Night Life

by Caitlin Kittredge

  Roenberg shook his head slowly, eyes wide like Bigfoot had showed up dancing the Macarena.

  "Put that up your ass and smoke it," I said before he could profess ignorance, then turned on my heel and stormed out the mouth of the alley.

  Sixteen

  Dmitri was waiting in the street, and stood up when he saw how pissed I looked. "What happened?"

  Roenberg came hurrying after me and said loudly to Thorpe and his partner, "Officer, you will send the footage to no one but me, do I make myself perfectly clear? The lid on this situation shuts now!"

  "Yessir, Captain," the partner said.

  Dmitri touched my shoulder. "What happened? Who's the suit?"

  I sagged. "My captain. He fired me."

  Dmitri blinked. "What? That cocksucker. Want me to go kick his ass?"

  I waved a hand, turning my back on the club and the whole mess. "Right now, what I want is for you to take me home."

  "What about the girl?" he asked as he kicked the bike's starter. "Same as the others?"

  "The same," I agreed, "except this time he didn't get to finish. And he's started leaving me presents."

  Dmitri looked over his shoulder as I climbed on and latched my hands around his waist, pressing my cheek into the broad leather expanse of his back.

  "What sort of presents, Luna?"

  I felt the weight of my phone in my jacket pocket. "That's what I'm going to find out."

  * * * *

  Sunny bit her lip as she examined the grainy photo. "This is a very unusual mark." I rubbed my wound under the bandage. It was healing and starting to itch. "I was looking for something a little bit more specific than unusual. I've never seen a sigil that looked anything like it before." Granted, I usually tried to avoid looking at them. Safer that way.

  "That's because this isn't a sigil," said Sunny. "Like I said, it's a mark."

  "Translation?" said Dmitri, who was on our sofa again. Sunny sat in her armchair and pulled her legs under her, still squinting at the screen.

  "A mark is made to control," she told him. "Given from a caster witch to a familiar or a blood witch to a golem to compel or enslave. They're nasty and evil, all of them, but this one …" She blinked and handed the phone back.

  "Hurts your head, doesn't it?" I said.

  Sunny nodded, lip still firmly planted between her teeth. "Whoever drew this, Luna… they aren't working from a spellbook. Something had to show them."

  Dmitri raised an eyebrow. "Something?"

  Great, we were back to the daemons, the White Whale of magick. Call me Ahab.

  "Theoretically," said Sunny, "this mark shouldn't exist."

  "Well, it does," I snapped, waving the phone at her. "And now you're telling me it's being used to control someone." Someone being Stephen Duncan. Stephen as Spree Killer didn't fit, but Stephen as Marionette did. The kid was about as sharp as a lead pipe and might as well have had I'M STUPID AND ARROGANT, PLEASE USE ME FOR NEFARIOUS ENDS tattooed on his ass.

  "We need to know who set the mark, Sunny."

  She was already shaking her head. "I can't, Luna. Calling a mark that's not your own is beyond most caster witches. And besides, calling it wouldn't get you the person who set the mark, just who he marked it with."

  "I know who he marked," I said grimly. "What I want is him."

  Sunny touched the back of my hand. "Don't ask me to do this," she whispered. "If I try to call the mark and I touch the will of the enslaved, you know what could happen."

  "What?" demanded Dmitri. "What happens?"

  "Sunny could lose her ability to cast," I said. "If she touches the magick too closely, her ability to set a circle and call a working will burn out."

  "It's the whole reason we use casters," Sunny told him. "To buffer ourselves and keep safe."

  "Shit," Dmitri muttered. He stood, stretching and rolling his shoulders like the indolent wolf he was. I tried hard not to stare, but he caught me and flashed a quick smile. "Thanks for your help, Ms. Swann."

  "Call me Sunny," she said distractedly, staring at the shelf that held her spellbook and the pilfered ones from my grandmother. "We can't call the mark," she said.

  "You told us that already," I reminded her, feeling defeated and suddenly very tired. My normal reaction would be to settle myself in the office with a few case files and a large amount of junk food, and do paperwork until something clicked in my brain. But now I had no more paperwork to do.

  I decided I could hold off on telling Sunny that bit.

  "We can't call the mark," Sunny said again, "but I can find who made it. Originally, I mean. What sort of thing is its maker."

  I turned to look at her. "You mean find the something that the mark belongs to?"

  Sunny nodded. "Simple, kind of like dialing a reverse directory. When the witch texts at Alexandria were burned, a great consortium of witches banded together and keycalled all the spells back from their origins, so none were lost. Magick always leaves a signature, and I should be able to trace it."

  "Is it dangerous?" Dmitri asked.

  Sunny's mouth set. "Not if you know what you're doing." She got up and went into the kitchen, calling, "I just need a few minutes to set the circle! Can you get me my birch wood caster out of the lockbox?"

  I pulled the black lacquered box from the top of the bookcase and opened it with the hidden latch, taking out the flexible pale wood caster.

  "What's the difference?" said Dmitri, picking up the ebony one Sunny used for ceremonies and gatherings where she had to impress people.

  "Birch wood is pure," I said. "They give it to novice caster witches because it helps keep them safe. Excuse me."

  I carried the caster into the kitchen and held it out to Sunny, who was mixing herbs briskly in her censer.

  "You don't have to do this for me."

  She stopped mixing. "Will it keep more girls from dying?"

  I nodded silently.

  "Then of course I have to."

  "I suppose you don't need to hear that using a spell from one of her books is the worst idea since building Pompeii?"

  Sunny shook the censer to settle the herbs and struck a match. "I knew you'd feel that way."

  "She doesn't have your or my best interests in mind, Sunny, and if she knew you had that book…"

  "Oh, I'm sure she knows," said Sunny calmly. "And I'm sure she's furious with me. But it's not about you and her now, Luna, so will you please help me?"

  She lit the herbs and set the censer at the center of the table, arranging her four corners with an expert hand. I grabbed the edge of the braided throw rug and whipped it back, revealing the circle carved into the kitchen floor. While a circle set in earth was good, one carved into wood was best. Sunny only used it when she absolutely had to, because a working circle in wood, like a caster made of wood, wears and rots over time, fraying the magick.

  "Could you call Dmitri?" she asked me when I'd gotten the circle uncovered. "I need him, too."

  "Anything you want," Dmitri said from the doorway. Sunny looked startled, and he grinned. "Were hearing."

  "Take a seat," said Sunny, pointing to a chair. We all three made a circle around the censer. Sunny put her hands on her caster and shut her eyes. The prickle worked its way up my spine, and I tried not to think about the times Rhoda had tried to teach me workings, and how every single time I had been a complete and utter disappointment.

  I tried not to think about the name mutt and whispers about my blood being diluted. Or the time I'd wandered into one of Rhoda's circles alone and nearly had my hair singed off.

  Sunny had grabbed me then, but Dmitri gripped my hand now.

  "She said to hold hands," he explained when I shot him a startled look.

  "Luna, are you all right?" Sunny asked sharply, her eyes still closed. The air around us began to whine as the circle rose and snapped over the table like a slap.

  I gripped Dmitri's hand tightly. "I'm fine," I said. "Get this over with."

  Dmitri watched Sunny intently, but w
ithout fear, as her ringers went limp on the caster. Every inch of my skin vibrated as the working started to rise. The censer, which up until now had been trailing wisps placidly, began to roil and puff smoke across the kitchen.

  "Take the picture and put it in the censer," said Sunny in the flat please-leave-a-message tone working witches get.

  I decided that now was not the time to argue about the hassle of replacing a department-issue cell phone and dropped it inside, still displaying the sigil picture.

  Sparks shot as soon as the phone touched the censer, and Sunny's caster began to crackle like an entire forest was burning.

  "What the hell's happening now?" Dmitri hissed. The smoke from the censer was bruise blue and smelled like burning hair. The caster twisted and bent under Sunny's ringers like new wood over an open flame. I glanced away from the spectacle at my cousin's face. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, and the corners of her mouth were tight. Her entire body held itself like a high-tension wire.

  "Reveal to me … your maker," she stuttered, and her voice came out very small. Sunny was scared. I dug my nails into Dmitri's palm.

  "Reveal to me your maker!" Sunny demanded again. The smoke was choking, nearly obscuring her, and my phone jumped around the censer like a hot plastic coal. The whine rose again, and this one I knew from experience. It was a badly strained working ready to snap.

  Sunny choked before she could chant again, and began wheezing, her hands rigid and locked on the steaming caster. I looked back at the phone, its screen shining brightly with the sigil.

  "Let her go!" I screamed. "Reveal to me your maker!"

  The sigil glowed and lifted off the screen, hovering above the censer in the riot of smoke. It pulsed once with a gold gleam, and a voice sighed, "Release me."

  I stared, frozen. All that my brain came up with was the oh-so-clever, "What?"

  A report sounded and the censer shot across the kitchen, embedding itself in the far wall. My half-melted phone slid to the floor with a plunk. The whine cut off and Sunny fell forward, sucking in air as I rushed to help her, not caring that my movement broke the circle.

  This particular working was done, anyway.

  * * * *

  Sunny accepted the cup of tea Dmitri offered her gratefully and laid her head on my shoulder when I sat next to her, the way she would when we were kids. "I'm sorry."

  "For what?" Dmitri demanded. He paced the living room and stopped in front of us. "You don't have a goddamn thing to be sorry for."

  "The keycalling didn't work," Sunny said dejectedly. "I was sure we'd at least find who worked the mark …"

  "It did talk," I told her. "The mark."

  Sunny sat bolt upright. "It talked? What did it say?"

  "Release me. Kinda sounded like Darth Vader with a cold."

  Sunny set down her teacup. "Hex me."

  "It was pretty fuckin' freaky," Dmitri agreed.

  "Did it say anything else?" Sunny asked.

  "No, that was when the censer exploded."

  "Hearing the voice of the enslaved through the mark is impossible," Sunny said flatly.

  I took her word for it, except that hadn't been the voice of Stephen, the only enslaved I knew about. Something else had been speaking to me out of the smoke.

  I got off the sofa and put on my gun and jacket.

  "Where are you going?" Sunny asked.

  "We. We are going to the university to ask someone about this."

  "And what am I?" Dmitri demanded.

  "You are my attractive but intimidating companion, and this guy we're seeing does not do well with intimidating."

  He didn't smile.

  "I'll call you as soon as we figure this out, I promise," I said. Dmitri grabbed my hand, but let me pull away after the flip of a second.

  "You better," he whispered, and I remembered his breath on my neck, covering the bite. From freaked to horny in sixty seconds.

  Once we were out the door Sunny grabbed my elbow and demanded, "How does someone from the university know so much about magick?"

  "Maybe not magick," I said as we crossed the crushed seashells to her convertible, "but he knows an awful lot about daemons."

  Seventeen

  Professor Hoskins's office was as creepily organized as I remembered, with a stack of bright blue test folders replacing the stack of papers on the corner of his desk. The professor himself was nowhere to be seen.

  "Should we just barge in like this?" said Sunny nervously, glancing at the paintings, masks, and imposing bookshelves.

  "I'm sure he won't mind. Too much," I amended after she gave me a look.

  "He's got an impressive collection of books, I'll say that." She reached for one with a pentacle on the spine.

  "Don't touch," I warned her. "He gets a little twitchy."

  "Who's there?" Hoskins demanded from outside the door. "My office is strictly off limits. Who's in there breathing?"

  "It's me, Professor Hoskins," I said, opening the door fully. "Detective Wilder."

  "Oh," he said, heaving a sigh. "Detective. I apologize. I have warned my students time and time again but they simply cannot resist barging in and putting their hands all over everything." He paced inside with hurried steps and then caught sight of Sunny. "Oh, dear. Who is this?"

  "This is my cousin, Sun—Rhoda," I told him, shooting Sunny an apologetic look when she glared. I had a feeling Hoskins's head might pop off if he had to deal with a girl dressed like a ye olde peasant wenche and named Sunflower.

  "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rhoda," he told her, sitting at his desk. Sunny looked relieved and sat as well. Hoskins jumped back to his feet. "I am terribly sorry, Detective Wilder, but I am busy. How may I be of quick assistance?"

  Sunny started to stand up as well and I shot her a death glance to keep her in her seat. I was not up to playing musical seating with the professor.

  "Tell me about Meggoth, Professor. Tell me about daemons."

  Hoskins pursed his lips and I saw a wall of disdain clamp over his eyes like the slamming of a cell door. "I cannot help you," he said brusquely. "As I told you the first time you came here seeking things that don't bear any of your concern."

  "Women are being killed, Professor," I told him quietly, leaning on his desk and deliberately shoving the stack of folders out of alignment. "Their murderer is leaving behind a daemon mark. What part of that is not sinking in?"

  Hoskins twisted his fingers together as he backed away from me.

  "Whatever your issues are with the Nocturne PD, this doesn't involve them. The witch leaving the mark? He's after me." I pulled back the bandage on my forearm. I was practically healed so close to phase, but the wound was still red and a little bloody. More than enough for a lightweight like Hoskins. "This happened when I tried to find him myself," I said. "You know more than you told me, and I let it slide."

  "Then continue to do so, for all of our sakes!" Hoskins pleaded.

  I shook my head. "Sorry. I've seen the error of my ways and I've come to repent."

  "You should leave, I think," Hoskins started, reaching for the damn phone again.

  My hand snaked out and clamped around his wrist. He let out a decidedly unmanly yelp.

  "I think that you are going to sit down and tell me everything you know about Marcus Levinson and the daemon he tried to summon. I think you will be thorough and complete in your recounting, this time. After that, I promise I'll walk out of your life and you'll never have to think about Cedar Hill again."

  "You're that Jacob Hoskins?" Sunny exclaimed. "Wow. Thought you looked familiar."

  "Thank you for that timely icebreaker, Sunny," I sighed.

  She threw up her hands and mouthed, What?

  Hoskins took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I apologize," he said finally. "I must seem terribly irrational to you, Detective."

  "Just a little, yeah." I scratched my arm and took a seat next to Sunny. "Now. Tell me the story of a boy and his daemon."

  "
Marcus's daemon has a name, you know. Meggoth. 'Lost beauty.'" Hoskins tapped his fingers against his blotter and then sat back. "On the provision that you breathe not a word of this to anyone else, I will relay the truth."

  "Should I leave?" Sunny asked.

  "I see no reason for you to, unless you're a member of the university tenure board," said Hoskins. "Ms. Wilder, do you know why I was considered a suspect in the first place?"

  Sunny and I both waited for him to enlighten us. Hoskins swiveled in his seat and stared out the tiny casement window toward the Blackburn mansion.

  "Marcus Levinson was one of my students," he said finally. "Several years before the killings. Not a gifted or even particularly bright student, but one with an insatiable lust for knowledge of blood workings."

  "What did you teach him?" Sunny asked.

  "Not what he wanted, I can assure you," said Hoskins. "Marcus became disgusted that my classes taught only the theory of magick, not the practice. No blood witch in the city would take him as an apprentice, and caster witches would have spit on him."

  With good reason, on both parts. No blood witches in their right minds would want someone as high-profile as the richest rich kid in Nocturne City organizing their spellbooks and carving up stray cats for workings.

  "In the end Marcus was expelled from the university, although his parents made sure to have the records altered so it appeared he merely dropped out," Hoskins said.

  Scandal. I was interested now. "What got him the boot?"

  A smile turned Hoskins's lips upward for a moment. "He broke into my office and stole a very rare volume, one of the only instructional texts ever written by a blood witch."