Free Hannah Jayne by Under Suspicion

hand grip my wrist, then yank me down-ward.
    “Kale?”
    She was huddled underneath the reception desk, a sweatshirt wrapped around her head.
    Pierre, our centaur filing clerk, was down there with her, sitting back on his haunches, hands pressed over his ears.
    “What’s going on?”
    Before Kale could answer me, there was another earsplitting scream, and then I knew.
    “Banshee?” I said, grimacing.
    Kale nodded and I rubbed my temples, the rhythmic drumbeat of a migraine beginning to pulse behind my eyes. “They wouldn’t be so bad if they could get the screaming thing under control.”
    “She’s waiting for you in your office,” Kale said, pointing.

    I nodded, then stepped out from under the desk. My ankles and knees cracked as I did so.
    “It’s okay, everyone, you can come out.”
    Little by little, the UDA lobby came back to life as clients rolled out from under chairs and from behind the potted palms. Every man, woman, and beast held their hands over their ears or were sporting homemade earplugs, which may or may not have been torn from last month’s Martha Stewart Living.
    I prepared myself to meet Bettina Jacova.
    She was sitting primly at the edge of my office chair. Her posture was impeccable, and her long, dark hair hung in a sheet down her back. Her hands were neatly folded in her lap and her outfit—pearls, a baby pink twinset, and a dark pink chintz skirt—stood out cheerily against her decaying gray skin.
    “Hello, Bettina.”
    Bettina pressed her hands to the sides of her face and her mouth dropped open, ready to let out another earsplitting howl.
    “No!” I said, jumping forward and slapping my own hand against her mouth. “Sorry.” I rubbed my palm against my thigh. “You’ll just need not to do that here, please.”
    Though my new station as head of the Fallen Angel Division meant that I didn’t work with the general demon population any longer, there were a few members—and demon breeds—I kept tabs on. Either because our staffers had issues (Nina, being non–fire retardant in the face of dragons) or the demons themselves had certain powers that made general fraterniza-tion difficult.
    Bettina was one of those demons.

    You see, Bettina Jacova is a banshee. And though people are generally aware of the banshee yell—as in, “Those kids have been screaming like banshees all day”—they fail to realize the seriousness of it. The banshee scream signifies death.
    Generally, yours.
    Some demons are immune, but others are not.
    The UDA found it prudent not to take the chance after we lost half the finance department to our Romanian intern, who failed to mark the box “banshee—deadly” on her intake form. My magical immunity super power allowed me to work with fire-breathing dragons and Bettina with her murderous screams.
    Just another perk of being the only nearly normal at the Underworld Detection Agency.
    Lucky me.

    I sat down across from Bettina, who eyed me nervously. I offered her my most reassuring smile, praying to Buddha, God, and Oprah that she wouldn’t let loose another scream. It was hard enough to cover our clients when two of our staffers went on vacation simultaneously; should the entire group drop dead from banshee screams, well, then the Underworld Detection Agency would be in deep trouble.
    “So, Bettina, how may I help you?”
    “Well,” Bettina started to say, kneading her fingers in her lap. “I need help. I mean, I think we all might need help.”
    I’ll say.
    “‘We all,’ as in all the banshees?” I mentally started to scan my inner Rolodex. From my recollection there were only six banshees total in the Greater San Francisco Bay Area. “I suppose we could get some sort of soundproofed bus for—”
    “No, not just banshees.” Bettina’s eyes shifted uneasily. “Everyone.” She paused, sucked in a sharp little breath, and cleared her throat. “Ms. Lawson, I was attacked last night.”
    I felt my eyebrows rise, and felt the prick of heat