Titan Song Dan Stout (top 20 books to read txt) 📖

been flipped over to the new month. The calendar featured a frizzy-haired kitten in oversized sunglasses perched over the slogan “Dangerously cute.” Two paces away a patrol cop stood with blood on his sleeve and blossoming bruises along his jaw. Shoulders sloped, his elbows rested on his service belt, using it as a portable shelf. I remembered that stance well, a brief respite from carrying the weight of a four-year-old child draped over my back. I gave him a nod, and he responded in kind.

“Tough night?” I asked.

“Table of drunk-and-disorderlies. Wouldn’t leave, and didn’t take kindly to being asked twice.”

That was the life of a patrol cop. Any given run could result in a fight for your life, and a half hour later you’re waiting for a civil servant to process pages while you stand at a counter listening to slow jams. I’d liked and hated working a patrol beat all at the same time. The best and worst of the city was on display and in your face every night. I was madly proud of the things that I and other cops had done to help people in need, and I never stopped beating myself up over the times we’d fallen short.

The clerk walked back to the counter and timestamped the patrol cop’s case paperwork. He thanked the clerk and headed back out just as the music segued into Dinah McIntire’s “Titan’s Song” single. It was clearly going to be an inescapable soundtrack to all of our lives as we moved toward the long days of summer. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what I suspected: Jax was at the rear of the waiting area, bobbing his head and tapping his foot in slightly off-time accompaniment to the beat. And there was something familiar about the bass line, though I couldn’t place it. I was about to comment on Jax’s poor dance skills when the music died, interrupted by the DJ making an announcement.

“Breaking news in the Barekusu assault case,” she said. “Weylan has given a press conference at the foothills of the Mount, near the Barekusu encampment.” There was a brief pause before the hiss of prerecorded tape began to roll. The low-pitched, sonorous voice of the Barekusu leader came through the speaker, accompanied by the squeak of his horn plates adjusting as he spoke.

“I believe I can only apologize,” he said. “On behalf of this caravan and all Barekusu across Eyjan, I can only state how wrong our sister was, and that she shall make restitution. Her actions are like the sinkhole, leaving a gaping wound in our lives and our beliefs. It shall not heal until is it fully explored.”

Jax angled his head, listening closely.

“What’s up?” I said, but he raised a hand to shush me.

“But even in difficult times,” the Barekusu said, “the citizens of this proud city have an opportunity to explore something more—I believe the sinkhole has given us an opportunity to study the very foundation on which Titanshade was built.”

Bored, I looked back to the kitten calendar and tuned out the rhetoric. A moment later the DJ returned, informing us that The Titanshade Union Record, the late Taran Glouchester’s employer, had issued a statement lamenting the death and announcing that they had scheduled a series of exclusive sit-down interviews with the caravan leader. When everything was said and done, their circulation numbers would skyrocket.

I turned to Jax. “What got your attention all of a sudden?”

He stared at the ceiling, eyes narrowed, clearly still processing what he’d just heard. “Strange how Weylan immediately pivoted to the importance of excavation. His caravan is in the spotlight in a bad way, and instead of making amends for Serrow’s attack, he’s burning a lot of political capital on urging an investigation of the tunnels.”

“He got what he wanted. Serrow’s not in jail, and this paperwork we’re filing is pointless.”

“That’s my point,” he said. “Listening to Weylan, it sounds like Serrow isn’t his priority. The same thing when we heard him at the sinkhole. He’s more interested in the history of the city, which . . . Well, he is a scholar. Maybe it’s just how he thinks.”

The DJ moved on to address the other massive news of the day—the arrest of Ambassador Paulus. “Speculation abounds over what the vent intrusion was for. Is this part of a larger criminal enterprise? Stay tuned for more breaking news on WELZ, the station for smooth hits all day and all of the night!”

I expected we’d hear much more speculation abounding in the coming days. My concerns were more immediate than leftover theories from Ajax’s poli-sci classes.

“You believe that Serrow doesn’t know why she attacked Glouchester?” I said. “Or was she playing us?”

Jax rubbed the tortoiseshell marking that trailed down the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Glouchester’s body was at peace. No transformation. And no . . .” He waved a hand in the air, a bad mime of being caught in spiderwebs.

“No,” I said. “None of that.”

Our conversation paused as the clerk returned and slipped the approved documents into the timestamp machine. Its metallic da-chunk marked the moment that the case had opened. The clerk plopped our documents on the counter with a perfunctory, “Have a good night.”

We collected the paperwork and made our way to the elevators, neither one of us happy with how the evening was progressing. I punched the call button and the door sprang open with a startlingly loud ding. We stepped into the cab and the doors slid closed. Jax said, “Okay, it’s time we talk about this a little bit more.”

“You know, I was with Jenny for ten years and I don’t think we had half as many ‘we need to talk about this’ conversations as you and I have had in three months.”

Jax seemed thoughtful. “Well, how often did the two of you find corpses that transformed into nightmare creatures?”

Fair enough. I glanced at the floor indicator and saw we were almost to the garage. “Say your piece.”

“Something is causing these transformations, something is causing the