Night Life

by Caitlin Kittredge

  "Is the book here now?"

  "No," said Hoskins. "Levinson copied what he wanted into his spellbook and burned the original text. I was distraught."

  "I'll bet it was worth quite a bit," Sunny commiserated.

  "You misunderstand." Hoskins tilted his glasses down his nose. "When you are a teacher you learn to quickly recognize which students are worth spending time on versus which are a waste of time. Marcus was neither. He was a natural witch, and utterly insane. That boy scared me, and when I learned he had the text, I was in fear for my life." He sighed. "As it turned out, he had something far worse in store for me, because Marcus gave them my name when he was questioned about the murders. You know the rest."

  "How awful for you," said Sunny.

  "Awful, yes, but not why your cousin is here. She wants to know what happened after Marcus stole my book. The daemon."

  I flipped open my notepad and jotted down what Hoskins had told me before nodding at him to go on.

  "Detective Wilder, do you remember how many victims Marcus took in the end?"

  I did a quick count in my head. They taught Cedar Hill at the academy as an example of what weres and witches could do to your investigation. How evil/bad/nasty/insert scary word here we could be.

  "Six."

  Hoskins raised one finger. "There should have been seven."

  "Why?"

  "Seven is the imperfect circle," Sunny murmured. "The blood witch summoning cast."

  "Ridiculous and useless to Marcus, because daemons cannot be called like dogs," said Hoskins. "He never grasped that. The time, the place of the moon and stars in the sky, the tides—any infinite number of details must present for the blood witch calling the working. Everything must fit together. No witch can call a daemon at will."

  "There are stories," I muttered. Like the one about how at one time, daemons had walked around just like people, and had humans as slaves. The blood witches liked that one.

  "You can only call something that exists already," said Sunny, rolling her eyes. "That's why you can't call up the dead. Or daemons. They're not of our world."

  "And yet Levinson was convinced he could do it." I looked to the professor. "Why?"

  Hoskins spread his hands. "That, Detective, I will never know. You would be better served to examine Marcus than ask me."

  "Well, unfortunately a patrol officer put four rounds through his chest and head when they found him with pieces of the Levinson family maid," I said. "Unless you know a handy medium, we're out of luck." I looked to Sunny.

  She shook her head. "Don't even think about it."

  "Marcus needed seven," I said. "Assuming for a moment they're trying to summon the same nasty, my guy's gotten three. If the working is completed and the daemon is called through, then what?"

  "Theoretically, you make an offering and swear your services to the called daemon and in return he grants you a particular reward," said Sunny. My expression must haven given away my shock to hear that from her, because she spread her hands.

  "Grandma told me."

  "Why am I not surprised?"

  "If your murderer is indeed attempting to call Meggoth through, the offering will be flesh," said Hoskins. "Meggoth worships it." He hopped up and went to his wall of books, opening a cloth-bound portfolio and removing a musty drawing.

  A daemon reached upward to a row of naked women who extended their arms in welcome, but he was fixed on the image above. The eighth woman was alive and looking toward an angry, roiling sky. She didn't appear to notice his existence. I touched the drawing when Hoskins presented it and felt no pop of power, just an overwhelming sense of loss.

  "Meggoth, Descended," Hoskins told us. "When the caster witches purged the daemons from the world, he was the only one of his kind left. Alone, and imprisoned on a plane that was no longer his own."

  Sunny wrapped her arms around herself. "He loved someone."

  "Serah," said Hoskins. "The caster witches executed her for consorting with him."

  "Sucks to be Meggoth," I said. Sunny jabbed me in the ribs.

  "Oh come on," I said. "He was a daemon, a force of pure evil. Am I supposed to believe that all he needed was a hug?"

  "Many people in this city feel the same way about you, Detective," said Hoskins severely. "At any rate, we will never know the details of Meggoth's ritual, only the theories. Marcus's records of his attempts are in his spellbook, and that was confiscated by the police when he died."

  "Luna could get it!" Sunny exclaimed, grabbing my knee. "She has access to all that stuff!"

  I looked at the floor. Sunny would find out soon, but she wasn't going to do it in front of Hoskins.

  "Did you ever see anything like this?" I changed the subject, sketching the mark from memory. I left several details out purposely. Who knew what completing the thing in my own hand would do?

  Hoskins squinted. "The mark," he murmured. "Yes. They showed me pictures of that. From before."

  My heart accelerated. "You've seen it?"

  "None other, though you've gotten it wrong," said Hoskins. "If you're considering magick working as a hobby, take up something else."

  "Don't be cute," I growled. "Unless you want me to get up and de-alphabetize your books."

  Hoskins harrumphed while Sunny shot me a death glance and said, "She really doesn't mean most of what she says around the phase."

  "Marcus left this with each of his unfortunate conquests," Hoskins said. "He didn't get it right, either."

  I stared at the mark, no longer twistingly alive but benign scratches of ink. Marcus had used it. Stephen wore it. They were calling the same damn daemon.

  "Looks like I'm right. Meggoth rises again." I slapped the notebook closed and stood. "Let's go, Sunny." My mind was racing faster than a runaway teenager with Daddy's gold card.

  "Nice to meet you!" she called as I dragged her out. Hoskins jumped up as I was about to shut his door and came to me.

  "Detective. Meggoth offers what is beyond a human being's most depraved fantasy. The promise is too much for his avatars. They will give their lives for him."

  "Good," I told Hoskins. "After seeing those women, I will gladly give this avatar a fast kick toward the afterlife."

  "Before the Descent, an uncalled daemon could pass his power to a blood witch to complete the working," said Hoskins. "If that is still true, you will be in a very bad way."

  I thought about finally getting to meet the man who had done this face-to-face, and felt my eyes begin to shift toward yellow. Hoskins hissed and took a step back.

  "I'm not helpless," I told him.

  "I can see," he squeaked.

  I smiled. "Just so we're clear."

  "One last thing," said Hoskins as I was walking away. "I wish you good luck. Maybe now Marcus and I can finally have some peace."

  "We're way beyond luck," I said, "but thanks anyway."

  * * * *

  Outside the faculty offices, I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed Mac at home. "They're sacrifices," I said when he answered groggily.

  "What now?"

  "Lilia, Marina, and Katya. Sacrificed by a blood witch for a working."

  "Who the hell's Katya?"

  "The latest victim."

  "Okay. What are the girls being sacrificed to?" McAllister asked.

  "He has many names."

  Mac heaved a sigh. "What the hell have you been doing with your free time?"

  "Will you let me finish? A blood witch is trying to call a daemon in this city, and the experts agree it would be possible for him to succeed."

  "Who's the blood witch?"

  "No idea, sir, although he's using the Duncan kid for something."

  "Nice work, Detective."

  "I could do without the sarcasm right now, sir."

  "Well, hell, Luna," said Mac. "I could do without getting screamed at about you for one damn day. I've already gotten a shrill phone call from the captain this morning."

  I changed course abruptly so Sunny wouldn't he
ar. She looked over her shoulder, annoyed, but kept walking to the car. I took refuge behind one of the stately oak trees that Nocturne University did so well.

  "Mac, he needs four more. He'll keep going. He's driven." And if the blood witch controlling Stephen did manage the impossible and summon up a daemon, I didn't want to think about what would happen. Not rainbows and a unicorn parade, for sure.

  I heard Mac exhale. "I know you've got something here, Luna, it's not that."

  "Of course I do," I said. "I don't go flying off on mad hunches nearly as often as you'd think."

  "You'd better meet me at the precinct," Mac said. "We need to talk."

  Eighteen

  What happened?" was the first thing Sunny said when I got in the car. "Don't ask."

  She examined my face closely. I knew I was pale and twanging like a plucked violin string, eyes bloodshot from no sleep. Sunny had the grace not to mention any of this.

  "You better believe we'll talk later," she said. "Where to?"

  "The Twenty-fourth," I said quietly. McAllister knew about Roenberg firing me. He had to be cutting me loose.

  I pressed my lips together and tried not to think about just how much that hurt.

  Sunny parked in front of the precinct house and opened her door.

  "You don't have to come," I said quickly.

  "And yet, I am." She shut her door and beeped the convertible's lock.

  "Suit yourself." Shift was changing, and my fellow officers from third watch were arriving in ones and twos. I didn't see Bryson yet. Good thing, considering how my day had gone so far. I would probably kick Bryson in the groin first and ask questions later.

  "Hi Luna—Sunny!" Rick exclaimed when we came into the lobby. He grinned widely and turned an adorable shade of pink.

  "Hi, Rick," said Sunny, also blushing.

  "I'll leave you two alone," I said, going through the metal detector.

  * * * *

  The squad room had that silently rushed air of 5 PM, day workers anxious to get home and us night people shuffling in reluctantly to take up the reins through the dark hours.

  My desk was exactly how I had left it, minus the case files of missing women I'd been cross-referencing. "Where the hell are my files?" I asked the squad room at large.

  "These case files?" Bryson grinned at me from his desk, waving the stack of mellowed manila folders. "These right here?"

  I took a step toward him. "Those are mine."

  "Wrong, sweetheart," he told me. "They're mine now. Captain Roenberg brought 'em to me special this morning. Hear you chewed on his balls at that titty club crime scene and got canned."

  I held out my hand to Bryson. "Give me back the case files, David, before I do something I really regret." My ignoring his attempts to piss me off should have been a warning, but Bryson was never one for subtlety.

  "You see, your problem is you don't get laid enough, Wilder," he told me. " 'Cause if you did you'd be home with your man wearin' nothing but a cute little apron instead of tromping around here like Bitchzilla, tryin' to pin something on Stephen Duncan. Nice kid, by the way."

  Inside my head, the were opened its eyes and took a cautious breath. It smelled the rage building in me and stuck its head out to look. "You hide your good opinion of Stephen very well," I whispered.

  My hands shook. My body shook. The blood roared inside my head, and the were took a step outside the tiny cave where it hibernated twenty-eight days a month.

  Bryson shrugged. "That was just an act. Real cop would know that, Wilder." He tossed the case flies aside and laced his fingers behind his head, looking up at me with the same wide shit-eating grin I'd come to hate in my two years at the Twenty-fourth. "See, here's your issue with the Duncan kid: smart, great looking, wouldn't jump an alleged woman like you if ya got down naked on your knees and begged. And you're over here in your bitch boots with your bitch badge takin' it out on him, trying to make yourself feel better." He shook his head and turned away from me. "Sad, Wilder. Very sad."

  Turning his back on me was the mistake. The final insult the were could not ignore.

  I growled. Not the frustrated huff of air that usually made itself into a nasal sound of annoyance, or the edge my voice took on when I was trying to sound intimidating. A were growl, an animal sound that ripped itself deep from within my diaphragm and rattled around the squad room. Dmitri would be proud.

  Bryson started to say something else, probably tearing me down so that in his small mind he was clearly the victor, but I spun his chair around and backed him against the desk, pinning an arm on either side and boxing him in. I got close enough to smell the pricey aftershave covering up the cheap shampoo and stared into his eyes.

  "Bryson," I said. "I pride myself on serf-control. I know that I can ignore your adolescent baiting with ease."

  He didn't even try to push me off, just looked back at me with a wide-eyed fish expression. Terror masked the other scents, musty and enticing at the same time, and I purred low in my throat, feeling the sting that meant my pupils were slowly but surely changing from human black to animal gold and the gray around them had taken on a glow. Bryson squeaked. He sounded a lot like Professor Hoskins.

  "I have to tell you, though," I continued. "If you send so much as a funny-eyed look in my direction, if you ever feel the need to stare at and comment on my chest and my ass, or if you ever again tell me how much and why I need to get laid—in other words, David, if you continue to be yourself—I am going to lose my temper." The last delivered in a low snarl that made the hairs on Bryson's ropy neck stand at attention.

  "Jesus!" he stammered, grabbing at the case files. His hand quivered, and they slid to the floor with loud plops. He thrust a handful at me. "Take them, you crazy bitch, and get the hell away from me!"

  "Thanks," I said with a sweet smile, snatching the files from his hands with a snap. My teeth must have fanged out more than I thought because Bryson gave another squeak and bolted from his chair, disappearing into the men's room.

  My victory was short-lived. McAllister opened his office door and beckoned to me. "Did I hear Bryson?" he asked when I walked over.

  "Haven't seen him all night," I said.

  "We have problems," Mac said, shutting his office door behind me. "I told you to go to the club and work the crime scene. I specifically did not say show up, cause a ruckus, and call Roenberg incompetent." He fished in bis desk drawer and brought out a cigarette. It dangled from his lip, unlit "Luna, you're probably one of the best cops I've ever commanded, but sometimes I just have to sit back and wonder what goes on in that head of yours."

  "Mac, Roenberg's covering for Stephen Duncan to protect the DA's rep and you know it. The captain had no ME, no CSU, just a giant freaking broom to smooth the whole thing over with." Talk enough and maybe Mac would forget about the whole letting-me-go part.

  "Luna, I know Wilbur is dirty as gym socks, but you are not going to prove that by pissing off everyone who can throw up an obstacle to your case."

  I wanted to hit something, but I settled for my palm. "I don't care, Mac. Fire me. I promised these women."

  "You promised them?" Mac demanded. "Jesus. You know not to get attached, Luna. You know damn well. You can't work the case if you're in a body bag next to the victim."

  How did I explain to him that it was more than a case, generic and numbered inside a brown folder? Lilia was a were, a member of my own blood. Marina was a poor, dumb, trusting girl who just wanted the man of her dreams. All three of them were vulnerable and dead because I hadn't caught the killer fast enough. The thought twisted in my stomach.

  "I can't see a way around this," said Mac finally when I didn't come up with a retort. "I have to put you on administrative leave, Luna. Roenberg has already instigated procedures to fire you."

  "Fine," I said softly, already unhooking my shield.

  Mac took the little piece of gold and turned it over once in his hand before sliding it into the drawer next to his flattened pack of smokes. I took
out my Glock, checked the chamber, and took my two extra clips out of my jacket pocket. "You'd better take this, too."

  Mac looked up at me with worry writ large in his face.

  "It's not what I might do to myself," I said, opening his door. "It's what I'll do to Stephen Duncan and his blood witch puppeteer when I catch them."

  Mac took that in stride, just saying, "Don't put yourself in jail over this piece of shit."

  I smiled. I wanted to scream, but what the Hex would that accomplish? "What choice do I have?" I asked Mac.

  "You're the other, Luna. You scare people like Roenberg. They don't want your help."

  I sagged. Mac's words hit me like a club to the gut. "And what about you?" I whispered.

  Mac clicked his lighter against the end of the cigarette and exhaled. "Me? This tears me up, Luna. You're like my gods damn little sister."

  "Yeah. Some brother you turned out to be."

  "Don't take it out on me," said Mac. "And not on yourself, either. You fought a good fight, kid, but now it's time to go home and reboot your life. I know you're right about the murders, but you can't make this case. Roenberg has already cleaned out the club, and what little evidence was probably there is long gone. Duncan won this one."

  "I have to go," I whispered so he wouldn't hear I was trying not to cry.

  Mac dragged. "Where, Luna?"

  "None of your business. Why do you care where someone like me goes, anyway?"

  "I'm not the one you should be angry at," he said again.

  "You'll do for now," I snarled. "Good-bye."

  I slammed the door on his wounded expression, digging my nails into my palm so I wouldn't have to let out my tears.

  * * * *

  I tore Sunny away from trading smiles and stammered small talk with Rick and led her out to the car, ignoring her protests.

  "City archives," I said when we were inside.

  "You have that look," she said. "What happened?"

  "Archives, now," I said.

  Sunny threw up her hands. "Fine! Don't want to talk to me, go ahead. Just build that nice big wall you have higher." She jerked the car into gear and sped into traffic.