The Blood of Ivy

by Jessica King

  “Oh,” Cameron said, taking another swig of his beer.

  “You wanna be in the Underworld?” Robbie asked after a pause. “Need new people; you’ve got good blood from your pops and grandpa from ‘round here.” Robbie’s eyes were steady, dark, and the ever-fidgeting boy before him was still as a statue, a mischievous smile curling at the edge of his lips.

  Cameron raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but I got school and stuff. We get thrown out of Kinsley if we fight.” He knew the initiation ritual. Sometimes people joked about it, calling it the Circle of Death. He’d be beaten by three members of the gang. And he’d already taken a punch from Broadway. If he showed up with a bad enough black eye, it’d lead to all sorts of issues.

  “I know, man. If you get popped in the face or somethin’, you can tell your momma I did it while we were horsin’ around or whatever.” Robbie kicked his feet out, balancing himself between a barstool and the counter, his feet near a basket of oranges. “Check if any of the girls wanna do body shots, yeah?”

  “You nasty,” Derek said, walking by and swiping at Robbie’s legs. Robbie lost his balance and fell from the stool to the floor, raising a chorus of cackling from the couch. The boys fell on one another, reenacting the incident and using one another as props.

  Cameron tried not to laugh at Robbie’s glare. He’d never had a serious face, so when he looked angry, it turned his whole expression comical. He turned to look at Cameron and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I want in.”

  Robbie grinned.

  +++

  Saturday, April 1, 2017, 4:32 p.m. | Central European Standard Time

  It had been by chance that they’d seen the flyer with the Kingsmen symbol in their hotel. A Kingsmen Interest Meeting. The flyer had been entirely in Italian, but Vince had been able to get the gist of it.

  “Are you sure it said 4:30?” Ivy asked.

  Vince nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

  They were posted up in a booth at a pub that was not frequented by tourists. Nothing was in English, though that hadn’t made ordering food too difficult. They’d both found the word calzone on the menu immediately.

  As far as Kingsmen went, they hadn’t found any of those quick so easily.

  “Do you think it’s that group?” Vince asked. A group of men in dark jackets was huddled around a standing table, a cluster of empty beer bottles in the middle.

  They were grabbing onto one another, moving between singing and yelling at a reporter on the television propped up over the bar. The young woman wiping the counters rolled her eyes at them but smiled when they blew her a kiss. One of the men broke off from the group and grabbed her hands, singing. They looked so alike that Ivy guessed they were siblings.

  Ivy shook her head. “I hope not,” she said. “They’re laughing way too much for people contemplating murder.” She shifted her eyes to another group and then looked down at the table so Vince could pretend to stretch and look over his shoulder. A group of at least ten was at a booth, huddled against one another and talking in low voices.

  “They look a little on the younger side, but maybe?” Ivy asked.

  Vince stood under the guise of taking off his jacket. “No,” he said, dropping back into his chair. “They’re playing some sort of card game or something.” The noise of forks clicking against their plates was the only sound for a moment until Vince spotted a man in the back corner. “One guy is back there alone. He looks like a pretty serious dude.”

  “Weird vibe?”

  “Yeah,” Vince said. “He keeps looking around and then checking his phone.” Ivy made quick work of turning and spotted the man in the back corner of the pub. It was the darkest corner of the place, though that wasn’t saying much. The blinds were all shut tight against the bright light outside, and the lamps were at a mere glow instead of a shine. Combined with the dark wood and dark upholstery, she could have been tricked that the sun had already set.

  Ivy nodded, taking a sip from her drink. “Well, maybe people aren’t as interested in being Kingsmen as he hoped.”

  Vince huffed a laugh. “Imagine that.”

  “Well, it’s only been two minutes. Maybe some are straggling,” she said.

  “I’m hoping the Witch Pride thing scared them off instead of the other way around,” he said.

  They waited an hour, splitting a third calzone between them despite already being full. “Oh my gosh,” Vince said, biting into the melted cheese. The smell of peppers and meat drifted around their table. “This one is better than the one I got last time.”

  “Focus,” Ivy said. “I can’t see him without turning around.”

  “I’ve been watching,” Vince said. “Almost five-thirty and no one shows? I’d say he’s leaving soon.” Vince swallowed. “He’s paced a few times.”

  Another fifteen minutes and the man was gone. “Maybe Italy still has a chance,” Ivy said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sunday, April 2, 2017, 10:30 a.m. | Central European Standard Time

  Ivy had dragged Vince to mass without feeding him first, which had been a grave mistake. He didn’t say anything, but his stomach growled loudly, and each time it did, he scowled down at the button-down shirt she’d insisted he wear instead of a regular polo, or worse, his police uniform’s shirt, which had been his original choice.

  Father Dominick was speaking. He stood behind the podium; his smile practiced in a way that it hadn’t been when they’d first met him. “We have people in our lives who claim to be powerful,” the priest said. “Whether they might be the people of magic who walked through our city just this week, some of them claiming to be necromancers. They could not raise Lazarus from the dead, as we see here in John 11. No!”

  “That is no worse than someone telling you to trust them because they might be able to save you in any sense. Sure, we go to professionals for help in finances or in building a house or any of those things that go into the creation of a life. Those people will not be able to say, without fail, that they are going to make you a millionaire. That your house will never, ever catch fire or crash into pieces. They have no true guarantees. They are not the administers of justice and worth. No one can give you a one hundred percent guarantee except the Lord and Savior, who we see here, proves that he can raise people from the dead.”

  Vince’s stomach grumbled with fervor as if responding to the growing tone of Father Dominick. Ivy fished a mint from her bag and handed it to Vince, who unwrapped it as quickly as he could.

  “It’s this proof that we can rely on. There is only one form of true, powerful Justice in this world. And aren’t we glad he’s on our side?”

  There were nods all around the congregation, though they remained silent except for the family of small children in front of Ivy and Vince, who seemed to be playing musical chairs as the children constantly changed their opinion on who should sit next to their parents, who should be in the middle, and if anyone at all got to sit on a lap. The eldest daughter had just dumped her youngest brother off her lap and onto the floor, resulting in yet another reworking of their seating arrangement. This time, the son in the mother’s lap, and the daughter at the edge of the aisle sulking. But Ivy couldn’t be too distracted, the words of Father Dominick ringing in her head.

  There is only one form of Justice in the world.

  Had this been what her mother meant? She was sure her mother had heard a sermon like this one throughout her lifetime. In her journals, I fear Justice could have meant she was worried she wasn’t on the side of justice any longer because of her involvement in the witch community. The thought had crossed her mind before, but now the idea of it seemed stronger.

  After mass was over, Ivy called Joyce for an update as she walked around the outside of the basilica. She meandered among the columns, sidestepping people until she found a less-crowded alcove in the shade.

  “Anything on Wilkins?” If he had been up to nothing suspicious while she was gone, then it was more likely he wasn’t the Justice her mother had feared, right? T
he sentiment “while the cat’s away the mice will play” seemed to ring true in the case of cops and criminals as well, and she had yet to hear anything about the King or the Kingsmen since they’d arrived in Italy.

  “No,” Joyce said. “Did your mother maybe know another Justice?”

  “Why do you ask?” Ivy said.

  She could hear Joyce cooking something, the pop and crackle of a stove like tiny fireworks on the phone. “Because he came by asking after you yesterday. I didn’t know if you called his office or anything, but he said he was kind of worried about you trying to do fieldwork, especially in, oh, what did he call it? Like, a new environment or something.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to make of that, Ivy. I mean, he could be worried you’re getting away from him. But he could also be a really concerned doctor, especially since he did know your mom and we tried to help Mason and stuff.”

  “I know,” Ivy said. It did seem like constantly conflicting signals. “Did you get a gut feeling about him?” she asked.

  Joyce “Hmm’d” into the phone. “Hard to say. I thought he seemed nice, but serial killers have that slippery way, right? Like, if he’s both a psychologist and a serial killing psychopath, I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to fool us.”

  “That was sort of the same problem I was having,” Ivy said. “I figured if I did a few sessions with him, I’d get a sort of red flag or even a greenlight gut feeling. I didn’t get anything.”

  Joyce was quiet for another moment. “Did they help at all?”

  Ivy leaned back into the cool stone of the church. “I don’t know. I still feel jumpy at loud noises, but I’m not like constantly seeing the house in my brain anymore, which is nice.”

  Joyce let out one laugh. “I’ll bet.”

  “Any updates on Marsha’s trial?”

  “They scheduled it for a week from now, I believe,” Joyce said. Ivy heard her bite into something, and her words became garbled from chewing. “But I fink vat there’s pho mush evidence vat she’ll have…” a swallow “…to plead guilty or insanity. That house is in her name, and it looks like she was doing more than just tampering with prescriptions. They found pounds of drugs under her bed.”

  “Whoa, jackpot,” Ivy said.

  “No kidding,” Joyce said. “Just that will put her in jail, and since she assaulted you—”

  “Police officer assaults stack with charges,” Ivy said. “Yeah, I was thinking about that.”

  “So, yeah,” Joyce said. “Like a long time. Even if they couldn’t pin any of the murders you think happened in that house on her, she’ll at least be old enough when she’s released that I’ll bet she considers calming herself down a bit.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to prove she killed people. I want her behind bars for a long time.” Ivy remembered the bloodstains, but when she’d checked the site, it didn’t seem like any more witches were dead than the ones she could already account for. Were they Prophetess followers or unrelated?

  “Oh, trust me,” Joyce said. “We all do. Heard a bit of mutinous talk about her yesterday. People were joking about framing her for all sorts of stuff.”

  Ivy laughed. “Do not let them do that; the case will get thrown out.”

  Joyce laughed. “We’ll have a riot in the department if they do that. People were protective when they found out.”

  “Well, I’d be, too, if something happened to one of you.”

  “I know that.”

  +++

  Sunday, April 2, 2017, 2:45 p.m.

  Cameron’s adrenaline coursed, and he walked on the tips of his toes as he made his way into Derek’s backyard. Robbie was massaging his shoulders like he was about to enter the ring of an MMA fight, but Cameron felt more like a sheep headed to slaughter.

  “Man up,” Robbie said at his back. “You’re here. You’re doing this. And once it’s over, it’s over. You’re in.”

  Cameron squared his shoulders. He hadn’t eaten much since yesterday morning, and he wished he didn’t feel so weak in his muscles. But anything he ate had gone right through him, the nervous energy destroying anything he put in his body.

  He walked to the center of the ring. There were nearly twenty-five guys huddled in the backyard, an old couch off to the side next to a chain-link fence, where three of the older guys, covered in tattoos, were sitting. Watching. Judging their potential new member.

  The first punch came from his back, which he hadn’t expected, even though he knew one of the three guys initiating him was standing. The second came into his stomach, and he threw a punch out blindly. “Fight back, man, fight back!” one of the three said.

  Cameron went for an uppercut and connected with the corner of a jaw. A grunt and the fist was back in his ribs. He turned to block the sure hit coming to his side and punched a stomach and leg as his balance faltered.

  A hit in his eye and the ground dipped. He fell, his hands finding slick grass. He spat onto the ground and tried to stand. As soon as he was up, he was knocked down again. Had grass always been so hard? His mind vibrated from the impact, and he knew this was what a concussion felt like; he’d gotten one from football years ago. His head was instantly pounding. He stood again, swinging out over and over as he was punched again and again. Some of his hits connected, but most of them missed.

  “All right, all right. Give him air!” someone yelled. Cameron swallowed his blood as he stood. Someone must have hit him in the mouth. He ran his tongue along his teeth. Everything felt normal, and relief flooded him despite the pain. The punches turned to aggressive pats on the back.

  Robbie skipped up to him. “Eh, man!” he hugged him and pulled away. “We got some peroxide inside. Clean you up.”

  +++

  Sunday, April 2, 2017, 2:10 p.m. | Central European Standard Time

  “Father Simon, a word,” Father Nicholas said.

  Simon smiled and slipped into Nicholas’ personal office. “Lovely services this morning.”

  Nicholas did not smile.

  Simon laced his fingers in front of him. “Is there something wrong?”

  Nicholas pushed away from his desk, reaching out so that his fingertips rested on the polished wood. “There is, actually, with some of the outreach funding,” he said.

  “Oh?’

  “Yes,” Nicholas said, slumping in his chair. He was still in his white robes for the four o’clock mass, and they crinkled with him as he slumped. He used to be a thin man. Muscular. And now the folds in the robes reminded him of his skin, of the soft rolls of fat beneath the robes. He didn’t think himself vain often, but he had taken to dying his hair a few years ago when the grays had started to overtake his usual black hair. He stood and walked to Simon, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  He spoke to him in Italian. “Brother, your personal withdrawals from the outreach fund is outstanding. You haven’t left any definition for why you took the money.” He showed him a series of pages in his hands, Simon’s unmarked withdrawals highlighted in yellow.

  Normally, the priests would withdraw a certain amount of money and explain why they had taken the money, Nicholas often used it to help families in need cover grocery bills or sometimes small gifts for their children, as well as to feed the hungry. He liked to stick to the types of things the congregation would expect their money to be spent on. It kept things simple for them when it came to publicity.

  “I’ve been helping a few people who would prefer to remain nameless, Simon said. “They wish to keep their uses for their money anonymous as well.” Simon squared his shoulders and stood straight, despite his lack of height.

  Nicholas sighed. “You can see how this might look bad purely from a glance at our spreadsheets,” he said. Simon nodded.

  “I need you to trust me,” he said, light brown eyes pleading.

  It was not against their protocol for Simon to help a small operation within the community on his own, but the money had been disappearing at a faster rate. “Can you at least tell me what type of project you’re taking
on with this money?” Nicholas asked.

  “The money has gone toward funding freedom,” Simon said. At his raised brow, Simon sighed. “It’s important, Nicholas.”

  “I want to trust you,” Nicholas said. Simon’s eyes softened, and he turned to leave before Nicholas searched for a new question in the air. “What type of freedom is it that you’re using the church’s resources to fund?” he asked.

  Simon nodded. “That’s fair.” He thought for a moment. “Oppression. Physical oppression. There’s a group that’s been oppressing others for so long. Decades. Maybe even centuries. And there’s a young group trying to rise up and get out from under this, and I think it’s inspiring. Not everyone will, and I think we could run into scrutiny for offering our assistance, especially financially, which is why I didn’t even want it on our books. But I’ve prayed about this, and I feel like this is somewhere I’m being called to minister.”

  “Okay,” Father Nicholas said. That was incredibly vague. “I need a sort of estimate about how much money is going to be going toward this goal.”

  “Also, fair,” Simon said. “I can do that.” He nodded. “I will get back to you with a sheet of expected expenses in the upcoming month.”

  “Are you expecting to use any money this afternoon or evening?”

  Simon nodded. “I have two women coming to get aid from me at the four o’clock mass today.”

  “Thank you for your honesty,” Nicholas said. “I’d like to ask you to be a bit more frugal with this cause since we don’t know where the money is going.”

  “Of course.” Simon’s face was red, and his hands were fidgeting endlessly, but he got his cue to leave Nicholas’ office.

  Nicholas waited until he could no longer hear Simon’s footsteps in the hallway and dialed Ivy’s phone number. Perhaps this would be the perfect moment.