The Wicked City

by Megan Morgan

  “Do you think it was really a ghost?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to think about it.” She uncrossed her arms and smoothed her hands over her hips. She prayed Rose wouldn’t pop out of a wall.

  “You want me to order something from room service, since Sam said we could?” Micha turned toward the phone on the stand next to the bed. “Something to calm your nerves? Hot tea, or some of that fancy wine Sam was pissed about? What was that?”

  “I don’t drink tea, and it was Cabernet Sauvignon. But I’m not exactly in the mood for wine.”

  Micha picked up the handset. “How about some decaf coffee with a shot of whiskey? It’ll help you sleep.”

  She rocked on her heels. “Yeah, I could go for that.”

  The clock next to the bed said 1:52, yet their request was taken; that meant either room service went on all night in fancy hotels, or they kept a light on for Sam’s guests. June sat on the bed. Micha went to the door when their order arrived, not bothering to put pants on.

  A heavy hand had poured the whiskey and the liquid burned her throat and chest, which she’d been hoping for.

  “I don’t think I can handle much more of this shit,” she said.

  Micha, back in bed under the covers, had a cup of tea. He took a sip. “I don’t think you have to worry about a ghost. She may have a message, but she can’t do anything. The dead are just that, dead.”

  She glanced down at her cup, at her reflection in the dark liquid. She looked tired. “Do you think I’ll get him out? Jason?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked up.

  “And I’m not just saying that.” Micha smiled.

  “Thanks,” she said softly.

  They were silent for a few minutes. June took a big drink of her coffee and winced. The burn focused her thoughts.

  “So,” she said. “What do you think is gonna happen to you? I guess you can’t hide forever.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters.”

  “I guess only time will tell.”

  She took another drink. The whiskey trickled down her spine and a tingling heat spread outward, over her limbs. Optimism crept in, just a little. “Yeah, I guess it will.”

  “You wanna sleep in here with me now?” Micha set his cup aside.

  “Like a little kid hiding from monsters in her parents’ room?”

  “I’m a little freaked out, too.”

  “You just want me in bed with you.”

  Micha arched an eyebrow. “That bother you?”

  “I feel guilty about what I did earlier. Especially now with your wife showing up.”

  Micha scooted down and lay back against the pillows. He stretched out and folded his arms above his head. His T-shirt rode up, giving her a glimpse of tight, smooth skin.

  “I’m just asking if you want to sleep in here so neither of us will be spooked,” he said. “What’s on your dirty mind?”

  “Oh, that’s not fair.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “That.” She gestured at his body.

  Micha pulled the covers down next to him. “I promise I won’t touch you, if you feel that bad about it.”

  She slid off the bed. “Screw it then. I’ll go back to the sofa.”

  “You’re the one who just got all pious!”

  She plunked her cup down on the bedside stand next to Micha’s. She picked his up and sniffed. The smell of whiskey filled her nostrils. Bourbon, actually. Fruitier.

  “Lush.” She put the cup down. “I knew you weren’t just sipping tea.”

  Micha stretched out, one arm behind his head, the other still holding the covers back. “Get in bed.”

  * * * *

  June awoke to sunlight and the sound of a television. She shifted and found her body both warm and comfortable, which almost made up for the light and noise. For a moment the shit-storm her life had become remained silent, her mind blissfully blank. Then she opened her eyes and all the bad stuff rushed in. Ghosts. The Institute. Jason. Bullshit.

  She lifted her head and winced at the light. Apparently, fancy hotels couldn’t afford curtains after they got done making the gold toilets. But they had curtains, her bedmate apparently didn’t believe in them.

  Her bedmate.

  Micha lay beside her, several pillows elevating his head, covers pulled up to his chest. He held the TV remote. “Morning. I didn’t wake you with the TV, did I?”

  June smacked her lips. The taste of whiskey lingered in her mouth. “What time is it?”

  Micha rolled his head on the pillows and looked at the clock on the other side of him. “Eight thirty-six.”

  She pushed herself up on one elbow. Her usual morning processes kicked in: the craving for nicotine, firing up like a jet engine; a few coughs to clear her lungs and remind her that if the Institute didn’t kill her, her habit would; the nagging need to empty her bladder.

  “What are you watching?” She squinted at the TV. A silver-haired man was talking about reforming something while a stock ticker scrolled across the bottom of the screen, next to a box showing the weather forecast. Today would be cold.

  “The news,” Micha said. “It’s pretty biased here, but you take what you can get.”

  June shifted and winced. She didn’t like sleeping in jeans. “Don’t worry. It’s like that everywhere.”

  “The news in this city, especially when it comes to the paranormal, is incredibly biased. One way or another. It’s either long on sanctimony and short on facts, or long on criticism and short on sympathy.” He thrust the remote at the TV. “All they do is argue.”

  “Those bastards.” She sat up fully.

  “Aaron Jenkins will be on this morning. He wants to talk about Rose’s death, too.”

  June shuffled through the layers of confusion and drama in her head to recall the name. Aaron Jenkins. Current leader of the SNC. “I don’t wanna miss that. So I’m gonna go piss and smoke.”

  Micha smiled.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  Micha chuckled. “Your bed head is cute. You look frightening and charming at the same time.”

  She reached up and raked her fingers through her hair. Disgusting. Definitely shower day. If she wanted to punish Micha for being a tease, she had probably done it by marinating the bed in her funk all night. She threw the covers back and got up.

  “Did you see anything last night?” Micha asked. “After you came in here?”

  “Is there a puddle of piss in the bed?”

  She looked around for her smokes. They were in her jacket, by the balcony door. She made a quick attempt to tug her jeans out of her crotch.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” she said. “I hate it when my jeans crawl up where they’re not supposed to be.”

  “I’m not making fun of you.”

  “Not sleeping in them again. If I’m here tonight, I’m sleeping in my underwear like you, and you better still behave yourself.”

  “Jeans are uncomfortable to sleep in.”

  “And when I get a frontal wedgie, it sucks.” She hobbled around the bed and passed in front of the TV. “I have a clitoral piercing. It rubs. Uncomfortable as hell.”

  “A—” He widened his eyes.

  “Clitoral piercing. I have a ring through the hood of my clit. I’m gonna go smoke.” She left Micha lying on the bed, staring after her.

  She peed, smoked a cigarette on the balcony, and returned to the warmth of the bed.

  “Order me some coffee.” She snuggled under the blankets.

  Micha reached over and picked up the phone. “Breakfast? Some eggs?”

  “Allergic.” She sat up, fluffed her pillow, and lay back down.

  “Pancakes?”

  “If they’re gluten-free.”

  “Damn.”

  “See if they have any veggie bacon. Vegetarian stuff I can usually work with.�
��

  Micha curled his lip. “Veggie bacon? Are you allergic to meat as well?”

  “No, I’m just used to the vegetarian version of everything. I know, it’s deplorable. Isn’t that one of those big words you like?”

  Micha chuckled. “Good thing you’re not allergic to booze.”

  “Yes, a woman has to have her vices. I still give blowjobs in train stations, too.”

  Micha blinked at her.

  “I’m kidding. That only happened once. Gimme my breakfast.”

  Micha placed an order. Tea, coffee, eggs, and pancakes for himself, and of course, they had a large vegetarian selection being such a fancy joint, and they had veggie bacon. The interview with Aaron Jenkins came on right after Micha placed the order, and he turned up the TV.

  Aaron didn’t hold a press conference like Eric Greerson had, taking his interview in what looked like an office. A middle-aged man with thick sandy blond hair and a sturdy jaw, he had the air of a politician, sporting a burgundy tie and a neat black jacket. He struck her as oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place why. The young woman interviewing him had upswept brown hair and thick-framed glasses. At the bottom of the screen, they flashed her name: Amy Mahoning, Investigative Reporter. She started by asking Aaron what his feelings were on the latest tragedy in the paranormal community.

  “I think it’s horrifying.” His voice matched his suave appearance. “Though many think my organization would revel in the loss of such a key figure in the paranormal community, that’s simply not true. My father’s legacy and the image people have of the Secular Normalists are things I wish to transform. I did not approve of my father’s methods, nor the dogma he extolled in his lifetime.”

  “So why do these acts continue today?” Amy asked. “Why do people still point fingers at your organization?”

  “I do not sanction acts of violence, and I do not run the SNC on the principle of violence. However, because of my father’s ways, the habit of blaming us for anything tragic that happens in the paranormal community is unfortunately still present even after five years. The acts that have been attributed to our group since my father’s death were not committed by our members, and if they were, they were not approved by me.”

  “There are plenty of accusations that you’re running the group in the same way,” Amy said.

  “And these are wholly untrue allegations. In trying to clean up the marred legacy my father left behind, I resent strongly that some people are placing the blame for Mrs. Bellevue’s death on our group without sufficient proof.”

  “Who is blaming you, Mr. Jenkins? Mr. Greerson has stated he believes her murder to be the act of militant vampires.”

  “Pick up a paper, Miss Mahoning.” His voice turned icy. “Pull your average Chicagoan off the street and ask him.”

  “If the disgusting acts of violence, property damage, and menacing over the years since your father’s death were not done by your group, who was responsible?”

  “There are much worse groups out there. We don’t even consider ourselves anti-paranormal. We simply want our views considered. Those who would subscribe to violent ideals are quickly eradicated from our ranks, even more so today under my leadership. Unfortunately, my father did not discourage discrimination and fear mongering. He looked the other way or didn’t punish those who committed such acts, which I don’t agree with. I am committed to instituting new rules that allow no tolerance for such behavior. I want our group to get our message out peacefully.”

  “And what is your message, in your words, Mr. Jenkins?” Amy asked.

  “We do not wish the paranormal community harm or want them eradicated. We are simply calling for the Institute to provide results of their research. We want answers. It’s not prudent that so many programs and so much money be channeled into causes for conditions that aren’t even substantially documented or proven.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Jenkins? That the paranormal is an elaborate hoax?” Amy reared back a little, eyeing him.

  Aaron fixed her with his chilled gaze. “The average member of the paranormal community is probably unaware that the Institute does not publish nor publicly disclose the results of nearly eighty percent of its research. It can only get away with this because it’s privately funded and has no committee or agency to report to.”

  “That true?” June asked Micha.

  “I don’t really know. I’ve heard that before.”

  “We simply want the Institute to disclose its research,” Aaron said. “We oppose special privileges and programs for members of the paranormal community until their conditions are clearly established and defined. If these people are expected to integrate into society and be accepted, we deserve a clear definition of their situation and needs.”

  “What about other groups who oppose the paranormal on religious and moral grounds?” Amy asked. “Do you share their feelings?”

  “We can’t be responsible for their behavior. That’s why we’re a secular group. The ideas these other groups have are their own, and they do things for their own reasons. We simply want answers and honesty.”

  “They can never stay on topic.” Micha sat up and pushed back the covers. “This was supposed to be about Rose. Here’s that bias I was talking about.”

  “He obviously knows some shit is up with the Institute,” June said.

  Micha got out of bed. “Nothing in this city is black and white.” He walked to the bathroom.

  The food arrived. While they were eating in bed, the door to the room opened, and they both froze, until they heard Sam’s voice. A moment later, Sam appeared in the bedroom doorway and stopped, staring at them. He wore his coat and scarf. Other voices, feminine ones, came from the outer room.

  “It’s all right.” June lifted her cup of coffee. “It’s not what it looks like. We’re just having breakfast after a long night of rough sex.”

  “Lovely,” Sam said. “Put some clothes on and get out here.”

  Cindy appeared at his side, in her coat as well. “Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “I see you guys are getting cozy.”

  “It’s a big bed.” June took a bite of her bacon. “Ain’t the only thing that’s big.”

  Micha chucked a piece of real bacon over onto June’s plate.

  “Ugh.” She picked the offending piece of meat up between thumb and forefinger and flung it off the bed.

  “Just get out here,” Sam told them, and left the doorway.

  Cindy gazed at them another moment, her eyes predatory and shining, like she wanted to crawl in bed with them, until Micha waved her off.

  “That…was creepy,” June said.

  “You have no idea.”

  Micha put his pants on. Out in the main room, Cindy sat next to Muse on one of the sofas. Muse wore a white fitted dress, white leggings, and white boots. She was running her fingers through her hair, making it stand up, lips drawn across her teeth in a grimace. She slackened her expression when she saw June looking at her. Sam had draped his scarf over a chair but still had his coat on. He eyed the bed June had made up on the other sofa. She wished they had gotten it on to make all the scrutiny worth it.

  “Nice to see you again,” June said to Cindy, to create a distraction.

  Cindy shrugged, sat forward, and worked her coat off. “Sam called me, had Robbie come pick me up.” She nodded at a duffel bag at her feet. “Micha, Muse went by your apartment this morning to find out if anyone had the place staked out. They don’t, so I had her pick up some clothes and other stuff for you. I thought you might like to finally change into something else.”

  “Thanks,” Micha said.

  “I think I may have a plan.” Sam turned to Cindy. “Where’s your ex-husband? Does he still live in Chicago?”

  Cindy lifted her eyebrows. “Which one?”

  “Kevin Kramer. I’m assuming you took your maiden name back when you got divorced.”

  “Actually, Preston is the husband after him. What
the hell would you want with Kevin?”

  How many husbands had she had?

  “If you answer my questions with questions,” Sam said, “this conversation will never end. Just tell me where he is.”

  “He works in Wicker Park,” Cindy said. “At a bar. He lives not too far from it.”

  “Do you think he’ll be working tonight?”

  “I don’t know. He might be working day shift. Last I talked to him, he was made bar manager, so he does the opening stuff.”

  “What time does it open?”

  “Eleven, I think?”

  “Good. Text or call him, make sure. We have time. You two can order breakfast.” Sam nodded to Muse and Cindy.

  “Try the veggie bacon,” June said. “It’s delightful.”

  “Wait,” Cindy said. “You want me to call Kevin? Because trust me, Kevin is not interested in helping the likes of us.”

  “The likes of us?” June asked.

  “Kevin is a normalist sympathizer.” Cindy said it again, louder, toward Sam, “A normalist sympathizer.”

  “I know what he is,” Sam said. “I don’t know why you married him.”

  “It was…complicated.”

  Sam looked at June. “I’m taking you with me to see him.” He looked at Micha, “You’re staying here.”

  “I’m not gonna argue,” June said. “But I want a shower first.” She shook her pack of cigarettes. Two left. Maybe the concierge could get her some smokes.

  “Good,” Sam said. “You reek.”

  “Eat me.”

  June took a shower. Showering hadn’t been heavy on her mind at Cindy’s place, though it was available to her. She had too much distracting her. Getting clean was a glorious experience. She tried not to think about how Jason might not be allowed a shower where he was.

  Micha let her borrow a T-shirt from the clothes in his bag. The soft gray fabric smelled like him, and she kept turning her head to the side and sniffing the shoulder. Probably some expensive cologne, something with a pretentious French name. The shirt was also way too big on her.

  “Do you have some gel?” She stood in front of the vanity mirror in the bedroom, trying to finger-rake her hair into some sort of order. She’d used the complimentary hair dryer in the bathroom but needed some product to control the frizz.