offered me a tentative smile before turning away from me, bustling around the kitchen to collect tea bags, honey, and whatever else went into the teacup. I was a die-hard coffee girl and hadn't met a tea yet that I cared for. Still, it would let Nathaniel feel helpful and get him out of my hair. The clinking of bottles and spoons as he made his concoction was almost soothing.
A few minutes later he returned with a genuine teacup and saucer, setting the fine china delicately on the table in front of me. There was something off about the set of his smile. I'd never seen that look on his face before. Odd, for someone so expressive. He hovered near my elbow, hands fidgeting nervously with the buttons on his shirt.
"What are you all dressed up for?" I asked offhandedly. "I don't think I've ever seen you in something like this."
Nathaniel chewed his lip for a second, weighing his words. He twisted the buttons on his shirt with enough force that one actually broke off in his hand, trailing the cotton fibers of his shirt behind it.
"Gretchen was hosting a black tie event. It's March 14th, Anita."
I frowned. Gretchen was Nathaniel's new boss, so of course he'd attend the party. I just couldn't understand the relevance of the date.
"Yeah, and?"
Nathaniel ran his thumb over the mother-of-pearl button in his hand like it was a worry stone. "And the 17th is coming up. Jeanette's birthday. Gretchen threw an early party to celebrate."
The words fell into the staticky silence of my head, making a dull plink when they landed. Birthday. Jeanette's birthday. In the wake of the Topeka debacle, I'd completely forgotten. I snatched the teacup from the saucer with shaking hands, downing it before the lump in my throat could choke me. The tea tasted vile. Dirt, bitter herbs, and medicine.
Medicine?
I stood abruptly as my vision went fuzzy around the edges. My tongue went numb and the inside of my cheeks felt like wool. I tried to reach for the Browning, but my arms seemed to be a mile long and made of gelatin. I windmilled forward in slow motion and Nathaniel caught me. His breath was coming fast, and caught on a half-sob when he lowered us both into a sitting position, his back to the island.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice choked with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry!"
"What did you do?" I asked. Tried to ask. The words oozed like oil from between my lips, slippery and unintelligible.
"It's Xylazine," he said, interpreting the sound of protest correctly. "We keep some on hand for new members, just in case. I'm sorry Anita, so sorry."
Horse tranquilizers. Jesus, no wonder the world was spinning. A dose strong enough to calm a new shapeshifter would knock my ass out in minutes. And somehow it was Nathaniel who'd had the stones it took to tranq the Executioner. Though he seemed to be regretting it dissolving into hysterics now that I was on the ground.
"I didn't know what else to do," he said. It sounded like a plea. I thought he was talking to himself until I heard the tinny sound of another voice coming from far off. A phone receiver. I couldn't make out the voice, just the words.
"What's happened, Nathaniel?"
"It's Anita," he said in a hushed voice. "I need help getting her to a safe place. I think she was trying to kill herself."