by Jackie May
I raise a finger. “Translation: where we’re from, we see a face with fangs, we bitch-slap that face.”
The tall, thin pinstripe guy swipes the ash wood toothpick from my hand. “With this.”
Capra sweeps a golden curl from his brow. “I see. That’s how it’s done where you’re from? And where, exactly, is that?”
“Is this an interrogation now?” I should stop with that, but I can’t resist the opportunity to say something I’ll never otherwise get a chance to say. “You forget your place.”
Okay, see—dammit—it’s too much. Capra’s eyes kindle with anger. He trades looks with Pinstripes, and then the other revenant goon, who looks surprisingly young—I’d guess eighteen. He wears one of those round bowler hats pulled down low above his eyes.
Yeah, I need to move this along before my big mouth gets us killed. I nod to the toothpick. “You can keep that.”
“I will,” Pinstripes says, and to my delight, he stuffs it into his shirt pocket.
Capra clears his throat. “Now then. If it’s not beyond my station,” he says sarcastically, “might I ask if you are otherwise armed?”
I jerk my thumbs at Jay and Russo. “You mean, besides these guys?”
“Powerful sorcerers, no doubt. However, sorcery is of no concern to anyone tonight. The entire ballroom is warded against magic.”
“Does it look like I depend on my magic?” Russo says.
“No. No, it doesn’t.” Capra’s eyes turn suspicious, sliding to each of us in turn. “Not at all.”
Alfred clasps his hands together. “Well, shall we?”
Capra takes the hint, though reluctantly. He leads his goons up a pile of rubble that used to be stairs.
“Now then, about that EMP…”
“Hit us with your best shot, Alfred.”
“Very good, ma’am.” He traces a circle in the air, then seems to push it in our direction. A ripple of energy washes over us. “Simple as that. Please proceed upstairs to the ballroom. Mind the steps. Rubble and ruin, though pleasing to the eye, can be murder on ankles.”
Hillerman opens her clutch bag and produces a crisp hundred-dollar bill for the demon. He accepts it with a deep bow and says, “May your night produce exquisite debauchery and wickedness.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re going to bring the house down,” I promise him as Jay leads us upstairs.
With a sigh, Hillerman flicks her tracking device into the rubble. “So much for these.”
“So much for yours,” I correct her. “Mine is in play.”
All three of their heads snap toward me. Hillerman is the first to connect the dots. “Toothpick.”
Russo whistles softly. “Tricky, damn. Bringing your A game. Love it.”
I wink at Jay. “It helps that we brought our hammer.”
He cracks his knuckles, but otherwise gives no response. I can’t imagine what must be going through his head right now, after literally facing his demons. Honestly, I’m impressed by the restraint he showed. I’m not sure he’ll be able to hold back if there’s a next time.
We ascend the steps into the massive ballroom, and let me tell you, when it comes to vice, demons aren’t just experts—they’re artists. Booze, sex, gambling, and violence are all on display in pools of purple and green light from magic torches. A full bar turns out a constant stream of drinks via half-naked servers wearing bunny rabbit masks. One passes by us with a tray full of colorful drinks topped with swirls of tantalizing whipped cream.
In a boxing ring, two East Side demons brawl. Their brutal attacks are met with polite clapping from the crowd. When one guy uses a baseball bat to shatter the other guy’s kneecap, a murmur of approval rises from the sea of masks, and money is exchanged.
I don’t see a DJ, but music fills the ballroom. It’s trancelike, exotic and dreamy, yet driving, relentless. I don’t know this music, but I know exactly what its purpose is—to put people in the mood for dark, uninhibited escapades. A chorus of pleasureful moans hint at vigorous orgies in the shadows behind pillars.
We need to be inconspicuous, but it’s hard not to stop and gawk. Our expectation—our hope—was a smallish elite gathering of sorcerers and East Side demons. After all, this is a disreputable collaboration. Besides the risk of damage to social status for sorcerers associating with demons, there’s the almost guaranteed consequence of punishment from the FUA. And yet, this place is packed with sorcerers in tuxedos, ball gowns, and masks.
And there are even more demons than sorcerers. Unashamed of this unholy communion, they don’t wear masks, other than the bunny rabbit servers. The demons are here to work, not play. They run the gambling tables and bar. They lure sorcerers into their pleasure dens. Their guards cover every door with assault rifles.
My mouth goes dry. Half of Detroit’s most powerful sorcerers together in a room with a horde of fully-armed demons? If shit goes sour, there’s no chance of getting out of this hell without an army on our side.
When Hillerman says, “Spread out,” I head straight for my comfort zone—the poker table. After changing a thousand dollars for chips, I take my favorite seat on the end, where I can easily keep an eye on all the other players. It only takes me a few seconds to know that nobody else at the table is a pro. Half of them are half-drunk, most don’t keep their chips organized, and none of them so much as pause before eagerly looking at the cards dealt to them. Just my luck, right? The one time I sit at a table full of easy money, I’m too preoccupied to enjoy it.
My eyes go to the windows lining the walls; they’re all boarded up. I study the ceiling—it’s got big holes in it, but there’s no moonlight shining through into the attic, which tells me the roof is still intact; no escape there. It’s looking more and more like I’ll need to blow a hole in the wall to get us out of here, but I doubt bazookas are on the menu. Frustrated, I take one look at my cards and toss them away.
I fold five more times before the table suddenly becomes interesting. Alfred adds a chair to the other end of the table, opposite me. With a snap of his fingers, he summons two bunny rabbit servers. One places several large stacks of chips on the table; the other fills a double rocks glass with silver alcohol, then ignites a torch, setting the drink on fire. He pours the flaming liquid back and forth between two glasses. Each time, the flames travel down the waterfall of booze, a mesmerizing sight. He sets the flaming drink next to the stack of chips, and Alfred shoos the servers away just as the VIP arrives—a sorcerer in a king mask.
He can’t see for shit—not from the mask, but from the demon chick climbing his torso like a tree to suck his face. They bump into the empty chair, and then the table. Several players grab their whipped cream drinks to steady them. The couple doesn’t seem in any hurry to end their noisy make-out session. The demon girl groans vigorously, as though devouring her favorite dessert. I notice that nobody comments or makes eye contact. The dealer waits patiently. Whoever this douche-dandy sorcerer is, he must be a big deal.
Their strenuous workout cuts off abruptly when the sorcerer curses in pain. The demon girl bit his lip. Shoving his face away with a laugh, she drops off of him into the open chair as he stumbles into the crowd. I’m intrigued by the reversal—he’s not the big deal. She is.
Looking at her, I’m reminded of the street junkies I used to run into downtown when Dumpster diving as a fox. Ratty clothes, ratty hair, but a face that might be beautiful under the grime. Hard to tell with this one, since her greasy brown hair hangs in front of her face. I can see one of her eyes, surrounded by heavy black eyeshadow.
She organizes her chips with the bigger amounts behind the smaller amounts. When the dealer issues our starting cards, she doesn’t look at her own, choosing to watch a few of the other players as they check their hands. Good for her.
Then, noticing the flaming drink next to her chips, she sweeps the hair from her face and blows out the fire, giving me a great look at the glossy strip of scar tissue running down her chin and throat.
Tabitha Du
rran is nothing like I expected. How is this hot mess a worthy adversary for Hillerman? I know they’re the same age—Hillerman said they went to high school together—but Tabitha looks and acts much younger. Besides being short and too thin, she has a round baby face and wears a threadbare hoodie over a tank top and sweatpants. Looking at her, you’d think we were at a college rager. She laughs loud and often, heckling anyone at the table who dares to bet against her.
She’s a great poker player, I’ll give her that. It takes her all of five minutes to read the skill of every player at the table and form a plan of attack. She plays hyper aggressive against most of the table, betting big even when she’s in a weak position. A few of the players earn enough of her respect that she occasionally backs off, losing small pots of chips here and there. Her approach to me is flattering but frustrating: she refuses to play at all. If I bet, she folds. If I check, she folds. If I stay in the hand for any reason, even in the worst position, she bails. It’s a little eerie to be acknowledged by her without a single word or look shared between us. She’s definitely much sharper than she lets on, which is annoying, because playing the sleeper is supposed to be my thing.
One sore loser in a snake mask shoves half his chips at Tabitha and says, “If you’re going to take all my money, you could at least make it worth my while.”
She scoffs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Free hookers and booze isn’t enough?”
“I would like for us to get down to business. I didn’t come here to play poker.”
“I think that’s obvious to all of us.”
A sorcerer wearing a goateed devil mask asserts himself with a bit more tact. “What my colleague means to say is that the evening grows late, and yet there’s been no discussion of current events.”
“Current events,” a woman in an eagle mask adds, “which have serious ramifications for the future of our enterprise. Frankly, I’m concerned, to say the least.”
“Are you talking about Netflix raising their prices again?” Tabitha says. “Because I agree—that shit makes me want to riot.”
Snake head guy pounds the table. “We’re talking about Henry Stadther dead. His whole clan wiped out!”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about that Jack of diamonds on the table. With the snap call you just made, I’m guessing you’re sitting on a straight draw? Do you realize the odds of hitting that?”
Dazed, he checks his cards, then flings them away. It’s the last straw. He stands and begins collecting his small pile of chips.
“Please, my friend, keep your seat,” says a gentleman’s voice. He stands beside the dealer, wearing no mask, smiling pleasantly at the snake head. He’s in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a beard and the rugged type of good looks that only improve with age. Based on his impeccably tailored suit and pleasing eyes, I’d say he’s definitely not a demon, unless there’s such a thing as a glutton for charm. No, my guess is that he’s not only a sorcerer, but the ringleader of this secret society. “I can assure you that Summoner Durran is more committed to our cause than anyone, but not often is she able to enjoy a night of leisure. You must allow her reluctance to mix business with pleasure.”
The snake man sits, immediately changing his tune. “Yes, of course. I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Tabitha chirps with a smile. “Now get into the spirit of things, would you? This is supposed to be a party. No buzzkills.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She claps her hands. “Great. So shove already.”
The man pauses. “Shove?”
“Yeah, man, shove. All in. Push your chips into the pot, see if you hit that straight.”
“Er…but the odds. You said so yourself…”
“I know, the odds are terrible. That’s what makes it fun.” There’s an edge to her voice that scares the man. He appeals with a hesitant look at the ringleader, who responds with only a smile. Reluctantly, Snake Head pushes all his chips in, after which the dealer reveals the final card. It’s not the card he needed, of course, and Tabitha adds insult to injury by revealing her hand, which could not have been beaten, even if he had drawn the straight.
The sorcerer shoots to his feet with a huff, clearly at the end of his rope. But his protest dies there, as he locks eyes with Tabitha. Her party-girl happy face has turned to an ice-cold deadpan, daring him with unblinking eyes. The sudden transformation is terrifying. Rattled, he slowly—very slowly—resumes his seat. Everybody else at the table releases a collective breath, including me.
The ringleader tugs on the cuffs of his suitcoat. “I, on the other hand, make no distinction between business and pleasure. If any of you have questions or concerns, by all means, fire away.”
Goateed Devil says, “Henry Stadther.”
“Yes. An unfortunate development, but in no way a setback, I assure you. In fact, we may even come to regard his sudden removal as advantageous.”
“How so? His clan was charged with the heavy lifting of this operation. Without their part, we’re dead in the water.”
“Henry became a liability to us the moment he met Nora Jacobs. He was obsessed with her, unable to reason. He was supposed to secure a mythic to serve as vessel for the master. He proved himself more than up to the task—he captured not one, but many, only to betray our cause by using them in his crusade against the siren.”
“Perhaps his plan was to secure Nora Jacobs as the vessel. Have you considered that? Imagine, with power such as hers—”
“You give Henry Stadther too much credit. Had he succeeded in snaring Nora Jacobs, he would only have kept her for himself. It’s likely he would have abandoned our cause, if not the entire country. We would never have seen him again. And as for the siren’s power, it is great, that’s true, but chiefly in ways not coveted by our master. Influence, persuasion, a power of attraction—these are the tools of a diplomat, not a warmonger. What we need is brute strength, a power for extraordinary violence. The master’s eye remains fixed, as ever, on the ideal: Nick Gorgeous.”
“And I say again: impossible. Not without Henry’s clan. Who else has the power, resources, and opportunity? Certainly not the sorcerer community. It would take a collective of houses working together, and right under the FUA’s nose. It’s hard enough just getting us together at these meetings.”
Tabitha corrects him. “Parties, not meetings.” A chuckle ripples through the crowd that has gathered around our table. Behind Tabitha, I see a familiar fawn mask with antlers. So Hillerman has finally caught up with her nemesis. With fists clenched at her sides, she stares at the back of Tabitha’s head.
If we had earpieces, I’d warn her not to make a move yet. It seems obvious that now’s not the time, but Hillerman’s been waiting how many years for this moment? Like Jay, she might not be able to resist for long. Panic thumps my heart against my ribs. I still have no exit strategy, no clue how to get us the hell out of here. Well, that’s not exactly true. I have a wild thought, but it’s clunky. I’d need a few different items to come together at just the right time. A miracle is what I’d need.
The charming ringleader continues. “When one door closes, another opens. Henry Stadther’s death creates a power void which rival clans are eager to fill.”
“Like who? Which clans?”
“Windsor, for one.”
Grumbles surge through the crowd. “Windsor! You can’t be serious.”
“I am. In fact, their master is on his way to us now.”
More complaints ring out. “What, here? Tonight?”
The salt-and-pepper sorcerer quiets them with a gleaming smile. “My friends, you must afford me your trust. I am not ignorant of your inclinations for or against the different clans of this territory. I say again, yes, Windsor makes their way to us at this very moment with the expectation of negotiating an accord between us. Furthermore, I inform you of the high likeliness that Windsor will not care for our answer, nor will they enjoy our method of…negotiating.”
The crowd buz
zes with rejuvenated excitement. Tabitha beams with bright eyes. “See? Party.”
The eagle mask lady isn’t satisfied. “None of this means anything without Him. Where is our Grand Master?”
“Where is irrelevant. The only question is when. The Grand Master will return to us only when Arael Moaz dies.”
“The Agency will never allow that to happen. They could prolong his death indefinitely.”
“Is that a bad thing at this point? Do we not require more time anyway? Let me take a turn now and ask all of you a question. Is there yet any one of you ready to join my company? A necromancy ring cannot exist with myself alone. I require acolytes.”
This revelation is enough to pull Hillerman’s eyes away from Tabitha to study the salt-and-pepper good looks of the sorcerer who is not only the ringleader, but East Side’s mysterious necromancer. The final face to complete Hillerman’s case file.
“I’ll name the elephant in the room,” he says. “King Paul. Who knew he would be the first among you to unlock the secret? Many of you must have been in attendance at that party. Surely his demonstration gave you some clue?”
After a long, incriminating silence, the snake mask guy throws his hands up, annoyed. “Or you could just tell us how to do it.”
Tabitha’s psycho-serial-killer look returns. “Maybe he should demonstrate on you.”
“To divulge a secret is to destroy its purpose, by definition. The only way to learn a dark art is in the dark, listening to those whispers from the Deep. You will not hear it with your ears. You will feel it, but only if you are accustomed to the company of the Deep ones.” Seeing uncomfortable glances traded between members of the crowd, the necromancer sighs. “Are there no more King Pauls among you?”
“King Paul was a psychopath,” somebody says.
The necromancer is delighted. “There you have it. A good place to start.” The young vampire revenant with the bowler hat emerges from the crowd to whisper something urgent into his ear. “Ah, very good. My friends, this night promises one or two surprises yet to come. An hour from now, we will have several new developments to discuss. Also, what party would be complete without a fireworks show?”