Taste of Wrath

by Matt Wallace

  “As I said, you needn’t trouble yourself with any matters involving my predecessor. It’s being handled.”

  “All right, then.”

  The new Allensworth offers them another joyless smile. “All right, then. It’s a pleasure finally meeting both of you. I hope you’ll enjoy your impromptu time off. I promise I’ll be in touch.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you too, Mr. Allensworth,” Jett says, slipping into her best professional demeanor.

  “Charmed,” Bronko adds stiffly.

  They watch Allensworth leave, neither Bronko nor Jett moving or even so much as breathing audibly for almost a full thirty seconds after the doors close behind their new liaison.

  “How can they not know?” Jett whispers frantically. “How can they not know what happened at Gluttony Bay?”

  “Allensworth, the real one, must’ve gone rogue even bigger’n we suspected,” Bronko whispers back. “Maybe his people never even knew he was involved with Gluttony Bay. Lord knows what else those people do with their time, what else they oversee. They trusted Allensworth to handle things with the Sceadu. Or at least they did.”

  “So . . . are we . . . are we in the clear, Byron? Is it over?”

  Bronko shakes his head, no relief whatsoever revealed in his expression. In fact, his brow seemed weighted more heavily than before.

  “No,” he says. “I’m worried it’s worse, actually. Allensworth is totally off the reservation now.”

  “But he’s gone, isn’t he? I thought—”

  “I don’t believe Allensworth is dead.”

  “Which Allensworth?”

  “Jett, c’mon, girl.”

  “Right, right. But you said Lena stabbed Allensworth!”

  “She did.”

  “And you said that awful restaurant prison place blew up!”

  “It did.”

  “Then how can he be alive?”

  “You don’t plan to overthrow the whole damn world without settin’ up contingencies, Jett. Y’all didn’t know that Allensworth like I did. Trust me. He’s capable of things you can’t even think of. He’s still out there, and I doubt his plans have changed any. And if he was pissed at us before, he’s murderous now.”

  “Then shouldn’t we tell the new Allensworth? Ask for his help? We can’t face something like this alone!”

  “How can we trust him any more than the last one? Besides, if they find out about Gluttony Bay or that Vargas is still with us, who’s to say they won’t lump us in with the old Allensworth? Just to be safe?”

  “Then what are we going to do, Byron?”

  “What we were doing already,” Bronko says with a hard edge of resolve in his voice. “We’re going to get ready. And we’re going to reach out to anyone we can afford to trust. Because you’re right: we can’t do this all on our own.”

  Jett takes a deep, cleansing breath. “Very well. Who do we trust? To whom can we reach out?”

  “To my mind?” Bronko muses. “Satisfied customers are worth a shot.”

  MAKEUP CLASSES

  Ryland Phelan only has one picture of his father. It’s a Polaroid, taken in the early 1990s, its upper right-hand corner partially melted into a multicolored oil slick. His father was in his forties at the time. He looked a lot like Ryland, except sober and well kempt. In the Polaroid, the man appears to be pouring water from a drinking glass into a wineglass half-filled with cheap red. That’s all the layperson would observe, probably barely taking note of the changing medallion hanging from a thick chain around his neck.

  Growing up, Ryland hated alchemy. He watched his father eke out a meager living performing genuine miracles from which he was forbidden by some unknowable force from directly profiting. He could turn lead into gold as long as he did it for someone else, but if his father tried to spend that gold, he’d find himself holding worthless metal again. Ryland watched his dissatisfied mother run off with some Welsh warlock prick who wasn’t bound by a bullshit ethereal half-morality, half-karma net.

  Ryland learned to think of alchemy as peasant magic, only good for serving the nobility. He had to be forced to learn the trade by his old man, the way some children are made to work in their parent’s shop to learn responsibility. The real problem, he later discovered, was that Ryland is a natural alchemist. Worsening that dilemma, he wasn’t good at much else. The older he got, the more Ryland resented that alchemy was his only true talent. The more resentful he grew, the more he drank, until he couldn’t remember which one filled him with that constant sense of self-loathing.

  He pondered that very question as he lay on the filthy, cluttered floor of his antiquated recreational vehicle, clutching a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand and the Polaroid of his father in the other.

  “You were a silly sod,” he says to the man in the photograph. “You were that. Why could you not have taught yourself pyromancy or some such shite? We could have spent the money from an insurance fire.”

  A knock at his RV’s door breaks Ryland free of his drunken reveries, although it does nothing for the condition of the battered space between his temples.

  “Please desist immediately!” he yells at the door. “Have you no sense of decency?”

  Ryland stuffs the Polaroid into his pants pocket and drains the bottle of wine in a single prolonged swig. What feels like an eternity later, he manages to lumber to the door. Practically ripping it from its cheap hinges, he finds Moon awaiting him at the foot of the RV steps.

  “What’s changed about you?” Ryland asks him. “Were you Asian before?”

  “What? No.”

  “Is that somehow an offensive question?”

  “I . . . don’t know, actually. I just cleaned up a little, that’s all.”

  “Ah, yes, I see it now.”

  Moon has actually shaved his jaw and neck smooth and combed his hair. New jeans and a clean T-shirt referencing pop culture have replaced his customary uniform of ragged pop culture–referencing T-shirt and distressed jeans.

  “Have you come here strictly to flaunt your new aesthetic?” Ryland asks.

  “No, I need to talk to you.”

  “Very well. Come inside, have a drink or perhaps several dozen in rapid succession.”

  “I’ll come in, but I’m not drinking anymore.”

  “Fine, fine. We’ll have herbal refreshments, then.”

  “I’m off the weed, too.”

  Ryland squints at him, trying to scrutinize Moon through the drunken fog.

  “You’re behaving suspiciously akin to an individual preparing to espouse some sort of newfound yet somehow deeply held religious philosophy.”

  “It’s not like that, I swear.”

  Ryland makes a dissatisfied sound that might have been an attempt at actual words, and steps aside to allow Moon entry into the RV.

  “What’s on your mind, then?” Ryland asks, collapsing into the one seat in the space that isn’t hosting an array of litter.

  Moon brushes off enough counter space in the kitchenette to lean against.

  “Look, I had fun hanging out with you, drinking, smoking weed, fucking off, playing video games. But I should’ve been doing what Bronko told me to do, for my team. You were supposed to teach me this alchemy stuff.”

  “Which we both concurred was an absurd notion on its absurd little face.”

  “Yeah, well, then I should’ve told Bronko no, but I didn’t. I said I’d do something and I need to do it.”

  Ryland fishes a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a scuffed Bic lighter from his breast pocket. He pulls a stick from the packet with his teeth and lights it, taking a long drag.

  “Weren’t you fired from this establishment?” he asks in the smoky wake of exhaling.

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Oh. Well, that is a shame, that. I was going to congratulate you.”

  Moon sighs, exasperated. “Dude, listen, I want you to teach me. I mean, really teach me, for real.”

  Ryland stares up at him as if Moon has sli
pped into conversational Sanskrit.

  “Come again?”

  “Teach me to be an alchemist,” Moon repeats, slowly.

  Ryland takes another long, deep drag and fills the cramped, stinking space with acrid smoke.

  “That is a truly hideous notion,” he concludes.

  “I need to learn. I could’ve helped my team if I’d learned. I could’ve . . . I could’ve saved . . . I just need to do it for real, that’s all. Look, I’m not gonna lay some bullshit on you like you owe me or anything, ’cuz you don’t, but I really need you to do this.”

  “You’re asking me to relive boyhood trauma, my young friend. The instruction of alchemy is quite possibly my worst memory, save losing my virginity—a tale I’ll benevolently spare you.”

  “What else have you got to do, dude?”

  “That is hardly a reason, let alone reason enough.”

  “I’ll buy all your booze the whole time, the good stuff, and I’ll hook you up with my weed guy. He’s Jamaican. I’m just sayin’.”

  Ryland’s expression changes, becoming more quizzical than confused or irritated as he looks up at Moon.

  “This is a thing you really want, isn’t it?”

  “I need it,” Moon insists.

  “Huh. I wish my father were still alive. I’d introduce you. He spent his whole life wishing my mother had given birth to a willing pupil for him.”

  Ryland digs the Polaroid out of his pocket and rests it in his lap, staring down at the image of the old man.

  Moon is silent, allowing Ryland his moment of reflection.

  “Well,” he concludes, “I suppose if you’ll see me functionally impaired for the duration, I can impart a few lessons.”

  Moon’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  Ryland shrugs. “It’ll be a change of pace, at least.”

  “Great. That’s great, man. Thank you. Where do we start?”

  Ryland holds up the Polaroid of his father, squinting at it in the stray beams of light that have found a way through the dirty streaks on the RV’s windows.

  “I suppose we’ll begin with water into wine,” he says.

  SAFE HOUSE

  Halfway up the stairs of the old building in Williamsburg, Bronko freezes as a sudden and penetrating dread fills his mind and infects the rest of his body.

  “It’s all right,” Ritter assures him. “It’s a defensive enchantment, to keep people away. It’s not real.”

  Bronko digs a hand into his breast over his now-pounding heart. “It damn well feels real.”

  “It’s not. Think of something peaceful, something that makes you feel calm. It helps.”

  His breathing has become staccato. “I never . . . been inside this building before. I always . . . leave their packages on the fire escape.”

  “Think calming thoughts, boss,” Ritter bids him.

  “Right.”

  They hike the remaining steps, Ritter slowing his pace to remain close to Bronko for support. It’s slow going the rest of the way, but he makes it.

  They hear a hollow plastic thunk repeating over and over as they round the corner. A little redheaded girl, perhaps six, is standing in the middle of the hallway, bouncing one of those big rubber balls they keep in perilous caged bins at big box stores. When she spots Ritter and Bronko, the girl freezes right after tossing the ball back at the floor. When it bounces up in front of her chest, her hands don’t grab it, yet the ball never returns to the floor. It remains there, hovering perfectly still in the space between her tiny, inert hands.

  “I guess we’re on the right floor,” Bronko says quietly.

  The little redheaded girl turns and runs away, pumping her little arms and legs as fast as she can will them to move. She beats feet for a red door several yards down the hall, sliding to a stop there and pounding on its surface until the door opens just wide enough to allow her small body to slip through. It closes quickly after her.

  The rubber ball finally bounces against the floor.

  “Is that the one?” Ritter asks.

  “It’s hard to tell from the outside which window goes where,” Bronko says.

  Every light in the hallway begins flickering. In the next moment, they begin blinking off until the entire length of the hallway is cast into pitch-darkness. It doesn’t make any sense; it’s midday and there’s a window at the end of the hall. Sunlight should illuminate most of the corridor, yet not a single sunray seems to penetrate the abject darkness that’s enveloped them.

  “What was that mule shit about calming thoughts?” Bronko asks Ritter, who he can no longer see.

  “Just stay where you are and wait,” Ritter instructs him.

  “Don’t you have some magical doodad to deal with this like you always do?”

  “I didn’t bring anything like that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I didn’t come here for a fight,” Ritter says stonily.

  The lights return in a single flash. When they do, Bronko is aware the hallway has changed without immediately seizing upon why or how. A moment later, he realizes all of the doors are now gone. The walls on both sides of them are smooth and unbroken all the way down the length of the corridor.

  A tall woman with the longest hair either of them has ever seen is standing in the hallway several yards in front of Bronko and Ritter. Her mass of blond tendrils falls far past her waist, each one curling like a spring. The lines in her face speak far more of experience than age. The same is true for the weight of her gaze. She wears a simple summer dress with a pattern of bird silhouettes in flight, and leather sandals that look like something from a Roman drama.

  “How do, Cassie?” Bronko greets her, trying to think of those calming things like Ritter advised.

  “You’re not supposed to come here like this, Chef Luck,” she says in a deep, mellifluous voice. “While we greatly appreciate your aid, if there is a problem with our deliveries, you were given a number to call. Showing up like this endangers all of us.”

  “I understand, and I do apologize, but what I have to say has to be said in person. Plus, I have an introduction to make. Ritter, this is Cassandra. She runs the place, if you couldn’t tell.”

  Cassandra looks at Ritter for the first time, seeming to gaze above him more than at him. “Your aura is . . .”

  As her voice trails off, Cassandra’s eyes widen and fill with storm clouds. “I know what you are,” she says.

  “Pardon, ma’am?” Bronko asks.

  “You’re a hunter!” she shouts accusingly. “Don’t deny it!”

  “I was,” Ritter admits, calmly.

  Cassandra’s gaze darts to Bronko, his perceived betrayal written clearly in her eyes.

  “Why would you bring him here?” she demands.

  “He’s the man floating the bill, Cassie,” Bronko informs her. “Ritter set all of this up for you, all of you. He had me be the face to avoid exactly this here exchange we’re having now, but he’s the one put up the scratch to start this safe house, and he’s been carrying you and yours every day since.”

  “He hunted us!” she practically shrieks at them both. “I can see it! He wears the blood like a halo! How many did you kill? How many did you burn? How many were scarcely children?”

  “Twenty-three,” Ritter answers, voice barely a whisper. “Most of them looked like children to me.”

  His earnestness and obvious remorse catch Cassandra off guard, but her rage is barely dissipated by either.

  “He was a hunter, Cass,” Bronko confirms once more. “He was. When he figured out he was on the wrong side, he left. He’s been making contrition ever since, and I don’t figure he’ll ever stop.”

  “It’s not enough,” she insists. “He can’t buy redemption with a few sandwiches and some blankets, not for what he’s done, what his kind have done.”

  “No one’s here askin’ for redemption, or even forgiveness. You can be as hateful as you want, you have the right, but I don’t see as you’ll stop being practical. How many
of y’all are there livin’ here now? You gonna put ’em on the street because you don’t like where your rent money comes from?”

  “No,” Cassandra relents without hesitation. “No, I won’t do that. He can assuage his guilt all he wants if it means I’m able to keep my girls safe. But he is not welcome here. Not ever. If you didn’t come for forgiveness, what did you come for?”

  “We need your help,” Bronko says. “And maybe it’s an awful thing to ask after what y’all have been through, but if we don’t survive, then this place don’t survive, and that’s what’s on the line: survival, all of our survival. There’s somethin’ coming for us, and we need help, the kinda help only folks with powers like yours can give.”

  “Asking me, or any woman here, to help protect this man is too much, Chef. It’s too much to ask at any price.”

  “What’s coming for us,” Bronko continues, “they’re the same folks he used to work for, the ones who hunted you and yours. If we can stop ’em, we can maybe change things for all of you, help take y’all out of the line of fire once and for all.”

  Cassandra hesitates, considering the truth in his words. Her chin tilts up slightly as she regards Bronko.

  Watching her, he knows she’s trying to see the possible future he’s just described. He can see that she wants to believe it.

  In the end, however, that vision crumbles for her and she lowers her chin with a sigh.

  “It’s not enough,” she says. “Not to help him, and not to risk our lives. We defend ourselves when attacked, but I won’t ask my girls to go looking for a fight. I won’t. If that means leaving this place and finding another, so be it.”

  Ritter steps forward. “I’ll offer more,” he practically begs her. “I’ll offer whatever it takes to make things right and to convince you to help us. We need each other, whether you want it to be that way or not. I swear to you.”

  Cassandra looks at him for the second time, and for the first time, she appears to really see him and not the aura he carries with him.

  “It’s a price you couldn’t possibly pay,” she assures him darkly.

  Ritter looks from the witch to Bronko. When he returns his gaze to Cassandra, the darkness in his eyes matches hers.