Black Arts, White Craft (Black Hat Bureau 2)

7

The sounds of battle greeted us when we entered the cabin. Over the chaos, a confident voice barked an impressive string of orders. I had no idea what they meant, but Colby’s friends understood her murder-y shorthand, and soon fresh cries of agony bounced off the walls as the gamers vanquished their enemies.

Seriously, what had those poor orcs done to deserve The Blade of Doom kill formation or the Eyeball Gusher finishing move?

“Potty break,” she told them. “Pick off the stragglers. I’ll be back in five.”

After gliding down from the loft, she lit on my head and leaned over to examine my expression.

“Rough night.” I scratched her back. “How was yours?”

“I leveled up, finally beat this stupid orcon, like a dragon and orc combo, that’s been guarding a hoard I wanted to plunder, and I stole a new pet off one of the corpses of my enemies. He’s adorable. An orange kitten in a suit of armor that came with the expansion pack someone wouldn’t buy me but everyone else has.”

Whoever thought of paying real money for virtual items? Genius. And the bane of parents everywhere.

“You stole a kitten off a corpse.” I replayed that in my head. “I don’t know if I should be proud or disturbed.”

“Proud.” She fluttered her wings. “I’ve almost collected all the expansion pack extras from my kills.”

A person like me had no business raising a kid. Colby wasn’t a kid, and I wasn’t trying to be her mom. More like the fun aunt who let her get away with too much and loved her unconditionally. But I had to wonder if it was a good thing that I had created a cyber serial killer on the prowl for rare treasures.

Colby lived a virtual life in so many aspects, and I fully supported that. It gave her a safe way to connect with others her age or those who shared her passions. All without revealing her nature. Or her location.

But maybe I ought to put on my faux-parenting hat and give her a talk about why serial killing was bad, even if your victims had cool stuff you could pickpocket off their dead bodies.

After all, she had me for a role model. I was, at best, a reformed homicidal maniac.

“I’m going to wash up, and then I’m going to cook breakfast.” I twitched my shoulder to send her on her way. “Have you eaten yet?”

“My five minutes are up.” She buzzed Clay on her way back to the loft. “I gotta go.”

That was not the same as telling me she had eaten her breakfast, but she was old enough to come down and fix herself food when she got hungry. I ought to be thankful she wasn’t a teenage boy I had to nag about showers. Moths were tidy creatures.

The bedroom I had chosen stuck with the overall cabin theme. The bed, dresser, and nightstand were made of logs the color of the walls. Without the quilts in gorgeous colors and patterns breaking up the sameness, I wasn’t sure I could have navigated the room. It was too much like a funhouse with mirrored walls, floors, and ceilings. The effect of so much wood stained the same color was dizzying.

Aiming for the bathroom, I discovered more of the same. At least the tub/shower combo was white.

Under the hot spray, I washed off the woods and the camper’s blood. Forehead resting on the cool tile, I asked myself why I had been moved to sit with her until she passed when I could have expedited her departure and beat the sunrise to the cabin.

The knowledge it was the right thing to do sprung into my head, fully formed, leaving me without doubt.

The right thing to do.

It felt weird to just know and not to have to ask for a second opinion or look to others for an example. Maybe my plan to act like a good person until I figured out what that meant for me was manifesting in real changes after a decade of faking it.

That thought bolstered my mood as I dried off and changed into pajamas to cook in, since I planned on retiring to my room as soon as I had a full stomach. Entering the kitchen, I found Colby and Clay with their heads bent together over his phone.

“What’s so funny?” I started rooting around the cabinets. “You’re both snickering.”

“I’m showing Clay some of my favorite kills,” she explained, “just the ones I’ve uploaded to Twitch.”

Oh, yeah.

Definitely having the serial killer talk with her.

Once I spotted a bowl full of fruit on the counter, I knew what was on the menu. “Where’s Asa?”

“Perimeter check,” Clay murmured to me then refocused on his screen. “Shorty, the day Pacific Rim becomes our new reality, you are on my team. You and I will pilot a Jaeger together. Catch my Drift?”