The taste of marinara on my tongue was a little less sweet, just then. “Sorry about your dad,” I said. “Must've been hard, growing up with just your mom.” It was an awkward thing to say, but under the circumstances I didn't really know where to take the conversation. Silence, probably, would have been better.
Joe's dark eyes crinkled in the corners, as did his nose, like he'd just smelt something foul. “Nah,” he said after a small gulp of beer. “It's not a big deal. Me and ma do all right for ourselves. She doesn't get around so good these days. Upstairs sleeping, in fact. But we never needed his help. I take care of things around here, clean up and pay the mortgage.” He motioned to the stove. “She keeps the food comin'!” Joe laughed, then patted his stomach. “And you? How long you been living 'round here? What's your story, Lucy?”
I pursed my lips.
Well, my story was a fair bit rosier than his, for starters.
As I started talking about my own past, I have to admit I felt like shit. As I'm sure you're aware, I like to bitch and complain about things. Discussing my relatively stable and pleasant upbringing made me realize just how privileged I was, and how little I had to complain about, especially to someone like Joe.
Unlike Joe, I didn't grow up in a rough part of town, or with only a single parent. I grew up in the suburbs, in a decent little house, on a street where we knew all of our neighbors and I could ride my bike without the fear of getting roughed up. My parents had split up years back, but my brother Conrad and I had still seen them both plenty, dividing our time between their homes. Unlike Joe, my dad had always been in the picture, his biggest sin being that he was a little too obsessed with collecting model railroad stuff.
Not that I told Joe any of that.
“My parents split up when I was young. I had a brother, but, uh, he died about ten years ago. I've lived around Detroit all my life. Went to college, got a Master's degree in Art History, but...” I chuckled. “Never could find a good job with it. College was fun, but I ended up with a whole lot of debt for it.” Shrugging, I squeezed the beer bottle, watching the liquid swish around inside. “You ever go to school? To college, I mean?”
Joe guffawed. “Hell, nah. Dropped out of high school in my senior year, matter of fact. College was way too expensive, and even then ma wasn't doing so well around the house, so I decided I'd stay put and help her out with things. Never cared much for school.”
“Ah...” Goddamn, I felt like a heel. Joe seemed like a genuinely good guy. He cared about this mother, had dropped out of school to work and support her, and here I was, complaining about how much debt I'd racked up pursuing a worthless college degree. I probably looked like a spoiled brat to him.
“What'd you do before you joined up?” he asked. “You said your degree didn't open any doors, so what'd you do before this?”
“Oh,” I said, cracking a grin. “I was kind of a debt collector. A repo man.” I took a swig of my pilsner and rambled on like a fucking idiot. “Initially I worked with this local debt agency. Knocking on doors, collecting delinquent debts. You know, getting in people's faces and making 'em cough up the goods. Did real well at that, until I started working for that guy, Amundsen, who's a member of the Order. I collected stolen goods for him and his rich buddies under the table. Shook guys down and beat 'em senseless. Not so different from what I did during the debt collection days, except the pay was much better. Lot of people in this city who can't pay their bills. Putting a scare in them is easy, and I got to be pretty good with my fists because of it.” I was beaming with pride as I recalled my exploits, and I couldn't have possibly been more tone deaf for it.
“I see,” said the ordinarily talkative Joe, apparently at a loss for words. He squirmed in his chair, apparently uncomfortable. And suddenly I understood why. Joe didn't live in a great part of town, and both he and his mother had probably known financial troubles over the years. People like him, who'd been down on their luck, had made up my clientele in those days. Hell, I felt pretty sure that my work had taken me to this very neighborhood not so long ago. I'd probably collected debts from people living just a couple of doors down.
Joe continued, his tone a little softer than I was used to hearing from him. “I hope you don't mind me saying this,” he began, “but why would you do that kinda work? I mean, if you didn't have to?” He paused. “It sounds kind of nasty, coming after people who can't pay their bills, you know? A guy like you has a degree, could have done any number of things for cash. Why, uh... why that? Those bill collectors really do a number on people, ruin their lives, sometimes. And it sounds to me like you sorta liked it.”
The question hit me like a train.
And you know why?
It wasn't just that I felt like a downright idiot for running my mouth in front of Joe, though that was definitely true.
The question affected me so because I'd never given it much thought.
I know it's going to be hard for you to believe, but the jobs I'd worked in the past few years, all of which had involved my shaking down people for money and often turning to violence in the process, had been taken on just because. I literally didn't have a reason for doing such work. Joe was right, I could've done any number of jobs instead. Could've earned a more honest living, a living that wasn't dependent on hounding the impoverished, on threatening and harming people to pay back debts with money they didn't have. And then, even though my hunting down stolen art wasn't quite as grimy as the debt collection stuff, I'd come to take entirely too much pride in it. He was absolutely, one-hundred percent correct: It sounded like I'd liked it, because I had liked it.
That didn't leave me in a very comfortable state of mind.
“I dunno,” I finally answered. And it was the truth. But now that the question was asked, I had no choice but to face the reality of it. It was a question I had to answer, if only for my own sake. Why had I gone for jobs like that?
After school, it'd become clear that I couldn't pay off my loans with the crummy degree I'd toiled over for more than six years. Literally, a Masters in Art History was about as useful as toilet paper in this city. The debt collection jobs, well, they weren't real thorough in their selection processes, and there were bonuses offered for those employees who could-- to put it delicately-- consistently perform in recovering debts.
I remember the feeling that came over me when, after graduating, I realized there was no high-paying job waiting for me and that I'd have to find some way to pay off my mind-boggling loans. I felt betrayed, like I'd been lied to by society. A college degree was supposed to pave the way towards a higher quality of life, but it wasn't actually that easy.
And so I came to consider myself a victim. And when you think yourself a victim of some far-reaching plot, when it's just you against the predatory student loan companies, well, it gets a little easier to play the part of predator yourself. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, and from the very first opportunity I took a hell of a bite out of my fellow dogs.
People like Joe and his mother.
People who were struggling just as much as I was, people who just wanted to make ends meet.
I'd met a lot of shady shitheads in my time doing repo work, too. I don't want to make it sound like the targets were all kindly old ladies and hard-working people who'd overextended their finances. But even then, what right did I have to knock in their doors and threaten them? Near the end of my employment there, I'd done some real harsh things, had turned up the heat and put on some rude displays that made me cringe in retrospect. In the moment, it was an easy thing for me to offload, though. There was no guilt involved, because I felt myself to be the victim of yet greater villains. It was my situation that was unfair. No one else's suffering even figured into it.
Sitting in Joe's kitchen, I found myself growing misty eyed. I was disgusted with myself and wanted nothing more than to force these thoughts from my mind. I'd spent the past few years being a detestable human being, and even though it was something
I needed to reflect on, the kitchen table wasn't exactly the ideal place for it. I guzzled my beer and forced my best, most laid-back grin. “Paid well, though. I will say that.”
Joe shook his head. “Whatever you say, man. Why'd you join the Order, then? What made you want to take on the demon's heart?”
It was my turn to shake my head, and I started laughing. “Oh, that was all just a happy accident, I guess. See, I got mixed up with those witches and they killed me. The guys at the Veiled Order apparently had a demon heart laying around and were just spoiling to use it. Mr. Amundsen put in a good word for me. The rest is history. Hazy, confused history. And you? What happened when they offered you that job?”
“Well,” said Joe, “I didn't really have a choice. They weren't going to let me off easy after I'd brought so much attention to myself with my fire tricks. Figured it made more sense to work with 'em, rather than against them. But, they pay pretty good, too, which helped out with things around here. And then, you know, this is my city.” He looked down at his bottle, now empty, and turned it in his hand. “I grew up here, and I want to give back in some way. Maybe I won't go on to do great things... the people 'round here aren't going to remember my name when I'm gone, of course... but if I can keep monsters like Agatha off the streets, make 'em feel a little more secure when they lay their heads down at night, then I'd like that.”
Thoroughly ashamed with myself already, I didn't need to be hearing this sincere little spiel of his. I threw up my hands, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. “Yeah, yeah, we get it! You're a real swell guy, Joe! Geez, make me feel like a piece of shit, why don't you?” I laughed. “That's real sweet of you, all of that. They're gonna give you the key to the city someday. Maybe the Pope will canonize you.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “You want more spaghetti? I liked it better when you were too busy chewing to run that mouth of yours.”
From the hall, I heard a series of slow footsteps. The two of us turned and saw the bent form of an older woman crossing into the kitchen. Her hair was more salt than pepper, and she used a rubber-tipped cane to get around. She smiled at the two of us as she inched her way in, leaning against one of the counters. “Joe, you didn't tell me you had a friend over. You boys enjoying the spaghetti? Help yourselves, there's plenty more where that came from. I was just coming down to see if the dishes needed done. Want me to fix you some dessert?”
Joe practically jumped out of his chair, walking over to his mother and taking her gently by the arm. “Don't even think about it, ma. I've got it covered. You shouldn't be outta bed anyhow.”
Joe's mother smiled, smacking him on the shoulder gently. “Sorry,” she said to me. “My son likes to fret over me way too much. Thinks I'm made of glass. I'm Margie, it's nice to meet you, uh―?”
“Lucian,” said Joe when I didn't respond. “His name is Lucian. I work with him.”
I was frozen, petrified.
Looking across the room at the woman, my eyes swelled with panic and my heart began to quake as though it might erupt through my chest, Vesuvius style.
I recognized this woman, and it only took me an instant's reflection to realize why that was.
Joe's mother had been one of the last people I'd collected from during my time with the repo agency.
TWENTY-NINE
Slipping out of that house not ten minutes after carrying my plate to the sink was a real marvel. Joe wanted to know what the rush was, and I lied, telling him I had an appointment I'd nearly forgotten.
Of course, that was bullshit.
I didn't dare tell him the truth.
Here I was, a wolf in sheep's clothing, sitting in this woman's house, eating her delicious spaghetti. I was incredibly thankful that she didn't seem to recognize me. I remembered her, though. That cane, that grey hair and kind smile. I couldn't say why, but it stuck with me. It'd been a quick job, one of the last ones I'd done. It's not like I'd sucker-punched her or slashed her tires or anything, but I remember delivering one of those stern speeches of mine, demanding to know why it was she hadn't returned our calls. The collection had been over something stupid, minor. A missed payment on an appliance or something like that.
I thanked them both profusely and bid them a good evening before jogging down the road, my face redder than a cherry.
What were the odds? The more I thought about it, they were actually pretty decent; I'd worked my ass off with that agency, knocking on doors, uttering threats, and worse, for years. The further I went, running past the homes and businesses whose owners I used to prey on, I tried to drive the night's events from my mind. I attempted to focus on the meal, on the other conversations, the fact that Joe had warmed up to me a little.
Didn't matter.
I felt like a piece of trash, no better than the hungry rats that raced past an open garbage can to my left.
I stopped and started heaving into a gutter.
A damn awful waste of good spaghetti, let me tell you.
I ran the rest of the way home, feeling like a terrible fever had come over me. I walked into the building, entered my unit without the least bit of fear. All of the seals Kubo had placed for me earlier in the day remained intact, and I knew I could breathe easy inside.
Flopping down on the bed, still fully dressed, I realized I had a lot of thinking to do.
***
In the days that followed, I left home exactly one time, to throw a bag of trash in the overfilled dumpster. The rest of my time was spent sulking around the house in an uncharacteristic depression. The demon in me didn't seem to object to this, and I didn't feel the urge to sprint or wander or fight like I had in the past week. We were content to sit around the apartment, deep in thought, and subsist off of whatever leftovers were in the fridge.
It's a damn awful feeling to realize you aren't what you thought you were.
If you'd asked me my opinion of myself some time back, I'd have told you that I was a decent guy. Rough around the edges, sure, and I'd made some real questionable decisions over the years. No doubt that I'd have admitted to a general lack of kindness or compassion, but I'd never thought of myself as a real villain. I'd never looked in the mirror and seen a monster.
Well, except for that time, with Dr. Sargasso, when I'd looked into the antique mirror and glimpsed the demon inside of me.
But that was different.
Now? Talking with Joe had really laid it bare, made some things clear to me. For years I'd been on autopilot, functioning with a total victim's mentality and caring only about myself. A little selfishness is one thing, but I'd made a living at hounding and humiliating people, and now that I had a little distance from it all, I didn't recognize the guy who'd done that unsavory work.
Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone has a skeleton or two in the closet. Having done things like this didn't make me that bad a guy, did it?
Don't answer that.
I was a bad dude, the lowest of the low. I get it.
Over the course of some days that all finally sank in, and I got real disgusted with myself. But even my self-pity has limits, and when I'd sufficiently moped and felt guilty over my past, I started considering what I might do in the future to improve.
I was with the Order now. That was one thing. Like Joe, maybe I could make a difference for the people living around here. Keep the community safe by forcing the monsters off of the streets. My thoughts returned to that poor kid the coven had kidnapped. About a week to go before they did horrific things to him in the name of their debauched magic.
Maybe I'd done foul work in the past, but to that kid, I could be a hero. If we could locate the witches, I'd use every trick in my arsenal to bring them down. Returning that kid to his parents and preventing any others from suffering at the hands of Mater Agatha was the first step in what would be a very long path of atonement.
I was sitting on the couch, vacantly watching reruns of Friends, when the work-issue phone started to buzz with ferocity. Grabbing it up, I answ
ered breathlessly, like I'd been waiting for it to ring all day. “Hello?”
“You at home?” asked Kubo. I could hear his blinker clicking on in the background. He was calling from the SUV. “One of our informants has a possible lead for us. I need to pick you up so that the two of us can scope it out. I have a feeling you'll be working closely with this informant in the future, so it's best you meet him now.”
I ran a hand through my hair, finding it tousled and matted with days of accumulated oil. “Sure, yeah. I'm home.” I sniffed at my shirt, cringing at the sour cologne of cheese dust and curdled Haagen-Dazs that clung to me in abundance. “I need a few minutes to clean myself up. That OK?”
“Make it quick,” replied Kubo before hanging up unceremoniously.
I made a run for the shower.
THIRTY
“This informant of yours is fully human, right? Not half-human, half-weasel or something similarly fucked up, right? Because-- and I don't want this to come across as ignorant or intolerant or whatever-- I can't say I'm too crazy about the circles you apparently run in. Old Mona came to me as quite a surprise.”
Kubo turned, pressing a solid, black boot to the accelerator and speeding into the turn so hard that I was whipped to the side. “It isn't much further now.”
That didn't bode well. He wasn't answering my question.
I straightened the collar of my blue Polo and peered out the window. We'd been driving about ten minutes, but had gone a little ways out of Detroit, taking a number of back roads whose names I'm hazy on. Another ten minutes of silent driving and we were in a tiny town called Mitchum, which I'd only ever heard brief mentions of. I knew that there wasn't a whole lot in Mitchum, and that only a thimble's worth of people actually lived there. My impressions of the place saw these bits of hearsay ring true, because as we started through the tiny settlement I struggled to find any businesses, aside from gas stations and decrepit-looking convenience stores, that weren't completely shuttered.
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