The Darkness of Ivy

by Jessica King

  “I know how it might look,” Reaghan said. “But for me, it’s better to just watch her fizzle out. She’s not talented enough to keep beating me out of jobs for long, and the witchcraft stuff will cause some online rumors, but those don’t last longer than a month. Aline will do interviews with magazines about how she does magic, and it’ll be over. If she fizzles into oblivion in the next few years, I go untouched. But if she dies now? At her peak? I’ll always be compared to her at this moment. And a dead Aline this week will trump an alive version of me for the next ten years of my career.” She was a bit red now as if admitting to Aline being superior in any way was nearly painful for her to get out, but it was a solid answer. If she really did believe that Aline’s popularity was simply a phase and not a career, it would be more beneficial to let her fade.

  When Ivy said this to Vince in the car, he nodded. “Unless—”

  “Unless she actually thinks Aline is talented,” Ivy said.

  Ivy hadn’t been able to help it. She’d showed up at another meeting of The Protection of the Female Goddess. Cassiopeia had smiled from across the room, though she was welcoming a young girl who was in tears and couldn’t break away.

  “Have you been here before?” a skinny young man in his early twenties asked Ivy.

  “Oh, um, once before,” she said, watching as the L.A. coven greeted one another and settled into the rugs. The entire place still had a freshly vacuumed smell, though the scents of herbs exchanging hands quickly overpowered any other scent.

  He nodded. “I don’t know if I believe all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the room with one hand. “You look like maybe you don’t believe in all of it, either.”

  Ivy wasn’t quite sure what to tell him. “I mostly just believe in myself,” she said, figuring that was safe. “And then I take outside forces into…consideration,” she said. This was apparently the right thing to say because he smiled and held out his hand.

  “Caleb,” he said.

  “Ivy.” She gripped his hand and shook once.

  Caleb moved to stand against the section of the wall beside Ivy, giving her another person to slide down the wall with when Cassiopeia called for the attention of the group.

  Caleb didn’t want to perform spells, though he took notes on his phone when Cassiopeia reviewed the proper way to use stones for peace, physical healing and illness protection, and weight loss.

  Spinach was the key to weight loss; Ivy had decided long ago. But she wasn’t sure if it was worth the end result. She thought it best not to share this with the group, many of whom looked excited about the Jade and Kyanite they would be using.

  Cassiopeia introduced some sort of guest speaker, and everyone in the room clapped and stamped their feet—a witchy welcome, apparently. It reminded Ivy of her college extra-curriculars when they’d gotten a “real adult” to come speak about law enforcement or how they published a book or how they could best use their fundraising efforts to support impoverished neighborhoods in Honduras.

  This speaker explained a series of complicated hand movements mean to call big-pictures ideals like prosperity, health, or love into play in a situation, an abstract concept to Ivy. But she played along, her fingers moving by her sides. It was fun, really, the complicated motions connecting together like puzzle pieces.

  “Ivy returns!” Cassiopeia said after she’d thanked the speaker and everyone for coming. She hopped across her many rugs and over still-smoking candles and clusters of witches gossiping in circles. Caleb had gotten himself into a conversation with another young man who had come to the meeting. He was demonstrating some sort of spell, and Ivy wondered how many men were in the covens across the country. If there were any male “witching lines” that had escaped the notice of the Kingsmen.

  “I did,” Ivy said, and Cassiopeia gave her an understanding look.

  “But you don’t know why you did,” she said, her lips, covered in dark purple gloss today, turned up.

  Ivy blinked in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  Cassiopeia looked down at her feet, which were covered in cartoon avocados cuddling—avocuddling, as it were. “I have a gift for feeling the energy around people,” she said. “Not to brag, but most people would call me quite intuitive.” She tapped the tip of her forefinger against her forehead.

  “Then, maybe you might be able to tell me why I’m here?” Ivy said, trying to laugh, though her breath came out as a sort of hopeless noise. “Because I have no clue, to be honest.”

  Cassiopeia’s face softened, and she played with a pendant around her neck. Ivy recognized the sigil, finally placing the design on Atlas Hale’s bracelet from the night she’d found out about witches in the first place. She didn’t ask, though she believed her assumption was correct, that the sigil was some sort of seal for the L.A. coven.

  “If you would really like to know my opinion,” Cassiopeia said, “I think you’re here because of a few different things?” she said it more as a question than a statement, so Ivy nodded, wanting her particular analysis. “I think part of this is because of your mother, right?”

  “I found her journals,” Ivy said. “You were right about her founding all this,” Ivy said, motioning to the collection of people on the floor.

  “And, you know, most people when they first start coming to meetings are like you, I think,” Cassiopeia said. “They find us to be a curiosity. I know it’s strange to watch!” She threw her hands up. “The first time I came here, I ran to confessional, which I hadn’t done in years because I thought that this was something bad or wrong to do.”

  “And that changed?” she asked. Ivy thought of her mother’s writing. Her confusion about being both Catholic and Wiccan. Her wonderings of whether it was possible to be both.

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with trying to open up the spiritual side of yourself. To empower yourself, change yourself into a person who feels in control of their destiny, no, I don’t.” She smiled. “I think that’s one of the lures of it all, actually. One of the reasons people come back. It’s a calming, lovely thing to watch people feeling in control of their destiny. The rituals are relaxing to watch. Our world is too fast. Witchcraft asks you to slow down, to be mindful. I told you before that I thought witchcraft mirrored a lot of old-world religions, right?” Cassiopeia asked. When Ivy nodded, she said, “Well, I also think the Wiccan lifestyle mirrors the types of things a lot of people are after. I’ve seen witchcraft help people achieve their New Year’s Resolutions, even.”

  “What’s types of resolutions?” Ivy asked.

  “Self-care, mostly. Stress relief, things like that,” Cassiopeia’s response seemed so simple. “People are concerned about taking care of themselves, empowering themselves—and that’s all a good thing. A very witch-like trait mind you. But here, people get to do it together under a common title. It adds the last piece to self-empowerment that self-care hasn’t taken into account.” She looked at the witches who were still in their circles long after their rituals had ended, talking and laughing with one another. “Community,” Cassiopeia said. “People separate themselves to destress, but I think sometimes they just need to laugh with other people who like the same things they do,” she said, nodding to a group of witches joking with one another while trying to recreate the hand motions they had just learned.

  Ivy wasn’t sure how much she bought into the advertisement being played live in front of her, but she figured there was some essence of truth to it, some piece of it that she understood.

  “Or,” Cassiopeia said, “you might be here because I enchanted this for you, and you somehow knew to come to get it,” she said, pulling a chain from her pocket. Fastened at the end was a stone that changed color in the light from green to blue to black. “I know it might not be your thing, but I hope you’ll wear it. It’s Labradorite. Psychic intuition—or simply focused attention for people who don’t like magic,” she said, handing the necklace to Ivy. “It also enhances calm and protection.” She swallowed.
“Not everyone in here knows that you’re the one on the case. But I can’t tell you how much it means to them that someone is taking this story seriously enough to try to track down the killer. They’ve seen it in the news. That you’re after him.”

  Ivy took the necklace and nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate this.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sunday, February 26, 2017, 11:12 a.m.

  “Maybe she won’t be in danger because we might never make it there,” Vince said, hitting his head repeatedly on his headrest. “I told you we should have taken the helicopter.” They were stuck in the unmoving traffic. L.A. lunch hour was colorful—bright cars and palm tree-lined streets and blue skies and cutely painted restaurants and cafes offering weight loss in an acai bowl.

  “And what did I say about that?” Ivy asked, recognizing that Vince had hit his infantile mood much earlier in the morning than she had anticipated. He’d already asked her to use the siren to see if the crowd would move.

  Vince closed his eyes. “You said it was ‘overkill,’” he said, raising his hands to use air quotes. He made a growling noise.

  “Mmhmm.” Ivy was not sympathetic at all to his case, as she was also stuck in the car—and she was driving. She made sure to put as much fake sympathy into her voice. “Poor thing.”

  “Wouldn’t be overkill,” he said. “We have not moved. In fifteen minutes.”

  “We just have to get a quick look at the security for tonight,” Ivy said. “And we’re almost there.”

  “Almost there means two hours.” He pointed to a blockade closing the left lane, a certain bottleneck that was sure to slow them down even more than they’d anticipated.

  “One, at most,” Ivy said, turning on the radio. The car rolled forward three glorious inches.

  Vince, eyes still closed, began to sing off-key, but at least he was sated. If she hadn’t been driving, she would have recorded the disaster of Vince’s trying to sing in falsetto.

  “And does the child need a snack?” Ivy asked, and Vince grunted in affirmation. Ivy handed him a bag of granola, and he groaned.

  “I’m not a bird,” he said, breaking open the freshness seal.

  “Then give it back,” Ivy said, holding out her hand. She turned on the turn signal to merge lanes and was immediately allowed in. One of her favorite perks of the police car. She was answered by crunching noises.

  “Is there chocolate in this?”

  “No, I think it’s just like almond yogurt or something,” she said.

  “Why are you trying to hurt me?”

  It was only fifty minutes, and by then, Vince had managed to pull his professional side back out. “We’ve got a lot FBI here,” Chief Marks said as he walked them through the security lineup for the event. “Undercover, special agents, half our guys, bomb dogs, snipers. Each person and car will be fully checked.” He removed the hook of a velvet rope barrier and let them through into the auditorium. “Even your car, Vince, so no bombs all right?” Vince flashed him a smile, and the chief chuckled.

  The hum of vacuum cleaners filled the auditorium as they moved around, and the chief pointed out where each security officer would be standing, as well as the ushers and staff. The space was absolutely enormous, far larger than Ivy had imagined. The sheer size of the space meant more people, more distractions. But it also meant that, if anyone did try to get a shot off, they’d have to be pretty precise to achieve a kill.

  “A sniper up there.” He pointed to where a series of lighting equipment sat, and Ivy could see the setup for a sniper blending well with the different poles and pipes. “And the little cameras in there,” he said, pointing to the crystalline decorations toward the edge of the stage. A man turned around from where he was working on the lighting design of the stage—an animated skyline of Hollywood out of strings of lights—Ivy searched his eyes. Seeing her badge, he turned back around.

  “Blue, pink, then white!” a tall, skinny man bellowed. In his blue velvet jacket, he already seemed ready for the show to begin despite the fact that it wasn’t for nearly another twelve hours. The lights blinked in succession, casting the stage crew into relief across the stage floor. “Good!” He clapped his hands twice. “More crystals!”

  Chief Marks moved to the front two rows, the seats covered in red velvet. A man vacuuming beneath the chairs nearby seemed confused about whether to leave or stay. He left.

  “Since we’ve got someone with a very clear threat, we’ve pulled some strings to get you two, Aline, and Oliver here. The rest of the Truly Twenties crew will be in the fifth and sixth rows.”

  A woman vacuuming in said rows looked up, alarmed.

  “We’re freaking out the people who work here,” Vince said, leaning too far over the orchestra pit. It was unfortunately empty of instruments, but a member of the cleaning crew was beatboxing to music flowing from his headphones, to which Vince started to bop his head.

  “I’m afraid that it’s not our fault,” the chief said. “They all seem incredibly antsy.” Vince pointed to the orchestra pit as if to emphasize the exception he’d found.

  “I would be too if I were—” Ivy picked up one of the place cards in the front row “—Meryl Streep!” Vince pulled out his phone and took a picture, and Ivy shook her head. Vince shrugged, and Chief Marks moved on.

  A series of dogs walked through, sniffing the space. “They’re going to be making hourly sweeps and then taking a whiff of each guest,” Chief Marks said as one inquisitive German Shepherd sniffed around his pockets.

  “I would trade you for one of those,” Ivy said, grinning at her partner.

  “Me too,” Vince said, laughing. “Can we get one? We could be the first crime-fighting partners who co-own a dog.”

  “He’d find your drugs,” Ivy whispered conspiratorially.

  “Heard that,” Chief Marks said, moving to the back of the theatre. “We’ve got exits here and stairs to the second floor.” He walked them out to the side stairwell, and they walked up. “From here, you’ll take the main stairs up to that top level. Hopefully, you won’t have to run upstairs in them heels, but you know,” he said, and Ivy tried not to smile at the slip of Southern drawl that broke through his voice.

  “I’ll lasso ‘em if we get a bad ‘un,” Vince said, trying out his best Southern accent. He pretended to throw a lasso, pulling in an imaginary pig or sheep or whatever one he’d roped.

  Ivy had never seen a lasso in action, but she was fairly certain Vince was not doing it correctly.

  Chief Marks turned to him, giving him a flat look, though it had no venom. “You ain’t mature ‘nough to own no dog,” he said, before pretend-punching Vince in the stomach.

  Vince nearly fell onto the floor, taking the pretend blow.

  “And the Oscar goes to!” Ivy announced to the empty lobby area of the second floor.

  Chief Marks walked them back outside and pointed out the armored vehicles along Hollywood Boulevard, an unnecessary step, as they stuck out like sore thumbs amid the dainty greenery. The roads were blocked on either end, the crowds milling about behind a series of chain-link fences, talking or waiting or vlogging.

  “I know you two grew up around here,” the chief said, “but I still think it’s weird to see people dressed up as superheroes just walking around.” He nodded toward a Spiderman that seemed to be considering climbing the chain-link fence but then thought better of it. “So, there’ll be these security checkpoints,” he said, pointing to sections of the road blocked so that any car coming through had to weave through cement roadblocks.

  They talked to several of the security team members, often finding themselves next to near life-size replicas of the golden Oscar awards, which Ivy found to be strange.

  “Ah! Agent Shea!” Chief Marks motioned toward a tall man with golden-blond hair headed toward them. “I assume you received the briefing I sent you?” The two men shook hands, and he turned to each of them in turn.

  “Detective Hart, Detective Benton, nice to meet
you,” he said. He turned his gaze to Chief Marks. “I did, and I did a thorough sweep of the building from the house manager earlier this morning.”

  “We weren’t sure if Agent Shea was going to be able to join us,” Chief Marks said, “but given the scope of this case, the FBI has been kind enough to spare him for the Oscars tomorrow. He’ll be an extra pair of eyes and ears for you during the awards.”

  “You’ll be sitting with Miss Rousseau, and I’ll be along the walls, watching for anything suspicious at your back, since you’ll be in the front rows, right?” Agent Shea said.

  Ivy could see several people peeking at them now, intrigued enough by his FBI jacket to shamelessly take pictures with their phones.

  “Yes,” Ivy said. “Thank you, we appreciate it.”

  “Of course. The speed this killer’s going is pretty alarming, so I—and any FBI resources I can offer—am at your disposal, should you need it.”

  “Agent Shea mostly specializes in profiling, body language, that sort of thing,” Chief Marks said.

  “Which is why I’m hoping my particular area of expertise will be helpful, should anything happen tomorrow,” Shea said, right as the screen of his phone lit. “I’m afraid I have to run, but I will be meeting you later tonight while Miss Rousseau is at one of the pre-ceremony parties, correct?”

  “Sounds good,” Vince said, and the agent gave them a quick smile before answering the phone and walking away.

  “Chief,” Ivy said, locking eyes with Vince. “We have reason to believe that the killer has some sort of access to nation-wide facial recognition technology.”

  “The type that someone like Shea would have easy access to,” Vince said, not missing a beat of her train of thought.

  With the agent gone, Chief Marks’ pep had quickly drained. “Agent Shea volunteered to come here, along with several other special agents. And what you two are saying has some pretty far-reaching claims behind it.” He shook his head. “Do you think he’s a danger to Miss Rousseau tomorrow?”