by Unknown
My shift at Whisky Saigon had ended an hour ago. Since then, I’d been cruising the Theater District, trying to figure out the best way to say goodbye. I’d built several ties in the city, and the last thing I wanted to do was involve anyone further. It was then that I noticed the Ford Taurus. The witch hunter was keeping an even speed, doing his best not to draw my attention.
He couldn’t have been more obvious.
I turned my attention to the street. Several club-goers teetered down the sidewalk—girls in skirts two sizes too small, men with shirts that were too tight. It was almost three in the morning, and the majority of the night-dwellers had already moved on to the next plan: drinking, fighting, or fucking.
I reached the end of the block and cut down a side street. Several blocks behind me, the Taurus mimicked the turn. I kept my eyes glued to the road. The last thing I needed was for the man inside to get suspicious. In all likelihood, he was looking for a private location to get the jump on me.
I was going to lead him right to one.
I took a quick right, sliding into a deserted alley behind the clubs. The road was narrow; my only company was a tattered loading dock and a Dumpster. I pulled forward and parked. Then I waited.
The building next to me had a camera, but I parked out of view. There were benefits to working security, and I took advantage of them all. Within moments, an engine purred behind me. I turned my attention to the rearview mirror. The Taurus was ten feet away. Although I couldn’t see much of the man inside, I could make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat.
Before the witch hunter could react, I flung open the door and hopped out of the vehicle. The night air was crisp and hot. I heard the faint thud of bass from a distant car, the swan song of a Friday night gone by. The area was deserted. Nobody would notice two cars in a back alley, and nobody would see what I was about to do to the man.
I ripped open the passenger-side door of the Taurus and hopped inside. The man’s eyes widened. He had thick, dark hair and a square chin, and his face was flecked with stubble. I wondered how long he’d been tracking me. I figured I’d find out before I killed him.
He fumbled for a pistol in his lap, but I stopped him with a glance.
“Relax,” I said.
He placed his hands on the steering wheel, obeying my mental command, and I retrieved the gun. Within seconds, I’d entered his thoughts. I could see that he’d been following me for a week, that he was planning on gunning me down that night.
I’d be the fifth warlock he’d killed.
The knowledge infuriated me, though I shouldn’t have been surprised. I concentrated on obstructing his windpipe, and he began to gag.
“How’d you find me?” I asked.
I relaxed my grip.
He didn’t answer, but kept his eyes locked on mine. After a few seconds, he spit in my face. The hot fluid dripped down my cheek, and I removed it with the back of my hand. His hands trembled on the steering wheel.
“Witch piece of shit,” he snorted.
I struggled to control myself. As much as I wanted to end his life, he might have information I could use.
I repeated my question, but the man didn’t answer. Only grinned.
I tightened my grip on his psyche. Before long I was fishing through his memories, sorting through his subconscious. The images flashed through my mind like a download—passing from him to me.
I saw a slew of angry faces, a parade of instructions. There were times and dates and locations, but all of them were meshed together, and it’d take time to untangle them. Before I could finish, I heard the clap of shoes on pavement, and I relinquished my hold.
Someone was walking up the alley.
I kept the witch hunter subdued, dividing my energy between him and the approaching figure. It was a stray club-goer—a kid in his twenties who’d wandered from somewhere out front. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. He stumbled as he walked.
Although his presence didn’t concern me, I decided to wait until he passed.
Sensing my distraction, the witch hunter struggled harder. He attempted to cry out, but I kept his mouth clenched together, his tongue in check. The club-goer ambled up the sidewalk. It looked like he was trying to whistle, but in his inebriated state, he produced nothing more than a hiss. He glanced into the car as he passed.
I avoided his eyes.
The witch hunter squirmed.
“Cut the shit,” I warned him.
Without warning, I saw the glint of a gun in my peripheral vision. I swiveled back to the window. The club-goer had pulled a pistol from his jeans. He aimed it at the window and fired, and I ducked down just as the window exploded.
Glass rained down around me, showering my lap and head. I reached out with my mind, but I was still drained from the interrogation, and it would take me a minute to recover. I raised the gun on my lap and pointed it over the windowsill, hoping to get off a shot at my attacker.
The last thing I needed was a bullet to the face.
Although I have the ability to heal quicker than most humans, I’m far from invincible. A wound like that would’ve meant the end of me. I saw a glimmer of movement near my Mustang, and I squeezed off a round. The bullet ricocheted off a nearby wall.
I scanned the alley, but the club-goer was nowhere in sight.
A fist struck me in the face. I’d been so preoccupied with the club-goer that I’d lost control over the man next to me, and he’d retaliated with a blow. Blood pooled in my mouth, and my jaw stung. Before I could react, he clamped onto the gun, doing his best to yank it free.
“Gimme that!” he shouted.
We played tug-of-war for several seconds, but I was stronger. Before he could stop me, I grabbed hold of him and head-butted him in the face. He grunted in surprise, and I took control of the weapon.
I aimed it at his forehead. At this point, I was done controlling his mind. That would take too much concentration. I needed to take care of him, and fast. I was about to squeeze the trigger when I was halted by a shout.
“Drop it!”
The club-goer had emerged from behind the car. He pointed his pistol through the broken window—daring me to move. His eyes were no longer glazed; now he looked sober and alert.
“Throw it out the window,” he commanded, motioning to the pistol.
I dropped the weapon over the windowsill. He scooped it up.
“I didn’t know there were two of you,” I admitted. “You guys are good.”
“Shut the fuck up and get out of the car. I don’t need you messing up our ride.”
I reached for the door handle. In the distance, I could hear sirens, the faint wail of help on the way. Other than the cops, the area was preternaturally quiet, as if the whole world were watching us. Even the thump-thump-thump of bass had ceased.
I stepped out of the vehicle. The club-goer—whom I’d figured out was witch hunter Number Two—aimed the pistol at my chest. In spite of his bravado, his hands were shaking. It seemed he was less experienced than his friend. Perhaps I’d be his first kill.
“Have you done this before?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Behind me, his friend pounded the steering wheel.
“Hurry up and waste him, Henry! We gotta get outta here.”
Henry continued to shake. He extended his arms, as if afraid his shot would miss. His finger caressed the trigger.
Before he could pull it, he tucked the pistol under his chin. His eyes roved wildly from left to right. I gave him the command, and he fired. Blood and bone sprayed down the front of his shirt, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed to the pavement in a mangled heap.
I released my hold. I spun to find witch hunter Number One lunging for the glove compartment. I ducked for cover just in time to avoid a gun blast. Fragments of shrapnel skimmed the pavement, but thankfully, none connected. I raced around to the back of the car, thwarting his aim and giving myself time to recover.
Af
ter a few seconds, I held out my hands and channeled a burst of fire.
Then I let it go.
The car exploded into flame. Yellow spirals licked the doors and windows; smoke filled the air. The heat was thick and oppressive, and I raced back to my Mustang as cries filled the air. I could already smell the odor of burning flesh, vindication for the five warlocks he’d killed.
The odor made me smile.
I hopped into my car and peeled out of the alleyway.
***
Boston receded in the rearview mirror.
The city was a collage of lights and colors, and I was reminded of all the time I’d spent there. For the past two years, the city had been my hunting ground, my area of respite, and now that I was leaving it, I’d grown nostalgic.
At the same time, I knew I had to move on. The duty of the coven called.
I glanced at the envelope on the seat next to me. Inside was the name and picture of the man with the gold florin, as well as the city in which he resided.
Frank Kellinger. Chicago, IL.
I stared at the photograph Levi’d given me, memorizing the face of the man I’d been tasked to kill. The warlock was classically handsome: middle-aged, with short brown hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled jawline. He was wearing a button-up shirt and jeans; he looked like a businessman in casual dress.
No matter what his disguise was, I’d find him.
In addition to the photograph, I’d received a tarot card, a supposed clue on how to defeat him.
I plucked the tarot card from the envelope and stared at it. On its face was the image of a burning tower. Several people leapt from the sides, and the sky was filled with fire and lightning. The bottom of the building was encased in ice.
The illustration meant nothing to me at the moment, but in time, I hoped everything would become clear.
The trip was a thousand miles. That gave me plenty of time to think, plenty of time to ascertain the warlock’s whereabouts.
I decided to pass the time hunting for information.
At each rest area, I scoured the Internet, searching for the man in the photograph. There were a few names that matched his, but without a picture ID, I couldn’t be certain.
I began to map out addresses. There were four in total, all in the Chicago area. The first two were located in the outskirts of the city, and neither of them stuck out. The third was in Naperville. It belonged to a man in a duplex, and it appeared he lived with his family.
When I researched the fourth address, I stopped.
The last address belonged to an apartment building. The residence was part of Marina City, a cluster of residential and commercial buildings constructed along the Chicago River. At its heart were twin cylindrical towers.
The Marina Towers.
I raced back to the driver’s seat and plucked the tarot card from the dashboard, studying the words printed underneath. “The Tower.”
If things kept going that easily, I’d have the florin in no time.
***
I reached Chicago at dusk. The city was ablaze with lights—tall buildings and cars and boats on the water. I’d done some traveling, but I’d never been to Illinois. The view was impressive. At the same time, I knew that I was on dangerous ground, and I needed to stay focused.
The Marina Towers were only minutes off the highway.
For the past few hours, I’d been researching the buildings, trying to prepare myself. Each tower contained sixty floors’ worth of apartment units as well as a built-in parking garage and an observatory on the roof. The towers were some of the tallest buildings in the world. Each of them was labeled by location—East and West. According to the information I had, Frank Kellinger lived in the West building.
The Marina Towers were impossible to miss. As I drove along North State Street, they extended like cones into the skyline, harboring pockets of apartments on all sides. The buildings were often referred to as “the corncob towers,” with each recessed kernel representing a pocket of parking or living space. Lights blazed in many of the upper windows, and there was a solid ring of illumination around the twentieth floor, which represented the communal area.
It was Saturday night, and the traffic was moderate. I drove past the towers and found parking several streets north. Then I set out on foot. The night air was warm and comfortable, and a breeze blew from the direction of the Chicago River. It was several degrees cooler than Boston. I was still wearing the same jeans I’d worked in, but I’d changed into a spare tank top.
Pedestrians walked the streets: some arm-in-arm, some with shopping bags, many coming to or from the Chicago Riverwalk. I kept my head down, doing my best to avoid being noticed.
After a few minutes, I entered the parking garage. Like everything else, the garage was built around the building’s cylindrical shape. Cars lined the outer walls of the building, and sloped pavement encircled the center. Several elevators were in the middle. There were no walls, and as I walked inside, I had a clear view of the city and the water through the ends of the garage. The Chicago River sparkled.
I approached the elevators, reciting Frank’s address in my head like a mantra.
Then I pressed the button and waited for the car.
Frank wouldn’t be expecting me. If all went well, I’d be able to get the drop on him. At the same time, I was unfamiliar with his powers, and I knew I’d need to tread carefully.
I’d start by scoping out his apartment.
A minute later, the elevator doors whisked open, and several residents trickled out. I scanned each face as they exited, but none resembled the man I was looking for. When the elevator car was empty, I stepped inside.
Frank’s apartment was on the sixtieth floor, almost at the top of the building. I jabbed the button and waited for the doors to close. My eyes flicked to the upper wall, locating the camera. I cast a cloaking spell to avoid being on film.
As the car rose, I steeled myself for what I’d find. Would the man be home? Was he out in the city somewhere? I could only speculate as to his whereabouts.
Although some warlocks lived out in the open, many chose to remain in hiding, fearing detection or discovery. I wasn’t one of them, but I could understand the sentiment. If this was Frank’s address, he must be confident in his ability to protect himself and the florin.
The thought made me wary.
I was interrupted by the ding of the elevator, and I snapped to attention. The car had slowed to a stop on the twentieth floor. I backed against the wall, bracing myself as the doors slid open.
A Hispanic man in his twenties entered the car. He was wearing a blue work jacket and pants, and his hands were spotted with dirt. He held a tool bag. He gave me a nod, then stood next to the control panel and pressed a button.
The doors slid closed.
I studied my new companion. He appeared to be a maintenance worker for the building. The name “Jose” was embroidered on his jacket. As the car began to rise, I inserted myself into his thoughts, treading carefully so as not to alert him.
He’d just come from the common area, where he’d fixed a sink, and he was headed up to fifty-five to fix another. At the moment, he was thinking about what he’d do after work. His shift ended in an hour. I decided I’d be able to use him.
I slid into his subconscious like a serpent, filling him with subtle suggestions. The doors opened on fifty-five. Rather than getting out, Jose remained in place.
I caught a glimpse of the building’s layout through his mind. Each floor contained a rounded hallway flanked by apartments. Each of the units was slightly different, but all of them contained a living space and a balcony.
The car doors shut; the motor whirred.
Jose remained complacent, unaware that he was being controlled. Unbeknownst to him, I’d replaced the directive in his head with one of my own. There was another sink that needed fixing, but it wasn’t on the fifty-fifth floor.
It was on the sixtieth, and the tenant’s name was Frank Kellinger.
&nb
sp; ***
The elevator stopped on sixty.
I tensed as the doors opened, surveying the empty hallway. There was no one in sight. I put out my mental feelers. Most of the time, I was able to detect the presence of another warlock.
Here, I detected nothing. Maybe I’d come to the wrong place, after all.
Jose walked off the elevator with his tool bag. I followed him from a distance. We headed through an arched doorway, then into a rounded corridor. The first apartment door was numbered 600. Frank’s apartment—if it was really his—would be farther around the bend. According to my research, his room was 609.
The walls were yellow; the floors were covered in high-traffic carpet. I heard the faint thoughts of several residents through the walls as we passed, but for the most part, the floor was quiet. I assumed most of the tenants were out on Saturday night, enjoying the Chicago nightlife. That would make my job easier.
We continued on, passing one identical door after another. Each contained a peephole and an intercom, and each was shut. When we reached Room 609, Jose stopped, and I instructed him to stand in the hallway. I stood fifteen feet behind him, my presence obscured by the rounded corridor.
I pried through the walls, searching for signs of life inside the apartment, but the aura was dull. If someone had been here, they were gone. Or maybe they had never been there at all. My stomach dropped. The Marina Towers had been my best lead, my most promising clue.
If this wasn’t Frank’s place, I’d need to start from scratch.
Jose raised a grease-covered hand and rapped on the door. I ducked out of sight, using the curved corridor as cover. The knock echoed off the walls. I strained my ears and my mind, but the floor remained quiet and still.
I studied the doors around me. If anyone else had heard us knocking, they didn’t appear to be disturbed.
Jose knocked again. His hand fell limply to his side, and he stood like a mannequin in a department store. I gave him a mental prompt.
“Maintenance,” he called out in a high-pitched voice.
His tone was soft and nonthreatening. He was the perfect pawn. Unfortunately, no one was home to hear him.