The Blood of Ivy

by Jessica King

  “If it helps, almost everyone in the department wants to do the same thing.”

  +++

  Saturday, March 26, 2017, 5:34 p.m.

  David fit the aerosol can inside a fiberboard box, in which sat a water-proof casing and an absorbent layer of packing material. He closed the box, stuck on the biohazard label, and set it inside his backpack carefully, making sure to sit out of sight of the security cameras.

  The aerosol can would likely be fine on its own, but he didn’t want to take the chance of it knocking over in the car or his wife accidentally using the new “cleaning product” he’d brought home—a constant nightmare of his when he’d first started the solution and used generic cleaning canisters as test runs for its aerosol abilities.

  Of course, now was the difficult part. He had to get out of the building without being noticed. It would be one thing to get caught with something that at least had the hazard label on it. It would be a whole other thing to get caught with harmful material without any labeling.

  But of course, the label, bright orange and unmistakable, posed a certain challenge. He’d tried to think ahead for this, and the best he could think of was gift packaging.

  He hated himself for it. But he slid the hazardous box into a gift box, wrapped it in brown paper, and tied a white bow. Across the top, he masked his own handwriting and tried his best to mimic Lorie’s.

  Sorry for your loss.

  He felt rotten.

  No one would dare ask him to open the box in the security exit.

  Sweating, David placed the box carefully into his backpack, a paranoid piece of his mind asking if he’d engaged the safety switch on the aerosol can and walked toward the exit. He walked through the bare halls to the door. It was still a busy time in the lab, so there was more than the usual late-night two-guard scan to get through. He placed his bag on the table, a woman searching through the bookbag, jostling his laptop and binders, and tugging at the box inside. A newer addition to the lab waved on his way out, and David flung up a hand.

  “You okay, David?” a tall security guard, Shane, if he remembered correctly, asked him.

  “Oh, oh yes,” David said. He smiled, sweat trickling down his neck and lower back, soaking into his collar and waistband. “A bit distracted.”

  “You sure? You look a little sick. Do you want to do a temperature test to make sure you’re all good?” The guard gave him a meaningful look. Of course, the security guards didn’t know everything that went on in the labs, but gossip spread like wildfire, even in buildings that contained future military secrets.

  “I’m fine, really,” David said, picking up his car keys on the other side of the metal detector. David caught the eyes of the woman searching his bag, probably reading the note he’d written atop the package.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Webb,” the woman said, her security-sharp eyes softening with condolences she knew he’d asked everyone not to say aloud.

  “You all as well,” he said. He was patted down by a third security member and scanned his I.D. When he’d first started working at Gray Dynamics, David had asked a senior member if they found it insulting that they were constantly being checked for stealing things.

  The woman who had introduced him to the way of life at Gray, Cherise, had shrugged. “Not really,” she said. “I feel like it’s like going through the security at the airport. Generally, they trust you. But it’s in everyone’s best interest to make sure.” She looked around the wide space of the lobby, up at the windows of the stories above and the potted plants of offices pressed up against the glass. “Eh, some of the stuff in here is pretty cool,” she said. “I could understand it if someone wanted to take it, you know, if they found a reason for it.”

  Now he understood. He pretended to text on his phone on his way out the door. The air conditioning faded with the revolving door that spat him out into the harsh sunlight bouncing against the dark pavement of the parking lot, each of his steps soft and careful as if the slightest movement might set off the violent illness in his bag too early.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Posted: Saturday, March 26, 2017, 10:00 p.m. via Di Mattina | translated by The SPIN U.S.

  It’s been a bleak day indeed here in the capital city. Rome native, Tatiana Rossi, was found murdered at the base of the altar at the famous St. Peter’s Basilica, home to the Pope and the seat of traditional Catholicism throughout the western world.

  Rossi, kneeling before the world-famous throne at the front of the church, was found to have one stab wound in the back of her left shoulder. A curious calling card was found next to her, a white business card with a red thumbprint sporting the letter K. It is unclear whether the young woman had brought the card with her to the church, or if it was left by her killer. While images of the card in question are yet to be released by the police, rumors surrounding the original release of the story flew quickly worldwide, leading online commenters to note that the image sounded very similar to the symbol of the Kingsmen in the United States.

  The Kingsmen, a cult whose members believe they are hunting down witches who have reincarnated throughout history, supposedly got their start in Europe, though the trend quickly died out and was only brought back again during a short period of time in the late seventeenth century in America during the Salem Witch Trials. The group has seen an explosive resurgence in the States, paralleling the widespread popularity of witch culture through the recently-arrested “supernatural” icon, the Prophetess. The tension between the two led to a series of mass shootings across the country just a week ago, leaving nearly a thousand Kingsmen and Prophetess idolizers dead.

  Does this mean that the Kingsmen are also on the rise in Italy? It’s hard to say, considering Rossi’s husband, Leo Rossi, who claims his wife “…had nothing to do with witchcraft. She was a loyal member of the Catholic church and went to confession more often than most, and she had no enemies. She seemed in great spirits when she left for St. Peters. Happy.” Leo Rossi claims whoever took his wife’s life has “stolen a great light from the world, and from me.”

  The police currently have no leads, though with the clearing of tourists well before Rossi’s death, lead investigator, Adrian Verra, did comment that he believes it is “someone in the local community who would be allowed access after-hours at the basilica.” When asked if he believed the killer was also a Kingsmen, he declined to comment.

  +++

  Sunday, March 27, 2017, 9:45 a.m.

  “This is a hot mess,” Vince said, surveying the crowd.

  Ivy agreed. There was no other word for it. The mish-mosh of characters and low-riding hats and, in one case, a man entirely clad in a green morph suit complete with sweat stains, was wild. The LAPD hadn’t necessarily been asked to come to patrol the Kingsmen event, but they’d told the Kingsmen officers would be crawling the streets, or there wouldn’t be any gathering. They’d chosen the officers and promised a “peaceful, lawful gathering.” Yeah, right, Ivy thought when she’d heard the response.

  “They don’t want to be seen,” Ivy said. “Odd for a rally.” She wanted to roll her eyes but knew it would look bad on the force as a whole if someone caught it. “They’re embarrassed to show their faces, and this is ridiculous,” she said, trying to keep her lips unmoving.

  “It’s not ridiculous. It’s insane.” He nudged Ivy to look at someone who had painted their face as the Kingsmen logo. “Do they realize that they’re supporting serial killers, and they’ve gathered a group of serial killers, and they expect nothing to get violent here?”

  A man in all black with black war paint on his face crowed as he and another man dressed in all black passed Vince and Ivy.

  “I don’t think most of the ‘observational Kingsmen’ really understand it all,” Ivy said. Observational Kingsmen was the label the media had eventually given to non-active Kingsmen after they realized that writing “active Kingsmen” and “regular Kingsmen” made things difficult for their readers and watchers. “I think it’s kind of a ca
thartic thing. Some people think the deaths are being faked for theatrical purposes, so I bet that’s why some of them are here at least. We’re in Hollywood. Fellow thespians getting arrested for being too good? That’s like gold to them.”

  “Well, I mean, they’re not too far off, considering Mason. There could have been others faking it and hiding witches that we don’t know about.”

  “Maybe,” Ivy said. “But we’ve found enough bodies this month. I don’t feel too optimistic.” She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her vest, already sweating, the black pavement warm beneath the soles of her shoes.

  Vince opened his mouth to make another point, but then a PA system crackled, and they turned toward the makeshift stage that had been set up in front of City Hall.

  A video started playing on the projector screen on the stage, and Ivy squinted to see it, the sunlight bleaching it of visibility. She could make out a few iconic scenes of witches from movies and popular television shows throughout the decades, and then a poorly made graphic of it all blowing up. Apparently, having their tech guy, Jeremiah Ethan, in prison had taken a toll on their graphics department.

  “Kingsmen!” A voice bellowed through the speakers. The street erupted. There had to be at least two-thousand people who showed up in support. A group of witches, or at the very least, anti-Kingsmen booed from a platform at the edge of the crowd. Ivy and Vince moved toward them. While the Kingsmen around their criticizers hurled insults and names, they didn’t take any physical action, though Vince did warn the protestors of the protest that they might be putting themselves in serious physical danger if they stayed.

  “We want to stay,” Ivy heard a woman retorting back to Vince. “They can’t be here, and I have to leave?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Vince said. “I’m saying, there’s a whole lot of Kingsmen here, and some of their group is known to kill people they don’t like.”

  “Why don’t you arrest them?” the woman said, growing red now. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To arrest the bad guys?”

  Vince tilted his head. “I can’t arrest all of them just for being here. They, like you, have the right to free speech. We’re hoping none of the actual killers are present today, considering a whole sweep of them are in custody right now, I just wanted to let you know that—”

  “We get it, Officer,” the woman said. “We’re staying.”

  “It’s Detective, actually,” Vince grumbled, turning back toward Ivy.

  The crowd around them began cheering, as a modulated voice rang out through the crowd. Ivy narrowed her eyes at the screen. A generic face silhouette was against the screen.

  “Welcome, Kingsmen.” The crowd went quiet as words began to take form on the screen. The King. The crowd went wild. There was a long pause as the applause shook the space. Ivy blinked against the noise of it, flustered. She tapped her shoulder, the dull ache of it clearing her thoughts even as her body continued to tense.

  Ivy turned to Vince, her eyes wide. “Do you think he’s here?”

  Vince pressed a button on his radio, holding it against his mouth and yelling against the noise of the crowd. “Do we have a visual on the PA system? Speakers, microphones, behind the screen, everything.”

  The words “The King” sputtered across the radio a hundred tiny times as police waded through the crowd of people. Ivy and Vince made their way to the stage.

  “Thank you for coming to support our brothers and sisters. Their oppression by the justice system and the dark forces of evil witchcraft will not go unpaid.” The modulator made the voice slippery, like a snake drifting between its loyal handlers. Some people in the crowd were crying at the fake voice of their leader.

  Ivy slid past a group with red and yellow war paint, and she wondered if the young people knew they were at a rally for serial killers as opposed to a tailgate. One of them shook the jersey he was wearing with a cry of victory and took a swig from a water bottle that was clearly not filled with water. She checked behind the screen, beneath the stage, the heat of the pavement soaking through her shirt, the humidity of it coating her lungs. She hissed against it, moving her hand from the burning ground to a stray flyer for the event.

  “Clear around the stage,” Ivy said into her radio.

  “Found the PA system,” a voice said, staticky through the radio. “It’s a recording. CD.”

  “10-4,” Ivy said. “When it’s done, take it as evidence. We’ll see if we can un-modulate the voice.” She waited for the confirmation, which came a moment later.

  The motion of someone falling caught the corner of Ivy’s eyes. One of the protesters protesting the protest had fallen from her pedestal into an angry bunch of Kingsmen threatening to kill her like they had “killed her witch friends.”

  “I told them,” Vince muttered as he rushed past her. He said something else that sounded like “…Never listen!”

  She followed at his heels. “Break it up,” she yelled, yanking the collars of two Kingsmen, while Vince grabbed the woman, her hands reached out like claws. She turned said claws on Vince.

  “Please do not make me arrest you,” Vince said, forcing her hands away from his eyes. “My car is a long walk from here.”

  She jerked her hands away from him and kicked him in the knee. Vince stifled a moan, locking the woman’s wrists in his hands.

  “You’re on their side!” she screeched, hysterical.

  Vince dipped his head for just a moment, pulling out his handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began, locking her hands behind her back. He looked at Ivy, who shook her head. He could manage the walk back alone. She wasn’t doing that more than twice today. He narrowed his eyes in betrayal, and she tried not to laugh. The woman screamed with each click of the cuffs, drawing more attention to herself.

  “You see!” she yelled. “The Kingsmen have their talons in our law enforcement!”

  Phone cameras whipped out, and Vince raised his voice to a comical level, adding a bit of flair to his performance. “You have the right to an attorney! If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you!” He steered the woman away, and Ivy pitied the journey before him.

  +++

  Sunday, March 27, 2017, 10:18 a.m.

  Every loud noise had David Webb nearly jumping out of his skin. He hadn’t realized when the social media event had advertised being open to costumes. It would lead to hundreds of people showing up in clothing and masks and makeup, which made them appear as otherworldly creatures or characters from popular horror films. He had a particular distaste for the clown masks, and David didn’t even think he was afraid of clowns.

  The hissing voice of the King slipped through the crowd, a river flowing around rocks and sandbanks. David prickled at the sound of it, at the fire it stirred in his veins until he was made of flame, made of metal turned red and lava turning bubbling and popping, ready to explode.

  There were security checkpoints to get onto the street, but they hadn’t been careful enough. David had parked behind a smoothie shop with a back entrance and had walked through to the street in through the front door, the little bell alerting the already-busy staff to his presence too late. The thought made him wonder how many guns and knives and people crazy or stupid enough to use them had managed to evade the checkpoints.

  The aerosol can in his pocket weighed heavily, and he imagined half of himself made of metal. Off-kilter and off-balance by the weight of responsibility in his pocket.

  “Kingsmen, we must take responsibility for the cleansing of our world from demonic magic. We must cast away those who cast spells. We must vex those who cast hexes!”

  David didn’t think the King’s use of language was all that clever, but the groups around him were losing their individual sanity and giving in to the rushing current of the group’s mentality. David had done enough research on wartime mentality to know how quickly groups could be convinced to do horrible, terrible things to others. But the roar of the group around him was deafening; hundre
ds won over in mere seconds.

  The screen at the front showed images of countless young men and women claiming to be Prophetess followers or witches, the word “Eliminated” stamped across their smiling faces or dramatic profile pictures. He looked away before his daughter’s face could pop up. He didn’t want to see her bright smile turned out onto the people who had murdered her in cold blood. Instead, he turned his focus back onto reaching the center of the mass of Kingsmen to release the dose of DB1307. Maybe they would think a witch had released a curse on them, that the group they hated so much had finally found a way to fight back against them. It would be fitting, he thought.

  Or maybe they’d believe they were being struck down by some righteous force, and it would scare them into oblivion. Even better, because it would show them their error as opposed to giving them more ammunition against the L.A. coven, who they were desperately seeking.

  “We will comb the streets for the new location of the L.A. coven. If we destroy their stronghold, the rest will fall away, my friends. They will fall away, and we will have begun the process of releasing our world from their darkness. Let’s start in this small corner and work toward ridding the earth!”

  The crowd roared, and David purposely bumped shoulders with people as he made his way to the center of the crowd. His fingers worked around the trigger mechanism of the can.

  He found what seemed to be the middle of the crowd and looked around. He very well might get extremely sick from DB1307, but it would pass. He would at least know what was happening to his body. He wanted these people around him to know the helplessness of being at the mercy of someone else. He wanted them to feel the fear his daughter felt.