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  Places Between

  A Wielder World Short Story

  by Nat Kennedy

  Copyright © 2018 by Nat Kennedy

  Cover design by Keith Draws

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner

  whatsoever without the express written

  permission of the publisher except for the use

  of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters,

  places and incidents are fiction and any

  resemblance to actual events, locals or persons

  is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2018

  www.natkennedy.com

  Photographs of faces—sunken cheeks, empty eye sockets, skin the color of deep forest mosses—and their escorting dossiers covered the surface of the Bureau of Wielder Services massive conference room table.

  “See these signs, the hollowness, as if the body had been sucked free of its juices—”

  Bethany Wolfe-Martin, senior mind Wielder of the BWS, leveled her gaze as her non-Wielder partner, Russ Jameson, tried for entertaining and spooky. They'd worked together for nearly her entire career as an Agent at the BWS, and sometimes she hated being the straight man.

  Jameson jogged his shoulders as if someone had passed over his grave. “The creepy green skin—?”

  Raising her eyebrows, she played her part, let him do his song and dance. As a non-Wielder at the Bureau—whose mandate was to find and capture Wielder criminals—he was always going to be of lower rank than she, but even given his mundane handicap, he was a superb detective.

  “Same Wielder. Sure as shit.” He nodded thoughtfully.

  “You don't say?” Beth drawled. Just that morning, her assistant, Ricky, had given her another file, another photo, another face to add to the long list of dead. She glanced at the picture of what was once a young woman, maybe in her teens, though it was hard to tell when all of her fluids had been taken from her body.

  The pictures didn't lie. That same color of gray-green was all they really needed to pile Andrea Kane's file in with the Green Killer case. Every Wielder—Wielder of the Nerve of the World—left some unique Tracer behind when they used their magic by plucking a Nerve of the World—a magical conduit that connected everyone and everything. For mind Wielders like Beth, it was sound, for force Wielders, a scent, and enhancement Wielders, a sensation in the air.

  And this, this corporeal change, this manipulation of the bodies, was like nothing the Bureau had ever experienced. Wielders either worked the mind, worked forces or boosted their own physical capabilities. No power of the Nerve sucked a body dry or left a physical Tracer behind.

  Wielders were evolving, plucking new branches of the Nerve.

  The door banged open, rebounded off the brace on the floor and nearly smacked Ricky in the face and forcing him to drop his coffee. “Agent Wolfe-Martin,” he jerked his head back towards the interrogation rooms, “Shimmy's here. Wants you.”

  Jameson rolled his shoulders as he stood from his hunched position. He exchanged a look with Beth. “She's your snitch. You want me there?”

  “Ricky, you know what it's about?”

  Ricky's mouth turned down. He sipped from his Styrofoam cup. “Well, she seemed pretty scared. Wouldn't talk in the pen.”

  Beth and Jameson shared a look. Nodded. “All right,” Beth said. “You're with me.”

  ~~~

  “So,” Beth said. “Shimmy isn't a known mentalist, but still keep your brain on tight. She could be hiding her angles from me, and we don't need someone like her digging around your head, learning more than she needs to.”

  All jokership gone, Jameson's determination set his normally jovial face into deep lines highlighting his scowl. “I've built up my thought control. You said I was passable.”

  “Passable,” she stressed. “If she was a trained mind Wielder, she could knock aside your control.” Beth offered Jameson a smile and gripped his bicep. “You're good, but….” She shrugged. Jameson knew a good mentalist could rip apart any non-Wielder; she didn't have to tell him.

  Beth swung the door open and stepped into the interrogation room, her low heels clacking against the worn, dull tiles. Jameson, his large presence a comfort, entered behind her.

  “Shimmy, what's up?”

  Shimmy, a scant thing in her late thirties, perched on the edge of her chair. She ran a psychic shop, read palms and crystal balls, and turned tricks on the side. On her rap sheet, she was designated a force Wielder, but Bethany had never seen her in action. It was Beth’s guess Shimmy wasn’t that powerful. The fidgety woman hadn't done anything illegal with her power, so normally the BWS wouldn’t be interested in her, but she had broken the more mundane laws so often in the past, she was on a first name basis with Bethany.

  “Ah, yeah. Well—” Shimmy tucked some dyed black hair behind her ear, not meeting Beth's eyes. “I heard that—” She glanced at Jameson, then at the camera mounted in the corner of the room over the door. She leaned forward. Beth pulled out the cold metal chair, sat, and leaned towards Shimmy.

  “The Martiniques are missing girls,” she said in a breath.

  Beth kept her expression neutral, but her mind was flipping through the dossiers of dead young women. “So, the kids get a clue and go home?” She hoped they'd quit the Wielder gang.

  Shimmy shook her head, her thick bangs swaying across her forehead. “No, missing, as in they've been,” her eyes darted to Jameson, then back to Beth, “snatched away.”

  Beth frowned. “Snatched? Why do you say that?”

  “Rena saw one of them get hauled into a beige sedan, she thought it was a Toyota. On 18th and Bridgecreek. And their parents,” she shrugged, “don't know where they're at. Didn't you get the missing person’s report?”

  Beth snorted. There were stacks of missing person’s reports.

  “How many?” Jameson asked, his voice deep and commanding. His interrogation voice.

  Shimmy shrugged. “I don't know. I just heard this. A few. And nobody wants to come to you, 'cause they're with the gangs. But, if girls are missing….”

  Shimmy had had her own bout of rough street time. Bethany knew the woman wouldn’t wish her own personal horror on other kids.

  “You said Rena spotted someone get taken? Rena Blackstone?” Beth asked.

  Shimmy nodded. “She thought it was someone from Mara Murda who's taking ‘em, but I think that's just straw.”

  Beth nodded. Mara Murda, a cult of male Wielders, had run from the city following a crackdown on their hangout up on Steptoe. This was probably just a squabble between the female gangs. “Any other news?”

  Shimmy barked out a bitter laugh. “'s it true? The Green Killer's only going after Wielders? It's what they're saying. He's targeting girls. And they're saying it's a... a physical Wielder?” She swallowed, all color leaving her face. “A physical…” she said under her breath, “what do you think they can do?”

  Beth couldn't help it, she exchanged a look with Jameson.

  She'd wanted to go public about the victims weeks ago but was told to wait. Wait until they knew for sure. Girls who would have been more watchful had they known now occupied a morgue slab.

  “Yes. It's true. And I don't know. Physical is new to us, too.”

  “Wolfie,” Jameson warned.

  “It's got to be a man. A skell.” Shimmy's hands skittered across the table, grasping for Beth's. Beth did not disagree with this theory. “Hunting us! You know it. Some mad male Wielder who's killing girls. You gotta protect me.” Shimmy's tone took on a desperate screech. “Don't let him kill
me!”

  “Shimmy, calm down.”

  Shimmy's face blazed red, a hot coal of panic and fury. “Don't you tell me to calm down!”

  Beth's hand began to go numb from the woman's grip. She cleared her throat, wondered if being delicate would matter. “You're not of the same demographic as the other victims.”

  “I'm a Wielder. He's killing Wielders!”

  “Young Wielders, Shimmy. Come on now, let's focus on the under twenty-fives, find out their patterns, see where their paths cross. This killer, skell or not, is hunting young women.” Bethany watched as Shimmy's face dawned with realization. She nodded slowly at the woman, over-exaggerating the motion until Shimmy gave her own little nod. “We need to protect them. Find out where they are gathering. Where they are walking when on their own. Where they might be vulnerable.

  “I need you to do something for me, Shimmy,” Beth concluded once it appeared Shimmy was on board. “I've got some pictures...”

  Bethany’s phone rang; she glanced at the screen. Her husband. She considered sending it to voice mail, but she had few moments in her day to take a personal call, and Jameson could take over from here.

  “You got this, Jameson. Show her some of the photos?”

  Her partner nodded. “Sure thing, Wolfie.”

  ~~~

  “No, honey. I can't come tonight. I've got this case—”

  “Beth,” her husband's voice over the phone took on that tone of exasperation she hated, “Melanie's recital has been on the calendar for two months.”

  Bethany pulled the phone away from her face and flipped through her planner with her thumb. Meeting with Director Ricksfield. Interrogation for the Medlow case. Stakeout on the waterfront. No recital.

  Wonderful. If only she could go back a week, or maybe a month, and fill in all of Melanie’s performances in her planner, all of the meetings Paul said she had to attend. She gritted her teeth; time didn’t flow backward, only forward.

  “Listen, Paul, I must have missed—”

  “Yeah, I know.” His voice got low, and Bethany braced herself against his favorite litany with a silent breath. “Like my dad’s birthday. You haven't once picked up Melanie from her dance classes, or gone to any of those boring as hell PTA meetings. I'm tired, too, Beth. You don't even make our counseling sessions.”

  He sighed deeply. Bethany held her hand up to Ricky, who hesitantly held out a pile of folders in one hand, the other grasping his coffee cup. A quick scan of the inhabited desks decorating the open floor plan of the Bureau station showed everyone was eavesdropping and working very hard to appear like they weren't. She ducked her head, shielding the conversation with a brown veil of her hair.

  “Didn't you even notice the poster on the fridge? About the recital?”

  It had been a week or so since Bethany had even approached the refrigerator. She got home late, showered, and crawled into bed, back to back with her husband. Breakfast consisted of a sandwich from some crappy food cart. Was there a garishly decorated poster on the white refrigerator door, with little girls all dressed up in pink leotards with frilly tutus and mile-wide smiles?

  She dug her fingers into her scalp. And she called herself a detective.

  “Paul, I don't know. Can we talk about this later? You know this case—”

  “Fine. Whatever. I'll let your daughter know you won't make it, again. Just put that on me, Beth. Appreciate it.” He hung up.

  Bethany closed her eyes, tried to count to ten, but kept repeating number three. When she opened them and peeked out past her hair, Ricky was standing there, clutching the files to his chest, shifting from side to side.

  “Give me those.” She snatched up the folders.

  Ricky turned a one-eighty, hunched his shoulders, and skulked away.

  Jameson waved to catch her attention and gestured for her to join him and Shimmy back in the interrogation room. “Think we got something.”

  ~~~

  The warehouse docks teamed with people early the next day—typical in gang territories. Signs of Wielding magic hung in the air. Chimes and bongs and scratchy, itchy sounds resonated together to form a discordant white noise while harsh smells tainted sweet, honied scents, and the patches of hot or sticky air amidst cool or hot zones broadcast the acts of boosters. Tracers were different for each power wielded and specific to every Wielder. Beth's mind reading conjured up the sound of a strummed harp string, emitting a tenor chime when she plucked the Nerve.

  Shimmy had fingered most of the dead Wielders as having skirted the rim of the Martinique gang. Which meant, if Bethany wanted her killer, she would need to start at the source of prey.

  Hugging the edge of the afternoon dock party, she kept the few men in the mix at an arm's length, observing them for signs of Corruption, but none showed flaking skin, horns, or burn marks. Didn't mean the man wasn't a Wielder or he hadn't gone mad. Not every man could control the power as well her brother. For most men, the Nerve plucked them. It was an inevitable end for male Wielders who Wielded: madness. These men on the docks could be muscle or just boy toys for the women.

  It took Bethany a minute, but eventually, she found Rena Blackstone, her roommate from college.

  “Rena!

  Rena spun around, eyes glinting in the afternoon light. With a swift double-take, Rena blinked, smiled and called out over the buzz of the gathering, “Bethany!” Then she rushed out, “What're you doing here?”

  Within that secret place no scientist could map, Bethany reached deep, her inner senses flitting across an array of strings—the Nerve—until she found the one she was looking for. She reached out and plucked it.

  A soft chime burred through the air, totally subsumed by the clamor of women around her.

  Bethany smiled at her old friend as she scanned Rena's mind, searching for evidence that she knew about Bethany's connection with the Bureau.

  “It's been a while. How’ve you been?” Beth asked, continuing her scan. Nothing came up. Rena had no idea her old college friend was BWS. In fact, to her smug relief, Rena was as absent-minded as she had been back in college. Bethany spun up some tale of just returning from time up in Canada.

  Rena's brows knit on her forehead. “I totally forget, what do you do again?”

  Bethany smiled. “Environmental geologist. How could you forget?”

  Rena laughed, flipped her hand through the air as if to dismiss her forgetfulness. “You know me, just spacey at times.”

  “So, Rena. I was hoping to join up. You know, safety in numbers.” Bethany left her face open, expression soft. “With someone out there, picking us off…” Letting loose a bit of her worry, a bit of her fear wasn’t hard. “What do I need to do?”

  Rena grabbed Bethany’s hand, grimacing in worry. “Yeah, some skell’s out there. But, don’t worry, Bethany. We’ll find him. The gang won’t stand for this.” Then her friend grinned, big and bright and dismissive of all other concerns. “But if you really wanna join, that is so cool. You'll have to talk to Cynthia, first. Come on!”

  Bethany was in.

  ~~~

  Bethany kept her head down, met no eyes, and shored up her mental shields. Simple numbers assured that many of these Wielders had been arrested for some crime, or were involved in a Wielder Involved Incident. She shortened her stride, dropped her chin, tried to appear small. All her clothing revealed of her was that she had a modest budget and didn't like bright colors.

  Bethany followed Rena through a group of women surrounding a cluster of picnic tables. Barbecue sizzled on a grill, overpowering the evidence of most smell-based force Tracers. Her mouth watered.

  Rena ducked under a half-raised roll-down door into a brightly lit warehouse, halogen lamps hanging from overhead fixtures. Dust moats caught the light, floating like aimless gnats. Bethany reflexively blinked against the grit. The building had a drywall partition erected, blocking off the main section of the warehouse floor. She thought it a pretty nifty set-up for the use of space.

  Near a room
labeled “Toilet”, Rena gestured at a set of chairs. “Wait here, Beth. I'll go see if Cynthia is around.” She leaned closer, her smile a kissing cousin to a bad girl smirk. “You're really not supposed to be in here, but just stay by the door and nobody should bother you.”

  Rena rounded a corner, passing out of sight into the warehouse. Beth peeked around the wall to get a better view of the layout. More wall partitions suggested a handful of offices, or maybe living quarters. A larger area to the right was left open with a boxing ring set up and an area jumbled with odd objects: cars, desks, bowling balls. All busted up. Force Wielder training. They had rooms like this at the Bureau.

  “Excuse me, are you new?”

  Bethany jumped, immediately checking her mental barriers. She turned around, adopting a sheepish look: pressing her lips together, raising her eyebrows. She twisted her hands into a knot. An older woman waited in the warehouse doorway.

  “Hi, kinda,” Bethany said, oozing some apology into her tone. “I'm here to meet Cynthia. I want to join.”

  Bethany reached out to pluck yet another Nerve to scan the woman's mind, but came across an insurmountable shield and released the Nerve, not daring to draw attention to herself. This woman was probably also a mind Wielder because non-mentalists just couldn't build this kind of barrier. “I've been in Canada for a while. I'm Bethany.”

  The woman nodded. “I'm April.” With her hair trimmed short, a powerful steely gray in color, she had the air of a politician about her. She offered her hand and they shook, both women smiling.

  Bethany glanced around the warehouse. “I'm a friend of Rena's.”

  April tilted her head, studying Bethany. Bethany pulled her inner thoughts in tight, letting slip others that had nothing to do with who she was and what she was doing. A sound like the noise an industrial hole-punch made thunked around them, heavy and telling. Out seeped her worry about her daughter. The guilt over her marriage. Bethany swallowed, turned away from the woman's scrutiny. That hadn't been leaked intentionally; this woman had plucked it through the intentional holes in her mind shield.