C.E. Murphy - Demon Hunts

I pretty clearly had everybody's attention. Gratifyingly, both objects of my pique nodded obediently. So did Billy, for that matter. I felt a nudge of resistance against my magic from Coyote's quarters, and glared at him. The probe faded away and he looked genuinely contrite.

"Good. Let me make something clear. I don't require rescuing. I don't require protecting. I frequently require help, which this pissing-match behavior in no way qualifies as. Now understand something else. I found out the hard way that this power of mine doesn't cotton to being used as a weapon." Cotton to. Get my dander up and I fell just a smidge toward the Southern in my choice of dialect and dialogue. It wasn't my fault. Four years in North Carolina will do that to a girl.

Morrison was looking slightly relieved around the eyes, which wasn't what I was after. I stopped dissecting my own verbal tics and finished my explanation: "I'm pretty sure bashing the two of you up against the walls a few times wouldn't actually trigger a super-psychic alarm saying oh my God, Joanne's using her powers for evil, but I'd kind of like to see if I'm right. Anybody else interested?"

For some reason they all three shook their heads rapidly. I thought they weren't any fun at all. Still pissed off, I let the magic go. Morrison, whose posture had been extremely erect while I'd held him in place, sagged a little, then scowled at Coyote. "Couldn't you stop her?"

"Couldn't you? "

I'd become the common enemy. It wasn't exactly what I'd been going for, but it was better than the two of them at each other's throats. Billy just gaped at me like I'd sprouted another arm, or a second head. Apparently ostentatious displays of power were not what he'd come to expect from his partner in crime. Anti-crime. Whatever.

I turned to Morrison and said, "Sorry," with about as much emotional integrity as he could expect after behaving like a hormone-ridden teenager. "Boss, this hunting party is the best shot we've got at stopping this thing. I'm your best shot at it. We know I'm going anyway, so may I please have permission?"

Morrison suddenly looked older than his thirty-eight years. I probably would, too, if I had me to deal with on a regular basis. "How often are we going to do this, Walker? How many times are you going to walk into my office and tell me how it is, even if it's against every rule and regulation we stand by?"

"I don't know." I wasn't angry anymore. I wasn't bubbling over with goofy happies, either. I was almost sad, really, like I was losing something I barely recognized. "Until neither of us can take it anymore, I guess."

The captain looked between me and Coyote, and when he looked back at me again I wasn't sure we were still talking about the same thing, even though nothing more had been said to change the slant of what I'd just offered.

More, and worse, something subtle happened in Coyote's face, as if he'd heard and understood the change in subtext, too. My heart spasmed and I glanced away from both of them.

That might have been okay, except there was somebody else in the room, and he'd followed the unspoken conversation just as clearly as the rest of us had. Billy met my gaze with the deepest, most tempered expression of compassion I'd ever seen, and the small sadness inside me burgeoned into something so big I had a hard time swallowing around it.

Billy was the one who broke the silence, which hadn't dragged out for long, but a lot had been said inside it, and none of it had been easy to hear. "You want me along on this, Joanne?"

His timing was perfect. Half a second earlier I wouldn't have trusted my voice. Half a second later I'd have fallen over into a sniffle that would've belied my tough-girl antics. "I think it'll be just me and Cyrano on this one. Thanks, though." I looked in Morrison's general direction without actually going so far as to meet his eyes. "We'll rent a car, or something. Keep it off the department books entirely."

"Something happen to Petite?"

I hadn't fully realized Morrison knew my car's name. I mean, yes, her license plate said PETITE in big block letters, but given he felt my relationship with her was pathological, I wouldn't have expected to hear him call her by name. A pinprick hole released some of the ache inside me, and I crooked a smile. "She's in the garage. The insurance paid up after that Doherty guy came by in October, so I've got enough money to switch out her transmission to a manual. It's my winter project."

There was no way on earth Morrison cared about any of that. I'd never met an American male with less interest in cars than my boss. But he nodded like it meant something to him, then nodded a second time, this time at the door. Not at Coyote. At the door. And said, "Take care of yourself, Walker."

"Yes, sir." I left his office with Coyote on my trail, confusingly aware that last time I'd walked away from Morrison with another man, he'd told the guy to take care of me. I had the uncomfortable sensation that last time, he'd been willing to relinquish—ownership, for lack of a better word, though it wasn't a good one— because he hadn't seen Thor as a threat. This time I was responsible for myself, which suggested, awkwardly, that Morrison was still in the game.

My life had been a lot easier when I was emotionally stunted.

Coyote waited until we got all the way out to the parking lot before he said, "So. That's how it is with Morrison, huh?" like that should mean something to me.

Aggravatingly, it did. "It isn't any-how with Morrison. He's my boss." Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.

"You called me Cyrano, back there."

My life had been a lot easier when I was emotionally stunted. I knotted my hands into balls and glared at the ground. "Okay, yes, fine. That's how it is with Morrison. Jesus Christ."

"What about last night, then?"

I did not want to do this. God, how I did not want to do this. I walked a dozen steps away, shoved a hand through my hair, and came back a few feet. Coyote, slim and lean and beautiful, just stood there watching me. His brown eyes had a gold tint to them: he was watching my aura, reading more from it than my body language would tell him. I wondered if it showed my heart as an aching, tender, beat-up point inside me, bleeding red through my usual colors.

"Why does there have to be some kind of big explanation for last night? I've had a crush on you since I was about thirteen. You came back from the dead and, I don't know, Coyote, I kind of like the idea of being stupid in love with you. You had me at hello. Why can't that be enough? Morrison's my boss. Nothing's going to happen there as long as he is, and I'm not planning to quit my job. So why does it have to matter?"

"Maybe because you just chose him over me." Coyote's voice was remote. I utterly refused to look at him with the Sight and find out how much or little of that was an act. I didn't want to see him hurting, too. I was confused enough already.

Except on one thing: "I didn't choose anybody, Cyrano. But you should have known better."

Coyote snapped his gaze up to mine, astonishment mixing with injury. "Me? I should've known better? Why me? Why not him?"

"Because you're on his territory. For that reason alone you shouldn't have walked into his office and tried laying down the law, and you know it. That wasn't about us needing to get going. It was about who gets to tell Joanne what to do, and honestly, Coyote, in the scheme of things, he does. If that's choosing him, then yeah, I choose him, because he's my boss. We have our issues, but we get it figured out, and we would've gotten this one figured out. So if nothing else, you should've respected being on somebody else's playing field. Instead you had to push it." And spoil everything, I didn't say out loud.