by Jessica King
“That’s because some of us don’t have internet privileges,” Cherry said, dismissing the older man, who turned back over in his bed, away from Edward. The metal frame of the bunk bed made his turn sound dramatic and drawn out.
“What’s a King people?” Cherry asked.
“I was part of a cult. We killed a certain type of person.”
“Well, that’s vague,” Cherry said. “But I’m not gonna beat it out of you. Just got out of solitary. You don’t want to do that, Edwardo.” Cherry turned to poke the bookish man in the back. “Kitty, what're the King people?”
The man’s voice was muffled by the book in front of his face. “That is not my name.”
“It is your name,” Cherry said, mimicking Kitty’s exasperated tone. “What is a King people?” He poked Kitty again but left his finger in the man’s spine until he jerked away.
“King-something. Kingsmen, I think? They kill people who they think are witches that come back to life after they are killed. They hope that by killing them, they won’t be able to come back again. Sort of like a cat with nine lives, but it could be more or less than nine, depending on the power of the witch.”
Cherry turned to Edward. “Is that right, Edwardo?” he laughed. “You might just be crazier than me. They’ll load you up with drugs. Save some for me, all right? I think we’ll be good friends.”
Edward felt a pit in his stomach. He didn’t want to take any type of medication here, and he certainly didn’t want to share with the tattooed man in front of him. Cherry seemed like the type who might need a regular dose of chamomile tea and honey to calm him down.
Cherry eventually meandered back to his bunk, until another man approached him; this one had beady eyes, short-cut hair, and a black eye.
“You’re a Kingsman?” he asked.
“I was, I guess,” Edward said. He felt a hard pop on his ear and yelled. His hand jerked up to protect his face, but the man in front of him didn’t flinch.
The man stared at Edward. “Who’s the King?” he asked.
“I—I don’t know,” Edward said. He snapped his fingers next to his ears, trying to determine whether he could still hear through his left ear. “I’ve never met him.”
The man’s eyes bore into Edward. “What you mean is you were a Kingsmen?”
Edward hung his head. He figured it was likely that the man in front of him was a Kingsmen, ready to fight him for getting another one of them caught. “I mean that after I eliminated three witches, I, I don’t know, I freaked out.” He scratched the back of his neck. “And then I told them I didn’t want to kill anymore, and they sent Kingsmen after me to kill me. I killed two of them. Then I turned myself in.”
“You turned yourself in?”
“That’s what I said.” Edward was tired of being asked stupid questions, and he’d only been here a few hours. Perhaps he’d try to get Kitty to take him in, but Kitty seemed the type who enjoyed being alone, even if it meant forgoing a potential friend. “Are you a Kingsman?”
“Sort of,” the man in front of him said.
“The Kingsmen don’t do sort of,” Edward said. “Look, if you’re against the Kingsmen, I am too, you don’t have to like, you know, hide that. They tried to kill me.”
The man in front of him considered his face for a long time. He searched each eye, his nose, his mouth, his chin, as though his face were some sort of road map or indicator of whether he was telling the truth. He tried to look as trustworthy as possible, making an attempt at smoothing out the ever-present cinch between his eyebrows.
“I’m Jeremiah Ethan,” the man in front of him said. “I went undercover as a Kingsmen to try to find out who the King is. So, anything you have—”
“Like I said,” Edward said, cutting him off, “I don’t know anything about the guy.”
Jeremiah pursed his lips. “Do you know if they killed the fifth reincarnation of Deborah Brady?”
“I don’t know,” Edward said. “Why, was she your WIP?”
“No,” Jeremiah scuffed his shoe across the floor. “She’s my mom.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wednesday, March 15, 2017, 1:40 p.m.
The gathering of the top Kingsmen in southern California was not what Mason had expected. He already thought it was strange that they were meeting at a bar in the middle of the day, but apparently one of the Kingsmen, “Archer,” owned the bar. Mason didn’t ask how Archer killed his WIPs, though he figured the name insinuated a crossbow. He hoped Archer didn’t use a crossbow. It seemed entirely inhumane to him.
The owner offered him a beer, which he took, and introduced him to the other man and two women already seated in one of the bar’s many beat-up booths. Mason sat, the stuffing of the seat uncomfortable around the duct tape being used to hold it together. He took in the rest of the space: perpetually grimy checkerboard flooring, a real jukebox, and a small stage.
“Did the King approve of this meeting? Like, are we really supposed to keep talking after the convention?” one of the women, “Pink,” asked. Pink’s hair was dishwater blonde, though it looked like she’d dipped the ends of her locks into cotton candy-colored paint, which was presumably why she’d chosen the name.
“No one knows who the King is,” StormStar said. The other woman had clearly stuck with a gamertag. “And we have to figure out what to do about our own going down.”
“What do you mean?” Mason asked. He tried not to show any weakness with his confusion. He kept his face neutral; his eyebrows raised like he expected a quick, respectful explanation.
“We mean the two dead Kingsmen in the past two days,” Zombie said. Zombie was a big man with dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair, and well-groomed facial hair. The look on his face was closed but confident. “We can’t keep dying off like this, and the past two dead have been on the top of the leaderboard … like you.” Zombie nodded toward Mason. “Perhaps you’ve been too busy killing to hear that both Varsity and Calla were found dead after trying to eliminate their most recent assignments.”
“To be fair,” Pink said, “their assignments were the hardest on the list. You had to volunteer to get them.”
“You had to volunteer at first. Now, I’m not so sure.” Zombie took a sip of his drink, and Mason followed suit.
“Did you get assigned Edward or Ivy?”
Zombie shook his head. “I have a source in the prison system who told me Edward Thorne turned himself in.”
“Do we have any Kingsmen in prison?” Archer asked. “Maybe we can get someone on the inside to finish the job?” Archer cracked his neck and leaned into the booth.
Zombie considered this for a moment, and Mason realized that the others—including himself—were naturally deferring to Zombie for answers. Mason spoke up.
“It’ll go to international news if we do that. Is that really a risk we want to take with police on such high alert against anything Kingsmen related? Edward’s stuck, let’s save it and use our resources to track down witches.”
There was a tightness in the air until Zombie agreed. He’d have to try harder. “I think we should choose Ivy’s killer instead of the King assigning people to her that will only get killed. Clearly, Calla was skilled, and whoever was assigned to Ivy before her was too scared to get close.”
“We need someone who will not only match Ivy but will be better,” Mason said.
“I have just the Kingsman,” Zombie said. “She’s low on the leaderboard because she tends to … take her time, but she’s absolutely flawless.”
Mason swallowed. “Won’t Ivy get reassigned before she can make a move then?” Mason asked. “I’m on the top of the leaderboard, I could—”
“You really want to risk that?” Zombie asked, and Mason suddenly felt reprimanded. He’d missed his chance to lead the group, and by doing so, missed his chance at saving Ivy from having yet another target on her back.
“I just think that I could do it,” Mason said. “I’ve taken out several witches so far.”
&nbs
p; “You haven’t taken out any targets with a high difficulty rating, though,” Zombie said. “I know that my pick has taken out at least a security agent.” The group conceded.
“Next time, FreeMason,” Archer said. “None of us doubt that you’re a great Kingsmen. But we need a safe bet against a skilled target.”
“Right,” Zombie said. “And it won’t matter if our pick kills Ivy before the King’s pick. That Kingsmen will just get reassigned. Not to mention that my pick will be able to question Ivy as well. She’s an ex-marine. We get Ivy and we find out where the new L.A. coven is. Trying to take these witches out one by one is too long of a process. I say we get them during a meeting, take them all out in one attack.”
“I agree,” Pink said. “The witches are becoming too cautious. Their beliefs are idiotic, but they aren’t that stupid.” This earned Pink a collective chuckle, and she looked very pleased with herself.
“So, it’s settled,” Zombie said. “I’ll contact Fish. Once Ivy is eliminated and we have the info we need, we’ll take out the entirety of the L.A. coven.”
“How will the King find out it’s us?” StormStar said.
“That’s when we let the news see our effect,” Zombie said. “Surely a mass death like the coven’s will be aired across the country. We then send in the video to claim the points—kills split evenly.”
“Unless the King is like FreeMason here,” Pink said. “Too busy killing to see the news.”
“The King doesn’t kill, right,” StormStar said. “He’s technically retired, but who knows how old he is. I bet we do all the dirty work for him.” Her voice turned at the end, her face showing her distaste.
“I’d be careful how you speak about him,” Zombie said. His eyes pierced through each of them before he returned his gaze to his beer bottle.
“You know him?” StormStar asked.
“Obviously not,” Zombie said. “But unity is what we need to defeat this evil, and the King is the one keeping everything unified.”
“I’m sure everything could stay unified under a leader we actually met, even if it’s someone like you or me,” StormStar said. “Isn’t it weird that we’ve never seen the King? Are we sure he’s still alive?”
There it was. The chink in the armor. Mason pressed his lips together. The Kingsmen were just like any other cult, and they’d eventually crack without their charismatic leader holding everything together.
“There’s no way the King is just one person,” Mason said, egging on the conversation. “How could one person keep up with so many witches?”
“I wondered that, too,” Pink admitted. “Like maybe this is some sort of social experiment.”
Zombie stood, and the bar grew tense. “If this was an experiment, it would have been shut down after the first death.” His eyes were filled with dark flame. “And believe what you want about the King, but I believe he’s a saint in this world, gifted with the ability to lead us into defeating evil. But I’d be careful what you say about him, or you might just end up as a work in progress yourself.”
“So that’s it, then?” Pink asked. “This is our last meeting because we can’t ask questions?” Pink had a whiny voice naturally, and Mason braced himself for Zombie’s reaction. Instead, the man lowered his shoulders.
Zombie bit his upper lip. “We keep meeting,” he said. “But I don’t want to hear any more about the King. And I expect everyone to be there.”
Zombie walked out of the bar, grabbing his jacket from a stool near the door.
“That went about as well as a meeting between a bunch of serial killers could go, I guess,” Mason said.
The other Kingsmen laughed. Maybe his chance at leading this group wasn’t totally lost after all. But he’d have to show loyalty first.
“He’s probably just anxious,” he said, pointing to the door Zombie had gone through.
The others agreed with him and tried to make eye contact with each of the other three.
“I’ll see you all soon, then.” He found Zombie in the parking lot. “Zombie,” he said.
The man turned around.
“Look, I just want you to know, I don’t think anyone was trying to stir up trouble or anything,” Mason said. “It’s just kind of hard sometimes when we don’t know who the King is and stuff.”
Zombie’s face softened a bit, and Mason smiled at him, hoping the smile reached his eyes.
“I’ve been assigned Ivy Hart,” Zombie said. “I didn’t want to tell the others, but I can trust you, right?”
“Of course,” Mason said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go after her?”
Zombie shook his head. “I want Fish on this. We need someone who can get us answers, and she’s been trained in that sort of thing.” Zombie lifted a hand, finally smiling. “I don’t mean any type of offense with that, but—”
“I totally understand,” Mason said, shaking his hair from his eyes. “I’m not exactly intimidating.”
Zombie looked like he was trying not to laugh. Mason knew he was short and scholarly looking. His mother always said he had “curious eyes,” which he figured were not scary at all.
Zombie gave him one nod and then slid into his car. “All right then, Chief,” he said, and drove away.
+++
Thursday, March 16, 2017, 11:55 a.m.
It had taken time to get in contact with the Prophetess, and they had to go through Ransom Highsmith, which sounded almost as fictional to Ivy as Delilah Leigh. But when they arrived at a rather cramped two-bedroom home in Sylmar, Ivy was surprised.
“Can I get you any water or anything?” Delilah Leigh was actually Dahlia Aven according to her driver’s license, though she immediately asked the detectives to call her Delilah. The woman looked much shorter without the long, white wig and high boots.
“No, thank you,” Ivy said. She was still wary about being too friendly with anyone after Lily.
The house was covered in a mix of wood paneling and wallpaper, and most of the furniture had been packed into what Ivy assumed was once a dining room. The main area of the house was filled with packages in different stacks, and crates filled with assortments of crystals, rocks, makeup pallets, scarves, and more. A whiteboard behind a muted television showing a reality show Ivy didn’t recognize said “Wands???” and “Prophetess Halloween costume?” along with a series of numbers and dollar signs that made Ivy think they needed a well-set-up spreadsheet. As she’d expected, this was a business. And this woman who acted as the figurehead was running it all.
“So, you …” Ivy indicated the mountain of packages.
“I bless the things that need blessings, do spells on the items that are advertised as having spells performed in advance. We print the labels and prep them for sending. All payments are made online,” Delilah said.
“And right now, this is a public or private company?” Vince asked.
“Private,” Delilah said. “I started with just the stones about a year and a half ago. As covens grew and people started to become more interested in witchcraft and things like that, our business grew pretty steadily.” She pointed to Ransom, who had hardly stopped putting stickers on packages despite their presence. “Ransom’s pretty handy with logos and photography, so we sort of started saving until we could do a big stunt like the one in Venice Beach. And now …”
“We have way too many orders,” Ransom said, finishing her sentence. “We’re either going to have to go public, sell the company entirely, or make a more factory-like location.”
“Which costs more money than we have right now,” Delilah said, and Ivy sensed that this was a regular conversation between the two. She couldn’t tell if they were friends, lovers, or simply business partners who appeared to be crammed into the same space to save money, considering the number of wigs and black clothes, as well as the collection of superhero paraphernalia, signed to “Ransom” or “Random.”
“We wanted to talk to you about the shooting at your last gathering. We understand that there’s
going to be another one coming up soon.”
“Yes,” Delilah said. “It was horrible what happened, but there will always be people who hate this brand.”
“So, you don’t consider yourself a coven? You’re a brand?”
“No, Detective,” Delilah said. “I’m putting on a show to help people further believe in themselves. I’m not necessarily looking for people who want to follow me, as much as they want to follow my business. It’s my business that helps them feel better about themselves, promotes their own self-advocacy, things like that. So, yes, we’re a brand, and that’s how I think of us. But like so many other brands, we want to market ourselves as a lifestyle.”
“So, you’re not a witch?”
“Is anyone actually a witch?” Delilah asked. “People can believe they are witches, so sure, I can be a witch. But I’ve never seen anyone performing magic that couldn’t be performed by a regular person. That’s the beauty of it—anyone can be a witch.”
“What about the How to Know if You’re a Witch Kit?” Vince asked.
Delilah waved a hand. “It’s the same principle as throwing a quarter in the air, I think. Someone is going to know what result they want by the time their test is ready. If it says they are a witch and they want to be one, fantastic. If it says they aren’t a witch and they want to be one, they can order another test and see if things go differently, or they can decide that the test isn’t worth their time, and they’ll likely buy other products anyway. What they are getting is a toy that I’ve said a blessing over. Does that blessing mean anything? To the person who bought it, it might. To you, maybe not.”
“Magic is mostly just perspective,” Ransom said, his hands still sifting through packages. “Unless someone is performing actually supernatural acts, we’re the closest thing some people are going to have to their dreams.” Among the green packaging, the man looked like he was sitting in a Picasso-style sea, gathering seashells from the ocean floor.