by Battis, Jes
I had a Tim Hortons Big-Boy cup (favorite of truckers across Canada), cigarettes, and a vintage shoulder bag. Not good.
Hamilton Street was a minefield of concrete islands, slippery stairs leading to narrow walkways, and shops on elevated promenades that vaguely resembled Ewok houses. All of Yaletown used to be an old warehouse district, but imaginative developers had transformed it over time into a kingdom of high-priced loft apartments and fashion boutiques. Paternal grandfathers like DKNY and Gucci competed with micro-stores that were so fresh they’d practically just opened yesterday. French patisseries and Mayan hot chocolate cafés were squeezed in between Bikram yoga studios, lounges-of-the-moment, and upscale furniture stores that offered financing plans if you wanted to buy an ivory stool or a cashmere pillowcase.
No dogs were without sweaters; some wore cargo pants.
The general vibe of zombification made it seem like a good place for a necromancer.
In truth, I could guess why Lucian had settled here. It was anonymous; slightly removed from the downtown core, but still within walking distance; peaceful during the day but packed with life at night; and it had the highest security in the city. Apartments in Yaletown were like military structures, complete with their own police force.
Lucian was hiding from something. I wanted to find out what.
I stopped at the corner of Hamilton and Drake. I’d been expecting some kind of high-rise residence with mounted cameras and gun turrets. Necromancer’s last stand. Instead, I found myself staring at the Drake Shipping Company. I blinked. There was a small office kitty-corner to the building, and the rest was taken up by storage. I looked at the address again. 212 Drake Street, Unit 3.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The door farthest to the right was labeled STORAGE 3.
Lucian Agrado was living in a storage locker.
Each of the doors had a buzzer. Feeling vaguely like I was on a blind date that had gone terribly wrong, I pushed the button on Storage 3.
At first, nothing happened. Then I heard a click, followed by a buzz. Still a little uncertain, I reached for the door, and found that it was open. And heavy—like the door to a warehouse should be. Silently cursing Lucian, I set down my bag and Tim Hortons mug, grabbed the door with both hands, and tugged. I tried not to grunt. The last thing I wanted to do was sound like Monica Seles in the middle of Yaletown.
The door slid forward with an audible screech on its steel track, and a rush of cool air hit me in the face. Of course. Lucian had an air-conditioned storage locker.
“Hello?” I gingerly stepped forward, expecting to see a pile of boxes, and maybe a necromancer washing his clothes in a bucket. Instead, I found myself in a vast, echoing space with high ceilings and polished concrete floors. It wasn’t a storage locker—it was a whole bloody warehouse.
I saw an office in the corner with windows on all sides, crammed with computer equipment, file folders, and two shiny laptops. A flight of stairs, draped in Noma miniature lights, led to a spacious mezzanine floor. Was that a couch? And a flatscreen? This place was a necro bachelor pad.
The ground floor had been lined with built-in bookshelves, and I spied a great deal of black, leather-bound spines, like the kind you’d see in a lawyer’s office. A door in the far corner led to what I presumed was a bathroom.
“Tess?”
I looked up. Lucian was leaning over the balcony of the second floor. He was barefoot, and I could see his toes peeking through the slats of the ledge. He wore a ratty pair of blue jeans and a vintage Led Zeppelin tee, the one with the old guy carrying the lantern. That’s right. I was disoriented, to say the least. I felt like I’d wandered into some unaired episode of Felicity.
“Nice digs,” I said.
“Come upstairs. I’ll fix you some coffee.”
Sage Francis was playing on his stereo, and I could feel the bassline throbbing in the walls like a heartbeat:Cuz there’s a kink in the armor
A pothole I’m sinkin’ in, sharing a drink with my father
It’s a family affair, the vanity we share
The water line is rising and we do is stand there.
A family affair. Maybe that’s what we were—Derrick and me, Mia and Selena, and now even Lucian. Some crazy, fucked-up, paranormal family. Square Pegs with an exclusive all-demon cast.
I started to climb the stairs, expecting them to be rickety, but they felt solid. Had Lucian built them? When did he find the time to build a fucking set of stairs? I suddenly wanted to be on the dark side’s time clock. I’ll bet he had great medical, too. His teeth were perfect.
“You seem pretty nonchalant about me showing up at your pad.”
He shrugged, pouring himself a mug of coffee. “I knew you’d be around eventually.”
“Yeah, all I had to do was get sniffed in broad daylight.”
The corners of his mouth cracked into a smile. “Vampires do have a unique security system. Much better than Alarm-Force.”
I reached the landing and felt a sharp pang of—envy. This place was amazing. The couch was Pottery Barn, chocolate brown leather and draped with a soft white throw. Beneath the flatscreen was a professional sound system, including a turntable, and sliding drawers filled with CDs and DVDs. Refinished wooden crates in the corner held neat stacks of vinyl, which I instantly wanted to paw through. If he had Earth, Wind, and Fire, I would have to marry him.
Floating shelves displayed pictures and bric-a-brac. It was weird to think that Lucian had this warm and cluttered life outside of his . . . unlife. The right wall was taken up by a gorgeous reproduction of Chagall’s Paris Through the Window. The golden cat with the human face stared curiously at the parachuting man as he drifted past the Eiffel Tower, barely a white shadow on the canvas. Squares of red, blue, and green dotted the sky, and the borders of the window bled rainbows, its glass invisible. The man with the blue face held a secret heart in the palm of his hand, as the flaneur with his cane met the woman in her wide-brimmed hat, floating horizontally across the rue. I grinned.
“That’s my favorite Chagall.”
“They say he drew the parachutist from memory,” Lucian replied, “since the first successful jump was in 1912. Can you imagine what Chagall must have thought when he saw some idiot floating in the sky with a giant pillowcase?”
“It must have seemed like magic.”
“Yeah. I remember when magic felt like that.” He started to reach for a second mug. I handed him the Big-Boy.
“Fill ’er up.”
“Jesus. You’re not kidding with that thing.” He filled the oversized cup and handed it to me, steam curling off the rim.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was standing in a converted warehouse owned by a necromancer, talking about Chagall. And I was kind of happy. It certainly didn’t feel like a professional interview. In fact, it felt more like—
“Something to eat?” Lucian offered. “I could warm up some Thai.”
“No. Thanks.” I tried to clear my head. This whole situation was spinning me around, and he knew it. Always the one in control. Smarmy bastard. “I’m here on business, actually. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh?” He took a seat on the couch, gesturing for me to do the same.
Remembering what happened the last time I sat next to him, I chose the nearby chair instead. It was an old rocking chair, stripped and newly stained, and the dark wood felt warm and smooth under my hands. I could feel him in the oak, in the floor, like a subtle vibration. He was everywhere, all over this place. It was driving me crazy.
He smirked slightly at our seating arrangement. “What sorts of questions? Will this need to be recorded for a pending trial?”
“No. It’s off the record.”
“Then it’s not really business, is it, Tess?”
I frowned at him. “It’s about the murder of Jacob Kynan.”
His eyes immediately darkened. The flirtation was gone. “I’d heard about that, yes. Devorah is ready to burn down the city.
”
“It’s understandable.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a manila envelope. “Would you mind looking at some photos for me?”
“‘Off the record’ doesn’t usually involve scene photos, does it?”
I sighed. “It’s complicated. I’m here because Selena sent me. We need your help with this investigation, but we can’t be seen”—I almost said “consorting”—“consulting with an outsider. So we have to keep this under wraps.”
“And that’s the only reason you stopped by? Because Selena sent you?”
I stared at him.
No. I came here because I want to kiss you, even with the golden cat watching us. I came here because I miss your lips, your spit, the smell of your hair, the curve of your thighs. I came here because I want to trace every one of your tattoos with my tongue, like Braille, until they lead me to the dark, warm center of your power.
If you so much as brush against him—your life is over. You can’t touch. Ever. Not even by accident.
“That’s the only reason,” I said firmly.
He took the envelope wordlessly. His eyes scanned the pictures, moving over the blood and gore, but he didn’t seem to react.
“How’s Mia?”
I was taken aback by the question. “She—ah . . .” I swallowed. “She’s fine. She’s starting the ninth grade at Lord Byron Middle.”
He handed the pictures back to me. “A ritual kill.”
“We know. But what kind of ritual?”
“Hard to say. Probably something to do with immortality. The coire is for show, but the boy was probably chosen for some specific reason.” He stared at the photo of Jacob’s track marks. “Was he a runaway?”
I nodded. “We think he might have stayed at the House of Duessa.”
Lucian smiled slightly. “That makes sense. She’s a real den mother. Collects strays and kids with fucked-up lives, like butterflies.”
“So you know her?”
He looked up finally. “Is that what this is about? You need me to get you an interview with Duessa?” His expression verged on disappointment. “You could have just asked.”
“It isn’t just that,” I said. “We also need access to your expertise.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Lucian—whoever did this is plugged into the dark side. He’s working with seriously dangerous magic, and he’s probably going to do it again. Soon.”
A light seemed to switch itself off in his eyes. “And you think—what—the two of us are related? That we’re all part of some big murder-happy family?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s written all over your face. You think I can sniff this guy out like a bloodhound. It doesn’t work that way, Tess.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole, okay? I’m not suggesting that you know who this guy is. But you do have a lot more contacts than us. People we can’t get to.”
“People who won’t talk to you,” he clarified.
“Basically, yes.”
He seemed to mull this over. “What are you going to ask Duessa?”
“We think she must have known Jacob. We want to see if she also knew the other kids that he hung out with.”
“His street family, you mean?”
“Sure.”
Lucian rolled his eyes. “You can’t just walk into Duessa’s place and start asking questions like that. She’ll throw you out on your asses.”
“Then what questions should I ask? Give me some help here, Lucian.”
His eyes seemed to flicker when I said his name. It was obvious that he took a subtle pleasure in hearing me ask for help. It kind of made me want to hit him.
“The only thing she values,” he said slowly, “is trust. She has to trust that the kids who live in her place won’t fuck up and bring the cops—or worse. She has to trust that when she hands out food, condoms, and clean gear, the kids are actually going to stay safe. And she has to make sure the dealers, the punters, and the kiddie trolls don’t get too close. It’s a delicate balance, and there’s really nobody to help her.”
“What about the other shelters?”
“They share resources, yes, but they’re controlled by the government. Duessa’s House is invisible—only a few normates have any idea that it exists at all.”
“So how can I earn her trust?”
“The only way I can vouch for you is if I show up in person.”
I shook my head. “Selena’s not going to like that.”
“Selena Ward is a good cop, and a pragmatist. She’ll see reason. Besides, it’s not like you’re putting me on the payroll.”
Hearing a death-dealer call my boss a “good cop” was more than a little disorienting. What was his basis for comparison? I felt my stomach churning. I’d spent all morning trying to decide if I should tell Lucian the truth. Now felt like the right time. He was willing to help without anything in return, and I couldn’t let him walk into something this complicated without knowing the whole score.
“We might be looking at a serial investigation here,” I said. “There’ve been two previous murders in the past four weeks. They were both young girls, from—magical—families.”
He frowned. “In the city?”
“No, in Ontario. But we think the killer is jumping borders.”
“That’s an awfully big jump, don’t you think? And why skip the prairies? He’d have an easier time killing there.”
“Something about Vancouver is attracting him. We don’t know what.”
Lucian stared at his hands. “Duessa must know about this by now. She’ll be even more suspicious of you.”
“We’re not the enemy.”
“But you’ll only draw attention. If someone in our community lets the story slip to a normate journalist—she’ll have reporters and news vans crawling all over. That would be enough to destroy the House completely.”
“So we’ll be careful. We’ll let her control the interview.”
“It’s not that easy. You’ll have to prove to her what your reasons are for mounting this investigation in the first place.”
I blinked. “What do you mean? We want to catch a serial killer.”
“Yes. But where do the kids fit in? Sure, they’re the victims, but are they going to have a voice here? Are you going to treat them like human beings? If she thinks for a second that you plan to use one of these kids for bait—”
“Jesus, we’d never do that! You know we wouldn’t.”
“But she doesn’t. And that’s where the trust comes in.”
I sighed. “Well, it’s going to get complicated. Selena’s got a profiler coming in—some academic dude from Ontario—and he’s supposed to come with us.”
“Another outsider?” He shook his head. “That’s not going to look good.”
“Derrick’s coming, too. So that makes four, including you.”
“Who’s the profiler?”
“Miles Sedgwick.”
Lucian’s eyes widened. “He’s good. I’ve heard about him.”
I made a face. “Apparently, I’m the only one who hasn’t.”
“Well, Sedgwick’s presence might actually work in your favor. If Duessa’s also heard of him, she might feel more comfortable.”
“It seems like we’re doing an awful lot to put this chick at ease.”
Lucian smiled. “You’ll understand when you meet her. Duessa is someone—that you don’t want to piss off.”
“Is she a demon?”
“Possibly.”
“Great. I’m starting to feel like my whole social circle is composed of demons.”
“That’s life, isn’t it?”
I looked at the golden cat by the window. He was smiling at me.
“Yeah. That’s life.”
5
In the months since Selena had taken over Marcus Tremblay’s old office, the stacks of paper and colored file folders had only increased, slowly b
reeding and multiplying until they threatened to overwhelm every inch of free space. Aside from a framed portrait of Selena and her husband, Gary—who was shorter, wore glasses, and smiled with surprising normalcy at the camera—nothing else had changed. The room’s sole window, which had once overlooked a small square of park outside, was now completely obscured by books, binders, and legal broadsheets. Selena’s desk managed to hold two bulging in-trays, a printer, a laptop, and various islands of paperwork that had been tagged to death with adhesive notes. I saw that she’d unplugged the phone and shoved it into a corner, where it sat lifelessly, unable to blink or buzz. It was only a matter of time until the receptionist figured out why her extension wasn’t picking up.
Selena herself seemed to have grown organically out of the chaos, like a piece of chiseled marble, a glorious secret released by some Renaissance expertise from the insensate debris around her. Leather jacket folded over the back of a chair, fingertips clicking as she mechanically filled out another online report, her face reflected the sallow light of the computer screen.
“Tess. Derrick.” She didn’t bother looking up. “Have a seat—somewhere.”
I took the chair across from the desk; Derrick, looking around in confusion without seeing anywhere to sit, finally just stood behind me. I felt his knuckles against the hard plastic behind my shoulders.
“Miles should be here in a few minutes,” Selena said. “His flight was late—something to do with a lightning storm in Toronto.”
“He didn’t have a private jet?” Derrick rolled his eyes.
Selena kept glaring at the computer screen. “Experiencing a little Torontophobia, Siegel? I’d keep that under your hat. We don’t want to piss off the expert consultant who’s kindly agreed to work with us for back-alley wages. Right?”