Dark Ends

by Clayton Snyder

  Flamberge was a trendy restaurant sitting on the edge of the town square, a bit of the hipster creeping into a city so uptight if you shoved a piece of coal up its ass, it’d shit a diamond the next day. And then invest it. The whole place was open-air -- tall round tables surrounded by barstools beside a brick grill that smoked and sizzled, sending the scents of beef, asparagus, and eggplant across the plaza. I took a table and ordered my second beer, something local and malty.

  Mark Jacobs found me in short order, sticking out in a city so white mayonnaise didn’t drive over the speed limit. He was a tall thin black man in an expensive suit and a nervous tic that made the side of one eye jump like someone was sticking him with a needle. His eyes were red, and the suit hung on him like a sheet on a set of antlers. Grief was rarely a mask, but a shroud. And his was fresh. He settled beside me, voice pitched low.

  "Are you Nyx?" he asked.

  I nodded. "It’s fine," I said. "Part of doing what I do means no one knows what I actually do. You can speak up."

  He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was clearer, but the rasp remained. He seemed to me a man on the edge of a breakdown. I’d have to step lightly. Men like that are brittle glass over a pit of razors. Push too hard, and they break and fall in.

  He fished inside his jacket.

  "My daughter," he said, and pushed a photo across the table to me.

  I picked it up. The girl in the photo was about six or seven, cherubic, happy. She had her father’s eyes and tiny braids. He took it back and smiled, a wan thing that clung to his lips like a life preserver on a drowning man.

  "She’s got her mother’s smile," he said.

  "What happened, Mr. Jacobs?"

  "I had… debts."

  "To men you don’t want to owe, and they took her."

  He looked at me, and his eyes could have broken my heart a hundred times. "I can’t pay."

  My stomach knotted. I saw where this was going. I either helped free a little girl, and pissed off some unpleasant people, or I refused, and became the monster I'd spent years trying to deny. For a moment, I wished I hadn’t opened the door that morning. Then I hated myself for the thought, and a wave a guilt washed over me. I’d had two fathers. My grandfather, and Ramirez. Some people are never so lucky. Just because I lost both didn’t mean I had the right to deny this girl a chance to know hers.

  I took the photo, gently, from Mark’s hand.

  "What do you know?" I asked.

  Relief flooded his face. "They took her Tuesday. They gave me until Saturday."

  Shit. It was already Wednesday at noon, and I was just getting started. I nodded like he hadn’t just backed up a dump truck full of bad news and unloaded it on me.

  "Do you know where?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "No. Sorry."

  "Do you know who?" I did my best to keep panic and irritation out of my voice.

  "Caleb Markham."

  I frowned. I didn’t know the guy, but maybe Ivy did, or could find out. I wondered if he was a new player. It seemed unlikely that Vincent wouldn’t have already heard of him, or that he hadn’t sent Rizzo to explain the way the world worked. My brain spun with possibilities. Still—I looked at the photo, at the little girl, and swallowed the butterflies.

  "You’ll have her back," I promised.

  Mark practically collapsed on the table, clasping my hands in his. I held them for a moment. He trembled, a small vibration running through his skin. I thought again of the price of loss.

  "Thank you. Thank you," he said.

  A waiter I hadn’t seen cleared his throat beside me. I looked over.

  "I told him I’m picking up the check," I said. The waiter rolled his eyes and walked away.

  Despite the promising start to the day, rain began on my walk over, and by the time I reached Ivy’s neighborhood, the drizzle developed into a downpour. It fell in fat droplets that hammered the pavement, sending ripples across puddles as they landed, shaking the little pools in shimmering rainbows that skittered across the oily asphalt. Ivy's apartment was ten floors up in a loft she claimed was rent-controlled, but I suspected the landlord had been hexed into submission. I mean, she's a good witch, not a perfect one.

  I watched the traffic pass from a doorway across the street, rubbing the tattoos on my arms absently. It wasn't that I was afraid. I was terrified. I'd watched the woman pull the soul out of a living body and stuff it into a jar with all the professional detachment of a chef canning beets. That sort of thing tends to give a guy pause. Makes you think of the little things, you know? Chocolate. Sex. Not having your spirit trapped in a space smaller than an uptown studio.

  "Whatcha doin?"

  The voice at my elbow caused me to jump roughly a foot in the air, a high-pitched squeak escaping my throat, the sound like a strangled cat. Her laughter followed, deep and melodic. I turned, my hands shaking a little, and came face to face with Ivy. A grin split her face, and her eyes danced mischief.

  "Jesus, Ivy," I said.

  She laughed again, and I marveled at how a six-foot woman managed to sneak up on me. A man passing by gave us both side-eye and stepped across the street, his step hurried. The smile dropped from Ivy's face. I internally uh-ohed.

  “IS IT BECAUSE I’M BLACK?” she shouted at his retreating back, then gave me a smirk, hand on hip. "Goddamn white people. Present company excluded, of course," she said.

  "And Tom Hiddleston," I reminded her.

  She arched an eyebrow and pointed with one perfectly manicured finger. "Loki to you."

  And like that, the tension in my shoulders melted. I had built Ivy into this scary-ass witch over the past year and forgot what a delightful person she was. That’s the problem with time and distance. It lies like a man caught in a whorehouse. She hugged me, then pulled back and gave me a once-over.

  "You look like someone fed you a shit sandwich. C'mon, let's get out of the rain," she said, tugging on my arm.

  She led me to her building, and I followed her up to a penthouse on the tenth floor. When she opened the door, I stood for a moment, taking it in. When some people think 'witch', they think a hut deep in the forest, a cauldron, maybe a wart. Instead, Ivy's place was decorated in a kitschy art déco modern blend that somehow worked. Pristine movie posters in frames hung on the walls, everything from Ladyhawke to Black Panther, alongside black and white prints of the city, and shelves of books. To top it off, Ivy was completely wartless. If I wasn't such a gormless bastard, I'd suggest she was beautiful, but never to her face. I still had a healthy respect for not being turned into a newt.

  She flopped down onto a white leather couch and raised an eyebrow at me.

  "Doors keep the air in better when they're closed. And stop gawping. You look like a gomer."

  I closed the door and took an overstuffed recliner across from her, its white leather cool and soft. She let me settle in, and then leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “Been a long time, Jack.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was…”

  “Avoiding me?”

  “It sounds so rude when you put it that way.”

  She nodded. “No, I get it. I put your boyfriend in a jar.”

  “Yeah, that can be unsettling.”

  Silence fell between us for a minute. I pretended to inspect a foot tall statue of Loki. Accurate down to his codpiece.

  "So, what happened?" she asked, snapping my attention back.

  “Why am I here, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed. "Someone took a kid."

  She let out a low breath. "Well, shit."

  I nodded.

  Her eyebrow shot back up. "No quips? You must be serious."

  "I don’t know the guy who supposedly took her. Never heard of him, and if he’s operating in this town, and hasn’t been capped yet, he’s either an unknown, or a scary bastard," I said. "On top of it, I’ve got less than three days to find her."

  "Or what?"

  I shrugged. "No idea. I figure
d you might be able to drum up a lead," I said. "But…"

  "But what?"

  "I’m worried about what might happen if I get you involved."

  "Thanks. Save your overprotective bullshit for someone who can’t turn a guy into a puddle of goo. Got more wards laid on this place than a Suicide Girl's got tattoos."

  "Your knowledge of porn never ceases to amaze me."

  It was her turn to shrug. "Girl's got to have a hobby. You really worried about this?"

  "I mean, if this was a punching situation, Regnos could just tear them to shreds."

  She stood and wandered to the kitchen. I heard the clink of ice, the slosh of liquid, then something rattling, like metal on glass. When she returned, it was with a glass of whiskey, and a Mason jar filled with coins. She handed me the jar, kept the whiskey for herself. I held up the coins, wondering if she wanted me to do her laundry.

  "What's this?" I asked.

  She gave me a look that said if I were any dumber, she'd have to start putting corks on my forks. "A jar of coins."

  "Ha. Ha. Haaaa," I mocked, and spun the lid off. I reached inside, pulling one out.

  A patina of age clung to the silver. One side held a number of symbols I didn't recognize, the other an hourglass. The metal felt like it carried a faint charge. I frowned.

  "Talismans?" I asked.

  She nodded around the glass. "Yeah, I make them for the high anxiety clients off the street. They don't really need them, but it makes them feel better."

  "So, they're fake?"

  Ivy made a face. "How dare you," she said in mock outrage. "I am an honorable witch. Even if they don't need them, the world is a fucked-up place."

  I stuffed one in my pocket, and my anxiety dropped a little, the relief like when your ears pop after a plane descends.

  "Thanks," I said. "What’s it for?"

  She let go a long-suffering sigh, like I couldn’t possibly be this obtuse. "If he’s a heavy hitter, he’s gonna have a little mojo backing him up. Can you deflect curses?"

  "I once stopped a bowling ball with my face."

  "That does explain some things."

  "HA HA," I said, as loud and obnoxiously as possible. "So, about that lead…"

  "Ah. Ah." She wagged a well-manicured finger at me.

  "What?" I tried to look innocent.

  Ivy held up a finger and a thumb, rubbing them together. I sighed and dug a crumpled twenty from another pocket.

  "Mercenary," I said.

  "Pragmatist," she corrected.

  I shrugged and set the rest of the jar down. "Now what?"

  She sipped the whiskey, the room falling silent. I could almost hear the wheels spinning as she worked her big brain over.

  "I might know a guy," she said.

  "What kind of guy?" I asked, the anxiety trying to worm its way back in.

  She waved a hand, ice clinking, whiskey sloshing. "A guy. You know."

  "I feel like you're hedging."

  "No."

  "He's a witch, isn't he?"

  She took a long sip of whiskey.

  "Ivy?" I persisted.

  "Well, technically, warlock."

  "God damn it." My stomach did a flip, and even the demons raised a little hell in my head. None of us were fond of soul brokers, despite the relationship we had with Ivy.

  Witches and warlocks were as close to the top of human food chain as you could get. It went witches, demonites, humans, lawyers, and politicians. If we were the AK-47 of magic, witches were the nukes. And granted, I knew my fair share of extras, again, thanks to Ivy and the things under my skin, but I was still considered a middling talent. Only the Enclave approached the level of scary of pure magicians.

  "What can he do that you can't?" I asked.

  "He finds things. Never was my specialty."

  "What's it gonna cost me?"

  "Depends on if he likes you."

  "So, a lot?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe. But I adore you, so I'll put in a good word."

  "Got a name?"

  "Sebastian Locke."

  "Really?"

  She nodded. "Witchin' ain't easy. You think Ivy Sosye is my real name?"

  I blinked. It had never occurred to me. "I. Uh..."

  She laughed. "Dumb and ugly. Poor thing."

  "What is your name?" I asked, curiosity tickling my brain.

  "Like I'm telling you." She emptied her glass. "Okay, hun. You need to get your pasty ass out of my house. Girl’s gotta hustle," she said.

  "But..." I wheedled.

  "Keep that talisman on you. You'll be fine."

  "And if I'm not?"

  She shrugged. "You will be."

  We stood, and she walked me out. We didn't hug at the door or shake hands. Just a quick goodbye. Ivy slipped me a card with Locke's address on it, and then the door closed, leaving me in a quiet hallway.

  Not all members of the Umbra make Ivy-stacks of money. Some are natural entrepreneurs, others predators. And some are junkies. They like the power too much to spend time turning it into anything, instead choosing to tap in at every opportunity. And some simply didn’t have the power. Ivy tried explaining it to me once, in terms of gas tanks. Some people are sixteen-wheelers, and some are Fieros.

  The address on the card led to an alley behind a Starbucks. The smell of roasted beans and garbage hung in the air, pressed tight between the buildings. A trio of men leaned against one wall, shirtsleeves rolled up to their shoulders, backpacks sitting beside them. The smell of cigarette smoke joined the food, the three of them looking up when I entered.

  "Mr. Locke?" I asked.

  Ivy hadn’t given me a description, just an address and a coin. I had the feeling she liked to fuck with me at times. See Jack squirm. Squirm Jack, squirm. A skinny man with dusky skin and scars on his wrists held my gaze at the question.

  "Sorry, Ivy sent me," I said.

  He nodded and said something to the other men, who laughed for a moment, one reaching out to pat him on the back as he passed. He approached with a grin still clinging to his lips from the conversation. Regnos was convinced he’d called me a pencil dick. I ignored her.

  "How can I help you?" he asked.

  "Ivy mentioned you were good at finding things."

  "Depends. I don't do car keys or pets."

  I shook my head. "I have a more... concrete problem."

  He glanced at me, noticing the tattoos crawling up my arms for the first time. "I suppose you do. Please, continue."

  "There’s a missing girl."

  Locke nodded. "Got anything that belonged to her?"

  I shook my head. "Uh, no."

  "Fine. I'll need a little blood."

  I squirmed a little inside, as predicted. The last thing I wanted was a warlock having a piece of me, but it seemed I had little choice. I didn't like my odds when it came to Markham. He was an unknown quantity, and something still felt off, like a gate with a squeaky hinge. This put us on common ground at least. Well, close. I mean, he could have a bazooka.

  I held out my hand, and Locke produced a bowl from his backpack, the inside caked with a red substance that left little to the imagination. He stabbed my index finger with a pin, quick and almost painless. Blood welled from the wound, dripping into the bowl, and Locke motioned for me to move back.

  He dropped the pin in and lit a match, the flame guttering for a moment before steadying, then dropped that in as well. The match sizzled, and a thin wisp of smoke rose. It formed a shape I couldn't quite make out but seemed to make sense to Locke. He nodded and waved a hand, breaking up the fumes, and then looked up at me.

  "Payment?" he asked.

  "How much?"

  "A favor."

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach. My mother used to say a favor owed is a burden given, and in that at least, she'd been right. I nodded despite myself.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Hold onto this." He handed me a dollar, faded. The paper was thin and wrinkled—it’d been around.

/>   "What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked.

  "When the time comes, you’ll know."

  "Great."

  He smiled. I shrugged and dropped it into my pocket. Probably a witch thing.

  "Okay, where is she?" I asked.

  "No idea."

  "What?" I asked, my voice rising like a man who’s just caught his balls in his zipper. Locke’s friends looked over and snickered.

  He held up a hand. "I know where she will be, though."

  "Okay, where?" My capacity for patience had taken a precipitous dive.

  "Warehouse in the south side. Kruger Industries. Tomorrow morning."

  I looked at him a little longer, trying to determine if this was just a con, but he'd already lost interest in me, turning back to his friends. He said something I didn't understand and rejoined them to the sound of laughter. I wandered from the alley, the dollar brushing against my thigh through the thin fabric of my pocket, a reminder that I didn't know what the fuck I was doing.

  It's 1980... something. Sunday, I know that much. The old man sits in his La-Z-Boy, its overstuffed upholstery holding his beer-soaked form tight. The TV is blaring, little men in uniforms jostling for a ball, Pat Summerall's voice like warm honey over the tinny roar of the crowd from the speakers. A forty nestles in his hand, dew from the late summer heat coalescing in a little pool of the web where thumb meets palm. The whistles blow, and he curses at a play on the screen, the referee tossing a flag and waving his arms.

  My head is resting on the arm of the chair, and I ask a question—what was that, what's an offside, maybe what's a first down. I am eight. Without a word, his free hand draws back like a piston and his fist hammers into the spot where my scalp meets my forehead. I see stars and topple back, tears springing to my eyes. I feel blood, hot and wet, trickling down my forehead, and I'm crying.

  He barely sees what he did, staggering to the bathroom and running hot water. He throws a washcloth at me and tells me to hold it on the cut. To stop crying, I'm not dead. I suck the sniffles in and hold the cloth to the throbbing ache in my skull.

  Eventually, it stops bleeding, and he tells me to wash the cloth out. The game plays in the background, the beer still in his hand, the men fighting over a ball for millions of dollars, and pain behind my eyes. I stand at the sink and watch the pink run out of the white cloth, wring it out again and again, hoping I don't miss any, because that would lead to an explanation, that would lead to more pain.