The Poison of Ivy

by Jessica King

  “Soup is ready! Hurry!”

  +++

  Wednesday, March 8, 2017, 8:30 p.m.

  Becca was nice but weird. She wanted to see an animated film, even though she informed him that she’d already seen it twice in theaters.

  “I want to see it with you,” she’d said. “I want to see if you like it.”

  The film had not been bad, but it’d been juvenile, even though Becca cried and laughed and gasped at all the right times. Varsity wondered if those were genuine reactions, or if she was faking any of them for him. She had seen the movie twice already. But he supposed maybe she was putting on an act to get him to engage with the film, seeing as he had not cried, laughed, or gasped once. Maybe she was pulling on the idea that he could be included in some sort of herd behavior, but he’d never been like that.

  When others got upset or happy, it didn’t affect his current emotions at all. He’d once become scared of himself when someone told him that only psychopaths didn’t yawn when others did—a strange immunity he’d always seemed to have. But he’d shortly decided it was an asset to be immune to the whims and fickle emotions of others. He preferred his constant steadiness. It would be what carried him through tonight.

  Becca hid her yawn behind daintily painted fingernails at the dinner table. The lights were dim, each fixture a combination of stain glass pieces, casting Becca into a blue-green shadow.

  “Did you like the movie, Reid?” she asked over her salad.

  “Loved,” Varsity said. Becca smiled at him, and he pointed to the salad. “Did you order that just because we’re on a date? I don’t care about those rules, you know,” he said, offering her one of his fries, which were slathered in cheese and bacon.

  Becca rolled her eyes but smiled. “A little, I guess. Don’t want to look like a pig on a first date,” she said. She stabbed at a few pieces of lettuce. Her last meal was going to be a subpar chef salad? He observed the wilting leaves on her fork. Sad.

  “Do you want to order something else instead?” Varsity asked. “I can grab the waiter.”

  “Oh no,” Becca said, waving him off. “I do like salad—as long as it doesn’t have blue cheese.”

  “Isn’t blue cheese the worst?” Varsity said.

  “Thank you!” Becca said, raising her arms. “I know it’s supposed to be fancy or something, but honestly, it’s disgusting. I only know, like, two people who like blue cheese.”

  Varsity shook his head. “They only do that because then they can raise the price of the salad.” He took a bit of one of his weighted fries. “And then, everyone asks for their salad without blue cheese, but then pay the higher price anyway. Total rip off.”

  “Totally,” Becca said. She snagged another of Varsity’s fries, a flirty smile touching her lips.

  “They only do that to salads, though,” Varsity continued, “because only people who order salads really look at the ingredients. They wouldn’t want to do that to my burger, for instance.” Varsity motioned to said burger. “Because I didn’t read what was on the burger, and then they’d have to send it back and throw it away. Too much waste.”

  “Are you saying I’m high maintenance already?” Becca asked, her laugh lower than he’d expected from such a petite woman.

  Varsity pretended to suppress a smile. “I’m just saying that perhaps your food choice says a few things about you.” He looked away, feigning guilt, and she tapped his hand from across the table, a playful slap. He laughed, and so did she.

  She tilted her head to the side a bit and gave him a pointed look as she bit into the forkful of lettuce.

  “Bet that was just delicious,” Varsity said, taking an equally large bite of his burger. When she prepared to call her ride, Varsity offered to drive her home instead, and let her choose the music on the way to her apartment. She chose some frustrating pop song that continually repeated over and over about the magic of stars.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Kind of just stuff the Prophetess said.” She was looking out the window with wide eyes, as though she were trying to see the stars from the song through the L.A. evening smog. “Did you stay the whole time?”

  “Yeah,” Varsity said. “But I left as soon as she had left the stage.”

  “Should’ve stuck around,” Becca said. She smiled mischievously, and he moved his lips until they curled up at the edges as well. “It was fun.”

  “The chanting wasn’t that fun.”

  Becca nodded. “Someone told me it gets a little less … strange feeling, I guess.” She pulled out a piece of natural garnet and played with it between her hands. Had she been doing that all night? Surely not, he couldn’t be that unobservant. “I—I just know that people have been getting hurt because they follow her, and it’s made me feel weird.”

  “Me too,” Varsity said. They pulled into the drive of her apartment complex. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked.

  “Reid Grant. Is this your way of trying to invite yourself in?”

  Varsity raised both his hands in surrender. “I promise my intentions are honorable. Unfortunately, my bladder is full.”

  This made Becca laugh, and she invited him inside. Her apartment was simple, but it smelled of vanilla and was nearly covered in succulents. “I’m allergic to almost every animal,” Becca said sadly. “So, I have plants.”

  “I see,” Varsity said.

  “Back there,” Becca said, pointing through the bedroom door. “To the right.”

  Varsity nodded and walked into the bedroom, hearing Becca opening a cabinet followed by the rush of a faucet. Becca’s room was mostly made of purple things, and a giant dream catcher hung over the headboard of her bed. He slipped into the bathroom, and when he turned the light switch, the fan turned on as well, a loud humming that caught him off guard. He jumped, then shook his head. He could do this.

  Taped to the mirror were a series of spells written out on notecards. Protection, acceptance, sweet dreams. Then, some spells cut out of a magazine that clearly had a green color palette, a Prophetess magazine. Spells for clear skin and eliminating wrinkles. Spells to ward off evil energies that Varsity found to be rather ironic. Witches, by definition, held evil energy themselves. The Prophetess was not only leading witches, but apparently misleading them when it came to what they truly were. If she really wanted to do witches a service, she should explain that their dark powers had their roots in the evil power of death.

  It was better she kept it surface level, though, Varsity figured, looking at a spell that promised to rid someone’s skin of unwanted hair. Use in combination with our pre-charmed long-lasting Prophetess razors! He pulled back the purple shower curtain. Sure enough, an electric-green razor sat on the shower ledge. He preferred these gimmicks of magic. If all the Prophetess followers truly understood the extent of their black magic … the Kingsmen would have hundreds of new witching lines to deal with. It made him feel prematurely exhausted.

  He splashed water in his face. Calla’s points had gone up, just a bit. She must have managed to identify her most recent victim as a Prophetess follower. Varsity took evidence photos of the spells on Becca’s mirror and shook himself. He unholstered the gun from his ankle strap and undid the safety. He turned on his phone’s recording setting and tucked his phone into the front pocket of his shirt, the camera lens facing outward.

  Varsity figured for his first kill, he could take it easy on himself. When he walked out of the bedroom, he saw that Becca was facing away from him, absorbed in her phone. A still target. But when he shifted his weight to lift the gun into place, the wood beneath him creaked. Becca turned around, and Varsity saw her eyes lock onto the gun. When she started to shuffle backward, confused, he pulled the trigger, and she dropped to the ground. He didn’t feel sorry, he thought. And her terrified expression wouldn’t haunt him; he wasn’t that type of person.

  He wouldn’t have much time. Surely someone had heard either the small puffing noise of the gun shooting or, more likely, t
he sound of Becca falling. And he needed to get to Mikayla Martin. He hadn’t been able to get a day off work until tomorrow, so he’d drive to Las Vegas early the next morning and strike right before his last day to make his move had arrived. He felt a sudden restriction in his chest from the anxiety of it. He stopped recording and took three pictures of the body before slipping out the back door to the fire escape and rounding the middle walkway of the building. He emerged from one of the stair alleys far enough down that anyone looking wouldn’t connect him to Becca’s apartment. He slid into his car, drove to a gas station, and texted in.

  “Becca Kershaw, Prophetess follower. Video of kill and other evidence photos to follow.”

  By the end of the night, his name was listed in the vast pool of people vying for third, fourth, and fifth on the leader board behind Calla and Ink. But he was on his way to his work in progress kill that would launch him definitively into the third place on the leaderboard. His phone showed messages from both Annie and Marisol, and as he drove, he messaged them both back that he couldn’t wait to see them. Marisol had finally agreed: Sunday brunch. It wasn’t the best time—most people were home on Sunday, and it would be bright outside, but he’d manage. Marisol was making herself a more difficult target every day, and he had to take what he could get.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thursday, March 9, 2017, 10:47 a.m.

  “You said you have a … wizard?” Ivy asked Cassiopeia.

  “Just another name for a male witch,” Cassiopeia said. “Magic is not excluded from its own issues with gender,” she said. “But for the most part, we just let people pick the name—some will say they’re a sorceress or something of the like as well. Just depends on what you’re looking for.”

  “I see,” Ivy said.

  Cassiopeia led her through a much more run-down version of the house than she was used to. The carpets had irreversible stains in some places and scuff marks on the wall. Some people had written spells or initials on the wallpaper like the house had become their own personal scrapbook—or frat house—and copies of the Prophetess’s books and sweatshirts and small bags of powders and herbs had been placed in a crate next to the piano labeled “Lost and Found.”

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” Ivy said.

  Vince poked Ivy and directed her attention to a lizard in a glass cage. Cassiopeia caught his motion and rolled her eyes.

  “Someone read that you were supposed to gift a lizard to your magical mentor,” she said. “He’s not the first. I’ve been trying to sell them.” She shook her head. “I’m not a reptile person. Why not a hamster?” She pushed aside a series of lawn chairs that had been stacked against the stairs to clear a path. “We’ve been insanely busy. Instead of one weekly meeting, I’m now running coven meetings four nights a week, and I’ve asked everyone to only come once a week. The house is still packed every night.” She pulled her shawl back up around her shoulders. Even the bun of her hair looked a bit off-kilter. “Most of them want to talk about the Prophetess, of course,” she said. “And I’ve been trying to steer them in the right direction, but it’s difficult. They idolize her.”

  Cassiopeia kicked aside another collection of folding chairs and shifted a speaker out of the doorway. “I have to use a microphone now,” she said. “Mason?” There was a clatter of a folding chair before a young man stuck his head out of the doorframe.

  He smiled first at Cassiopeia, then at Ivy and Vince.

  “These are the detectives I told you about,” Cassiopeia said. “Detectives Hart and Benton,” she said, motioning to them, “Mason Gillis.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ivy said as Cassiopeia stuffed trash bags of what Ivy assumed were hate letters into a nearby closet. Mason pulled out more folding chairs until they could all sit comfortably enough around the desk, which was covered in old coffee mugs and a collection of library books about different forms of magic.

  “Reading up?” Vince asked, pointing to the stack.

  Cassiopeia turned tired eyes to the stack. “I’m trying to understand all the different interpretations of magic and witchcraft these people are bringing. Some of them are basic misconceptions, but it seems like some of these people have done extensive research about forms of magic I’ve never heard of before.” She tapped her nails, their blue paint chipping at the ends and growing out at the cuticles, along a book labeled Voodoo and Hoodoo: Their differences and how they influenced 20th century America. “But,” she said, suddenly pulling herself back from distraction, “Mason had a proposition for you. Go ahead, bud.” Cassiopeia took a long drink from one of the many mugs scattered on the desk, made a sour expression that told Ivy the coffee had likely been lukewarm. Cassiopeia took another sip anyway, shrugging away her own disgust in favor of an injection of caffeine in her body; Ivy knew that feeling.

  Mason handed them each a packet. “I graduated with a master's in Psychology last spring from UCLA, and I actually wrote my thesis on the ‘hive mind’ that regularly comes into play with tight-knit groups, whether that be cliques in elementary schools all the way to, well, things like covens and cults.”

  “Covens?” Ivy asked.

  “I believe I contain supernatural powers, just like all the others who regularly visit this house to hear from Cassiopeia,” Mason said. “But I am not so absorbed by it that I don’t understand that we all operate with a certain hive-mind mentality. I am far more loyal to these people based solely on their connection with me through the supernatural.” He held out a palm as he explained, and Ivy noted a rune drawn on the heartline of his palm. “But I think what’s more powerful than even the connection of our coven members is that connection between the members of the Kingsmen—and many of them have never seen each other’s faces. And, better yet, they’ve never seen the face of their leader.”

  “And this would cause problems in a normal cult?” Ivy asked.

  “Infinitely so,” Mason said. He flipped through the packet he’d handed Ivy and showed her a roughly drawn graph showing the Kingsmen’s “Level of Transparency” compared to that of its noticeable predecessors. It was hardly a blip.

  “But it hasn’t with this one,” Ivy said.

  “Exactly.” Mason’s brow crinkled. “Normally, the leader of a hive-mind, whether that be a particularly popular cheerleader or a leader ready to bring his followers to untimely death … they’ve always had to be charismatic to achieve their level of trust from those following after them. But in this case—no one’s seen him, heard him, they don’t even know his name. They just call him King. It’s fascinating to me.”

  “And where do we play into this?” Vince asked.

  “I want to help you catch this leader so that my coven, along with all the covens across the country, might be free of the Kingsmen. Even though he’s not a visible leader, there’s clearly a mastermind manipulating people who would likely lead normal lives—even if they have a proclivity for violence. Take away the mastermind, and these people fall back into their normal patterns.” He pushed his palms along his thighs, a motion of nervousness that Ivy knew well. Mason adjusted his glasses. “I’m going to be asking my former professor for help, a world-renowned psychology expert, and I plan to go undercover as a Kingsman.” He nodded at their confused looks. “I’ll need temporary help hiding witches I pretend to kill so I can climb the ladder—I already have several friends who have volunteered to hideout for a certain amount of time to make my story more believable. And I’m going to attempt to use my knowledge of psychology and hive-mind leaders to endear myself to this nameless leader in the hope that he will reveal himself to me.”

  “This is an experiment,” Ivy said.

  “Precisely.” He pointed to the packets in both of their laps. “Attached, you’ll find the dissertation I spoke about, and this—” he handed them another stack of stapled papers “—is my experimental design outline.”

  Ivy did a quick scan of the front page. “You list yourself as a variable in this experiment.”

  “I know huma
n nature well enough that I could not list any person as a constant—only the existence of the coven is a constant, as they draw the attention of the Kingsmen, and will continue to do so, even if the Prophetess—” he pointed to another one of the variables “—eventually fails. Covens have been around for centuries. I doubt even the Kingsmen will ever successfully wipe them out entirely.”

  Cassiopeia smiled from behind her mug of cold coffee. “And of course, the hive-mind is a variable, as it is dependent on yet another variable, the King.”

  “You realize that this experiment might end with you listed as a work in progress in a rapidly-growing web of developing serial killers,” Ivy said. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you because you could die conducting this experiment.” A clock ticked loudly from the wall above Mason’s head, and a cold feeling spread through her.

  “I’ve analyzed the risks,” the man said, and Ivy had to admire his sense of calm and scientific detachment. “I plan to conduct the experiment either way, though. I would truly appreciate your help staging the death scenes for believability and hiding the witches I pretend to kill.”

  “You need help with … acting?” Vince asked.

  “Well, also in the interrogation of potential suspects I might be able to send your way, but, yes. Acting and staging are going to be critical in this project.”

  Vince snuck a look at Ivy, who almost laughed despite the serious nature of the conversation. “I think we have a friend who could help with this.”

  +++

  Thursday, March 9, 2017, 11:06 p.m.

  Despite the Vegas lights, Mikayla Martin had managed to make her store look dim, the outside entrance surrounded by New Orleans accouterments.