She laughed and led the girl out. Sleep hit me like a small train.
I woke in the dead of night, sweating into Ivy’s cushions. Normally, you’d think that sort of thing would bother me, wrecking my friend’s shit, but images still crept around my skull, killers in cloth woven from shadow, the warp and weft of nightmare. Most things I remembered. My father’s rage. Near-death experiences.
But prison lurked in the shadows, and I only got glimpses of memory, random bursts from an erratic radio station. It was as if looking at it all, facing the entire thing head-on, would scar something in me deeper than all the other experiences of my life.
They still lingered, vivid splashes of color on a gray backdrop. A pool of blood, oozing under the crack of a 3-inch steel door. A shadow, swinging in the afternoon sunlight. Screams from the shower, more blood washing into the drain. The sound of a lock smashing into a skull. All these things, piling up, gaining weight. I shook my head and forced myself to get up, wandering to the window.
The street lay in blue shadow and half-light from the moon, streetlamps punctuating the dark like shouts in an empty room. Nothing moved. Not even the creepy fucker standing in the alley where I’d left the body. I did my best to appear as if I didn’t exist. A minute dragged by, then two. He blinked, and then shuffled away, and I let out a breath that fogged the glass. I turned away and sat heavily on the couch, running my hands across my face and through my hair.
I needed a plan.
I pulled the dollar across the table, smoothing it out. A red spot marked Washington’s cheek, and I rubbed at it absently. It didn’t come out. A thought hit me, and I pulled away from the dollar. Vincent’s dollar. Vincent's cursed dollar. I swore loud enough to wake the neighbors, and the door opened, Ivy strolling in. A frown creased her forehead.
"What’s up, buttercup?" she asked.
"Motherfucker set me up."
"Who?"
"Vincent."
I gestured at the dollar, and she raised an eyebrow.
"It’s cursed," I said.
She walked over to the coffee table and leaned in, then reached into her coat and pulled out a stick of something that she fired with a lighter. Fragrance filled the air, and she moved it over the dollar. The smoke took on a deep purple, and the stick in her hand flared, and then went out. Ivy made a low whistle.
"Wow. That guy’s a dick," she said.
"How so?"
Granted, I knew Vincent was a dick already. Not specifically how.
"Someone dropped a blooding curse on it. You own it; you get your ass kicked until you give it up. Who gave it to you, anyway?" she asked.
"Your buddy—Locke?"
She shook her head. "I don’t know what he’d have to do with thi—wait. Did you say Vincent?"
"Yeah."
"Vincent Cagliostro?"
"Yeah, everybody knows the guy. In the family way, a little vicious, pays well. Why?"
She shook her head. "You dumb motherfucker."
"What?"
She held up a hand. "Wait. Do you really not do research on your clients?"
"I’m discreet," I said defensively.
"Or dumb."
I opened my mouth to reply, and she held her hand up a second time.
"Wait wait wait. I want to savor this. You’re so dumb you’d put a TV dinner in the VCR," she said.
"Hey-"
"You’re so dumb it takes you an hour to cook instant rice."
"Wha-"
"You’re so dumb if you saw a ‘Wet Floor’ sign, you’d stop and piss on it."
"Are you done?"
She was giggling hard enough to need to catch her breath, and I just watched her.
"Okay, Carrot Top. What’s the deal?" I asked.
"The Cagliostros are notorious witch hunters, you stupid shit. Which you’d know if you ever bothered to read a book, or ask me a question that wasn’t ‘Gee Ivy, how do I walk and chew gum at the same time?’"
"Ahh, shit."
Ivy nodded, and walked to the fridge, rustling around. "So, you brought a witch hunter down on yourself," she said. "What’s your plan?"
I shrugged. "I could just punch him 'til he falls down."
She came up out of the fridge with a carton of eggs, some cheese, ham, and mushrooms, and tossed a pan on the stove, mixing the ingredients with a brutal efficiency. I watched as she poured the mixture into the pan and tossed in some peppers from a jar.
"You’re making us breakfast?" I asked.
"Yeah, you got somewhere to be?"
I shook my head and sat on the couch, staring at the dollar. I obviously couldn’t go after Vincent directly, and I still had to learn where this new demon circle came in. I put my head in my hands, racking my brains. Ivy plopped a plate of steaming eggs and toast in front of me, alongside a glass of orange juice.
"Eat," she said.
I stuffed forkfuls of the food into my mouth, the eggs light and fluffy and gooey, the ham sweet and salty, the peppers spicy. It was all incredibly good. Ivy followed suit, and we ate in silence for a few minutes.
"What if you start at the bottom?" she asked.
"Like?"
"Like Jacobs. Seems like this whole thing started with him."
"How so?" I asked, not seeing the connection.
"He hired you, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah, but he seemed genuinely broken up about his girl," I said. "I’m not sure he’s in on this. I think he might have been a pawn as well."
Ivy shrugged. "Find out what Vincent’s got on him. Maybe you can turn it around. If it’s not him, move up the chain. Locke’d be your next best bet."
"No solidarity among witches?"
She made a face. "Warlock. And not for the ones that sell out the people I like."
"Oh, you like me now?"
"I—look—you know what I meant-"
"You like me, you want to kiss me, you want my booty," I sing-songed at her.
Ivy snorted and threw a piece of ham at me.
You can’t always control when or with who you spend your time, but the times you can, I suggest you enjoy the small moments. We fell asleep on her couch, empty plates on the table before us, Ivy’s feet across my lap, my head leaning into the plush cushions. Sleep, for one of the rare moments in my life, remained blissfully devoid of nightmares. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was Ivy’s news of Jacobs and his daughter’s reunion, the girl no worse for wear. Maybe it was just that even demons need rest. Whatever the cause, when I woke to the gray filter of dawn and Ivy snoring, I was grateful.
I slipped out from under her and used the bathroom, then padded to the big glass windows. I paused, breath caught. The man from the night before stood across the street. He saw me and raised a tentative hand, and I stepped back, calling on Regnos, the demon awakening with a snarl. I rushed from the apartment, the door banging into the frame, and down the stairs, bursting onto the sidewalk. I charged across the asphalt and into the alley. Empty. No stranger, no body.
"What is it?" a voice asked from behind me.
I squealed a very manly squeal and pressed myself against the wall.
"Jesus, Ivy!"
"What?" she asked, the vision of innocence.
I opened my mouth, expecting something witty, something sarcastic. Instead, I squeaked.
"What?" Ivy asked again, concern replacing the smile that played across her lips.
"I don’t-"
Pain blared into my body, an intruder on spiked feet, playing bagpipes. I groaned and went to my knees, wrapping my arms around my ribs.
"Jack!" Ivy shouted, but it was too late.
The pain swept in waves across nerve endings firing like sparks trying to start a larger fire. I managed to open my eyes, meaning to wave Ivy away. Instead, I saw the lines etched into the concrete. Sweeping curves, Enochian keys, circles in circles, connected by more looping swirls. I recognized an awakening circle for what it was and had only time to collapse within the confines of the trap before pain blacked out my cons
ciousness.
"Again!" Ramirez’s slap rang in the cold stone room and I winced, a hand to my now-hot cheek.
"I don’t understand what this is supposed to accomplish," I said, trying not to make it sound like a whine.
"It’s supposed to teach you control."
I sucked in a breath and looked around the room. Plain wood, stone floor, isolated. Escher’s Rest was as far from civilization as a man could get without being off the grid entirely. He said it was safer that way, safer for the people in the city, safer for myself. So far, he’d been right. So far, he had been right about a lot of things. My self-destructiveness, my selfishness, my self-loathing.
It was Ramirez that showed me the patterns, the tattoos that could bind my demons, make them something that I owned, and not the other way around. It was Ramirez that held me in the awakening circles as we bound each—keeping my body healthy while the demon raged against its bonds. And now it was Ramirez kicking my ass while he tried to teach me to be more than the monster I’d been.
He hit me with a doubled fist, and I spat blood. Rage boiled within me, making my hands shake.
"Again?" he taunted.
"You hit like my grandmother."
"Your grandmother was a Golden Gloves champion?"
"Sailor. You smell like one, too."
He grinned. "Pendejo," he said, and punched me again.
It sent me reeling, and I staggered to one side.
"Is this how you’ll do it?" he asked. "A smart mouth and a glass jaw ain’t gonna help anyone out there. Or maybe you’ll just bore them to death. Maybe you can run away, like a hurt bird, lead the bad men away? You’ll make a good decoy. Maybe that’s all you’re good for. Ain’t real smart. Ain’t real-" he tried to finish. I didn’t let him.
Regnos flared in my chest and I caught the old man with an uppercut. He lost contact with the earth for a moment, crashing down. I stood over him, knuckles aching, chest heaving. When he opened his eyes again, he laughed.
"Nice job, miho," he said as he worked his way to his feet, a pained grimace flitting across his features.
His jaw was already starting to bruise. He clapped me on the back, and I spat another wad of bloody phlegm onto the stone and wondered why all the men I knew only knew how to teach through pain.
I snapped back to reality, Ivy crouched beside me, stroking wet hair away from my face.
"Jack," she said.
"Ivy."
"You okay?"
I didn’t particularly know. Something in me moved, and I reached out to it, grabbed it by its metaphysical throat and pulled it into the light. It was yellow, the color of sandstone in the desert, with beady black eyes and thorny skin. I named it. Ramirez always said that was the most important part, the naming. It gave you power over a thing.
Praedolor.
It shivered and squirmed, and dissipated into its own pattern. I opened my eyes and sat up, and Ivy dropped back onto her haunches.
"What happened?" she asked.
"New roommate."
A smell came to me, thick and acidic, sharp. I moved my hand and noticed it was wet.
"I threw up?" I asked Ivy, my voice distraught.
She nodded. "Like Vesuvius."
"Ugh."
"Tell me about it. These are Manolos," she said, holding one vomit-spattered shoe out for inspection.
"Those were nice," I said.
"About four hundred dollars nice."
I stood, wiping myself off the best I could. "Ivy, if I had four hundred dollars, do you think I’d be sitting in a pool of my own puke?"
She shrugged. "Money can’t buy class."
"Touché."
"Where to now?" she asked, standing as well, and shaking the puke from her heels.
"Home, shower, and Jacobs."
"Good luck."
"Thanks. And hey, thanks for sitting with me."
She shrugged. "I had to roll you so you didn’t choke. So, you owe me for that, too."
"Check’s in the mail," I said, and started toward home.
I stood in the shower, trying to figure out what had happened in the alley. First, someone had cut that Enochian into me. Next, the awakening circle, set by, I assume, the stranger who lured me out. Who was that guy? How was he connected? What the hell shampoo was I using? It smelled like strawberries. I stepped out and dressed in record time, then fished out Jacobs’ card and gave him a call.
"‘Lo?" he answered, voice a bit slurred.
"Mr. Jacobs?"
He cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Can I help you?"
"It’s Jack Nyx. I was wondering if we could talk."
He cleared his throat again. "Yeah. After what you did for my girl, yeah. Same place?"
"That works," I said, and hung up.
The man was starting to grow on me. Anyone that can keep a phone conversation to under thirty seconds has a good chance of making it into my circle of friends. I left the apartment, taking the long way to Flamberge. I wanted Jacobs to sweat it out, to wonder what I was after. I may have liked the man, but like doesn’t translate to trust.
It was a beautiful day. The closer I drew to the square with Flamberge, the louder the sounds of life grew, until they burst upon me as I exited a side street. I made my way to one of the tall tables, ordering a beer and a plate of street tacos, my stomach rumbling in agreement.
While I waited, I watched the crowd. Couples canoodled in the sunshine, and Llyrial let out a mournful sigh. I smiled and took a swig of beer, tipping the bottle up. A voice across the table made me put it down.
"Mr. Nyx?" the man asked.
Uh-oh. I knew that voice. Rather, I knew that sort of voice. Authority. It expected jumping whether you were a frog or not. I swallowed my beer and looked at the man across from me. Fit, forties, short hair, skin almost midnight black. He had the look of a small building someone had squeezed into a suit. A nose broken several times jutted from his face under deep brown eyes.
Part of me, that inmate from years ago, curled in on himself. Tried to pretend he didn’t exist. If I liked Jacobs for his amiability, I disliked this man for what he represented. I tried to keep it from my face as I took the hand he offered.
"Detective Roberts, Mr. Nyx," he said by way of introduction.
I reached out and took his hand, his grip firm and sure.
"You have a minute?" he asked.
The waiter set the plate of tacos next to me and disappeared. I gave the food a longing look.
"Go ahead and eat. This won’t take long," Roberts said.
I picked up a taco and bit into it, beef and lime and cheese and cilantro making happy food sex in my mouth.
"You know a Mark Jacobs, Mr. Nyx?" he asked.
I nodded, my mouth full of joy.
"Where were you an hour ago?" he asked.
I set the taco down, finished my bite. "In my apartment, making a call to Mr. Jacobs. Why?"
"He’s dead, sir. Can you account for your whereabouts the past hour?"
"I took a walk around the city. I’m sure someone saw me."
He gave me a look that said he was weighing what I’d said. Then, he picked up my beer, took a swig, and nodded. He relaxed visibly. I did not. I was going to need a new beer. Who did that?
"Look. I know it wasn’t you. If it was you, you’d be covered head to toe in about a gallon of gore. But I need you tell me what your relationship to Mr. Jacobs was."
Great. So, one literal dead end. My brain screamed this was Vincent’s work. My gut sank with another realization, and my mouth took over.
"Is his girl okay?" I asked.
"She’s fine. Was out for the day with a relative.”
“What’ll happen to her?”
He shrugged, noncommittal. “DHS, maybe. Maybe her aunt takes her. You really care that much?”
Relief flooded me. “I’m still human. What kind of animal doesn’t care about the kid?”
He looked at me for a long moment, seemed to weight something. Finally, he nodde
d and continued. “How did you know Mr. Jacobs?"
"I did an odd job for him,"
"What kind?"
I sighed. Sandbagging wasn’t going to help anyone. "Someone took his daughter. I got her back."
"How?" the detective took another sip of my beer. My tacos were getting cold.
"Mostly punching, to be honest," I said.
"Who took her?"
I shrugged, tried to pretend I didn’t know. "Bunch of crazies out on the docks. I’m sure they’re gone now."
Roberts finished my beer, setting the bottle down. He pulled a card from inside his jacket pocket and pushed it across the table to me. "Call me if you hear anything. And don’t up and leave town."
"Am I a suspect then?"
"I’m just saying, skipping town after I asked you questions about a dead man is bad form."
"I am a model citizen."
Roberts snorted and disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t doubt he knew about my record. Whether he cared remained to be seen, but I’d be stupid to think it didn’t matter. I tucked his card away, then ordered another beer and finished the tacos. You can call it cold, but I neither knew the man nor owed him a thing. I’d spent most of my life walking around with a combination of guilt and debt riding my spine like a coked-up monkey. I’d put the one to bed and paid the others. I was going to enjoy my damn lunch.
I sat back, watching the crowd but not seeing them. I didn’t know who wanted Jacobs dead, but I thought I might know why. My gut said he would’ve had some answers someone wasn’t prepared for me to have. That left me two choices, neither of which I was excited about.
I could go and talk to Locke again, or I could go back to the cult headquarters and look for clues. Both had their hazards. Locke had options at his fingertips if I pissed him off. He could pull my soul out like a piece of taffy or burn me down where I stood. He was also the one who gave me the dollar, so I didn’t feel like we stood on solid ground. Which left option two—back to the warehouse. If I took my time getting there, assuming the cops were their usual thorough selves, it would be empty.
I paid the check and left the waiter a hefty tip. I didn’t know if having a cop show up at one of your patron’s tables was bad for business, but I couldn’t imagine it was a boon. The market faded behind me as I made my way to the busier streets, hoping to hail a cab. I stepped from a side street onto the main drag, cars and people jostling for attention and position. I raised a hand, whistling loud, and for once, a car stopped right away. Skeletons and dice decorated the interior, and I smiled.
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