by Alex Gates
After a second, I said in a weak voice, “Did he say that Melanie’s body is missing, or did I misunderstand him?”
Dakota sucked on her lower lip and nodded confirmation.
“What the fuck, Dakota? We’ve been stamping through this field all day long, ignoring his thousands of calls about my daughter’s missing corpse.” A tingling shuttered across my skin as I suspected that Dakota had brought me out here as a distraction. “Take me to him. Right the fuck now.”
Dakota put the car in reverse and backed away from the shoulder. The weight that had sat in the air all day faded as we gained separation from Dyer Lane.
“We’ll meet with Xander—”
“No,” I said, feeling heat burn my face as my vision tunneled. “Fuck him. We’ll go to Tacet right now.”
Dakota slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road. I jerked forward, thrown back as the seat belt locked. The stench of burnt rubber worked into the vehicle. Dakota glared at me with wide, wild eyes. “Listen,” she said. “I’m sorry about Mel’s body and that I didn’t take the call earlier.” She wiped her hand under her nose. “There’s just… there’s shit going on that you don’t need to know about. I swear, had I any idea his calls were about Melanie, I would have answered on the first ring. But I didn’t know.” She paused, heaving for air. “We’re going to Xander’s. Your beat to shit and angry and frustrated and fucking hurting—”
“Don’t you dare put me in a fucking box. I live with Xander, and I deal with that shit every single day. Do you understand me? If I want to speak with Mortimer to see what happened to Mel’s body, then that’s what I’m going to fucking do, whether you drive me there or I have to walk there.”
Dakota bit her trembling lip. “You’ll walk your skinny ass there from Xander’s house, then.” She grabbed her phone before I had the chance to reach for it and call Tacet myself, placing it under her ass.
As we drove back to Xander’s apartment, Dakota turned the radio on low, but neither of us spoke. I barely heard the music. My thoughts centered around my daughter—how she’d gone missing yet again. What was I supposed to make of that? How was I supposed to respond?
Our silence continued as we walked up to Xander’s front door. It stood ajar. I grabbed Dakota’s arm to prevent her from entering. “Get your gun,” I whispered.
She nodded, drawing her weapon. I counted down from three, then kicked the door wide open. Dakota leapt into the foyer, her pistol sweeping the area for danger. Xander sat on the couch, feet crossed and propped on the table. He held a scotch in one hand. His tie was loosened at his neck, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. Something terrible must have happened. I’d never seen him look so unkempt.
Dakota holstered her weapon.
“What the fuck is going on here?” I asked. “Your door is open and you look like a man who has lost everything to a gambling addiction. You even have your feet on the coffee table, which I’m pretty sure—and you’ve told me this at least a thousand times—the good book says is a sin.”
“Someone broke into the apartment,” Xander said, sipping his scotch.
“What?” I asked, glancing around. Despite his disheveled appearance, everything else seemed sparkling clean and in place. “When, tomorrow?”
“Probably earlier, when you were gone and left the door open.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Probably earlier, when it was convenient to be my fault. What about after Dakota and I left? You were still here. Maybe you didn’t lock up when you left for work. Why’s this shit always have to be my fault?”
Because it usually was. Because leaving the door wide open was a pretty solid reason to suspect a break-in timeframe. Because Xander is more responsible than a type-A mom who only cares about what people think of her. I moved into the kitchen, knowing my anger stemmed from Dakota and Melanie and the fact that the entire issue had to be put on the back burner for the next five minutes. If Xander looked how he looked that bad, the burglar must have stolen something pretty important or dangerous.
“If it makes you feel better,” I said, “Dakota has a crush on you. For some godforsaken, misguided reason, she even thinks you’re cuter than me.”
“It’s true,” she said, loud enough for me to hear from the other room. “Joey’s chin is a little too weak, just like he’s a little too skinny for me. I enjoy a man who I know can handle me when I need to be handled.”
I nearly spilled the scotch I’d poured for the two of us. Xander didn’t respond. After filling both glasses, I returned to the living room, handing Dakota her drink and asking Xander if he wanted more. He shook his head.
“Good,” I said, “more for me.” I drank a finger and surveyed the apartment once more. “How do you know someone broke in? Everything seems… fine.”
“The tetradrachms are gone, along with the chalice. Whoever stole them knew how to find them, which means they know where we are.”
Shit, I thought.
“Tetradrachms?” Dakota asked, her inquisitive nature taking over.
“The thirty silver coins that Judas accepted when he betrayed Jesus.”
“Fuck me,” I said, finishing my scotch in one go and running my fingers through my hair. “Dakota received—and ignored—about seventy-seven calls from Tacet. Apparently—and I promise you this isn’t my fault, though you’ll think of a way to blame me—Mel’s body went missing.”
Xander, slouching in the couch, shot straight up. “What?” He furrowed his brow, looking super-duper cute as his little mind worked out the puzzle. “These have to be related incidents, right?”
“No duh,” I said, glancing at Dakota and scoffing. “Genius over here, am I right?”
“Whatever Medea had planned that night with Melanie, we must have stopped it,” Xander said. “My guess is that someone new has taken up her mantle. It can’t be Hecate, since the Nephil can’t directly interfere with mortal lives. But it’s most likely another one of her followers.”
“Obviously,” I said. “But what concerns me is why they need the coins and the chalice? Why Mel’s body?”
After a moment of silence, Dakota cleared her throat. “I don’t know how or even if this helps, but after investigating Medea’s house, I found a single letter hidden in her nightstand drawer.”
My simmering anger bubbled back up. “You’re secrets are really starting to—”
Xander touched my arm, silencing me. “She was up-front with us, Joe. She said she had information and would provide it tonight. Let’s hear her out.”
Dakota nodded at Xander. “It’s the only evidence I managed to collect from the scene that points us toward the supernatural. I don’t have the letter on me, but it said something along the lines of, ‘Gladas still refused my love after I made him a Demi and issued the Scylla curse upon the woman.’ It was signed by Circe.” She hesitated for a second, allowing us time to consider the note. “I don’t know who Gladas or Circe are, but I know two things. One, a Demi can only be created when a Nephil drains half of their powers and offers them to a mortal. Often, in literature, they’re known as demigods—half-human, half-god. However, in order for it to work, the Nephil has to weaken themselves permanently. Whoever Circe is, she loved this Gladas enough to sacrifice her immortality and powers for him… or her.”
“Have you ever heard of that?” I asked Xander.
“I have, though only in myth. No Nephil is stupid enough to drain their power and offer it to a mortal.”
“The second thing I know about that note,” Dakota said, “is the Scylla curse. It creates a water-monster out of a woman, called a Scylla. The woman must feast on human flesh once very two weeks, otherwise she’ll turn into a monster permanently.”
Again, the room fell into silence. I thought about the day’s events—our search in the field for evidence of a missing boy or cult activity, our run-in with the robed apparition before we left, Tacet’s relentless calls about Mel’s body disappearing, and the theft of the Tetradrachms and Holy C
halice. Coincidences happened, that was true. But not like this. Everything connected, and it all led back to Hecate. We just needed to figure out how.
5
“Don’t make me, Mom,” I said the next morning, lying on the sofa and shoving a pillow over my face to drown out the light and Xander’s voice. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before—my eyes had been spring-loaded, bouncing open every time I closed them.
It was no different than any other night, except I didn’t have the luxury of stealing away and taking a drive to the nearest bar. Instead, I’d settled for Xander’s stash—a fifth of tequila, which he had kindly bought just for me, probably so I would stop drinking his good scotch. Halfway through the bottle, and about a season into some streaming series, I passed out as the sun rose. Xander came clambering into the living area, droning on about how he spoke with Dakota and that she had to work today and I had to go to the office with him, since I was too negligent to be left alone.
“I promise, I’ll be better today,” I grumbled, nursing exhaustion and a throbbing hangover. I almost craved for an Automaton to kick me in the face again. Speaking of, my entire body ached from the recent beatings. I was more akin to roadkill than anything living. With the pillow covering my face, I patted around the floor and found the tequila. Nothing like some hair of the dog to fix any ailment.
Xander snatched the bottle from my weak grip. “Joseph—”
“Don’t use the J word. It intimidates me. You know that.”
“You’re not healthy right now.” He sighed, gazing at the ceiling. “Mentally or emotionally.”
“Or physically, though I’m still pretty impressive. You can’t deny that.”
I knew he hated playing the role of a punitive parent to his now thirty-year-old best friend. But he’d always been more equipped than me to deal with stress and unpredictability. Even in the military, he’d served as the voice of reason to my shiny-object desires and make-matters-worse problem-solving approach.
“You need something to clear your mind right now—to help you process your emotions. Do you even know how to…” he cringed as he finished the thought, “access your new power?”
My demonic power, I wanted to chime in, but didn’t. There was no reason to further complicate our relationship. “Not exactly,” I said, remembering how well Dakota’s experiment had worked last night.
“What about your guns?”
“What about them?”
Xander shrugged. “I don’t know. You haven’t even looked at them since we recovered them from your house. You can’t be one foot in and one foot out and expect to get anywhere.”
As much as I loved the guy, that right there was the reason I hated him. He was flippant and uncaring, focused more on the solution than the problem—which, don’t get me wrong, is fine. But sometimes I didn’t need the extra humping—I just wanted to be held. That’s a sexual euphemism, to be more present in the moment.
But for him, it was always, Hey, Joey, why don’t you get off your depressed ass and do something? Oh, because you don’t have what’s necessary to do it? Like a meaningful lead to locate Mel or knowledge on how to use your super random new powers? Well, you know what they say, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And did you know that anything is possible with God? Just drop on those virgin knees of yours and shoot up a couple prayers.
Now, imagine all that in the most idiotic voice. Something low and slow and mumbling. That’s exactly how I heard his message in my pounding head.
“Did you hear me?” he asked, waving a hand in front of my face. “Joey?”
“What?”
“Did you hear me? You still know the Nephilim language, right? You can still carve runes into ammunition. Get yourself prepared for when you do learn your new powers.”
I climbed from my prone position to a slouch, resting my chin on my chest as blood rushed from my head and down my body. The room spiraled around me. After a second of recovery, I said, “Listen carefully, okay? I don’t even know if this mystery power is related to the Nephil—or if it’s innate and I’m an untrained Sorcerer about to lose my mind with uncontrolled power. I never accepted another pact, and those fuckers can’t just bond me without my agreement. So, where the shit stain does that leave us? If I carved runes into bullets with the Nephilim language, and my new magic comes from, I don’t know, say an angel… well, those runes I spent hours inscribing are as useless as your dick. On a scarier note, if the power is innate, I could kill myself pouring power into the runes if I don’t know my limits.”
“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “So let’s make another excuse not to do anything but get drunk. You can—”
“Do fucking nothing,” I said, emphasizing each word with a pointed hand gesture. “Get that through your shiny head. Nothing. Guess the asshole what, Xander. I failed at protecting my wife. I failed at finding out who killed her. I failed at protecting my daughter. And I fucking failed at keeping her alive. I even failed at being an Acolyte—the one thing I was actually decent at. It doesn’t matter how carefully I step—I trip and stumble and eat dogshit. So, what’s the point? Why try if I’m just going to fall? You go ahead. Find my daughter’s missing body. Save her soul from Hecate for me. But if I’m there with you, I’m nothing more than a liability. So, put me on the injury report as out for the game with a concussion.”
Xander gnawed on his lip for a few seconds. “You’re going to work with me today. Bring your useless guns along and clean them, for all I care. Go into the basement and speak with the prisoners and see if they know anything about Gladas, Circe, or Hecate. I don’t really care what you do. Just do something. This… this look you got going for you… it’s pathetic.” He shook his head and went into the kitchen to pour some coffee. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Get dressed.”
After Xander’s rallying speech, I didn’t feel any different—just a little more frustrated with my incompetence as of late. Had I really allowed him to blunder through three consecutive sentences without interrupting once? What was my life coming to? Maybe he—and it kills me to say this—was right. Maybe I needed to take up a hobby like brewing craft beer or quilting or hooking, and not even the fun kind of hooking. I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind, deciding it was more comfortable to be miserable with someone else than miserable with a hobby.
Twenty minutes later, dressed and ready to impress, we strolled up to Mather Investigative Services—a rundown office complex in the heart of downtown Sacramento. A tired security guard lumbered around the perimeter of the building. She kicked a rock and followed its path as she moved at a speed somewhere between that of a tortoise and a snail. It was almost inspiring to watch how hard she worked not to work at all. Goals. Two agents disguised as bums sat near the front door of the agency. A tattered blanket covered one man, and the other wore a ski jacket and a thick beanie with a little fuzzy ball on top. After I’d humiliated them a couple days ago, they had both worked on growing out their scraggly beards and laying off the perfumes. I actually half-believed they were homeless.
As Xander opened the building’s front door, I paused before the two men. “Hopefully my suggestions didn’t affect your love life. I can’t tell if the sour stench or the pubic growth on your face is more off-putting.”
“Can you spare some change?” one of the men asked, pretending like he didn’t recognize me, though he had narrowed his eyes with the patented squint of hate.
“You know what?” I asked, adjusting my duffle bag away from my thigh and shoving a hand into my pocket.
“Let’s go,” Xander said.
“Hold on.” I ruffled around a bit, drawing the scene out longer than I should have. That’s the thing about jokes—it’s all about timing. I tended to over-time them, or overdo them, or something like that. After a few seconds, I removed my hand and formed it into a fist. “Ah. Here you go.” I uncurled my middle finger and grinned. “Please, use it wisely. I would hate to contribute to your drug addiction.”
/> “Joey. Now,” Xander said.
I bolted through the front door that he held open. “One of these days, I’ll have to get those guys’ names. They’re awesome. Maybe I’ll have them over for a poker night. You think they’d like that?”
Xander ignored me as we stepped into the waiting area of the building. It smelled like microwave dinner and cheap candles. Two customers sat in the faded chairs that wrapped around a corner of the lobby. One was a woman, about forty. She clutched her necklace with one hand and rubbed her thigh with the other. She had thinning gray hair despite her age, and clouded eyes that worked in parallel with her murmuring lips. The other customer was a man of anywhere between twenty-two and a thousand. He had thick shoulders and a broad chest, and while I’m still drooling over him, I’ll go on to say that he had a perfect chin with a perfect amount of stubble over his perfect face. He had striking green eyes that contrasted beautifully against his darker complexion, and a full head of hair that Xander could only dream about.
Averting my eyes from staring too long at the man and sending the wrong—maybe the right—message, I saw my favorite receptionist. A skinny man-boy with long fingers and hairy knuckles and blue-painted fingernails.
“Janson,” I said, greeting him and reaching my hand into the bowl of hard candies that sat on the counter between us. “You’re looking fine as ever. Have you been working out? Or did you do something new with your hair?” I tossed him one of the wrapped goodies. He wasn’t prepared, and it smacked him square in the chest, bouncing onto the floor.
“It’s… Chris, sir,” Janson said.
“I apologize,” Xander said, gripping my wrist and dragging me around the counter. He led me through a back door and down a hallway filled with offices on either side. “Are you doing this just to spite me?”