“So, do I.”
They got out, and Harold turned his steam-auto off. A carved sign hung above The Airship’s wooden door. The two men stepped inside. They ordered sandwiches and drinks at the bar and sat down at a table.
“Things any better with Betty?” Curtis asked. Betty was Harold’s new partner.
“Man, don’t get me started on her.” The white Constable shook his head ruefully. “She bitches about everything, the job, the hours—anybody black or brown.”
Curtis raised his eyebrows. “She’s black.”
“I don’t think she knows it,” Harold said sourly. “I wish somebody would shoot her and put her out of her misery.”
“You’re supposed to take a bullet for your partner.”
“Well, then she’s living on borrowed time. I’m gonna ask the Chief for a reassignment before I plug her myself.” The men chuckled together.
Harold’s expression turned serious. He leaned forward. “Any ideas on what happened at the station today—Pete Connell going crazy like that? You know a lot about this kind of stuff.”
The waiter brought their food and drinks over, and the men fell silent and dug into their meal. At length, Curtis lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “I think Connell was dead before he got started.”
“You’re saying he was dead while he was killing them?”
Curtis nodded. “Wi.”
Harold shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“Maybe not. Did you see the way his skin looked?”
“Yeah. I saw it. I figured he was sick or something.”
“I think somebody killed him and reanimated his body. Connell and Ryan raped Simone Starks. Didn’t they?” Anger crept into his voice. “They killed her before she could testify. And Burt Phillips is dead too.”
Harold’s jaw dropped. “Where’d you hear all that?”
“It came to me earlier. Is it true?”
“It came to you? What are you psychic now?”
Curtis shrugged. “I been seeing a lot of weird shit lately.”
Harold glanced around the bar to make sure nobody was in earshot. “Word is, Simone and her brother Richard were investigating dirty Constables —politicians too— and Connell and Ryan did her,” the white Constable’s voice was heavy with disgust. “But the DA claimed he couldn’t build a case. So they walked.”
“But it wasn’t in the paper.” Curtis’ brown eyes flashed with anger. “Only a politician would have the juice to pull a story like that. That means the corruption is coming from higher up. What about Phillips? Why wasn’t his death in the paper?”
“Because it was strange. He was found in his own house with four knives buried in him ...” Harold looked down into his plate and then looked up. “Curtis, I believe in the law, always have. What they’re doing to your people, it makes me sick to my stomach. But this stuff—conspiracies, corrupt politicians—I start digging around in this shit, and it could cost me my badge.”
“Fair enough,” Curtis said. “But think about it: Phillips shoots an unarmed man, and he’s murdered in his own house. Connell, the same man who murdered Simone, goes crazy, kills the man who helped him and another Constable who beat a murder rap? You think that’s a coincidence? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t.”
“Somebody’s taking out dirty Constables,” Harold said slowly. “And they’re using sorcery to do it.”
Curtis nodded. “Ou kòrèk.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“I said you’re right. And we’re being thrown together to deal with it.”
“By who? The Chief?”
An image of female entity who’d visited him, flashed before Curtis’ eyes again. “Somebody very powerful and definitely not human. Whoever it is, I got a feeling she ain’t gonna take no for an answer.”
“She?”
“Wi ...” Curtis described his encounter with the mysterious entity.
When he’d finished, Harold sighed. “Oh man, here we go again ... I’m meeting a contact tomorrow night: Melvin Ashe. He claims he wants to do something about the corruption on the force, but he’s too scared to come forward. I’d feel better if I had you to watch my back.”
Curtis smiled dryly. “When did you plan on telling me?”
Harold returned his smile. “I didn’t plan on going. Pick me up at eight; we can ride over together.”
“Sounds good. You going to the demonstration today?” Curtis asked.
“I’m on guard detail.”
_____
Chapter 17: War
Curtis pulled into the cobblestones, parked behind a line of steam-autos, and walked through an alleyway to the square. A makeshift stage had been erected on the square, and a crowd had gathered before the stage. To his left, food vendors were setting up their carts. The aroma of fresh bread, cooked meat and pastries filled the air.
Richard, a slender young man with café au lait skin and freckles stood on stage holding a speaking horn (a horn with a wide mouth for amplification). He was dressed in a short-sleeve shirt with holders, a vest made of Kente cloth, knickers and boots, and his thick hair was held back with a cloth band. A young Latina woman and an older white man stood on stage beside him.
To his left twenty Constables, dressed in blue suitcoats and steeple caps, lined the cobblestones ahead of the vendors, Harold among them. Chief Maxwell stood at their forefront holding a horn, a grim no-nonsense look on his lined face. The Chief and Harold looked over at Curtis and nodded, and Curtis inclined his head.
Richard raised his horn to his lips, “Greetings, brothers and sisters! For those that don’t know me, my name is Richard Starks!” The crowd cheered in reply, many raising clenched fists in solidarity. “Thank you for coming. To see you gathered here today makes my heart sing, that so many of you have hope like I do—hope that we can turn the tide of racism and violence to save North America. My baby sister,Simone, was murdered by Constables.” At this, the crowd murmured angrily.
“We ain’t gonna let em get away with it!” a woman shouted.
“Simone and me, we were close,” Richard’s voice broke. He lowered his eyes and swallowed.
“Take your time, brother!” a man yelled from the crowd, “take your time!”
Richard lifted his eyes to the crowd again. “I wanted to give up, but then I thought about you—all of you who want change! You gave me the strength to carry on. I won’t stand by and watch our nation destroyed! We won’t stand by and watch North America destroyed! We won’t stand by and watch innocent folks murdered. This is our nation! You hear what I say? Our nation! North America belongs to us! And it’s up to us to save her! NO JUSTICE! NO PEACE!” Are you with us?” The crowd cheered in response. “I said: are you with us?” Their cheers were like thunder. “Well alright! We’re getting ready to party—to celebrate our union! Please stay and break bread with us, help us to build this movement. POWER TO THE PEOPLE!”
“POWER TO THE PEOPLE!”
Richard descended from the stage, shaking hands with those in the crowd. The young Latina woman and older white man joined three others in setting up instruments. Curtis spotted Mona in the crowd. She saw him and waved, pushing through the throng to join him.
He gazed down at her. “I didn’t think you were gonna make it. Everything copacetic?”
“Yes and no. I got so much to tell you.”
“Let’s find someplace quiet to talk,” he said.
The couple left the square and walked a half block to a small park with trees and benches. They sat on one of the benches, Curtis leaning forward, his arms on his knees, hands clasped, while Mona sat beside him, leaning her head on her hand, one leg tucked behind the other.
“You won’t believe what happened after you left.”
Curtis smiled. “Try me.”
By the time they’d finished catching up, sunset was creeping across the sky. The sound of guitars, horn and bass drifted toward them.
“Modi. A crack between worlds?”
> “You don’t believe me?”
“You sure it wasn’t a vision or a spell?” Curtis asked.
“It was real. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Did you read her?”
Mona nodded. “Opal checked out. She’s telling the truth.” She struggled to find the words to describe Opal’s aura. “I know it sounds corny, but I felt so much coming from her— strength, purpose, love ...” she trailed off.
“Then that was her I saw,” Curtis rubbed his hands together. “I didn’t feel any bad vibes coming off her either. But a doorway between worlds? That’s some next level shit.”
Mona quirked her lips. “And last night I was a bird. How many times have we seen and done things that should be impossible?”
“Like a dead man murdering two Constables.”
“Exactly.”
They were silent for a while. “That’s old magic— got to be. And very, very powerful stuff,” Mona said.
Curtis regarded her seriously. “Didn’t Auroral do the same thing to Harold.”
Months ago, the sorceress Auroral Lachette had cast a spell on Harold to bend his will to hers. Mona had broken the spell and saved his life.
“Oh this is way, way beyond what she did. Harold was alive when Auroral cast that spell. But from what you told me Connell had been dead for hours. Somebody took control of a dead man and directed him to kill. And the spell was designed to end as soon as he finished the job.”
Curtis leaned back and stretched his arms along the bench. “So Connell kills two Constables. When he’s done he goes back to being dead. Nobody to blame, nobody to interrogate.” He chuckled darkly. “Somebody thought of everything.”
“You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
“I’m not.”
“Curtis, you were a Constable. You don’t have any sympathy for the victims?”
Curtis’ face was hard. “For Constables who rape and kill women, who murder unarmed civilians? If I could do spells, I’d a bodied them myself,” his brown eyes were impassioned, “and if they hurt you I will. Magic or no.”
Mona gazed at him, her own eyes brimming with emotion. She’d never heard him talk like this. Curtis took her heated gaze in, and it was reflected in his own eyes. She leaned forward, one hand on his thigh, and pressed a long lingering kiss on his lips.
“Keep that up,” Curtis said huskily, “and we won’t make it back.”
She laughed softly, stood and tugged at his hand. “Come on baby, dance with me.” They made their way back to the rally.
——
On stage, the young Latina woman belted out throaty vocals. A middle-aged black woman plucked out an offering on the guitar, a Native American youth played a horn, and the elderly white man accompanied them on the drums.
Mona turned her back to Curtis, her hips grinding in rhythm against him. “Aw, look at she,” he breathed in her ear, “showing her masses.”
The music covered the first sounds of the ambush. A crowd of whites carrying sticks, clubs, and muskets, streamed into the square. Shots were fired and the musicians dived onto the stage floor. More attackers poured into the square.
“PUT your weapons DOWN!” Maxwell shouted through his horn. “Or you will be ARRESTED AND CHARGED!” He turned back to his squad. “Alright, let’s get ‘em outta here!”
Five Constables—Harold among them, his chest gleaming like Curtis—rushed the crowd. The rest didn’t move. Maxwell stared at them incredulously. “Did you hear me?” The officers stared back, their faces hostile and obdurate. His eyes narrowed. “You treacherous bastards! I’ll have your badges by nightfall!” He whirled and charged into the throng.
Mona was trapped in the roiling crowd. It was like swimming in molasses. She was dimly aware of Curtis snatching a club from an attacker. The man head-butted him. Curtis didn’t even stumble. Grabbing the man by his lapels, Curtis slammed him down to the cobblestones. More musket fire exploded in the crowd. Protesters collapsed. Harold picked up a man and threw him. A few feet away, Maxwell tussled with an attacker.
The blood beat at her temples. Just ahead, a man was striking an activist with club. Mona rushed over and snatched it out of his hand. “Why can’t you leave us the fuck alone!” she snarled. He whirled to face her but, seeing her wild eyes and contorted mouth, backed away― almost falling in his haste to escape her.
Angry—so angry! I want to hurt them! I want— Focus! Channel it. An epiphany blossomed in her mind like a dark rose. Mona leapt into the air, for moments suspended there, defying gravity, her arms spread out like wings.
She screamed, “Ma voix est puissante!” I’m exposing myself! We all are! They’ll remember, they’ll—!
Her undulating wail split the air, doubling in volume as it left her lips, then tripling. The supernatural cry rang through the streets—a cross between an ancient bird cry and a bestial roar. People clapped their hands over their ears to shut out the hideous noise. But it brought the battle to halt. Attackers, and many of the activists, fled the square.
A translucent vise was suddenly crushing her throat. Hands were choking her. Mona tried to grip the hands, pry them away, but they were formless. A white face with pitiless green eyes loomed close to hers, his face —like his body—translucent. Only her own power kept her from being slammed to the ground, a fall that would have would have undoubtedly killed her.
Yet down she went, though much slower than he wanted, his hands still around her neck. She lay prone, the attacker lying on top of her. Mona tried to counter-attack, but she was too weak from the spell she’d just cast. Tears streamed from her eyes, running sideways down her face. Blood ran from her nose. She beat feebly at the air around her throat, gold sparking at the tips of her fingers. After a long moment, she lay still under the attacker ...She could breathe again.
Two entities struggled just above her. They soared higher into the sky, two clouds forming human shapes—one black, one white—shrieking in cries that only she could hear. They vanished.
Mona struggled to her feet. She wiped the tears and blood away and put her hand to her throat; it was sore to the touch. She looked around. Those left behind were giving comfort to the injured and helping the vendors salvage whatever they could. An activist had already jogged to the city hospice and steam-ambulances would be arriving soon to treat the survivors … and collect the dead. Harold and Chief Maxwell made their way over to her. Both men’s clothing was torn. There was a large reddish-purple bruise on Chief Maxwell’s forehead.
“You alright?” Harold asked.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
Curtis walked over and handed her a Beignet he’d managed to find. He too bore the marks of the skirmish. “Thanks, baby.” Mona nibbled at the pastry, trying (and this was hard) to take small bites. Using sorcery always took its toil. And she was ravenous.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Chief Maxwell said gruffly. “Believe me, heads are gonna roll.” He stared at Mona with dread and a kind of awe. “What uh, what happened back there? It looked like you were flying or something,” He cut his eyes at Harold and Curtis. “I saw some other stuff too.”
Great. Now he’s scared of us. Mona smiled gently. “It was just an illusion, Chief. When we have time, I’ll sit down and tell you about it.”
Maxwell nodded, looking doubtful. “Fair enough.”
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