Chapter 10: Portents

January, 1994

Have you ever fucked up? I don’t mean a little mistake that caused you some embarrassment or inconvenience as you tried to fix it. I mean full-blown, wide-spread devastation with Category-5-hurricane-level-destruction-from-which-the-region-takes-decades-to-recover-style fuck-up. The kind of fuck-up that you could never have prevented even if you could pinpoint the moment you made that first fateful step down the path that led you to the grand finale. No? Lucky you. Following my delightfully unexpected and supremely unwanted reunion with Janet, I woke to a day that made me wonder if that was not the path down which I was blithely treading.

I woke early the next day, grabbed my stuff and fled even before Edgar and John arrived at my door. I walked to my first class and used the half hour I had before the professor showed up to polish off the classwork I did not get to the night before. The class zipped by. Afterward, I chased down one of the Jesuits wandering around Georgetown and asked about Dr. Etherege. What Father Klem had to say was not reassuring. Apparently, Dr. Etherege was rather well-off despite not coming from money, not marrying money, and not being overly high in the esteem of his colleagues, which meant he was drawing his salary at GU and CSIS and that was about all. That he also lived in a rather nice townhouse in Foggy Bottom and drove a new Mercedes every other year was what concerned the good Father. I spent the rest of my walk back to the dorm thinking about that.

And when I arrived I was instantly reminded that I bailed that morning without my guards. Edgar and John were standing outside my apartment door with less-than-pleased expressions on their already hard-looking faces. The boys reamed me out for a while before pointedly escorting me to the SUV of the day. On the way to CSIS with a glowering Edgar and a stony John, I got to endure a prolonged lecture about not ditching the bodyguards. If nothing else, it made them look bad in front of the Secret Service and the other American agents also trailing me.

It was where I figured the halfway point would have been in the lecture when Edgar broke off midsentence with un-Edgar-like profanity, jerking the car hastily right then left as the bullet-proof windshield was suddenly being hammered by heavy machine gun fire and someone tossed a couple of Molotov cocktails at us that exploded with more than just fire. Edgar gunned the engine, took five very sharp turns and floored it through downtown Washington, D. C. before turning up at the British Embassy. The very startled guards opened the gate for us and then hit the panic button, summoning everyone they had to man the walls and gate. A very agitated middle management type scurried out, demanding to know what we thought we were doing.

With sirens screeching in from distant locations across the city, Edgar had a screaming match with the deputy attaché who felt the need to conduct the symphony of chaos about to descend upon us all.

“You bloody well know you cannot simply come barreling in here like ... like-” he stuttered to a stop, as if he mentally couldn’t find the right simile.

“Sod off, Hamilton!” Edgar snapped back, his gun out and his eyes watching the gate now being covered by a dozen of the embassy’s finest while others kept a watch on the perimeter. “I will do whatever I need to when Dame Alice is under attack. And if you have problems with it, I suggest you take it up with my Lord and Sir Robin when they return in the not-too-distant future. I am sure someone has already alerted them to the assassination attempt.”

A scornful look came over his face as he glanced in my direction. If I cared what the little twit thought of me, I probably would have blushed. I was dressed somewhat down today because I thought I was going to be crawling around CSIS storage and archives today. The jeans I was wearing had seen better days, having torn cuffs and being distinctly faded. I had on a Led Zeppelin t-shirt under the suede coat I was wearing and the ensemble was rounded out by my black combat boots, black cap, and black leather gloves. John grabbed my arm and hustled me into the embassy before I could add my two cents to whatever the little cock-gobbler was about to say.

I got to spend a couple of hours in a windowless room in the basement before being interviewed by Secret Service, FBI, and the British diplomatic security people. All of whom, needless to say, agreed that I would be accepting extra security in the form of even more personal guards as well as a net of security people until I left in the summer. I was in the process of arguing in my most superior, if angry, manner when Eoin showed up and slung an arm around me. He shot me a quellingly meaningful look whilst assuring one and all that I would gratefully comply with their every desire to keep me un-killed until I left their wonderful country.

The short version of it was that I was moved back into the Watergate for the time being. I was introduced to a pair of young-looking Americans who would be posing as my new best friends as they followed me around campus and then I was introduced to two older gentlemen who would be getting jobs at CSIS as security guards to be assigned to me for the duration of my stay. Will and Bill. I never interacted with them much and they liked it that way. I could tell they felt this assignment was beneath them, so I guess I am glad I never needed them.

The younger guards turned out to be two of the most promising agents the CIA had in their pipeline. The young female who called herself Rebecca Fontaigne was only a few inches taller than me but was build along the lines of Lucy Lawless. She had shortish, straight black hair and cobalt blue eyes that were simply spectacular. Her personality was sharp and quick-witted and we both hated each other at first sight. Nothing personal, it was simply two predators knowing when we saw someone too much like ourselves. The talk, leanly built Mexican guy calling himself Roberto Gila, on the other hand, fell in with me like a hand in a glove. We had complimentary, though not similar, personalities. Both professionally paranoid but he liked to joke about it and that endeared him to me immediately because he seemed to understand that just because you are paranoid does not mean they are not all out to get you. He had a medium complexion, medium height, and average features that would blend in anywhere from Santiago to Juarez to Baghdad and no discernible accent other than news caster American. I could see why the CIA was so high on his prospects.

Rebecca (and I was never to call her Becky or Becca or, especially, Reba) and Roberto would follow me around campus, take the classes I was taking, eat at the cafeteria with me, everything. And then they would go with me and Edgar and John to drop me off at CSIS. Unlike before, when Edgar and John would simply drop me off and wait for me, now the boys would follow me into CSIS. One of them would be with me at all times and one of the agents (Will or Bill) would be within visual range of me as well. My mentor at CSIS and his boss had already been told about the attempt on my life and that security arrangements were being made.

All of this was explained to me by the very senior Secret Service agent now in charge of my detail while I stood there and tried not to scowl under the combined eyes of the agents, Eoin, Ambrose, the British Embassy’s security people, and Edgar and John. Then Eoin bundled me up and we drove to the dorm so I could pack enough for an extended stay at the Watergate. Unfortunately, or fortunately (I am still not sure which), Mariko was not there. I was ordered not to leave a note telling her where I went but that I could leave a terse message and a phone number where I could be reached. Then, with me loaded down with bags and Ambrose and one of the Americans (his face straining with both the weight and his curiosity) hauling my trunk of death, Eoin took me back to the Watergate.

It probably goes without saying, but my jaunt to the goth club that evening was out. I don’t know who tried to kill me, but I was pretty sure it was related to the events at the party and possibly this entire trip to Washington. I would spend the next week and a half doing nothing but sitting in my room at the Watergate going crazy, going to class, going crazy, going to CSIS, going crazy, and spending lots and lots of time in the Watergate gym scaring the hell out of my guards. There was always a lot of white around their eyes whenever we left the gym for some reason and none of them would come near the mat most people used for aerobics and yoga but that I had turned into my own personal dojo. Whatever minute amount of fat I had on my body before the assassination attempt was gone by the end of January.

After the first week, Edgar convinced Ambrose to convince Eoin to convince the Americans to let Mariko come over to study and work out with me. I think they were beginning to get worried that I might stage a jailbreak. It took a few days for the Americans to get the hint and concede defeat on my solitary confinement.

So every other day Mariko would come over and we would hit the gym for an hour before spending a couple of hours studying or just hanging out. If I was unsure of her friendship before that, I was sure of it after. She spent several hours just listening to me bitch about overprotective males without batting an eyelash.

On the up side, I did not have to worry about running into Janet or her brother for the foreseeable future. I know it was cowardly of me to even think that way but I was looking for silver linings and that was what I could come up with at the time.

The monotony of my life ground on into February and I was still pretty much under house arrest. I was getting a lot of work done and I was even helping Mariko learn Spanish. I didn’t speak Spanish before but that was what she was having the most trouble with and so I started learning with her. She hated the subject but after a few weeks of going through it together she started to get the hang of it.

“Why the hell couldn’t Janet get me to learn this and you can?” she demanded crossly one night when she realized how much easier it was coming to her. “She has been helping me with this since last semester after I dropped the class. I have to have a language, and Spanish will actually come in handy out west, so I need to pass this class with good enough grades to have learned it. Not just scrape by like I was doing last semester.”

I shrugged and pulled the book closer to read the next chapter. “I think I might have a knack for languages,” was my nonchalant reply. “I learned German as a kid and never lost it despite leaving Germany for more that five years. I used to read a few German magazines we had over and over just to keep up with it. German is a beautifully harsh language that is very expressive when you are feeling some of the darker emotions. Opera, heavy metal, even poetry all sound very evocative in German.”

“Heavy metal,” she said with a raised brow and skeptical look. “I did not take you for a metal fan.”

“You think that Led Zeppelin shirt is a fashion statement?” I inquired sardonically. “I’ve got a great Black Sabbath one, too.” She shook her head and we got back to studying.

Halfway through February I got an interesting visit from one of my religious friends. I was watching the evening news on CNN when there was a call from the lobby. My security people were asking if I knew a Father Ignacio. Father Jerome Ignacio. Well, I knew a Jerome and he was sort of a monk, so I told them to let him up. I had missed going to church in all of the fuss following the attack and I was not happy about it on several levels. Cardinal Hardt heard about what happened and made sure a priest came every Sunday to give me Communion, but I missed going to the cathedral. It was a beautiful building and there was something about it that just made me feel better.

Anyway, Jerome knocked on the door and I let him in with a genuine smile, giving him a spontaneous hug. I was that glad to see someone other than the same cast of people that were in my now truncated life.

“Wow!” he laughed when I released him and guided him farther into the apartment I now had to myself. “Karl was right; you are going stir crazy if I get a hug.”

I blushed, muttering, “Shut up!” as I led him to the couch and turned down the volume on the telly. “I don’t suppose anyone got to poke around that goth club since it is obvious that I shan’t be allowed near it any time soon?”

He got an exaggeratedly, smugly superior look on his face. “Actually, Rome sent us some extra help and I sent Antonio with three new people to see what there was to see,” he told me, his face getting a little grim. “While they did not see the people Tyrone’s friend mentioned, it was quite obvious the club is a haven for transients of various Rudelles, Vampires included. They saw a pack of Weres (probably Wolves), a Hag and her harem, and a lesser Demon (who is probably a minion of Kwiskaron) all in the space of the three hours they were there. The club reeks with magic, as well.”

I was digesting that information when he barked a harsh laugh, his eyes twinkling with mischief. When I crooked an inquiring eyebrow at him, he grinned and said, “Actually, I am kind of glad it wasn’t you that went. Especially with your friend Moonshadow. Given what Karl Waldensee has told us about you, it probably would have devolved into an incident worse than the frat party.”

“Sorority party,” I corrected primly, glaring at him. “And Karl seems to think of me as some kind of half-wild barbarian who refuses to see the benefits of civilization, going around whacking people’s heads off at random. Someone who does not think before she acts and lurches from one disaster to another.” Even as I said it I could hear the petulant semi-whine in my tone.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Well, that is probably because you do as much as possible without Order help, which means he usually only sees you when bodies have hit the floor,” he guessed pretty shrewdly. “You train alone, or at least without Order help, and you hunt the monsters alone. So it is only when you are in trouble or have successfully completed your hunt that the Order hears from you. So to them you seem to be a ‘half-wild barbarian’ who they only see after you have gone around ‘whacking people’s head off’ and need help cleaning up a potential disaster.”

He took a deep breath and held up an apologetic hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to turn that into a lecture that I am sure you have heard before. I just know that you don’t seem to operate like any of the other Warriors of God we have dealt with over the years I have been in the Order,” he explained contritely. “They usually arrive with their own entourage of very competent Order monks, researchers, and other assistants who have usually been with them for years, if not decades. We wind up just being local support and guides while they conduct what could only be described as an operation. Compared to that, you sort of do look like you are just flying by the seat of your pants. Especially when you wind up killing a Vampire in the middle of a sorority party.” He grinned at that last to soften the criticism, but it still stung a little. And it stung all the more because it was accurate.

I sighed and fought the pout that tried to flow across my face. “I hate my life,” I whispered, looking at my hands lying in my lap. “I have since I was twelve and killed my first Ogre. And was separated from my dad and the rest of my family. Since then, I guess I sort of blamed the Order for some of what my life has become. Don’t get me wrong; Eoin and his family have been great in taking me in and putting up with my peculiarities, but it has not been any easier on them than it was one me. Kidnappings, deaths, attacks by monsters, plots that entangle Eoin, and me turning up bruised, beaten, and bloody on a semi-regular basis. All since I was thirteen and showed up in their lives. As unfair as I feel my life has been, it is even worse for them and it makes me angry. The Order brought this weirdness into my life and so they have borne the brunt of my disgust. The last thing I need is an entire team of monks following me around, eager to jump at my every command. It is creepy enough when I get injured and have to see Order doctors who seem to view treating me like the next best thing to treating God Himself!”

I took a deep breath and shook my head, realizing it was my turn to apologize. “Sorry. I am not sure why I told you that,” I told him, somewhat abashed at the rant. “I didn’t mean to dump my life’s problems on you.”

A little wide-eyed, he shrugged. “Who else do you have to unburden yourself to?” he inquired, suddenly reminding me he was a priest. “And I did sort of start it. I guess I never stopped to think how that life would affect a twelve-year-old girl who was pretty much completely unprepared for it. I don’t know your whole story; what I do know is hard enough to imagine an adult handling it well, never mind someone as young as you were when that clusterfuck in Belfast happened.”