by J. P. Sloan
I stepped up the front steps and cleared my throat.
Turner spun on his heel and gave me a low, furry eyebrow.
“You the psychic?”
I winced. “Uh, no. No, I’m not.”
“Oh.” He turned away.
“Detective Turner?” I nudged.
He looked over to his compatriots with a sigh. “Dorian Lake? That’s you?”
“That’s me. Not a psychic, though.”
His face blossomed into a particularly pissed shade of red, and he looked over to the taller of his two uniformed escorts.
“Deputy Mayor Claye said you was here to assist on Enoch Pratt.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and shrugged. “Yes, well, Ms. Claye sent me to help with something, Grant.”
“That’s Detective Turner, asshole.”
Oh, lovely.
“Well, Detective Turner… before I turn around and drive back home, maybe we should give her the benefit of the doubt and start over?”
“Huh?”
Jesus. This was going to be an agony, I could tell.
I extended my hand. “Dorian Lake.”
He looked at my hand like it was a limp, dead mackerel.
“Detective Turner. Special investigations.”
Oh, thanks so much, Ronetta.
“What happened at Enoch Pratt?”
“Some stupid hooliganism. Probably teens being smartasses, but they left behind some Satanic shit, so we have to treat it like an occult crime.”
“Well, let’s go check out your Satanic shit then, shall we?”
The uniformed police flanked us as we proceeded along the steps. Two police units were parked in front of the building in the drop-off zone, and more uniforms were guarding the doors to keep the public out. Turner trotted up the steps and nodded to the police as he ushered me through one of the double-doors leading to the library’s lobby.
As we stepped into the wide, marble-floored space, and that pungent, thrilling smell of old books smacked me in the face, Turner pointed for one of the two wings.
“Claye said you was some kind of psychic.”
“She’s wrong.”
“Then what are you?”
I gave him a deadpan and replied, “Some weird Satanist.” I winked. “Don’t worry. We take care of our own, Detective.”
I left him in the lobby as I stepped past two more police. The scene before me was one of frozen bedlam. Books lay strewn on tables, desks, and the floor. Most of the shelves had been emptied, leaving blank, yawning spaces where the books had been. I turned a slow circle and traced a series of symbols painted on the walls with my eyes.
Turner called from the wing entrance, “Any of that make any sense to you?”
I took a moment, lifting a finger to keep Turner quiet as I racked my brain. Some of these symbols were familiar, but only in a vague sense.
My eyes lowered to the floor, and my toes tingled. I trotted for an open staircase leading to the second-floor stacks, bustling halfway up.
Turner trotted into the room. “What’s going on?”
I lifted another finger, surveying the pattern of the felled books. A widdershins spiral.
“Exit point,” I whispered.
“You know what this is?”
I sucked in a breath and started descending the steps. “I do, in fact. Looks like a jinx.”
“A jinx, huh?” he harrumphed. “Doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Yeah, well, Fat Man and Little Boy sounded downright charming until we dropped them out of a couple airplanes.”
I knew where the exit point was… but I had more information here than I did in Gettysburg. The sigils, for one. It could have been the jinx in the daycare was a test run for something bigger. But seeing as to how this hit was somewhat harmless, I wondered what this was a dry run for?
The spiral of tossed books began in four distinct points, each at the termination of what I assumed were incantations. I reached into my pocket for my pendulum, but realized it wasn’t there. In fact, that pendulum was dust.
“Crap.”
I’d have to replace that thing.
Turner shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, Lake? What’s the verdict?”
“Hmm?”
“Who did it?”
I gave Turner a nice, slow side-eye. “I have no clue.”
“Then what good are you?”
“A fine question, Grant. Let’s start with the fact that someone’s thrown a substantial packet of chaos energy into a public library, and finish with the fact that there are maybe three people the city can call for this kind of thing, and the other two are as likely to raze the site to the ground as anything. So, maybe just give me some time to decipher these symbols. I might have more ground to stand on.”
Turner shrugged. “Don’t matter, no how. Just a couple teenagers being smartasses. Like I said. We’ll get this cleaned up in an hour, and we’ll forget about it.”
“Right.”
He lifted his chin at me. “What?”
“Good luck getting it cleaned up in an hour.”
He swiveled with his arms stretched out. “It’s just some spray paint, some books tossed around. No federal case here, Lake.”
“All right, then.” I pulled out my phone. “When it comes seven in the morning, and you’ve tried picking up these books for the twelfth time, then maybe you’ll cut me some slack.” I lifted the phone to photograph the walls. “Will this be a problem?”
He shook his head with a sneer.
I snapped a dozen photos of the symbology, and one more of the floor before moving for the lobby.
Turner trotted after me with a quick mutter to one of the uniforms.
I led the way out of the library, pocketing my phone.
“So, Lake, you get paid for this?”
“Generally speaking. Though I’ve yet to make an arrangement with Ms. Claye, but yes. I am a professional.”
Turner snickered.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, instantly regretting baiting him into further conversation.
“No, I knew you had something worked out with that gay, Bright. I didn’t―”
“Excuse me?” I grunted.
He snapped his head up, then smirked. “Huh? I said―”
“What did you say just now?”
I took a step into Turner, and he backed away a half-step before checking himself.
“That guy. Julian Bright. I said you had something worked out, you know.”
“You sure that’s what you said?”
Turner’s mouth pulled into a snarl.
My pulse pounded in my neck, and my hands balled into fists.
The uniforms nearby approached, and Turner let them.
I managed to stick a finger into Turner’s chest and say, “You’re going to watch what you say about Julian Bright, my friend.”
One of the uniforms slipped between the two of us, with a, “Take it easy.”
“Yeah,” I snapped. “Thought so.” I turned back up the street, adding over my shoulder, “Good luck with the books.”
My stomach was still twisted in a knot by the time I reached my car. I wasn’t prepared for the visceral reaction I had with Turner. Really, it took me by surprise as much as him. But the jab at Julian just boiled my piss to no end.
“I’d say good afternoon, Dorian, but you look like you’re ready to punch something.”
I shook my head and looked to my left to find Father Mark watching me across the street.
I un-balled my fists and took a breath before jogging across to meet him.
“Sorry. Just had someone chap my ass, is all.”
“Hopefully he won’t end up on the business end of your… well, your business.”
I grinned. “Jury’s out. Visiting the Basilica?”
He nodded. “I want to say you’re looking better, Dorian. I really do.”
“That’s two of us, Padre.”
“Walk and talk?”
I stepped alo
ngside him as we headed up Cathedral Street. “I just think maybe I haven’t been the best business partner in the world.”
“Business partner? This is…” He snapped his fingers “Julian, right?”
“Yeah. He’s busting his balls making this tavern what it is. I want to hold up my end, you know.”
“Sounds admirable.”
“I know there’s people who think right and wrong are a matter of how hard you work,” I said. “Not sure if that’s too Calvinist for your particular tradition.”
Father Mark snickered. “It’s something I recognize, though it’s not particularly grounded in sound Biblical doctrine. It is something of an American tradition, though.”
I ventured, “What about homosexuals, Padre?”
“What… about homosexuals?”
“Does the Catholic Church have any space set aside at all for homosexuals? Or is that still kind of a deal breaker?”
Father Mark laughed and lifted a hand. “I’m going to speak for myself here, Dorian. There are no deal breakers. All are welcome. What we make of ourselves as people, as believers, that’s our personal mission. And I mean ‘personal,’ because it’s a matter of relationship between yourself and God.”
“So, a man can be gay, and he can be a good Catholic?”
“I find the term ‘good Catholic’ to be a smoke screen, more often than not. What say we focus on what’s important toward being a good person? Then we’ll sort out to what extent we rely on doctrine.”
I turned a circle, taking in the buildings surrounding us.
“Padre? You really think there’s some higher power for good out there?”
“I do. Okay… next softball question?”
“I think that would be an incredible feeling.”
Father Mark crossed his arms. “What would be? Believing in God?”
“No. Believing in good.”
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, before nodding. “You have good inside you, Dorian. You care about the soul of your friend. That’s an indication of faith, if ever I saw one.”
I nodded, then turned back to my car.
“See you Monday, Padre.”
I drove around the block and steered myself toward the tavern. Julian would be inside, probably hammering out the want ad I was supposed to be writing. I pulled the Audi into the rear parking lot, then sat staring at the back door. I knew that, if I set foot inside, I’d get sucked into hours of responsibility. On another day, I could do it. Another week, when I didn’t have Ches’s brother detoxing in my spare bedroom. When I didn’t have a curse to dismantle, or a cadre of chaos magicians with a serious hate-on for public libraries to track down.
When I didn’t have the Presidium breathing down my neck.
So, I drove home.
he next morning was a slow, desperate struggle to drag myself out of bed. I’d spirited one too many fingers of scotch behind Ches and Ricky’s back the past evening. Through sheer force of will, and a reminder to my subconscious that I had a real lead on finding my soul again, I managed myself upright and dressed. As I ventured into the hallway, I froze at the sight of Ches meandering from the hall bath with a toothbrush in her mouth, wearing a t-shirt and underwear.
“I, uh… oh,” I stammered.
She paused and gave me an indifferent blink before continuing brushing her teeth.
Ricky’s door opened. He took a half-step into the hallway before he spotted me. He was pale, his entire face glistening with sweat.
He cleared his throat a couple times to get his voice going. “Morning.”
“How’re you holding up?” I asked over Ches’s shoulder.
He shrugged. “Not very.”
“Well, hang in there. Or, you know, insert helpful platitude here.”
Ches hopped back into the bathroom to spit before returning to join the conversation.
“How’d your meeting go?”
“Good and not-so-good. It’s overall positive, I think. In a nutshell, the Dead Dragons aren’t exactly Chinese purists, so I’m back to the primer books.”
Ches shook her head. “Okay, that’s the not-so-good, but you said there was good?”
“Lillian might be able to help me out with my… condition.”
Ricky asked, “Condition?”
“Soul. I might finally have a lead on finding my soul.”
Ricky ran a hand over the back of his neck and screwed his brow into a question.
Ches held a hand out to him. “It’s kind of a long story.” She turned to me. “That’s great news, Dorian.”
“Thanks. We’ll see.”
She added, “But how does this help Ricky?”
I sucked in a breath, then held it. She looked at me with wide, earnest eyes. As my stomach tightened, I recognized she wasn’t trying to sound like a callous malcontent. She was just focused on her problem.
I wove around her for the stairs and descended to get some coffee inside me. Almost made it to the kitchen, too, before the doorbell froze me in my tracks.
Hardly anyone visited me unexpectedly. Maybe only Edgar, but with the Swains vacationing in Orlando, that left salesmen and really bad news. Steeling myself, I approached the front door, keeping a free hand near the darquelle mounted on the wall nearby, and peeked out the sidelite.
And I found the last person I expected to be standing on my door stoop.
I opened the door with what must have been a staggeringly baffled face.
“Morning, Reed,” I stated something like a question.
“Dorian,” he responded.
“What brings you back to Charm City?”
“I have a message from Mister Clement.” He reached into his coat and produced an envelope.
I wrinkled my nose and eased my grip on the door. “I’m not selling Emil’s Library. I think I was pretty clear.”
He brandished the envelope, and I finally took it. As I moved to open it, he reached out a hand.
“You might want to open that inside.”
I gave Malosi a trepidatious sigh, then ushered him in.
He stopped at the threshold and gave both jambs and the lintel a good, long look.
“Yeah,” he grumbled. “He said this would need work.”
“What would? Who said? What?”
Reed stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Getting ahead of myself. I’m supposed to help you batten down the hatches.”
“Batten down the―who says that?” I gestured to the couch as I moved for my roll top desk, but Malosi just continued lumbering near the foyer.
“Okay,” he enunciated with an edge of impatience, “Jean thinks you need to bolster your wards.”
I snatched a letter opener from my drawer and dropped into my swivel chair. “That’s your specialty, now?”
“Security has always been my specialty.”
I grinned. “Yeah, suppose that’s true.” I slid the letter opener into the corner of the large brown envelope and sliced it open. “Though it doesn’t exactly fill my chest with rainbows and sunshine to think he’s sending you to help me with my own―”
I swallowed my words as I slipped the contents of the envelope onto the desk. Glossy photos. Gruesome photos.
I pushed away.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered.
“You know who that is?” Malosi asked, more with a tone of genuine inquiry than foreboding.
I nodded.
“Jean said this would mean something, and that you’d understand why I’m here.”
Clement was correct. Absolutely, dead correct.
Voices rose overhead as Ches seemed to be talking Ricky away from some emotional ledge. Their murmuring faded into the spiraling chaos inside my head.
Malosi looked up at the ceiling, then drew a heavy breath.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I have a thing. I mean… I’m told I have to use my nouns better, so I guess you can call them unexpected guests.”
“That will make it more difficult.”
I sh
ot Malosi an impatient eye. “You think?”
Footsteps bounded down the stairs, and I hoped that, if it was Ches, she’d have put on pants by now.
“Dorian, where’s―oh. Uh, hi.”
I swiveled in my chair to find Ches, with pants, eyeballing the broad, manicured Polynesian in his tailored suit with significant tension.
I waved a hand back and forth between them. “Reed Malosi, Francesca Baker. Ches, this is Reed.”
Ches held her position, frozen in place.
Reed, however, removed his gloves and took graceful steps forward to offer his hand. “Good morning.”
Ches shook his hand as she stared up at his face, then turned slowly to me. “Dorian?”
“We have problems,” I said.
“As opposed to any other week?”
I stood up, tapping the photos of a woman lying face-down in a pool of her blood, with an entry wound in the back of her head.
“I need coffee,” I grumbled, sweeping toward the kitchen.
Ches grunted near the desk as I rounded the doorway into the kitchen.
“Do we know this person?” she called out.
“It’s Lillian Hsu.”
“Who the hell is―”
“The person I met with yesterday. About Ricky.”
Ches stepped into the kitchen with Malosi close behind.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh. Shit.”
“Yep.”
She turned to Malosi. “You did this?”
He drew in a breath to answer, but I cut him off.
“Reed’s on our side, Ches. He may be the harbinger of stupendously horrible news, but he’s one of the good guys.”
“Well, glad to hear someone’s on our side,” she groused. “What does this all mean?”
I shoveled a nice, stomach-melting dose of coffee grounds into the maker.
“The Presidium’s on the warpath, is what it means.”
“The Presidium?” Ches repeated. “Why do they care about this woman?”
“She’s a Netherworker. Deals in ancestor trafficking.”
“You’re going to have to walk me through that.”
I wrapped up with the coffee maker and turned, crossing my arms. “She leverages ancestral debts. It’s… horrible stuff. I mean, she was one of the nicest Netherworkers I’ve met in, well… ever. But she definitely fell on the Black Bag list when it comes to the Presidium’s sense of Thou Shalt Not Be Criminally Vile.”