Mark Del Franco - Face Off

Moor’s eyes began to bulge. Cornering a brownie like this was breaking with routine, especially since Moor was on the run from the law. Laura recognized the first stages of a boggart mania as the panic at being confronted set in. Laura took a casual step to her left to increase the distance between herself and Sinclair. “Let’s keep this calm, Moor.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone else. It happens to brownies all the time,” she said.

“Let’s talk about that back at the station,” Sinclair said.

Moor stepped back with indecision. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No, you are,” said Laura. Before Moor could react, Laura held her hand out and muttered in Gaelic. A small tangle of essence shot from her palm and settled over Moor. The brownie’s body flexed and pulsed as the boggart mania tried to kick in, then went still as the spell activated. Moor’s eyes glazed dully with sleep.

“That was simple,” Sinclair said.

Laura removed the tea and croissant from Moor’s still hands and placed them on the window ledge of the tea shop. “There was no point in prolonging it. She knew the warrant was an excuse.”

“So, to be clear, we have a legal right to kidnap people, right?” he asked.

She shot him a mildly exasperated look. “It’s an arrest, Jono. The warrant is real.”

He splayed his hand against his chest. “That’s a relief. I was afraid without a warrant, we’d get in trouble for spelling the woman into a stupor.”

She ignored him and muttered in Gaelic again. Moor rose an inch or so off the ground. Laura gestured to Sinclair. “Care to do the honors?”

Sinclair took Moor’s elbow and coasted her toward the SUV. “This reminds me of our first date.”

Laura fell into step on the opposite side. “It wasn’t a date.”

“We had drinks.”

“We had a fight. Threats were involved,” she said.

He sighed. “Yeah, it was pretty hot.”

She shook her head. “You are incorrigible.”

Sinclair brightened with faux excitement. “Encourageable? I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“ And you’re hard of hearing. Another flaw.”

She opened the rear passenger door of the SUV and helped Sinclair lift Moor onto the backseat. Sinclair leaned inside and buckled Moor in. He pulled out and grinned down at Laura. “Maybe we can talk about me over dinner?”

She gave him a sweet smile. “That will double your usual audience.”

He chuckled as they resumed their seats. “Then we can go dancing. I bet you’ll like new music. I can show you some pretty good moves.”

She rolled her head toward him, then back toward the road ahead. She hated to admit it, but he did amuse her. “I think I’ve seen enough of your moves for one day.”

STILL GLAMOURED ASMariel Tate, Laura entered a small, narrow anteroom deep within the Guildhouse. Light from a large window into the next room illuminated Terryn where he stood in the half dark. Without expression, he stared into the other room at Fallon Moor sitting immobile, Laura’s sleep spell intact.

“Sorry I’m late. I was trying to process her in, but everyone suddenly became scarce,” she said.

Terryn handed her a folder. “We can process her later. I want to keep this out of channels for now, which is why I’m delivering the paperwork to you personally.”

Laura took the folder with a moment of unease. She could argue with Sinclair all she wanted that his not being an official employee of InterSec was irrelevant since the secrecy protected him. She could argue that he wanted the job, and his paperwork was a mere formality that would be cleared up once Terryn felt comfortable. She could even argue that some of their mission protocols allowed them to bend the rules other agencies had to follow.

Given all that, she wondered how to justify to him that a woman named Fallon Moor sat in a glass-enclosed chamber under arrest, and no one knew she was there. Not the public. Not her family. Not her lawyer. If InterSec—no, dammit, if Terryn—decided not to process her into the system, no one would ever know. Except her. And Sinclair.

She trusted Terryn. She believed he would do the right thing. Eventually. That thought gave her pause. It was the eventually part that bothered Sinclair. How long was it before eventually became inexcusable?

She pushed her thoughts aside and opened the folder. The first set of documents was an expedited deportation order for Moor from the Department of Homeland Security that would send her to Tara without court delays. The second set was a plea deal with an offer of asylum in the U.S. with a prison term in exchange for cooperation. Both documents had been drawn in anticipation of Moor’s arrest. They gave no indication that she, in fact, had been arrested. So Homeland Security did not have explicit knowledge of her presence either.

Laura closed the folder. “If she refuses to cooperate, we’re stuck.”

Terryn gave her a thin smile. “Not really. It will make going undercover more difficult for you, though.”

She wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. If Terryn had decided she was going undercover at Legacy, she was going undercover at Legacy. He had put her in such situations before, and she hadn’t questioned Terryn’s methods until Sinclair began to make an issue of some of them. She stared at the sleeping woman. “But what about her?”

“What about her?” Terryn asked.

Laura licked her lips as she weighed a response. His tone registered indifferent, even callous. She knew Terryn could be single-minded, but she wondered if he cared about the ramifications of his actions beyond his own point of view. It was true that Fallon Moor was a criminal who was creating an obstacle to their plans. She was a person, too, though. “Never mind. We can talk about it later.”

She had a job to do. As she placed her hand on the doorknob to the room, she boosted the essence charge in the emerald stone on the chain around her neck. She entered the room, dropped the folder on the table, and took the seat opposite Moor. With a casual gesture, she released the sleep spell with a burst of essence. Disoriented, Moor caught herself as she swayed toward the table. She glanced around the room without surprise. Her gaze settled on Laura. “I want a lawyer,” she said.

The hard truth resonating in her voice did not surprise Laura. “Lawyers may be involved eventually. What’s your name?”

“Fallon Moor.”

This time, the lie rang through clearly. Laura pulled the deportation papers out and pushed them across the table. “Try again.”

Moor glanced at the paperwork and pushed it back. “It’s like I said to you earlier. You’re mistaking me for someone else. I never heard of Allison Forth.”

Laura stood and slid the paperwork back in the folder. “Okay. Sorry. That’s not my problem. You can sort it out with the Seelie Court.”

“I will fight extradition,” Moor said.

Laura pulled a lazy smile. “That won’t be necessary. You are already on sovereign territory of the Seelie Court. Your transfer is a matter of a plane ticket.”

Moor’s eyes bulged. With a few breaths, she fought the rise of her boggart mania, and her face relaxed. Laura was impressed with the level of control and noted it for the future.

“I demand a lawyer,” Moor said.

“For which? Your deportation or your acceptance of asylum?”

“I have rights,” Moor said.

“So did the people who died in the bombing you participated in at the Dublin airport. I’m sure you can clarify that with the Seelie Court when you get back to Ireland.”

Moor set her jaw. “What do you want?”

Laura took her seat again and slid the asylum documents out. “Your cooperation.”