by N Gray
Someone over the intercom requested for Dr. Désiré Saunders to go to the O.R. room.
“Sorry, duty calls.” She stood. “I’ll phone around when I get a chance and get back to you. But I have to go,” she said, and she left the same way she came.
As soon as it was just the two of us again, I exploded. “What have you gotten us into, Ralph? Did the police know this about him?” I sounded as angry as I felt, and I crossed my arms over my chest and sat back in the chair. I felt heat stir within me and knew the look I was giving Ralph was not a friendly one. I was pissed, and now both of us were knee-deep in voodoo shit.
“I didn’t know either, Blaire. I thought we knew who all the bad voodoo priests were, but this guy wasn’t listed on the search engine when I checked his background. I didn’t pick up where he originated from, or if he had ties to anyone else. There was nothing, I swear.” He considered it for a moment. “I should have known better.” He shook his head, and a dark look crossed his face. “Martin handed this over to me too easily. I mean, he is good at his job and his team should have closed this quickly, but now I’m starting to understand.”
“What time are we seeing Martin?”
He lifted his arm to check his watch. “In forty minutes. Let’s go.”
We paid and left.
The drive to the District Police Station on 63rd Street was quick, but we waited in the car until it was the agreed time before heading inside to see Detective Martin Everett. Ralph knew him from when he had been a Marine, but that was all he told me about the man. I guess he had secrets he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—share with me. The difference was, I couldn’t remember.
The officer at the front desk rang for the detective while we waited in the newly built reception area with its high ceilings. The tiles were white, and there were long colorful wavy patterns along the reception desk. The chairs were neatly arranged into rows. We sat in the last row with our backs to the wall, where we could see both the public entrance and the internal door from which the cops emerged. If anyone wanted to get to us, it would be through the window at our sides. Anyone crashing through would give Ralph enough time to go for his gun. Because of last night’s date, I had left my gun at home.
After a few minutes, Martin came to greet us. He was taller than Ralph, with broader shoulders, deep-set brown eyes, and brown skin. His black hair was shaved close to the skin at the sides and was curly on top, with grey highlights. We followed him into a room, where he offered us coffee.
“So, Blaire,” Martin started to say. He was leaning against the wall across from where we sat. “Ralph told me about your attack. It sounded awful. How are you holding up?”
“I still can’t remember much.”
“Do you remember me at all?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t, Martin.”
“I suppose that’s a good thing. You and I have gone head-to-head a fair few times in the past.” His laughter was like rumbling lightning on a stormy night.
It seemed to be a joke we all shared—except me. Even Ralph was laughing, although his laugh was not as deep as Martin’s. I smiled pleasantly. It was a smile that said I was trying not to get angry, even though they were laughing at my expense. We were in a police station. I could remain calm.
Our coffees arrived and saved me from further banter. Martin closed the door and sat across from Ralph, holding a personal mug that read ‘World’s Best Dad’.
“Okay, talk to me, Ralph.” Martin’s voice held an air of authority. From just those few words, the air felt tighter with the weight of the situation. He must have been scary as hell to all the new recruits; to have to look up at this man with such a deep voice and a large body looming over them. I would have been afraid if I was them.
“The priest, Martin. He knows who we are, and he did his voodoo hoodoo on us last night.”
“Go back, Ralph. What exactly happened?”
“We were following him, and then when he left to play poker, like he does every Wednesday, we had a look.”
Ralph said the word, ‘look’, slowly and did something that I couldn’t see, but Martin understood. They shared a silent agreement that Martin knew we had entered a suspect’s house without the owner being present. But Ralph couldn’t exactly come out and say it, not in a police station filled with cops. I wouldn’t have said anything at all, but that’s just me.
“He has some freaky shit in that house, Martin. And,” Ralph whispered, “he has a secret room where he’s keeping a woman chained up. She was bleeding everywhere, and it looked like she was missing her tongue and ears.”
Those dark, deep-set brown eyes stared at Ralph. His cop face was impressively blank. I so would not play poker with him. He had no telltale signs.
“You knew?” Ralph made it a question.
Martin flinched and then corrected himself; he was back to showing us his cop face.
“You ass, I saw that. How could you give us this contract knowing what he’s into?”
“That’s why I passed it on to you guys; you would know what to do with it. We couldn’t find anything on this guy. We followed him for weeks and we came up with nothing, yet the murders kept happening. We need to know how he’s been doing it, Ralph.”
“Didn’t you see the bottles in his house?”
“No, there was nothing in his house when we executed the search warrant. There was no woman, no bottles—and no evidence linking him to the murders.”
“Are you sure it’s even him?”
“Very sure.” He looked down at Ralph.
“How?”
“Red.”
Ralph leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. “Fuck.”
“What’s red?”
“It’s not a what, but a who,” Ralph said to me. “He’s a clairvoyant the cops use when a case relates to vampires, witches or any otherworldly creature. He’s one of the best there is. Red points them—even us, sometimes—in the right direction.”
“And you’re sure Red pointed McNielty out?”
Martin gave one slow nod and cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“What can we do if he comes after us? He’s already used his magic to see our faces. Who knows what he will do next?”
“You know the law, Ralph. You know what to do if that happens.”
The conversation died down after Martin implied we could kill McNielty if he attacked us first.
The law protected humans should any monster attack them first, be that vampire, witch, were-animal, or any otherworldly creature. We could kill them in self-defense. Shoot first, ask questions later. That was the only way we could protect ourselves against them.
Humans only had weapons at their disposal; guns with silver bullets, holy water, silver knives or poison-tipped crossbows. When we were up against so many different kinds of monsters, with none of the powers that they had, we had to use what we could.
“I don’t like your friend, Ralph,” I said as we climbed back into the car.
“You never liked him,” Ralph said as he started the engine and we drove into the flow of traffic.
“Somehow I don’t think it’s just me who feels that way.”
“No, it’s not.” He made eye contact when we stopped at a red light. “Please could you wear your gun and your knives?”
“I will.” They were at home. I kept forgetting to put them on.
The car moved forward when the light turned green. “Here’s what I think we need to do. We check in with Marcus first, and then we need to see where our friend is.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely, Blaire. It’s still a contract, and it’s money.”
“Careful, Ralph. You almost sound like Marcus yourself.”
Chapter 7
MARCUS MET US IN ONE OF the restaurants near the same center as the voodoo shop. It wasn’t the wisest decision, but Marcus was already in the area, and as Ralph was driving, they outvoted me.
We sat in one of the red boot
hs facing the entrance, our backs to the wall. At least we had a good view of the voodoo shop. The restaurant had a variety of clocks on the walls; digital, analogue, big ones, small ones—all set at different times for various countries. Under each clock was the name of the country the time was set to. The name of the restaurant was Betty’s Burger’s, and it reminded me of a sixties burger joint where they served your food on a tray which you hooked onto the side of your car door with the window open. The walls were pastel teal, and there was a red jukebox near the entrance to the bathrooms, which were marked John and Jane.
Even the waitresses wore a sixties uniform, comprised of either a teal or lavender dress that came up to their knees and a black-and-white striped apron. Our waitress wore teal, and her name badge declared that her name was Doris. Her smile never seemed to falter, and as she moved around the diner, it was obvious that she was always friendly to the customers. She had to be medicated; no one was that happy all the time.
After a brief wait, Doris stood before us with her little white notebook and pencil in hand, ready to take our orders. Ralph and Marcus ordered hamburgers and fries, and I asked for a black coffee.
When she left, we gave Marcus the short version of what had happened with McNielty and what Martin had said earlier. Little red blotches started to spread from Marcus’s chest all the way up his neck.
Doris was back with their meals and my coffee. The burgers were double-decker patties and cheese, with relish and garnish, on a fresh bun. My mouth started to water. I called Doris back and ordered one for myself.
When Doris left, Marcus said, “You guys know I hate taking contracts from Martin. I will gladly take a contract from any other cop, but him…” Marcus shook his head. “I don’t trust the man.”
Ralph bit into his burger and glared at our boss.
“What about you, Blaire? What did you think of him?” he asked, glancing at me as he ate a few fries.
“I don’t like him. He gives off a bad vibe. I don’t know how to explain it, but he does.” I shuddered at the mere mention of him.
“You see”—Marcus pointed a finger at me—“you see, Ralph. I am not the only one who doesn’t like him. I know he’s your buddy from your Marine days, but shit, man—he gives us all the creeps.”
“Okay,” Ralph said, with a mouth full of food. “Okay. I get it.” He swallowed and took a sip of his soda.
“No more contracts from him,” Marcus declared decisively. “Actually, no more from anyone who works at that police station.”
“No more.” Ralph said.
“Promise.”
“Uh-huh.” Ralph nodded. “This is the last one.”
“I can’t believe you want to stay on this,” Marcus said, a frown carved into his forehead.
“It’s a large contract, Marcus. Do you want the money or not?”
The red blotches that had started on Marcus’s neck had spread to his cheeks. “How much are we talking about here?”
“A lot. Look at it this way; all three of us can buy new vehicles out of it.”
Marcus thought it over. “Dammit!” He hit the table with his fists. “No one get dead, all right? I can’t afford to lose another one.” Even though his eyes were small, I could usually see that they were the color of winter skies, but not now; now they were dark grey. The color of storm clouds.
One thing about Marcus was that he loved to wear a tailored suit. In many ways, he reminded me of executives in their prime. When he was nervous, like now, he rubbed his clothing between the index finger and the thumb of his left hand—the hand with two digits missing from gangrene. He was a were-lion, and tough as fucking nails. But two months ago, while we had been investigating Léon, Ralph and I had found Marcus in an alley after his then-girlfriend, Melinda Cromwell, had injected him with her so-called cure; she had been trying to eradicate his inner animal, to leave only the man behind. But it hadn’t worked, and he had almost died. Whatever was in that solution had made him too ill to shift into his lion form, and he had ended up losing two fingers as a result.
And since then, I had come to learn that we always had disagreements, but we were like a family. We were closer than your average company. When I was attacked and left for dead and one of our colleagues, Shane, had been killed, it had been a hard blow for us. Marcus was still trying to piece Shane’s murder together; we didn’t know who had torn his limbs apart, dumped his torso in the trunk of my car, and left his limbs in Marcus’s bathtub. We didn’t know why he was killed or who did it. At first, we had thought it was Roland or Miles, but they denied it every time. So, we—or rather, Marcus—really couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.
My burger came and I started eating. We finished eating our meals in silence. Ralph and I took turns to watch the voodoo shop as we ate.
After the waitress had removed the plates, Marcus said, “I hired someone.”
Ralph and I both stared up at him at the same time.
“Who?” Ralph asked.
Marcus hesitated. His eyes flicked from Ralph to me, then back to Ralph. “Someone we need.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“He is a witch, or a warlock, or whatever. He is very young, but he is very powerful. I’ve asked him to come here at 3pm.”
Marcus glanced at his watch; I could see the face, and it was almost three now.
“There he is.” Marcus stood and waved at someone as they entered the restaurant. I turned to see who it was. My mouth opened a little.
“Fuck, Marcus, he isn’t just young—he’s still a baby,” I whispered.
“You were young when I recruited you, Blaire. Besides, he’s fuckin’ good, and we need him on our side.”
“Wait, what? How old was I when I started working for you?”
“Uh”—Marcus hesitated—“about fifteen.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.” He shrugged.
He had me there—I had never asked—but I frowned at him anyway. He knew my memory was sketchy, but he seemed to be keeping information to himself. He wasn’t paying me any attention, so I relaxed in my seat; it was a waste of time being mad at him.
Movement caught my eye, and the boy was suddenly standing beside our table. He reached over and shook Marcus’s hand.
“Everybody, this is Devan. Devan, this is Ralph”—Marcus pointed to Ralph and then to me—“and that’s Blaire.”
Devan’s skin was the color of milk and was littered with freckles, and he had short, straight strawberry blond hair that had grown out over the ears. I found it amazing that people with red or strawberry blond hair almost always had green eyes. After he shook Ralph’s hand, he shook mine, and I noticed that both of his eyes were pale, but one was green and the other was blue. They were both strikingly clear and distracting at the same time. At first glance, you noticed the blue eye because it had a dark ring around the iris, reminding me of the eyes of a husky, and then you saw the other eye, with its pale green color that seemed to bleed into the white of his eye. The rest of his face was young and pretty; he had sharp features beneath the baby look that he still needed to grow out of. He was tall and as thin as a rake. When he shook my hand, it was with a good, clean, and strong shake; I could smell the soap he used to wash his hands with, and they were nice and dry.
Ever since my attack, my senses had improved, and I was able to smell and hear things much more acutely.
“Sit,” I said, moving up to make room for him.
“How old are you, son?” Ralph asked, giving the boy a serious look that said everything and nothing all at once.
“Nineteen.”
He looked younger than that; maybe even as young as seventeen. That explained the baby-face and the missing hair from his chin.
“I hope I’m not being too personal,” Devan said, looking at me, “but there is something about you, Blaire. You have a gift.”
“What are you talking about, Devan?” Marcus asked, as he leaned on his arms on the table.
Devan closed his eyes. “She was born with a gift.” He opened his eyes and stared at me. The colors of both eyes darkened. “Your white spirit is bright and very open, but your mind is locked.”
My jaw dropped a little. I closed it and swallowed. I did one of my slow blinks that I did when I was trying to think of what to say next. “I’m guessing you’re a clairvoyant?”
“Yes, I am called that sometimes. And there are other things I can do, but it only works on those of a similar calling to mine.”
“Since when are you a witch, Blaire?”
“I’m not a witch, Marcus, but I have something. It’s all new to me, too. I’m still trying to figure shit out.” I sounded angry.
Devan lifted his right hand to touch me, but the look on my face must have shown how I felt, and it was a ‘do not touch me’ look. If he was a clairvoyant, then he could see more than just what was visible on the surface, and the shake of my hand had most probably given him more than just a glimpse of me. He lowered his hand and left it in his lap, but his eyes watched me carefully.
“What was that, you two?” Ralph asked.
Devan was still staring at me as he said, “Sorry.” The weight of his apology was not lost on me; somehow, he made that one word mean so much more.
“It’s all right. Just don’t touch me again.”
There was silence for a heartbeat, until it was broken by Marcus. “Anyway,” he said, “as I started telling you on the phone, Devan, I need you to help these two with their current assignment.”
“The voodoo priest? Yes, I know of him. Do you have any items that belong to him?” he asked me.
I shifted in the chair. “We didn’t take anything, but I don’t know if the police did. Ralph?” I turned out of Devan’s gaze and looked to Ralph.
“Martin gave me a bag of his possessions. We can fetch it from my place later. Blaire has the case file, if you want to read through it.”
“I don’t need the case file. Just the items.”