Page 4 of Defended By Love

I did not become a lawyer to participate in British accent Tuesdays (seriously, what the fuck, Beth?), nor did I become a lawyer to let people like Zagreus Hart get away.

And so, my fingers skip nimbly over the files until I find the slim one I’m looking for. At this point, there’s only a couple documents, a report from a DFO agent and some pictures from our PI, but by the time I’m back from my mandatory relaxation, it’ll be overflowing.

I seal it inside the plastic pouch inside my cross-body bag and then zip the latter closed. I know it’s overkill, but I’m not taking any chances with this file. It needs to be as safe and secure as my very limbs.

When I’m satisfied, I take a peek at my watch. 12:20—not too bad. I’ve wrapped up everything I need, plus done the office a service by nipping our bonding in the bud, in twenty minutes. Even if someone checks the cameras, there’ll only be a tiny window where—

The ground starts to shake.

Chapter 3

The ground shakes.

In what’s supposed to be the most seismically secure building ever built, the ground shakes. It begins as a faint tremor underfoot, the whisper of a purring cat tickling my toes. Then it grows.

The purr becomes a rumble, which grows to a deafening roar. One moment, I’m dumbstruck at the sensation beneath me, the next the room is alive with crashes and bangs. Paintings snap as they strike the floor. Desks slam into nearby walls. Picture frames shatter as they fly from their roosts. And through the cacophony of the crumbling of the place that I love, laces my scream.

A dull part of my brain reminds me that in case of an earthquake, I should hide under a desk. It’s just that advice seems a bit off when they’re pinballing around and I’m flopping like a ragdoll as I clutch onto a pillar for dear life, praying not to be struck by the whirlwind of debris that slices through the air around me. On and on it goes, stretching out into a harrowing forever.

Then, it stops.

In the space between one breath and the next, the world stills to a corpse-like calm.

It’s nearing painful as I peel my arms off from around the pillar. In a daze, my feet wander through the ruined rubble that once comprised my pride and joy. In the back of my mind, a dulled, frantic part of me flips through the catalogue of everything I know about earthquakes. My mind shouts ‘aftershocks’ at me, but with very little context.

How soon after the main earthquake do they hit? Aren’t they just a fraction of the force of the initial quake? Do they always occur?

I find I’m not particularly concerned with the aftershocks. After all, this building was erected to exceed all safety codes. For every bit of vehement protest that this monstrosity of a monument garnered about it being too big, the architects put back that energy into making it sturdier. It would endure as a looming ‘fuck you’ to every protestor long after they died.

No, there’s no place that I’m safer. If there are aftershocks, I’d rather be in here than anywhere else. True, I should scurry to the stairwell where I don’t have to worry about being bludgeoned by a rogue award of excellence, but I shouldn’t leave the building. It’s common sense.

Clearly, my common sense does not get the memo.

Instead of securing myself, I feel compelled to move towards where the floor-to-ceiling windows once were. My feet crunch over the shattered glass that was supposed to be shatter-proof as I step closer to catch my first glimpse at the devastation outside.

If the quake was big enough to shake this building, I can’t imagine the ravaged wreckage that I’ll see. Vancouver, being a mix of old and new could not have fared well. My mind flashes to all the historic buildings, the greenery, the sights that I haven’t yet explored, but really meant to. Soon. I know when I survey the scene, they’ll be gone.

In truth, everything might be gone.

I take a deep breath and hold it there as I toe close enough to the gaping window to look out onto the desolation.

The desolation that isn’t there.

Outside, the city runs in a picture-perfect scenic vision of nightlife. Lights twinkle in blurring lines of the downpour, cars zig and zag in lazy paths, and, largely, the city sleeps. There are no sirens or horn blares. No screams or alarms. There are only the general, disgruntled sounds of a dozing city.

“How is this—” I start.

I don’t finish the thought.

In the midst of my wondering, a thunderous crack echoes into the heavens that sounds out from the very bones of the building. There aren’t any shakes or rumblings, just a sonorous boom that breaks the night into two.

A second later, something crashes into me. A soft steel cages me in. Secure and terrified, I’m held fast against the warmest anchor that contains my unfettered fear. Indeed, the slow and study pulse of a heart that sounds like home is the only tether that keeps me from unrestrained screaming.

Some part of my brain realizes that it’s a person holding onto me. Strong arms hold me tight, pressing me against a warm chest. I can’t quite process that fact though.

Around me, the world whooshes past in a blur. The sight of my office and then the night air bleeding together as we move at lightning speed is enough to turn my stomach. Although every part of me, the part that can’t stop digging, no matter the cost, wants to keep looking, I find I can’t. I curl in on myself into the body that’s holding and close my eyes.

The tick of the heartbeat increases to a happy jaunt for a moment, before it returns to its steady pulse. It, along with the smell of sandalwood and sunshine, is the only thing that keeps me from losing it entirely.

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