The Hanged Man

by K. D. Edwards

  “Would you rather I continue to explain, or explain why I’m explaining?” Corinne fastballed back at him.

  “You know what I am. I know what you were. You know as well as I know that it’s not just our job to protect them from knives and swords.” “What I was,” she said. “I didn’t just stop being a Companion when Kevan died. I’m still very good at my work. For instance, I wouldn’t have sat there, like you, in the spot the sun will hit in fifteen minutes. And that jacket? You buy from Morrickson, don’t you? I used to, when I could afford them—but I’d always have to reinforce the side knife pockets, they get the most tear because of the angle. I always needed to add a double row of stitches.” She gave Brand’s neat line of single stitches a plain look.

  “We’re not doing this,” I said, and held up two hands, one to either of them. “Please go on with what you were saying, Corinne.”

  She held Brand’s eyes a few seconds longer, and nodded. “For a while—quite a while, years actually—Kevan remained unaffiliated. He commanded a small but interested market. We may have lasted like that indefinitely, but his wife, Mariah, had medical problems after giving birth to Corbitant, my—her youngest. She passed away after many months in the hospital. The hospital bills drove Kevan to find sponsorship, and the court most interested in sponsoring him was the Gallows. The Hanged Man has an interest in mutilation magics.”

  “Mutilation magics?” I echoed. “Corinne, what sort of magic did Kevan practice?”

  “Immolation,” she said. “You’re familiar with it?”

  I leaned back into the cushions. It was a form of death magic, sure, but at least there weren’t any zombies or dead cats. Immolation was on the veganism side of death magic. It harmed no one except the caster, and relied on manipulating the life cycles of bacterial and viral life. Most practitioners cultivated non-contagious forms of illness, colonizing their body in advance of heavy spells. They then used their innate magic to eradicate the microscopic life, and draw power from the death.

  The Hanged Man was a recognized master of death magics. Immolation was an obscure form of it. I could see how someone like Kevan Dawn-creek may have piqued his interest.

  “I’m familiar,” I said. “And I’m aware that the Hanged Man doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “He does not at that,” Corinne said quietly.

  “And Lord Dawncreek didn’t welcome Lord Hanged Man’s attentions?” I guessed.

  “He did not,” Corinne said. “My Kevan had dignity and values. Which, perversely, appealed to the Hanged Man even more. And . . .” Her hands continued to curl in and out of fists. “Do you know the only thing that appeals to someone like the Hanged Man more than a man with dignity?”

  I shook my head.

  “A man with dignity and three beautiful, young children.”

  The armor cracked. Manners failed. I could not, I would not, hear more. I just couldn’t.

  “Excuse me. The bathroom. That way?” I stood and pointed away from the spot I was sitting in.

  Corinne started. Brand half-rose.

  I walked away.

  * * *

  I closed the door behind me, and sat down heavily on the toilet. The plastic hinges had cracked. I tilted sideways as the seat skated off the marble rim. I got off the toilet seat, lowered myself to the ground, and focused on my breathing.

  For a good, long minute I just breathed, staring at the blue plastic fishes on the closed shower curtain.

  Years. I had spent years distancing myself from anything like what I’d survived as a teenager. Years spent burying every road, every path, every godsdamn breadcrumb that led to anything that resembled what I’d been put through. I did not take cases like this.

  And then I’d met Max, who’d survived something not completely unlike my own trauma.

  And then I’d met the lich, who had pulled my own memories out of my head and used them as catnip for his demented attentions.

  And then . . . What? Now this? Was I going to find out the Hanged Man didn’t just pursue young men and women, but children as well? Was I going to find out that this family—who had once been under my father’s protection—had faced such predation?

  When I had my pulse under control again, I got up and bent down to flush the toilet as an excuse for the delay. My sunglasses slipped from my breast pocket and plopped into the water.

  I stared at them and said, “Fuck you, Universe.”

  Someone gasped and slapped a hand over their mouth.

  I reached out and slid the shower curtain sideways, sending the cheap plastic rings skittering. The boy—Corbie—was sitting, fully clothed, in the dry tub with both hands on his face. A bag of gummi bears dangled from his fingers.

  “Should I ask?” I asked.

  Corbie opened his fingers wide enough to say, in that hoarse voice of his, “Ask what?”

  “Why you’re in the bathtub?”

  “I’m hiding stuff.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Corbie said. While keeping one eye on me, he slid his bag of gummi bears behind a bottle of off-brand shampoo.

  “I hide my snacks, too,” I said. “Apparently badly. I’m pretty good at making excuses for it, though.”

  Corbie nudged the conditioner next to the shampoo bottle. Satisfied with his concealment efforts, he climbed out of the tub. He was so small that he had to throw one leg entirely over the lip, pull himself on top, and lower himself down the other side.

  I thought that was the end of it, but then he leaned back into the tub and turned on the water. I watched, puzzled, as he let a good inch pool before turning the faucets off again.

  “Now that, I don’t do,” I said.

  “It’s so it doesn’t burn,” Corbie said.

  “The tub?”

  “The candy. Water doesn’t burn. So my candy won’t burn.”

  “Is this because of me? I’m a little concerned you think I’m going to burn your snacks. You know I’m not really the Sun, right?”

  “I know,” he said. “But people sometimes visit, and then sometimes other people come back and make things go on fire.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Oh.

  “It won’t burn, right?” he asked worriedly.

  “No. No, it won’t. You shouldn’t be worried about that.”

  “So it won’t be like last time?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “No. Not like last time. So there was a fire, when people visited?”

  “Our house got broken and we had to move. And my . . . my papa . . .” He blinked at his feet. “Anna was burned, too. And my voice went funny. I drank too much smoke. Auntie says I’m very, very strong, though.”

  “I bet you are. And it’s a cool voice. Sounds like you have a pack-a-day habit. Very tough.”

  He squinted at me for a few seconds, trying to puzzle out my meaning. “I’m only allowed two sticks a day. Not a pack. Auntie hides the rest of the gum.”

  “Companions,” I said. “What are you gonna do?”

  Brand, of course, was standing outside the door when I came out.

  “Corbie, do you mind giving us a second?” I asked.

  “I was going to ask if you’ll have a glass of soda with me.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Okay,” he said, and let out a small sigh. “But it’d be rude if I had one and you didn’t.”

  I smiled at him. “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s rude.”

  His eyes widened and he took off like a shot.

  “So?” Brand said.

  “Do kids drink soda?” I asked, now unsure. “Did I just do something wrong?”

  “Rune. So?”

  “What? I didn’t know he was in the bathroom. I wasn’t really using the bathroom anyway. It’s not as weird as it looks.”

  “Shut up,” Brand said. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. And your phone is ringing,” I pointed out.

  Brand kept me pinned with a gaze while he pulled his phone out of
his pocket. It was Max’s ringtone. He didn’t bother looking at the screen—he just flicked a thumb and said, “We’re working.”

  He listened, closed his eyes, and started breathing through his nostrils. “No. No, that’s not what it means. Max—just because Quinn says you someday might rub a ferret in his hair doesn’t mean you own the ferret, and it doesn’t mean you need to own that ferret today while we’re fucking working. I’m hanging up now.”

  “At least Quinn is distracting him,” I said afterward.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “It’s like you’re not even worried I’m going to hit you,” Brand said. “Nothing is—” I grunted as he jabbed two stiff fingers into my gut. I waited until my breathing evened out. “I’m fine. I just needed a second to get my head on straight.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Pity party over. I don’t have a monopoly on bad memories. Sometimes I forget that.”

  “It’s not a contest. You’re allowed to say it’s too much. You’re allowed to say if this is too much.”

  “It’s not too much. Let’s go hear what Corinne has to say. Did you write down that tip about the double-stitching?”

  His mouth opened in outrage until he realized I was kidding, and even then it took an effort of will not to tell me to mind my own shit.

  He followed me back to the living room. We passed Corbie in the kitchen. He was cradling a two-liter of soda as if he’d just dug up buried treasure.

  “Corinne,” I said, when we were back in our seats in the living room. “What happened with Lord Hanged Man?”

  She shook off whatever thoughts were making her stare blankly at the table in our absence. Her face drew tight, pulling the deep unnatural wrinkles into sharp creases. “We tried to evade his attentions. Kevan accepted the odd job in lieu of formally pledging himself into that man’s service. He tried to buy time until we found better placement elsewhere. But the Gallows was insistent. They hounded us.”

  “You . . . implied earlier. About the children. You . . . You must know my story. You know what happened to me when I was fifteen—nearly the same age that your oldest ward is. This is not an easy topic for me, but we should stop circling it. What did the Hanged Man do to the children?”

  “I suppose the word is groomed. The bastard groomed them. Or he groomed Layne, at least. You’ve heard about his . . .” Her lips worked around a word in disgust. “His marriages. To all those young lads and ladies. When it became apparent that he had such designs on Layne, we broke all ties. That was two years ago. Within a month of our rejection, our home caught fire. Kevan was killed. Little Anna was horribly burned. We—everything. We lost nearly everything. That man is poison. That man is a fucking monster.”

  She stopped the conversation altogether for a moment—busying herself with reaching a hand into her jangling pocket, and dumping a handful of spare change on the scratched coffee table. As she counted out two American quarters with the tip of her finger, I could see her struggling to blank out the tension in her lips, the tightness around her eyes. Just like Brand did. When her emotions were emptied, she cleared her throat and looked at me.

  I said, “You’re sure the Hanged Man was behind the fire?”

  “I’m a Companion. I know my monsters.”

  “What happened after that?” I asked.

  “I thought the bastard’s revenge was complete. I didn’t realize his attention had merely shifted. Layne is . . . he glows. He lights up the room. A more beautiful boy you’ve never seen. And the Hanged Man’s people, without my knowledge, remained in touch with him. They . . . courted him. Seduced him with money and promises. Two weeks ago, the day he turned fifteen, he ran away. I’m certain that he’s vanished into the Hanged Man’s court.”

  Corinne looked between Brand and me, then shifted her full regard to me. “Are you in a position to take on that bastard?”

  “Corinne, you’re a trained Companion, and I have an awesome respect for what that means. But you don’t really know the kind of monster the Hanged Man is. You don’t know his magic, and his resources, and the ramifications of breaching his sphere of influence.”

  “Are you saying you won’t help? That you can’t?”

  “Can’t? No. I may have lost my throne and my court, but not my power, not my legacy. I can help you—but I need you to be sure you’re willing to walk through that door. Because you haven’t lost everything yet.”

  She looked at the floor for a few moments, and nodded to herself.

  She said, “I will walk through that door.”

  “We’ll need information,” Brand said. “Information on Layne. His friends. Places he likes to go. Does he have a bank account? A credit card? A cell phone? Anything would hel—”

  “I have a folder in my room. And more. One of his friends, a—” She started to censor herself, then shoved quarters to the middle of the table. “A damned whore, a good-for-nothing little bastard who works the Green Docks. Sherman. Sherman has information, but he wants a thousand dollars for it.”

  “Rune and I can visit Sherman,” Brand said.

  Corinne gave Brand a hard look. “If he could be beaten into compliance, I’d have done it myself. He’s slippery and good at finding bolt-holes. But he’s greedy, and that’s the opening. I’m working to sell a few family effects. It’ll take another day or two, but I’ll have the money soon.”

  I exchanged a look with Brand. He gave me a small shrug. “We’ll get to that in a moment,” I said. “How did Layne become involved with this Sherman? Did . . . was Layne . . . I mean, did Layne—”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and her cheeks reddened. “I would have cut out a person’s tongue for suggesting such an insult a month ago, but I’ve learned things since. I know he’s been skipping school and spending times at the Green Docks.”

  The Green Docks were New Atlantis’s red-light district—a floating armada of derelict boats and ghost ships docked off the northern shores. Quinn said we’d be in a fight near boats.

  “The Hanged Man has warped Layne’s mind,” Corinne continued. “Made him put distance between him and his family. The bastard—that unholy bastard—is taking my family apart.”

  “We’ll write you a check,” I decided. “You can go to our bank and get a cash withdrawal. For the information.”

  “I can’t ask that of you,” she said.

  “Would you have said no to my father?” I asked.

  She paused a moment, and nodded. “Let me get that folder. I’ll be right back.”

  When she’d stepped from the room, Brand said, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Corinne came back with the promised folder several minutes later. She held it out to us with one hand, while shrugging into a jacket with the other.

  Brand’s eyes tracked Corinne’s movements with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to cash the check and get the information.”

  “We’re going right now?” he said, like he already knew her answer.

  “I’m going now. Sherman will never see me if I bring you along.”

  “What about the kids?” I asked, with my own growing wariness.

  “Corbie at the Green Docks?” she snorted. “He’d either run off a pier, or invite half the whores home with him for milk and cookies.”

  The truth loomed like the shadow of a falling piano.

  She gave me a guilty look. “I can’t be sure they’re not in danger as well. Not until I know what’s happened with Layne. I can’t imagine there’s anyone I’d trust more to stay with them, Lord Sun. You’re strong. You can protect them. And I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Within minutes, Corinne had run out of the house with a check Brand wrote her. It wouldn’t devastate our bank account, but it’d put a rolling stop to the extra cash we’d lived off since the events of last summer. I shut the front door, and sighed. “She found the right button to push, didn’t she?”r />
  “The right button? You’re a fucking elevator panel. Only you can protect them, Lord Sun.”

  “Swear jar,” I said.

  “I’ll add it to my to-do list. Look—someone needs to watch the kids, and someone needs to hole up and do research. We should—”

  “Oh absolutely not. That is not how this is going to go down, Brandon Saint John!”

  He exhaled through his nostrils. He said, “Fine.” And then we both took a few seconds to stare uselessly around us.

  Annawan—Anna—stomped into the living room before we could decide what to do next. Her hair was knotted into a braid, and she’d changed into dark clothes, not unlike a mini-Companion.

  She put her hands on her hips and said, “Do you have pets?”

  “Do we have pets?” I said.

  “Simple question.”

  “We do not have pets,” I said. “But there’s talk of a ferret.”

  “How would you feel if I came into your home and fed your ferret drugs and then left you to deal with it?” she asked.

  Corbie screamed and ran into the room. He jumped on the sofa. He jumped on the coffee table. He jumped on the armchair. He yelled, “Lava! The floor is lava! The floor is lava!” He did a rather remarkable leap to a wooden chair by the archway, and pounced into the carpet in the room next to us. His footsteps pounded up the stairway.

  “Where do you live?” Anna demanded.

  “In my defense, he tricked me about the soda,” I said.

  “He’s five. Aren’t you supposed to babysit? Have you fed him yet? If I’d been allowed to babysit, I’d have fed him.”

  “I’m thinking we wait and see if your aunt comes back soon. She didn’t say anything about feeding you.”

  “So you’re going to let him go hungry?” Anna asked. Her fists went right back to her waist. “This isn’t my mess.”

  I glared at Brand, mainly because he wasn’t saying a damn thing. He assumed his bodyguard pose and blinked back at me. I said, “Can we call for pizza?”

  “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Corbie thundered down the stairs, ran around the polished dining table in the next room, and catapulted back up the stairs.

  “Can’t you even make spaghetti?” Anna asked in exasperation. “Everyone can make spaghetti.”