by Jaye Wells
I sucked on my teeth and glared at the smart-ass.
He grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry I got this off on the wrong foot. It wasn’t my intention to insult your friend.” He sounded so sincere that I lowered my hackles. “I asked if she had a history because she had on one of those recovery token necklaces.”
I glanced down to be sure my own necklace was tucked inside my shirt. “And that made you suspicious?”
“No offense, Detective”—he nodded toward my own necklace—“but being in dirty magic recovery doesn’t mean she’s clean.”
That took a lot of the wind out of my sails. “I see.” I quickly pushed the necklace back inside my collar. “Was the other driver freaking on anything?”
Murphy nodded. “As it happens, yes. There were two empty ampoules with traces of Arcane substances found in the car, and the ME said preliminary signs indicate the deceased had been using some sort of Arcane substance. Said he likely wouldn’t test it, though, since the cause of death was obviously the collision.”
“How does he know the guy didn’t have a heart attack or stroke while driving?”
Murphy shrugged. “Suppose he doesn’t, but as it happens the guy lost his head.” He mimed slicing across his neck. “So I guess the ME figured that was good enough for the death certificate.”
Not long after that exchange, Murphy escaped to go file his paperwork at the precinct.
“Went a little hard on him, don’tcha think?” Morales said.
I grimaced at him. “He deserved it.”
He raised a thick brow. “Did he?”
I sighed. “Maybe I rode him a little hard, but he was lucky I was a cop and not some hysterical civilian leading with that question.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I was saved by Nurse Smith, who called across the way, “She’s awake.”
I swallowed the last dregs of frustration from my conversation with Murphy. The last thing I wanted when I saw Pen was to walk in lugging a chip on my shoulder. I’d already dumped one of those on her during our argument the night before. I cleared my throat and ran my hands through my hair.
“Be right back,” I said to Morales. He nodded and leaned on the counter like he planned to work his mojo on the nurses. Three of them had found excuses to linger and make doe eyes at him.
Leaving him in their capable hands, I walked to Pen’s room. Because of her crappy health insurance plan, she was stuck in a joint room with three other patients. A TV droned from the wall, and the chatter of the other patients and their families rose from behind the partitions. The curtain was pulled around the bed marked as Pen’s, but a couple of weak coughs came from the other side. I poked my head though the panels.
It had been one thing to hear Smith’s list of Pen’s injuries. Seeing her battered face was a shock to every protective instinct in my body. Her left eye was totally swollen shut and her right was surrounded by abrasions. The anger threatened to erode my intention to put on an upbeat facade. I wanted kill the asshole who’d done this all over again. While I was at it, I also wanted to kick my own ass for being the reason she’d been at that sham of a party in the first place.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Hi.” The sound was a barely audible scrape of words against air.
“Next time you want to clean the street try to remember not to use your face,” I joked lamely.
The corner of her lips lifted but immediately dissolved into a pained grimace. “Ow.”
I moved forward to comfort her, but she was so banged up I was afraid to touch her. Instead I settled on adjusting her pillow a little. It wasn’t much but it was movement, and it made me feel a little less useless.
“You here alone?” she asked finally.
“Morales is out in the lobby. He insisted on coming after I got the call at the gym.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry—”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just—Look, it’s no big deal. He wanted to come to make sure you were okay.”
She nodded but looked down at her bandaged hand. According to the nurse, when her car flipped, her left arm was trapped between her body and the door. An image of her unconscious and unprotected in that car for hours made my stomach turn with fear and guilt.
I shuffled my feet. “I’m sorry.”
Her head jerked up, but the move made her wince. “Why?”
“That you’re in pain. That I’m a dick. That we fought last night. Lots of things, I guess.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s not your fault, Kate.”
I snorted out a breath. “Like hell. I—”
She held up her good hand. “Stop it, okay? I’m not going to let you make this about your guilt. I’m the one in the hospital, and frankly I don’t have the energy to try to make you feel better about that.”
My mouth fell open at the unusual bitterness in my friend’s tone. “I—” But then it hit me that she was absolutely right. I should be comforting her, not the other way around. Which was also why I wouldn’t be bringing up my surprise visit with Uncle Abe the next day. Normally, Pen was my sounding board and best advice dispenser, but now she needed me—not the other way around. “Do you need anything?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but a nurse whipped the curtain back. She rolled a cart ahead of her that was filled with a bunch of tiny plastic cups and potion vials. “Time for your pain potion, Miss Griffin.”
Without thinking, I spoke for Pen. “She doesn’t take potions.”
A hand slapped mine. Hard. I turned to see my best friend frowning at me like I’d kicked a puppy. I hesitated. “What?”
The nurse answered for her. “Your friend has a sprained wrist, two broken ribs, and whiplash. She needs pain relief.”
I put my hands on my hips. “She’s also a recovering potion addict, which should be in her file.”
The nurse’s brows rose. “So? This is a clean potion.”
I crossed my arms and pinned her with a glare. “Clean or not, it’s still common for people to become addicted to pain potions, correct?”
Her eyes shifted. “Occasionally, but—”
“But nothing. If she needs pain relief, surely there are Mundane remedies.”
“Kate—” Pen’s voice was small.
I turned. “Do you want to throw away ten years of sobriety because you’re in a little pain.”
Her eyes went all squinty. It took me a second to realize her expression wasn’t from pain, but from irony.
I pressed my lips together. “Do what you want, then.”
Pen’s gaze flicked from me to the pills in the nurse’s hand and back to me.
“It’s up to you, Miss Griffin. I can give you some high-dose acetaminophen and ice for the swelling, but it’s not going to do as good a job as a potion would.”
Indecision was sketched clearly into her features. Part of me wanted to relent and tell her to just take the damned potion already. But what kind of friend would I be to enable her like that?
A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that she’d encouraged me to accept Volos’s help with the Danny situation. But I’d like to think if she’d known that decision would have ended up with me cooking, she would have helped me find another solution.
Anyway, I hated the idea of dooming her now to live with the same guilt that had been eating me alive for weeks.
“It’s not worth it, Pen.” She paused, looking me directly in the eyes. I shook my head to underline my plea. Finally, she sighed.
“I’ll just take the aspirin and an ice pack.” She certainly didn’t look or sound happy about it. In fact, she looked pretty pale and her movements were too careful, like any sudden gesture would jack up her pain level.
And then I really felt like an asshole. Because deep down I had to admit that I hadn’t talked her out of using potions to keep her from feeling guilty. I’d done it to save myself guilt.
But by the time I realized this, the nurse had shrugged, muttered “Suit yourself,” and
walked away shaking her head.
Chapter Eleven
October 20
Waxing Crescent
To get to Crowley Penitentiary for Arcane Criminals, we had to take a ferry to the center of Lake Erie, where a small island called Crook’s Point squatted near the border between the United States and Canada.
As the main correctional facility for magical criminals on the eastern seaboard, the prison’s location was no coincidence. The beaches on the island were laced with iron sand and salt to dampen magical attack. Plus the magnetic properties of the magnetite crystals acted like a sort of organic metal detector. But the island’s location also was effective for one far more mundane reason: No sane person would swim across the frigid five-mile expanse separating the island from the mainland. In fact, in the penitentiary’s hundred-plus-year history, only a few less-than-sane men had tried and met tragic ends.
There weren’t many boats in this part of Lake Erie. The penitentiary forbade any unapproved watercraft from coming within a mile of the island. But I could see a couple of sailboats and barges crawling along the water’s surface closer to the mainland. Overhead the sky was heavenly blue and the few billowy clouds conspired to make one think of sheep frolicking. And the sun glinted off the skyscrapers of downtown Babylon like it was a golden city where dreams came true and paupers could become kings. But I knew the effects were just tricks of light—illusion. I knew Lake Erie bore monsters in her belly, and I was more than familiar with the nightmares that plagued Babylon.
I didn’t mind the slow boat trip because it gave me time to practice my approach. Abraxas Prospero had already served five years of a fifteen-year sentence for distribution of illegal Arcane substances, as well as conspiracy to commit murder via Arcane means. So why contact us now? I didn’t believe for a second the iron bars of his cell prevented him from knowing everything that went on in the Cauldron, but I couldn’t imagine what he’d know that could help with the Johnson case.
“You glare at that water much longer the whole lake’s going to boil.” Morales nudged me with his shoulder.
I clenched my jaw and turned that glare on my partner. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this.”
He chuckled. “Aw, c’mon, Prospero. It won’t be that bad.”
I bit my tongue. Not only was the meeting with Uncle Abe going to be bad, it might very well end up being disastrous. Uncle Abe hadn’t maneuvered me into this situation to do me any favors.
Instead of retorting to Morales’s claim, I used a fingernail to chip away at some flaking paint on the boat’s railing. “You ever been to Crowley?”
He shook his head. He’d only been in Babylon for a few months. “You?”
I shrugged. “Not in an official capacity, but I went some when I was little. Mom had some cousins get collared for cooking charges.”
He just nodded.
I glanced up at him. “What, no cracks about my fucked-up family?”
He raised a brow. “Aren’t all families fucked up?”
My lips quirked. “I guess so.” Morales and I hadn’t been partners long, but what little he’d told me about his own past supported his point. “Still, I’d feel a lot better if I knew what Abe’s angle was.”
He nodded and turned his gaze out toward the water. Then we both fell silent as we nurtured our own theories about the reason for the meeting. It wouldn’t be any good to compare notes because we both knew whatever Abe had planned was something we’d never see coming anyway.
“You ever seen the Lake Erie Lizard?” Morales asked out of the blue.
“How do you know about that?”
He shrugged. “Been reading a book on the city’s history. They mentioned it a couple of times.”
I chuckled at the unexpected turn of conversation. “I haven’t thought about that old wives’ tale in years.” He raised his brow as if he was waiting for a real answer. I shook my head. “Nah. Lots of kids in the Cauldron claimed they saw it growing up, but I never did.”
“What do you know about him?”
I shot Morales a rueful glance. “How do you know it’s not a girl?”
“Please, all the best monsters are dudes: Mothra, Godzilla, King Kong.”
“What about Nessie?” I asked, raising a brow.
He grimaced. “He probably hates that sissy nickname. Admit it—males are superior at the whole monster thing.”
I knew he was just trying to distract me, but the very real monsters I’d known in my life came in all genders and sexes. If I wanted to get into an argument, which I didn’t, I’d have told him it wasn’t men who made the best monsters, but humans. But I didn’t want to start an existential debate, so I told him what I knew about the Lake Erie Lizard.
Back before a Chinese alchemist and some unfair trade laws destroyed the American steel industry, the city of Babylon was hardly a mecca of progressive thinking. There was lots of money, sure, but it was earned at the expense of the area’s abundant natural resources. Factories churned chemicals into the Steel River unchecked—which incidentally is why the damned thing caught fire several times over the years—and into Lake Erie.
Once the factories closed down, most of the city’s pollution was caused by neglect instead of apathy. Buildings sat like empty, rotting shells. Mother Nature started reclaiming the buildings on the outskirts of town; in the center of the city the structures became rabbit warrens filled with the homeless, the strung out, and the clinically insane. It was only in the last decade that major efforts had been made to revitalize the city’s lagging economy and culture.
As for the waterways, there was a pretty determined effort by the city to clean up the river. Eventually you hardly ever saw rats riding rafts of garbage down the canals anymore and the fires stopped altogether—with the exception of the occasional floating alchemy lab explosion.
Despite that cleanup effort, some damage couldn’t be undone. A lot of the pollution’s legacy could be seen in the animal population, especially in the lake. Every couple of years, there was the inevitable news story about some kid who managed to hook a three-eyed fish or a bird born with a leg sticking out of its head. But no story got as much play in the annals of Babylon folklore as the Lake Erie Lizard.
“The first stories started back in the sixties,” I began. “According to the legend, a man was out fishing alone one night. When he was pulling the hook out of his final catch, the hook pricked his finger. He rinsed it off in the lake, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding. He started rowing back to shore because his wife would worry if he was too late getting home. Apparently he was about two hundred yards from shore when something bumped his boat. It was dark, so he couldn’t see anything, but he assumed he’d just rowed over a large log or something.”
I shook my head and smiled, remembering the fevered accounts of the monster whispered by kids in my neighborhood. They always involved some variation on someone cutting themselves in the water, as if the monster was some sort of shark-like creature that could detect a few drops of blood in the trillions of gallons of water that made up Lake Erie.
“What happened next to our fisherman depends on the teller,” I continued, “but most versions involve a large lizard-like creature rearing up over the boat and forcing it to capsize. The man had to swim for his life back to shore, but the monster swallowed his boat whole.”
“I take it you find the tale suspicious.”
I shrugged. “You ask me, it’s just a story parents made up to keep their kids away from the water. Rip currents can get pretty bad.”
Morales leaned his forearms on the boat’s edge and peered into the steel-gray water. “I dunno, Cupcake. This lake’s gotta be what—a hundred feet deep?”
“Two hundred in some places.”
“Right. Just saying, maybe there’s things down there we don’t want to believe in.”
“One time Uncle Abe told me he had summoned the lizard using a potion he cooked with blood and dew gathered from a rose petal under a full moon.” I rolled my eyes.
> “Did it work?”
“He said it did, but Abe said lots of things.”
Unbidden, a memory rose from the depths like the Lake Erie Lizard. Me at age five, sitting on Uncle Abraxas’s lap.
“Mama says I don’t have no daddy.”
Abe laughed, making his belly jiggle. “Darlin’, you don’t need a daddy.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll always have your old uncle Abe.” He chucked me under my chin. “I’ll always take care of you.”
“And my mama?”
When he smiled, his eyes twinkled like he knew all my secrets. “Yes, Katie Girl. I’ll take care of your mama, too.”
A cold wind rose up off the lake. Goose bumps spread over my arms, but they had more to do with the memory than the temperature.
“Hey?” Morales said. “You’re not gonna get seasick, are you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Good, because we’re almost there.” He pointed over the bow.
The black shores of Crook’s Point rose out of the lake into steep cliffs. On the far rise, the gray stone walls of the prison loomed like a storm-shrouded castle out of an old faerie tale.
But the inhabitants of the prison weren’t warmongering goblins or dragons guarding faerie gold. They were hardened magical criminals—rapists, murderers, criminally insane masterminds who’d hex you dead for your last smoke.
I leaned against the ferry’s railing and ignored my sudden urge to tell the captain to turn back around. To call Gardner and tell her I’d give up my task force role and return to patrol, but then I remembered that she’d said I wouldn’t even have that shitty job to go back to.
Morales leaned in and whispered, “Don’t let him see your fear.”
I looked up to see hundreds of small windows facing out from salt-blackened walls. My gut was churning like the Great Lake before a midwinter storm. Without a doubt, I knew Abraxas Prospero watched me from behind one of those thick, bulletproof panes.
Cold spray from the gathering waves hit my face like a slap of sanity. I stood straighter, shoving my anxiety down to the deepest recesses of my psyche. Morales was right. Abe Prospero was like a snake—he’d taste my fear on the air. Then he’d use it against me by spewing venom from that forked tongue.