The Wicked City

by Megan Morgan

  “Did they screw up her life, too?”

  “You could say that. She was murdered.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she still got a little shock. “By the Institute?”

  “I doubt it. The Institute was too eager to study her. No one knows. Someone slit her throat and threw her in a dumpster behind her hotel. Of course, everyone points fingers at the SNC. But it wasn’t the SNC, trust me. I watch them closely. And Aaron, even though he gets on my nerves, actually means what he says.”

  “So they made us stay at the Institute so we wouldn’t get murdered? Ironic.”

  “The Institute was founded by a group of wealthy, and normal, Chicagoans who had a special interest in the paranormal long before it was accepted as scientific fact. They also had an interest in exploiting it, and they knew getting scientific credibility would give them what they wanted. The founders of the Institute were the ones who lobbied the hardest to get recognition for the paranormal. They even falsified information to get the government and scientific community to accept them.”

  “Wait,” June said. “Exploit it? What do you mean?”

  “Some who don’t have our abilities would like to have them. Or if they can’t have them, they’d like to be able to use them in other ways. That’s the real reason the Institute was founded, a front of scientific advancement, in reality plundering the freaks who spent their lives desperate for answers and were all too eager to flock to their doors when they opened.”

  She was baffled.

  “Unfortunately,” Sam said, “shortly after the Institute opened, the SNC was formed. The founder, Aaron’s father, Alan Jenkins, really did hate the paranormal.”

  “Why is that a bad thing? Hating the Institute?”

  “There’s no better way to get support for something than to create something else that opposes it. The Institute was not created to help the paranormal. It was created to subvert and study them like rats. The new SNC, the one under Aaron, opposes the Institute on those very grounds. But the damage is already done.”

  “So,” she said, “the first dude gave the Institute lots of free publicity. He made people feel sorry for them.”

  “Yes. He got people up in arms. Sparked this whole activist movement. I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say the Institute might not have prospered without the SNC. They might not be here today without their biggest enemy to make them look besieged and tormented.”

  “Huh. That’s an interesting take on it.”

  “Trust me, nothing makes you look as good as your enemies looking bad.” Sam spun his cup between his hands, gazing at her.

  In the direct light, his eyes were intensely dark, and she recalled what he’d said about eyes reflecting the level of one’s power. Was he powerful too? What was his power, anyway?

  “Eric Greerson doesn’t know what’s really going on,” Sam said. “He was put in place to keep up the front. It’s the researchers down on the ground who’re working with the founders.”

  Rose couldn’t be one of the bad guys; she had helped them, died for two people she had met once. Surely she wasn’t crooked. They had to employ a few straight people at the Institute. A means to their end. June considered telling Sam the dead lady had visited her, though she still couldn’t prove her appearance wasn’t a dream.

  “It sounds crazy,” June said. “How do they think they’re going to steal our powers? How is that even possible?”

  “Not going to”—Sam’s voice dropped a notch—“have.”

  She stared at him.

  “They’ve made a serum,” Sam said.

  “A serum?”

  “Just like the bacteria that causes vampirism, they’ve harnessed physical elements of other supernatural abilities and created a serum. But it can’t just be injected into a normal person. It’ll kill them. The person has to take doses of a prepping agent beforehand for several months to create the proper receptive enzymes. Reams of scientific documentation have been uncovered.”

  “By whom?” She grew alarmed. Were they stealing Jason’s voice?

  “By us. The Paranormal Alliance.”

  “So why don’t you go public with it? Expose them?”

  “Because documentation isn’t proof, especially not when you’re dealing with an entity as powerful as the Institute. People would say it was a frame job. People like Micha would cite it as lies and defamation, especially if it’s coming from me. We have to either get our hands on the serum or someone it’s been used on.”

  “Sounds like you and I both got a shitload of problems.”

  “Indeed. But does it make you feel any better? They won’t kill your brother. They need him.”

  “Oh yeah.” She dug into her pocket for her cigarettes. “Cutting out his vocal chords won’t kill him.”

  “It won’t, if they do it right.”

  They went outside so June could smoke. Despite the sun, the temperature hovered slightly above “cold as hell.” They leaned on the pier railing. Boats cut through the ice in the distance. Sam checked his phone. She smoked and drank her coffee. The booze wasn’t even giving her a buzz.

  “You like art?” Sam asked.

  June squinted against the sun. “Sorta.”

  “You’re covered in it. How do you not like it?”

  She flexed her hand. No ink on the back of them yet, but the work on her right arm crept past her wrist. “This isn’t exactly the Louvre. Jason’s the one who’s into sculpture and fine art and all that.”

  “Whatever. You’ll like this. Come with me.” He stepped away from the railing.

  “Where are we going?” She tossed the remaining stub of her cigarette into the water.

  “The stained glass museum.”

  “The what?”

  Sam led her back into and through the interior of the pier, past boutiques and coffee kiosks and gift shops and eventually into a wide quiet corridor.

  He spread his arms. “Tah dah.”

  Panes of colored glass—some huge, some small, and every size in between—shone gently on the walls. Some were classic stained glass, made up of colored panels in various geometric shapes, while others depicted flowers, landscapes, and religious scenes.

  “Nice,” June said. “Jason would love the hell out of this.”

  They walked through slowly. June assumed the museum consisted of one short hallway, but soon discovered a vast, sprawling exhibition made up of many corridors. Undoubtedly, something one needed hours to properly appreciate. She liked the use of color. Some of the displays were even ink-worthy; she could see some of the religious scenes as reworked back pieces. Sam eventually led her toward a small gallery tucked off to the side, separated from the rest.

  “This is the Richard H. Driehaus gallery,” he said, as they stepped into a darkened room. “It’s his private collection of stained glass done by Louis Comfort Tiffany. I’m going to show you my favorite piece.”

  “You know, I think you’d really get along with my brother. I hope you two get to hang out.”

  “I rarely ‘hang out’ with people.”

  Sam’s favorite piece hung alone in an alcove, the walls bathed by the amber glow emanating from the glass.

  “This is called Guiding Angel,” he said.

  The glass depicted an angel holding the hand of a woman, the woman gazing upward with a benign smile.

  “The angel is leading her into death.” Sam reached out and placed a hand on the glass. “I think it’s beautiful.”

  June was startled to see such a visceral reaction to a piece of art, especially from him. She bent over to read the illuminated plaque below the glass.

  “It’s cool,” she said.

  “It’s how I like to think of death.” Sam lowered his voice. “Peaceful, meaningful. Makes it easier to contemplate.”

  The light from the glass shone on his face, making his visage soft and his eyes black.

  “You contemplate death often?” June
asked.

  Sam looked at her, hand still on the glass. For a moment, they held each other’s gaze. Then he lowered his hand and a tiny sinister smile quirked his lips.

  “Don’t we all contemplate death?” he said.

  “I prefer to contemplate not dying.”

  Sam turned toward her, the alcove so narrow they were almost touching. He leaned forward, stretching his arm out, and placed his hand beside her head on the wall, towering over her.

  “So,” he said, the word heavy with implication.

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “That’s what I thought this was coming to.”

  “You’re seducing the man whose memory you just wiped clean of his wife. That’s a pretty ballsy move.” Sam was so close she could smell him, the same scent from when they first met on the pier, that understated musky cologne.

  “It’s not like that.” She bristled. “He’s been coming on to me, too.”

  “Doesn’t seem like you’re saying no.”

  “Just—shut up.”

  She reached up, gripped Sam’s hair, and pulled his face down to hers. His lips were soft and warm. He didn’t respond to the kiss at first. She worked his lips open and pushed her tongue in, making her barbell click against his teeth. She figured Sam didn’t want any chaste, coy kisses and resigned herself to what needed to happen. His mouth tasted like coffee.

  After a moment, he abruptly broke the kiss and stepped back with a harsh laugh. She frowned.

  “I don’t actually expect you to fuck for my assistance.” He sounded darkly amused. He gave her cheek a firm pat. “But thank you for the enthusiasm, little captivator.”

  June's cheeks heated. “But I thought…”

  “I know. I’m irresistible, aren’t I?”

  A sharp trill emitted from Sam’s coat, and he pushed a hand into his pocket. “That’s Kevin.” He drew his phone out, peered at the screen, and frowned. “That’s not Kevin. It’s Cindy.”

  “God, don’t answer it.”

  He did anyway. “Cindy? Why are you calling me?” He stepped out of the alcove.

  June followed, cheeks still burning. She didn’t understand what had just happened.

  Cindy’s harpy-like voice shouted on the other end. Sam winced, holding the phone away from his ear. He listened, eyes slowly widening. “What?”

  “Doesn’t sound good,” June muttered.

  “What the hell do you mean? Are you kidding me? Where are you now?”

  No, didn’t sound good at all.

  “Stay there. I’m coming.” He clicked off and spun around, eyes flashing, jaw clenched “Dammit!”

  “What happened? Did she get kidnapped after all?”

  “Someone shot up the bar.”

  “Shot it up?”

  “With a gun. Come on. We have an issue.”

  Chapter 7

  When they returned to the bar, three police cars were parked out front. A small crowd of hipsters hung out on the sidewalk, gawking. One of the windows had been shattered.

  Sam slowed the car but didn’t park. “I can’t walk in with the police here. I show up at this party and it’ll be all over the news. You can’t go in, either.”

  They took a drive, winding their way through narrow traffic-choked streets for a while. Sam called Cindy and told her to call him when the police cleared out. He also called Muse and had a brief conversation with her.

  “She’s guarding Micha,” Sam said. “Otherwise I’d have her come immediately.”

  “She’s really your bodyguard?” June itched for a cigarette. “No offense, but she looks like an albino Pomeranian. What can she do?”

  “Powerful things don’t have to come in big, swaggering packages. Or be swinging their humongous dicks around to get things done.”

  “I usually just show my tits. It works the same.”

  Most of an hour passed before Cindy called Sam back. He and June returned to the bar and parked out front. Yellow police tape blocked off the patio. Sam ducked under the flimsy barricade and they went inside. The place was empty aside from Kevin, looking profoundly disgruntled, and Cindy sitting at the bar, an empty glass in front of her, fisting her hair with both hands. Broken glass littered the floor and cold air poured in through the breach. Kevin and Cindy were both wearing their coats.

  “Someone shot out your window.” Sam eyed the broken glass. “Like we’re in a nineteen twenties gangster movie?”

  “It was horrible.” Cindy sat up and pointed. “The bullet went right into the bar next to me.” A jagged hole had been bored into the bar, the wood splintered around the abrasion. “I could have been taken out!”

  Sam walked over to the bar, bent down, and inspected the mark.

  “Something tells me,” Kevin said, “if you hadn’t brought your asses in here today, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Sam frowned, his brow in a tight, dark line. He stood upright. “Did you see anybody outside?”

  “No,” Kevin said. “I’d just come back inside from talking to one of our delivery guys and there was nobody out there then.”

  Sam walked over to the window. June watched him as he reached up and poked at one of the jagged dangling pieces of glass. The shard fell and landed on the floor at his feet but didn’t break.

  “You see?” Kevin declared. “This is what I get for entertaining the leader of the Paranormal Alliance.”

  “No one knew I was coming here.” Sam peered at the bullet hole again, narrowing his eyes. “No one except people I trust.”

  “Maybe you can’t trust them as much as you thought,” Kevin said.

  “I think they were trying to kill me.” Cindy clutched her chest. “What if I’d died? What would have become of my poor Dipity, at home all by herself without her mommy to take care of her? She would have starved to death.”

  “Screw that cat,” Kevin said. “That bitch used to scratch the hell out of me.”

  “Hey,” June said. “Don’t be so harsh on the Dipster!”

  Kevin scowled at her.

  June shrugged. “I like that cat. She never tore me up.”

  “My baby.” Cindy sniffed. “I was looking for a cat for a friend when I found her. That’s why her name is Serendipity.”

  “Somebody shot up my bar!” Kevin threw his arms open. “And although I’m sure you’ve done plenty to warrant it, Cindy, I doubt they were specifically targeting you. My guess is someone knew I was letting paranormals in here.”

  Sam bent and gazed at the bullet hole again. “They take the bullet out of here?”

  “No,” Kevin said. “They said it’s too deep in there. They’re gonna send someone to dig it out, at some point, for evidence. You know how fast the police work. I better not have to keep the place closed ’til then.”

  “Where was your gun?” June asked Cindy. “You can take it out to shoot a hapless funeral director, but you couldn’t shoot back at someone shooting at you?”

  “I don’t have it with me.” Cindy huffed. “I don’t have a conceal and carry license.”

  “Because God knows you’re such a law-abiding citizen.”

  “That’s it.” Kevin made a slashing motion with his hands. “You guys are out of here. I’m getting this mess cleaned up and then I have to call my nighttime bartenders and tell them not to come in. I’m already done with this day.”

  “No.” Sam stood. “I came here for a reason, and you’re going to do what I need you to do.”

  “Somebody shot up my bar!”

  “And you’re not the only person who can work a broom and make phone calls,” Sam said.

  “This is a little more important to me right now than your bullshit.”

  “Is it?” Sam stepped forward. “You’ve been summoned to repay your debt, and if you don’t do it, your world is going to get a lot more complicated than it is now.”

  Kevin glared at Sam, but his glare lacked conviction. He was clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.

/>   “Go out the back door.” Sam addressed Cindy and June, jerking his head toward the room beyond the bar. “Wait for us outside. I need to have a little discussion with Kevin, alone. Don’t let anyone see you out there. Assume at all times we’re being watched from here on out.”

  Cindy obeyed without question, and June followed her through the bar and the room they’d been in earlier and out a door in the back. The door exited onto a patio surrounded by trees. Bare branches hung over white wrought-iron tables and a bar beneath an awning, closed down and empty of bottles. A high brick wall on one side kept them cloistered from the public.

  June fished out her cigarettes and lit one up.

  Cindy paced in a circle, arms wrapped around herself. “Do you think they were trying to kill Sam?”

  “Er”—June flicked her ash onto the concrete—“I dunno. I thought you were more worried they were trying to kill you?”

  Cindy stopped pacing. “I know it was probably him they were after, but I didn’t want to say that in front of him.” Her voice wavered. “I would take a bullet for him, and I almost did. He’s done so much for me, more than my family, more than anyone I’ve ever known. I know he doesn’t see it this way, but he’s like my best friend.”

  June didn’t know what to say. Her own best friend had a wicked motorcycle and taught her how to smoke weed.

  “Damn it.” Cindy kicked at the concrete. “Why does this have to be so dangerous? I just want a normal life. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You could always leave the Paranormal Alliance.”

  Cindy wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I couldn’t give up on Sam. He taught me not to fear what’s inside of me.”

  “What the hell are you, exactly?”

  Cindy’s eyes were bright. “I’m a sex witch.”

  “A what?”

  “A sex witch. That’s what we call ourselves. The Institute calls it ‘psychic-sexual ability.’ I feed on sexual energy.”

  June took a step away from her. This explained a lot, though.