Finngarick (Order of the Black Swan, D.I.T. Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Finngarick

  Midpoint

  Finngarick

  Finngarick

  Midpoint

  Finngarick

  Order of the Black Swan D.I.T. 2

  The Department of Interdimensional Trespass

  by Victoria Danann

  Copyright 2017 Victoria Danann

  Published by 7th House Publishing, Imprint of Andromeda LLC

  Read more about this author and upcoming works at VictoriaDanann.com

  ***

  BETA READERS

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  And a special thank you to my assistant, Sarah Nicole Blausey.

  CHAPTER One GLEN’S JOURNAL

  From the Memoir of Glendennon Catch

  Sovereign Jefferson Unit, Order of the Black Swan

  For some time my wife has been after me to write down my stories. Maybe that’s because she’s afraid that I might be subject to early onset dementia. Maybe it’s because she’s busy, spending a lot of time directing the new Black Swan Division, D.I.T. for convenience sake because the real name, Department of Interdimensional Trespass, is quite a mouthful. Or maybe it’s simply that she’s being nosy about the details of how I spent my time during the years before she was born and when we were apart.

  Rosie seems to believe that putting it all together in written form will be ‘spiritually healing’. I don’t have any reason to think I need spiritual healing. Rosie, if you’re reading this, let me add that my spirit is fine, but I’m always up for sexual healing. While I deny being in a state of spiritual unrest, I will reluctantly admit that I have found the process of organizing my life and experiences oddly calming.

  When I first met my wife, she gave every appearance of being a year old, even though she’d been born about six weeks before. When I arrived in the Storm’s kitchen, Rosie, who was riding her mother’s hip, squealed, clapped her hands and said, “Glen!”

  Since she had never seen me before, you can imagine my surprise. I stared at her in stunned wonder along with her parents. What can I say? When she came into the world she was into me. That was the first time she surprised me, but it would definitely not be the last time. In fact, she did it a minute later.

  I walked over for a closer hello thinking she had to be the most beautiful baby ever created in the history of babies. She promptly slapped me on the cheek with a chubby little hand, squealed in delighted giggles, and clapped, saying “Glen. Glen. Glen.” Perhaps I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the last day I was ever able to feel real happiness without her. Thankfully, she left her impulse to hit me in the face behind in childhood.

  You may be wondering what this has to do with Finngarick.

  Well, while he and I have not been on parallel journeys in the strictest sense, our lives have touched, tangled, and disentangled on several occasions. Those intersections of fate may lend insight into Finngarick’s character, or lack thereof depending on your point of view. For that reason I am enmeshed in the fabric of his story as he is in mine.

  I can only report things as I see them, which means that my comments should be taken with the inherent bias that is inescapably inevitable. Still, you may find value in first hand witness; in moments that are forever branded and encapsulated within my memory, however flawed.

  As it happens, Rosie is also part of this story, albeit indirectly, as you will see.

  Like everyone who worked within the organization of The Order of the Black Swan, I had heard of Sir Torrent Finngarick and his infamous exploits. It was through that prism of preconception that I viewed him on first meeting, which happened to be his father’s wake.

  It was in Dunkilly, Ireland, a fishing town on the northwest coast on a day so cold my fingers wouldn’t work the latch of the Land’s End pub door wherein I was told I would find Sir Finngarick and the other misfits of Z Team. You might think it would be impossible for the air to be cold and full of humidity. The wind blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean whipped inside my clothes, chilling to the bone marrow, as I stood outside the pub, jumping up and down, waiting for someone to either come or go and open the door for me.

  I’ve been in the Canadian Rockies at two in the morning in January. I’ve been to Antarctica. I’ve even taken the train across the Russian tundra in winter. But I have never been as cold as I was that day in Northern Ireland.

  I was there as a test devised by the late Sovereign Sol Nememiah. My mentor, Sir Engel Storm, and I were going to share the work of the Sovereign until a suitable replacement could be found. Storm made it clear that he disagreed with the decision to send me to Dunkilly and said something about lambs and wolves. I choose to not remember the exact phrase. He argued with Sol and said he thought that sending me was particularly sadistic and utterly uncalled for. When the dust settled, Sol had won, as he always did.

  I was to make the trip to Dunkilly and inform Z Team, in person, that they were being transferred to Jefferson Unit. Effective immediately. Further, I was to escort them back. Personally.

  Torn’s three teammates had taken leave to accompany him to the wake. Not because Torn was broken up about his father’s passing, but more out of respect for Finngarick. Or maybe just because it was a good excuse to get out of Marrakesh, where Z Team had been attached to the least desirable post in the world.

  Eventually the door opened. Eyes set in a wizened old face widened slightly at the sight of me, no doubt because the sight of strangers was an unusual occurrence. The man nodded slightly as he drew his cable knit scarf closer around his neck and stepped past me. I nodded in return trying hard to look like my teeth weren’t chattering like a battery operated Halloween skull. I caught the door with my shoulder and stepped inside to warmth and smoke so thick I could barely see.

  The good people of the town of Dunkilly didn’t like Mick Finngarick much and liked his son even less. But it appeared that wouldn’t stand in the way of free drinks and a little live music. The place was crowded with people standing around with pints, raising their voices in amicable conversation.

  Though the warmth was welcome, my face and hands stung from the abrupt contrast in temperature. While I stood near the door where I’d entered, trying to get my shivering under control, I looked around. When I caught the bartender’s eye, he simply pointed to a back corner, as if there could be only one reason for my presence.

  Curious to see if the bartender knew what he was doing, I began to slowly navigate my way through the locals and the smoke. I’d never seen photos of the members of Z Team, but I knew them instantly because they wore their reputations on their collective countenance like a neon sign.

  As I recall my first reaction was to wonder how they could expect to be successful vampire hunters, part of a secret organization, when they went about wearing a vibe that communicated not just danger, but crazy as well. They looked like it was entirely possible t
hat they’d escaped a facility for the criminally insane. So much for blending in and keeping the mission on the down low.

  One was bare armed with fully tatted sleeves. One was so dark and gothic-looking he might have been a movie vampire himself, the kind who made ladies gush their drawers. The term Black Knight came to mind and made me smile to myself.

  Another had some tribal tattoo tails disappearing into the neck of a plain gray hoodie. He had a pierced eyebrow raised, watching me. He didn’t look away, but I could see he was saying something to the others. That’s when the fourth turned his head. Elfin ears. Brownish hair big thick titian streaks that gave it a fiery look. There was little doubt it was Torrent Finngarick. In the flesh.

  The four gave me a good stare down as I approached the snug they’d taken over, looking for all the world like they owned the world.

  I introduced myself to the four of them. To Torn I said, “Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick.” I said ‘sir’ so quietly that it was more implied than audible. “The office sent me.”

  In response they didn’t respond. They sat and stared. I knew it was an attempt to intimidate.

  To put things in perspective, I was eighteen years old at the time. Lovable. A bit goofy perhaps. And agreeable. That’s how I saw myself and I’m pretty sure that’s how most others saw me; affable and easy going. For that reason they tended to forget that a quarter of my genetic makeup is werewolf, a particularly dominant strain. I didn’t go out of my way to advertise that fact. I just went about my business and found that I rarely needed to give a demonstration.

  This was an occasion for a demonstration. I could stand there the rest of the night without either flinching or looking away.

  At length, the guy with the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned. The dimples worked against the tough guy persona and I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew that. "So go ahead and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We're waiting."

  I chuckled along with the other three, but let my laughter end with the hint of a growl. I don’t shift, but I did get the full complement of vocal cords. I understand that it can be startling and, I’ve been told, can raise hair follicles. It wasn't loud enough to draw attention from the wake-goers, but it was definitely heard by Z Team. They sat just a little straighter.

  I had their interest. But that’s not the same thing as respect.

  To Hoodie I said, "My briefing didn't mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If you want to call me by a name, it's Glen."

  Finngarick's blue eyes twinkled in a way that brought Rammel Hawking to mind. "Long way to deliver a message,” he said. “Would you no' have a pint with us then? Glen." He reached out with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the leg brace of an unoccupied chair, pulled it up to the snug, and nodded toward it in invitation. "You'll find we're no' much on formality. Call me Torn."

  Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said, "This is Gunnar. That's Raif." He sliced his chin in the direction of 'black knight'. "The fella with the questionable personality is Bob."

  I said, "Gunnar. Raif. Torn. And Bob? No way."

  Finngarick's eyes danced with the sparkle that belongs to elves alone. "Aye. Make no mistake. The bugger’s name is Bob."

  I suggested we rename him, which was a bold and perhaps even ill-mannered thing to do, but it took the focus away from me.

  Finngarick looked toward Bob before bringing that blue-eyed gaze back to settle on me. "What we have here, gentlemen, is a cool, gloomy Irish day with no place to go and no' a thin' to do other than have another pint. So I say we should try playin’ Glen’s game. What would you be callin’ the man if ‘twas up to you, young emissary?" I hadn’t thought that far in advance. So I shrugged. "Come now. No ideas?"

  "Well, yeah, I sort of named him in my head on the walk through the bar," I lied.

  "Pub," Torn corrected.

  "Yes. Pub. Sorry."

  "I, for one, cannot wait to hear what you named me in your head on your walk across the... pub." Both of Bob’s eyebrows were raised as he waited to see how he’d be dubbed if I was the one doing the dubbing.

  "Glyphs," I said. I have no idea where it came from. I knew he might not like it, but I also knew he’d find no offense there. There’s something to be said for the no offense approach, especially when dealing with a crowd of rowdies like Z Team.

  ‘Bob’ looked at me while the other three looked at him. When he decided it was okay with him, he shrugged to indicate acceptance.

  When Torn said, "Right you are. Now that you point it out, ‘tis plain as day he's no' a Bob. Glyphs suits him just fine. Congratulations. You just nicknamed a knight. No’ an easy thin’ to do. Needless to say, ‘tis a good thing he liked it.”

  That was when I knew without a doubt that Torn Finngarick was the unofficial leader of Z Team. Black Swan has a tradition of not naming team leaders, but everybody knows there’s always one guy… He called the bartender over and ordered a Guinness Extra Stout, which is Irish black beer. For me.

  When it was set down in front of me, in all its frothy majesty, I didn’t want to say that I was unused to drinking in front of people who thought alcohol was somehow tied to manliness. So I took a big long drink like there was nothing unusual about it. Then promptly spewed it all over Sir Finngarick.

  The other three members of Z Team laughed so hard they had to wipe tears, but as I remember it, Torn’s expression never changed. He sat quietly while I borrowed a wet bar towel and offered it to him. No doubt I was blushing from what was the worst humiliation of my life to that point.

  As I handed him the towel, I think I said something lame like, "I'd offer to clean you up, but your file says you’re heterosexual."

  Torn took the towel without a word, but the glint of amusement remained firmly fixed in place. When he’d done the best he could, all things considered, he gave me the towel. "Go get yourself somethin' else. Drinks are on me. Milk maybe?"

  I got a root beer from the bar and returned to the snug. Setting the mug down, I said, "You're needed at Jefferson Unit. You're to accompany me to Fort Dixon after the funeral. Your things are being gathered and moved as we speak."

  There was no discernible reaction. They were a cool bunch.

  Glyphs said, "New York's no worse than any other place. Maybe better than some."

  Finngarick looked at me like he was a mind reader. If I was ever going to be inclined to squirm, it would probably be under the scrutiny of that stare. "Would you be happenin' to know why we're needed so urgently?"

  There was no reason to be coy. So I said, "Yes."

  A ghost of a smile seemed to cross Finngarick's face, which I, a devoted heterosexual, am not ashamed to say was uncommonly handsome. "And will you be sharin' with us then?"

  "Sorry. No."

  Torn glanced at his teammates as if the four could communicate telepathically. "See. The thin' is, we're accustomed to hearin' The Order needs to sweep us further under the rug. No' brin' us into the light. We would no' be the least surprised if you came to say we're bein' transferred to Siberia. But this? Naturally we're curious, you understand."

  "Are there vampire in Siberia?” I asked. When no one answered, I said, “Of course I understand that you’d like to know the reasons for your transfer. But I'm not at liberty to say."

  Torn nodded thoughtfully. "Well, then. Might you be at liberty to say why you, in particular, were sent to escort us?"

  "The Jefferson Unit sovereign is retiring,” I told him. “I'm being given a try-out for his job. He sent me to get you."

  The stare they gave me looked a lot like disbelief.

  Finally Gunnar cleared his throat. "So. You're saying that, at some point, we could be calling you boss?"

  I suppose I could have been more modest, but I gave them the shit-eating grin I thought appropriate. That was a mistake.

  Torn leaned forward. "Seems we have limited time for the application of a right proper hazin' then, Glen."

  Four pairs of eyes landed on me like I
was the lamb and they were the wolves in Storm’s metaphor.

  Back at Jefferson Unit, Sol was cool to the Zs while Storm was downright rude. Outside the Sovereign’s offices I said, “Welcome to Jefferson Unit. See you around?”

  Torn stuck out his hand. "Sure, kid. We'll be seein' you 'round."

  As I remember it, there was a catfight between two nurses within twenty four hours of Z Team’s arrival. Rumor had it that it had something to do with Finngarick. He wasn't overly talkative on the subject and neither were the two women with nail scratches on their faces that were so deep they were practically gouges.

  Perhaps his silence was gentlemanly, but I’m pretty sure the reason for the fight had nothing to do with gentlemanly behavior. If Finngarick wanted to survive in Sol’s culture of character, changes would need to be made quickly. The boys of Z Team had a golden opportunity to climb out of the dregs of disfavor. And I hoped they’d grab on with both hands because everybody deserved second chances.

  Right?

  CHAPTER Two NO SECOND SON

  In the long chronicle of Black Swan knights, Torn was one of only a handful who were not second sons. His particular life circumstances, otherwise known as fate, created the perfect storm necessary to build a potential Black Swan knight.

  His mother had died when he was a toddler too young to retain any conscious memory of her. His father was a drunk, on the dole, and the town joke. By the time he was seven he’d learned to fight and was ready to take on all comers, even much older kids, anyone who had something untoward to say about his old man. Even though he’d be the first to acknowledge that there likely had never been a sorrier excuse for an elf.