Chapter One
"Fucking cops," Striker grumbled as he increased his
footsteps. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his
scrub pants and his shoulders were hunched defensively. A
scowl drew his features taut, making his eyes appear smaller
than normal.
"Just keep walking," the woman at his side said in a low
voice. "Don't give them any reason to suspect us."
"I hate fucking cops," Striker stated.
"Well, none of my best friends are cops, either," Bailey
MacKenna said. She gave Striker a quick glance. "You look
guilty, Nate. At least wipe that expression off your face."
Making an attempt to relax, Striker carefully watched the
two policemen strolling along the sidewalk across the avenue.
So far, neither of them had looked Striker's way. In his
position as diener—the person responsible for handling,
moving, and cleaning the bodies at the morgue—he rarely
came into contact with the authorities and he wanted to keep
it that way. He especially disliked the Portal Patrols who
maintained the exits points on Vardar-7.
"Uh, oh," Bailey MacKenna whispered.
Striker looked to where she was staring and felt the blood
drain from his face. "I knew it," he said. "I knew we were
going to get caught." He lowered his voice. "I told you we
were going to get caught!"
The tall man walking toward the policemen wore the
dreaded steel gray uniform of the Modartha, the ultra-secret
4
Spring Wind [Seasonal Winds Book 1]
by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
police responsible for the Slándáil Phoiblí, the National
Security. The people of her world were terrified of the
Modartha for the elite law enforcement officers were not only
deadly assassins but during full moons, changed into gray
wolves—the most dangerous of their kind.
"We're going to hang," Striker said with a moan. "Sure as
shit, we're going to hang."
"Shut the hell up, Nate!" Bailey said. So far the Modartha
agent had not looked their way. He had stopped to speak to
the policemen who appeared as rattled by his appearance as
did Striker.
"We're going to end up in the Doinsiún hanging by our
thumbs," Striker muttered.
"We're not going to the Dungeon," Bailey hissed at him.
"We've done nothing wrong."
"You don't think providing aid to the Resistance is doing
anything wrong?" Striker demanded. "Bailey, if we are
caught, we'll be jailed and I've no desire to be some bull's
cow!"
Bailey rolled her eyes. "We haven't been aiding the
Resistance and we haven't done anything to warrant being
sent to the Dungeon. We've simply been attending their
secret rallies just as hundreds of other people have. If every
curious citizen was jailed, there wouldn't be anyone left to do
their everyday jobs. There is nothing with which the Modartha
could charge us."
"Not yet," Striker reminded her. "You know what they say
about curiosity and the cat."
5
Spring Wind [Seasonal Winds Book 1]
by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
It was at that moment the Modartha agent turned his head
and looked right at Bailey. She could feel her stomach do an
odd little flip and she drew in a breath. Quickly, she looked
away from his probing stare, lowering her head with the
proper respect one showed a man of his position.
"Oh, Sweet Morrigunia, Bailey," Striker whimpered. "He's
crossing the street and coming straight at us."
"Keep walking," Bailey told him. Sweat was gathering in
her palms, her heart was thundering—blood pounding—and a
cold finger of dread was scratching down her spine.
"Halt!"
Immediately both Bailey and Striker did as they were
ordered. They stood stock still, waiting for the Modartha to
reach them. With heads down, eyes on the sidewalk, they
assumed the required position of hands clasped behind their
backs in an attitude of subservience.
"Identify yourselves," the Modartha demanded. He came
to stand directly behind Bailey and it was she who spoke first,
the senior of the two.
"Cróinéir Second Class Bailey MacKenna, Milord," she said.
"Diener