Reckoning

Book 2: A Fallen Siren Novel

by S.J. Harper

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Shifters; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

Join Agents Emma Monroe and Zack Armstrong.
She’s sacrificed. He’s suffered. They’ve both been betrayed.
Now it’s time for a reckoning. 
Special Agent Emma Monroe has a secret. She’s a Fallen Siren, cursed by the gods and banished to Earth for her failure to prevent the kidnapping of Persephone. As an FBI agent she saves the lives of others believing redemption could be one rescue away.
 
Her partner Zack is a werewolf and former Black Ops sniper who once carried out a string of questionable assignments. Now he’s determined to atone for his past. Ironically, there’s a portion of his past Zack doesn’t remember—an affair with Emma. Giving into their attraction for one another almost led to their undoing. Now it’s back to business as usual.
 
While trying to unravel the mystery behind a series of kidnappings in Southern California, Emma and Zack become entangled with political tensions in the vampire and Were worlds. Not to mention the struggles they face in their relationship with one another. With so much uncertainty, they come to realize the only thing they can really count on is one another…or can they? 

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Ace

Print pages: 304

Sample

PRAISE FOR BOOK ONE IN THE
FALLEN SIREN SERIES

Also by S. J. Harper

ROC

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

What we’re doing is wrong on so many levels. That’s what I tell myself as I wake, my body aching in all the right places. In just a few short months, we’ve fallen into the kind of pattern I’d normally think of as dangerous. But somehow, when I’m with him, I feel safe.

My mind drifts as I watch the flutter of curtains. The morning sunshine pours into the bedroom from the balcony. Have I ever had a steady lover so possessive, so creative, so . . . demanding? His hand on my hip comes to life, fingertips skimming downward across the curve of my buttocks. He inches closer to me, spooning his body against mine. Nothing separates us under the sheets—it’s skin on skin. Fingers slide between my thighs. I’m wet. It seems lately, in his presence, I’m perpetually this way. I just can’t help myself. A Siren is a Siren. A sexual creature, born of Gaia. I’m one of three, cursed by Demeter thousands of years ago for failing to protect Persephone. It’s for this I atone, for this I pay. It’s the reason I search for the missing and avoid love at all costs. The first brings me closer to the promise of redemption. Forgetting the latter? Finding real love? That promises nothing but ruin and death.

“Good morning,” I whisper.

He lifts one of my legs. His long, thick shaft slides between them. I feel the warmth of his smile as he replies, “It’s about to get even better.”

The rumble of his rich baritone, still rough from sleep, along with the promise of what’s to come, makes me smile. But the sense of contentment is fleeting. The first few bars of “Bad Moon Rising” blare from my phone. Liz, my best friend, and quite possibly the most powerful witch this side of the Mississippi, added the ringtone to my cell five months ago and I haven’t been able to change it. She assigned it to Zack, my partner, a dark, rugged werewolf who was formerly, and quite secretly, a badass black ops assassin. Now, like me, he spends his days working for the FBI and searching for the missing.

I feel Kallistos’ irritation at the interruption. I pat his hand. “Hold that thought,” I say, then reach for my phone.

“Zack. It’s early. What’s up?”

“Jimmy. He wants to see us right away and apparently you haven’t been answering your texts.”

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s just past seven on a Monday and I’ve managed to piss off the boss. “Why didn’t he just call me?”

“He did. Twice.”

“Damn it! I must have slept through it.”

Or Kallistos had taken it upon himself to set my cell to silent. Again. Thanks to Liz’s spell, and much to Kallistos’ chagrin, Zack’s calls ring through regardless. Liz knows how close Zack and I came to disaster. This is her special way of reminding me of the ever-present danger. She’s also the main reason I’m sharing the vampire King’s bed now. She encouraged him and pushed me like a veritable yenta. After countless protests they wore me down. I decided to give the no-strings-attached-relationship proposal a trial run.

Kallistos has retreated to the other side of the bed. I’d like to think out of guilt, but I know better.

I momentarily mute the call. “Stop silencing my phone,” I scold.

His clear blue eyes give nothing away. “You don’t get enough rest.” His tone is matter-of-fact. No argument. No apology. Not ever. Admittedly, it’s one of the downsides of dating a vampire King with more than a millennium under his belt—one that I’ll eventually have to address if our arrangement continues. Eventually. But not today.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me,” I counter.

He answers my rising ire with a disarming smile. “You need coffee, Emma. I’ll call down.”

I unmute the phone, turning my attention back to Zack. “How much time do I have?”

“The briefing was scheduled for seven thirty. Reminding Jimmy it was Labor Day got us a reprieve until eight.”

I brace myself, knowing I shouldn’t ask, but do anyway. “Did you and Sarah have plans?”

My question about Sarah, the she-wolf who shares Zack’s beach house, is met with the expected pause. Zack doesn’t say much about his private life. His reluctance doesn’t have anything to do with our history. As far as he’s concerned, we have no history; there’s never been anything personal between us at all. Thanks to Liz’s super-duper spell casting, Zack’s memories of those times have been erased. Not all of them, of course; only the ones indicating there had ever been any physical intimacy between us. Our casework history, secrets shared about our natures and pasts—that’s all remained intact. But remembrances of our one, glorious night in Charleston and the fact we became lovers after his move here to San Diego a year later? Gone.

Kallistos climbs out of bed and heads for the balcony. “Maybe the four of us can do something together later,” he murmurs on the way.

I throw a pillow at him, but miss by a mile. By the time it hits the floor he’s outside and, thanks to a little pink pill called Protectus, appreciating the early-morning sun like only someone who’s spent more than a thousand years in darkness could—face tilted up, eyes closed. Kallistos is responsible for the creation of Protectus, part medical miracle and part magic. It’s been around for a couple decades now, along with the Blood Emporiums he created.

Most Emporiums are located in the backs of businesses catering to those who pursue alternative lifestyles—tattoo shops and heavy-metal clubs. For vampires they offer fresh blood from paid donors who, for the most part, have no idea where the blood ends up or who is paying for it. Would-be vampires and goths simply believe they are indulging in a fantasy. They never see the real vampires who come to buy their blood bags and the drugs that allow them to function during the day.

I watch my lover breathe deeply of the ocean air. Appreciate the way shadow and light play across his body, which is hard, lean, and eternally young.

“I was going to make my famous London broil,” Zack finally volunteers. “But, duty calls. Right, partner?”

Zack has a way of saying the word partner like it really means something. And it does. A lump forms in my throat. Our reasons may be different, but the mission is the same. Zack understands me better than any partner I’ve had.

I nod. “Yes. Duty calls.”

“I’ll let Jimmy know we’re on our way in.”

“I’ll meet you at the office in forty-five minutes.” As I hang up, I silently recite the same words I do every time I go out on a new case. Redemption could be one rescue away.

Kallistos is beside me with a robe. “No time for breakfast, I suppose.”

I wave him off and begin to hunt for my clothes. “I have to go. As it is, I barely have enough time to get home, shower, and change. Can you help me find my other shoe?”

I crouch down to check under the bed.

“If you kept some things here—”

“I’m not moving in,” I tell him for the hundredth time as I climb to my feet. My eyes fall to the large saltwater aquarium across from the bed. My black patent pump is dangling off of an outcropping of orange coral.

Kallistos follows my line of sight. “Oops.”

“Oops?”

In response he opens the closet, pulls out a hanging bag, then tosses it onto the bed. Two shopping bags follow.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Emergency clothes. By the time you get out of the shower, breakfast will be here. You now have time.”

I quickly rummage through the bags. He’s thought of everything—shoes, stockings, undergarments, classic black pantsuit, and a dove gray poplin shirt with French cuffs. “You’re dressing me now?”

“Sorry, no. You’re going to have to put those on yourself.” Kallistos picks up the phone and asks for room service.

I make a beeline for the bathroom, new black lace bra and matching panties in hand. I don’t get very far. His arm snakes around my waist as I pass, pulling me close. “I’ll happily take them off tonight, though,” he murmurs into my ear.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later I emerge from the Hotel Palomar—to-go coffee cup in one hand, fresh croissant in the other. My car—a standard-issue black Suburban—is waiting in front. I tip the valet and get in. A quick check in the rearview mirror assures me that the glamour I pay Liz for, the one that furnishes me with the wholesome, plain-Jane facade I’ve become so accustomed to seeing, is firmly in place. My skin is fair and unblemished. I don’t wear makeup. No mascara. No lip gloss. Nothing. This morning, my long dark hair is pulled back and twisted into a sensible chignon. I drop the coffee into the cup holder, toss the croissant onto the dash where I’ll be able to easily reach it, then throw the car into gear and pull into traffic.

I have fifteen minutes. Within five I’m pulling onto the 163 heading north. I switch over to the 8 West, then go north on the 15. It’s a little warmer than usual in San Diego, eighty-five degrees. Not a cloud in the sky, and due to the holiday, the traffic is light. I work on my croissant and coffee while listening to the morning news. The Padres are, miraculously, still in good standing. Due to a last-minute donation from the Gates Foundation, several local after-school programs that were believed to have been doomed will be reopening tomorrow. And the wildfire that began Sunday morning in the Cuyamaca Mountains is now under control.

Just another perfect day in paradise.

As I approach the exit to Aero Drive, I see Sarah’s silver BMW just up ahead. The top is down and Zack is behind the wheel. His dark brown hair, which he manages to keep slightly longer than regulation, is blowing straight back. Sarah, forever perfectly coiffed, is wearing a red silk scarf around her head. Its ends trail behind her, reminding me of the days when barnstorming and open-cockpit flying were all the rage.

When we stop at the light, Zack catches a glimpse of me in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his hand into the air. I do the same. Sarah pivots in her seat. She slides her dark designer glasses halfway down the bridge of her nose so that she can give me a proper glare. One of the first things Sarah Marie Louis did after following Zack out here from South Carolina was to pull me aside and stake her claim. Zack had described what they had back in South Carolina as casual. For Sarah, it had been anything but. She was in love with him. She is still in love with him.

I understand that. So am I.

The light turns green and I follow Zack into the parking lot of the FBI field office. He pulls into the drive by the front door. I park at the end of a row of other black Suburbans. By the time I reach the entrance, Sarah is in the driver’s seat.

“What? No kiss good-bye?” I ask Zack as she drives off. “Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Zack shoves his hands in his pockets. “The moon was full last night,” he reminds me. “This someone spent the night locked in his cage. Alone.”

Although I’m dying to know where Sarah spent the night, how she rode out the inevitable changeling time, I resist the urge to question Zack further. My patience pays off.

“She’s thinking about joining a pack. She ran with them last night.” He gives me a sideways glance. “I don’t have to ask who you spent the night with. You reek of vampire and sex.”

I dramatically roll my eyes before heading for the entrance. “I just showered.”

He beats me to the door and opens it for me. “You need to use stronger soap. And spend less time with His Royal Undead. I don’t know what you see in him.”

I push the call button for the elevator. When I’m with him, it’s easier to avoid thinking about you. The thought, like so many others, goes unsaid. I plaster a practiced smile on my face, the one meant to convey that Kallistos is my world. “You haven’t seen him naked.”

“A fact that saddens me deeply. It’s number three on my bucket list, you know.”

The elevator doors open and we step inside. Just as they are about to close, another agent joins us. The familiar banter, laced with the kind of innuendo that I’ll later play over and over again in my head, comes to a full stop. Zack and I move to opposite ends of the elevator. We face forward. Zack makes small talk with the other agent. I’ve worked in the same office with the guy for more than a year, and right now I can’t remember his name.

But I remember every moment spent with Zack.

That’s all part of my punishment, part of my penance. A cold chill creeps up my spine. I can almost feel Demeter watching.

Satisfied?

A shiver passes through me.

Agent What’s-His-Name crosses his arms protectively in front of himself. “Whoa, think they overdid it a bit with the AC this morning.”

I know the drop in temperature has nothing to do with the building’s air-conditioning. It has everything to do with Demeter. Ever present. Ever watching. Ever ensuring that I am suffering.

I steal a glance at Zack, but quickly force myself to look away. I’ll always remember but he’ll never know what we had. What we lost. And I know that this morning, Demeter is smiling down upon us, pleased with herself, full of smug indignation and self-righteous conceit.

CHAPTER 2

Day One: Monday, September 2

The office is quiet as we make our way from the elevator through the maze of cubicles that makes up the FBI San Diego field office. Thoughts of Demeter fade as Zack and I exchange nervous looks. In spite of the holiday, half a dozen agents are already at work, either with a phone receiver to an ear or at a computer, fingers flying over the keyboards. What’s missing is the banter that usually accompanies agents at work like this. The muted atmosphere is unsettling.

Zack tilts his head toward the far wall. “Something is very wrong.”

Deputy Director Johnson’s office, which is walled with floor-to-ceiling windows, is the middle of three that look onto the general work area. The door is closed, but the blinds that are usually drawn are open, giving Johnson a clear view of the agents in the bullpen and us a clear view of him. Our normally unflappable bulldog of a boss is pacing, cell phone to his ear. The second he sees us, he disconnects and stiffly motions us inside.

“And it’s personal,” Zack mutters under his breath.

“Personal?” My question goes unanswered.

Zack holds the door open, allowing me to pass through first.

Normally I would attribute the gallant door-opening gesture to his old-world Southern charm. But when I see the look on Johnson’s face, I realize it might be more self-preservation than good manners that prompted Zack’s gentlemanly behavior. Johnson’s steely eyed glare skewers me.

“Monroe, is your cell phone broken?” He moves to his desk and drops heavily into his chair before looking up at me expectantly, his face a rigid mask of irritation. “Well?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you lose it, maybe, or leave it at a friend’s?”

“No. Sir.”

“Then why the fuck haven’t you checked your messages?”

I do a mental shuffle, trying to come up with an excuse when I know I have none. “Sorry, sir,” I say at last. “The truth is, the ringer was muted and I didn’t realize it.”

Zack steps to my side. “It is a holiday, sir.”

“When I want your opinion, Armstrong, I’ll damn well ask for it!”

Johnson’s outburst silences anything else Zack might have contemplated saying in my defense. I throw him a sideways glance. He’s staring straight ahead, the picture of composure, the ultimate professional, like a good soldier patiently awaiting his next order. Only the telltale tic in his jaw provides an indication of his level of annoyance.

Jimmy called us in to tell us something. Either he doesn’t know how to start, or he just plain doesn’t want to. Zack suspects it’s personal. So, maybe it’s a bit of both.

The testosterone standoff is getting us nowhere. I decide to change tactics. “For the record, I’m sorry I didn’t answer when you called.” Risking another angry outburst, I approach, asking softly, “What’s going on, Jimmy?”

For a moment he says nothing. Then his shoulders suddenly slump. He passes a hand over his face, releases a breath, and slouches back in his chair. “Sorry, Monroe, Armstrong. I had a rough night and my morning hasn’t been much better.” He motions to the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Zack takes the one to the right, I the one to the left. Johnson begins by sorting through some papers on the desk. After a moment he pulls two from the pile and hands them to me first.

“The girl on the left is Hannah Clemons. The girl on the right, Sylvia Roberts. Both sixteen.”

I glance at the pictures. They look like school photos, the kind of head shot you’d find in a typical yearbook. Both girls are blond and blue-eyed. They are wearing identical white blouses, Peter Pan collars lying neatly on top of navy blue cardigans. Their smiles radiate the confidence that comes with being young and pretty. I hand the pictures to Zack as Johnson hands another to me.

“This is Julie Simmons. Eighteen.”

Another blonde. Same uniform. She’s as pretty as the other two, but with a shadow of something—distrust, disillusionment—that makes her smile less open, more cautious, guarded.

Zack takes the third picture from my outstretched hand. Johnson allows him a moment to scan it before speaking.

“All three are missing. No one seems to have seen Hannah Clemons since school got out on Friday. The Roberts girl has been missing since Saturday. Julie Simmons has been missing a little over twelve hours.”

“Three girls missing in three days from the same school. Which one?” I ask.

“Point Loma Academy. It’s a private school. The locals are handing the case to us because with three girls now gone, they are thinking serial kidnapper, maybe serial killer, and they have no leads. They’ve kept the cases quiet, hoping to avoid hysteria. Being a long weekend, it’s been fairly easy to do. The first two girls were friends, so they weren’t entirely sure of foul play. But now that a third girl is missing, they are looking at the case differently. The pressure is on to go public. Someone may be targeting the school, and some high-profile parents have kids who go the Academy.”

“Any ransom demands made?” Zack asks.

Johnson shakes his head. “No. None of the kids are from families who could afford to pay much even if a ransom demand was made.”

“But they could afford private school?” I ask. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the Academy was pretty pricey.”

“You’re not wrong,” says Johnson. “All three of these girls were scholarship recipients.”

Zack pulls his notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Well, we’ve got another connection, then. Could this be a prank of some kind? A bunch of rich kids ganging up on those who are less privileged?”

Johnson passes Zack another sheet of paper. “According to Principal Robinson’s statement, the identities of the scholarship recipients are kept in strict confidence. We’ve been asked to keep it that way.”

“I’m surprised.” Zack’s tone is sharply critical. “I’d think letting the parents who put money in his pocket know it’s been only scholarship students targeted would soothe some minds.”

I shake my head at Zack’s sarcasm. “Are there any other scholarship recipients?” I ask.

Johnson glances down at his phone. “One other. My niece, Rain. Julie Simmons is a friend of hers. A very good friend. She called me when she heard that Julie was missing.”

Zack and I exchange glances. I didn’t know whether to attribute it to his keen sense of hearing or instinct, but he was right. It is personal for Johnson.

“So you made a call to the local police to offer assistance,” Zack interjects.

Johnson nods. “We would have ended up with the case anyway.”

“Undoubtedly,” I agree. “Your niece?”

“Is safe at home waiting by the phone for news from me. Rain doesn’t know about the other two girls, or about the scholarship connection.”

“Which could be more coincidence than connection,” I add.

“Until we’re sure, I’ve got a friend watching my niece’s home. I want you two to start working the case immediately. Before any other girls go missing.” He sweeps a hand in the direction of the outer office. “I secured the necessary warrants. Agents Billings, Garcia, and Garner are gathering the background information you’ll need on the girls and their families. The others are consolidating information we have from the local police. They’ll have reports for you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I suggest you make first contact with Julie’s parents.”

He slides a piece of paper across the desk. “The address. They’re expecting you.”

Zack holds up his hands. “Shouldn’t we wait until we have the police reports, at least? We’re going in cold.”

Johnson looks up as if surprised both by Zack’s question and the fact that we’re still in his office. “Exactly right. I want you to look at this case from a fresh perspective. As if you are the first on the scene.” A pause. He looks down at his desk and then up again. He picks up the paper he’d placed on the corner of the desk and shakes it. “Did I not make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” I grab it from his hand, snatch up the three photographs, then give Zack a nudge. We’ve been given our marching orders. We’ll have time to study the evidence and ask questions later. Right now Johnson needs some space.

Zack waits until we’ve exited the elevator and are heading across the parking lot before speaking. “What do you think?”

“I think Johnson’s afraid for his niece.”

“Ever met her?”

“No,” I reply absently, looking for the Simmonses’ address as we go.

Since I still have my car keys, I steer Zack toward the end of the first row. I’ve found the address. I recognize the street. “Point Loma Academy isn’t far from the Simmonses’. If I’m not mistaken, the school’s only a five-minute walk or so from this address.”

“Maybe we can swing by on the way, check it out. What else do you know about the Academy?”

“Not much, really. I attended a fund-raiser there a year or two ago.” What I don’t add is that my date was an agent from a different division whose kid attended the school. Unfortunately, his ex-wife decided to check herself out of rehab and show up for the fund-raiser, too. Unexpectedly, and very drunk. Not a pleasant experience. For me, or the agent who not too long after accepted a transfer and moved to the East Coast with his daughter.

I’ve already made my way to the driver’s side, leaving Zack no choice but to ride shotgun. I can hear him complaining under his breath. “Sure. Why don’t you drive?”

I smile and give him just enough time to get settled in the passenger seat before shifting into gear and pulling out of the lot.

The FBI building is located right on the I-15S interstate, which is what I head for. It’s not even midmorning yet and it’s hot enough in the SUV to crank up the air-conditioning. Zack hasn’t said another word. His jaw is tight, his shoulders bunched. I have to wonder whether it’s the job that’s got him in this mood or something else. Disappointment that he’s not spending the day with Sarah? Being the professional that I am, I push that notion aside and ask, “How do you want to handle the interview?”

He stares straight ahead. “You heard Johnson. We’ll handle it like we’re the first on the scene. We should be prepared to take some flak for making them repeat what they’ve already told the first officers, but if they’re concerned about their daughter, they’ll cooperate.”

“If they’re concerned? Since when did you become Glass-Half-Empty Guy?”

I momentarily cast aside concern about his uncharacteristic moodiness and concentrate on the drive.

My memory was correct. We take the Nimitz Boulevard exit to get to Ocean Beach. On the way to the Simmonses’ apartment, we go right past the school on West Point Loma that all three missing girls attend. I pull over and we take a look.

Point Loma Academy is a sprawling two-story stucco building set back from the road, surrounded by a well-manicured lawn and ensconced behind a high stone wall. A wrought-iron gate opens to a circular drive that leads from the street to the building entrance. A digital sign at the foot of the drive flashes upcoming events and boasts of recent sports victories. No students are around because of the Labor Day holiday. No cars in the adjacent parking lot. The entire campus looks deserted. High-end surveillance cameras are evident not only at the gate and main entrance, but in other key areas as far as my eyes can see, a sad testament to the fact that security is not only necessary but mandatory on school campuses nowadays.

Zack comments first. “You sure this is a high school? Looks more like Fort Knox.”

“High-profile students, remember?” I point toward one of the cameras. “Anyone targeting students here probably spent time on or around campus, don’t you think?”

“I’ll call Garner. We need to get someone assigned to reviewing recent footage.”

I nod.

Zack makes the call.

I pull out and after five minutes and a couple more right turns, we’ve arrived at the address printed in Johnson’s neat flowing script.

Zack glances from the paper to the building and shoots me an inquisitive look. “This is it?”

I understand his confusion. The building we’re looking at is an apartment, two stories of chipping plaster fronted by a lawn in a losing battle against a vicious army of weeds. The parking lot is marked by deeply pitted asphalt and broken berms. A battered car by the entrance is balanced on four concrete blocks, its wheels gone.

“One look at this place and anyone would be able to figure out the Simmons girl is on a scholarship,” Zack says. I nod my agreement.

We trudge across the lawn to a gate set into a chain-link fence. The hinges squeal as we push it open and make our way to a row of mailboxes against a far wall. The Simmonses’ mailbox is marked 2B in red Magic Marker.

The stairway to the second floor is a series of concrete steps, the banister an afterthought of rough, unpainted wood probably attached to avoid a code violation.

As soon as I place my hand on it, I wish I hadn’t.

“Damn it!”

A sizable splinter is lodged in my index finger.

Zack reaches out. “Let me see.”

I place my hand, palm up, in his. He’s unimpressed. With barely a glance, he plucks out the sliver and lets it fall to the ground. “Good as new. Let’s go.”

“It’s bleeding. Not everyone has super-duper speedy-quick healing powers, you know,” I remind him. Demeter didn’t want to make it easy for me. I’ll heal from anything, but I do it the old-fashioned way, like a human, with time and pain.

“I could lick it,” he offers.

His tone doesn’t possess even the slightest hint of innuendo. A Were’s saliva contains properties that ward off