Chapter One

I sat there glaring at the people behind the one-way mirror. My hands clenched under the metal table and I gritted my teeth in pain and frustration. The bare room was so small I was thinking of doing an up and out through the window, but that would land me nowhere. After all, these people had been competent enough to catch me once. Though it couldn't have been hard to do in my present state.

The door opened and in walked a young woman with wavy dark brown hair and chocolaty brown eyes. They had a hard edge that painfully reminded me of Fang's. The woman looked middle-eastern, and her accent and name confirmed it, "I am NCIS Agent David," she said, more out of protocol than actual greeting.

I remained silent and gave her my "Max Glare."

She sat down in the chair across from me and laid her folded hands on the table. Her body language told me that she didn't consider me a threat. And who would? I was a raggedy, bruised teenage girl who was a suspect in a case. I certainly didn't look threatening. "We will find out who you are eventually," she warned.

I almost laughed, "No you won't, I don't exist."

David looked slightly unnerved by that, but she continued on anyway, "Tell me, why did we find you at the crime scene of a dead naval officer?" I have to admit, Agent David's glare was one of the more formidable ones I'd encountered.

I leaned forward slightly, trying not to wince, "Tell me agent, if you just killed somebody, would you stick around long enough for the feds to show?"

Instead of knocking her interrogation off balance with my reverse questioning like I'd planned, David considered the question, "No. So are you saying you did not kill Petty Officer Charigan?"

I smiled what would probably be considered a mischievous smile, "did I say that?"

David's eyes narrowed, "So you killed him."

My smile disappeared, "If I say no can I leave?" I asked in all seriousness.

David stood up and placed her dark hands flat on the tabletop, looking totally police-ish with her NCIS badge showing, "I do not appreciate getting fooled with."

I smirked, "And I don't appreciate being stuffed into a small interrogation room. I mean, jeez, you're government funded and you couldn't even spring for a piece of art?" not that I really even liked art.

The woman smiled and walked towards the door. Just as she was stepping out, she looked at me over her shoulder, "Just think, you will be begging for this room when you see your much smaller prison cell."

Instead of showing I was upset at the thought of more cramped spaces, I turned back to the one-way mirror. I gazed directly into the man's eyes on the other side who'd been there the entire time I'd been being questioned. He blinked in surprise that I looked right at him. Thank you raptor vision.

The man looked in his mid-fifties. His hair was short and salt and pepper colored. His eyes were a pale, piercing blue. From his waist up (that's all I could see in the window), he looked very fit. The man was wearing a button up blue shirt underneath a dark grey jacket and holding a cup of coffee.

After watching me watching him for a minute or two, he left the room on the other side of the glass. I half-expected the door to my room open, but it didn't. It would be the perfect time for escape, it really would.

Problem? I could hear someone- probably a guard- outside the door. Reason being, I may have assaulted a few federal agents on my way in. Hey, no one could blame me for being a bit frazzled at having men with guns and sunglasses bearing down at my wounded self.

And yeah, I could probably take one guard out, but then I'd have to worry about roomfuls of other government trained men and women. And I might have even went along with that route if I didn't have a serious concussion, a dislocated knee that crunched when I walked and a gunshot clip to my wing. Oh, and you can't forget about the knife wound inches from my heart. Not that anyone here knew about any of this.

So yes, I would be correct in saying that as I was staring down government agents I was slowly but surely dying. But hey, I'm a trooper.

I guess while I was fighting to stay conscious the man on the other side of the glass had come in. 'Cause when I opened my eyes he was there, sitting across from me.

"Are you okay?" he looked slightly concerned at my bloodless face.

"Fine," I snapped.

The concern quickly fled his face at my tone. He looked down at a folder that couldn't have contained much considering they didn't know even my name. "Let's start with your name," he coaxed.

I remained silent.

His eyes turned considerably colder, "do you have family we can call?"

I shook my head no. The only family I had definitely couldn't be reached by phone, maybe by a necromancer, but no phone.

"Parents, siblings, anyone?" I kept shaking my head, which just made the pain worse because of my concussion.

The agent just looked at me, assessing, "You're no older than seventeen, who are you living with?"

Actually, I was sixteen, "Me, myself, and I," I answered somewhat smarmily.

I looked behind the man at the glass again. Behind it stood Agent David and a man who I'd consider handsome for his age. They stood stiff-jawed as if no one talked to this man in front of me like I had.

I faced the current interrogator and gestured to the glass, "They don't like it when I talk mean to you," I giggled. Ah, good old concussions. They never fail to get me in trouble or reduce my common sense to nothing.

"Are sure you're fine?" he asked cautiously.

I nodded enthusiastically. Again, concussion acting here.

"Right," he said, though clearly I wasn't believable in my insistence I was fine. "What were you doing at the crime scene?"

"Looking for a puppy," I laughed at my own stupid joke.

"A puppy?" He repeated skeptically.

"No!" I shouted, "Not a puppy, a big, bad wolf! With sharp teeth and claws!" By this time, I was clearly out of my mind from pain.

"Have you been taking any drugs?" he asked.

I shook my head vigorously, "Never! Drugs are icky. They make it hard to fly."

He- understandably- looked at me quiet weirdly, "Mm-hmmm. Well, maybe you can start from the beginning on this one?"

I looked down at my hands sadly, "Then Fang will be mad. And then we'd get in a fight and all the kids will get sad."

The man responded warily, "Who's Fang, what kids? And I won't tell anyone." Then he motioned with his hand behind him. Even though I didn't know at the time, the agent was signaling for the man and woman behind the glass to shut off the cameras and voice recorders.

"Oh," I said confusedly, "Fang's gone and the kids are dead. What won't you tell?"

"Your story," the man said patiently, "I won't tell anyone your story."

"Hmmm," I assessed the situation as best my befuddled brain could, "Well, about sixteen years ago the first of six genetically altered bird kids was born…"

Somehow (rather it was a miracle or terrible mistake to tell him), I managed to most of it out before I passed out.