by Battis, Jes
The brown Naugehyde booths were mostly shadowed, since a lot of the patrons weren’t especially partial to fluorescent lighting. But everyone looked human. If you somehow managed to wander in here by accident, you’d really have no idea how much immediate danger you were in. Until a dozen or so pairs of eyes locked on you—some of them without irises or pupils. Some black like the farthest reaches of space.
Duessa wasn’t here yet, which was good. I imagined that she wasn’t the type of person to suffer lateness well. I grabbed an empty booth near the back. Two necromancers were sitting across from me, and I could smell the necroid materia on their breath, pungent, like a split vanilla pod. They didn’t even glance at me. Who knew what they were really interested in?
A very thin waitress approached me. She was probably early thirties, with crumbling blond hair and a mouth that twitched slightly. I noticed fresh track marks on the inside of her arms. No need to wear a long-sleeved shirt and hide it in this place. If anything, it was an advertisement.
“Yeah?” She sniffed.
“I’ll have a whiskey sour.”
“You CORE?”
“Not tonight.” I looked at her evenly.
“Fine. Be right back.” She wandered off.
It was a fair question. They didn’t particularly like CORE employees poking around in their business. But this place generated a lot of money—money that trickled down to everyone, including members of the CORE. So nobody was about to issue a search and seizure warrant anytime soon. Mostly, it was live and let live. Everyone knew that the Sawbones was a hotbed for drugs, banned occult materials, sex work, and even human trafficking. But places like this had deep roots, and if we tore it down, another just like it would appear at the end of some other random, unmarked alley. We could remove the cause, but not the symptom.
The waitress returned with my whiskey sour. It was strong. Not the best way to make money, but something of a necessity when your customers are demons.
The front door swung open, and in walked Duessa. All conversation stopped. She was wearing a varsity letter jacket and sunglasses, with her long hair pulled into a ponytail. Everyone tried to stare without staring. She barely acknowledged them as she made her way over to me.
“Tess.” She kissed my cheek.
I was a bit flustered, and awkwardly returned the gesture.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said. “I know you must be busy.”
She shrugged. “I’m always busy. But this shit’s important.”
The waitress ambled back over. When she saw Duessa, her eyes widened.
“Hey, Joanie.” Duessa smiled. “How you doing?”
“Um . . .” She scratched her arms, then clumsily put them behind her back. “Okay, I guess. Tips are good.”
“Mm-hmm.” Duessa lowered her shades. “You ever need a place, you know where to find me.”
Joanie nodded. “I know. I—um”—she shook her head—“I gotta go—the kitchen, you know, we’re awfully busy—”
“Just bring me a club soda, will you, love?”
Joanie nodded and disappeared.
“She used to stay with us sometimes,” Duessa said. “She’s got mage potential, you know. Very subtle, but it’s there.”
“I didn’t sense it.”
“That’s cuz it’s pushed down way deep.” She shook her head. “Baby got herself mixed up in the game. Real mixed up.”
“You think she’ll come back. To stay with you, I mean?”
“Can’t say. If she needs a fix, she might come looking to score, or just for some clean gear. A safe place to sleep. But I doubt she’ll be part of the House again.”
“How does it work exactly—the House?” I asked. “I mean, is it only for kids with mage potential? Runaways and throwaways?”
Duessa folded her hands. “If I had the space, it would be for everyone. But as it stands, we only have so many beds. A lot of the kids sleep on blankets, foamies, sleeping bags, whatever they can find. People hear about us through the grape-vine. We don’t advertise through the regular channels, but I know people. They spread the word.”
“Normates, you mean.”
Duessa chuckled. “Never really understood what that term implied, sweetheart. Nobody’s normal. Not really.”
“Fair enough. So, you’re funded independently?”
Duessa sighed. “I sank most of my own money into the House. We pay overhead on the magic used to keep it hidden as well, and then there’s the cost of supplies: blankets, spare clothes, food. A contact at the needle exchange gives us sterile gear, but the kids aren’t allowed to fix inside. They know other spots in the neighborhood—places they won’t be bothered. We don’t supply any drugs or provide them with a space to shoot up. Just a space to come down afterwards, and information, if they want it.”
“And you pay for all of it?”
Duessa gave me a sly look. “I’m not a social worker. Not a philanthropist either. I just try to help where I can. Some of the money comes from outside donors. And the kids give a little here and there, when they can spare it.” Her eyes hardened. “I don’t force them, and I don’t ask. Whatever they give me gets put into an open account, and in the end it goes back to them in the form of supplies. But most of them can’t spare anything, so they help with the upkeep.”
I remembered the can of paint that she was carrying when I first met her, and Dukwan, the kid standing on the rickety ladder.
“Like a runaway co-op,” I observed.
“You could call it that. I try to get them into programs, get them tested regularly—but a lot of these kids are lifers. They get pulled in by warlocks, necros, and other unsavory sons of bitches.”
“You seem pretty comfortable with necromancers.”
Her eyes sparkled. “There’s a big dif between the average zombie rakers . . .” She motioned to the two guys talking across from us. “And people like Lucian Agrado. He and I go back a long time. Long time.”
“I guess it would be inappropriate to ask your age.” I gave her a hopeful smile.
“I’ve killed pretty girls for less.”
I nodded. “Gotcha.”
“Lucian”—she sighed—“he’s a good boy. He’s got a heart. But he’s in as deep as I am, so you got to be careful around him.”
“Into what, exactly?”
She spread her hands. “The game. The power. Whatever you want to call it. We’ve both got old debts, if you know what I mean. Lucian would never put you in danger on purpose, but—”
“I could get in the way of something.”
“You’re already in the way of something.” She smiled. “Something with real big teeth. It’s old, and it’s hungry. And you’re pissing it off.”
“I’m not sure what we’re talking about,” I admitted. “Is this about the killer? Or something else?”
She shrugged. “I can’t tell you much more. I’ve got contacts, and they tell me that something’s on the move. Plus”—she leaned in closer—“I’ve seen killings like these before. The same mark.”
My eyes widened. “Where?”
“Dig around, and you’ll find them. It’s had a long career.”
“Why ‘it’? The killer’s not human?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, we know a mage did this, or something with mage training. But there was no aura signature left behind.”
“No leftovers, huh?” Her look was calm, controlled.
She knew.
I bit my lip. Telling Lucian case details was one thing, but Duessa?
Still—could I really trust either of them more than the other? It was like choosing between the scorpion and the rattlesnake. The scorpion just had nicer shoes.
I breathed a silent apology to Selena.
“There was a fingerprint.”
Duessa cocked her head. “Really.”
“A very old fingerprint.”
“Well, that fits.”
I exhaled. “It belonged to Caitlin Siobhan.”
“That’s a powerful name, doll. Be careful where you go tossing it.”
“Did you know her?”
She sniffed. “We met a few times. I suppose we respected each other.”
“Was she still a sex worker when you first met her?”
“She was a madam. But she turned the occasional trick.” Duessa whistled. “That was a long time ago. Your people must have a great filing system.”
I nodded. “We matched the print to an arrest record from 1908. Were you living in Vancouver back then?”
“You still trying to suss out how old I am?”
“It’s just a question.”
Duessa grinned. “No. I wasn’t living here. But I was—living.”
“Can you think of anyone else who would have known Caitlin back then? It was long before she became the magnate, so I’m not sure how powerful she was.”
Duessa shrugged. “She was B-list, even back then. Someone to watch. Plenty of people—and things—knew her, or knew of her.”
“Anyone obsessed enough to hold on to her fingerprint for a hundred years?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“No, of course not.” I sighed. “But it would take something uncanny to preserve a print like that. Necroid materia, perhaps?”
Her mouth twitched. “Could be.”
“And someone would have to hold a pretty stiff grudge. Or have a long memory.”
“Or maybe it sees time different.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Power does things to your perception, hon. Maybe it foresaw this ages ago. Maybe it always knew what it was going to do. That would make things easy.”
“You’re saying this thing can see into the future?”
“I’m saying everyone’s got different eyes. And maybe it can part the veil more easily than most. But that’s only a theory.”
“So why is it going specifically after the children of mages? And where does Caitlin fit in? She’s a vampire, not a mage.”
“That, I don’t know.”
“This—thing . . .” I stared at her. “Have you seen it? Do you know it?”
“I’ve seen a lot of fucked-up shit in my time, baby. And maybe I caught a glimpse of it once or twice. Maybe I walked into a room just as it was leaving, or I heard it somewhere in the distance. But no. We’ve never been officially introduced.”
“So it’s some kind of demon?”
“It’s some kind of something.” Duessa smirked. “That’s for sure.”
I massaged my temples. Now this was going in circles.
“And what about Wolfie?”
Duessa’s expression shifted. I saw the fierce den mother appear again. “I met that boy when he was still a cub, working the docks. He’s got power—you saw that—but a real short fuse. That’s why I keep him close.”
“But he knew Jacob Kynan.”
“He and Jake were tight. Not out, though. The rest of the House didn’t know.”
“Why would they hide it?” I frowned. “I mean, a relationship between two guys doesn’t seem out of the ordinary, especially among kids who see the type of stuff that we see on a daily basis. Most mages are pretty liberal when it comes to gay issues.”
She chuckled. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Wolfie’s got more than just the usual ‘issues,’ as you call them.”
“Like what?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I can nudge him towards you, but I can’t push. He’s like glass on the inside—you understand? Blow on him, and he’ll break.”
“Well, keep nudging. He knows something.”
“So do you.”
“Well . . .” I stared at her. “Wait, what do you mean? The fingerprint?”
“It’s in there somewhere.” She touched my head lightly. “Just keep digging.”
“That’s a big load of fuzzy.”
“Ain’t no oracle, sweetheart.”
I closed my eyes in frustration. “Fine. What about the Hex? Did you know already that Jacob was using it?”
Duessa shook her head. “He was just moving up to heroin, last I heard. Wolfie would know more. But I don’t think that child had much experience. He mostly followed the other hoppers around, did whatever they suggested.”
“Hoppers?”
“The younger dealers. Slingers at street level.”
I nodded. “So he wasn’t into Hex, that you know of.”
“No. And you’re gonna have a hard time finding someone who’ll admit to using that shit, let alone dealing it.”
“We were hoping to make contact with a midlevel dealer and go from there.”
“No guarantee he’ll give up a name.”
I sighed. “We don’t have a lot of options at this point.”
Duessa looked thoughtful for a moment. “Patches,” she said finally.
“Excuse me?”
“Patches. He slings dope and tina mostly, some powder every once in a while. But a while back, one of the girls said she saw him with some Hex. It ain’t much, but he might lead you to someone who knows more.” Her mouth flattened. “You gotta know, this kid is dumb as a fucking sack of hammers. Once did a re-up in broad daylight. Couldn’t hide a stash if his life depended on it. But somebody owes him a favor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone’s protecting him. And they might be supplying him with Hex, too. Push him the right way, he could pop out a name.”
“Wouldn’t he be a lot more frightened of you?”
She laughed softly. “He would. And that’s why his little hoppers can smell me coming a mile away. He gets a whiff of the Lady on his trail? He’ll split. But for you”—she winked—“charming little protestant white girl like yourself, upstanding citizen and all that, he might take you for a mark. And then he’ll stick around.”
“So, he’ll deal with me if he thinks I’m stupider than he is.”
Duessa laughed again. “Baby, you done almost got the hang of this game. Now thanks for the drink, but if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”
She rose.
“Thank you, Duessa,” I said. “Your cooperation means a lot.”
“You just be careful, girl.” Her eyes bored into me. “When the shit starts to fly, don’t you bring it anywhere near my House. Got it? And don’t be trying to use Wolfie for some bullshit wiretap operation, neither—cuz this thing? It’s not going to stand still long enough for your little microphones and computers to record it. This motherfucker’s old and smart. You just remember that.”
Before I could protest, she was already out the door.
She hadn’t touched her club soda.
9
It was surprisingly warm as I made my way down Cordova to Waterfront Station, the transit hub for downtown Vancouver, which throbbed with students and businessfolk in the morning but would be almost deserted by midnight. I passed Steamworks, the trendy pub on the border of Gastown, where you could buy raspberry ale and mingle with the fit, upwardly mobile twentysomethings who ruled this neighborhood. The south harbor gleamed in the distance, a shifting surface of black with the outline of cranes and tankers wavering like metallic skeletons. Burrard Inlet was a barely distinguishable crescent of scattered lights and lapping waves, all the ships asleep for the night, dreaming of global commerce and the shouts of stevedores. The station itself, with its neoclassical elegance, was built by the Canadian Pacific Railroad in 1914 as a grand terminus for trains crossing the Rocky Mountains. It was actually designed by an architectural firm out of Montreal, which may have explained why it looked so much older and more irritably dignified than the surrounding buildings.
I walked under the purple awnings and through the heavy doors, and the deep, monastic silence of the empty terminal settled over me. Gothic lamps cast shadows against the polished marble floor, and I was suddenly aware o
f how loud my footsteps sounded, like some clumsy tourist bursting into a holy place. The vaulted ceilings and iconic pillars only reinforced the idea that this was not simply a terminus station, but rather the Church of Transit, where railway, skytrain, and ferry lines all intersected in a sacred calculus of globalization. God moving over the face of the helipad.
I walked beneath the brass clock, noting that it was twelve twenty, which meant that I still had an hour before the last train left the station. If I was lucky, there’d be one waiting for me downstairs. I hurried through the concourse, past the CPR walkway that led to the ferries and West Coast Express trains, and down the escalator to the subway platform. It was broken, as usual, and my boots clicked madly against the uneven metal steps as I made my way precariously down. I always had nightmares about the possibility of an escalator fatality. Bouncing face-first off all those sharp edges and angles. You’d end up at the bottom looking like a piece of ground hamburger.
The subway platform was empty, save for a punk couple with matching jean jackets making out in the corner. I shivered and stuck my hands in my pockets, doing the useless little walk-hop-glance that people always do when they’re waiting for the train to come, as if enough perambulation will make it arrive faster.
I dialed home and got the answering machine:You’ve reached Tess, Derrick, and Mia. If you’re calling from the lab, you can reach us on our cell phones more easily at—
I waited for the beep. “Guys, it’s me. Pick up. Mia, if you’re on the other line, I’m going to kick your butt, since this is a school night and you should be in bed. Or studying something. Like trigonometry. I don’t know, whatever they’re doing in ninth grade now that you’re probably way too smart for. Anyways, I’m just catching a train from Waterfront, so I’ll be home soon. And I’m starving.”
I clicked the phone closed and sighed. Maybe Derrick picked up something on his way home. Something that could be microwaved. I was craving coffee, but if I had some now, I’d never sleep. And it wasn’t like I slept very much to begin with. The dreams wouldn’t let me.
“Excuse me, miss—do you have the time?”