lowered her phone and patted her hip. “If we have to fight our way out, I’m ready.”
“Yes, if the legions of undead try to block our escape.”
June carefully closed the lid of the casket, turned, and walked down the aisle, past rows of couches and folding chairs. The funeral would be huge. She had to get the hell out of the place, away from the woman’s dead body and her own guilt. She needed to get the hell out of Chicago, but she couldn’t. Not yet.
Not until she got her brother back.
* * * *
Cindy had an apartment in West Lakeview. She told June that’s where they were, but June didn’t care if they were on the moon. She felt like she was on the moon, in some bizarre alternate reality, even if all signs pointed to being on earth. Cindy also had a tortoiseshell cat named Serendipity—Dipity for short—that liked to sit on June.
June lay in bed in Cindy’s guest room, a small white box with little decoration or furniture—a twin bed, a sagging sofa, and a hulking, ugly wooden dresser. Dipity sat on June’s stomach, kneading her belly as she prepared her for—who knew? Dinner, probably. One paw, then the other. Over and over. Knead, knead. Knead, knead. A cigarette dangled from the corner of June’s mouth, one eye open as she peered through the smoke, past the bowl she was utilizing as an ashtray on her chest.
“Will you lay the hell down?” June snarled.
Dipity did, folding herself into a loaf and gazing at June with wide, accusing yellow eyes. Dipity moved up and down as June breathed.
Soft slapping footsteps sounded in the hallway. Cindy peeked around the doorframe. “Did you say something?”
Dipity looked up at Cindy.
“I was talking to your damn cat,” June said.
Cindy stepped into the room. June found her pretty in an overbearing sense: Amazonian and bodacious, leggy and curvy in a way most guys liked. All the things June wasn’t.
“She likes you.” Cindy wore white pajama pants and a pink T-shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. “It must be your charming personality. Or you smell like Micha.”
June glanced over at the sofa. Micha had his back to them, covers bunched around his waist, his white T-shirt twisted and hair a tousled, mottled mess of brown and gold. Despite Cindy’s friendship with Micha, she pointed out repeatedly that she was not a “paranormal activist” like him. June didn’t blame Cindy for wanting to be clear. June had actively avoided paranormal activists until she committed the grave mistake of coming to Chicago.
“He’s been sleeping a lot.” Cindy indicated Micha. “Is that one of the side effects?”
June ground her cigarette out in the bowl and sat the bowl next to her hip. “Hell if I know. I’ve never accidentally messed up someone’s mind so bad I couldn’t reverse it.”
Cindy left the room. She returned shortly with a newspaper.
“Look at this.” She walked to the bed and thrust the paper at June.
She gave June the Paranormal section of the Chicago Tribune. June had been reading it every day for some mention of Jason. She’d also been reading news online, on Cindy’s laptop. The Chicago Institute for Supernatural Research, the first and biggest facility to be given government approval for paranormal research, kept the city alive with supernatural intrigue and gave bloggers something to endlessly blather about. The Institute’s presence didn’t mean folks in Chicago were hugging their neighborhood telepath, however. The freaks still got persecuted, like in Sacramento where June lived.
The headline on the first page said: HAVE THE SIREN TWINS LEFT CHICAGO? INSTITUTE NOT FORTHCOMING.
June’s heart jumped and then sank again after she read the article. The reporter speculated she and Jason had fled, “shaken profoundly by the horrific and untimely death of the Institute’s top vampire researcher, Rose Bellevue, her vicious murder still a hot topic of rampant speculation.” The article went on to say paranormal citizens were pointing fingers at a normalist group called the Secular Normalists of Chicago or SNC, “a dastardly force polluting this city with misinformation and blatant ignorance.”
June could end the speculation, if she dared come out of hiding.
The article also said police were still investigating the possible kidnapping of Micha Bellevue, Rose’s husband and one of the paranormal community’s most lauded advocates: “last year’s recipient of the J.B. Rhine Award for Advocacy, friend of many paranormal people. His generous admirers hope fervently for his safety and the punishment of those involved in this horrendous crime.”
June had seen plenty of bloggers speculating Micha had something to do with Rose’s death and was on the run, and one particularly amusing guy was convinced Micha had been abducted by the CIA. June could be sneaky, but she wasn’t on level with the government.
“I can’t believe how lurid this shit is.” June tossed the paper on top of Dipity. She emitted an angry mewl and got up. “Reads like a tabloid.”
“Ethan Roberts.” Cindy lifted the paper off her cat. “He’s been the lead paranormal reporter for the Tribune for years. He might be colorful, but he knows what he’s talking about.” She tucked the paper under her arm. “My friend will be here soon. So haul your ass out of bed and get dressed.”
Dipity jumped off June and padded slowly around the bed.
“I tried to warn him.” Cindy looked over at Micha. “All those years he thought the Institute could do no wrong. He sure took it up the ass without lube this time.”
June didn’t comment.
“It sucks, though.” Cindy dropped her voice a little. “He didn’t deserve to lose Rose.”
“Look at it this way. Now he can be an advocate for the right people. Knowledge is power. Fight the Man. Rah rah.”
June sat up. Dipity moved behind her and rubbed across her back in a sleek caress. Cats forgave easily.
Cindy turned toward the door.
“Hey,” June said.
Cindy stopped.
“What’s the SNC? I keep seeing them pop up in these articles.”
Cindy scrunched up her face. “They’re a paranormal…protest group. Can’t say ‘hate group’ since the treaty. The Secular Normalists of Chicago. They wanted to set themselves apart from the Bible-thumpers and fundies, but they still like to beat us up.”
“I didn’t realize they needed an organized group to do that. Where I come from, that’s called a gang.”
“It was founded by this guy named Alan Jenkins. He died like five years ago and his son Aaron took over. Aaron says he wants to clean up his father’s dirt.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t believe him.”
“Quite a city you got here.”
Dipity hopped off the bed and landed on the floor with a thump.
“I
