“Yup.” He grinned. “If they’re going to report conjectures and conspiracy theories as if they were facts, it’s only fitting that we do the exact opposite.”
His partner ran a finger over her lips, and her eyes glazed over in thought. “I like it. Well, wait. There is one problem. We still have to observe the baseline journalistic ethics. We need to make sure we just keep reporting facts. We don’t want to look like huge suckers if it turns out Motorcycle Man is a total douche.” She sighed. “After all, what if they’re right?”
“If they were right,” Doug said, “they’d have proof that the gang violence was a response to Motorcycle Man, but how could it be? The dude started off his ‘career,’ so to speak, by saving people from a car crash. That wasn’t poking at gangs.”
“Right.” She shook her head. “Being stupid, I guess. You know how you get when you realize you’ve lost your job and no one will admit it’s for a bullshit reason? That’s how I feel.”
Doug frowned and drained the rest of his drink. “Yeah. Turns out I do know how that feels.”
He looked over as two people, a slight man and an exotic-looking woman, appeared more or less out of nowhere and sat down next to the journalists at their table, which was, after all, only half-occupied.
“Hello,” said the man, who was looking dapper in a spotless gray suit and tie, though something about him was off in a scarcely perceptible, unsettling way. He spoke with a faint New England upper-crust accent.
“Hello,” said the woman, who cut a striking figure in a large indigo sweater that served as a short dress. Something about her was a bit odd and disturbing too. Her accent suggested the Louisiana bayou country.
While Doug’s mouth twisted in irritation, Mia accepted the interruption and responded, “Hi there. We were just finishing our drinks, so if you’re expecting company, we’ll be leaving soon.”
“Oh, no, quite all right.” The woman reached into the folds of her sweater as though checking for something, then laid her slim dark hands on the table. “We’ve only just arrived in town, and no one else is with us.”
The man added, “We’re out for a quick drink ourselves. Heard about this place from some of the locals and figured we’d stop by since it’s getting too late to bother driving around Beverly Hills looking for all the celebrity mansions. But, well, we couldn’t help overhearing you mention that Motorcycle Man.”
“Indeed,” the woman confirmed. “It seems as though everyone is talking about him. I must confess, I’m curious.”
The man smiled. “Same.”
Doug was going to give them a bare-bones summary of what everyone knew before pleading the Fifth on the rest, but for some reason he could not identify, he felt the urge to say more. The couple, whoever they were, seemed like people he could trust. The obscure strangeness about them only enhanced the feeling.
“Yeah,” Doug began, wondering in the back of his mind if he was about to make a mistake. “Lots of talk, but most of it is BS. The government is not very happy with him, but so far, it looks like he’s doing good things, right?”
Mia shifted her hips and shoulders. She felt uncomfortably torn between wanting to join Doug in telling their whole story and being cautious and reticent. To stall while she thought it over, she said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Mia, and he’s Doug. And you are?”
Their guests were not fazed by the question.
“Jay,” stated the man.
“You may call me Em,” the woman chimed in.
Doug echoed the greeting and continued to ramble. “So yeah, we’re reporters, and we have a certain amount of involvement in that whole goddamn fiasco. Or we were involved until the higher-ups yanked it away from us and put their bullshit spin on it. That’s part of why we’re drunk. Right, Mia?”
Carried away by her co-worker’s enthusiasm and unable to resist the unexplained urge to spill the beans to their new friends, Mia relented. “Yeah, that’s right. It was a crock of shit. Unless we’re severely mistaken, Motorcycle Man is a straight-up hero. We never uncovered his identity, but we were on the scene when he rescued a building full of people, for one thing. And then...”
She went on, any doubt leaving her mind that perhaps she shouldn’t be talking so much while Em and Jay listened, rapt.
When all of the story had been told save the boring technical details, the two journalists shared a glass of water to help prepare them for the drive home and the next day.
“Oh, one other thing,” Doug added. “We were thinking about slipping the real story to the public via the Internet or something, but Mia suggested, smart girl that she is, that we ought to wait for more information. In case it turns out that Motorcycle Man is a bad guy after all.”
“Right,” his partner confirmed. “We still have some standards as journalists, goddammit.”
Jay and Em exchanged quick glances.
“That,” said the woman, “is an excellent idea, and I encourage you not to trouble yourselves further. The truth will reveal itself in time, as it always does, and you’ve been through a lot. You will need to recover from your emotional exhaustion before you’re fit to move on to the next stage.”
“Absolutely,” the man affirmed. “Don’t string yourselves out and risk making a mistake by chasing down factoids at a time like this. Take a few days off and go to a spa or something. After you’re refreshed, you can review what-all info is available and go from there.”
Doug and Mia nodded. The strange couple was so friendly and reasonable that they found it virtually impossible to disagree.
“In fact,” Jay concluded, “I’d say you both ought to go home and get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” Doug responded. “Shit, I’m sleepy.”
Mia rubbed her eyes. “Me too. We should go. Hey, it was really nice meeting you two. Enjoy your time in LA.!”
“Oh,” said Em, “we will.”
“Oh,” Mother LeBlanc said, “we will.”
She and James watched as the journalists shuffled out the front entrance and were gone.
Lovecraft nodded after them. “That was enlightening. I find myself charmed by their reluctance to go along with the spooks. In any event, they’ll be safely out of the way for the rest of the weekend. Probably into next week, too.”
LeBlanc sipped her water. “Indeed. The spa suggestion was a good one; they could use a break. We, on the other hand, have work to do. I don’t suppose you have noticed anyone who might...qualify? I, so far, have not.”
Their waitress Stephanie stopped by. “Did those two leave without paying?”
James waved a hand. “We’ll pick up their tab. We offered to do so, and they forgot to tell you.”
“Oh,” Stephanie said. “Thanks.”
Once she was gone, Lovecraft answered his friend’s inquiry. “I haven’t sensed anyone, either. It’s wall to wall normies in here tonight, it would seem.”
“Disappointing,” LeBlanc stated.
She noticed a three-pack of young men eyeing her across the floor, a group of shady-looking individuals starting to raise their voices and wave their fists, and a small party of mostly girls who had downed two or three drinks too many and were cackling wildly, to the point of disturbing everyone around them.
“And,” she added, “it’s terribly rowdy in here, isn’t it? It would be nice if they all calmed down enough for me to hear myself think.”
James chuckled into his glass. “Wouldn’t it, though?”
With no further words, they collaborated on a lightweight calming spell, layering it across most of the bar. As experienced as they were, they got the amount of channeling exactly right, and the patrons settled into either happy relaxation or mellow neutrality, depending on what their mood had been before.
LeBlanc smiled. “Yes, that’s better.”
After a moment of peaceful contemplation, she noticed something, and upon identifying it, she had a suggestion worth talking about.
“James. There is a faint signature here, but it’s faded to
the point that I only noticed it a moment ago. A residual signature. Do you sense it?”
He furrowed his brow. “Barely? I’m not as fine-tuned as you are. After all, I’m the age I look. Practically a toddler by comparison.”
Ignoring the remark, LeBlanc went on, “Someone has performed thaumaturgy here, and it was not all that long ago. Motorcycle Man might not be present tonight, but I suspect this is one of their regular haunts.”
James moved his head slowly up and down. “Yeah, that could well be. Shall we leave him a message?”
“Absolutely.” LeBlanc seemed hyper-aware though calm. She was taking in the information delivered by everything going on around her while also thinking about the subject at hand. “But it must not be a warning. We gain nothing by scaring them off. Motorcycle Man must want to come to us and have good reason to seek our help.”
James finished what little remained of Doug’s whiskey and Coke, then ordered one of his own, though light on the whiskey since he refused to let LeBlanc drive his car.
“Yes,” he declared once they were alone again. “Motorcycle Man is doing unambiguously good and helpful things and at least attempting to stay quiet about it, albeit he’s pretty fucking incompetent about that part, given that the whole city is talking about him. In any event, there is an altruistic motive at work here. We want him to realize that with our assistance, he can help more people.”
Using their shared and private language of subtle hand gestures and incantations disguised as low-volume nonverbal sounds, the two thaumaturges wove their spell, beseeching the divine powers to open the channels of power, which they then imbued into a random brick in the west wall. It lay near the junction of the main floor and the employees’ area and was adjacent to the sidewalk outside so it covered the property.
On approaching it, a person with the gift would hear the intended message in their mind.
Unbeknownst to them, when they heard it, Lovecraft and LeBlanc would know. Traces of the message would cling to that person for a week or more, and they’d probably be none the wiser.
“Good,” James mumbled after the casting was finished. “Ought to get the job done. We can be persuasive when we want to be.”
LeBlanc raised her water glass, and they shared a low-key toast. “Of course, if that fails, we can always track them. Your idea to put the book out led us to this individual, which will perhaps prove to be a good thing. But we must not make the same mistakes twice.”
“True,” James admitted. “Okay, I’m hungry. I think they serve food here, but I’d like to see more of the town. What do you say we hit up the nearest five-star restaurant?”
LeBlanc stroked her chin. “A late supper does sound nice, but not at a five-star establishment. Really, James, you don’t have to splurge to eat well. Los Angeles has some of the best street food in the world. Almost as good as New Orleans.”
“Fine.” He sighed. “We’ll do it your way.”
Chapter Eighteen
Another night at the Mermaid, Kera thought, glancing across the darkened floor. It’s weird, though, how much the vibe has changed in the last few days. Did this suddenly become the shitty part of town? Did word get out that this was the place to be for all the local douchebags?
Increasingly, it seemed that their patrons were less likely to be there for fun or relaxation and more likely to be there to drink off a shitty mood, look for trouble, posture obnoxiously in front of others, or scout for “marks” to whom they might sell drugs or other illegal goods and services. There had been a fight in the street outside the other day, albeit not when Kera was working. If she had been there, she probably would have broken it up, despite it technically being none of her employer’s business.
She refilled the whiskey and Coke of the laid-back, unspeaking middle-aged guy who had sidled in a half-hour earlier, and he nodded his thanks. Everyone else seemed okay for the time being despite the vague air of tension that hung cloud-like over the place. Kera turned to her drink counter to check her stock.
Cevin wandered out of his office to scan the dining floor as well as check on Jenn and Kera.
“You girls okay?” he asked. It had a double meaning, which they both picked up on; he wanted to make sure they weren’t overworked or falling behind, but also to determine if any trouble was brewing.
Jenn nodded. “Yeah, fine.” She wasn’t as sensitive or observant as her co-bartender and seemed less bothered by the shift in demographics.
The manager moved toward the other young woman.
Kera, who’d heard the question, turned to him. “I’m good. I heard about that fight a couple of nights ago. Good thing nobody was too badly hurt, and it happened off the Mermaid’s property. Still, wasn’t at least one of those guys in here before he got into that mess?”
Her boss’s mouth drooped. “Yeah, unfortunately. It only takes one or two people to spread the word that this isn’t a safe or classy place. I mean, yes, it was only one incident, but there was also some girl getting harassed by the entrance and another prick dealing drugs in the lot next door. It adds up. In all honesty, it worries the hell out of me that this place might be turning into the type of bar I really, really don’t want to run.”
She put a hand on his arm. “It won’t, boss-man. A few rotten apples have drifted by is all. The cops showed up in all those cases, right? They’ll pick out the bad actors, then other assholes will know they can’t get away with stuff, and things will go back to normal.”
Kera wasn’t sure that was true but saying it seemed to comfort her boss a little. He gave her a thin smile, nodded, and went into the kitchen to check on everyone and help with food orders.
Once he had left, Kera turned to examine the patrons lining the bar, as well as the others at tables and booths on the dining floor. She studied them and felt and sensed the residues of their attitudes and intentions.
She couldn’t be certain how, but in the last week or so, things like that were growing more apparent to her. Passively. It wasn’t required that she cast a spell; her mind somehow picked up on what other people were thinking with greater ease now.
It must be a side effect of learning magic, she concluded. Like, once you open your consciousness to the divine powers of the universe, you can’t help perceiving things you might not have noticed before the mind’s eye was opened.
Or perhaps it was something else. The important thing was that it worked.
The new people, the patrons contributing to the negative vibe despite their facade of partying enjoyment, were here for research, she concluded. She couldn’t pin it down in any greater detail than that, but they were studying something and trying to find things out. Being unable to determine what disturbed her.
Hopefully they haven’t come to research me. She kept her concern off her face. If they were watching her, they might notice a shift in her mood.
There was another thing, too: interlocking lines of tension and enmity, some of which crossed between different groups at different tables. Gang feuds, possibly, or maybe one of the people in Group A had stolen the significant other of a person in Group B. It was tough to say.
Whatever it was, it smelled like trouble brewing.
Kera checked up on her drinkers, then asked Jenn to watch the bar for a couple of minutes while she excused herself to the break room. There, she opened her locker and pulled out her grimoire.
“Let’s see,” she murmured under her breath. “I know there was a calming spell in here somewhere.”
She located it seconds later. The incantation and hand gestures were simple and not much different from the ones for the healing spell and the charm of forgetting, though the mental work of channeling differed substantially. She double-checked the formula, then headed back to work.
Once she was back in her place, Kera targeted the groups who had begun to worry her and cast the spell four times in quick succession, scattering the effects around the bar. No one seemed to notice what she was doing.
The effects were instantan
eous. Conversations that had been growing raucous and full of hard-edged laughter became muted and halfhearted. Guys and girls who had seemed animated and antsy and ready to jump out of their seats slumped and sighed as if hopped up on relaxants. Most importantly, the electrical currents of hostility all but vanished.
Jenn’s head turned toward the floor, and she blinked. “Did something happen that I missed?”
Kera’s abdominal muscles tightened. “Nah, I think everyone’s just getting tired. It’s kinda late, and they’ve all been drinking.”
Shit, I might have overdone it, she chastised herself. Ought to have spent an extra minute or so limiting the amount of energy I channeled into it.
Cevin reappeared from the kitchen. He too noticed the sea change, compared to when he’d been there five or ten minutes previously.
“Huh,” he commented, “that’s weird. Came out to see why it got so quiet all of a sudden. Did something happen?”
Kera repeated the lame excuse she’s suggested to Jennifer since it was good to be consistent. It occurred to her that she felt tired and lightheaded, probably from a combination of work and the strain of casting.
Yup. Put too much power into the spell, so now I get to pay the price physically. And what about them? Are there going to be any lingering side effects? That certainly wasn’t what I wanted to happen.
“Well,” she added to her boss, “it’s good that, um, things aren’t going as badly as you were worried about, right? We dodged a bullet.”
He shrugged. “I guess so.”
Kera scanned the floor again and noticed for the first time that the attractive woman Cevin had failed with the other evening was present. This time she was with another chick, probably a friend or co-worker. Mercifully, she wasn’t with any of the groups of dickheads Kera had neutralized.
Mental note, she told herself. If that woman is back, maybe Cevin didn’t strike out as hard as we thought.
“Hey, Kera,” a guy at the far corner of the bar piped up. “Running dry here.” He waved his glass at her. His mood was mellow, but his choice of words was aggravating.
How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three Page 16