Kim Harrison - Dates From Hell

Half-demons are often considered the least “communal” of the races, but I’d argue the opposite. We may not have a core group or hold meetings or police our own, but the half-demon regional communities encompass everyone in that region, which is more than I can say for the others. Because we lack the family support of the hereditary races, half-demons are always on the lookout for others, and once you’re found, a world of support opens up to you. So, when a local half-demon I knew only through a mutual acquaintance called me, I wasn’t surprised. And when she asked me to meet with someone who might be able to help me hone and control my powers, I didn’t say no.

The meeting had been scheduled for lunch, at a sidewalk café, someplace public and private at the same time, which reassured me from the start. I’d arrived to find just one person at the table, a slight, fair-haired man in his thirties, dressed business casual, like everyone else in the restaurant. Handsome, in a delicate way, well-mannered, with an easy smile and warm brown eyes, Tristan Robard had put me at ease from that first handshake. We’d ordered a pitcher of sangria, chatted about local events, and spent the first half of the meal getting a sense of each other. Then, halfway through lunch, he’d looked up from his salad, met my gaze and said,

“Have you ever heard of the interracial council?”

When I hesitated, he laughed. “They really need a better name, don’t they? The Sumerian Council, the Grand Guild, or something like that. That’s the problem with trying to be understated…if you don’t give yourself a fancy name, no one remembers who the heck you are. Get a good name, a clever slogan, a nice logo—” He grinned. “Then people would remember who you are and, more importantly, remember you when they need you.”

“Is that…It’s the delegates council, isn’t it? The heads of the various supernatural races—the American ones, at least…”

“Exactly. Do you know what the council does?”

I made a face. “Sorry, only the vaguest idea, I’m afraid.” I smiled. “Like you said, they need a better marketing plan. They’re supposed to help supernaturals, right? General policing, resolving conflicts between groups…”

“Protect and serve, that’s the council’s motto…or it would be, if they had one. The problem is that, for about twenty years, they’ve been slipping so far under the radar that no one knows they’re there, so no one reports problems. They’re trying to fix that now, and step one is broadening their reach. Recruiting, so to speak.”

“New delegates, you mean?”

He laughed. “No, those positions are filled, and far loftier than you or I can aspire to…for now, at least. What they’re doing instead is creating a network of ‘eyes on the ground,’ supernaturals willing to join the payroll, look for trouble and, eventually, help them solve it.”

My hand clenched around my napkin as I struggled to keep my face neutral. Help look for trouble? Was there anyone better suited for such a task? If I could help—use my power for good—Oh, God, please…

I don’t think I breathed for that next minute, waiting for him to go on.

“In particular, they want people in careers suited to troubleshooting, like law enforcement officers, social workers, or—” He met my gaze and smiled. “Journalists. And the ideal candidate would be someone not only with a suitable job, but from a race that could prove equally useful, werewolves or vampires for their tracking skills or, maybe”—his smile grew to a grin—“a half-demon with a nose for trouble.”

“You mean…” The words jammed in my throat.

“On behalf of the council, Hope, I’d like to offer you a job.”

And so it began. With Tristan as my contact, I’d been working for the council for eighteen months now. I hadn’t been fortunate enough to meet the delegates to thank them personally, but in the meantime, I thanked them with every job I did, putting my all into each task they assigned me, however simple.

Tristan had gotten me the job at True News. Not exactly a prestigious position for an up-and-coming journalist, but I knew it would help the council and that was more important than my professional ego. Tabloids do stumble on the truth now and then, and it’s usually trouble: a careless vampire, an angry half-demon, a power-hungry sorcerer. As Tristan had taught me, my powers were particularly honed for supernatural trouble. So I used my job at the paper to sniff it out.

I was good at my job. Damn good. So after the first year, the council had expanded my duties to cover bounty hunting. Supernaturals who cause trouble often flee. With the right cues, I could find supernaturals even when they weren’t creating chaos. If they came near my part of the country, I could sniff out the guilty party, then call in the cavalry.

For this, the council paid me, and paid me well, but the best part wasn’t the money; it was the guilt-free excuse to quench my thirst for chaos. To help the council, I needed to hone my powers, and to do that, I had to practice. I had a long way to go—I still picked up random visions like that silly one with the duck, who’d probably seen his mother ripped apart by a dog or some such nonsense. But I was improving, and while I was, I had every excuse to indulge in the chaos around me.

So when my mind wandered during the conversation, that’s exactly what I did—practiced. I concentrated on picking out specific audio threads and visual images, pulling them to the forefront and holding them there when they threatened to fade behind stronger signals.

The one I was working on was a very mundane marital spat, a couple trading hissed volleys of “you never listen to me” and “why do you always do this?” The kind of fights every relationship falls into in times of stress…or so my siblings and friends told me—relationships, as my mother pointed out, are not my forte. There’s too much in my life I can’t share, so I concentrate on friends, family, work, and my job with the council, and try to forget what I’m missing. When I hear stuff like this meaningless bickering, ruining what should have been a romantic night together, I’m not convinced that I’m missing anything.

The very banality of the fight made it a perfect practice target. Even at a social function like this, there were a half-dozen stronger sources of chaos happening simultaneously, and my mind kept trying to lead me astray, like a puppy straining on the leash in a new park.

Keeping my focus on the bickering couple was a struggle and—

“You aren’t supposed to be back here, sir,” said a gruff voice in my ear. “This area is off-limits to guests.”

I mentally waved the voice aside like a buzzing mosquito. Back to the couple. The husband was bitching about the wife ordering fish for dinner when she knew he hated the smell of it.

“Which is why I had it when we were out,” she snapped. “So I don’t stink up the kitchen cooking it and—”

“What the—?”

The same gruff voice, now shrill with alarm. My head shot up, pulse accelerating, body tense with anticipation, as if my mental hound had just caught the scent of fresh T-bone steak.

“No! Please—!”

The plea slid into a wordless scream. One syllable, one split second, then the scream was cut short, and I was left hanging there, straining for more—

I whipped my thoughts back and turned to pinpoint the source of the chaos. Another jolt, this one too dark, too strong even for me, like that last gulp of champagne when you’ve already had too much and your stomach lurches in rebellion, the sweetness turning acid-sour.

“Hope?” Douglas’s hand slipped from my waist, and he leaned toward my ear to whisper, “Are you okay?”