The Red King: Wilde Justice, Book 1

by Jenn Stark

  “I’m getting the impression that’s going to happen a lot going forward,” I said. “But I appreciate you coming here so quickly.”

  He smiled expansively, then gave me an elaborate bow. “As it happens, you’ll be doing me the favor. Rumors of the Red King have been plaguing one of my closest associates, who has asked me for assistance.”

  “Really. And who is the Red King, exactly?”

  “That, I’m afraid, no one knows as yet,” Luca Stone said. “But if you wish to unmask him quickly, you must go to Carnevale.”

  Chapter Seven

  Unable to contain herself a moment longer, Mrs. French went into full fluster, ordering everyone to sit before attacking the sidebar and muttering dire imprecations about tea.

  We arranged ourselves on the couches and chair, but I didn’t miss the jump in the shadows at the far end of the room. Neither did Brody. His eyes narrowed as he fixed on the spot where I suspected one of the Lost Boys had darted behind a collection of boxes. Rather than explain who else was roaming around the library, however, I turned my attention to Stone.

  “Carnival. You mean in Rio? That’s where this Red King is?”

  “The Rio de Janeiro carnival is truly an experience worth savoring, but no,” Mr. Stone said. “I am speaking of the Carnevale in Venice.

  “Venice.” Nikki perked up, sounding too intrigued for my own good. “So not only costumes but masks as well. And dancing. And Italian food.”

  “And rats,” Brody put in, eyeing the far corner of the room.

  “Why is he there?” I asked. “Has the festival even started yet?”

  “Its first official day isn’t until Saturday, as it happens,” Mr. Stone said. “However, much as in the days of the original Carnevale, some level of celebration has been going on in one form or another since Christmas. As to why we suspect the Red King is there, that bears some explanation. How well do you know the original story of Carnevale?”

  “Well enough. It was a festival that began during the Middle Ages, I think? Marking the time between Christmas and the beginning of Lent. But unlike in other parts of the world, it developed a secondary theme, which was the use of masks to allow the rich and poor to mingle without any disruption of the social order.”

  “An excellent summary.” Stone nodded. “Though masked interaction did exist outside the bounds of the festival, and their use was not so much to muddy the class distinction between the rich and the poor as between the nobility and the bourgeoisie. At that time, the merchant class was rising in leaps and bounds, as was the scholarly class. But these individuals were kept in their own silos, if you will, unable to share their knowledge and experiences with the noble class, except in highly controlled situations. Not surprisingly, this proved to be a very unsatisfactory situation for members of the noble class, who sought to intermingle with men of letters who were not of their station, but who far surpassed them in intellectual richness.”

  “Only men?”

  Stone smiled. “In order to get the dictate to pass and ensure the openness of the event, men did lead the way, but in short order, the fairer sex found ways to utilize the festival for their own interests. Noble-born women were able to socialize in public with their friends and paramours of any station, and many a commoner sought to catch the eye of a potential patron, whether male or female.”

  Nikki snorted. “Tinder with masks.”

  “In its way. But the licentiousness of the event was also a cover for far deeper entanglements. Which takes us to the Red King—or a villain masquerading as such.”

  “Armaeus said it was some sort of honorary title of a great magician.”

  “It was accorded to whoever claimed the position as the strongest magician in Italy, from about 900 AD on.” Stone nodded. “But it’s a title that took a decidedly gruesome turn before disappearing altogether during the Renaissance. And it was tied to a figure from Venice’s dark past who has also recently reared his unfortunate head. Are you familiar with the butcher of Venice?”

  I made a face. “I don’t think I’m going to like his story.”

  “Undoubtedly not. In brief, the butcher Biasio Cargnio lived in Venice in the mid-1500s, and gained some modest renown for his stews, sausages, and pies, like many a butcher of the time. He grew in fame and success until one regrettable day, when the finger of a small child was found in one of his concoctions.”

  “Sweeney Todd, the opera,” Nikki muttered.

  “Exactly so.” Stone smiled somberly. “Definitely a horror for any Italian, but most especially in Venice, which billed itself as the playground of Europe even then, its residents growing rich on its tourism and trade. The butcher was, of course, brought to justice, and the magistrates of the time determined to make an example of him. Rather than a simple execution, he was jailed, tortured, his hands were cut off and tied around his neck, and he was eventually beheaded in the Piazza San Marco. After that, his body was chopped into four pieces and displayed on pitchforks around various parts of the city.”

  “Ah…that seems thorough.”

  “Indeed,” Stone agreed. “Less well known is the fact that Signore Cargnio was then cremated and baked into earthenware jars, which were promptly hauled out of Italy and shattered by agents of the city’s government. His butcher’s shop was also burned to the ground within the week.”

  He smiled at my startled expression. “Regrettably, if the authorities’ intention was to bury his memory, their attempts were in vain. To say Biasio left a lasting influence is an understatement. To this day, nearly all the stops along the Grand Canal in the city are named after one church or religious icon or another, all except for the Riva de Biasio, which is named after none other than the butcher of Venice.”

  “And so, what—this butcher was actually the Red King?” I asked. “And now some modern-day dark practitioner is roaming around Venice claiming the title as the new Red King?”

  “Perhaps. As you know, there’s been a recent expansion of magic in the world.”

  I grimaced. “I noticed.”

  “That expansion has, perhaps not surprisingly, led to a resurgence in interest in the dark arts, and more frenetic activity by the dark practitioners. Particularly those who believe that the surest path to psychic enhancement lies in the leveraging of organic components, for example.”

  I’d heard this song before. “You’re talking human sacrifices. The dark practitioners are using body parts to make technoceuticals. You think that’s what the butcher of Venice was doing back in the Middle Ages?”

  Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. The harvesting of body parts, particularly those of children, had become almost a time-honored tradition among dark practitioners of the Connected community. In recent years, much of the human trafficking that had taken place among the Connected was not for the sex trade, although that certainly was part of it, or even for the service trade. It was for the simple harvesting of a kidney, a femur, an eyeball.

  The atrocities committed against the youngest and most vulnerable of the Connected community on a daily basis had been what’d drawn me to take a stand with my work as an artifact hunter. I’d made bank selling arcane artifacts, then I’d passed the money along to a trusted partner who did everything he could to save the children.

  I couldn’t let my thoughts go down that path, though. Not right now. The recent death of Father Jerome, the man who’d first shown me how much I could help the weakest of the Connected, was too sharp, too present. In many ways, I didn’t want to heal from his death, because in healing, I would begin forgetting him.

  I didn’t want to forget.

  Here I was, an immortal, while he’d been stolen from this life far too soon.

  Beside me, Brody shifted, craning his neck and staring hard at another set of boxes, this one closer to us.

  “Human sacrifices, yes, particularly of children,” Stone continued, recalling my attention. “That is what my colleague is hearing tales of in the back alleys of Venice. The return of the
butcher—who was possibly the Red King—and with him, the return of the darkest of magic to the city. The villain’s timing is most propitious too, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Venice will be crawling with people,” Nikki agreed. “If this nouveau serial killer is looking to find easy marks, he won’t have to look far.”

  Stone sighed. “The problem is worse than that. Carnevale is traditionally known as the time when the rich walk with the poor, but the truth is not so simple. It’s where all walks of life may mingle without fear of discovery. The rich and the poor, the pious and the depraved, the agnostic and the believer—”

  “The Connected and the Unconnected,” I finished for him, standing straighter. “You’re saying that the magicians and sorcerers out there can walk freely in public without being identified by either friend or foe.”

  Mrs. French served tea, and as she fussed, Brody stood. He strolled to the nearest set of boxes and checked behind it, casual as all hell. Then he scowled. Clearly, no one was there.

  Stone picked up his tale. “During the Renaissance, it was the only time of year when gatherings of the greatest magicians could take place without drawing undue notice. If you knew who to look for, or you knew where to meet, you could turn Carnevale to your greatest advantage. If you saw nothing but masks and gowns and feathers, then you could enjoy the festival to the fullest, never knowing what dark designs lurked beneath the surface.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  He set his teacup down on its delicate saucer. “I am in a unique position to know the movements of some of the darkest practitioners of the Connected community, as well as some whose light burns with the purest of intentions and the most wholesome of acts. I will tell you this: They are all planning to attend this year’s Carnevale.”

  “Because there’s been a change in the world,” I said.

  Stone inclined his head regally. “A change which you and your compatriots have wrought.”

  “And how’s that going over?”

  “In the main? Remarkably well. You, I suspect, are regarding the situation with a rather focused lens. I’m sure you’re struggling with the more negative ramifications of the end of the war on magic—the growing awareness of governments and multinational organizations of the size and scope of Connected ability, the release of demons into the world, and the ascension of two high-grade sorcerers to the Arcana Council, which has rendered it powerful to a level unseen in modern times.”

  I grimaced. “That does sound a lot like my lens.”

  “For the general practitioner, however, the fallout from the war on magic has been nothing but positive,” Stone said. “The wellspring of magic appears to be refilled. Raw materials containing positive charges—stones, metals, even sacred objects buried in their crypts which had no exposure to the war or its players—have increased in their strength, and there are more of them. There is talk of returning to previously looted tombs, as belief is running high that new discoveries will be made.”

  “Okay, so—” I began, but Stone raised a hand.

  “That’s not all,” he said. “Unexpected advances in the technology sector are only now coming to light. Talk of inspiration, divine intervention, dream design, mathematical proofs that have stymied practitioners for years being solved—it’s all over the back rooms and private clubs of the intelligentsia. There’s not been much crossover between these disparate groups, but again, I am in a unique situation to find myself at the center of several strands of conversation.”

  “Scientific advancements,” I said thoughtfully, my gaze tracking Brody as he glanced behind another stack of boxes. Behind him, a small figure, barely more than a shadow, darted beneath a chair. I smothered a smile, unreasonably heartened by the resilience of little boys. “That would include technoceuticals.”

  “It would indeed. Perhaps not surprisingly, those advances have been kept far quieter, but you can rest assured they’re out there. Rumors are running riot in the arcane black market.”

  “Black Elixir,” I murmured, recalling Ricky’s words. All the way to the Red King.

  “Oh, c’mon, that shit’s been out there for longer than a few weeks,” Nikki countered.

  Stone shook his head. “It’s called different things in different countries, but what has changed is the intensity of a given dosage for what is essentially the same amount of product. Up until a few weeks ago, the legend of the fifth hit being a path to transcendence was merely that, a legend that had sprung up to justify the loss of life the drug was indisputably causing, to add mystery and allure to what was a simple lethal drug overdose, no different from one too many hits of heroin. Now, however…” He shrugged.

  “Now, what?” It was Brody who asked the question, turning from the far end of the room. So he had been following along, despite his distraction. “We’re up to our eyeballs in the drug trade out here, and this Black Elixir is the newest pain in my ass. If you’re telling me that the drug is now more potent because of some weird disturbance in the Force, I need to know that like right now. And if this Red King, whoever that’s supposed to be, is the guy making it, we’ve got to get out ahead of him too.”

  Stone didn’t bat an eye. “I’m telling you that yes, all forms of Black Elixir, as well as other drugs created from magical composites that have been produced since the recent influx of magic in the world, are more potent at similar doses than previous iterations of the drug. The effects are more powerful, longer lasting, with greater side effects.”

  Brody hissed a curse under his breath. “You mean the new stuff that’s coming out of production, or everything that’s in circulation already?”

  “An interesting question, Detective Brody, and one to which I do not have the answer.”

  I lifted my brows slightly. Out of all the crazy that Stone had been dishing us, this was the first time I was almost certain he was lying. But why ever for? Brody had no jurisdiction over the organization that Luca Stone fronted, and anything that could trickle out from the international drug trade all the way to Las Vegas was following a trail far too difficult to track.

  “I need something stronger than tea,” Nikki announced. She stood and stretched, catching Stone’s appreciative eye, then sauntered over to the bar where Mrs. French had assembled tea. “Sara? Brody?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Brody said, his irritation plain.

  “Glenmorangie,” I said, glancing to Stone. “If you’d be willing to join me?”

  “I would be honored to share a drink with you, Madame Wilde—or Justice Wilde, I should say.”

  “Excellent.” Nikki prepared the drinks and brought ours over to us first. She handed mine over, then turned to Stone, grasping his hand as he reached for the tumbler, the handoff at once elegant and secure. As she did, her eyes flared wider for the barest instant, the only indication she was using her abilities to read his memories. I gamely hid my grin.

  Nikki had been a moderate-level Connected when I’d met her, but extended exposure to my crazy had amped her up several times over since then, making her native abilities that much stronger. She couldn’t exactly read minds, but her ability to pick up on a target’s memories was every bit as useful. Most of the time, the two were the same thing, but not always. Sometimes a person’s memories weren’t exactly the way things really happened, especially if any amount of time had passed or if the person was under a great deal of strain, though those kinds of influences still helped us create a complete picture of what the individual believed he’d seen. But we didn’t have to worry about stress or fear with Stone. He wasn’t under any influence but an abundance of caution.

  Nikki smiled widely, then swerved back toward the sidebar. I didn’t think I’d have to wait long.

  I didn’t.

  “Well, then allow me to share what we know about all this, and maybe it will help you,” Nikki said, sipping her drink. “Word on the street here is that the biggest influence of the magical surge was on whatever product was still in its raw state in December, when it wa
s going through the manufacturing process. Anything from that time and after is affected. What’s out there that was in circulation before has also been augmented, but not anywhere close to the levels that the new stuff has been. So basically, it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Depending on your perspective.”

  Stone lifted his drink as well, visibly surprised and relieved, as Brody swung around to Nikki. Something in her face must have allayed his confusion as to how in the hell she’d known all that but had only now shared it with him. Nikki was excellent at allaying confusion.

  “I need a drink after all,” Brody muttered. As he went to the sidebar, I considered Stone. He hadn’t wanted me to know that the December batch of technoceuticals was where all the crazy started. Everything in process then or after was affected. But why? It’s not like I didn’t know that I was one of the biggest reasons why magic had gotten jacked up in all its forms. This influx was partly my fault. Maybe mostly my fault.

  I took another long drink, then refocused on the problem at hand.

  “So if that tallies with what you’re seeing—either now or what you might find out as information becomes available—where does that leave us?” I wondered aloud. “Ideas that were in their nascent form are more affected, inventions, ongoing projects, existing drugs or new drugs in the supply line…”

  “Unborn babies,” Nikki put in.

  “I don’t even want to think about that.” I swung my gaze to Mr. Stone. “Tell me that’s not part of your friend’s concern.”

  “Fortunately, no,” Stone said. “In fact, as important as the distillation of raw material is to the dark practitioners, there’s now a growing conversation around harvesting organs from a fully mature psychic, such as a Connected who has leveled up as a result of recent events. My friend believes, with some measure of certainty, that the victims of the current incarnation of the butcher of Venice will include some of the most powerful magicians that currently walk this earth.”