Page 78 of Kenna's Dragon

Ophelia lives out of a converted van, and even though I offered plane tickets and a short-term rental courtesy of the Bureau, she insisted on taking the van since she didn’t know how long she’d be on the east coast. And after Cleo’s justified admonishment about springing Cas’s involvement on her, I’m going to let this detail stay private.

I had no idea Cas and Ophelia had a history, and I don’t know how much she wants him to know about her whereabouts while she’s in the city. They’re both damn good operatives and I’m sure they’ll figure it out.

Or they’ll be at each other’s throats the entire time they’re in Boston.

Whatever the outcome, it’s nothing I’ve got the bandwidth to worry about today.

One corner of Cas’s mouth quirks up in a wry half-smile, showing a fang. “I very much doubt she will want to. But nevertheless, I look forward to our time together.”

With that, he scoops up the folder and gives me a nod of farewell, promising to check in once work is underway in Boston. When the door shuts behind him, I let out a long breath and rub idly at the faint pulses of pain kicking up behind my temples.

The headache has been lingering there all week, since I dropped Kenna off on Sunday afternoon. It ebbs and flows, but serves as a constant, low-level reminder about my failings with her and my need to decide what happens next for us. Soon.

And, as fate would have it, it’s not my last headache for the day.

It’s late in the afternoon when Ruthie knocks on my door again. She steps inside, and her usually cheerful face is drawn with irritation when she announces who’s waiting to come in and speak with me.

“Send him in,” I tell her, and she disappears for a moment before my visitor walks through the door and takes a seat on the other side of my desk.

Andrew Harrison is a hard man. Somewhere in his mid-to-late fifties with a broad build and neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair that speaks to the decades he spent with the armed forces, I’m not exactly sure how this former military man made his way to HHS as one of the highest ranking Deputy Secretaries. Despite that, it’s been clear since the first time I interacted with him that he runs his career the same way he might have once run a unit of soldiers. Strict, unyielding, married to procedure and protocol, with little room for indulgence or understanding.

Sitting across from me, his posture is ramrod straight, and there’s a knowing look in his dark brown eyes that I don’t particularly care for. Keen, cunning in a way humans rarely are, a way that feels uncanny and sends a pulse of warning up my spine.

Whatever he’s here to accomplish, there’s not going to be any room for compromise or negotiation.

He’s been skulking around the Bureau all week after an initial meeting on Monday, speaking to my department heads and having his staff comb through records. It’s all within his right to do, and as much as I’ve tried to be civil throughout the process, it’s been difficult not to lose my patience with the way he’s been needlessly critical and abrasive in his dealings with Bureau employees.

“I’ve about wrapped up my investigation here,” he says. “And I’m not sure Secretary Thompson is going to be happy about what I’ve found.”

Gina Thompson has never had a problem with the Bureau. She’s been one of our loudest champions since the Bureau’s inception. Still, she had to sign off on Harrison’s little fishing expedition out here in Seattle, and the bastard is just smug enough to raise a few alarm bells in the back of my mind.

“And what did you find?” I ask.

“You know I’m not at liberty to say. Not until my findings are summarized and handed over to the Secretary for a decision on next steps for oversight and correctional measures.”

Oversight and correctional measures.More bullshit. I know this organization inside and out, and I know that we’re running a clean operation.

Another, darker impulse wants to ask him if I’ll also have to wait for this report to ‘leak’ to the House Paranormal Oversight Committee, so we’ll have to deal with all their bluster and posturing, too. I hold my tongue, though, with just enough self-restraint left in me to swallow the words.

Once upon a time, I might not have. Whether it’s time and experience that’s taught me discretion can be the better part of valor, or the soul-deep weariness I feel knowing that no matter how I might challenge him, I can’t pull rank here, I stay silent.

Like so many choices I’ve been making lately, that one too sits uneasily.

My instincts are shaky and raw in a way I can’t ever remember them being. Volatile. Untrustworthy. Self-doubt is not a feeling I’m well-acquainted with, and I don’t know what to do with it now that it’s plaguing me.

“Then I can’t imagine any further conversation is necessary,” I say shortly, and stand to gesture toward the door. “I look forward to hearing Secretary Thompson’s feedback on your findings.”

Harrison’s first tell shows itself on his face as he stands and straightens his suit jacket. It’s just a twitch, but betrays a pulse of irritation, likely that he’s not getting more of a rise out of me.

Good. Let it irritate him all the way back to D.C.

“Excellent,” he says, mask of confidence firmly back in place. “Expect it by the end of the month.”

Arrogant prick.

Not bothering with any parting pleasantries, he takes his leave. It’s not until I’m finally alone in my office again that I let myself show any kind of reaction to his words.

With a rough hand through my hair and a harsh curse breaking from my mouth, I stand from my desk and cross to the windows.

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