"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
"Docks. Take your time."
He put the cab in gear and we lurched into traffic.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
She turns her head just enough to answer, purse on her shoulder, hand on the door. My stomach churns with anxiety.
"To your grandmother's. I'll be back in a bit," she says.
"Can I come?" I ask, the question out before I can stop it, trying to hold onto my fear, trying not to let it shake my voice like a tree in a summer storm.
She shakes her head. "Stay here. I'll be back in a bit."
The door closes, and I'm left alone with the silence that builds in the home, punctuated only by heavy tread, by the excitement of announcers on the TV hushed by the distance of rooms. I move on tenterhooks, sliding between rooms, feet arched on tiptoe, willing myself to be a shadow, willing myself to breathe as quietly as possible as the curses start, to not breathe, to sink into the wood and cease to be, if only for a time.
His voice comes to me, sharp with anger, the edge a warning.
"Get me a beer," he says.
I turn around, toward the fridge, toward the fuel for his fire, and pull the bottle from the interior, the glass cold against my palm. I stare out the window, at the place where my mother's car would sit, at the emptiness embodied there and within me, and clench my eyes tight.
"Today!" he yells from the other room. I jump, and on legs weary with fear, start back.
I woke from my doze in time for the cab to grind to a halt. I got out, tossed more money than I could afford to the cabbie, and made my way down the hill. The warehouse was as abandoned as I’d hoped. I mean, the rats were still there, but everything else remained the same. There were signs of recent disturbance—fresh tracks in the dirt, the door left ajar, but I chalked that up to typical police work, and let myself in.
The space was much the same as before—wide floor, steel-wrought scaffolding. I climbed the stairs to the platform where I’d confronted the priest and looked around. The altar had been disassembled, the bloodstains scrubbed, though several suspicious brown blotches marred the rusty steel. I knelt, looking under a small overhang on the walkway, hoping for a clue or any sign of how all this connected.
A scrap of paper caught my eye, and I snatched it, unfolding and smoothing out the creases. A smaller version of the circle on my back decorated the scrap. I sighed and sat back on my haunches, unsure of what this meant. Sure, someone was pulling the cult’s strings, but this got me no closer. I moved to stand, and something cold and hard pressed against my skull behind the ear.
I froze.
There are few things a man remembers permanently in life. First kiss, first fuck, first fight. First time someone presses a Glock 19 against your head. I sat very still and raised my arms. My heart hammered in my ears and I took slow breaths to control the panic that threatened to shake my hands from my wrists.
"You stupid motherfucker. He said you’d come back, but I didn’t believe it."
"Locke?" I said, the word an exhalation of exasperation.
"Sorry, Locke’s not home. But if you check the dumpster behind the 7-11, you can probably reach him," he said. "Now get up."
I felt a piece click into place. Someone got the drop on the warlock, killed him, then this goon took his place. I felt better that I wouldn’t have to beat him to a pulp. Not great, considering the corpse and the barrel against my skull, but better. I stood, hands still laced behind my head. I tried to turn to look, but the barrel of the Glock dug a furrow into my scalp.
"Where we going?" I asked. "Is it Disneyland? I can’t wait to see Mickey," I said.
I felt the pistol leave my skull for a moment and knew what came next. I don’t know if you’ve ever been pistol-whipped, but it’s not pleasant, and it sure as shit isn’t what they show in the movies. Best-case: bleeding and a mild concussion. Worst case: bleeding and brain damage. Pistols are heavy, and I didn’t care to catch one with my already-lumpy noggin.
I called on Regnos and felt rage flood up from below, adrenaline surging through my system, muscles tensing. I ducked and snapped back, my head hitting not-Locke in the ribs. Air blew out of him in a gust of curses, and I spun, grabbing the hand with the pistol.
Regnos snarled, and I snapped the man’s wrist, white bone breaking from the skin like a bird bursting from its cage. Sure, it was more like someone smashing a sausage with a hammer, but give me a break. I’m a cut-rate detective, not a poet.
I pulled him close to me while the pistol clattered to the ground and brought my knee into the inside of his thigh, connecting with tender skin and balls. He collapsed, cradling his injured parts, and I pushed Regnos back, fighting for control before I did something we’d both regret. I knelt next to him.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He coughed once and vomited, a thin yellow gruel. Maybe I ruptured something with that kick. I didn’t care. I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.
"Maandig!" he shouted. "Ramon, man."
Tears leaked from his eyes. I shook him a little.
"Did you kill Locke?" I asked.
"No, man, no. He was already dead. some guy just paid me to pass you the dollar, rough you up if I thought you were getting too close. You fucked up my hand, man."
"What about Jacobs?"
"Who?" he said. "My hand is real fucked up, man."
"Yeah. Guns are bad for your health. What’d the guy who hired you look like?"
"I dunno, man, it came through some lady."
"Blonde? Real proper?"
He nodded and retched again. I dropped his head and sat back on my heels.
"What’re you gonna do, man? You gonna kill me?" Ramon asked.
"What? No," I said. "But I am gonna leave you here for a while. You gotta learn not to play with guns. Okay, night sweetie," I said.
I punched him in the forehead, and he went down with a groan.
I left the building and the bleeding man behind.
I made a beeline for Ivy’s. I didn’t know how to get in touch with the blonde woman, but I had Jacob’s card, and she’d touched that, which meant that she’d a left a piece of herself behind. Ivy claimed she didn’t know how to find things, but I reasoned this was a person, not a thing, and they’d left soulstuff behind, Ivy’s specialty.
I knocked on her door, and she opened it right away, a flat expression on her face.
"Hey," she said and tilted her head to her left.
"Hey. Can I come in?"
“Now’s not great,” she said.
“Why? Do you suddenly have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
She jerked her head again.
“Oh, right,” I winked. “Special friend.”
Ivy rolled her eyes and moved out of the way as Tall, Blonde, and Manicured stepped into view. She had a pistol in one hand and a carved rod of what looked like birch in the other.
"Mr. Nyx. Glad you could join us," she purred.
"You have got to be the stupidest bastard on the planet," Ivy said as I stepped in and the woman closed the door.
"What?"
She jerked her head to one side. "This is a signal."
"Oh."
The woman with the pistol waved us over to the couch and we sat down. She took the chair opposite us.
"Let’s all have a nice chat, shall we?" she asked.
I eyed the rod in her hand, unconcerned with the gun. "What’s with the stick, Brunhilda?"
She gave me a thin smile and gestured with the pistol at Ivy.
"Tell him," she said.
Ivy swallowed. "It’s a Heartspike. If she lets it go, it will find the fastest way to its target and rip a hole in their chest to get at their heart."
"Oh good. My day wasn’t horrific enough already," I said. "So, what do you want to chat about?"
"Mr. Cagliostro is not happy with the operation your friend here has set up in the middle of his city," she said. "As a result, he’d prefer if she packed up post-haste, and
relocated somewhere else. You understand, this is a generous offer from a man of his stature."
"And if I don’t?" Ivy asked.
"If you don’t, well… Mr. Cagliostro has authorized me to move you," she said, and waggled the Heartspike.
The dollar still sat on the table, untouched. I looked at it, wondering just how much the blonde monster knew about Cagliostro. I didn’t think he was the type to share everything. Why would he? A cursed item he could pass to his enemies at any time, an item guaranteed to bring them misfortune and bodily harm? I’d keep that shit close to the vest.
Well, not in a pocket.
I looked at Brunhilda. "Deal," I said.
Ivy’s mouth dropped open and she shot me a look that could have withered a strong man’s heart. "Motherfucker, are you kidd—"
"Look, no one wants Ivy dead. You’re not a killer, are you? That jacket says Armani, and you don’t want blood all over that."
The blonde looked at me, a smirk on her face, one eyebrow raised. "Perhaps."
"Perhaps is good. We can work with perhaps. So, how about it? Ivy packs up, and you and Cagliostro go back to bumping evil uglies."
She snorted. "Fine. I will need a sign of your good faith however, Mr. Nyx. I don’t just trust any demon-possessed lunatic that wanders in."
Ivy sat to the side, throwing daggers with her eyes. Her lips moved, and I sincerely hoped she wasn’t tossing a curse my way. I pretended to cast about and find the dollar on the table.
"How about this?" I asked. "I’ll even sweeten the deal."
I pulled a pin from a glass dish on the table and pricked my thumb, then smeared it across the dollar. I stood, hands out, and approached, handing it out to the woman. She lowered the pistol, a spark passing between us as she took the dollar. Her hand twitched, and the pistol fell from numb fingers. I took my shot and grabbed her wrist, snapping it upward. The bone shattered, and she screamed. I grabbed the Heartspike, and the woman bolted, disappearing out the door. The spike slipped, slick with sweat.
"Ivy!" I shouted in warning.
Unfortunately, the woman’s last impulse must have been to change its target, and it slammed into my chest, pain blossoming outward from the point of impact like dye in water. I had enough time to feel my torso and stomach grow sticky, hear the crack of my sternum, and Ivy scream a word of power that blissfully knocked consciousness from my skull.
I don’t know what death looks like. I don’t know if it’s a chorus of angels, a fiery pit, or a black curtain that falls, and the only thing after is nothing. I did know I’d been in these cold gray corridors before. The Maze. Where demonites trained for control. Doors opened down the hall, and shadowed figures entered, lumbering and drifting.
I stood, bones creaking, and waited only a moment—long enough for the figures to resolve and my stomach to dive-bomb my feet like Buddy Holly heading for the mountainside. My father, his brow beetled, heavy sledge heads where his hands had been, what was once his tongue now an asp, its own tongue flickering as he opened his mouth and bellowed. Beside him, my mother, her head the wrong way, a caul of flesh covering her skull, thorns running the length of her black dress.
I ran.
The hall stretched to oblivion, or at least it seemed that way. As I went, I passed door after door, only stopping long enough to check one here, another there. They stood locked tight, and I fled as the deep bass rumble of my father’s voice drew closer, chips of stone raining on my head as he beat the walls with his fists. Over my other shoulder, I heard screeching as my mother stretched her arms, a low wail escaping the caul that encased her skull, her nails ripping into the walls.
I poured on speed, breaking into a sprint and putting distance between myself and my tormentors, legs quivering, lungs burning. I ran as far as I could, and then turned, trying to call on my demons, but no answer came. In desperation, I tore at the nearest door. Some deity must have felt merciful, because the door flew open, and I ducked inside, letting it slam behind me.
Ivy stood there, in a circle of light, screaming. At who or what, I didn’t know. Then she drew a fist back and punched me in the chest. Once. Hard. The action made my body spasm, and outside the door, the bellowing and wailing rose to a fever pitch, the sound of thorn and hammer ripping at the wood. Ivy hit me again, and the world flickered. I dropped to my knees.
"Ivy!" I shouted.
She reached down, her fist entering my chest and tugged. Searing pain flashed through me, the door shattering behind me. The world went black.
Ivy stood over me, the Heartspike in one gory hand. Sweat clung to her face, and veins stood out in stark contrast to the whites of her eyes. I blinked up at her.
"Ivy?" I asked.
She sobbed once and threw away the spike, then collapsed on me, her frame shaking, tears mingling with the blood on my shirt.
I woke with a pounding headache and an ache in my chest. Something held my ribs tight, and I lifted the light sheet, finding Ivy’d stripped me to the waist and bound me with a long strip of gauze. Red seeped into the center, Regnos’ tattoo peeking out the sides. I groaned. Until the wound healed and I could get the lines re-inked, my control would be tenuous. I’d have to watch how I handled things for a while unless I wanted a runaway demon in my head, or to trigger Xiphos.
Ivy appeared in the doorway of the guest room, a plate in her hand. She stopped when she saw I was awake, her face a mask.
"You’re up," she said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Xiphos,” I said.
Her lips made a tight line. “Do you know what that word means?”
I shook my head, tried to rub sleep from my eyes.
“It’s the Greek word for a god of death.”
“Fantastic,” I said.
“Feeling any better?” She asked, changing the subject.
"Yeah," I cleared my throat and sat up. "How long was I out?"
"About a day."
"Huh. Hungry."
She handed me the plate, a peanut butter and potato chip sandwich on it—my favorite—and a glass of milk. She watched me for a minute, and then spoke.
"You got lucky," she said.
I shrugged, my mouth full.
"I’ve always said you were dumb, but not suicidal. What the fuck were you thinking?" She asked.
I finished the sandwich and chugged the milk. "I was thinking I didn’t want you to die."
It was my turn to change the subject. "What about the woman?"
"Gone."
"Thank the small gods."
Ivy didn’t answer, and instead looked away. As she turned her face, I caught a glimpse of dark circles under her eyes, frizz in her hair. I swallowed my next sentence and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t turn back, but did put her hand on mine. We sat for a moment, silence surrounding us like an old friend.
Finally, she squeezed my hand and sniffed, once, then turned.
"What next, wonder boy?"
I shrugged and swung my legs from the bed, testing my weight. My chest and ribs sent up lances of pain, but I stood anyway, Ivy reaching out for me in case I fell. I swayed, and she pressed one hand into my hip, steadying me. I smiled my thanks and evened out, taking a breath.
I ached, and tiredness swept through me like a slow fire, but I could move. Which meant I could do something. Ivy stood, her hand still on my hip. It felt warm. Right. The gentle pressure was almost sensual. She opened her mouth, and I moved to cover it with mine. She pulled back, a laugh on her lips, and like that, the tension broke.
"Jesus, Jack," she laughed.
"What?" I asked, my cheeks red.
"You’ve got a hole in your chest."
"Yeah, good point," I said, and looked at the floor.
"No, this is," she said, and thumped me in the wound. Pain flared through my chest and I dropped onto the bed holding my sternum.
"Ow!"
"Yeah, ow. Keep it in your pants, fuckbrain. Now come on, let’s go see a man about some bullshit."
I pulled on a sh
irt and followed her out, wincing at the echo of pain that still rippled through me.
We sat in Ivy’s living room, drinking whiskey and thinking. I mean, I always think a little better while mildly altered. She leaned back, legs crossed at the ankles, head tilted toward the ceiling.
"What’s your plan?" she asked.
"I had planned on busting into his bar and beating him until he looked like red paste."
"And now?"
"I can’t risk overtaxing Regnos. Xiphos might come out. Or the new one," I said. "I have no idea what the consequences would be. And Llyrial is only any good if I want to fuck him to death."
"Which leads me to another question," she said. "Why haven’t you ever turned your little lust ray on me? Not good enough?"
"It’s not that," I protested. "You’re a friend, Ivy. And to be honest, that little bastard creeps me right the fuck out. I don’t even have any idea why I’m saddled with him."
It was the truth. Demonites get the demons they get. It takes some major mojo to get more. Which is what bothered me about the addition of Praedolor. I didn’t know how a vanilla like Cagliostro managed to bind the thing to me. Which meant he couldn’t be the last link in the chain. Someone either owed him something, or someone owned him. I just wondered who.
She took a sip of her drink and waved a hand. "Just fuckin’ with you. I know you and Cory had it hard at the end."
I was silent for a minute, reliving old fights, old hurts in the span of heartbeats. Ivy broke the quiet.
"C’mon," she stood. "Let’s go out, get you out of your head."
I followed her to the door, and down to the parking garage. She hit a button on a fob and a Mercedes beeped nearby.
"Stylin’," I said.
"Stylin’? Are you a Zach Morris fanboy?"
"Zach Morris is trash," I said, and got in the car.
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