by Dan Stout
Jax peered at me, mandibles flexing. “Are you feeling okay? I know humans get cold easy, but this seems a little extreme.”
“Not really.” I cleared my throat. The buzzing was still strong in my ears. I squared my shoulders and faced him head-on. “It happened again. Cobwebs, cold, the whole thing.”
“When, right now?” He looked closer. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“It started when I ran into the big guy with the beard.” I closed my eyes, hoping that the world would be brighter when I opened them again. “It’s gotta be some connection to the manna strike.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Does it?”
“Hells, yes! It just makes sense!”
“All these places where you ran into cobwebs,” he said. “I was there for most of them, but I didn’t feel any of that.”
“So?”
“So I was at the strike, too.” He paused, hoping I’d make the connection on my own. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. “If that’s what’s causing your reactions, then why aren’t I having the same thing?” He stood straighter. “The Hasam’s close. We should get you to a doctor.”
“I was soaked in the stuff,” I said.
“And I was there when we pulled you back to the site and loaded you onto an ambulance.” He shook his head. “Carter, we need something more specific than that.”
“You don’t believe me.” The light dimmed a little more.
“I didn’t say that.” He swiveled slightly. “You talk to eyewitnesses all the time. How often do their statements match exactly? Just because their recollection or interpretation is off, it doesn’t mean you don’t believe them, right?”
“I’m telling you, this is real.”
“Okay,” he said. “I believe that. So let’s figure out what to do about it.”
“I’ve tried.” I started walking toward the Hasam, and the warmth of the overcoat and scarf.
He let out a harmonized roar of frustration. “You think I like seeing you suffer? Besides,” his voice softened, “what if it’s contagious?”
I managed a grin. “So take my mind off it and tell me if you can figure a way that someone could get access to Anson’s apartment.”
Jax wagged his head, but did me the favor. “You said it’d be someone with a key . . .” He stared at Anson’s building, then at the other buildings on the block with their almost identical detailing and paint jobs. “I think I can guess who the biggest landlords in the 24th Ward are.”
“What do you bet that the ownership of that building traces back to the CaCuris one way or another?” I kicked a discarded bottle from the sidewalk into the gutter. “With the amount of force that planted Anson’s face into his shower wall?” I grimaced. “Thomas CaCuri killed him. And that means Thomas probably killed Jane. For any reason. She was there at the wrong time, drawing the wrong gangsters on an alley wall.” I thought it through. It felt right. But why had he taken her jaw?
Jax stooped to grab the bottle I’d kicked, then turned to find a nearby dumpster. I curled my lips, feeling a mix of admiration and despair. My partner was one of the noble few who didn’t just push problems down the road. And that was the kind of guy who inevitably got stabbed in the back, sooner or later.
When his walk toward the dumpster became a sprint, I was confused. Until I saw the body sprawled in the alley.
I ran forward, thinking it was Tenebrae, that now we’d be cleaning up after the murder of a wealthy political player right under our noses. But the heavily bandaged man propped against the alley wall wasn’t the pretty-boy sorcerer. And he was still alive, if only barely. Jax stood on the other side of him, checking the alley for any immediate threat.
“Call for help!” I barked, but Jax was already racing back to the Hasam.
I pulled out my handkerchief and balled it up to put pressure on the wounds, though I knew it was a lost cause. Though he was decked out in bandages, the most dramatic of his wounds were fresh. One side of the man’s skull had been staved in, and each shallow breath rattled in his chest. But what stopped my heart were the wounds to his face. Images of Jane’s mutilated jaws crowded my mind, layering over the poor bastard who lay dead in yet another alley. His front teeth and a large portion of his jawbone had been ripped out, torn lips hanging limply on either side of his jaw.
Reaching toward him with the handkerchief, I immediately felt the sticky cling of cobwebs. I froze, afraid to move. The thought of more cold and darkness left me trembling. The man coughed, a weak, wet noise as it struggled past his ruined mouth, and that snapped me out of it. No matter how he’d gotten to that point, he deserved whatever comfort I could offer.
I pushed through the webs, pretending I couldn’t feel them tugging at my flesh, like peeling off a day-old bandage. He gripped my wrist as I attempted to slow the bleeding, squeezing my mangled left hand tighter to his wounds as the bundled handkerchief bloomed red, then saturated, allowing bright drops to scatter onto the cobblestones. I nodded encouragement and whispered in his ear. “Hold on, buddy. Hold on.” As though I could will him to stay alive, to tell us what he’d seen, who’d done this to him, to Jane.
Pressed close to him, I noticed that he had one arm in a sling. Then I noticed movement across his face. A series of bumps ringed the wounds on his jaw, and with each dying shudder, they grew. Within seconds, they swirled down his neck, under the skin but still continuing to expand. By the time they reached his shoulders they were fist-size spheres, sliding under the skin of his arms and collecting in his hands. The hands themselves swelled and burst, overcooked sausages on a too-hot grill. They healed immediately and swelled again, splitting and mending in turns as they expanded into grotesque caricatures.
I tore my gaze from his hands to find the man’s eyes locked on mine. One iris was brown, the other a filmy pale blue, as if a fish scale obscured it from the world. Uncertain what to do, I simply stared back, unable to even offer a last bit of comfort to a dying man. As the crowd noise increased, he opened his mouth, trying to speak, but the only thing that emerged was a stream of even more blood, gushing across his chin and over his chest. His tongue had been removed as well.
Then he gave a long, shuddering breath, and grew still. His hands were still swollen, but no more shapes rippled underneath his skin. I stared at the poor bastard, wondering what the Hells I’d just seen. I paused, looking into his discolored eye, and a memory flared. A man with one dead eye.
I pulled out my notebook, putting down every detail of this newest murder scene I could remember, ignoring the desperate, shivering cold that ran through my arms and legs. I kept writing, trying to find the details that escaped me, even though I knew there was no way Thomas had killed this man. I paused only to wipe my hands with the blood-soaked handkerchief, clearing away the cobwebs and telling myself I’d be fine. I stood, as lightheaded as if I’d just climbed to a great height, hot and sweaty. I realized that the pressure had eased and I took deep, instinctive gulps of air. I was still struggling to get my bearings as the sirens approached.
23
I DIDN’T GO HOME THAT night. Other officers may have been on scene but I was the only one who’d been in physical contact with the man in the alley during his transformation. And that meant everyone involved with the newly formed Arcane Regulation and Containment units wanted a piece of my time. As the night wore on, I slipped Jax my apartment key and asked him to feed Rumple while I spent one long, fruitless hour after another in various interviews and debriefs. I managed to stay awake and mostly coherent as I repeated again and again what I’d seen. But I kept what I’d felt to myself. That was something I couldn’t trust to just anyone. If alarms were raised and Dr. Baelen got her webbed hands on me, I’d never find justice for Jane or the new victim. But I also knew I needed help. During breaks I called Gellica incessantly, growing more anxious with each unanswered ring. I was desperate for someone to believe me and te
rrified of what might happen if they did.
By the time the day shift was trickling in to the Bullpen I was red-eyed and exhausted. I wanted to get some sleep. I wanted to not think about the media or manna or invisible threads and what it meant for me. I wanted to do my job. But even that option was about to be taken away.
I got the news in Bryyh’s office, standing next to the beige metal file cabinets topped with pictures of her grandkids. Bryyh was pacing from her desk to the cabinet, busying herself with paperwork and sparing me the least amount of attention possible as I crumpled the paper she’d just handed me, an OCU requisition paper claiming the Jane Doe and Anson cases. They were now officially combined under the umbrella of Dungan’s St. Beisht investigation. I took a breath then smoothed the paper against the cool metal of the filing cabinet. Sometimes we have to fight our impulse to tear to pieces the things we might need later.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”
Bryyh retrieved a file and slammed the cabinet drawer shut, narrowly missing taking a chunk out of my remaining fingers in the process. “There isn’t.”
She stalked back to her desk and took a seat. “And you know what? I think this may be for the best. You need a little time to clear your head. Maybe we rushed you back to active duty too fast.” The beads in her braids clinked as she pulled her chair closer to the desk. “You know what happens when your plate gets too full.”
“Too full?” I said. “We had one case. And it got taken away.”
“Hemingway and Andre were first arrivals on the Anson murder scene.” Bryyh’s voice softened. “I notice they aren’t in here fighting for the right to chase his killer.”
“Hemingway and Andre have other cases,” I said. “I don’t.” I didn’t say that I needed to find something to think about other than strange magical phenomena. I tried another angle. “You were the one who told me to fight to keep Jane.”
She frowned, but it wasn’t without sympathy.
“Well, that’s not an option now. Unless you think you can call up the OCU and make this go away.”
We both knew I couldn’t. Dungan wasn’t going to back down after he’d marked his territory, and the OCU was well within their rights to snatch the case away.
“Listen,” I said. “The OCU detective who requisitioned the cases—Dungan—he’s pulling something.”
“He’s pulling your cases,” she said. “And you don’t like it.” But she set down her pen and gave me her full attention.
“He doesn’t give a damn about Jane and the new victim,” I said. “He’s got some ego-driven idea about playing the Harlqs and CaCuris against each other, and he’s snatching up these homicides to get me and Jax out of his hair.” Even if Dungan succeeded in whatever he was doing, he might or might not get around to charging someone with Jane’s murder. “He’s pulled the case to spite me, and those killings are gonna sit neglected while he chases his whales.”
She took a deep breath and held it, cheeks puffed out as she stared at me. When she released it, her shoulders slumped.
“Sorry,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done. If we could make—”
“Come on!” I whacked the side of the file cabinet, causing the pictures of her family to totter.
“OCU are detectives, too,” she said, “and they’re fully qualified to pursue a murder investigation. As I was saying . . .” She chomped down on the word, as if crushing a candy between her teeth. “If we could make an argument that we’ve got a unique ability to work the case, we could try to pull it back.” She picked up her pen. “Think on that, and let me know when you have something that doesn’t waste my time.”
Bryyh returned to her work, but was kind enough to let me stew for a few seconds in the relative privacy of her office.
I was still staring at the pictures of her family when someone knocked on Bryyh’s door. She bellowed a gruff, “Come in!” and Guyer leaned into the room.
“Looks like it’s my turn to talk to you,” she said. “You ready for more?”
I wasn’t, not even close. But Guyer was at least a friendly face.
“Why not,” I said, and we went back to the interview room.
* * *
Guyer wore brown dress pants and a crisp cream-colored blouse. Dark circles no longer rimmed her eyes, and she actually had a light smile as we talked.
“You get some rest?” I asked.
“I had a day off,” she said. “You should try it.” The table between us was clear of distractions, the slightly pitted vinyl surface reflecting the overhead fluorescent light in a muted brown. “I understand there was a sorcerer on site?”
I nodded. “Mitri Tenebrae. He had some kind of fight with the CaCuris and got out of there before he got his ass kicked. I’m all in favor of you rattling his cage, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the body.”
“No?”
“The damage to the victim’s face matches my Jane Doe.” I winced. “The Jane Doe on Ringsridge Road. There was flesh from the killer’s hand in Jane’s wounds, and Tenebrae doesn’t have any corresponding damage.” I’d seen him up close, and both of his hands were sculpted perfection, just like the rest of him.
Guyer made a note of that, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t already told the other ARC officers.
“Any word on the victim’s ID?” I asked.
“Nope. Empty pockets, no wallet, and we sure as Hells aren’t getting any fingerprints off him. We’ll get it one way or another, though. Now,” she set down her pen and rested her hands on the table, “let’s go through what happened in the alley one more time.”
In the previous ARC questionings that night I’d been hesitant to talk. I’d tried playing dumb, I’d tried indicating that someone else must have had to do something. Ever since the first twinge from the shards of snake oil at Jane’s murder, I’d been more worried about what the brass and the shrinks would say than what I needed to do in order to get to the bottom of things.
But the situation was at a tipping point. And I realized that I had a way to prove I had a unique connection to the alleyway killings. If I did that, then maybe Bryyh could fight to keep the cases out of the grip of the OCU. I drew a deep breath and counted to three.
“I can do better than that,” I said. “I can show you.”
Guyer was silent, but she raised an eyebrow. I barreled ahead.
“Do you have your cloak? Or something else manna-linked.” I squeezed my hands into fists. “You got anything like that on you?”
She nodded.
“What is it?” I asked. When she hesitated again, I added, “Trust me.”
Guyer sighed and tapped the brooch pin on her jacket. “It’s tied to a collapsible baton on my belt. A bit of self-defense magic I learned back in school.”
“Can I see the baton?” I said.
She unlatched it from her belt and set it down on the tabletop.
I put my hand over it and felt nothing. No tingle, no itch, not a single strand of cobweb. I shifted in my seat and tried my left hand, paying special attention to the stubs of my fingers. Nothing.
Still, I focused, trying to convince it to grow, to bloom like I’d done to the poor son of a bitch in the alley. I stared and urged it on, and the sweep of the second hand around the clock told me nothing was happening.
Guyer cleared her throat.
My cheeks warmed. “You sure it’s still magicked? It’s been a long time since you were in school.”
“It wasn’t that long.” A bit of ice crept into her voice. “And I never used it, so it’s still good.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not getting anything. Are you sure—”
“Shortcuts,” she swore. Then she grabbed the baton and tossed it across the room. While it was still in the air, she plucked the pin from her lapel, gripping the thin metal tight between thumb and foref
inger. The baton jerked to a sudden stop, hovering in the air. It danced around the room, responding to the motions of the pin, amplifying them. If she’d been surrounded by attackers, she could have clubbed each one with only the simplest movements of her hand. It was as clear and simple a demonstration of magic as I’d ever seen.
And there wasn’t a single thread or cobweb to be found.
“Satisfied?”
I studied my hands, knuckles white as I gripped the edge of the table.
“Because,” she continued, “I just signed up for an hour’s worth of paperwork to reimburse me for the manna to re-treat the baton.”
“I get it,” I said.
“Yeah? I’m not sure you do. The reason I’ll get reimbursed is that I’m authorized for manna use in this case. That’s only happening because something clearly magical happened with that corpse you found, and the ARC teams needs to know what it was.”
I didn’t respond, determined to let her run her course.
“That poor bastard in the alley had something unnatural happen to him. Our best theory is that his body was being taken by manna rot.”
I looked up. “Say more.”
“Manna burns itself up as it’s used. If it runs out while the magical bond is still in place, the tethered materials will be consumed. If the victim had some kind of magical bond, and it wasn’t severed properly . . .” She deflated slightly. “Well, you saw what happened.”
I thought of the half-magical Gellica. No wonder she was so dependent on Paulus and her supply of manna. Without thinking, I rubbed my left hand. Guyer’s eyes widened.
“Oh, Hells.” She covered her mouth. “If you’re asking about what happened to you, I don’t know. No one’s ever been exposed to raw manna the way you were.” She looked at me, brows furrowed. “You must have been told all this before, right?”
I nodded. But I couldn’t ask about Gellica’s status without betraying her confidence. Did she have a half-life? Did she need to keep consuming manna to stay alive? If so, what did the manna strike mean for her?
