by Jason Rose
Arianna nods. “Agreed.”
“And, she has to formally apologize to Adrian Varulv.”
“Agreed.”
“And . . .” the corners of Arianna’s mouth begin to crease, I may be pushing the envelope a bit with my demands, but there is at least one more thing I need her to agree to. “She must agree not to engage in any aggression towards myself, my friends, and/or Adrian Varulv as long as she lives.”
Ginger’s head snaps up and looks to her sister, clearly not comfortable with my final ask.
Arianna chews on the demand for a moment. “A witch’s life can be somewhat longer than a human life. A life pledge is a substantial thing to ask of a witch or any citizen for that matter.” She pauses, waiting for a response. I do not oblige her. Never counter yourself during a negotiation. Always wait until the other side advances a counter offer before reducing or amending your demand, a lesson taught to me my former mentor at the public defender’s office during plea deal negotiations with the district attorney. An admittedly specialized circumstance; however, the advice is sound and applies to all negotiations, even with witches over non-aggression life pacts.
Finally, she asks, “Please define who you mean when you say your friends?” A fair question. One I’d anticipate from someone like Arianna. Although I haven’t had a lot of dealing with her, she comes across as competent, shrewd, someone not to mess with. Whatever emotional advantage I had over Arianna has fallen to the wayside as we negotiate the further details of this agreement.
“My partner, Sinn, and my employees, Wilson and Joycee.”
“Agreed, with the caveat that she is permitted to defend herself if any of you attack her.”
“Al—”
“Mr. Valentine,” Arianna interrupts me, “I won’t be agreeing to any additional terms.”
“I was only going to say, alright, but I need her”—I point to Ginger—“to say I agree.”
Arianna’s pale cheeks turn a light shade of pink. “Of course, that was an implied term. Ginger, tell Mr. Valentine you agree.”
Ginger looks first at her sister, then at me, and then at the floor. She squirms in her chair, drawing a circle on the old, faded-blue, tattered carpet with the point of her chunky heels, but she finally relents. “I agree.”
“Great, let’s all go downstairs and get some coffee; we can all sit together at the conference table, we might even have leftover bagels. I know Sinn bought some this morning and she rarely eats them. It’s a vampire thing, I think. It’s weird—I think she just likes the smell and the ritual of spreading the cream cheese. Anyhow, Adrian is going to be here any minute, and I’d rather have you answer our questions all at once.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Ginger, why don’t you head down; we’ll be right behind you.” Before I can object, Arianna preempts me, “Don’t worry, Mr. Valentine, we have made an agreement, she won’t wander off.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, Colt.” Ginger emphasizes my first name, in the same tone a teenage girl might use when defiantly calling her father by his first name, rather than Daddy. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, accepting Ginger at her word; still, something about letting her walk around freely after she tried to kill me today, twice, tickles my ass and not in a pleasant way.
Once she’s gone, Arianna Soot catches me off guard by embracing me in an awkward hug. Her small perky breast pressing firmly against me, while her surprisingly erotic scent, burnt sage and fresh apricots, entices my senses. “Mr. Valentine, allow me to thank you,” she whispers into my ear. “I appreciate that you came to me about my sister. You didn’t have to do that. I know she can be . . . irritating and impulsive. She is an acquired taste; still, she is my sister.”
Once she releases me, and a semblance of normalcy returns to the room, I clear my throat. “It was the right thing to do.”
Arianna gives me a sultry look, one with implications, dangerous implications. Implications I am not ready to explore. Implications I might never be ready for or want to explore. “Mr. Valentine, there is no reason we can’t be friends. Are we friends, Mr. Valentine?” This sudden downshift from antagonist to seductress is giving me whiplash. I am adrift, having completely lost my bearings, and I am headed towards dangerous waters. I have a feeling Arianna’s definition of friends is much more physical than the definition you’d find in Webster’s Dictionary.
“Sure, we’re uh friends.” My personal professional credo decrees that when possible, it’s always better to be frenemies than enemies; particularly when the individual in question is an attractive and dangerous witch. Getting along with individuals you might not like, or you might not trust, is part of the job description of a lawyer. It is as much a part of the job as taking your top off is for a stripper. In both instances you might not like it, but you got to do it, or you got to get a different job. Arianna leans in closer, I can feel her warm breath skip across my lips.
“We should go, stairs, the uh, Lycan—, Adrian will be here soon.” I stumble clumsily through the sentence. Arianna is quite attractive, in a dark, twisted, and terrifying way; probably a hellcat in the bedroom, both literally and figuratively. The mix of danger and budding sex wafting in the air combined with the fact I haven’t got laid in a while, more than a while, is causing my linguistic gaucherie. I’m not usually this awkward around women; at least, I used to be better around women, although a quick analysis of my recent conquests would suggest otherwise. In college, I was the man, and then I got hit by the Mack truck that is marriage and its accompanying tractor-trailer known as divorce, resulting in this pitiful, gameless version of myself. Get it together man. It’s obvious that Arianna is keenly aware of the effect she is having on me and is getting off on my uncharacteristic diffidence. I’ve got to stop acting like a punk, take control, Colt.
“Yes, Mr. Val—en—tine,” the deep harmonic sexualized way she says my name, highlighting each syllable with her sensual dark lipstick-covered lips, causes me to turn abruptly and step towards the exit doorway as I do my best to avoid embarrassment resulting from tightness in my suit pants. Sometimes the best strategy is to leave an awkward situation before you make it more awkward with an unplanned erection, in other words, a strategic withdrawal. I try to retreat normally, at an ordinary pace, but I am having difficulty determining exactly what a normal pace is. At first, it feels like I am walking too fast, so I try and adjust my speed down, and then it feels like I am walking too slow. I can’t seem to find a normal medium.
I hear Arianna sigh with disappointment, and then follow me out of the storeroom, closing the door behind her. Together we follow the hallway leading to the stairway down to the office where the others wait. Where Sinn waits.
Chapter Nineteen
“Ginger, Cinnamon, whatever it is you call yourself, tell me the truth. Who hired you to kill me?” shouts an impatient and plainly frustrated Adrian. We have been at this for nearly an hour and we’re twirling in circles, not getting anywhere. Ginger is either the world greatest liar or she really doesn’t know anything useful. The only upside has been that Adrian is leading the interrogation, so I am finally getting to enjoy a cup of coffee. Thank the gods for the miracle that is the coffea plant and for the dose of caffeine it delivers via the honeyed black milk begotten from its brewed beans.
“I’ve already told you everything I know.” Ginger looks to her sister for assistance; none, at least as long as Adrian keeps his paws to himself, is forthcoming. Arianna seems content to allow Adrian to hover above and verbally abuse her sister; she even seems to be mildly enjoying it. She may love her sister, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t receive a modicum of pleasure from watching her suffer a reasonable and manageable amount of discomfort—and, all things considered, her punishment thus far has been light when compared to her crimes. Ginger did try to kill Adrian this morning and was at least partially, albeit indirectly, responsible for the attack at the hotel that killed a government agent and left a cop severely wounded. As much as I hate w
atching a large man scream at and attempt to intimidate and impose his will on a woman half his size, I’m having a hard time manufacturing any sympathy for Ginger.
Adrian persists, “I want to hear it again. Start over, back at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”
Ginger exhales loudly, the air vibrating off her top and bottom lips, making a motor sound while she shakes her head side to side in defeat. Finally, once she’s done pouting, she rapidly speaks at a speed only a meth-head or the guy from those micro-machine commercials in the nineties could duplicate. “Like I said the first ten times, it was a blind hire, through the internet. I never met the person who hired me. I was told to fly to Canada and go to an address, where I would meet others. I was not supposed to use my real name. When I arrived at the address, there were four werewolves and a goat. Not exactly my idea of a party. There was also an envelope with my name on it. Inside the envelope was your picture, typed instructions, and a bank account number where my fee was being held in escrow until I had completed my task.”
“A witch, four werewolves, and a goat—sounds like a sexy performance piece I saw on La Sexta street in Tijuana once,” remarks Wilson.
Ginger seductively winks at Wilson, causing him to cough, and causing me to think about washing my mind out with bleach.
“Then what?” prompts Adrian, disregarding Wilson’s adolescent commentary.
“You know what. I’ve already told you. Ten times!”
“Tell me again.”
Another dramatic sigh. “We drove for hours. It was miserable. The goat smelled like ass and wouldn’t shut its trap. We finally arrived at a crappy cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere. I gutted that fucking yapping goat, cast a spell, you went for a run, the idiot wolves I was with chased after you, and then I was ambushed, locked up, and left to freeze to death in an undersized refrigerator by that asshole.” Ginger points at me while squeezing her lips and deflating her cheeks, creating a convincing pissed-off, if not entirely sour, expression.
“And then?”
“And then, I escaped. I went back to where I thought the truck was, expecting to have to drive all the way back to civilization. Instead of finding the truck, I found a creepy man. At least I think it was a man, he was entirely clothed in black robes, head to toe. Even his face was covered with a fucking scarf, and to make matters worse, he wouldn’t fucking speak. The fucking robed weirdo just stood there, silently, in the creepy fucking woods, staring at me. I thought the sicko was going to try and force me to give him a blow job or something. Finally, after like ten minutes, he reached inside his robes, retrieved an envelope and handed it to me. Inside the envelope was another picture, an additional bank account number, and more typed instructions. This time the picture was of him.” Ginger points at me. “The instructions said the target would be arriving at a hotel in Massachusetts sometime today, and I, and some new recruits, should be there to check him in. The instructions were clear; he wasn’t supposed to check out, if you know what I mean. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. He was supposed to check out, permanently. Fuck, I don’t know, check out, don’t check out—we were supposed to fucking kill him.”
Adrian nods. “And then?”
“And then,” Ginger says, mimicking Adrian’s tone, “the black-robed monk opened a gate and I stepped through. I didn’t really have a fucking choice. I was in the fucking Canadian wilderness, miles from civilization, without a ride home; plus”—Ginger’s voice increases in volume and she turns and glares at me—“I wanted payback from that asshole for cramming me into a mini-fridge.”
“It was a full-sized refrigerator,” I mumble half-heartedly, while my thoughts drift to the black-robed being. He opened a gate, which is concerning. Few beings can do that; there’s a good possibility there was an Advocate under that robe. And if it was an Advocate, this just got a whole lot more complicated.
After pausing for a moment and shooting a death-glare in my direction, she turns back to Adrian. “My backup was waiting for me at the hotel when I stepped through the gate—more fucking wolves.” She makes a gagging sound while mockingly shoving a finger into her mouth aimed at the back of her throat. “We waited several hours in the hotel office; some of the stupid fucking wolves got hungry and over my objections decided to make a lunch run. Wolves and their fucking bottomless stomachs—that’s why I hate working jobs with wolves, they’re stupid, impulsive, and always want to stop and eat, and then they want to fuck. Hairy, horny, little bitches. Completely unprofessional.”
Adrian’s cheeks momentarily flicker with a faint pink glow while she berates his kind.
“And then,” Ginger says, beating Adrian to the punch, “while half our forces were out getting burgers, Wilson”—Ginger smiles at Wilson— “and a cop showed up. The one moron wolf who didn’t bail for lunch got overly excited and shot at them. The whole thing was a goat-rope, a total shit-show. The asshole target,” she points at me again, “got the drop on me again and locked me inside of another fucking refrigerator. I am a Southern lady; I don’t like the fucking cold. Fuck you, Mr. Valentine, don’t think I won’t write a blog about how you treat women. #MeTooMutherFucker. And now, I am here, wherever the fuck here is. Lucky fucking me. There, you know everything I know. Can I fucking go now?”
Adrian looks like he’s about to strangle Ginger; before their passion-filled conversation can escalate into all-out werewolf versus witch battle-royal, with me stuck in the middle playing Mills Lane, I decide it’s time I put some work in—get my lawyer on. Adrian did hire me, and technically, although I’m enjoying watching Adrian do all the work, questioning witnesses is part of the typical bundle of services a lawyer provides to his clients, and I wouldn’t want Adrian to feel dissatisfied with my representation. We are all about client satisfaction at the Arcane Justice law firm. I also have a bunch of questions I want the answers, too, and it doesn’t look like Adrian will ask them on his own. “Adrian, do you mind if I take over? I have a few follow up questions for Cinnamon.”
Adrian exhales, “Be my guest, she’s a fucking bitch and she uses the F-word way too fucking much. I really wish you hadn’t promised to let her go. She tried to kill me, she tried to kill you, she deserves to have all of her arms and legs broken, to be shoved back into a mini refrigerator, buried ten feet under the ground and then paved over. I’m thinking a monument to a fallen agent would look nice standing on top of her concrete grave.”
I can’t help myself—I again mumble, “It was a full-sized refrigerator.”
“Oh really!” shrieks Cinnamon. “I use the F-word too much? Fuck you, you fucking fuck fucker, go fuck yourself!”
“That’s what’s bothering you? That I think you cuss too much? And not the fact that I want to bury you alive under a monument of concrete?” asks Adrian.
“Fuck you, you over sensitive, full-moon loving, ass-sniffing, leg lifting, hairy mother-fucker!”
Wilson and Joycee both lose it. Wilson unabashedly and loudly laughs, while Joycee does her best to mask her giggling with both hands; and they’re not the only ones who are finding the conversation amusing. Vanessa is also smirking, and just the faintest beginning of a smile is tugging at the corners of Arianna’s mouth. The only people not laughing are Sinn, who as usual is maintaining a frosty expression; Adrian, who looks more drained than angry at the filthy outburst—maybe the regeneration he underwent earlier is making him tired, or maybe he’s just reached the point of frustration where it metamorphoses into indifference; Cinnamon, who is managing to look simultaneously insulted and somewhat exhilarated by Adrian’s frustration; and me; and the only reason I’m not laughing is because it would be unprofessional. I must build a bridge of trust with Cinnamon; otherwise, my questioning will be just as valueless as Adrian’s. Thus, I am holding back my laughter by intentionally biting my tongue so hard I’m tasting blood. Desperate times call for desperate tongue-biting measures. On a completely unrelated note, I oddly wonder if Sinn can smell the blood pooling in my mouth? Fuck, my life is
weird.
“Mr. Valentine, it would be so much easier if you just let me kill her,” pleads Adrian.
“I know a good cement artist. She does excellent work. Her sculpture game is A+. That is if you’re really considering the whole burying the refrigerator and cementing over the top monument thing—which I wholeheartedly support,” interjects Joycee.
Adrian smiles at Joycee, clearly appreciative of her supportive contribution to the discussion. At least the breech in that fence is mending.
“Adrian, I get it, Cinnamon is a pain in the ass, but she’s not worth it. She’s just a tool, a hired gun. Don’t you want the people who hired her? She isn’t your enemy anymore—they are.”
“Could have fooled me,” mutters Joycee. I glare over at her to get her to shut up. “What?” she answers in response to my glare. “She sure seemed like his enemy this morning when she was trying to k—."
“That was then, this is now. You’re not helping,” I grumble in a tone that is both louder and nastier than I intend. Joycee looks down at her feet like a wounded animal. I probably should have been nicer; she’s the last person I want to upset, even if she’s making my life more difficult than it need be.
“Mr. Valentine.” The way Adrian says my name, makes me feel old, like I’m my father.
“I told you this morning, call me Colt.”
“Colt, I don’t think this witch is really trying to help us, and right now, a little torture or the taste of her blood would go a long way towards satiating the anger I’m feeling towards her.”
I nod in understanding, rather than agreement. While on the inside I may agree with Adrian, threatening Cinnamon any further isn’t likely to result in the answers we need. Sometimes, the only way to get the answers you need is by playing Perry Mason. No, I don’t expect my clever questioning to result in a last-second confession that wraps the entire assassination plot up into a bow so I can get home in time for some hanky-panky with Della Street; she was Mason’s secretary, whom I’m absolutely positive he was boning. But I do believe that factual analysis, followed by pin-pointed questioning, can lead to answers, sometimes answers even the witness didn’t know they had. I don’t remember which comedian said it—somebody famous, or at the very least infamous, the name is escaping me—regardless, they said, ‘In comedy, timing is everything.’ The same is true of the law.