Any reference to the Academy was a fancy way to say unregistered storage lockers in a busy part of town. It was a moderately fancy location that had respectable businesses nearby, competent security features, keypads, padlocks, and some units had environmental controls and internal camera feeds. A select part of the security personnel knew Celeste by name, and she suspected 24-hour access wasn’t exactly by the book, but when you keep odd hours sometimes you’ve got to make a stop in the middle of the night. It wasn’t like she could just leave a priceless relic or manuscript on the coffee table or stash it beneath the bed. After a few sleepless nights, and plenty of close calls it the Academy gave her no small amount of peace of mind, and she found it thrilling that she had a place where her discoveries and treasures were secure and that allowed her the chance to surround herself with things she had come to love, cherish and that brought her peace. Celeste charted multiple routes and never used the same one twice any time she opted to visit the Academy, or if there was something she needed to retrieve from its shelves. Once the Pesadillas statue was properly stored, Celeste made her way home.

  Celeste had found a circular top-floor apartment that, upon ending, had an elevated walkway that had two distinct paths. If a person moved left, they had about six feet, followed by a descending staircase that came down by her couch, two bookshelves pressed up against its back, and her TV and a squashed rectangular-shaped TV stand. If a tour passed to the left, the walkway climaxed at another staircase that entered her kitchen, a half-moon layout with ample cupboard space and a giant refrigerator that was incredible, and Celeste had wondered how people had gotten it in place. A frying pan came down with a satisfying clatter, and Celeste wormed her way through an assortment of ingredients. The recipe hadn’t quite set in her head, but since landing back in civilization, she hadn’t quite found her groove for cuisine that wasn’t prepackaged or several days out of date. Celeste carefully held a hand over the pan and set to work. She mixed a few things into a bowl and let it sizzle. What was she in the mood for? Something savory? Sweet and savory? Spicy? Mild spice? Medium spice? Or did she want to find the right combination that was savory, but with a kick?

  As her combination sizzled, the doorbell buzzed. Celeste lowered the temperature to not burn anything and then hurried up the stairs and opened the door.

  “C. Kane?” a deliverywoman asked.

  Celeste nodded, immediately feeling worried when she noticed the woman’s feet were split apart. The deliverywoman fingered a package and twisted a tablet to get a signature. Celeste stole a quick glance, but instantly jumped back when she saw the tablet screen was blank. The deliverywoman lashed the tablet outward, trying to catch Celeste squarely in the nose. Celeste stumbled and tossed her arms out around her to steady herself, but she had moved a few steps back too fast, and a brief instance she felt her weight press against the railing and she cartwheeled backward over the banister and awkwardly landed on her couch, but her leg caught one of the bookshelves and Celeste gridded her teeth as pain rocketed up her calf.

  Celeste pulled herself up as the deliverywoman swore and had a gun in hand. There were multiple pops, but Celeste hastily went back into the kitchen, and her eyes scrambled across the counter looking for anything she could use for defense.

  I can’t bring a knife to a gunfight.

  The phony deliverywoman rushed into the kitchen and Celeste seized a frying pan from the drying rack and threw it as hard as she could. The pain flew true, but the deliverywoman, expecting some sort of attack, evaded the strike and attempted to aim. Celeste grabbed a bag of flour and hurdled it across the kitchen, filling several feet in every direction with a chalky white haze.

  Celeste hurried into the cloud, grabbed the woman’s wrist, and hit it several times on the counter, forcing her to release the hold of the gun. The woman grunted and coughed. It was hard to think straight when you could see or breathe easily. The cloud had begun to dissipate, and the deliverywoman launched a punch toward Celeste’s right side. Celeste had a small advantage and hit the woman’s arm back. Then she pulled her other hand up and forced her to turn downward, making her face plant, and Celeste quickly secured the arm at the most painful angle possible along the upper back.

  The deliverywoman hissed and muttered something in a language Celeste didn’t recognize.

  “If you’re going to be mad for getting your butt kicked and-”

  Celeste brought her heel down hard against the woman’s posterior.

  “That’s for screwing up my dinner,” Celeste continued. “Now sorry, but as I was saying. If you’re going to get mad for getting your butt kicked. I’d suggest you either speak English or invent subtitles because I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

  The delivery blinked a few times, and Celeste saw her cheeks turn red. Celeste carefully jostled her arm and as expected her muscles seized in pain.

  “Ok, what it your way.” Celeste released her grip and pulled back beside the sink as the deliverywoman coughed and massaged her arm before working up the strength to get back on her feet.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Where’s the key?” the deliverywoman demanded.

  “What key?” Celeste asked.

  “Don’t play coy,” The deliverywoman spat. Her words were sharp and venomous.

  “Ok, then I’ll get real.” Celeste pulled her hand from the sink and assumed a position her the deliverywoman’s discarded weapon. Upon seeing it, the deliverywoman raised her hands and quickly took a submissive, if not respectful tone.

  “We can work this out.”

  “Work what out?” Celeste asked. “I told you I’m really not in the mood for twenty questions, and I’m trying really hard not to be ticked that you screwed up my dinner and put bullet holes in my coach.”

  “Look I was just tasked to come here and get the key you stole from Pierre Beaumont’s plane.”

  “I didn’t get a key.”

  Celeste tightened her grip and had seen through the ploy as the deliverywoman lunged at her. The distance was no more than three feet, and Celeste was a good shot but not with only a split second to decide. The deliverywoman attempted to reach for the gun and Celeste shifted it in her hand and lobbed it right at the deliverywoman’s face. There was a crunch, but Celeste didn’t have a chance to enjoy it because she saw stars and her cheek began to throb from a direct and precise impact.

  The deliverywoman clapped both her hands to her nose and her eyes were becoming waterfalls. Celeste braced herself against the counter and thought about trying to aim, but she was finding it a bit hard to stand. Blood dripped from between the deliverywoman’s fingers, and in an effort to look menacing, the deliverywoman tried to glare before she bolted out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and out of the apartment.

  “You better run!” Celeste yelled, gingerly sticking a finger in her mouth to make sure the punch hadn’t knocked a tooth loose. Several teeth hurt, but Celeste managed a sigh of relief when appeared to be loose. It had been the first fight in a while, and Celeste had to admit that in the right circumstances, that punch would have been a knockout.

  Thanks to the commotion, Celeste didn’t need to bother calling the police as a pair of police officers arrived on the scene ten minutes later, it didn’t take long before nearly a dozen officers were on the scene, and Celeste found herself sitting on a kitchen chair, with an ice pack against her cheek while a pair of detectives hovered. One of a man with spiky hair and had the jaw of a TV doctor. His partner, a woman wore a leather jacket and had a determined expression. There was no question about her experience, but her eyes seemed split between searching the room and waiting for the right time or permission to ask a question.

  “Celeste Livia Kane,” the male detective said. “I’m Detective Jordan Park. As I understand it, you were cooking a meal, you heard the doorbell ring, and when you answered it, there was a deliverywoman who tried to strike you, and when you fell over the railing and landed on the coach, she tried to shoot you.”

  “In a nutshell, yes, that’s what happened,” Celeste replied.

  Park tapped his pen against a notepad but hadn’t written anything down. Park clicked his pen a few times and took a long look at his partner before he gave the nod, and he moved into the kitchen.

  “That sounds pretty traumatic,” she said, “I’m Detective Gabby Thorne. Is there-”

  “Nope,” Celeste interrupted, and he got to her feet. “Hey Park, I know you’re still within earshot.”

  Detective Thorne flushed just enough, and Celeste almost laughed when she watched a disgruntled Park come back into the kitchen.

  “What gives?” Celeste demanded. “I’ve never had run-ins with the police and without missing a beat, the two of you seemed ready to jump on the idea that I was, what?”

  “We just wanted-” Thorne began, but Park put a hand on her shoulder to cut her off.

  “Perhaps we were quick to judge,” Park said, “but you have to admit that your story seems a bit unbelievable.”

  “Which part?” Celeste insisted. “The park where I fell over the banister or the part where the assassin took shots at me. I’m assuming you’ve pulled the building’s security feed. What about Bob, the doorman? And how many of my neighbors saw someone running out of here?”

  “Several,” Park replied, being vague with a disgruntled furrow on his brow. “And for all we know, it was a quarrel that went south. Did you know your attacker?”

  “No one knows the delivery people in this city,” Celeste replied.

  “And what about the weapon?” Park asked. “If this belonged to your attacker, why do you have it?”    “It’s called self-defense?” Celeste said. “And I’m starting to feel grilled as if I did something wrong here.”

  Detective Park folded his arms. “You haven’t done anything wrong but based on what I see here. I get the feeling that you’re not telling us something.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” Celeste said, “and I think we’re done here. If you’re going to act this way, I’d be grateful if you and your crew left and sent some real cops who will take me seriously.”

  “That’s a bit uncalled for!” Park hissed, but Thorne jumped between them, and with a finger, she channeled his energy with her finger, and he stormed out of the kitchen; his footsteps echoed as he stomped up the stairs.

  Celeste looked at Thorne, who appeared to be a bit more sure of herself now that her partner was no longer in the room.

  “We’ve had a few domestic cases, petty and identity thefts but the people are claiming clandestine targeting, if that’s even a real term,” Thorne explained, but this time Celeste put a finger to her lips.

  “Sorry, detective but I don’t want you to breach protocol, and I promise you that everything that I described is what happened. I’m not an amateur detective trying to be difficult, and I absolutely don’t want a job to consult on some of your most complex cases.”

  “I appreciate the professional courtesy,” Thorne said, “but I’m telling you this because there has been a problem in this area. If your attacker was this well-armed, then our suspects could be escalating their game, so watch yourself.”

  Celeste dropped her hand. “Thanks for the warning.”