World's Okayest Oracle (Reluctantly) Seeks Demon

1

Present day

Dawn hadn't yet brightened the horizon when the taxi Gwen and her two troll companions, Lorraine and Kip, had hired approached Georgetown on New Year's Day. Given the lack of sirens and police presence, she had to assume that word of the bloodshed over the past several days hadn't yet spread to this area, even though Georgetown wasn't far from the very neighborhood where that bloodshed had occurred.

I.e., the Containment Zone. Her home.

The Zone had been established over two decades ago in response to the first zombie outbreak at the secret governmental facility in northern Virginia where the creatures had been accidentally created. When a combination of human and Supernatural forces had countered the onslaught and driven the zombies back into their original underground compound, the government hadn't chosen to bomb the compound into oblivion. Instead, in hopes that they might find a future-no doubt horrifying-use for the misbegotten creatures, authorities had simply walled off the area.

They'd constructed four concentric stone rings of protection around the facility. Gates and drawbridges provided access through those walls and over the moats for Zone residents like Gwen and her friends, who were either foolish enough to voluntarily stay or too poor to leave.

And several days ago, all communications systems had been disabled within the Zone, the gates through the inner walls had been opened, the drawbridges had been lowered, and the zombies had been freed from their compound and allowed to roam unhindered through the CZ. Countless residents had been slaughtered before Gwen and her companions had lured the creatures to a booby-trapped spot last night and eliminated the threat once and for all.

During that entire time, the outermost wall-Wall Four-had remained firmly shut. It was the only reason zombies hadn't overrun the entire DC region, although no one outside the Zone knew as much-except, of course, the perpetrators who'd engineered the disaster.

Gwen and her companions had just broken through Wall Four in hopes of rectifying that matter. Despite their fear that public knowledge of the zombie breach and its cause would lead to a global war and unimaginable carnage.

Their destination: a luxury apartment complex. Specifically, the luxury apartment complex where Hugh Blacke evidently lived.

Her assigned task: Once their taxi driver brought them to the designated drop-off spot, she'd have to gain entrance to the building, get Hugh to meet with her, and then explain the situation and persuade him to trust her, for the sake of all human and Supernatural existence . . . despite her history with him.

Fuck. Her. Life.

"Need anything else to eat before you go?" Kip poked his head between the front seats of the SUV and peered at Gwen, who'd occupied herself during the brief ride by snacking on nuts and taking cautious sips of water. "I think we have a few Wagyu sliders left, and I'm getting a bit hungry myself. We could share 'em."

He'd already devoured an entire medium-rare prime rib inside the dilapidated SUV. Cocaine-addled hummingbirds probably envied that dude's metabolism-and she envied his utter lack of nausea.

"Yeah." Lorrie drummed her gleaming nails on the ripped faux-leather seats. "Um, about the burgers."

Kip leaned over to search their insulated bags of food. He came up empty-handed.

"You finished off the sliders?" Aggrievement creasing his handsome face, he punched his cousin in the arm. "Bro, what the hell? We were supposed to split them!"

Gwen hoped they didn't destroy the aging cab, which they'd flagged down not far outside the Containment Zone. Sure, trolls possessed famously cheery baseline dispositions. But at over eight feet tall, with sturdy, muscular frames and astoundingly long limbs, they could inflict serious damage when they got too animated. Or angry. Or hungry.

Or worst of all: hangry.

Some of their famed clumsiness was a front, but not all of it.

"I got peckish." Lorrie sniffed haughtily. "And you took too long inside the condo."

Before leaving the Zone, they'd driven to the cousins' shared residence in Lorrie's own ginormous, newer-model SUV. Kip had gone hunting for supplies inside the condo and left Lorrie alone with the trolls' seemingly inexhaustible food bags.

The temptation had clearly proven too much for her. And to be fair, Kip's errand truly had taken far longer than anticipated.

"I was getting the costume for G-" At that point, he apparently remembered their need to remain anonymous. Cutting himself off, he pointed at Gwen instead. "I was getting things for her! It's not my fault our Halloween stuff had been packed away for the winter!"

"Don't play innocent with me, dude." Lorrie rounded on him. "You were eating the last of our truffle-infused scalloped potatoes, you dick. I smell it on your breath!"

So did Gwen, regrettably. Until approximately six weeks ago, she'd loved that distinctive, earthy aroma. Dreamed of scraping together enough cash for some truffle Brie, or-if she won the freaking lottery-a wedge of Moliterno al Tartufo. As with coffee, though, the scent of something she'd once adored now turned her stomach.

At least their elderly cabdriver, an exceedingly tolerant werewolf wearing a Grateful Dead tee, apparently preferred energy drinks to coffee as a source of caffeine, wore no cologne, accepted cash, and asked no questions, for which Gwen thanked all the gods and goddesses above.

"Troll cousin, my ass. More like a truffle hound cousin," Kip muttered. "Gonna start calling you a Lagotto Romagnolo and sell you to the Italians."

For that, Lorrie elbowed him in the gut. He hunched over on himself, gagging.

Gwen carefully put down her almonds, breathed shallowly, and did her best not to gag along with him.

Their long-suffering driver heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"Sorry, sir." Lorrie's apology sounded sincere, and she spoke to Gwen next. "Sorry, hon. Didn't mean for your stomach to become collateral damage. You okay?"

That was a hard question to answer.

Physically, she was doing fine. In fact, for a pregnant oracle who'd just barely escaped a clutch of brain-slurping zombies before having an unexpected, apocalyptic vision poleax her into extended unconsciousness, she was feeling remarkably good. The healing efforts of Sabrina, their witch friend, during the night had eased the worst of Gwen's headache and nausea, although tension and fatigue-and her troll companions' shenanigans-were quickly resurrecting those woes.

Emotionally, however? She'd certainly had better days. Given her failure to contribute anything of consequence to last night's battle against the zombies, her terrifying uncertainty regarding the apocalyptic vision she'd unwillingly experienced, her utter unpreparedness for what she was about to do, and the immense gravity and humiliating nature of the task, she was choosing to congratulate herself for continuing to function rather than huddling in a corner and gibbering quietly.

And sartorially speaking? Well, she was dressed like Guy Fieri, so . . . she would classify her current aesthetic state as unfortunate. Especially since she was wearing a troll's attire, and even her generous frame swam in all the endless fabric. But as long as the enormous flame-bedecked bowling shirt and cargo shorts-or the spiky, bleached-out wig and oversized sunglasses-didn't entirely fall off at an inopportune moment, she should remain incognito, which was a key component of this early-morning plan.

The conspirators who'd caused the zombie breach had cut off access to and communications from the Zone so that they alone could determine when and how word of the breach spread. They wouldn't welcome news that several residents had broken through Wall Four and were heading to the home of a SERC councilor to tell him the truth about that breach. If the trio's identities and plans were discovered, their lives would no doubt be forfeit, so Gwen, Kip, and Lorrie had ensured no one could recognize them.

Still, she hadn't seen Hugh Blacke in over two decades, and their last encounter had left her devastated and sobbing. She'd prefer to arrive at his apartment disguised as a confident, glamorous woman of obvious success and importance.

Instead, she was reappearing in his life as the ersatz Mayor of Flavortown. Her only comfort: At least she'd refused to wear Kip's stick-on goatee.

The SUV slowed to a halt across the street from a very fancy-looking, well-lit apartment building. Complete with a uniformed doorman stationed out front, his posture alert as he watched their cab.

No surprise there. Nothing was ever easy in Gwen's experience.

"I'm good," she said to Lorrie, then unbuckled her belt, heaved open her door, and clambered down from the SUV.

She thanked the driver, but she didn't offer him any of her newly acquired cash. If she delayed her departure another second, she'd lose her nerve. Besides, the trolls could easily pay for the ride with the money they'd also received from Max, their infuriating but surprisingly helpful vampire ally.

"Good luck, Gwen," the cousins chorused before wrestling over who got to carry the insulated bag of leftovers outside, thus ensuring easy access to its delicious contents.

"Thanks." Gwen summoned both her resolve and her inner Food Network star. "I'm Guy Fieri, and we're rolling out."

A firm push of her hand, and the cab's passenger door thumped shut. Determinedly, she crossed the street to the apartment complex and its alert doorman, who was already studying her with understandable suspicion.

The building wasn't especially tall-five floors, maybe-but it was impeccably maintained and landscaped. Aside from the entry lobby, no light shone through any of the enormous windows generously dotting the cream-colored brick exterior. At this hour, if she somehow managed to reach the demon's apartment, she'd be waking him from a sound sleep, which wouldn't improve her odds of success.

Didn't matter. Shyness and trepidation be damned, she marched up to the entryway without hesitation, because they were running out of time to avert catastrophe.

The twentysomething doorman's posture straightened still further as she approached. Plastering her most reassuring smile across her face, she halted directly in front of him. Then slapped a hand atop her sliding wig so momentum didn't fling it from her head.

"Excuse me . . ." A quick glance at his name tag helped her out. "Excuse me, Haziq. I was hoping to talk to one of the residents of this building. Councilor Hugh Blacke? It's an emergency."

Against her own better judgment, she'd followed the demon's life from afar over the years.

When they'd first met, he'd been a twentysomething law student, one trusted enough by the Supernatural and Enhanced Ruling Council to serve as an oracle verification panelist. Or so she'd eventually discovered, once it was far too late to prevent her hurt feelings and injured dignity. After participating in the most humiliating moment of her entire life, he'd gone on to have a very successful, very public life. Summa cum laude in law school. A decade working at his high-prestige family firm, Blackes, before he'd left to pursue politics. Five years-and counting-as a SERC councilor. He'd already been reelected once, and all signs pointed to his being voted into office again by the Supernatural and Enhanced community next year.

She'd cast her ballot for him. Both times.

In the twenty years following their last encounter, he'd earned a reputation as an intelligent, no-nonsense enforcer of rules. Unbending, almost to a fault, but honorable. His political power remained on the rise, so he was expected to chair the Council at some point in the not-so-distant future.

The main reason she'd voted for him, though?

Shortly after her verification test, the rules governing Delphi Academy had changed.

Sick students and faculty could suddenly choose to recover at a well-guarded private medical facility outside the campus, where their loved ones could provide succor. Family emergencies had elicited prompt permission for students and faculty to leave the campus, accompanied by school-provided security. And every prophetic skills classroom began to stock basic healing spells, ones strong enough to mend the painful slices left by students' athames across their palms.

Gwen knew exactly who'd prompted those changes.

Hugh might have deceived her-probably at the demand of his SERC supervisors at the time, which was why she'd forgiven him long ago-and he might have refused to grant her a second verification test after her first one went so disastrously wrong, but he'd also listened to her and acted on her concerns, precisely as he'd promised. That was enough to earn her vote . . . and also to cause her to seek him out when she needed someone powerful and discreet to help save the world.

Despite Max's vampiric SERC ties, he hadn't been able to find Hugh's phone number or his personal email. Just his physical address. Even if she'd had the councilor's other contact information, though, her story was one best told in person if she hoped to convey its urgency and maintain its secrecy-and maybe even convince him to believe it.

This was her best and only shot at reaching the demon and securing his assistance quickly. And as far as the poor doorman knew, she was just some rando in sunglasses and a gargantuan Guy Fieri costume rolling up to a bougie apartment building at four in the morning, requesting the attention of one of the most powerful politicians in the country.

"I'm sorry," the young man said politely but firmly. "Talking to Councilor Blacke won't be possible."

Haziq didn't sound sorry in the slightest. She couldn't blame him.

"Could you at least tell him I'm here?" Even though she couldn't give her name, she could definitely offer an unmistakable clue to her identity in a message. "If you do, and he doesn't want to meet with me, I'll leave. I promise."

What she and the trolls would do then-where they could turn-she had no clue. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. Coming up with good ideas on the fly or under pressure had never been a notable skill of hers, as her history with Councilor Blacke would confirm.

"I'm sorry," the doorman repeated, then placed himself directly in front of the door, arms akimbo, leaving zero room for her to sprint past him. "No."

Unable to summon a persuasive reason for him to change his mind, she stared blankly at his name tag and tried to think. Haziq. Haziq. That name sounded so familiar, but . . . why?

Wait. Hadn't Gwen's neighbor mentioned a nephew named Haziq who worked as a doorman at some fancy apartment building? Mentioning the connection would probably reveal far too much about Gwen's identity, but if she didn't take the risk . . . well, she guessed she'd be dead soon enough anyway.

She had to try. "Are you Farhanah's nephew?"

"Yes." The young man's thick brows drew together. "You know my aunt?"

Gwen nodded. "I live on the same street, four buildings down from her."