by J. P. Sloan
Julian finished his scotch.
“Well,” he sighed, “that was quite the spectacle.”
“Julian, please. My ribs are killing me. Head’s not much better.”
“That would explain the complete lack of judgment I just witnessed.”
I reached for my glass, but my midsection decided I needed to stay put.
Julian continued, “I’m going to talk out loud, and you’re going to indulge me.”
I nodded.
“So, here’s what I know. A well-respected Congressman stands in front of our tavern and calls out a list of deep government occultists who supposedly control everything that happens in this country, effectively ending his public career. Same Congressman dies that night of a heart attack. Then you get evasive on me, while at the same time scurrying around like some damn insect trying not to get stepped on.”
I sucked in a breath to respond to that “insect” comment, but decided it wasn’t worth the pain.
He continued, “Then Ricky enters the picture, and you latch onto this pure quest to help him. Maybe for Ches, maybe for yourself, either way it had ignited that glimmer of decency I’ve always respected in you. Then it all went to Hell. Ches is gone, and this pure quest is now replaced with your bug stepping again. And you’ve driven someone else away.”
He stood with arms out, searching for a conclusion.
I said, “If it matters, this bug stepping is all about keeping everyone safe. It’s not just another conspiracy.”
“Well, if that’s true, then you’re whittling away at your base. You can’t do this alone, Dorian. You need help.”
“These… these are dangerous people, Julian. We can’t out-think them.”
He smirked. “Well, maybe you can’t.”
“Vast shadow-government cabals don’t scare you off, huh?”
“I’ve been in the secrets trade for a long time, now. I don’t understand the magic at play here, but I know politics. And I know when a man’s been leveraged.”
I made a stronger effort to reach my glass, this time with success.
After a belt, I asked, “You think I’m being leveraged?”
“Did they offer you something?”
I nodded.
“Is it something you can’t get on your own?”
“It’s for Ricky and Ches.”
Julian paced, his eyes rolling in thought.
“You need to deal me in, Dorian. I can help. At this point, I don’t see how you have any choice.”
At that moment, I couldn’t disagree.
He reached over to shake my hand. I took advantage of the offer and pulled myself up, with a little help from Julian.
“All right, you want on the inside?” I took a cleansing breath. “Come on. I’ll show you what I have.” I added with a slight lean around Julian’s shoulder, “You too, Detective.”
Turner squinted at me from the front door which Malosi had left ajar.
“You got something tangible,” Turner grumbled.
I shrugged. “All pretext and supposition, but there’s maybe just one or two pieces missing. I feel like it’ll fall together if I can just catch a break.”
He pulled a slip of paper from his coat pocket. “Maybe I got a piece here.”
I hobbled forward, reaching for the paper.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“After you jokers ditched me yesterday, I followed up on this address we got from that old bat up by Charles Street. Turns out, it was an art studio. Kind of. For maybe two months.”
I peered at the paper. The words TREE OF LIFE STUDIO were written in Turner’s weirdly immaculate handwriting.
He continued, “It was leased week-by-week by a Brandon Carruthers.”
“Brandon Carruthers,” I repeated. “Never heard of him.”
“I’m giving his chain a tug tomorrow,” Turner said with an air of smug self-satisfaction. “I’ll catch you up when I’m done.”
Julian interjected, “What is this about, again?”
I took a slow turn, gripped my side, and moved for the steel door in the hallway.
“I’ll show you.”
he lights were still on from when I went jogging upstairs to fetch my road atlas, which was probably still smoldering in the remains of my car.
Turner stepped around my workbench, occupying more room than his frame ought to have. He scanned the workspace and all of its trappings… the reagents, the books, the octagonal workbench with a golden spiral worked into the surface… without betraying the first hint of discomfort or even interest.
He released a slow whistle, then said, “You people are freaks.”
“Don’t suppose I disagree on that particular point,” I mumbled, easing my way to the marker board. “Julian?”
He stepped up, face filled with substantially more awe. He bordered on reverence.
I pointed to the marker board with its lists of names and arrows and question marks. “We’ve had a series of attacks on colonial-era buildings lately. They’re using a kind of magic that uses chaos to create random, usually destructive effects. Only, they end up being not so random.”
Turner made a guttural huffing sound at the word “magic.”
I continued, “I’ve come to believe that these sites were specifically chosen, and that they hold special interest for the Presidium.”
Julian leaned in. “Where are these? I recognize Enoch Pratt.”
“Locations in Gettysburg, Harper’s Ferry, and this newest one in Locust Grove, Virginia.”
“You got a problem already, hot shot,” Turner chided.
“What’s my problem?”
“Well, for one, you’re kind of a prick. Two, though… your colonial times mumbo jumbo don’t wash with the Enoch Pratt. It wasn’t built until, like, the late 1800s.”
“That a fact?” I asked in genuine interest.
“Yeah. Where you from?”
“New York.”
He snickered. “Yeah. Work this city long enough, you pick up the deep history, y’know?”
“Well, that’s a good point. Everything else dated back to the founding of the nation, which was hand-in-glove with my theory that this was some kind of attack on the Presidium.”
Julian suggested, “May still be. The Library building itself isn’t as old as Washington, but it was built over a site after all. Some of the original bricks were used in its construction.”
I looked over to Turner, who nodded.
“Like the man said,” Turner declared.
“Okay, so let’s assume there was an original site at that location. Some site, like the others, that the Presidium needed intact. Now,” I said, pointing at Turner, “remember those sigils in the library?”
I snatched the photos from Ches’s desk, and he nodded.
“Sure,” Turner replied.
I said, “Turns out they aren’t any kind of ancient language. They’re a kind of parlor script devised by a short-lived cult of geomancers in France.”
Turner scowled. “The fuck’s a geomancer?”
“They use physical locations, distances and situational awareness to channel Cosmic energies for their own purposes.”
Turner snapped his fingers. “Like feng shui, right?”
I blinked. “Uh. Yeah. It’s exactly like feng shui.”
He smiled and gave Julian a satisfied nod.
“So,” I continued, “these geomancers suddenly disappeared, right about the time the French came to assist the colonies in the Revolutionary War. The one name from the cabal that made it to memory was Pierre L’Enfant.” I grabbed Deirdre’s page of incoherent scribblings that Minerva decoded for me. “The one good dowser I know was hit by one of these chaos spells. It drove her mad. I think she was targeted by these same people because she would have known what they were up to.” I held up the scribblings. “And she sent me this message.”
Julian squinted at the page, then nodded. “L’Enfant, again.”
“She knows who this guy was.”
Turner coughed. “Well, no shit.”
Julian tucked his chin with a grin.
I lifted a hand at Turner. “What now?”
“You go to school up in New York, or what?”
“Of course.”
“Bet it was one of those private schools that cost my entire year’s wages to attend.”
I squinted at him.
“Ain’t that a kick in the ass?” he snickered. “All that money and he don’t know who L’Enfant was.” He pronounced it “Lin-fint,” but that didn’t steal any of the sting from his words.
With a breath, and a reminder that I needed this info, I asked, “I’d love to learn.”
Turner’s grin melted a touch, and he looked at me with a brief, but intense, understanding. He must have realized he was jerking me around a little too hard.
With a cough, and a shift of his weight from one foot to the other, he answered, “Well, he’s the guy who built D.C., isn’t he?” He looked to Julian. “I’m thinking about the same guy, right?”
Julian nodded, and added, “He was hired by Washington himself to lay out the street plan for the federal district, when the States got around to making one.”
“So, that’s why they named a Metro station after him,” I surmised.
Turner said, “Yeah, you hear a bunch of shit about him being a Satanist or something.”
I snapped my head in Turner’s direction, instantly regretting it as my brain throbbed. “Satanist?”
“Yeah. Like, he hid the Number of the Beast in the shape of the streets. Y’know, 666?”
I stepped toward Turner, and for the first time ever, he stepped back.
“Tell me about that!”
“Hell, I don’t know. My sister’s husband’s this conspiracy nut. Reads these books about the Illuminati and shit. Says they made Washington to be the capital of the New World Order, and L’Enfant was their architect.”
Julian lifted a hand to his head. “Christ God, Dorian. Please don’t let the next words out of your mouth be ‘The Illuminati actually created D.C. to be the capital of the New World Order.’ Because if that’s what you’re about to say, I’m going to need more scotch.”
“It all follows,” I admitted, muttering to myself. “L’Enfant was disenchanted with the Nombre D’or and enlisted to move to the Americas. He must have found the hermetic practitioners already situated in power. Jefferson, Franklin, Blake, Marshall… He finally had real estate to try his grand scheme.” I looked to Turner. “I’d really love to meet your brother-in-law.”
He snarled. “No, you really don’t. He hits the sauce, like, at lunch time. Smells like piss and whiskey.”
“Stop it,” I jibed. “You’re starting to turn me on.”
He shuddered. “Freaks.”
“Seriously, though. Can you arrange a meet? I need to wax eloquent with an up-to-his-wrist conspiracy nut.”
“Sure,” he said. “After I’m done with Carruthers. Got Claye up my ass about this.”
Julian cocked his head. “Why’s she so obsessed with the library vandalism?”
“Well, for one,” he replied, “they can’t re-open the children’s wing until we fix it. And for two, I think she’s gunning for Lake, here.”
“Gunning for me?” I squawked.
“Either that, or him,” he added pointing to Julian.
Julian shook his head. “I’ve never given her the first reason to feel antagonistic against me, so I’m going to rightly assume you’re the problem.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“Remind me to send her a fruit basket or something.”
Turner shuffled on his feet. “Look, guys. I’m running on four hours sleep, here. I’m happy to play your game tomorrow, but I’m calling it a night.”
I reached out my hand.
“Hey, Detective? Thank you. Seriously.” I looked him in the eye. “You’re really helping me out here, and I’m grateful.”
He stared at my hand, then looked up to my face.
And he gripped my hand like a hydraulic press.
“I have my moments,” he said. “You still got my card?”
I pulled my hand back, examined the patch of floor near my feet, and admitted, “No.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a dog-eared card, and handed it over.
“No offense taken,” he said. “Call me in the a.m. when you’re done with whatever the fuck it is you do in the morning, and we’ll run Carruthers down, and my brother-in-law.”
I took the card. “Thanks, Detective.”
“Call me Grant.”
Turner gave Julian a quick two finger salute, keeping plenty of distance. He was helpful… he was even a human being. But he still wasn’t okay with Julian. I’d have to work around that.
When he had bounded up the stairs and left my home, Julian set his glass onto my workbench. I relocated it to Ches’s desk as he said, “I’m guessing I need a little more material to work off of than he does.”
“You probably do. But I don’t think I can manage that just tonight.” My side was killing me, and I really needed some manner of pharmaceutical to keep me from crying.
“You’re staying here tonight?” he asked.
I thought about that. Shit. With Malosi’s wards gone, I was down to an admittedly pathetic level of protection. I wouldn’t have worried so much about it before that night, but the fact of the matter was… I was screwed.
“You know,” Julian added, “I have detected a pattern here.”
“The what now?”
He pointed at the marker board. “L’Enfant. Golden Ratio. Sorry… Nombre D’or.”
“Yeah?”
His finger fell onto the first name in the last column. “And Clement. Seems you’re drawing some broad strokes here, Dorian.”
“It’s not just his heritage, Julian. He shows up out of fucking nowhere right before this all goes down. He sends Malosi here, ostensibly to ‘help’ me, but what he’s really doing is watching every move I make.”
Julian squared his shoulders against me, and for the first time in, basically forever, he yelled at me.
“Dorian Lake, you need to pull your head out of your ass!”
I stiffened.
He continued, “Sorry, but you need to hear this. You are a terrible, actually appalling judge of character. What’s more, you seem to wallow in such depths of self-loathing that you possess this instinct to drive away anyone who sees you as a human being, and accepts you. That must really terrify you, for you to treat us with such naked aggression.”
I shook my head, a sob forming in my throat. “I don’t.”
He lifted a finger. “You’re hurting yourself, and you’re hurting anyone who actually gives a damn about you and your peculiar little dramas. So, if you’re going to find your soul, whatever that means, you’re going to have to listen to Julian. Okay?”
I nodded.
He urged, “Say it. Say, ‘I’ll trust Julian.’“
A spark of amusement flickered in my chest.
I repeated, “I trust Julian.”
“Good. So, am I putting you up tonight?”
“I, uh… indelicate question, here.”
“Hmm?”
I squirmed as I searched for the best way to ask the question. “Is Cleve, like, at your place?”
His eyes lowered. Shit. Julian overreached again. He’d invited me to his home without thinking about Cleve. I imagined Julian had cultivated a bad habit of unilateral action in his own household… one which his boyfriend likely didn’t appreciate.
I quickly added, “Because that’s a super-bad idea.”
Julian sucked in a breath, and nodded.
“So, anyway, I need a place to lay low, that has established wardings. No offense, but your place isn’t exactly Fort Knox.”
“How do you know?”
I smirked. “Because your energy is fucking everywhere, Julian. Seriously. I need to teach you how to center one of these days. No, I have a place in mind.
No one’s going to bug me there.”
“Okay,” he grumbled. “I guess you’ll need a ride?”
Crap. I did. My poor car.
“Well, I mean, if you don’t mind.”
Seriously. Nicky Polo was going to rue the fucking day.
ou sure you’re allowed to be here?” Julian asked as I unlocked the Swain’s back door.
“Yeah. They gave me a key.”
“Just making sure they don’t have an alarm system or something. I’ve heard stories about Frederick police.”
I paused after turning on the light switch. “What stories?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not joking, Julian. What stories?”
“I’m sure you’re fine.”
I convinced myself Julian was fucking with me, and shuffled into the back of the antique shop. Julian lingered by the door.
“You coming in?” I asked.
“I should get back to Baltimore.”
I nodded. “Tell Cleve I said hi.”
“I absolutely will not do that,” he said with a half-grin.
As he turned, I called out, “Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He bowed his head, then stepped back out into the night.
There wasn’t much night left, but I needed rest. And painkillers. I wound my way to the wrought-iron spiral stairs leading to the Swains’ living area on the second floor, and sighed. This was going to suck.
About ten minutes later, I’d hauled my aching body up the stairs and arrived in the land of brown shag carpeting and pagan décor. The tiny living room was a patch of the aforementioned carpet with a television and a couch that sat between the kitchen and the stairs. The clock over the range in the kitchen showed it was past two in the morning. Cute clock. Lunar phases and everything. That would have been Wren’s choice.
I moved into the kitchen and reached for the cabinet I recalled they kept the drugs in. Three Ibuprofens later, I sat on the couch, feeling the Swain wardings envelope around me and settle. I was a welcome presence in this building. Maybe more so than my own, at this point. Before I settled horizontally, I fished my darquelle out of my jacket and laid it gently on the floor. I didn’t have Malosi to watch my back, anymore. I was on my own.
Once the drugs kicked in, I fell asleep fast. Maybe it was Ibuprofen. Maybe it was that weird security of feeling off-the-grid. If the Presidium wanted to locate me, they could. But this felt safe. My ribs woke me up only once, as I shifted my weight and fell back asleep.