Free Dead Rising by Debra Dunbar Page B

fat, too. There’s only so much sitting a person can do in one day, and the boxes of donuts on a table toward the back probably didn’t help with the weight issue. I eyed them, but was still buzzing from my cannoli fest this morning.
    The man looked over the forms and nodded. “Seems complete. We’ll order the files and call you when they arrive to schedule a time for you to see them.”
    Government. Moving at the pace of an advancing glacier since the dawn of time. We Templars weren’t much better, but sheesh, I needed to see the records now, not in eight months.
    “Is there anything I can do to speed this up?” I tried on my best smile. My looks weren’t movie-star beautiful, but I’d been called pretty.
    No pretty enough, evidently. “They might not even be here. A good number of the records are kept at the Maryland State Archives in Annapolis and we have to order them. If you want to pay a fee, we can make copies for you and mail them.”
    I figured that would take even longer. “No thanks. Is it possible they’re on microfiche or scanned electronically? I don’t need to see the originals, just read the files.”
    He smiled sympathetically and gestured around the room at their antiquated equipment. “It’s not like in the television shows. Unless something is going to trial and we need to get copies to the fifty lawyers on the case, it doesn’t get scanned. Reports are electronic, but they’re archived after a certain length of time, and lots of notes are still done by hand.”
    Drat. “Thanks anyway. I appreciate it.” I did. He’d taken the time to explain, hadn’t dismissed me or bitten my head off. Working in a coffee shop for six months had taught me how hard it was to remain friendly and cheerful with grumpy, demanding people on the other side of the counter.
    “Want a donut?”
    This dude needed a promotion. He was giving government workers a good name.
    “I thought you’d never ask.”
    He waved me around the desk over to the table where the square boxes were lined up. They were half empty, and of course all the chocolate ones were gone. I had my pick of glazed, jelly filled, and some mystery cake-type donut.
    “I’m Rob.” He pointed at the mystery donut. “They’re apple spice. Don’t tell anyone, but they’re the best ones here.”
    Guess my smile worked better than I thought it did. “Aria. And your donut secret is safe with me.” I pulled back my sleeve so it didn’t drag in the powdered sugar and reached for an apple spice.
    When I looked up, Rob was staring at my wrist. “You’re a Templar.”
    How did he know? Most humans went about their normal lives thinking we died out with the Crusades. “Yes, I’m a Templar.” I didn’t feel the need to explain my non-Knight status. “Thanks for the donut, Rob.”
    “In fourteen twenty-eight a group of travelers was captured just outside of Vaucouleurs, France. Half of the party died, but the rest were rescued by a Knight of the Temple.” His wide eyes met mine. “I’m descended from one of those survivors.”
    Hundred Years War. Joan of Arc. It was way past the heyday of the Templars but some of the families in France had survived the purge and continued their duties in stealth. It warmed my heart to hear his story. It had been so long since we did that sort of thing. It was nice to know this tale had been handed down through generations, that this man remembered and appreciated our protection.
    Rob looked around, as if worried he’d be overheard. We were the only ones in here beyond an ancient woman nodding off at her desk in the far corner and a young man bouncing his head vigorously to whatever was streaming through his headphones. “Look, those files really do take forever to get here, but I’m due for my break. I’ll pull a couple boxes of microfiche and let you look through them in one of the rooms.”
    “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” I protested. I didn’t, but I did really want to look at those