Dust

V

Sloane's office smells of the pine air freshener she has plugged into the outlet (fresh smells induce productivity, she says), and I feel the normally welcoming walls pressing against me like a yellow prison. Sloane is one of the only people, other than Damien, that I can call my friend, yet now—as I sit here in one of her plush leather chairs—I feel our rank differences like something tangible. I am just a hunter, but she is the trainer, the leader, everything to our division of the Bureau, and now I face her with my job on the line.

Sloane taps at her glass desk, manifesting her impatience. Her ebony hair is drawn into a thick braid down her shoulder; for minutes on end, all Dame and I can do is look her in the eyes, watching the different colors swirl about them like paint in water. I don't know if shapeshifters' eyes mesmerize me or unnerve me.

Then, she clears her throat, making both of us jump. Sloane then, to my surprise, drapes herself over her desk, shoving her head into her hands. "God. I can't do this," she moans. She gestures without looking at us. "You guys know why you're here, right?"

I look at Dame, expectant, and he arches his eyebrows at me. You say something. I gesture at him again, he gestures at me, and then I—

"Someone. Say. Something," Sloane begs, looking up at us with eyes now a sapphire blue. "My father has told me to speak to you, and I'm trying to act mad, I really am, but it's so hard. You guys are some of the best hunters I know, and you both have been through so much—" She cuts off and starts sniffling, dropping her head again. I reach to stop her when she starts banging her forehead against her desk.

"Okay, Sloane, don't do that," I say, voice soft. I take her hands in my own, moving them gently from her face. "You'll injure yourself."

"I'm not even going to try to be angry with you, because I just can't," whines Sloane, still sniffling and wiping her eyes. "I don't care what Elliott says, I don't—my older brother's a jerk, you guys know that, don't you?"

"Sloane, honey," Damien says, reclining in his seat. He gives her an apologetic look. "He is only envious of you."

Sloane sniffles, wiping at her nose. Her wide eyes are a deep brown now. "Why, Dame, would Elliott be envious of me? He's always been Father's favorite."

"If I were Elliott, I would be jealous," Damien replies. He is frowning in Sloane's direction, and she is watching him as if she is a little girl and it's story time. I feel myself ease; a moment ago I was doubting leaving Sloane's office alive, but Damien has somehow managed to turn our lecture into a you-go-girl pep talk. "While I'm upstairs as my father's secretary, my younger sister is leading a group of the best fighters in Maris. Which one sounds better to you?"

"But he is the leader of the Bureau's right hand man—"

"Regardless. He takes notes for a living."

Sloane's expression is one of hope, and so is Damien's. I find it silly; does Damien really think making Sloane feel better, even if it was very kind of him to do so, is going to get us off of her radar? If he did, that thought vanishes when Sloane's eyes narrow, silver washing around her pupils. "Thank you," she says, "but, guys, as much I love you, I still need to know what happened last night. You know you were not supposed to abandon your patrol mission."

"Yes," I begin. "About that."

Sloane wipes at her eyes again, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms. Beyond her, I can see other skyscrapers on the other side of the window; the city in the early times of the morning, as the sun peeks above the buildings, is always a delight to the eye. "Go on, Gemma," Sloane tells me.

I start slow. "Dame and I were in the forest, as we were supposed to be, you know, and then we came across someone who seemed lost and needed help..."

Damien comes in to help without me asking. "We thought it best to help the person, and it took up the rest of our patrol time. Oh, well. Our apologies, Sloane."

Despite the fact that I'm sure Damien hates hiding something from Sloane as much as I do, his tone remains steady. He folds his hands in his lap, a small but noticeable smile playing at his lips. Sloane looks from him to me and back to him again, then sighs, rising from her seat.

"I will tell my father I talked to you two," she tells us, sliding a mug onto her coffee machine and turning it on. "Don't worry about it. As a hunter, being selfless is part of the job, is it not?"

"Of course it is, Sloane," I reply. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah," she says, grinning at us over her shoulder. There is a respectful gleam in her eyes, which are now the seafoam green of Gael's. Oh, Sloane—if I could not trust her, there was no one in Maris I could trust. "Get out of my office."

Damien is the first to rise from his seat, grabbing hold of my arm as he does. "Yes, indeed. Thanks again, Sloane!"

Before I know it, he has whisked us out of her office faster than I compensated for. He lingers outside of her door; there is a plaque bolted into it reading Sloane M. Capello, Head of Hunters. "Damien," I say, looking up at him. There is something grave, extremely so, in the depths of his crimson eyes. "Is everything alright with you?"

He moves his hair from his face, exposing his forehead for a moment, then drops his hand with a sigh. "Just fine, Gemma," he tells me, starting down the hall. "It was just a close call, is all."

"We've been through several close calls."

"Some might say too many—Gemma?"

We have reached the main hall of headquarters; the front desk is here, where receptionists speak both on the phone and to desperate and flustered looking Marisians face-to-face. The hall beyond the front room leads to more offices and evidence rooms, and I know if I go further, I'll find the training room, where I usually go in the mornings, helping Sloane with the newcomers.

None of that is what catches me off guard.

The seats before the front desk are not all filled; one or two of the navy blue plastic structures are vacant, but most are used by upset parents or worried loved ones and even some criminals freshly brought in. I don't care who else is there, I just see him.

He's a burly man with broad shoulders and grayish stubble across his chin like salt and pepper, with a mess of dark hair on top of his head. His hands are handcuffed, and when he lifts his head to look at Damien and I, staring awkwardly at him, I see that his eyes are the strange yellow of an antique lamp.

He would have been any other werewolf in Maris.

If not for the scar on his nose.