To Night's mind, wizards were white men with long beards, robes, and pointy hats. For that matter, African witch doctors conjured images of men in large masks dancing around pyres of fire. Neither picture came close to what he practiced. He slumped within his great wicker chair, exhausted from manipulating the dragon's breath. At his beckoning, it poured from the vents of the Phoenix Apartments penthouse and pooled at his feet, a faithful dog awaiting his master's command. So he thought.
"What we gonna do about Miss Jane?" Green stood in the corner of the room, a discreet distance from the enveloping tendrils of mist, and watched as they entered Night's nostrils and open mouth. The distortion added to the ghoulishness of his face.
Night's eye's fluttered, his upturned pupils returning to normal and focusing on Green. "What do you mean?"
"Her time's about up. She's bound to become a… liability before too long."
"You mean give me up? She don't know nothing."
"She knows more than you think. Plus, she thinks she has a trump card to play."
"Percy?"
"Yeah."
"Leave her be," Night said. "He's still my blood and she's still the boy's mother."
"Not much of one. No disrespect."
"No, you right. But the bug or the blast will catch up with her before much longer." Night struggled to upright himself, but his arm muscles gave out. Sweat scattered like buckshot across his face and chest.
"Are you OK?"
"Just off my game is all." Night wouldn't have suffered any interruptions or taken any visitors during the ritual — definitely would not have risked appearing weak — except in front of Green. Night's T-shirt draped over him, his gaunt face betraying his emaciated body. His dark flesh withered. If Green had seen this before, his thoughts were his own.
"You're using it too much."
Night threw a bloodshot glare at Green. The undersides of his eyelids itched with the scrape of ants crawling alongside his eyes into his skull. The rasp of his breathing choked into a cough. He rolled his tongue across his dry, cracked lips. The ashy pallor to his skin obscured by the waning mist, Night's head was already caught up in the heady throes of the dragon's breath.
"I'm so close to having them all. And beating Dred at his own game."
Marshall rested on his side, stroking the bare back of the hooker sprawled across his dirty mattress. Her flesh cooled to room temperature, her head buried face down into what passed for his bed, staring into eternity. She died during the throes of his climax; that was when it usually happened, though it rarely stopped him from going a second round. Michaela sat in a chair across from them. As much as Michaela hated being referred to as the Durham Brothers, she hated the appellation "The Trolls" even more. All elementals were known to be capricious, treacherous, and, well, hostile. It took them a long time to find a place that suited their needs. An abandoned home which had been gutted, all but the load-bearing walls removed so that new owners could refashion the layout any way they wished. Without power and with the windows boarded, the house was little more than a huge cavern.
"Was it good for you?" he remarked to the corpse, but turned to Michaela to see if she'd give him a polite chuckle. It wasn't the fact that he had to pay for company that upset Marshall, it was that pros charged him at least double. A shadow crossed his face whenever things did not go his way. If Michaela wasn't around, he was often cheated, the victim of a Murphy game or worse, so she always watched over him.
"It's time," Michaela checked her watch. She had similar but different problems. With a measure of wit and charm, she had little difficulty getting a man, when away from the baleful uncomfortable stare of her brother. Unfortunately, she couldn't stop herself from consuming them. When it came to men, she lived with a constant fear that if he got to know her or if he knew her name, he'd either abandon or destroy her. Better to kill them before they hurt her. Dining on them spoke more to her frugal mentality.
"We shouldn't go to work on an empty stomach."
"You're supposed to load up on carbs, I hear."
"Well, waste not, want not."
She stared at the corpse. Her mouth watered as she imagined chewing the fleshy muscle of the woman's upper arm, tearing sinew from bone in large sloppy bites. "I suppose we have time for a quick nibble."
• • •
The metallic squawk of the phone, the din of voices, the pallid haze of fluorescent lighting all faded into background static as Octavia studied the spread of folders before her. Glasses low on her nose, she picked up folder after folder, eyes dancing along each line until the information became as familiar as her own heartbeat. License plate numbers from surveillance of Breton Court Phoenix Apartments activities led to girlfriends, and in a couple of cases, mothers of the players. But nothing on Dred, Night, or Green. They had pictures of Green and a rare shot of Night, but that was it. Social Security, date of birth, assets, credit history, criminal records, lawsuits (not that any beefs were handled in any court other than the streets) — it was difficult to track anyone who had checked out of the system.
The local reverends were up in arms and calling for an open and honest investigation. Apparently the lead investigator being black wasn't enough because blue was blue and police hid behind a wall of silence. The take-home message was that she was window dressing, little more than a House Negro faithfully attending to her master's business. Her unspoken message to them would be that there came a point when talk was cheap, when you had done all you could do to draw attention to a problem and had to come up or join in with a solution. Protests and prayer meetings didn't cut it anymore. Maybe they — the people, the community — needed to do more to stem the tide of violence where they could; bear their share of the burden. Put some "action" into social action, not just stopping at press conferences pontificating and prevaricating until the cameras were finished rolling. But that would be her selling them as short as they were selling her.
Lee was down the hall with the prize catches from his little raid on the dog-fighting ring. Even Octavia gave him silent props on that bust and that was before it yielded a couple of rival low-level players. Mr Parker Griffin, they all but knew that they wouldn't get anywhere with: well acquainted with the system, being far from a virgin with it, he had already graduated from the juvey system. He'd keep his mouth shut and stand tall, but Lee had to go through the motions. Now, Mr Preston Wilcox, street name "Prez", was another story. He was new to the life. Word was he made it no secret that he hated the rules of the game. People whispered that he had no heart when, in fact, what he had was sense enough to realize that it was the needless violence, especially the collateral damage of bystanders, that drew the police down on them. Even so, any perceived weakness, even voiced attitude, could get him dead, except that he was new enough for folks to consider him still learning the rules.
"Do you believe in God?" Octavia knew that she herself hadn't seen the inside of a church since her momma quit making her go. As a detective, it was her job to sidle alongside a perp, get into their head, and become their best friend. In short, her job was to be an actress or at least a professional bullshitter, because who would befriend this worthless lot? Truth be told, when it came to God, she'd thought about Him and church a lot lately, a beacon in the darkness. Maybe the reverends were getting to her after all.
"I guess."
"No, son, that's not good enough. Either you believe in a Creator that is looking over you, the same God your momma and grandmomma believed in and raised you to believe in, or you don't."
"Yeah." Slouched in his chair not meeting her eyes, Prez studied his hands as they rested on the table. The wan light gave them a sense of… otherliness. All of the God talk made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of more innocent times, when he was capable of believing in things like burning bushes, parted seas, and resurrections. He no longer believed in miracles.
"So you know wrong from right?"
"I guess."
"All right. Now we getting somewhere. You know
why I became a cop?"
"No."
"I'm a truth seeker. I believe that there is truth out there, sometimes buried under layers of lies and bodies and secrets and things most folks don't want their momma to know they were doing. But it's out there, right, son?"
"Yeah." Prez squirmed every time she used the word "son". And the word became her knife.
"I believe in God, too. I want to do His work, be a blessing to those around me, especially the neighborhood my mother and father raised me in. But I can't help a neighborhood that won't help itself. We try to uphold the truth, uphold the law though it is sometimes, well, most times too painful. But we do it anyway. Not because of you or your knucklehead friends. You all are in the game. You know the rules, we know the rules and we just play tag with one another. But…"
Octavia pulled out a folder and withdrew pictures of Alaina. Shots of her in the park, her bulletridden body on the ground, dead eye accusing any who bore witness. "Most folks ain't in the game. Some get caught up in stuff despite staying as far away as they could. She was a promising athlete and a good student," Octavia risked embellishing Alaina's story a little. "Odds were she wouldn't have gone much further than college playing ball, but she could've been a doctor or a businesswoman. She could've gotten out. And this one." She pulled out a picture of Conant. "This one was just playing in his mother's kitchen. Can you believe that? His whole life in front of him. Laughter, love, friends, family all gone because folks playing the game too close."
Prez's gaze fixed on the picture. He held it gently. So this was what he looked like.
"Something you want to tell me, son?" Detective Burke relied on her instincts. The light of recognition, the apologetic droop of his shoulder, eyes full of sorrow and regret but not tears. Rarely tears.
"No."
"No? You going to look this boy in the eye and tell me 'no'. Ah, you a street soldier standing tall. No snitching from you, ain't that right?"
"Yeah."
"See? You can say 'yeah' when you need to. And this boy needs you to. Look, I know we have you up in our house — you're free to get up any time you want," she quickly reminded him without breaking stride in her spiel. "But I'm not saying that you had anything to do with it. I just need your help. I need to tell his people something. Every day I get to work and you know what I dread hearing? My phone ringing. Why? Because I know it's his momma calling. Every. Day. Wanting to know if we've made any progress. Wanting to know if we've found her baby's killer. Every day I have to hear her heart break all over again when I have to tell her that no one cares about her baby. No one wants to step up. No one wants to do the right thing. No one wants to stand tall for Conant. Everyone wants to be blind, deaf, and dumb and call themselves being true to the game. Are you blind, deaf, and dumb?"
"No."
"Someone's got to answer for his blood. Don't you agree?"
"Yeah."
She slapped the table. Prez jumped. "Just tell me whatever you know, son. Whatever you know."
"I don't know."
"Don't you care, son?"
"I… I don't know what it means to care." Prez stumbled for a response and latched onto the first thought that came to mind. He didn't think he'd grasp anything so truthfully self-revelatory. The words hung in the air and Prez cast his face downward again. The room suddenly felt too hot.
"I don't believe that, son. I don't believe you're that far gone. I don't believe you're a monster, son."
A monster. There were too many monsters, real monsters, running the streets. The kind of monsters not found in bedtime stories or fairy tales. At least not the ones he read. He studied Conant's picture again and held it in those hands (whose hands?) which did things he certainly couldn't be held accountable for. "All right. Maybe I heard something."
"I'm listening. Conant's momma wants to know, son."
"Someone who was there. I'm not saying he did it."
"You got a name for me?"
I bet that woman had a name. "Dollar."
The rarely observed fact about 38th Street was that it told the tale of the city. Beginning on the west side, along the picturesque Eagle Creek reservoir, it wound past the Breton Court apartments then Lafayette Square, and traced an area in the throes of white flight. The street crossed White River and then ran in front of the Indianapolis Museum of Art and the Butler University campus, a once mildly decayed stretch that prettied up a bit as it led to the State Fairgrounds. Passing Fall Creek, now well into the east side of the city, the curb appeal of the street was forgotten once more. Though it continued long past the Phoenix Apartments, that was where Omarosa's journey ended. Not so much at the Phoenix, but at a house not too far south of there.
Rumor had it that this was Dred's mother's home. Rumor had it that Dred's mother had a bit of a falling-out of some sort with her son and hadn't been seen since. Rumor had it that the home was now a convenient bank, under the protection of Dred. His word was like the Roman emperor's seal of old: no one dared break it out of penalty of a death that would be sure, swift, and certain for any who dared trespass on Dred's hallowed ground.
Omarosa's skill as a thief was unquestioned, demonstrated in part by the fact that she didn't even possess a criminal record. Were this a simple breakin, it would merely be a matter of some second-storey work and a few picked locks. But they weren't in the suburbs now and the front door — on top of being the original door which meant real wood of substantial thickness — was probably reinforced. Plywood covered the windows. Weighing her options, she decided on a different plan. She rang the doorbell.
"Look here, shorty." Junie held the door open. "You got the wrong place. You need to step."
"That's cool. Baylon sent me to help someone here relax, but I'll sure as shit save my back the strain." She stepped back to let him fully appreciate the view. Her hair ran in a series of fine braids. Hoop earrings hung down to her shoulders. An azure cloud framed her eyes, complementing the electric-blue gloss on her lips. A rhinestone dotted each blue nail. A zippered blue jean jacket matched a skirt which stopped along the curve of her ass. Handcuffs looped in front, an ill-fitting belt buckle. Her fishnet-gartered legs ran down to boots with a six-inch metallic heel, the edge honed to a fine bevel.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. B sent you? He just full of surprises tonight." Junie studied her fine physique for a few moments; the budding bulge in his pants would've held the door open for her on its own.
"It's just you? I was expecting a bit of a party."
"You mean Parker? He down at juvey. Got locked up on some bullshit. Should be back tomorrow. But we ain't gonna let his absence spoil our good time."
Junie replaced the wood plank and metal rod to secure the door. Omarosa thought they depended too much on Dred's aura to guarantee their safety. That was fine when dealing with folks more afraid of Dred than death. Not so fine when dealing with one of the Fey. These fools ran a sloppy operation and left everything out in the open: product on the tables, baggies half-filled, money still in the counter, and only Junie on watch. Junie, a well-known fuckup. With her deliberate stride and revealing the taut muscles of her thigh, her body language deceptively promised sex. She counted how many bones to break in each arm once he touched her. The creak of protesting floorboards gave her pause.
"Well, well, well, look who we have heah." Michaela wiped her hands on a towel as she came in from one of the back rooms. Wearing a white bohemian-style skirt with red ruffles, the outfit only accentuated the heft of her figure. However, Michaela was much more comfortable dressed this way, than in a suit. More in tune with her personality as she saw it. "I smell fey."
"Me too." Marshall descended the stairs soon after her, his awkward bulk causing him to clutch the railing and concentrate on negotiating each step rather than tax himself with banter.
"I smell unwashed ass and wet horse, so it must be the troll brothers coming out to play."
Michaela bristled. "She the one that's been taking off folks' money."
"Matches the descr
iption. No sawed-off tonight, though," Junie circled behind her as he appraised. "Don't know where she'd hide it in that outfit."
Omarosa cursed at herself for being too cocky, even for her. As traps went, however, she wasn't overly impressed. Though it demonstrated probably as much sophistication as Junie could handle. The trolls weren't exactly an instrument of subtlety, say like a finely balanced blade. They were more like a war hammer and if they smashed enough, they got the job done. The job was a bust and it was time to cut her losses and make a hasty retreat. They weren't in position yet which left her plenty of opportunity. Time to expose their weak link. She turned to Junie.
"I didn't think I'd need more than a strong pimp hand for your punk ass."
Junie stepped toward her but was met with a side snap-kick to his gut which doubled him over. Omarosa planted her elbow in the back of his neck, then tossed him at Marshall. With Michaela almost on her, she pulled out the. 22 she kept tucked in the back of her skirt. Omarosa was never truly unarmed. Michaela grabbed her gun hand, but Omarosa peeled off two shots, one firing wild, the other catching Michaela in her shoulder. Michaela barely grunted, instead she squeezed the hand until the gun dropped and then punched Omarosa in her belly. Michaela's speed belied her bulk. She smashed a meaty fist into Omarosa's cheekbones, then hit her in the nose the same way. Her head whipped to the side. Her blood dotted the wall. Sent sprawling to the floor, the petals of the rose she'd planned on leaving tumbling from her jacket pocket scattered. Omarosa staggered a few steps to her right, positioning herself hoping her next gambit might work better than her original plan. Marshall lumbered toward her, his deliberate pace full of menace. He eyed her long, fine fingers with the delight of using them for toothpicks later.
Omarosa spun into action, a blur of boneless gymnastics as she tumbled overhead and arced the blade that formed her heel toward Michaela's throat in a movement so improbably fluid, she almost couldn't react. Raising her arms to protect her neck, she received a thick gash along her forearms rather than having her carotid artery severed. They seemed to move in special-effects slow-motion as Omarosa grabbed the electronic money counter and smashed it into Marshall.
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