Death Has a Name: The Brodie Wade Series, #1

PROLOGUE

A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN dashed through the darkness, then down the stairs. A man in a dark shirt was only two steps ahead. She had been attending to her mentor when she'd seen movement down the hallway. In an instant she willed herself into shadow and darted after him. She had to catch him before he escaped with her mentor's prized possession.

She held a glowing orb tightly in her right hand and a .45 in her left. Both hands were covered in blood from the man she'd always known as her mentor.

Was the beast now free from the chains that held him bound in the eternal realms? In the five years since she'd been promoted, her life had been relatively uneventful. But in the past twenty-four hours, everything had come undone. What had she become? A killer? A protector? She wasn't sure any more. Her life was spinning out of control.

She chased after the intruder, running forward at full speed toward the wall that he passed through with ease. Her heart raced, and her lungs could not take in any more air. She was pushing herself to her limits trying to catch the servant of Death. If he got away, all of her kind would be in trouble. The world would be only one step away from torment beyond her comprehension.

As she neared the far wall she extended her hand, passing through as if it were a simple illusion. Emerging on the other side, she tried to get her bearings, having traveled several miles from the house she had been in only moments before. She stood directly in the middle of the street on Broadway. Cars honked and squealed as they sped by on both sides.

Frantic, she squinted left and right, searching for him, hoping that her eyes could adjust to the sudden change in scenery and lighting. Where did he go? He was right in front of her only five seconds before, a glowing orb shining around his neck. She saw the orb but couldn't make out his face in the dark. He was one of them. He had to be. Yet she didn't recognize him. None of her kind would do what he'd done. Her ancestors were the rulers of their kind, and she knew all of them by name. At least, she thought she knew them.

Quickly darting into the nearest alley, a sensation flooded over her that she had just become the hunted. She crouched down, trying to make as small of an outline as possible on the background. Her eyes and ears ached as she tried to separate any unusual sights or sounds from the heavy din of the city.

How had he come into the possession of the sapphire orb? Her father had been protecting it for... Oh God. Her father. Was he dead, too? He lived near her former mentor, against all policies and procedures. That's why she lived in London, to spread their kind across the globe to prevent Death from regaining his power.

Her thoughts spun in her head in a series of endless, answerless questions. What had she done? Had she lead Death to his doorstep? Had she unleashed the very monster that she was destined to contain? She had held her mentor's body for several seconds back at his house. She didn't care that the blood was smearing on her hands and face. She didn't even think of the blood that soaked into her shirt.

But here, in the cool night air, the blood on her shirt sat cold on her skin, a constant reminder of the horror she'd just seen. A soft pressure on her calf caused her to squeal and point her gun at whatever was touching her.

Mew. 

An orange tabby cat rubbed against her calf. She shoved the cat away with the palm of her hand and tried to swallow the lump of fear that had formed in her throat. Her heart pounded against her sternum. Taking slow, deliberate breaths to regain her composure, she continued to scan the city streets. But the more she looked around the more she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd slipped away.

Death's Apprentice had managed to evade her. And now that he had two orbs in-hand, she also knew that she was next. He needed three to make the set complete.

Chapter 1

BRODIE WADE FLIPPED a matchbook nervously between his fingers. He paced his living room, mumbling to himself.

Man. I need a smoke.

He opened the matchbook and twisted one from the cardboard set. He struck it, then blew it out just to inhale the sulfur deep into his lungs. It had been a month since his last cigarette.

Okay Sophie, he thought, where'd you run off to this time?

The urge to smoke always increased under stress and coming home to find Sophie gone was more stress than he could bear.

Brodie picked up the phone and debated calling someone. Phil would understand. The two had worked closely on a few cases, with Phil as the lead detective and he as a psychic investigator contracted to the police department. But more than that, Phil was an ex-smoker.

He dialed the memorized number.

Detective Dawson, Homicide. The voice expressed his usual soft, calm demeanor.

Hello, Phil? Brodie twisted the cord around his fingers. Why was he so anxious to call a friend? That's what friends do, right?

Brodie. Good to hear from you. What can I help you with?

She's gone, he said. I got home a couple of days ago from the case in Oakland, and she was already gone. She hasn't come back. I think it's for good this time.

She'll be back. Don't worry. Are you craving again? Brodie could hear the concern in Phil's voice.  You know what? Don't answer that. It's quitting time anyway. I'm on my way. Without another word, Phil hung up.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the front door of the apartment. There stood the round detective with a consoling smile and a six-pack of Pepsi. I thought I'd replace one bad habit with another.

Brodie smiled. He could stand to add a few pounds – tall, thin and hermetic. Phil was almost an exact opposite, shorter, balding on the top, very round and direct. Together they were a reasonable match for a Laurel and Hardy contest.

Brodie carried the six-pack of soda to the kitchen and put it on the counter, then checked his hidden stash of cigarettes. The pressure at his waistband reminded him that they were still in the band of his pants, still reassuring him that a smoke was in quick reach if he needed them.

Phil lowered himself into the overstuffed recliner. You gotta get a grip. She'll be back. She always comes back. Let's just talk about work. That will get your mind off her. How was Anaheim? Good weather?

Oakland, Brodie corrected. Oakland is always nice.

And the case? What did you discover?

The Oakland case still worried him. Something wasn't right about it, but he couldn't decipher The Truth's message. The words still echoed in his head:

Tormenter free, through magic and malice. Rolling throughout the house. Protector, defender, murderer, all of all.

He had discovered the poison that the man had used on his wife in a round medicine bottle in the floor heating duct. He assumed this was Rolling throughout the victim's house. But the rest of the message made no sense. Perhaps this message was for something else. Or even something that applied to both. What if there had been an intruder that had taken Sophie and The Truth was trying to warn him.

Phil broke Brodie from his torturous cycle of thoughts.

Well?

We got the guy. It was the husband.

Great. What was his motive?

Insurance money. You know... work is the last thing I want to talk about.

Okay. Hey, you alright? You're sweating. Phil scooted forward, a deep frown of concern on his face.

Yeah. I'm fine. He walked across the room flipping the matchbook and pacing a path in the carpet. As he scratched his chin, the four-day stubble scratched back.

He liked the scruffy look with his long stringy black hair and dark trench coats. It kept people away. Especially the kids. Kids got on his nerves, but for some reason they loved him, especially when The Truth happened. Not that he planned it around them. He couldn't control it. It was just a part of him, almost as if The Truth wanted to make itself known. And the children seemed to have a knack for making it come to life around him.

He just wished The Truth would find another avenue once in a while.

After all, if you could turn a creature that only you can see into something visible to everyone, you were called an amazing magician, maybe even a powerful sorcerer. But if that same exact creature is visible only to you, you're labeled as insane. Brodie wondered what side of that line he was on at the moment.

Did she leave anything on the floors? Phil asked. You know she does that when you forget things that she thinks are important.

No. I've looked already. Brodie rested his forehead on his hand, trying to will himself to see, supernaturally, where she went. But nothing came. He could never force The Truth.

He paced the spacious room. While he liked to dress ragged, he kept his apartment clean and tidy. On his salary, he could afford to decorate well. He wondered if Sophie even noticed her fine surroundings. Did she even see the art on the walls and the leather couch? Or did she ignore them entirely as she traversed from room to room?

A knot of emotion impeded his breath for a moment. As much as he missed her and feared the worst, he'd learned in the institution that you can't cry. Ever. Not with others around, anyway. He drew a long breath and composed himself.

This is my place. I pay the bills.

It's only been four days, Phil consoled. Every once in a while, she finds a way out, then stays gone for a while. She does this all the time. Maybe she wanted to get out of the apartment for a while. She gets tired waiting in here for you all day. And when you go on a trip, I'm sure she gets lonely.

No. Brodie paced in a circle. He placed his hand to his mouth, wishing a cigarette was wedged between his fingers where it belonged. She's in trouble. I know it. I have to go find her.

A premonition? Phil's eyes widened slightly. Even his best friend was always more taken aback by the spectacle instead of The Truth that drove the displays of the supernatural.

No. He felt almost upset that he couldn't have a premonition now, when he needed it most.

Meow.

The sound was soft, as if it were an apology. Brodie spun around, his heart leapt in his chest. Sophie! Where on earth have you been?

His prized orange cat hopped up gracefully onto the back of the sofa and strutted with her tail held high. Her strut oozed with Who? Little-ol' me?

Picking her up into his arms, a wave of peace swept over him. The one creature who showed him affection despite his uncanny ability was now safe in his arms again. Her soft, short, orange fur soothed his wrecked nerves. She nudged his chin with her velvet nose as she purred softly... a whisper of a reminder that she was hungry.

See? Phil said. She's fine. She probably just went out for a little adventure and came back up through the cat door in the back.

Brodie had cut a hole in the back door and installed a plastic flap so that she could let herself in and out. He loved to watch her outside chasing birds around the small tree, but rarely did she ever stay gone more than a couple of hours. She generally came back in when she tired of the game.

I'll take her to the vet tomorrow to be sure. He turned her over on her back – a motion that she hated. A playful swat and a low growl voiced her displeasure.

Be still. I'm just checking to make sure you are— then he saw the dried blood. His chest and throat tightened again. Oh no.

What? Is she hurt? Phil leaned in closer to see.

I–I don't know yet. Panic sent his heart into overdrive, and he felt as though he couldn't catch his breath. The blood was matted along the outside of her left thigh.

Sophie! Be still. He sat down and pinned her on his lap so that he could inspect her better from all angles. Of course, she wiggled, twisted, turned and scratched to get free, igniting his frustration again. But he held her tightly and checked every inch of her. Once satisfied that it wasn't her blood, he let her up. She darted off of his lap then stopped in the hallway to stare at him, well out of reach. Shaking her fur in displeasure she let a soft cat huff then began primping herself.

I had to make sure you were all right, Brodie defended his honor. Stop looking at me that way, Sophie. I was worried.

Well... I'm glad she's all right. She may have gotten mixed up in a tuff, but she appears to be healthy. Phil put on his sweater and gathered his shoes and keys. You can keep the soda cans. Call me if you need anything else, but I think you two will be okay now.

Brodie let out a deep breath that he didn't realize had been lodged in his chest. Knots of fear and dread seemed to vanish with each passing second. Thanks. I appreciate you keeping me straight. I would have lit up if you hadn't come by. I was just... well, you know. Quitting sucks.

Yeah. It took me two years to break the habit. I couldn't just let you toss away a month of being clean. Now... where did you hide them?

Hide what? The pack in his waistband suddenly felt like two pounds of lead, but he resisted putting his hands anywhere near them. Phil was sharp. He would know. They were his last security blanket of 'what if not-smoking didn't work out.' He fought to hide his panic and pretended to be confused and bewildered at such an odd question.

You said you would have lit up, which implies intent. Intent requires means. Means requires only two things: matches and cigarettes. You had matches in your hand when I walked in. Phil began to look on each flat surface in the room.

Brodie watched him duck around the corner into the kitchen where he'd placed the sodas. He could hear the ringing of his silverware and knife drawers opening and closing.

All that remains is a pack of cigarettes. Where are they, Brodie?

Hey! Did I say you could get in my drawers? The double entendre made him stammer. I-I mean... who said you could just come in here and open anything you like.

Phil rounded back into the living room and eyed him up and down with a big smile. You mean, like your zipper?

Brodie saw the smirk on his face. He knew that look. It was difficult to hide things from a detective. Phil knew. His smiling round cheeks mirrored his balding head in duplicate.

Hand over your cigarettes, Brodie. I'm not leaving until you do.

Oh please! You got to be kidding me. Go home, Phil. Thank you for your emotional support. Really. You are a saint above saints... but I'm fine now.

Phil didn't budge. I'm serious. You blushed at the very phrase that betrayed where you hid them. Your psyche wants to be rid of the nicotine, too. Quit fighting it and hand them over.

Sophie meowed her repeated request for food. It was a squeal of a meow that told Brodie that she was tired of his argument.

You, too? He glared at her. The pack added extra pressure against his lower abdomen, reassuring him that a quick release was within reach. He stared at his friend whose resolve was evident. No one was going anywhere until he handed the pack over.

Phil doesn't need them. I do. Not to smoke. Just to reassure myself that I could