It was little after dusk when Mireya Guillén finally arrived back at her apartment, a bag with a lone donut and a coffee on her hand. It was mid-January, winter still in full swing, and the streets of Jersey City were quite cold; she couldn't wait to shrug off the heavy coat, gloves and boots that covered her. Mireya never really liked the cold; perhaps it was to her parents, both immigrants from the Caribbean, that she owed her preference for hotter climates, but this was her home after all. She hung the keys on a small set of hooks near a large black cupboard, where (ironically) she stored anything but cups – a decent flat-screen TV, some detective novels, and family photos from her visits to the Dominican Republic, her father's native land.
As she took off her coat, it was obvious that she had a strong Latina heritage. Not that it wasn't obvious from first sight; she was blessed with large hips and strong calves, but the coat easily hid her large breasts. She wasn't blessed with a hourglass figure – not for a lack of trying, as she had a rather athletic body – but was indeed quite attractive. Perhaps her most striking feature was her olive-green eyes, which accented her perennially sunburnt face, her button nose, her puffed cheeks and her thick lips. A little makeup and a good dress would make her attractive, but her work as a resource for the police made this quite difficult. She unlatched the gun holster from her belt – holding a Model 640 from Smith & Wesson, chambered for a .357 Magnum round – and placed it atop the cupboard, not before unloading all but one of the bullets on the rotary chamber.
As she stretched, she made a check to her ground line phone; a holdover she often thought to get rid of, if only because she preferred to be contacted by her cellphone, but the cable provider had it as a couple service alongside Internet, and for a fair price, she had a way to keep communication with international contacts. Most times, as she checked for any missed calls, there were none. Today, there was one – and with a recorded message, as well.
"Hello, dear." Mireya recognized the voice immediately. "It's John. I know you don't like to be interrupted while at work, so I'm leaving you a message here. Would you mind paying this old man a visit when it's convenient?"
Mireya smirked. John rarely called her, but when he did, it was always for good reason. She took a sip of her coffee, rechambered her gun and reupholstered it to her belt, and braved the cold winds of the street once more.
--
To call John Reilly's residence "an apartment" would be like calling the White House "a house." It was two-story brownstone, of red brick and arched windows, tall and narrow on the outside, but extending back from the street to a surprising depth. Mireya lifted and dropped the brass knocker on the front door, rubbing her hands and covering her face to warm it. It didn't take long for John to answer.
"Buenas noches, dama!" he exclaimed. He was a trim, bespectacled man in late middle age, whose sandy hair was slowly fading to a glistening silver. He had discarded his jacket, and greeted her in a white dress shirt and gray polyester pants held up with suspenders. He would have looked professorial but for his bright, almost eager smile, which gave him an air more like a prosperous and successful salesman—a broker, perhaps, or an insurance man. "Por favor, pase usted; queda bienvenida a esta humilde vivienda," he said in a fluent Spanish as he ushered her in.
"Please," Mireya scoffed, finding John's insistence in speaking the language of her parents rather quaint. "You know my Spanish isn't that great!"
"Ah, if only dearest Maribella would've heard that!" John cackled, and patted Mireya's back kindly. The woman returned the affectionate gesture with a firm tight hug that him dumbfounded him.
“Mami would've said I was dishonoring my heritage!"
"Of course not! You only need a bit more practice, my dear." He looked how her eyes dimmed, and grasped her hand. "Are you feeling well?" John asked as he closed the door.
Mireya wiped off a tear. "It's been hard," she said as she shook off her heavy coat. "It's been over a year now, but I still can't believe she's gone."
"She was proud of you, you know." John rubbed Mireya's shoulder as he took her coat. "A great loss to us all. The Institute for Bioethical Medicine will be her legacy."
"It couldn't do anything to save her, though." Mireya's heard the spite in her own reply, and dodged the look of hurt John gave her. She shook her head. "Never mind, I'm sorry. What was the favor you were asking, John?"
"Ah, it's a simple matter!" He led Mireya inside, to his sanctum – a living room that looked more like library reading room. Tall bookcases rose to the ceiling, each shelf crammed to bursting well-thumbed books. Mireya allowed herself a small smile as she ran a restless eye over the spines. Classics of literature, books on religion, scientific treatises; histories and mysteries, thrillers and exposes of true crime; and one whole wall given over to fantasy, science fiction and alternate histories. John's personal library was as eclectic as a bookstore.
She startled a little to find that they weren't alone. From the wingback leather chair in front of the fireplace grate there rose a boy in his early teens. His hair was a shock of brown that stuck out in tiny curls, and his heavy-lidded eyes were very watchful. Mireya had the impression that she was being subjected to an instant and not-very-charitable judgment, for the boy's expression tightened, and his eyes turned wary. But there was curiosity in his gaze, too.
"This here is Martin Harrison," John said. His voice became tinged with light irony. "His parents took an unexpected vacation, and left him and his brother in our care."
"Care?" Mireya echoed.
"We are now responsible for their education and well-being." John gripped Martin's arm in a paternal fashion. "They'll be joining the firm."
"No!" Mireya surprised herself with her exclamation, and immediately regretted it. "He's too old!"
"You'll find his brother even older when you meet him. Martin, this is Mireya Guillén. And when she says you're too old, she only means she's surprised. Our recruits are usually younger when they show up.
"That's right," Mireya stammered. "They're usually—"
"Are you a Perelandran too?" Martin blurted out. A hot flush shone in his cheeks.
Mireya stared at him, then laughed.
"Well, he knows how to flatter a girl," she told John. "No," she said, turning back to the boy. "I'm only an associate. I'm not one of the Stellae."
"Don't try to squirm out of it," John said. "You're in, Mireya, same as—” He hesitated for a moment. “— Martin will be.”
"You're an associate?" Martin asked. His expression sharpened.
He was very forward, Mireya decided, and was probably holding back only on account of being newly introduced. He's probably very cocky when he thinks he's gotten to know you, she thought. Something about him reminded her of her own younger sister, Vanessa.
"Yes," Mireya said, "in my 'secret identity'. In public, I'm a private investigator. Well, in private too, I guess." She dropped her hand onto her firearm. "Sometimes I collect bounties on monsters."
Martin's eyebrows went up, and he looked impressed, as Mireya had intended him too. "So you're like those brothers on Supernatural!?"
"Yes. Like," Mireya allowed. "So, what's your story?"
Martin shot a glance at John.
"Please, go ahead, we have no secrets from each other. Let's all get comfortable." John gestured them all to sit—Martin in the leather chair while he and Mireya settled onto a love seat. "This is a room for telling stories!"
Martin’s face immediately darkened. It was as if his cockiness had faded in an instant; his eyes dimmed, and his head hung low. He took a deep breath, and with a broken voice, began his tale. “It all started when I lost my parents...”
--
It was almost three hours before Mireya returned to her apartment, but feeling gripped her heart like a vise. Martin’s story was very sad – how a warlock, a professor at that, got ahold of a strange magic book, with the eventual consequence that his mother had been kidnapped and his father replaced by an evil replica. She felt as how Martin’s expression brightened as he spoke of Frank Durras, another of the Stellae, who she had a brief collaboration while tutoring him on how to deal with the monsters she was so good at chasing.
It was the gripping tale of Martin’s loss that made her, on reaching home, pick up one of the many framed pictures she had scattered about. It was a family photo, taken when she was just a teenager. Beside her was her father, dark, with trimmed hair that would suggest an afro and a thick mustache, dressed in a tuxedo; her sister, still a child, dressed in a frilly pink one-piece, her short curly hair falling right into her shoulders...
And her mother.
An exotic beauty if there was one. Bronzed skin, sun-kissed hair, and the same olive-colored eyes. Her face was youthful, and her smile so bright it caught the eyes of everyone.
Looking at her mother’s picture, Mireya couldn’t help but break in tears. She had to deal with boys and girls taken from their parents at a very early age, but it was very difficult when it struck so close to home. Martin was nearly a young man, but he had told a terrible tale. She knew what he needed the most. Not a tutor, that was for sure.
She looked at her mother, rubbing a finger at her face. “Mamita bella ...give me the strength to be the family this boy needs.”
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