Page 3 of Connected
Owen turned to look… and saw the love of his life.
Okay,that was an exaggeration, but nonetheless Owen’s heart sped, his face flamed, and his mouth went dry.
When Owen was twelve years old, he became a little obsessed withPandev Palace, a sitcom about a royal family from amythical Eastern European country who ended up living in middle-class American suburbia. The premise was ridiculous, but the writing was good and the actors talented, so the popular show won Emmys. But what Owen didn’t admit to anyone—barely admitted to himself—was that the real attraction for him had been the actor who played the Pandev family’s teenage son.
Criss Tempest.
Owen had spent far too much time daydreaming about him, had mourned when the series was dropped after three seasons, and had gone to see the handful of non-Pandev movies Tempest starred in afterward. Right about the time when Tempest’s film roles seemed to peter out, Owen had fled Wyoming, and he hadn’t had much time to fanboy about anyone since.
And now here was Criss Tempest—older but definitely recognizable—slouching toward them with a scowl on his face.
“Townsend?” he demanded, not sparing a glance for Owen.
“Yes, and this is Owen Clark. Please join us, Mr. Tempest.” The chief waved at the chair next to Owen, but Tempest grabbed it and moved it to the head of the table, so Owen was to his left and the chief to his right.
The waitress was hovering, and Tempest gave her an impatient look. “Whiskey highball, double.” Not even aplease.
“Of course,” she said and hurried away. If she recognized Tempest, she didn’t show it. Maybe they got a lot of famous people here.
While a busboy cleared away the empty appetizer dishes, Townsend lit another cigarette and Tempest read the menu. That gave Owen an opportunity to gaze at him in what he hoped was a relatively subtle way.
Tempest at twenty-three—the same age as Owen—was still beautiful, with a Greek-god face and impossibly blue eyes. His dark hair was carefully styled and his clothing expensive. But there was a tightness around his mouth and at the corners of hiseyes and a general sense of brittleness. He reminded Owen of the coyotes that skulked around the ranch in the spring: hungry, distrustful, yet defiant in their will to survive.
His parents had shot coyotes whenever they could.
The waitress arrived with Tempest’s drink and took their food orders. Townsend asked for both steak and salmon, Tempest wanted a fancy-sounding salad, and Owen, who’d forgotten to peruse the offerings and sort of panicked, ended up blurting “Hamburger.” Although it made Tempest snort, the restaurant must have offered burgers, because the waitress simply nodded.
Tempest glanced at Owen’s bulk—which made Owen want to squirm—and asked the chief, “Who’s this ape? Your bodyguard?”
Townsend chuckled as if this were very funny. “As I said, this is Owen Clark. My newest agent. I invited him because I thought you might find his perspective helpful.”
Tempest downed a healthy portion of his drink. “I already have an agent. I’m not looking for a new one.”
“Oh, you misunderstand, son. He’s not atalentagent. He’s a field operations employee of the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. I run the West Coast division.”
For a moment, Tempest simply stared. Then he downed the rest of his highball in one long swallow and slammed down the glass. “What the hell is the Bureau of… whatever?”
“We’re a federal agency charged with overseeing the actions of sentient NHSs—that’s nonhuman species—and, when necessary, stepping in to keep the peace.”
In fact, although the Bureau’s mission had begun fairly simply nearly a hundred years ago, nowadays it was considerably more complex. They dealt not just with anzus, vampires, shapeshifters, and dozens of other species, but also with humans who got tied up in certain magic or paranormalactivities. As Owen had been reminded many times during training, the agency’s jurisdiction and powers were broad. But Townsend didn’t mention any of this.
Tempest leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking decidedly unhappy. “You’re cops. Fuck. Look, if you’re going to fucking arrest me, stop playing shitty games and just slap on the cuffs. But you’ve got nothing on me. I’m clean.”
However Owen had expected his day to go when he woke up that morning, it wasn’t like this. He really wished the chief had explained things before they got here.
Townsend, on the other hand, seemed calm and even slightly jolly, as if all of this was great fun. “We are not going to arrest you. We do have some law enforcement responsibilities, but we’re not police officers in the strict sense of the word. We are agents. The dictionary defines an agent as one who exerts power, and I think that describes us well enough.”
The explanation, such as it was, did nothing to tone down Tempest’s anger. He grabbed Townsend’s whiskey bottle and poured a good amount into his own glass before taking another big drink. He shot a quick glare at Owen, as if this was somehow his fault, before returning his attention to the chief.
Owen was having a hard time reconciling this surly man with the character he’d played on TV. Sasho Pandev was an optimist, always telling jokes and urging his more staid family members to lighten up and enjoy life in their new country. Of course Owen knew that had been just a role, not the real Criss Tempest, and also, ten years had passed. But it was hard now to even imagine this man’s eyes dancing with innocent mischief or his mouth broadening into a grin.
“Why the fuck am I here?” Tempest finally demanded. “I was told we were going to be discussing a job.”
The chief nodded. “We are.”
“Your Bureau makes movies too?”
“No. I’m here to offer you a position as an agent.”
