by Amir Lane
“Iron tattoos,” he said. “What'd you do to fuck up that bad, huh?”
“Fucked the boss’s wife.”
Terrel gave me another lewd look that made me consider bodily harm. It wasn't even the comments making my blood boil, but the knowledge that, directly or not, he'd hurt my partner. Once again, Rowan beat me to the punch. He was remarkably calm considering only moments ago, he'd been the one close to breaking the table.
“Nah, the wife'd be too old for you. Daughter? Son? I know you like ‘em young.”
The smug look dropped right of Terrel’s face. Panic flickered through his eyes before he managed to get his expression back under control. He grinned again, but it was tense. Forced. He was worried.
Good.
“Who are you?” he asked, too panicked to be completely casual.
Rowan reached into a pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a small stack of photographs. It may have seemed old-fashioned, but a lot of detectives had been on the force longer than Google existed and were technologically challenged at best. Technology also failed. Having physical copies never hurt, and they were much easier to bring into a prison than a tablet. I glanced around and spotted a few officers looking our way with curiosity, but none of them seemed interested enough to come over. My skin itched with the urge to protect us with a barrier. If I didn’t feel like a wet match, I might have tried. I would have to keep an eye on them.
“Stop me when you see something you recognize,” Rowan said as he laid out the photographs.
Terrel’s eyes were on him, staring with such an intense focus, I wasn't sure he was even seeing Rowan. It was like he was trying to see underneath all the plastic surgery, to see who or what he really was.
“How about we play a game,” he suggested.
Rowan's hand faltered, but he didn’t stop laying the photographs like he was dealing cards.
“Sure. Do you know this one? Someone complains about you, you get beat.“
Terrel’s eyebrow rose. The words were clearly familiar to him. He looked Rowan over again. I wanted to put myself between them. I knew he said didn’t need it, but I wanted to protect him. When Terrel didn’t find what he was looking for, he snorted and put that grin back on.
“Afraid that one won’t do me any good here. I was thinking you tell me something, I tell you something. Come on, who are you? Really.”
All the photographs were laid out on the table, twenty-seven in all. Most of the victims were young. Runaways. I recognized Cerys Rees, and the siren kid Indira and Rowan had been looking into. Rowan leaned forward and said something in a language I didn’t know. It might have been either Russian or Belarusian, both of which were spoken in his home country. I’d looked it up on my phone in the parking lot.
Whatever he said seemed to have the effect he wanted. Terrel’s face went pale and his lower lip trembled. He shook his head.
“You’re dead. They told us you died.”
I felt completely out of the loop here. Why had Rowan even brought me along if he was just going to engage in some cryptic back-and-forth with this guy?
Because we were partners, because he needed support to literally confront the monsters of his past, because he needed someone to make sure he didn't break this son of a dog’s face in.
If it was important, he would fill me in later, I told myself. This wasn't about me, not unless things got out of hand.
They went back and forth for a moment. A sarcastic part of me wondered if he was doing it to get back at me for always speaking Arabic in front of him. Finally, Terrel touched one of the photographs with a trembling chained hand.
“I know this guy,” he said.
Good, we were back to English.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Beside me, Rowan twitched, as though he'd forgotten I was here. He tipped his head toward me and gave the slightest hint of a smile to tell me he was okay.
“Homeless kid. Sean McCown, I think. He used to run drugs for a gang out of York. I heard he started selling outside their territory. Got his throat ripped out for his troubles.”
“Throat, or vocal cords?”
Rowan raised an eyebrow at me. I didn't take my eyes off Terrel. I wanted to see every reaction to know if he was stringing us along.
“Vocal cords. Kid was a banshee.”
“Was that to make a statement? Don't look at him, look at me.”
Sweat beaded along Terrel’s hairline. Something about Rowan made him nervous. Rowan certainly seemed to know a lot of his secrets. Secrets I wondered why he wasn't sharing with the police. Why wouldn't he want a guy like Terrel stuck in prison for as long as physically possible? He was looking at no less than 25 years for homicide, 50 if the court decided to give him the parole ineligibility period for each murder consecutively, but he could have been doing so much more.
Terrel shook his head. “I mean, could have been. But there’s a bit of demand for banshee vocal cords. Some singers eat them. Two birds, you know.”
As someone who had once eaten cow heart, I just wanted to say, eugh. I tapped a finger against the picture of Cerys Rees’ throat. The marks were so similar to the tattoos, I couldn’t — wouldn’t — believe there wasn’t a connection.
“Do you know anyone who could do this? Someone who might be selling parts?”
“No,” he said, far too quickly.
I opened my mouth to tell him I knew he was lying, but Rowan leaned forward.
“You tell us what you know, or I tell them —” He nodded to the officer closest to us. “— what I know.”
Terrel went pale.
“I am not ratting out a cop,” he hissed.
Rowan and I looked at each other, both our eyes wide in surprise. I hadn't wanted to consider the possibility. Part of me must have thought about it, but the thought had been too revolting to consciously consider. A police officer covering this up was bad enough. But a police officer actually being involved? Actually trying to choke a girl to death with barbed vines and cutting out her wings?
“You're full of shit,” Rowan said, expressing both our thoughts.
Terrel held his hands up, the chains keeping them close together. The tips of his fingers were shiny with old burn scars.
“You think I am? You think I'd risk you running your mouth to bullshit you?”
I curled my hand around the edge of the table and dug my nails into the soft wood underneath. A cop. A fucking cop.
“Who?” I demanded.
Terrel licked his cracked lip, his eyes darting between Rowan and I. The sudden shift in demeanour worried me. “I'm dead. I tell you and I'm dead.”
“You're dead either way.” The callousness of Rowan's voice nearly made me shudder.
“Look. It's not just the cops I'd be snitching on. I'd be telling you which gang. You tell whoever whatever, at least it'll be quick. I'm not too proud to admit I'm a coward when it comes to these guys.” He hesitated, swallowing. His eyes flickered anxiously over Rowan again before turning to me. “I will tell you one thing. Rumour has it, there’s a dryad prince involved. Dunno how or who, but he is.”
I frowned. “Dryads have royalty?”
“No,” Rowan said, almost too quickly. “He’s lying.”
“I’m not! The big boss of a dryad clan would brand the soles of his offspring’s feet so they could always be identified,” Terrel said.
Rowan slammed his hand on the table. Both Terrel and I flinched, and a guard straightened up. There was something wild in his expression.
“Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut your lying, piece of shit mouth before I shut it for you.”
Terrel started shouting for a guard. We swept the photographs up and left without another word. I tried not to blame Rowan for snapping like that. It wasn’t his fault, this was a difficult situation for him. We got more than I'd been expecting. It was more of a lead than I'd been able to come up with on my own.
The instant we stepped outside the prison, Rowan's steely facade crumbled. He dropped to
his knees. His body trembled as he gasped for breath. I crouched beside him and put a hand on his back.
“Rowan. Rowan, listen to me, habibi. You're safe. Nobody can hurt you.”
I pulled him against me, rocking him gently. He grasped at my arms, clinging to me.
“I can’t do this,” he gasped. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this.”
‘This’ was already done. He'd done it and he'd made it out in one piece. Still, he kept repeating those same words, “I can’t do this,” over and over. As I rocked him, I thought of the bruises around his neck, and I had to wonder, not for the first time, if any of this was a good idea.
Chapter Nine
Dryads in the police force were a dime a dozen. I wouldn't have called Special Crimes indicative of the diversity in the rest of the police force, but dryads did make up about a quarter of police personnel in Toronto.
“How are we supposed to find one specific dryad without alerting the whole force?” I muttered, jabbing my fork into the tabbouleh.
Rowan took the parsley salad from me and scooped some onto his plate next to the falafel wrapper. I had barely touched my sandwich. Not even the baklawa next to my plate could tempt my appetite.
“We know he's connected to a gang. And we know he's probably a nightshade.”
“And that will be so easy to identify.” I forced myself to take a bite of my sandwich. The tahini was starting to make the bread soggy. “What kind of dryad are you?”
In the ten months, and I'd never asked. It had always seemed personal but after what we'd already talked about, this hardly seemed personal at all.
Rowan stared at me with a raised eyebrow. “I'm going to let you think about that one for a second.”
“You're actually an oak? That's not just a really obvious last name?”
“My last name is actually Udalets. It means ‘heart of oak.’ I just figured, while I was changing my first name, I might as well change the second name. Actually, the term ‘dryad’ originally refers to oak nymphs.”
I almost asked what his first name was, but I caught myself before the words were out of my mouth. Asking for his dead name would be like asking someone their fae name. It wasn't done. If Rowan wanted to share that with me, that was up to him. Partners or not, friends or not, it wasn't my place to ask. He’d shared more than enough with me. I didn’t even ask if Udalets was his name or his dad’s. It didn't matter. This was more he'd opened up since we'd met, and I didn't need to push it tonight.
“My last name means ‘most honest,’” I said.
Fair was fair. Though I didn't appreciate Rowan's amused snort.
“I can see that. You're the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“I am not!”
“Okay, okay. Tell me a lie. If I fall for it, I’ll…” Rowan looked around the restaurant. “I’ll ask Uncle Aziz for his hottest pepper and I’ll eat it right here. You got that, Uncle Aziz?”
Uncle Aziz, who was not really related to either of us, rolled his eyes from over the counter. He was probably thinking the same thing I was. Like he’ll eat anything hot.
“If I win, you do my paperwork this week,” I countered.
“Done.”
We shook on it. I took another bite of my sandwich as I mulled over possible lies, my appetite returning.
“I was born in Beirut.”
“You were born in Sidon, you’ve told me that.”
“I'm 29.”
“You're 31 and you know it.”
“I have two older brothers.” I had an older brother and a younger brother.
“Lie.”
“My aunt on my mother’s side is a chiropractor.” She was a dentist.
“Lie.”
“I was blonde all through University.”
“Lie. Your eyebrow is doing that twitchy thing it does when you lie.”
“Hah!” I clapped my hands together. “I was! I have the pictures to prove it.”
Rowan groaned and buried his face in his hands. I took pity on him when Uncle Aziz brought out the pepper.
“You don't have to eat it,” I said. “Not now, at least. Do it tomorrow in front of everyone.”
He made a gesture with his hand that made the woman at the table next to us gasp.
I let out a sigh before I could stop myself. As much fun as this was, and as much fun as it would be to watch him eat a hot pepper, we still had more pressing things to worry about. Everything seemed so much more urgent now that we knew an actual cop was responsible for at least one of these attacks.
“If we can at least figure out which gang is trafficking these organs, we might be able to narrow down who our dryad is,” I said.
“Or at least where he's operating out of. If only we knew an expert in the gangs in the city, someone we saw every day who was up to speed on our investigation. If only.”
“Do you ever get tired of being sarcastic?”
“No, not really.”
“Kieron?”
“Kieron.”
We met at my house. It was the obvious choice. Kieron had a hyperactive daughter who was rebelling against bedtime, and Indira lived with his two — three? — foster siblings. Rowan had moved to a new apartment and informed us he had no intention of sharing the address with anyone. I wanted to ask if that included Kseniya, who I personally felt should have been an ex-girlfriend with the trouble she’d allegedly brought, but it was neither the time nor the place. So, the place was mine.
Kieron was the last to arrive. He handed Rowan a long, rolled up sheet of paper and shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a dining room chair. The twin silver crosses around his neck shone beneath the chandelier. He didn’t have the same apprehensions about the metal as I did. Silver didn’t do much for the Irish, or so he’d once told me.
“Sorry I'm late,” he said. “Meeting ran late.”
“You didn't miss anything,” I said.
He smiled appreciatively and took the paper from Rowan. Unrolled, it took up most of the table.
“I also had to get this printed up. No cause for anyone to get suspicious, either. I get this done every couple of months.”
‘This’ was a large map of Toronto with two sets of lines dividing it, one in blue and one in red. I recognized the blue ones as precinct divisions. At each intersection was the precinct number. The Weston neighbourhood — my neighbourhood — was in D12. Weston was divided in three red sections. As with the precinct divisions, each red section had a letter in its corner. Before I could ask what they were, Ariadne slipped into the dining room. She was wearing casual clothes, having gone to her apartment first, and her makeup was gone. I had told her I was having company before she came over, but she might have needed a break from Deva.
“If you guys don't need anything from me, I’ll be upstairs finishing Breaking Bad and pretending you're all playing poker. If anyone asks, Fairuz lost. She has the worst poker face. Her eyebrow twitches when she lies.”
I smacked her leg as she kissed my hair. Rowan let out a victorious sound at the confirmation that I was a bad liar. Since when was that a flaw?
When we were sure she was upstairs and out of earshot, we turned back to the map.
“Are these the gangs?” Indira asked, tracing one of the red lines.
“They are. And these —” Kieron motioned to one of the black spots on the map. “— are where our suspected victims were found.”
Suspected. Right. Because some of these victims really could have been unrelated; copycats or coincidences. That could either make this easier or more difficult. If we could establish a pattern, we might be able to rule some victims out. We’d already taken the humans out of the list we’d pulled together.
“Don't we already know our inside man is a— What's the one with the thorns?” Indira asked, turning to Rowan.
“Nightshade,” Rowan said. “I found three on the force, and I'm sure there are more. If it were that easy, we’d already have our man. Or woman.”
“Besides, we ne
ed to be able to connect him to a crime,” I added.
“So we narrow down our gangs and do some asking around. If we have a dirty cop, someone will know,” Kieron said.
The victims crossed seven precinct and three gang territories: Ruby Vipers, Jade Jackal Association, and Black Birches. Apparently, gangs had a thing for alliteration.
“Black Birches are a dryad gang, aren't they?” Indira asked.
Kieron began to answer but Rowan cut him off.
“Yeah, but they don't deal in this sort of thing. They dabble in some shady shit, more weapons and drugs. They’ll give you the tools to kill someone, but doing it themselves is ’against the rules’.”
“Last I heard, that's more or less true,” Kieron agreed.
That left the Jackals and the Vipers. If Kieron’s knowledge was still up to date, either of them could have been responsible, and both of them boasted a healthy membership of dryads.
“Hang on,” Rowan said, tapping a finger against the 52nd division. “A couple months back, didn't a bunch of coke get stolen from these guys? They’re right by where that girl was attacked.”
“Things get stolen from precincts all the time,” I pointed out.
Maybe not all the time, but often enough. At this point, I couldn’t rule out any connection no matter how flimsy it was. We were still thinking broad at this point. And it wasn't like I hadn't made bigger leaps so far. Rowan snapped his fingers a few times, frowning.
“No, this was gang-related. Fraser in Organized Crime was telling me about it. I don't remember— Indira, give me a hand here?”
Indira looked between us, an almost concerned expression on his face.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You know you're going to lose something.”
Rowan nodded, and Kieron and I covered our ears. I tried not to be nervous when Indira used what Kieron called his ‘memory mojo’, but I couldn't help it. It was serious business. When memories were forced up, something disappeared to take its place. It could be anything from the kind of cereal he liked to his own name. If Indira messed up, he could wipe all of Rowan’s memories. His entire identity could disappear before we could do anything to stop it. Indira had never messed up before, so I would give him the benefit of the doubt. If Rowan trusted him, I had to.