by Battis, Jes
“Another time,” she said.
Duessa simply nodded.
Devorah looked at Selena. “Don’t try to cut me out of the loop,” she warned, “and don’t let her get in the way.”
Duessa said nothing.
“We’ll be in close contact,” Selena assured her. Only I caught the slight tremor in her voice. She was more than a little shaken up.
“I expect to hear from you the second the autopsy is complete. As of tonight, your Mystical Crimes Division is only working one case. Make it your priority.”
With that, Devorah left the clearing, taking her cadre of lawyers and assistants with her. I exhaled.
“That was awesome. Especially the part where we almost died.”
Duessa shook her head. “She wouldn’t have gone that far. Bitch is a little crazy, but she couldn’t very well incinerate her whole investigative team.” She smirked. “That’d be counterproductive.”
“Let’s just hope you didn’t contaminate the scene with all that energy,” Selena said. “If there was an aura trace left behind, you may have painted right over it with that little pissing contest of yours.”
“Trust me,” Duessa replied. “Whatever did this—it didn’t leave anything behind that’s—what do you call it?” She smiled, as if to herself. “Probative. Yes, that’s it. There’s nothing like that left behind.”
Selena turned to Miles. “Do you sense anything?”
“I’ll need more time,” he said, “and access to the area around the body. I can’t promise anything, though.”
“Nobody expects a miracle. But if you recognize anything from those scenes back in Ontario, it might prove invaluable down the road.”
“Don’t tell her,” Duessa said, biting her lip. “She’ll subpoena your ass before you can blink. Hopefully, she doesn’t know you’ve got a haptic working for you. She probably wasn’t paying too close attention.”
“Could you have stopped her?” Selena asked flatly. “Are you two equals?”
Duessa laughed softly. There wasn’t a trace of humor in the sound. Then she touched Wolfie’s arm.
“It’s time to tell Miss Corday what you told me,” she said gently. “Then come home. We’re having a late supper. Bring some polenta.”
13
Wolfie shifted in his chair, sliding the glass of Coke forward, then back, then forward again in a maddening way. He’d absolutely refused to come down to the lab, so I took him to the Ovaltine Café on Hastings. I couldn’t think of any other place, and at least it was on his home turf. He knew that he could leave at any time. Pink and green light from the café’s neon sign bathed him in an eerie glow. It reminded me of a psychic I’d seen once, sitting in the window of her small shop, backlit by a wild rose-quartz glow. Her dark eyes had seen straight through me as I walked by.
Now, Wolfie’s dark eyes looked anywhere but into mine. I feared that he was ready to bolt. I kept ordering drinks, then a plate of fries, in the vain hope that it might keep him in one place. So far, he’d eaten half the fries and drained three glasses of soda, barely saying a word the whole time. His fingers glistened with crumbs and ketchup; my salad—which looked like someone had put it through a garbage disposal—lay untouched next to a squirt bottle of ranch dressing that the waitress had thoughtfully supplied.
“Wolfie,” I said, “if you drink any more, you’re going to rupture something.”
He chuckled and slid the glass away. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Feeling ready to talk yet? I can wait longer, if you like.”
Actually, I couldn’t. I had to pick up Mia from school in an hour. She required at least the semblance of normalcy in her life, even if she knew that both her guardians happened to be investigating an occult serial murder.
I wanted to seem friendly. Obviously, this kid had been shit-kicked and fucked over one too many times, and he didn’t trust anyone. I figured a gentle touch might be best. Also, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit afraid of him. I’d felt his power, raw and untried as it was. He could burn this place down by twitching his little finger, and I wasn’t sure I had the resources to stop him.
“It’s hard,” he said after a beat. “All of this shit. It’s hard to put into words, you know? Especially after what happened to Jake”—he swallowed—“and now to Henry.” Anger flickered in his eyes. I felt the air between us raise a few degrees in temperature. “I mean, he was just a puppy. Never hurt anyone. We all protected him, right? Made sure he was safe. But he kept buying Hex from that sick fuck. That . . .”
He shook his head. His cheeks were flushed.
“Did you see this guy?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“Only saw him from behind, if he was walking Henry to the car. He always wore a black hooded sweatshirt.”
“What about his shoes? Or his pants?”
His mouth dipped in a sour expression. “Boots. Real fucking gaudy ones, too—black and polished, like ex-military. Steel on the bottom. And they were painted.”
I perked up. “Painted how? Like, with an airbrush? Or acrylic paint?”
He shrugged. “Just painted. On the heels. Two hearts—one was whole, the other was broken and bleeding. One says HEAVEN, the other says HELL. Fucked, eh? I’ll bet he thought they were real cool. Picked ’em up at Cheap Thrills or some shit.”
I smiled. “That’s good. That helps, Wolfie. Gives us somewhere to start.”
“Yeah?” He nodded. Some of his anger had dissipated. “Okay. Cool.”
“What about his pants? I know it’s an odd question—it’s not like you go around memorizing details about a dude’s pants. But if something stands out, it could make him easier to find.”
“They were black,” he replied. “Everything was black. They looked expensive. Designer shit, like from Holt Renfrew. Sometimes Kim or Dukwan’ll swipe clothes from there.” He shook his head. “They think it makes them hot shit. But they never get as far as the change room, so the damn pants are always too big or too small. They look like idiots in them. But the guy’s pants—they could have come from a store like that. Or, like—what’s that really expensive place that sells jeans? In Yaletown?”
“Mavi,” I said. “You think they might be from there?”
“Maybe. A lot of dealers actually work in the financial district, and they’re dressed to the nines. This guy’s clothes—even the hoodie, you know—they all looked pricey. All fitted and shit, like they came from some boutique.”
“Kangaroo jacket,” I murmured.
“Huh?”
“Oh—nothing.” I smiled despite myself. “That’s what my mom used to call them. Kangaroo jackets. People always look at me funny when I say it.”
“Well, it is kind of funny.” He cracked a smile. It was slight, but there.
Progress.
“This dealer—did he sell to anyone else? I mean, did he just go for boys, or was he after girls as well?”
I didn’t want to say Jacob’s name, especially knowing that the two of them had been “tight,” as Duessa called it. I was hoping he’d volunteer the information. Wolfie, however, saw through me like a plate glass window. He scowled.
“Just come out and ask what you want to ask.”
I nodded. “Fine. Did you see him with Jacob Kynan?”
“He went by Jake. No one called him Jacob, ’cept for his mother.” His eyes narrowed in distaste. “And she’s a fucking head case.”
“I’ve had a few run-ins with her already,” I told him, “not including tonight. And I’m inclined to agree with you. But there’s also a lot of misinformation flying around. Everyone’s saying something different—”
“What, about Jake?”
I felt him crank up the thermostat again.
“About a lot of things,” I replied, placing both hands on the table. “That’s why we’re talking now. I’m hoping you can clear some of this up for me. For us.”
“We’re talking right now because the Lady asked
me to,” he replied flatly. “If she hadn’t, this wouldn’t be happening.”
“I understand that.”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a second. Then he sighed. I felt something ease open inside him—a door swinging on rusty hinges that led somewhere dark and secret.
“I met Jake a year ago,” he said at last. “Duessa told me that she’d seen this boy trying to score a fix by the old sugar refinery on Commissioner Avenue. I used to hang out there—a long time ago—so I knew it.” His eyes went soft for a moment. “ ‘Wolfie, he’s real pretty,’ she said to me. ‘Too pretty.’ I knew what she really meant. He was in over his head, and if he stayed out there too long, someone was going to slit his throat or smash his face in.” He folded his hands together. “She was calling in the favor, you know? I was barely sixteen when she found me in the same place. Too young for that life. Too young for surgery without my parents’ consent, and they fucked off a long time ago, so that wasn’t going to happen. So I had to improvise.”
At the mention of surgery, I felt something click.
I looked closely at Wolfie’s face without appearing to stare. His soft jawline and delicate, almost petite chin. His narrow shoulders and slender hands, one folded atop the other in a surprisingly prim gesture, like he was sitting in a church pew. His smooth wrists and short goatee, a bit patchy in places. I couldn’t ask him, but I was willing to bet that Wolfie hadn’t been born biologically male, just as Duessa hadn’t been born biologically female. My eyes snapped back to the table, but he’d caught me looking.
He smirked. “Curious now, eh?”
“I . . .” A flush slowly crept up my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Wolfie. I didn’t really notice before.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? It means I can pass.” He chuckled. “We’re all passing, right? Everyone’s passing for someone, or something. You can pass for human real well, but I smell the demon in you. It’s my gift.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “I guess I do try to hide it.”
“Of course you do. Just like your pretty-boy partner, the telepath, tries to hide that he’s queer. Just like the haptic tries to hide that he’s deaf. It’s habit. Evolution. We all try to pass for somebody who fits in better.” He adjusted his trucker’s cap, which read ISASKATOON. His sideburns were slightly damp from the heat of the café. “When I hung out at the docks, I had to tape my tits up. That hurts, you know. Ever ripped off a wad of duct tape? It’ll make you scream if you’re not careful.”
“I—can only imagine,” I said.
Wolfie laughed. “Is this making you uncomfortable, Detective Corday?”
I blinked. “Yes. A little. But that’s my shit, not yours, right?”
A look of surprise crossed his face momentarily. “Yeah. That’s a good answer. Better than most I hear.”
“I don’t really have a lot of trans friends,” I admitted.
“You mean you don’t have any.”
To my credit, I kept myself from blushing this time. “No. You’re right.”
“Everyone moves in different crowds,” he said, shrugging.
I nodded. “So, Duessa helped you, right? With surgical alternatives?”
“She helped me get my top done. Matched me dollar for dollar, and then gave me a safe place to heal. After that, I started working on the inside. Training the new kids, making sure they knew what was safe—handing out the disposable cell phones, dealing with the food and the clothes and the clean gear.”
“So you owed her. She basically promoted you—got you off the street. When she told you to do the same thing for Jake . . .”
He nodded. “I had to. And she was right. He was pretty and smart, but not smart enough to make a living. He came from a different place. His whole life, everyone just handed him shit, and he thought this wouldn’t be any different. But he hadn’t realized how fucking hard it can be. The life. He didn’t know.”
“And you schooled him.”
Wolfie shrugged. “I taught him what I could. Listened to him complain.” He shook his head, smiling. “That boy could whine like a bitch, you know, but he had a silver tongue. You never got tired of hearing him piss and moan. He had this way of turning it into a story, and you’d just nod your head. And then he had you.” His eyes fell. “Just like that. He had you.”
“It sounds like you had each other,” I said gently.
He scowled. “Don’t go all PFLAG on me, Tess.” It was actually the first time he’d addressed me by name. “Jake and I had times. It wasn’t easy. He never knew what he wanted, and me—well, I guess I knew too well for my own good.”
“You wanted Jake.”
Wolfie rolled his eyes. “He was always going back and forth. I like boys, I like girls, I like trans-fags, I like straight fucking jocks.” He sighed in disgust. “But near the end—I mean, before . . .”
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. His eyes scraped the table.
“We were in sync,” He said. “We understood each other. And you can say what you want about that boy, but damn—even when he was a spoiled little rich kid who didn’t know what side of the bed to piss on, he still knew how to make you hum. He was good. No matter what was on the menu, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m sure he was a real Renaissance man in the sack,” I supplied.
He snorted. “Aw, don’t make it sound like that. It wasn’t just, like, he gave great head, or whatever. Even if he did. He just knew what to do. He kissed like someone who understood a lot more. Does that make sense?”
I thought of Lucian, who kissed like he’d lived nine lives and counting.
“It does,” I said ruefully.
“That fucker . . .” His eyes darkened, and I realized that he wasn’t talking about his lover anymore. “The guy with the boots. Jake knew him. Before.”
“Jake was buying Hex from him?”
He looked guilty. “They dealt more than once. I warned him—I told him that the dude was giving off some weird energy. He tasted like death. I told him. But Jake needed the drug. And he sold it cheap. Everyone knew that.”
“So Jake kept buying from him.”
Wolfie made a face. “Sometimes he went to the dude’s place to fix. Whenever he came back, he seemed—different. Like he was bleeding from the inside, but he didn’t want anyone to know. Like his spirit was broken. He even smelled different.” Wolfie made a face. “Like burnt oil. Ashes.”
I remembered, with a start, how Lucian’s hands had smelled faintly when he used necroid materia. Ashes and burnt sage. Had we been wrong about the necromancy? There hadn’t been any necroid trace left behind, but—if this thing really was using the same power as Lucian, there was a chance we’d be able to track it.
“Whenever I warned him to stop buying from the fucker,” Wolfie continued, “he just raved about how pure the stuff was. And how cheap. And by that time, he was doing two, maybe three bags of heroin a day. On top of the Hex. So there was no stopping him.”
“Did Jake introduce Henry to the same dealer?”
He nodded, his jaw clenched. “Fucking asshole. I told him—Henry’s just a baby! He can’t deal with that kind of heavy shit. But Henry idolized Jake. Always hanging around him, copying him, trying to get with his old clients. If Jake told him to do a shot of napalm, the little twat would have done it.”
I remembered Henry’s slight frame—his oddly empty eyes, and that ghost of a smile on his face. He’d seemed so fragile. Impressionable.
“Fucking Henry.” Wolfie closed his eyes. “Never listened.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.
His eyes snapped up. “Oh, hey, thanks, CORE lady! That’ll help me sleep at night, when I’m dreaming about my fucking boyfriend getting his throat slit by some thing that smells like ashes and death. And all that goddamn blood. You know what that’s like? Seeing that shit whenever you close your eyes?”
I held his gaze.
“Huh.” His mouth twitched. “Maybe you do after all.�
�
My mom had lent me her car (“for safety’s sake, dear”), and I felt weird sitting in the leather-upholstered driver’s seat, like when I was six and used to walk around the house in her Mary Janes. She never had a problem with it until the day she caught me wearing her sunglasses with an unlit cigarette dangling out of my mouth, pretending to gossip about the neighbors. That was when the dress-up games ended. “I have similar stories,” Derrick told me once, “although mine all end with me stealing my mother’s eighty-dollar lip liner and trying to drink Vanilla Stoli.”
I slid into a parking space close to the school’s entrance and flicked the radio on. Thank God for The Police. Mia would complain, but I didn’t feel like participating in her current post-punk phase. I liked my eighties rockers, with their big hair, tight jeans, and soaring synthesizers. They didn’t age well, though. Look at Pete Burns. Sometimes I had nightmares about his radioactive lips chasing me around the house.
I scanned the common area outside the school, which had exploded with throngs of teenage girls who were all frantically texting each other. The boys loped around them like hungry coyotes, adjusting their wrist bands and smoothing down their Pete Wentz hair as they lit up cigarettes. Not much changed. Back when I was in high school, the boys all looked like Kurt Cobain, and the girls had only recently rediscovered baby doll tees and vintage skirts.
Mia appeared from nowhere, sliding into the passenger seat and dumping her knapsack on the floor. “Oh my God. Would it kill them to spring for an air conditioner in this cheap-ass school? At least the junior high in Elder had a real computer lab with central air. Now we just have cast-off Macs and, like, this broken-down fan that could explode at any minute and decapitate a student or something.”
“What did we learn today?” I asked her, smiling as I pulled away from the curb. My mother’s car was so smooth and quiet, it felt like I was driving a velvet slipper down Woodlawn Street. Mia leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Well, I learned that globalization is alive and well. Coca-Cola, like, controls our entire campus, and if you want to eat something without disgusting animal by-products, you have to almost get hit by a dozen cars crossing First to get to the world’s crappiest convenience store. Oh, and our history teacher flunked out of Dalhousie.”