by Jessica King
“No,” Ivy said again. “We let Ivan run the site.”
“And pose as Jeremiah?”
“Exactly,” Ivy said. She bounced on the balls of her feet, the excitement of her own hunt coursing through her.
“I can hear myself getting volunteered for something,” Ivan called from the next room. “And I’m not sure it’s going to be a good thing!”
Ivy smiled.
“But there are no killers right now. We’re about to expire as recruits and Corbyn’s caught.”
Vince’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling when he was thinking, and now they considered the constellations of the dotted ceiling panels closely. “I guess the site will recruit for us?” Vince said. “We have Jeremiah’s phone, so we just…wait?”
“And we go see Lee Patterson,” Ivy said, pointing to his name scrawled on the wall. “He’s only one of two people on the planet who’s seen the King’s face and known who he was talking to.”
“He might even know who the law enforcement contact is,” Vince said.
Her phone pinged with a message. A picture of Jennings and the late Andrea Jones had been sent by an anonymous number. Ivy felt her heart drop to her stomach as the second message came in.
“A rose by any other name would NOT smell as sweet.”
Ivy swallowed. “We need to get to Jennings.” She showed the phone to Vince. “Her name changed back to a WIP after the Oscars.” Grinding her teeth, she said, “Whoever this is, knows that Jennings wasn’t the ‘rose’ killed, and he’s not settling for any other rose.”
“Shakespeare?” he asked, and Ivy looked back at the books she’d left on Jeremiah’s bedspread.
“Wasn’t the text message to Jennings on the day of Andrea’s death signed The Poet?” asked Ivy, though she already knew the answer.
“But we have Jeremiah locked up.”
“So, he’s not The Poet, and there are no other killers. Someone had to update the site and send you that,” Vince said, pointing to her phone.
“The King, then?” Ivy asked, her eyes flashing to the board again, where Jeremiah had written that he believed the King had been in his role of leader of the Kingsmen for nearly forty years. Someone with plenty of time and experience to have killed her mother. “He’s the only one left.”
“How does the King have your phone number?” Vince said, his eyes wide.
Ivan walked into the room; his brow furrowed. “All the data and files are corrupted. He must have destroyed it all. Knew we were coming.”
Ivy barely registered the news as she looked up from her phone, staring at her partner before returning to the site. Her hands shook as she navigated to the page listing the reincarnations of Mary Caste. A picture of her was separated from her mother’s only by a picture of Atlas Hale.
Her father had told her so many times that she was the spitting image of her mother.
“Your face was in an awfully large spotlight next to Aline’s at the Academy Awards,” Vince said quietly.
Ivy scrolled down the list of reincarnations until she reached the bottom.
Ivy Hart: WIP.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, February 26, 2017, 12:03 p.m.
In an unfortunate turn of events, we have no active Kingsmen, and the two most recent Works in Progress, Aline Rousseau and Jennings Ford, have managed to escape their imminent deaths with the help of the recently identified reincarnation of Mary Caste, Ivy Hart (see video). While one can only account for these failures on our part to be witchcraft on theirs, the collection of us who believe in defeating the darkness these witches spew into our world remains hopeful.
To be clear, the recently arrested Oliver Corbyn, one of the previous two active Kingsmen, failed to kill his target, despite crafting a plan to ensure her death was made known to a large part of the world. And though he was not successful and the news spreads like an enchanted flame that Aline Rousseau has managed to pull through her surgery, our name has also spread in a fire of truth. I expect that we will shortly receive several new active Kingsmen as a result. He managed to eliminate Atlas Hale and enters into temporary captivity by the state with honor.
The other recently active Kingsman, a new recruit, failed their initial test of killing Amrita Patel, the sixth reincarnation of witch Rhea Ahuja, leaving us with no active Kingsmen.
The recent Kingsman referred to in the last post on this site, the coward who decided he could no longer continue as an active Kingsman, did manage to eliminate Amber Woodward and Erin Preston. He was believed to have eliminated Jennings Ford until this was revealed to be a lie. Unlike successful Kingsmen before him, he retires from active status without honors because of this failure and his admission to leaving active status because of fear of capture. For these reasons, he is now considered a WIP himself. His name is Edward “Eddie” Thorne.
Because of this unfortunate turn of events, one of our retired Kingsmen (Barbra Harris/Amelia Partridge, 1974 | Nancy Caughman/Sarah Pepper, 1963 | Marina Mitchell/Martha Eaton, 1984 | Bethany Hart/Mary Caste, 1992) will be coming out of retirement in order to fill the void of active Kingsmen until more souls worthy of recruitment are found.
There are nearly one hundred lines of witches in our nation, and while our recent focus has led us to California, Kingsmen are needed all over the country to return our land to its former glory, a time before witches influenced our culture, our economy, our lives, and our relationships. For those of you waiting to be selected, keep waiting. To those of you who will soon receive the call, we implore you to join us.
—J
Below the article was a video with the option to share on a variety of social media sites. Ivy clicked play and turned up the volume of her office computer so the crowd who gathered—Ivan, Joyce, Kenshin, and Vince—could hear. A distorted voice started talking over footage from the Dolby Theatre the night of the Oscars.
“It was in the cards for Aline Rousseau, the sixth known reincarnation of Sarah Pepper, to die the night of the Oscars as she accepted an award that she might have won through her performance of witchcraft on both the Academy and through the screen when her image was shown all over the country for six weeks in movie theaters that saw enormous turnout—much higher than originally anticipated.”
A graph showed data from some movie-rating website. “This is because of Aline’s performance, which some called enchanting. Bewitching.”
The words flew across the screen in a bad graphic.
“Good to know the King has Word Art,” Vince said, but Ivy couldn’t smile.
“But when Kingsman, Oliver Corbyn fired the shot that should have caused her to bleed out, the bullet was reported to have buried itself much more shallowly than it should have.”
The video sped through Aline’s getting shot and falling onto the stage. It then zoomed in on Ivy, who was up and out of her chair before the sound of the shot had finished, holding out an arm.
“Here we see Miss Hart, the seventh known reincarnation of Mary Caste, holding out a hand in the direction of the bullet, likely slowing it down. And the speed of her turn, as opposed to the slow initial shock of those around her for comparison, shows that she was expecting some sort of attack.”
The video moved through time viciously fast, moving from one security camera to the next to follow Ivy as she sprinted to the back of the theatre. “Here, we see Miss Hart finding the sound device planted by Corbyn to distract from his actual location. She picks up the electronic that played the gunshot sound as a decoy and knows the owner simply by touch.”
The video zoomed in more. “You can also see a Wiccan charm on the necklace chain here, popular among the elusive L.A. coven.” Ivy felt for the stone, which was hidden beneath the collar of her shirt.
The video sped again as Ivy spoke into her microphone, ran out of the theatre, and returned. “Here, we see Miss Hart returning to Miss Rousseau. While this might be a regular conversation we are witnessing between Miss Hart, Miss Rousseau, the previously presumed dead Miss Ford, a
nd another woman, who was not on the orchestra level floor during the show, it would be a disservice to completely rule out the fact that they might have been performing some sort of life-saving spell on Miss Rousseau before she was taken to the hospital via helicopter.”
The screen went dark, but the voice continued, “The Kingsmen know the truth. These actions that look so simple are truly filled with dark magic, if one takes the time to look.”
The image of the Kingsmen thumbprint faded in, then back out. When the video ended, a series of “suggested” videos filled the screen. Videos about government conspiracies, modern-day witchcraft, and a woman claiming to be some sort of magical prophetess.
Ivy didn’t say a word as Ivan pulled the keyboard close to himself and started typing.
“Been shared over six million times. The click-through rate is high.”
She stared at her desktop, and the highlighters turned to blurry patches of color in her periphery.
“Mixed reactions, though,” Ivan said, scrolling through comments and reactions. “A lot of people saying this is ridiculous, so that’s good.” He lowered his voice. “A few people seem to be buying into it and telling people to check the site for ‘facts.’” He put air quotes around the last word, and Ivy shook her head.
Her phone rang, and she groaned. The caller ID showed a picture of Sandra Dee in her famous skintight black pants and an off-the-shoulder top. “Hello?”
“Sweetie, it’s Sandra.” Her voice was even sweeter than normal.
Ivy felt a pit in her stomach. She knew.
“How’s Dad?” Ivy said, trying to lift her voice at the right times.
There was a long pause. “He’s okay. We’re seeing some stories about you on the internet. People are saying some…not so nice things about you. Um—” Her stepmother’s voice broke. “People are saying that they want to kill you.”
Ivy tried to swallow. Her eyes were stinging, and she took a sip of her soda, trying to clear her closing throat. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’m pretty tough.” The words were out of her mouth before they registered. What was she saying about her mother? Or Andrea, who knew what was coming? She bit down hard on her tongue.
“He’s worried, Ivy,” Sandra said, her voice quieting. “We both are.”
“I know, but I’m not,” Ivy lied. “So, I don’t want you two to worry, okay?” There was a cracking sound, like a tissue had just passed over the phone on the other end. “I’m at work right now, so I need to go, okay?” she said.
“Mmhmm.”
“I’ll call you soon,” Ivy said before hanging up. She leaned forward in her chair until she was folded in half, her hair falling down around her knees and legs, her arms draping until her fingers skimmed the floor, scuffed and busted from the wheels of her chair.
“Ivy.”
She looked at Vince, and he tried and failed to give her a reassuring smile. “I don’t think our case is over.”
She saw the familiar off white and dark red of the Kingsmen website. It was pulled up to the statistics page, and her eyes skimmed to the “Active Kingsmen” listing.
Active Kingsmen: 247
Ivy bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“That’s just people who clicked yes. Just like we did. And almost all of those people aren’t even going to attempt completing their kill in those four days. Just like we didn’t,” Vince said, his voice rising in an attempt to calm her panic.
“Ivan, take the site down,” Ivy said.
“It’s going to take a while to—”
“I know,” she said, trying to decide whether she was shaking from anger or from fear. “Just take it down.” As she walked back to Chief Marks’ office space, she felt exactly 247 targets on her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Monday, February 26, 2017, 3:27 p.m.
Cassiopeia was running out of room in the house. It was a common witch practice to hide spells or ingredients or runes beneath rugs or behind picture frames of the home. It was the only way to safely conceal those types of things in plain sight.
Witches of the past had decided on the practice because the Kingsmen had started to look for physical objects like books or, later, files on computers. But hiding things in the easiest-to-reach places had both a certain charm and an uncanny functionality for witches.
She drew another rune of protection next to the man’s name. Jeremiah Ethan. He’d been arrested for playing a part in the attempted murder of Aline Rousseau. And he had, sort of. But all the same, he’d prevented the Kingsmen from tracking her down much sooner.
“Jeremiah Ethan must be playing his part well,” Cassiopeia told her right-hand woman, Aleah.
“Do you think they’ll find him guilty?” she asked.
Cassiopeia looked up from where she was sitting on the ground, sewing another tiny rug she’d found on sale to the previous one. The rugs were reaching into the kitchen now, she didn’t know how much more room she’d have on the ground before they had to start putting up large picture frames and mirrors to hide their runes and spells behind. “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s certainly playing his part well.”
“Did he find anything out about the King?” Aleah asked.
Cassiopeia dropped her eyes back to the rug, a green thing covered in flowers. “No,” she said. “And now that he’s not suppressing the algorithm…” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” she said. “He’d kept the number of active Kingsmen down to two for so long, and after the publicity, they’re going to get after the Oscars debacle—”
“The King will know he’s been messing with the algorithm he created to find new Kingsmen,” Aleah said, her brows knitting together.
“No,” Cassiopeia said, shaking her head. “If the King is taking over the site himself, he’ll think the sudden surge is due entirely to the social media spread of his video. It’s probably the only good coincidence in this horrible situation.” She tried to laugh but couldn’t. “How many?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.
“276,” Aleah said.
Cassiopeia felt bile rise in her throat. “We’re not equipped for that,” she said simply.
“I found a phone in his home before the police arrived,” Aleah said, pulling a simple flip phone from her back pocket and handing it to Cassiopeia. “He used it to correspond with the King. We could try to use it.”
Cassiopeia read through the short text messages relaying information about new Kingsmen, Kingsmen refusing to continue on, and the research showing that the man who refused to kill again was named Edward Thorne. The responses from the King were short, generic responses. The detachment that kept the King safe had ensured that Jeremiah was left with lots of freedom and the ability to work unsupervised on the website, to review who received the popups asking them to join ranks with a movement that claimed to be banishing darkness from the world.
Edward Thorne had been a mistake, he’d told her. He’d dived into the man’s other searches and figured that he couldn’t do it. He’d be recruited, would fail to kill in four days, and the King would at least be happy that the website had recruited a possible Kingsman. And the process would repeat itself over and over again as long as possible.
“Should we tell the detective?” Aleah asked.
It was the question Cassiopeia had been asking herself since she’d found that Jeremiah had been arrested. Did they trust the detective with the information that was likely to lead to Jeremiah’s death one day? In Cassiopeia’s opinion, the more people they told the secret, the faster that death came for Jeremiah, the faster someone was likely to let the information slip to the wrong secret-keeper.
“I don’t know that, either,” Cassiopeia said. “Did anyone see you at his house?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Aleah said. “Pretty quiet neighborhood.”
Cassiopeia wouldn’t have known. She’d never actually met Jeremiah in person. They’d always thought it’d be too risky. If the King
ever found out, he’d kill Jeremiah immediately and replace him with a techie who truly wanted the witches dead, which was a possibility they now faced. Without Jeremiah as the gatekeeper to the Kingsmen website and its recruiting algorithm, they faced a possibly speedy annihilation.
When he reached out to Cassiopeia, he’d told her that he wanted to help them, that he knew most of the women on the lists weren’t witches and those who were simply dabbled in playing with rocks and spices. She hadn’t warmed to him immediately, considering his opinion of her world, but he’d presented a unique opportunity that allowed him to take a quiet, long-lasting revenge and allowed her to protect her coven and the greater community of the Protection of the Female Goddess.
He had a great story. He’d recorded himself talking about how much he hated witches, and why he hated them. She nearly hadn’t responded to the email, worried it was a trap, that he was hoping to get close enough to her that she’d give up the position of several of her witches so he could go slit their throats himself. But he’d sent a follow-up video.
He told her that he had the type of personality that would buy into something like the Kingsmen, and that’s part of why it would be so easy for him to fool this new client that had asked him to create a website that could find killers. He said that a part of him hated people who considered themselves witches and that a part of him hated the women on the lists, no matter any explanation his mind gave him. She’d never forget what he said after that:
“However, Miss Granger, my mother was Nancy Caughman, the supposed fourth reincarnation of Sarah Pepper, a woman who hated witchcraft of any kind.” He laughed into the camera. “I didn’t even read Harry Potter until my late twenties because I’d never been allowed growing up, and I feared it all the way through my college years. And despite all that, she was still killed because her name was on some list of women who looked alike.” The wall behind him had a series of names written on it in marker, the lists of the witching lines.