A Flash of Hex

by Battis, Jes

  “Please surrender all weapons at the front gate.”

  To my surprise, Miles opened up his jacket and I saw that he was wearing a Black Eagle fitted shoulder holster. He drew out a Sig Sauer pistol and handed it, grip forward, to Hipster Vampire. It disappeared behind the door.

  “Thanks. You’ll get it back when you leave.”

  “I’d better,” Miles said.

  The vampire looked at me. “Your knife, ma’am?”

  My eyes hardened. “It’s an athame, not a knife. And don’t call me ma’am.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’ll still have to leave it with me.”

  “You’ll have to tear my arm off first, Belle and Sebastian. Got it?”

  Lucian sighed. “Just let her keep it. She can’t do any damage in here.”

  Hipster Vampire shrugged. “Whatev. Just keep it in plain sight.” He slid the door open and gestured for us to walk past him. “Go all the way to the end of the next hallway, then turn right, and you’ll find the assembly room. She’ll meet you there.”

  Assembly room? Miles mouthed in confusion.

  I shrugged. Maybe there was going to be a PowerPoint presentation.

  We followed Hipster Vampire’s directions, keeping close behind Lucian, since he seemed to know his way around the place. There were doors evenly spaced along the hallway, and I wondered how many people lived here. One door was slightly ajar, and I caught a glimpse of two girls looking bored, watching television. Plastic bins were stacked up against the far wall, labeled SPARE CLOTHES and TOILETRIES. A boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating something that smelled surprisingly good from a Tupperware container. It wasn’t a frozen burrito, so there must have been a kitchen somewhere. He caught sight of me and half smiled, fork raised to his lips, noodles twined around it. He had a black eye.

  We turned right at the end of the corridor, and were met by an open doorway. The room beyond was obviously the result of knocking down walls and joining old suites together, with its high, vaulted ceilings and exposed brickwork. Pipes and radiators had been painted—green, purple, and electric nail-polish red—and festooned with miniature lights and garlands. The nearest wall was painted with a mural: the ancient Greek hermaphrodites. Not slender androgynes, but the terrifying and beautiful giants, joined face to face, that Aristophanes recalled in The Symposium. They looked eminently capable of taking over the world, which was why the Olympian gods banished them.

  The farthest wall had been painted entirely black—even the window was blackened—and a glowing pink triangle blazed against it like the face of God itself, with the words SILENCE = DEATH painted in white below it. As I stared at the words, I realized that they were glowing with a very subtle materia flow. I wasn’t sure precisely what it was designed to do, but it definitely had a protective vibe to it. I could smell earth and air flows woven in. Maybe something to do with concealing the building? There were bookshelves on either side of the wall, sagging beneath the weight of binders, papers, and DVDs. Most of them looked like AIDS and STD educational stuff, but I also spied law and medical textbooks in the mix.

  There were about twenty or so people in the room, but it didn’t seem at all crowded. Tables and chairs were set up in one corner, and three girls were playing a board game—laughing and smoking as they rolled the dice. A boy was sleeping on a couch behind them, his fingers just barely curled around a magazine. He looked about eighteen or so, hair bleached the color of margarine, cigarette smoke giving him a sort of uncanny halo like something Donatello would have sculpted. An older woman sat on the floor next to him, tapping a message on her cell phone. A flatiron was plugged into the wall next to her, surrounded by power strips with multiple cords, wires, and extensions snaking across each other and plastered in duct tape. Pillows dotted the floors, along with discarded books, comics, and CD cases. I noticed a young girl in capris and a tight black sweater, shaking her head as she attempted to pick up the debris, her arms already full of random objects that threatened to tumble loose at any moment.

  “Dukwan!” she called. “Dukwan! Ursa Minor’s fucking burnt out again!”

  The boy on the couch shook himself awake and groaned. “I fixed it last time. Why you waking me up just for that?”

  “ ’Cuz you’re lazy, and I can’t pick up after everyone!”

  He sighed. “Where’d you put the ladder?”

  “Where it always is!”

  Puzzled, I looked up—and froze in amazement.

  The last time I’d forced myself to stare at a ceiling, what I saw was pure evil: a dead boy hovering in the air, all the blood drained from his body. What I saw this time was the exact opposite. The ceiling had been painted and covered in tiny winking lights—an exact replica of the cosmic mural in Grand Central Station. Pisces glowed like a scattering of embers against the blue-black sky, while the lines that divided the heavenly spheres shone with crystalline fire. Like Grand Central, the constellations were depicted backward—in homage to the obscure medieval manuscript that the artist had copied them from—but there was also another unique touch. At the center of the stars, rainbow-colored lights had been arranged into a message: WE ALL FAIL.

  Dukwan mumbled to himself as he clambered atop a rickety ladder. “At least hold it for me, Kim!”

  She rolled her eyes, but steadied the ladder for him as he climbed.

  “This place is crazy wonderful,” Derrick breathed behind me.

  I stared at the vermillion curtains, winking with beads and cast-off plastic gemstones, that framed a gorgeous old fireplace whose mantle was cluttered with pictures; two girls asleep on an air mattress, holding each other, fingers linked as they snored quietly; a boy lying on his back with an open book, frowning, his head propped against a sleeping bulldog whose pink tongue lolled against the floor in simple satiety. The dog shifted suddenly, moaning in his dreams—chasing rabbits across a sky dotted with high-rises and pigeons streaking like golden arrows—and the boy paused to scratch behind his ears. One of the pillows next to us moved, and I realized that it was a tortoiseshell cat with eyes the color of spearmint. She untangled herself from the scenery and wandered over, curious, her tail a question mark. Miles sank to one knee, hand extended, and she accepted his touch, beginning to purr.

  “Well? Is it what you expected?”

  The voice was smooth and masculine, but it wasn’t Lucian speaking. I turned around, and standing in the doorway, her smile a mystery, was Duessa.

  I’m not sure what I expected. A Hollywood madam, or royalty maybe? Duessa was understated, but beautiful. Tall—at least six feet, probably more—with toned, muscular arms and hands that looked far from delicate. She wore a vintage sleeveless blouse, orange with a golden fleur-de-lis pattern, and black low-rise jeans that showed off a tribal tattoo on her left hip. A few gold charms hung from her narrow belt, and her cream-colored, open-toed sandals were unmistakably Manolos. They made her feet look a bit smaller, but not quite enough to avoid notice. Her long black hair was draped neatly across one shoulder, and she wore almost no makeup. She was carrying—of all things—a can of paint, which she put on the ground. Her smile widened.

  “Lucian, papi, is that you?”

  “Duessa!” Lucian grinned, spreading his arms. “Luces tan hermosa como siempre—como Helena de Troya, la cara que lanzo mil lanchas.”

  She laughed warmly, embracing him and kissing his cheek. “Seria mas como mil pollas papito—paraditos en atencion.”

  Lucian snorted. Duessa made a tsk sound.

  “Lucian! Donde estabas escondido guapito?”

  “Es un secreto.”

  She shook her head. “Yo puedo guardar un secreto papito. Mi vida es guardar secretos.”

  Miles frowned in confusion.

  Derrick signed quickly: both hands with thumb and index fingers pinched together, roughly forming the OK symbol moving back and forth; then his left index finger, pointed like a gun, lightly tapping the air. Explain later.

  Miles nodded. I hope he planned to expla
in it to me as well, although I suspected already that most of it was pretty dirty. Lucian’s dimensions just kept expanding.

  “So what brings you to the House of Duessa?”

  Lucian gestured to us. “Some folks from the CORE were hoping for an audience. Tess Corday is the primary investigator, and this is her partner, Derrick Siegel. Miles Sedgwick is consulting from Toronto.”

  Her eyes widened. “My, my. And what does the lovely Central Occult Regulation Enterprise need from Duessa? Is that still the acronym y’all are using? I remember back when it was COMO, the Conservancy of Mages and Others.”

  I drew out a picture of Jacob—just a head shot—and showed it to her. “This is Jacob Kynan. Does he—ah—frequent this place?”

  Her eyes darkened. “You think I need to see a goddamned picture of one of my own kids? I know my kids. I know what that fucking butcher did to Jake.”

  “I’m sorry—of course you do, Mrs. Duessa.”

  Her expression shifted like soft clay, and she laughed. “Missus Duessa? Lucian, where’d you find this Nancy Drew?”

  I got the sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t going well.

  Lucian smiled reassuringly. “Tess is legit. I’ll let her explain, but I can assure you, her priorities are in the right place. The CORE thinks that this guy may be targeting street kids, and they want to work with the community in order to catch him.”

  Duessa put her hands on her hips. “The CORE wants to help us? Baby, let me tell you about the CORE. They’re a bunch of shit-eating bureaucrats who don’t give a flying fuck about these kids here. If it were up to them, my whole place would be shut down. I don’t trust a single one of those neoliberal, candy-assed motherfuckers as far as I can throw them. And I’ve got a real good pitching arm.”

  “Look”—I raised my hands—“I don’t like the CORE any more than you do, I swear it. But they’ve got financial backing on this. Devorah Kynan has promised her full support, and—”

  “Devorah?” Duessa shook her head. “You’re seriously gonna drag that little tight-assed, holier-than-thou bitch’s name into my house? Devorah’s part of the problem! You know how many times Jake came to me, cryin’ about how his mother didn’t give two shits about him, how she left him to rot?”

  I frowned. “Ms. Kynan said that she gave Jacob a great deal of support, that she helped him with his drug habit—”

  “T’ain’t a habit, sweetbread. Biting your nails is a habit. Shooting heroin ain’t a habit; it’s a way of life. Jake was in deep. Started doing two, three bags a day, when he could afford it. But Ms. Kynan wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He got clean gear from InSite and the other safe-injection spots. His friends made sure that he used as safely as he could. I gave him a place to come down, somewhere he could sleep safely without getting his shit jacked. But Devorah? That bitch was nowhere.”

  “That’s not what she told us.”

  Her eyes widened in mock horror. “Sweet Jesus on a stick—a rich white lady, all lyin’ and shit? Well, Officer, I ain’t never heard that one before.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I see what you mean. She might not be telling the truth.”

  She folded her arms. “Well, that’s nothing new. You can buy anything in this neighborhood except the truth. The truth is what you can never find.”

  “We just want to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  “No—you want to make sure this doesn’t happen to Ms. Devorah Kynan again. If it wasn’t her son—if Jake’s skin was a different color, or if the CORE found him in a dress or some shit—you think there’d be money behind this? You think you’d be in my neighborhood, talking to me right now? All you care about is helping out the rich parents of cute little mages-to-be. The Occult Riche.”

  Lucian looked at me. His eyes said: Tell the truth. Just always tell the truth.

  I turned back to Duessa. Her look was still, like the surface of a dark pond. There was something in her aura that I couldn’t place. Something hard and slanted that smelled of damp earth, broken stone, ash, and the weight of immeasurable years. How old was she? What power was she hiding?

  “You’re right,” I said. “The CORE speaks one language, and that’s money. But do you really give a shit where the support is coming from, just as long as it’s coming? They want to help. They’ve given us carte blanche to do whatever we can. And it’s not the—what did you call them?—shit-eating bureaucrats. It’s not them you have to deal with. It’s just us. And we’re good people. I swear.”

  Duessa looked from me, to Lucian, to Derrick, and finally her eyes settled on Miles. She raised an eyebrow. “What about you, sweetheart? You got kind eyes, and you ain’t said nothing about this so far. She said you’re ‘consulting’—and usually, that means you don’t know jack shit about what’s going on here. Am I right?”

  Miles shrugged and nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “So what do you think? Is she straight-up? Is the CORE gonna help me and mine, or are they just gonna fuck with us like they always do?”

  Miles looked at Lucian. Oh fuck. He didn’t like necromancers, and so far, our case wasn’t exactly looking all that clean by Toronto standards.

  “I think they’re a bit crazy,” he admitted with a smile. “But I trust them. I think you can, too. They want to help.”

  Duessa smiled. She glanced at Derrick for a moment, and her eyes sparkled. “What about you, mind reader? You wanna take a peek?”

  Derrick frowned at her. I felt a slight stir of energy from him, and then his frown deepened. “You’re blocked,” he said. “It’s like reading a brick wall.”

  “Of course.”

  “So why did you ask?”

  She chuckled softly. “Because I wanted to see if you’d try. Apparently, kiddo, you got a real pair of low-hangers on you.”

  Derrick blushed and turned away.

  “You know,” Lucian added, “Duessa gave some telepath a lobotomy once, years ago, because he didn’t like her shoes. Or so the legend says.”

  “They’re still telling that story?” She shook her head. “Shit, I’ve heard all kinds. That I tore some pimp’s throat out for looking at me funny. That I set fire to some warlock because he insulted my outfit. Those stories have always been plentiful.”

  “Are they true?” Derrick asked quietly.

  Duessa smiled. “Take another look. I’ll open the brick wall a crack.”

  Derrick looked at her closely. I felt the power stir in him again—I couldn’t see it, since it was dendrite materia, psychic energy, as different from the elemental energy I manipulated as Lucian’s necroid materia. But I could still feel it, like a ripple.

  Duessa’s expression didn’t change.

  Derrick went white. I’d never seen the color drain from his face so fast. He looked away sharply.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “You all right? What did you see?”

  He shook his head. “Just . . .” He looked at Duessa, then away. “Just do whatever the hell she says.”

  “Be nice,” Lucian scolded. “They’re just niños.”

  “Yeah. You’re right, baby. They don’t know about the old ways—the blood of it all, the shadow and the dust. And the call. Across all those fucking years.” Her eyes went distant for a moment. Almost sad. Then she looked at us again. “They’re above-grounders. Not like us.”

  I looked at Lucian. His expression was untranslatable.

  “No,” he said. “Not like us.”

  Duessa shrugged. “Well, we might as well get to business, then. You want to learn more about Jake, you’ll have to talk to Wolfie.” She gestured to the boy who was leaning against the bulldog, still reading. “They were friends. And Wolfie’s kind of a jack-of-all trades around here. Into everyone’s business, but in a good way.”

  “That sounds like a start,” I said.

  “Wolfie!” Duessa made a beckoning gesture. “Come join us, precioso. This nice lady from the CORE wants to ask you some questions.”

  Wolfie put down his book and loped ove
r to us. He was a short kid, a bit stocky, wearing a black Buried Inside shirt with the sleeves ripped off, blue jeans, and army surplus boots—probably from one of the many consignment stores on Granville. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head, and I noticed that his beard was patchy, like it was just starting to grow in. I couldn’t tell how old he was.

  “What questions?” he grumbled.

  The kid had power. Thermal materia swirled around him, like a deep red wine poured out in zero gravity. It coursed between his fingers and along his wrists. I could feel it because my specialty was earth materia, and earth and flame are complementary.

  “You’re a spark,” I said.

  Spark was “street” for someone who could channel thermal materia.

  He shrugged. “And you’re a miner.” He pointed to Derrick. “And he’s a reader—not a very good one, though.”

  “Hey!” Derrick scowled.

  “And you . . .” His cool gray eyes surveyed Lucian. “Huh. Death-dealer. You guys don’t fuck around.”

  “No.” Lucian was impassive. “We don’t.”

  He looked finally at Miles, and frowned. “Weird. You’ve got a flavor, but you’re not like them. I can’t quite place it.”

  “He’s a haptic,” Duessa said. “He reads spaces. Right?”

  Miles nodded.

  “So”—Wolfie turned back to me—“what do you want to know?”

  “It’s about Jake.”

  “Oh. You wanna know about Jake?”

  I stepped forward. “Anything you can tell us would be—”

  “You wanna know about Jake now? After he’s been cut up?”

  I blinked. “Wolfie, I know you’re upset—”

  “You don’t know shit.” He shook his head. “Fuck all of you.”

  “Wolfie . . .”

  A tongue of flame curled around his fingers. His eyes went red.

  “Fuck. You.”

  Wolfie turned and walked out of the room.