Bleeding Blue
by Fraser Sherman
Monday
Six feet inside the Glenn Street police station, Janice Newland jumped as a burst of red light blossomed in the air above her. A half-dozen pairs of red lips manifested, speaking in synch, which reminded her of the opening of Rocky Horror. “Welcome, exalted volunteer! Report to Lt. Moxon for your first day of shield duty.” It was Tim Curry’s voice, too, or was that her imagination?
The chuckles and smirks from the watching cops, a couple of them capturing the scene on their phones, were not imaginary. Janice thrust her hand into the red light, feeling a moment of resistance before the magic popped like a soap bubble at the touch of a menstruating woman. The snickers around the room remained. Janice did her best to ignore them as she handed her driver’s license to the desk sergeant through an opening in the plexiglass shield. She held up her phone to show the digital draft notice. “I’m here for shield duty.”
Saying it aloud was one of those moments when the strangeness hit her. First, magic had returned when the new millennium dawned. Then criminals had figured out ways to use magic—illusions, persuasion, occasionally destruction. When research confirmed that menstruating women negated sorcery, drafting them as police “shields” had become inevitable.
“Shield duty? Yeah, I guessed.” The balding Chinese-American cop did his best to keep a straight face as he compared the draft notice details to something on a clipboard. “You should have met with Moxon ten minutes ago.”
“The light at Merriweather and Temple’s been frozen on red.” Most likely an illusion covering the real lights, but possibly someone with greater skill had jinxed the circuitry. “Everything’s gridlocked.”
“You didn’t think of stopping and touching it? Good start to your three days.”
“If I could stretch twenty feet to reach it, sure. I imagine the fire department has a shield up on a ladder to fix it by now.” She was happy her draft notice had assigned her to the cops and not firefighting duty. Fire scared her worse than bullets.
“Let’s hope.” The man pulled a small blue badge out of a box on his desk and handed it to her. “When you’re in the building, wear this at all times. It’ll let our people know you’re on the rag.”
A small, well-manicured hand tapped Janice on the shoulder. She turned to face a bespectacled brunette, precisely dressed in a way that matched the hand, blue badge on her blazer lapel. “I’m late too. Detective Maria Esquivel, cybercrime most days, shield for the next three. Follow me to your doom.”
“It’s that dangerous? I thought—”
“That’s not the kind of doom I mean. You’ll see when you meet the fistula.” At the metal detector Esquivel handed over her gun, reclaiming it on the far side.
Janice followed her, pausing for a more careful wanding. “I know magical security systems didn’t work out so well.” Menstruation negated those too. Enterprising criminals had made bank before anyone figured out countermoves. “I don’t get how they pulled that trick with the lips.”
“Lots of ways around our immunity.” Esquivel led her down a hall on the right. A woman levitating something above her palm saw their blue badges and jumped back. “When you came in it canceled a ward on the front door. That triggered another enchantment which triggered the illusion.”
“Isn’t it a pain in the ass to reset the ward every time?”
“It was a big pain in their ass when Deputy Mayor Hanover triggered it, but boys got to be boys. Your first shield duty?”
“After I turned twenty-one, I had four years of great draft numbers. This month I drew a twenty-seven and everyone ahead of me had an excuse.” Kids. Illness. Honeymoon cruise. “How many shields do we have?”
“Us and Sgt. Drummond from SWAT, that’s it.” Esquivel flattered against the wall as a cop with a wizard’s badge came by, though he didn’t appear to be doing anything. “First day of my shield stint last month, we had ten chicks in here. Half of them ended up doing filing. Lottery system’s completely jerry-rigged, you know?”
Janice nodded. By the time wizards, lobbyists, and everyone else had their say, every system for controlling or managing magic had become a tangle of convoluted, makeshift rules. She was about to ask another question when Esquivel knocked on a door. “Fair warning, Newland. Shields bring out the worst in some cops. The fistula’s one of them.”
Inside the small office, a pasty-faced man with prematurely thinning hair was talking to the tall, muscular woman sitting in front of his desk. He flashed Janice an insincerely friendly smile. “Moxon, shield supervisor. Punctuality is a virtue, remember that for tomorrow. Take a seat with Drummond. You’ve all got a busy day ahead. It’ll be almost like you’re cops.”
“I am a cop,” Esquivel said. “Would you care to see my other badge?”
Moxon snorted. “About one in a hundred women cops is a real cop. The rest are just affirmative action and, you know, because we need you for shield duty.”
“You think I’m not a real cop?” Drummond said softly, leaning forward.
Moxon’s smile froze. “You might be the one in a hundred. Maybe.”
“So, sergeant,” Janice said, with a smile as insincere as his, “what can our menstrual bleeding do for public safety today?”
He flinched. “Christ, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“My mother menstruates too.”
The other two women smiled slightly. Moxon muttered something, then opened the folder on his desk. “Esquivel, that trafficking ring Mahoney busted last night has barricaded itself into an abandoned church on Ridgeway. Weld’s SWAT team’s going in, only the slavers have a wizard. You’re playing shield.” Esquivel nodded. “Traffickers got a shield of their own, and they’re packing heavy firepower. No risk to someone who can bleed for three days and not die, though, right?” He brayed a laugh without waiting for an answer. Esquivel stayed impressively poker-faced.
“Drummond,” Moxon went on, “you’re with Norris. Some pickpocket’s using magic at the new outdoor mall. Newland, you up on the news about the new influencer in town?”
“The guy who hit First National Bank?” Janice asked.
“Bingo. Had the tellers giving him money despite the bank wards, got laid for free at a couple of whorehouses. Told one of the whores he swallowed a piece of the Blarney Stone, so wards don’t affect him.”
“Think that’s true?” Kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland supposedly gave people the gift of the gab. These days, it wouldn’t be the first tall tale that turned out true.
“Like it makes a difference?” Moxon shrugged. “More likely the bank cut costs by skimping on its ward renewals, though whorehouses are usually better about that. Anyway, Weir and Johnson got a break in the case. A streetwalker the perp talked into giving him a free BJ saw him last night, tracked him to the Pemberton Hotel. Name’s Frank Gallian. Go with the guys and protect them from getting talked into anything.”
Nailing a rapist sounded like a better gig than Janice expected. “Anything I need to know?”
“You need to know and remember this at all times.” Moxon wasn’t smiling now, even insincerely. “Any girl on the rag down at Tudor High can do anything you’re going to do during the next three days. Being a shield doesn’t take skill or brains and does not make you special. Don’t try to think, just do whatever Weir and Johnson tell you. Now get out of here, girls.”
They did. Janice resisted the urge to slam the door behind her. “Is every guy around here like that?”
“The fistula’s one of the worst,” Esquivel said, blocking Drummond from view as the SWAT officer placed her chewing gum under the doorknob. “He knows you can accomplish more in three days than he will in a decade of paper-pushing.”
“And nobody files a complaint?” Janice followed the two cops down the hall. “I mean they’re not going to fire women cops, right, not when they need shields?”
Drummond snorted. “There’s plenty of ways they can retaliate against us, trust me. It ain’t worth it. Not even for a draftee.” She clapped Esquivel on the back. “Take care of my buddies on the SWAT team, okay? Newland, bust that fucker Gallian and I’ll buy you a beer tonight. And do not let Moxon spoil your day.” Then she pointed behind her. “And if you want to connect with Weir, you need to head that way.”
#
“Yes, Mr. Gallian just checked out of 323—” The desk clerk glanced down at Janice’s hand on his wrist and frowned. “Only he didn’t give me the key card. Or even pay.” He stared at Janice, then at the blue badge she’d shown him. “You’re a shield, that means he—”
“Bingo,” Weir said before Janice could answer. “You just got influenced.” Tall with a weirdly scraggly mustache, he glanced around at the large staircase, art deco chandelier, and faux marble flooring. “Shit, I’d think a place like this could afford to keep up the wards.”
“Oh, you have no idea where we cut corners.” The clerk had a slightly terrified look at the awareness his mind hadn’t been his own. “Ms. Newland, will I be okay when you—”
“Unless he influences you again, you’ll be fine,” Weir said. “Newland, you get up to the third floor, I’ll text Johnson to come up for the arrest while I watch down here in case he bolts.”
“Weir, shouldn’t I—”
“Just get close, get your hands on him, we’ll do the rest, move it!” Janice nodded and headed for the elevator. “He won’t use the elevator if he rabbits, don’t you know anything?”
“Oh, right.” Janice headed up the stairs. While she’d heard stories about how criminal wizards feared elevators—too hard to avoid touching women—she hadn’t given them that much thought before.
Just below the third floor Janice stopped to adjust her business-professional pantsuit. She took a deep breath, stepped off the stairs and strode down the hall as if she were heading to her room. Gallian, a dapper, fiftysomething man, lounged against the doorframe of 323, talking to a small black housekeeper who answered in French.
The woman appeared to be tipping him, groping in her pockets for more bills to join the ones already in his palm. From the man’s shit-eating grin, it was the petty meanness that made it worthwhile, not the money. Okay, now what? There was no sign of Johnson. Guess I lay hands on Gallian—if I don’t do it fast, he could have the housekeeper protect him. Janice kept walking, eyes fixed on a door five rooms down, then she stopped and stared as the housekeeper pushed a twenty into Gallian’s hand. An ordinary person would stare, right?
Gallian seemed to think so; he gave Janice a quick once over, dismissed her as not worth his time, and smirked. “I’m not the droid you’re looking for. I can go about my business.”
Janice smiled, nodded amiably and continued down the hall. As soon as she was behind Gallian she spun around, grabbed his arm and slammed him into the door, feeling the bubble of his magical persuasion pop. “You’re under arrest! Johnson, we got him!”
Johnson, blond and tanned, came racing down the hall, handcuffs hanging from his hand. Gallian wriggled and tried to twist out of Janice’s grip; she held on. Just another thirty seconds or so—
The housekeeper, who’d been standing dazed, suddenly got in Janice’s face, yelling in French, then grabbing Janice’s wrist and shaking her. Gallian seized his chance, yanked his arm free and darted behind the woman. Janice shook off the woman’s grip, stepping around her as Gallian yelled at Johnson. “Stop her! Don’t kill her but don’t let her touch me, or you.”
Janice reached for Gallian, then something hit her hard on the back of her head. She fell to the floor, got another crack on the head as the housekeeper brought down the mop handle a second time.
Gallian’s gleeful laugh faded into the distance.
#
“I do not fucking believe this,” Moxon said, shaking his head. “A simple job, easy even for a chick. Yet you still managed to fuck it up.”
“What do you expect?” Janice touched the back of her head. A healer had eliminated the risk of concussion. It still felt sore. “I didn’t have handcuffs; I had no instructions beyond—”
“You lost your cool because the Senegalese girl yelled at you. Don’t try to blame it on us.”
“She was back to normal, right? I mean, what was she upset about?”
“How should I know? Johnson and Weir don’t speak French, our translator wizard’s on vacation. Doesn’t matter anyway, what matters is that Gallian’s loose and it’s your fault. Normally after a fuckup like that we’d stick you in filing until we absolutely need you.”
“I don’t know how to file.”
“Millions of secretaries do it every day.”
“I’m a zookeeper.” Though the director had been so pissed at her getting drafted, Janice suspected she’d be an ex-zookeeper if it were remotely legal. “Birds of prey.”
“Well, that certainly changes everything, doesn’t it?” Moxon didn’t wait for a response. “Fortunately, we also need a shield in interrogation. As Esquivel and Drummond are out—”
“You got a wizard under arrest?”
“Just a regular burglar and a dumb one to boot. But ever since the Honeycutt decision, all suspects have a right to ask for a shield. He asked.” Moxon grimaced. “Don’t worry, there’s not much way even you can screw this one up.”
#
“No concussion, Jan? You’re sure?”
“I’m not even sore anymore.” Janice said into her phone, raising her voice over whatever power ballad was blaring from the House of Blues’s speakers. “When the other shields invited me to some cop bar, the healer confirmed it was safe for me to drink. I love you for worrying, Steve.”
She hung up and returned to the table as the waiter handed Drummond her third Magic Mitchell IPO beer. “I’m sorry I can’t afford more,” Janice said as she sat next to Esquivel. “I know I lost the bet—”
“It wasn’t a bet, just an offer,” Drummond replied. “For one beer, to celebrate taking down that asshole.” Janice sighed. “Yeah, I know. How’d you find the interrogation?”
“Like a party game.” Janice took a swallow of Yuengling; Esquivel had been nursing a scotch and soda since they got there. “Two cops, the lawyer, the suspect and me, all hands piled on top of each other. And every few minutes changing the arrangement so I’m touching someone different. Why not just touch the guy in cuffs?”
“Blame the lawyers.” Drummond pointed with her bottle at some imaginary foe. “Sure, your way would work fine but lawyers like it this way: it throws off their client’s body language and our interrogation technique. And some cops insist if the witness gets a shield, they need you touching them too. Fuck Honeycutt. The dumb prick discredited the use of truth spells. Made it look like all cops use magic dirty.”
Janice and Steve had talked about how if the subject of illegal police use of magic came up, she’d say what she thought. After the long day, she decided not to discuss how many cops had been charged with using “magic dirty.” “Drummond, forget about me—why didn’t you go with the SWAT team this morning? SWAT’s what you do. I think you’d be the logical choice more than Esquivel.”
“Uh-uh.” Esquivel shook her head firmly. “As shield we play defense, react instead of act; that’s the opposite of what SWAT teaches. Her training’s given her SWAT reflexes; she needs shield gigs where the reflexes don’t kick in.”
“Training.” Janice kicked savagely at the nearest table leg. “If I’d got training, that sleaze Gallian would be in a cell, gagged. When I registered, I was kind of looking forward to going to the police academy—”
Drummond gave forth a low, guttural, growling sound. “I remember when they came up with the draft, right after that bill to put us in isolation whenever we’re bleeding went south.” Janice remembered the protests, the number of politicians suddenly voted out of office, and grinned. “Everyone agreed shields would need training. Congress, state government, the mayor, the police commissioner. It’s why you’re the only civilian draftee today—had to limit the number so we can guarantee you’d all be trained. Only nobody is. Nobody wants to spend money training women who might not be drafted for years. Then, when you’re finally called in there’s no time. And that’s how guys like Gallian get away.”
“There’s been a half-dozen lawsuits over shields getting killed or crippled.” Janice shrank from thinking about that, but her lack of training stuck in her craw. “Like that woman in Detroit who walked into the stasis bomb back at Christmas.” Simple and effective: place a stasis spell on a grenade or some C4, wait for a shield to touch it. “If she’d been trained, if she knew the danger—”
“Official rationalization is that after all those deaths, shields should understand the risks,” Esquivel said. “Lawsuits just get the department to dig in its heels—police get sued so much and ninty percent of it’s bullshit.”
Janice decided, again, not to say what she thought.
“End result, we settle rather than admit we screwed up,” Drummond said. “And it’s easier to fork over stupid amounts in settlements than fix the problems.”
“If I’d had training, maybe that shitbag would be in lockup.” Janice realized she’d said that a couple of times already, but that smug look on Gallian’s face still gnawed at her. “The fistula wouldn’t have read me the riot act.”
“Oh, he would,” Esquivel said. “There’s always some excuse with him. With no male shields we got no baseline to measure how we’re treated, therefore it’s officially not sexism.”
“I’ve worked with beastmasters at the city zoo. They don’t freak out about my time of the month half as much.”
“Lot of male cops still think this is a man’s job.” Drummond finished her beer, summoned the waiter for another. “They can tolerate us most of the month because they tell themselves crap about how we’re affirmative action woke hires so it’s not like we’re as good as they are. When we’re shields though, we do shit they can’t. Save lives they can’t. They’d sooner get a prostate exam with a chainsaw than admit they might need us to protect them. First time I went on shield duty, a dick detective got me with a crap bomb.”
“Flaming turds on your doorstep?” Janice guessed.
“Worse. They rigged up something on the toilets in the women’s restroom, put a stasis spell on them right before I went in. Soon as I got close enough to break the stasis, whammo all over my shirt.”
“Fuck! What did you do—I mean besides taking a shower. Did you find out who—”
“Hell, the guy was bragging about it as I came out of the restroom. I knocked his teeth out, wiped my shirt on his face, then I got the shower. Got written up, plus tagged as a ball-busting bitch with vagina dentata. That rep makes my life a fuck-ton easier.”
Janice clinked beers with Drummond. “I wish that was my style. I got brought up to play nice. Look, as I can’t get training through official channels—you got any advice? How should I have played it with Gallian?”
“Sounds like you did fine,” Esquivel said. “If the housekeeper hadn’t panicked or gotten pissed, whatever it was, you’d have had him. Next time may be better.” She paused. “We got six girls away from those traffickers this morning, including their fourteen-year-old shield. Lot of bullshit in this job but when our time of the month gets results like that, it’s goddamned amazing.”
Tuesday
“The law is perfectly clear.” Harris Baker, short, straw haired, and flashily dressed, kept his hands busy adjusting his tie as he watched Janice slide her fingertips along a used blue Toyota. “Ten percent random sampling of our cars, that’s all that’s required.”
“Not when there’s been a formal complaint, at least that’s what I was told.” No bubbles popped so Janice moved to a black VW Golf. “I don’t like it any more than you do—obviously checking every single car on a lot this big involves a lot of wasted time.”
“Wasted time? It’s harassment!”
“I’m just following orders.” Which felt like the worst cop-out ever, particularly when he had a point. “You’ve nothing to worry about if you’re legit, right?”
Baker adjusted his tie with tight-clenched hands. Having been scammed by a used-car salesman in her teens, Janice reluctantly admitted she got a small kick out of his discomfort. “Mr. Baker, why are you nervous?”
“I always have a woman check for any magically concealed defects. However, we got in a very large shipment last week.” Baker’s gesture took in the cars filling parking spaces to the edge of the lot. “It’s . . . conceivable she missed one.”
“That’s the sort of thing you can demonstrate in court.”
“Not easily.” He popped a stick of gum into his mouth and began chewing aggressively. “Officer—wait, are draftees officers? Or do I call you Shield Newland?”
“That sounds cool, but I think Ms. Newland will do.” She crossed to a white Camry. Still nothing. Ringer, a plump woman with a hang-dog face, noted each car as Janice finished with them.
“Well, Ms. Newland—” Baker’s right hand indicated the sale banner overhead. “Do you think if I could work illusions, I wouldn’t have better advertising than that faded thing? The truth is, even before the millennium, customers always blamed the dealer when they had second thoughts. Magic just gives them another excuse. Not to mention trying to squeeze money out of me with nuisance suits before Yarrow changed the rules.”
Janice nodded. The Supreme Court’s controversial Yarrow vs. Glamor Handbag Outlet decision had greatly narrowed the grounds for fraud-by-magic lawsuits. “I get that, believe me. If this complaint hadn’t come from Senator Rutledge’s daughter—”
“Which means it comes from the senator. He was so convinced of his dealmaking prowess I don’t think she said one word while she was here. Just nodded when he picked the car.” Baker made a small, apologetic gesture. “I shouldn’t be pissed at you. I know how influence works in this world.”
“And I’m sure you’re legit,” Janice said, trying to sound sincere. “I guess this stuff is like jury duty: even if you know the accused is guilty you have to go through all the motions.”
He gave her a look of sympathy, as if he understood where she was coming from. Then a customer called, and he headed off.
Janice wondered if she should check the possible purchase first. What if that alienated the buyer, though? Or she and Ringer lost their place and missed one?
Once again, she wished she had better training. And could convince herself checking out a hundred-plus cars to satisfy an aging politician was a worthwhile use of her anti-magic abilities.
Wednesday
“You, obsessive-compulsive?” the suntanned brunette two sinks over said as Janice rewashed her hands for the fifth time. “Not that I’m judging.”
“It was another interrogation.” Janice dried off her hands and decided they no longer felt gross. “Someone’s hands were sweating like they were on a basting tray. I thought maybe it was a sign they were guilty. Detective Omar said it might be personal-space issues.”
“Shit yeah, I hate when I have to touch that many people,” the other woman said. “This is your third day, right? One hour until you’re discharged.”
“Back to my raptors!” Janice pumped the air. Her gut said her period would run another day, but she worried saying so might trigger a loophole in the three-and-done draft requirement. “And I get an adjustment to my next draft numbers, right?”
“Newland, you in here?” An older woman, a sergeant Newland didn’t recognize, slammed open the door. “There’s a hostage situation at the hospital, magic’s involved, and I’m taking you to the SWAT team.
Janice’s heart sunk into her boots. “Something like that, I don’t think I’m—”
“Probably not, only the assholes put three hostages in stasis spells. We can’t get any other shields here soon enough.”
“Shit.” Stasis spells were great for preserving food or stopping fires; on people they led to brain death.
Fifteen minutes later she stood with Drummond’s SWAT team in a hospital waiting room. “. . . trio of complete fucking morons,” Branson, the team leader, said. “Soon as they realized they weren’t going to get the opioids easy, they panicked, threw spells around, drew attention. Now they’re barricaded in the lab at the end of this hall and, well . . .” He gestured down the pale-puke painted corridor to where a dozen stasis-bound grenades floated in the air before the lab door.
“It’s a hostage situation, right?” Janice said as someone tightened the straps on her borrowed Kevlar. “Don’t we negotiate?”
“Tried,” Drummond said. “Can’t meet their demands fast enough to save the hostages. Their wizard refuses to lift the spell first. Their shield won’t help and she’s blocking any magic we can throw in there.”
Steve, if I never get to say “I love you” again, I’m so sorry. “Okay, how do I—we—get past the grenades?”
“Any of us go by ourselves,” Branson said, “we get hit with stasis or the wizard lifts the spell when we touch a grenade.” Janice wondered where three seventeen-year-olds had found that many grenades; was it like guns, they were easy to purchase anywhere? “If we go in touching you, the stasis lifts if any of us bump a grenade. Best shot: you go in behind a ballistic shield, Drummond touching you from the back, you get past the grenades and open the door. Meanwhile Jackson’s attacking from outdoors, using illusion to bulk up his numbers. He’ll try to lob a tear gas grenade through the window. If that don’t work, you’re it.”
Janice wanted to say no. The law was damn clear she couldn’t. Even if she could, stasis death was a horrible thing. She lifted a ballistic shield, trying not to wince at the weight. Drummond crouched down behind her, a hand on Janice’s back. “I hate moments like this, too, but lives are on the line.”
And we’re the line. She walked forward at a fast clip. Bullets slammed against the shield, firing through a hole one of the kids had made in the door. Magic of some sort hit her and popped without effect. Then they reached the floating grenades, scattered to take up most of the corridor. She could just make it through the gaps, maybe. If she was lucky. “After the grenades, Drummond, how do we force the door?”
“Dude, I got a key card, just get me there.”
Janice shifted at an angle, enabling her to inch past the grenades while still protecting herself and Drummond with the shield. Past the first row of grenades, then the next—
A rapid fire burst of bullets hit the shield and jarred Janice back. A grenade bumped her skin. Oh shit, Steve—
The grenade dropped to the ground and lay there. Janice stared, then Drummond flung her forward, holding up the shield in front of them until they rammed into the door and Drummond shoved in the key card. It started to open, someone inside shoved it closed, gas hissed, and Janice’s eyes began to water. Drummond yanked her back. “We distracted the wizard! Jackson got them gassed.”
“The grenades?”
Drummond slapped another grenade, knocking it to the carpet. Janice saw how fake it looked. “Toys?”
“No wonder those losers could afford so many.” Drummond dragged Janice away as she spoke. “Keep going, you do not want to breathe in that gas. We’ll have the hostages out for you to touch in a minute or two.”
Janice realized she was going to live after all. She felt simultaneous urges to scream, sob, and fuck Steve’s brains out.
#
This time Drummond bought Janice’s beer. “. . . fucking awesome, Esquivel. This one’s got balls of steel.”
“Bullshit!” Janice couldn’t stop glancing around, hoping the tip they’d received was correct. “If I never do that again—” She took a sip of beer, marveling at how good it tasted. “—and with the handicap they put on my number, it’ll be a while before I have to, right?”
“Um, no.” Esquivel shook her head sadly. “They don’t publicize that the adjustment’s the opposite: the more you’re called up, the more likely they call you again.”
“What?”
“You got experience now,” Drummond said. “And they didn’t have to shell out for training.”
Janice downed half the bottle. It didn’t help. “Jerry-rigged again. That’s shitty.”
“Sorry, I’m with them,” Drummond said. “I’d sooner have a shield I can count on than risk my ass with a rookie.”
“My boyfriend won’t be happy. The zoo won’t be happy.”
“If you were National Guard you’d do one weekend a month, guaranteed,” Esquivel said. “Explain to them—shit, is that him?”
Janice shifted and peered around. The tip had been right. As she watched Gallian chatting with the hostess, Esquivel and Drummond moved casually toward the exit, giggling like slightly drunk friends.
“Now, my dear, I appreciate you comping dinner, but what time do you get off?” As Gallian talked, he shifted to stroke the woman’s arm, putting his back completely toward Janice. She slid the handcuffs Drummond had given her out of her pocket and sprinted.
He heard her coming and started to turn. She had their wrists cuffed together, her hand gripping his, before he could issue any suggestions. “Say whatever you want, Frank. It won’t help.”
Weir and Johnson emerged from the kitchen looking pissed she’d made the collar. She didn’t give a crap. Gallian looked desperate enough to do something violent, then Drummond loomed up beside him and he decided against.
All things considered, it hadn’t been a bad time of the month.
Fraser Sherman is a freelance writer with more than fifty published speculative fiction stories and a steampunk novel, Questionable Minds. He is also a newspaper reporter and the author of six film reference books. Away from the keyboard, he has two dogs, two cats, and a wife he adores.
Photo by shahab yazdi on Unsplash