Book of the Dead: AESLI-00

Chapter One

Azzie

⚕︎

Is there anything in the world more ominous than middle-aged white men in suits emerging from a dark, nondescript sedan?

The answer is no. No, there is not. At least not in my world.

Rachel, my foster mom, turned away from the kitchen window with raised eyebrows and I shrugged. She didn't seem surprised, but I had no idea why they were there.

"Okay, kiddos, time for school," she said briskly, grabbing up the packed lunches and backpacks for her two kids, shuffling them toward the door leading straight into the garage. I picked up my own backpack and slammed back the rest of my smoothie before following them, hoping she'd fill me in on the drive.

The two old-school police detectives or agents or whatever they were, hit the doorbell as I shut the door behind me and crossed in front of the ginormous SUV as Rachel got the kids into the back seats. I raised an eyebrow of my own and she shrugged right back at me. "Let Greg deal with them."

I laughed, putting on my sunglasses and reclining back into the seat. I owed him, big time.

We settled in and she hit the garage door opener, the fancy bifold doors folding back silently, and reversed the vehicle out of the garage as Greg gestured the besuited men into the house. He shot us a look behind their backs as they disappeared through the door. They completely missed our exit in the transition between the porch and the kitchen: had they been in either place, it would have been hard to miss our escape, but they were essentially blind in those few feet of hallway between the front door and archway into the kitchen. I flashed Greg a big thumbs up and grin as we backed out into the street and then accelerated forward, but he just shook his head in defeat as he shut the door.

"What do you think they wanted?" I asked quietly as Heather and Michael argued over whose backpack touched the other backpack first — the dire consequences of which no one knows besides siblings under twelve — and Rachel shrugged again.

"Nothing good," she replied, and turned on the radio, letting me know without saying that A) she either knew or suspected why they were there, B) she didn't like it, and C) she definitely didn't want the kids to know. Fan-fucking-tastic. So I had that to look forward to.

We dropped the kids off at their various schools, Heather at the junior high and Michael at the elementary school, and headed over to the hospital. Even after the kids were out of the car, Rachel didn't say a word, until I finally turned off the radio and pinned her with a really fierce stare — I'm talking military-grade-interrogation level of intimidation — but she ignored me. "You aren't going to give me anything? Not even a heads-up?"

Rachel scowled out the windshield, ignoring my terrifying visage. "Let Greg handle it," she repeated, and I heaved out a dramatic sigh of resignation. My foster parents weren't exactly loving or affectionate but they tended to be protective; so far, I had zero complaints about them, their rules, or their decisions. They mostly left me alone and did what they were supposed to, especially the last year or so; I wasn't naïve — they were looking out for their family and their lifestyle just as much as me — but I still appreciated it.

Things could be so much worse than they were.

We pulled into the staff lot near the west entrance. I unbuckled myself and exited the car while Rachel texted with someone that I assumed was Greg. Since she still hadn't finished the conversation by the time I'd gotten my bike free from the rack on the back of the vehicle, I walked by myself up to the security cage. I waved at Reggie as I leaned my bike against the side of his booth, my backpack sitting on the ground beneath it, and paused as I was scanned and buzzed in.