I’m the last to walk in and as I go to close the doors behind me, Jackson pauses at the last minute, puts his hand out to keep the door open, and without saying a word, maneuvers me back out into the hallway. He closes the doors behind him, leaving Dee and Alex inside.
“You nearly died?” his voice is strained.
“You care?” I’d be incredulous but I’m trying very hard to be numb…it’s the only way to relive Astor without falling apart.
He growls quietly and looks like he wants to punch something.
“Perhaps if you did die, your next re-incarnation would be easier to get along with,” he looks horrified the moment the words leave his lips. Somewhere deep inside – really fucking deep – I know he didn’t mean it.
But he’s still an asshole.
I clench my fists together to stop myself from slapping his stupidly gorgeous face.
“I sincerely doubt it, not if she has any memories of this life. She wouldn’t give you an easier time if she remembers you wishing me dead and all the cruel things you said to me this evening. Not to mention the ultimatum you issued, which you then spent six years sulking over because you didn’t get your own way. I didn’t leave you; I chose a job that gave me the freedom to learn who I was this time around and you could’ve come with me or split your time between the East and West Coast, but you didn’t. You lost your temper – which you seem to do a lot with me – and broke us before we even started. I never stopped caring and it never stopped hurting, and the horrible things you accused me of this evening cut deep because everything I did was to protect you. So you’re going to sit in that room, read the report, look at the gruesome pictures, watch the video footage, and when you’re finished, you’ll learn there isn’t enough groveling in the world to take back the hurt you’ve caused.” I just about manage not to cry, but it’s a close one. Jackson’s face is remorseful, pained, his indigo eyes mirroring the heartbreak in my own at our situation.
“I don’t wish you dead, Emilia. I’m –”
“Shut up! Just go inside so I can get this over with,” I snap and storm through the doors into the conference room, using my telekinesis to slam the doors wide.
I can’t deal with him trying to apologize right now; I can’t handle the emotional overdose involved with working through our painful feelings. I need to be detached in order to cope with what I’m about to show him.
One look at Dee and Alex and I can tell they’re trying the same tactic. They look distant yet focused, their professional training kicking in and it rallies me enough to muster a small amount of military bravado, which I’m definitely going to need.
Jackson follows me in and takes a seat, his expression unreadable – not that I’m trying.
I take a deep breath, letting it out heavily.
“Okay, let’s get this over with. The official story of drug trafficking was, as you put it, fabricated to fuck. The group of criminals we targeted was trafficking human children; orphans. Because no one misses or gives a shit when an orphan disappears and then turns up dead.” I can’t help wondering what my life as an orphan would’ve been like had my parents not adopted me. Those children are unluckier versions of me.
“Your cousin was a monster who beat, molested and fed off of children and tossed their corpses into piles like garbage. They raped little girls and boys as young as five-years-old before draining them dry,” I say and struggle to contain my emotions at the memory of the tiny broken bodies we weren’t able to save. “When we finally tracked them down, they were high on drugs and refused to come in without a fight. It was brutal and maybe we could have brought one or two of them to face justice for their crimes but it would have been at the expense of Guardian lives – you already heard Alex tell you that I nearly lost mine,” I load up the images and file report on the tablet an pass it across the table to Jackson.
“Every Avidite in that warehouse was killed in either self-defense or the defense of the children they still held hostage,” Dee says.
“The advantage of no Avidite survivors meant that we could stop the truth from getting out,” adds Alex.
“Why conceal the truth?” asks Jackson.
“We all know that perception is more important than we wish it was, and that there are growing political movements whose perception of Avidites isn’t the greatest. Every time they see a criminal report involving an Avidite it bolsters their cause and reaffirms their prejudices. When a human commits a vicious crime, they don’t tar the whole of mankind with the same brush. The same approach doesn’t extend to the supernatural world; when one of us commits a crime, they damn the lot of us – Avidites especially. Those narrow-minded political pockets use such reports to rally their cause; they want to legislate the fuck out of you. They want every Avidite to be on a licensed register and for Donors to have to apply for permits so that they can monitor you all. I know that Donors are vetted by the Avidite community, but that isn’t a legal requirement and you don’t have to pass the information along to government authorities.”
“The lobbyists also want official investigations every time a human is turned, regardless of their wishes. They basically want to stomp all over your civil liberties and treat you as second-class citizens who cannot be trusted,” Alex continues.
“Thankfully, there are enough supernatural sympathizers who don’t think that is the way forward and are happy to continue to have us policed by the Corps and were able to have these plans shelved indefinitely,” Dee says.
“However, if the anti-Avidite lobbyists found out about a massacre of children, not even the sympathizers would be able to stop them from pushing some, if not all, of their plans through. We lied about Astor to protect you and your freedoms because we don’t believe that you should be punished for the actions of a disturbed few,” I finish.
“If that makes us crazy, murdering bitches then guilty as charged, but take a look at the files for yourselves before you pass any further judgment,” Dee says sarcastically.
Jackson is deathly quiet as he scrolls through the original report and mission photos.
Dee, Alex and I stay silent, our faces impassive, but when I look at them I see the same pain and courage in their silver eyes as in mine. We remember the little ones who cried for help and clung to us as they fought for life and the others who were discarded; their broken bodies twisted at sickening angles with blank, soulless eyes. We remember almost losing the fight and the beatings we took to win.
Suddenly, Jackson roars in anger and is on his feet, his chest rising and falling heavily with his fists clenched so tightly the tendons strain against hit taut skin. I realize that he’s moved onto watching the mission footage and I can guess what they just saw and it gives me a little thrill that he reacts so violently to me in trouble.
In the footage, I’m fighting an Avidite on a suspended walkway in a disused industrial warehouse once belonging to the Astor Corporation, when Bryant Hopkins no less, gets the drop on me. While my back is turned, he throws me over the rusted railing. Normally, when this happens (and I hate to admit that I’ve been in the falling-to-my-not-quite-death position before) Alex is able to jump me out of harm’s way. On this occasion, he had his hands full and didn’t see me falling, or the metal pipework that I would become impaled on in several places when I slammed into the concrete floor.