Cashing Out

by SM Reine

  “If you want.” Mohinder seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He was already walking back toward the secret door, ignoring Urien.

  The other vampire didn’t relax. Fear was still bathing his mind, so bright and sharp, like the taste of freshly spilled blood.

  Mohinder’s calm was a lie. Urien knew this.

  And so did Nissa.

  The secret door swung open. Mohinder came out. “We don’t have time to tour the Back Room,” he said, pulling Nissa off of the barstool. “More of the couriers, like Maximillian, have gone missing. I’ll need to attend to them. Let me show you the basement before I go searching.”

  “Okay,” she said. She didn’t need to see the Back Room in person. She’d gotten enough of an impression from Urien’s mind.

  Instead, Mohinder led her to an elevator that went deep into the basement underneath Near Dark. As soon as the doors slid open, Nissa heard the weeping.

  There were kennels in the basement, which was the size of a warehouse, and extended so deep into the earth that Nissa couldn’t see the cages beyond a few hundred meters. Most of them were empty. But the four nearest had people in them—women, in fact, all of them with shaved heads and wearing nothing.

  “Aren’t those dog kennels?” Nissa asked.

  “No. These are human kennels. I bought these from the same collector who sent us the furniture upstairs. Did you know that the Houses of Abraxas and Belial used to keep human slaves? Demons have long known where humans belong on the food chain.”

  “So these came from the City of Dis,” Nissa said.

  He nodded. “I’ve filled this entire level. There are enough kennels for us to store every human who has RSVP’d for the opening of Vampire Vegas, and more, if we double up.” He flicked a light switch to reveal the room.

  There weren’t just kennels alongside the edges of the walls. There were also glass cages in the center of the room.

  Glass cages exactly like those within Penny McIntyre’s memories.

  Within Nissa’s memories.

  Mohinder stopped walking beside a pump much like the one they’d visited earlier in the sewers. It also had the Gaslight Corp logo on its label. He patted its belly with an open hand, and the chain that tethered a cap to its top jangled. “All of Vampire Vegas’s water passes through here. It’s dispensed to each of the kennels via metal nipples—an addition I made, since water wasn’t common enough in Dis to allow the captives to drink freely. I’ll be adding our special cocktail to this container so that we can keep sidhe and shifters under control. It’s less resource intensive than trying to magically contain them.”

  “It seems like you’re good at keeping people under control,” Nissa said. She felt faint. Dizzy. She’d eaten recently yet she felt like she was on the brink of passing out from starvation. “Like you’ve done it before.”

  “I benefit from the knowledge of ages,” he said.

  “Did Achlys know?” Nissa asked.

  Mohinder gave her a coolly blank look. “Know what?”

  Did she know who you are?

  Did she know that you liked to kidnap curly-haired girls off of Fremont Street and keep them in cages?

  These four faces Nissa saw within the boxes were familiar, and not from memories belonging to Penny. They were familiar because she’d just been looking at the file of the Fremont Slasher’s victims, and these four had been among those who were never found.

  Mohinder had been keeping them.

  Nissa opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She didn’t know what to say to her sire.

  “Did Achlys know that you were preparing Vampire Vegas for secession from human civilization?” Nissa asked, even though it wasn’t the question on her mind.

  “She knew I was making it, but she thought it would be a failsafe,” Mohinder said. “She really wanted to keep everything legal.” He walked along the boxes, running his fingertips along the glass. The women barely reacted. Only one shrank tighter into her corner, lifting her head to stare at Nissa with enormous eyes.

  “I thought you also wanted to keep things legal so that you’d become mayor,” Nissa said.

  “Becoming mayor appeals to me,” he said. “But the OPA will daylight bomb us soon. There’s no point resisting—I’ve no interest in fighting to keep the so-called privilege of living within human society. That’s why we need to prepare.” Mohinder gestured. With his telekinesis, he turned off all the lights. “Vampire Vegas opens tomorrow night.”

  6

  Charmaine Villanueva didn’t like the Holy Nights Cathedral, but to be fair, she didn’t like the idea of any building that could settle down in her city area without permits. It could have been a froyo shop and she’d have been suspicious.

  Arriving at the cathedral to be greeted warmly by a tired-looking monk helped put her at ease. Not much, but a little.

  “Chief,” said Brother Marshall, shaking her hand vigorously. He had a strong grip. Charmaine judged people by how they shook her hand, and any of that limp-wristed spaghetti-fingered business was a quick way for her to hate a guy. Brother Marshall must have been okay.

  She took a quick sniff of the air. He smelled of fresh herbs, gardens, musty old catacombs. “Brother,” she greeted in return. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Always happy to work with law enforcement. You wanna come in?” Brother Marshall swept a hand toward the towering doors of the cathedral, which he held open with a foot so that they wouldn’t swing shut on her. There was something comfortingly Southern about his hospitality.

  Charmaine caught herself smiling. “Sure.”

  The cathedral was a sight to see. She couldn’t help but stare at the towering stained-glass windows and all the scenes they depicted. Charmaine had been Catholic until her family’s pastor had told her that being a transwoman meant she was going to Hell. After that, she’d decided she had better shit to do with her Sundays. Still, much of her nostalgia remained.

  She especially loved the blocky designs of stained glass. These particular windows didn’t depict familiar Biblical scenes and saints, though. They depicted two of the triad of deities—a man and a woman—facing various trials. In some, the female wielded a pair of swords. She cut down triangular red demons with an expression of peace on her face. Other images depicted the male journeying through gray lands without features, blocky magic rippling over his arms.

  The most realistic depiction of the gods was at the front of the room. The mural behind the pulpit was near-photorealistic, depicting the gods amid a lush garden. Both were black haired and eyed despite their white skin. It gave them an unearthly look. Appropriate, given that they weren’t earthy creatures.

  “This looks like your first time in a triadist place of worship. Can I answer any questions?” Brother Marshall asked. He’d caught Charmaine staring.

  She shook her head. “I’m not here to get educated. Just need to talk about the case, if you don’t mind. Although…”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “Do you do worship on Sundays, like a normal church?” she asked.

  “Most triadists don’t.”

  “But here, at the Holy Nights Cathedral?”

  Lincoln grinned. “I do. Call it an old habit. I haven’t always been a good gods-fearing man, but even in my darkest times, I’ve always set aside Sundays for worship. Triadists don’t have origins in Christianity, though. It’s a whole new thing.”

  “I can see that,” Charmaine said. “I’ve heard from the Hunting Club that you are one of the founding fathers of the religion. Brianna Dimaria has referred to you as an apostle before.”

  He laughed. “An apostle. Wonder what she’d have to say about that.” He jerked a thumb toward one of the stained-glass visions of the female deity. “Bet she wouldn’t want nobody saying they’re her apostle.”

  “You know God well enough to guess at her opinions?”

  “Sure, but it doesn’t make me special. Dana knew her like that too,” Lincoln said. “Lots of
people did. It’s weird being the first generation of followers for a god.”

  More than weird, it was unsettling. Charmaine had so many questions that she didn’t even know where to begin. Instead, she said, “Perhaps I can visit during one of your…sermons? For now, we should focus on work.”

  “Of course. I’m sure you’re real busy in these parts. Mind coming to my office?”

  Brother Marshall led her through the nave, going to a hallway behind the pulpit.

  Charmaine was probably imagining things, but she thought that the mural of the gods was watching her movement through the cathedral.

  She wondered if they were real, and not for the first time. Brother Marshall claimed they were. Dana had as well. So did Anthony. Yet it was easier to think that these people were mutually confused rather than believing that humans had ascended to godhood.

  Even though she wasn’t exactly a believer, Charmaine spent a lot of time noodling on those gods. Mostly on the full and new moons when her body went from human to coyote. Charmaine didn’t hate being a shifter. It was just something else she lived with. But she wondered why the fuck gods would have done that to her, and she often wished she could have asked them personally.

  By the grace of Brother Marshall, maybe she could someday.

  Charmaine stepped into the back hallway. It cut the mural out of view, and she lost the creepy sensation of being watched.

  “I’ve made six sample Garlic Shots,” Brother Marshall said. “I know it’s not a lot, but the Hardwicks couldn’t afford to send me much by way of supplies. To be honest, I’m surprised they sent me this much. Think they felt guilty for not donating supplies before we lost Dana.”

  “Damn shame about that girl.” Difficult as she could be, the world needed more Dana McIntyre in it, not less.

  Brother Marshall’s office was small and modest, though he’d fit an apothecary’s table in the corner. A glass bowl glowed with green smoke at its center. Six slender vials bubbled over a magical golden fire.

  “Those are the Garlic Shots?” Charmaine asked.

  He nodded. “Hopefully it’s enough for the Office of Preternatural Affairs to synthesize more. It’s long past time we had something resembling a vaccine for vampirism. We’ve been able to cure lycanthropy for years, but I’ve been real worried that vampirism would go all epidemic on us.”

  “Even if it’s not enough for them to synthesize more Garlic Shots, it might be enough to keep the deputy secretary off of my back.”

  Brother Marshall puttered around the apothecary table, grabbing jars off of the surrounding shelves. “This’ll take a minute to polish off and secure. You can sit.” Charmaine took a chair, pushing it back so she could watch him at the same time as the entrance to the room. Years working for the police had made her paranoid. “The OPA still threatening to invade?”

  “No, and that scares me. I feel safer when they’re blustering. The OPA’s always executed most of their plans in utter silence.”

  “They’re silent now?”

  “Unfortunately.” Ever since a public clash between the Hunting Club and the Paradisos in Boulder City, Charmaine had been on the phone with the secretary every day. But they’d gone silent after the Gantry warehouse fire.

  Charmaine wasn’t stupid enough to think the quiet meant she’d gotten away from the OPA’s threats of seizing Las Vegas. She needed a way to convince the secretary that she still had things under control.

  Enter the Garlic Shots.

  Brother Marshall glanced at Charmaine over his shoulder. He was a gorgeous man, and if he’d grown up in Los Angeles, it was pretty much guaranteed that someone that pretty would have been swept up for acting or modeling. It was odd to see him draped in the robes of a holy man. And the looks he gave Charmaine always made her heart go pitter-pat even though she was too old and cynical to make anything of it.

  “You’ve probably got shortfalls ahead without McIntyre’s help,” Brother Marshall said. “I know how reliant cops can get on consultants, sometimes. The good ones are worth their weight in dimes and then some. If you need help with anything else after this, knock on my door.”

  She was honored by the offer. The way the Hunting Club talked about Brother Marshall made it clear he was big news in the preternatural world. “Do you consult often?”

  His mouth twitched. “Used to be a deputy.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Back east. I worked in Northgate before it became, you know, Northgate.” That was the city where the Alpha werewolf lived. “Used to think that the law was going to be my whole life, until…” He waved a hand at the cathedral.

  “Genesis,” Charmaine filled in.

  “Something like that.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” she said. “I might take you up on it if—”

  “Wait.” Brother Marshall sniffed one of the glowing vials. “This isn’t a Garlic Shot.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. It didn’t react when I activated the apothecary table, so it’s not a Garlic Shot.” He dipped his pinky in one of the vials and tasted it. “This is lime Jell-O mix.” He swung around to search the shelves, but Charmaine knew it was in vain. She already knew what had happened.

  Someone had stolen the Garlic Shots.

  “What’s your security like around here?” Charmaine asked.

  “I live in a magical cathedral filled with gargoyles,” Brother Marshall said. “Most folks wouldn’t dare try to steal from here. They’d get Dale Junior on their doorstep within a few minutes.”

  “Dale Junior?”

  Brother Marshall whistled. A gargoyle lumbered into view on the other side of the doorway. It was three times as wide as an average person, and half again as tall. Its eyes were empty of cognition.

  “All right,” she said slowly. She wouldn’t want Dale Junior visiting her, that was for sure. “He’s here, not chasing a thief. Who could have taken the Garlic Shots?”

  “A triadist, maybe,” Brother Marshall said. “Someone who’s got top privileges. Except none of my brothers would have had reason to take the Garlic Shots.”

  “Who else has such privileges?”

  He clenched his jaw. Folded his arms.

  “Only Dana McIntyre,” he said.

  Charmaine was halfway out the Holy Nights Cathedral when she was intercepted by Anthony. Theoretically, it would have been nice to see him outside of an investigation, and at another time she’d have happily invited him to her favorite cop pub. But what should have been an easy pick-up of supplies from Brother Marshall had turned into more serious business, and she could barely muster a smile, even for a familiar face.

  “Just the police chief I was hoping to see,” Anthony said, swinging around to follow her back out the door. “You got a minute?”

  She had no minutes. She also had no hope. She’d been relying on the Garlic Shots to get her out of trouble with the OPA, and now…Charmaine had no clue what she was going to do next time Secretary Friederling started breathing down her neck. “You’ve got as long as it takes me to get to my desk at the precinct. Want a ride?”

  “Sure.” He jumped in her passenger’s seat. “So I took a sample from the warehouse on Gantry.”

  Charmaine got the engine going, blasted the AC, and rolled down the windows until it cooled off. “You’re not supposed to tell me that you stole evidence. In case you forgot, I am the chief of police.”

  “You’ve already got enough dirt on me for an arrest. If you haven’t done it before when the Hunting Club’s been a bag of dicks, you’re not gonna do it now, when the Hunting Club’s trying to be helpful.”

  The reminder didn’t help. Charmaine was getting a thundering headache, in fact.

  No Garlic Shots for the OPA.

  There was an outbreak of lethe addiction—probably tainted lethe, mixed with something more virulent—that had her cops working even more overtime than usual.

  And if Secretary Friederling was spending his quiet time taking a close look at the departmen
t, he’d see all the times that Charmaine let the Hunting Club get away with murder. Literally.

  How would she explain to the head of the OPA that she was using her best judgment with the vigilantes? They were great at their jobs. They fixed more problems than they created.

  But they did create problems.

  Charmaine was happy to sweep those problems under the rug for them. She tried not to treat them like friends, but they were better than anyone else in her social circle. Nobody else had accepted her so readily. An Afro-Cuban transwoman, a were-coyote, a blue-blooded cop who lived and died by the badge.

  Something about her was guaranteed to offend anyone in Vegas.

  But not the Hunting Club.

  It was easy to look the other way when Charmaine didn’t want to catch them getting into trouble. It was a lot harder if she had to justify it to someone like Secretary Friederling.

  Yep, that was definitely a migraine budding in her temples.

  “You took evidence and analyzed it,” Charmaine said, feeling exhausted. “Doesn’t matter. We analyzed it too.”

  “So you know all about the iron and silver that was mixed in with that ash,” Anthony said.

  “And the accelerant. Seems likely that someone was planning on burning that warehouse down.”

  “And you found the traces of unobtainium?”

  She stopped at a light and glanced over to see if Anthony was joking. Charmaine noted that he was growing stubble along the triangle of his jaw. She wondered if he was growing out a proper beard in respect to Dana’s hatred of his Ricky Ricardo mustache.

  He looked serious. Definitely not joking.

  “The department’s not capable of testing for unobtainium,” Charmaine said.

  “Good thing I stole evidence, right?”

  “Sorry, I’ve gone deaf. Not sure what you said just now.” The light changed and she gunned it. “Is it a surprise to find unobtainium burning at the warehouse? You said the Paradisos were known to have the recipe for the completed cure.”