"Publicly," he said, making her agitated. "What happens behind closed doors is something else. You're making a mistake," he insisted. "They can use your talents down there."
"Don't you mean a new infusion?" Rat winced, and she held up a hand and leaned back into her chair, well aware it put her in a position of power with him standing. "Whatever. I won't be manipulated, Rat. I'd rather take a pay cut and go where I don't have to worry about it for a while."
"If only it was that easy." Rat dropped the folder on her desk as if it meant something. "Ah, I thought you'd like to see your new partner's file."
In a smooth, alarmed motion, Ivy sat up. "Whoa. Put your caps on. I agreed to move upstairs, but no one said anything about a partner."
Rat shrugged, his wide shoulders bunching his uniform. "They can't give you a pay cut, so you're pulling double duty chaperoning a newbie for a year. Intern with two years of social science and three years pulling familiars out of trees. Management wants her under someone with a more, ah, textbook technique before they instate her as a runner, so she's all yours, Ivy. Don't let her get you killed. We like you ju-u-u-ust the way you are."
The last was said with dripping sarcasm, and her face hot, Ivy pushed the folder away. "She's not even a full runner? I've worked too hard for my degree to be a babysitter. No way."
Rat chuckled and pushed it back with a single, thick-knuckled finger. "Yes way. Unless you want to move down to Arcane where you belong."
Ivy almost growled. She hated her mother. She hated Piscary. No, she hated their control over her. Slowly she pulled the folder to her and opened it. "Oh my God," she breathed as she looked at the picture, thinking it couldn't get any worse. "A witch? They partnered me with a witch? Whose bright-ass idea was that?"
Rat laughed, pulling Ivy's eyes from her "partner's" picture. Slumping back, she tried not to frown. Though it was clearly meant to be a punishment, this might not be a bad thing. A witch wouldn't be after her blood, and the relief of not having to fight that would be enough to compensate for the extra work that having such a weak partner would engender. A witch? They were laughing at her. The entire tower was laughing at her.
"You said management doesn't want her on her own. What's wrong with her?" she asked and Rat took her shoulder in a thick hand and drew her reluctantly to her feet.
"Nothing," he said, grinning. "She's impulsive is all. It's a match made in heaven, Ivy. You'll be best friends before the week is out: going shopping, eating chocolate, catching chick-flicks after work. You'll love it! Trust me."
Ivy realized she was clenching her jaw, and she forced her teeth apart before she gave herself a headache. Her partner was a flake. She was partnered with a girly-girl flake who wanted to be a runner. This was going to be pure hell. Rat laughed, and seeing no other option, Ivy dragged the folder to her, tucked it under her arm, and headed for the door with Rat, leaving her old office and its comforting walls behind for an open office with pressboard walls and bad coffee.
It was only for a year. How bad could it be?
Dirty Magic
Banshees were once far less known and rarely popularized paranormal figures. Up until I wrote "Dirty Magic" (first published in Hotter Than Hell), I had only a vague idea that they cried inconsolably when someone was going to die, sort of an early warning system in the hills of Ireland, and I tried to keep that kernel in mind while developing my idea of a Hollows banshee. Tears as a way to store psychic energy and death by way of aura depletion turned banshees from passive warnings to apex predators, making them much more interesting. For those in the know, the banshee is one of the most feared Inderlanders whose takes often go undetected or simply ignored. Mia had enough to say that she made the jump to the series as the major antagonist in Black Magic Sanction.
Mia walked down the damp, rain-deserted sidewalk, her seventy-five-dollar heels clicking faintly from fatigue on the wet cement. She was tired, but she could still maintain her elegant, upright posture if she moved slowly. Her dress-length overcoat and matching umbrella of midnight blue kept her dry, and it was rainy enough that she didn't need to wear her sunglasses to protect her pale, nearly albino eyes.
With a small toss of her head, she shifted her black hair, cut short as she liked it. Traffic was light, but she didn't want to risk being splashed, so she shifted closer to the classy, well-maintained narrow buildings that lined the street. The paper sack of groceries on her hip wasn't heavy, but her daughter's needs were telling. It wasn't the usual fatigue brought on by an energetic newborn. Holly was the first banshee born in Cincinnati in over forty years, and if Mia couldn't keep her in an emotion-rich environment, the child took what she needed from her mother. It wasn't as if Holly could draw upon her father for her emotional needs. Not now anyway.
Frowning, Mia brushed her hair from her eyes and wondered if having a child at this particular time had been a good idea. But when Remus-psychopath, murderer, and gentle lover-had fallen into her lap by way of a bungled rape attempt, the chance to use his anger and frustration to engender a child in her had been too great. A smile curved Mia's delicate mouth up. Remus had quickly learned the difference between his unreasonable rage at the world and her true hunger, becoming pliant and gentle. Respectful. The perfect husband, the model father.
And at the thought of Holly, happy, inquisitive Holly, so pretty and soft, looking like a younger, mirror image of her mother, babbling innocently as she sat on her mother's lap and basked in the love for her, Mia knew she'd have it no other way. She would do anything for her daughter. As her mother had done for her.
The soft whoosh of a passing car brought Mia's head up, and she blinked at the rain heavy on her eyelashes despite the umbrella. It was cool and damp, and she was weary. Seeing a rain-abandoned table outside a cafe, she slowed, brushing once at the wrought-iron chair before sitting with her groceries on her lap and trusting her coat to keep her dry. The awning helped shield the rain and she closed her umbrella. She was just a casually sophisticated young woman waiting for a cab that would never come.
People passed, and slowly her pulse eased and her fatigue lessoned as she soaked in the emotions of the pedestrians, taking in flashes of feeling like water eddying around a rock in a streambed. It was all the law would allow now, this passive sipping of emotions. If she fed well, people noticed.
Mia straightened when a couple arguing over whether they should have taken a cab walked by, sensation rolling over her like a sunbeam. Almost she rose to fall into step behind them, to linger and drink it in, but she didn't, and the warmth faded as the couple continued on.