Chariots of Wrath

by R. L. King

  “I don’t like this,” she says at last. “It’s all moving too fast.”

  “Things tend to do that out here,” I tell her, glancing over. “You want to bail and try something else?” Part of me wishes she’d say yes. “I can call Nick, and—”

  “No. Let’s do this. We’ve got to do something. We can’t just let this go and hope it goes away.”

  That much, I have to agree with.

  I check the rearview mirror to make sure nobody’s following us, then focus on Nick’s taillights up ahead. We’re almost to the meet location.

  Nick hasn’t told Happenstance much about why he wants to get together tonight. He stayed in the room so we could listen to his end of the conversation, which hadn’t amounted to much more than, “Hi, Grandfather, it’s me, Nick. Sorry to bug you, but I’ve got some friends who’ve found something interesting—magically interesting—and we’d like to talk to you about it when you have some time.”

  To my surprise, Happenstance not only agreed to the meet, but invited us to come over in an hour.

  “He sounds curious,” Nick says when he hangs up. “I think that’s one of his major personality traits, actually.”

  “Not surprised,” I say dryly. “It’s kind of an occupational hazard with mages. The more powerful they are, the more they want to know everything about what makes the universe tick.”

  “This from a woman who owns a bookstore.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t read them all.”

  We take two cars because we don’t want to get that Tarot card anywhere near Nick before Happenstance can see it. I don’t know what kind of place the meet is at, only the address in Westwood, but I’m not too surprised when it turns out to be a closed restaurant. Nick’s already there, pulling into a parking space next to a black Mercedes. I park a few spaces down and wait for him to get out.

  “Let me go in first,” he calls. “Give me a couple minutes, then knock twice on the back door.”

  “You sure we can trust him?” Twyla asks nervously as the door closes behind him.

  “Who? Nick or Happenstance?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “Twy, we went through this already. We have to trust somebody. And right now, we don’t have a lot of choices.”

  The two minutes seem to take about three hours to pass. When I knock twice on the door, it’s answered immediately by a familiar figure. “Hi, Max.”

  Happenstance’s right-hand mundane lieutenant grins. “Hey, Bron. Long time no see. Come on in—they’re waiting for you.”

  He leads us down a hallway past the bathrooms and some other unmarked doors, and then the space opens out into what looks like a fancy, old-fashioned nightclub, all plush red carpet and paneled walls. Nick and Happenstance are seated at a big table on the other side of the room.

  Twyla and I stop before we get too close. “Uh—what should we do with the thing we brought?” I ask Max, pointing at Twyla’s bag. “I don’t want it anywhere near Nick.”

  He points to a table close to us. “You can put it there. Nobody will mess with it.”

  Twyla doesn’t look convinced, but I give her a nod. She was planning to offer the fifty thousand to Happenstance anyway, so it wouldn’t be a huge loss even if somebody did steal it. And as for the Tarot card—we might both be better off it disappeared or blew up.

  Reluctantly she puts the bag on the table where she can keep an eye on it, then follows me over to Nick and Happenstance.

  “Hello, Mr. Happenstance,” I say, keeping my tone pleasant but businesslike. “I appreciate that you’re willing to meet with us on such short notice.”

  “Ah, yes. Bronwyn Broome. I should have known you’d be in the middle of this.” He smiles to take the edge off his words. “Please, sit down.” His gaze flicks to Twyla. “And please introduce me to your friend.”

  Quentin Happenstance looks like what you’d see if you opened the dictionary to the entry for “aging matinee idol.” I have no idea how old he really is, but visually he’s a healthy sixty, with a vibrant tan, a full head of silvery-white hair, and brilliant green eyes. There’s no dust or wrinkles on his deep maroon suit or his dove-gray tie. In all my study of magic I’ve never heard any credible evidence that the faerie realms really exist, but if they did, I’d peg this guy as one of their emissaries.

  I take one of the seats across from him and motion Twyla to join me. “This is Twyla Rainwater. She’s a friend of mine from back home. Twy, this is Quentin Happenstance. He’s Nick’s grandfather.”

  “Ah. Pleasure.” He doesn’t offer his hand—mages don’t generally shake hands—but he gives her a courtly half-bow, as much as he can while seated. “I understand you and my grandson have gotten yourselves into a bit of trouble.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Nick says.

  I shoot him a quick glare, but I can’t deny he’s right. “Yeah. It is. And yeah, we have.”

  “Suppose you tell me about it, and then we’ll see what can be done, if anything.”

  I glance at Twyla, in case she wants to tell the story herself, but she shakes her head. She’s still looking nervous, checking every few seconds to make sure the bag hasn’t sprouted legs and wandered off. Normally that would be unlikely, but around here with present company, anything’s possible.

  I swallow, gather my thoughts, and begin speaking. Whenever I come near something that might be a touchy subject—like Selene’s possible involvement—I look at Twyla again to make sure she isn’t waving me off, but she never does. I think she’s adopted the “in for a penny, in for a pound” philosophy: if we tell Happenstance anything, we might as well tell him everything.

  He listens in silence, watching me over steepled fingers, nodding occasionally. When I get to the part about the cannibal zombies, his jaw tightens a little and his fingers twitch. The only part I don’t tell him about yet is the fifty thousand dollars in Twyla’s bag.

  He doesn’t speak right away after I finish. He’s staring off into space now, either using magical sight or pondering what I’ve told him. I can’t be sure which.

  “So…?” Nick asks, leaning forward. “Does any of that mean anything to you?”

  He continues to ponder, not speaking until he’s damned good and ready. “I’ve heard of these so-called ‘cannibal zombies.’ I’m sure you’ve heard the news accounts of other attacks.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “There was one on the news when Nick and I were having dinner a few days ago, and I’d heard others. I thought it was bad drugs or bath salts or something.”

  Happenstance shakes his head. “It’s definitely magic, though we haven’t been able to figure out what kind yet.” He addresses Twyla. “This man you met with—the one who was murdered. You said his name was DeVries?”

  “Yes.” She seems nervous to even be talking to him, which is odd for her. Especially considering that Happenstance is both handsome and obviously wealthy. “Arthur DeVries. He’s—he was—a video producer.”

  “He was, right?” Nick asks his grandfather.

  “Yes. But that isn’t all he was.” Happenstance’s expression clouds. “He works for the Skelligs, an organization much like mine. And his name wasn’t really Arthur DeVries.”

  “Wait, he was a mage?” I ask, surprised.

  “No, he was a mundane, a man named Philip Hooper. He sometimes served as a go-between, a liaison between the organization and those who might want to contact it from the outside.” He considers, then nods toward Twyla’s bag. “You mentioned you brought an object you wanted me to examine. What is it?”

  “A Tarot card we found in Mr. DeVries’s—er—Mr. Hooper’s mouth. We think whoever killed him might be trying to send a message with it—or if nothing else, we were hoping one of your people might be able to trace it back to its source.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Okay, this is where you and I go have a drink, Max,” Nick says, getting up. “We’ll be over by the bar if you need us.”

  As soon as Nick is out of th
e way, I get up to retrieve the bag. Twyla doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to do it. Instead of the whole bag, though, I only pull out the baggie containing the card. The blood is dry now, sticking it to the inside of the surface. I sit back down and shove it across the table toward Happenstance, noticing that Twyla no longer seems interested in the bag. “There. That’s it.”

  Happenstance doesn’t touch it. At first, he only gazes down at it, with an intensity that I’m sure means he’s using magical sight. I’d put it down with the Wheel of Fortune side up, and he leaves it that way for nearly five minutes, even pulling a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and bending to get a closer look.

  “Anything?” Nick calls from the bar. He and Max are seated on stools, with tall glasses of beer in front of them.

  His grandfather doesn’t reply, and neither do we. I’m watching Happenstance as closely as he’s examining the card.

  Finally, he waves a hand and uses magic to flip the card over, still inside the baggie. When he does, he stiffens.

  “Something wrong?” I ask, leaning in.

  His posture relaxes, but his expression doesn’t. Without moving his head, he flicks his gaze back up to Twyla and me. “You said you found this card in Mr. Hooper’s mouth?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that whatever killed him ripped his heart free of his chest?”

  “Yes. I—uh—have a photo if you want to see it. But what’s going on? Does that card mean something to you?”

  “Please, let me see the photo if I may.”

  I pull out my phone, a little irritated that he’s avoiding my questions, and cue up the photo of DeVries’s body.

  He studies it for several more seconds, then pushes it back across to me.

  “Mr. Happenstance,” I say, firmer this time. “You looked like that card meant something to you, when you saw the back. Can you tell us what?”

  In answer, he slips his hand into inner pocket of his jacket and pulls something out. He tosses it across the table toward us.

  It’s another Tarot card. The art style is the same as the one we pulled out of DeVries’s mouth. Instead of the Wheel of Fortune, it depicts the Magician.

  I shoot him a questioning look, and when he nods, I flip it over.

  The design on the back is identical to the one on DeVries’s card, with the same intricate knotwork pattern. Without the bloodstain, it’s easy to see that the stylized letter is an “L,” not an “I.”

  “What…is this?” I ask, my own tension rising. “What does the ‘L’ stand for?” Why does Happenstance have a card that could be from a deck just like the one we found? Is he trying to tell us his own people were responsible for DeVries’s death?

  Oh, great: we walked right in here with both eyes open, and nobody else knows we’re here.

  Happenstance looks neither dangerous nor angry, though. He shakes his head wearily and points at the new card. “That card, Ms. Broome, is from a club called Lachesis.”

  “Okay…” I don’t know where he’s going with that. “Named after one of the three Fates. But what—”

  Wait a second.

  Wait just a second.

  “The Fates…” I murmur, picking up the card. “Fate. Happenstance.”

  He looks pleased that I got it, but only for a moment. Then his expression grows serious again. “Lachesis is one of my clubs, Ms. Broome. You could say it’s my flagship—a venue designed solely for the entertainment of the magically talented, and definitely the one place most closely associated with me in the magical community.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I gape at him, and so does Twyla. On the other side of the room, Nick’s stopped his beer glass halfway between the bar and his mouth.

  My brain is spinning. “Hold on—so you’re saying that whoever killed DeVries, or Hooper, or whatever his name is, is connected with your own organization?”

  “Or whoever did it wants people to think they are,” Nick says. “Or it’s some kind of warning.” He pushes off the barstool and finishes his beer. “Can we move that thing away if you’re still worried I’m going to glitch it, so I can come back over there?”

  Happenstance nods idly. “Max, please take this and put it in the safe. We’ll need to do a ritual on it back home later, though I doubt it will retain enough traces to do a proper tracking. If that’s acceptable to you two,” he adds, looking back at us.

  I exchange glances with Twyla.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “But if you find any connection to my family, I want to know about it.”

  “Of course.” He gives the card to Max, who takes it out of the room.

  Nick returns to the table and reclaims his seat. “So, which do you think it is?” he asks Happenstance. “You have a rogue in your organization, or somebody’s trying to frame you?”

  “The latter, almost certainly.” His answer is nearly immediate.

  “Why do you think so?” I ask. “You don’t think you could have traitors in your midst?”

  “I suppose I could, but I doubt it. My people are loyal, and they also know I don’t respond kindly to betrayal. But that’s beside the point. I know someone is trying to frame our organization, because this isn’t the first time they’ve done it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nick asks. “And what’s happened before?”

  He looks down at the table, thinking. “I’ve suspected for a while now that a destabilizing influence has arisen in the area over the last several months.”

  “Destabilizing influence?” I ask. “Destabilizing what?”

  His gaze comes up. His green eyes are so vivid that, if he were anybody else, I’d suspect they were contacts. “How much do you know about magical society in the Los Angeles area, Ms. Broome? I know you’ve made it a point to keep yourself away from it—though I don’t know why—but some things are difficult to avoid.”

  “Not a lot.” He’s right, though—I’ve heard things, if only so I can make better decisions about areas and people to avoid. “I know there are several magical…organizations, I guess you call them, around here. Syndicates. Crime families.”

  “Let’s call them organizations,” he says pleasantly, though I notice he doesn’t make any effort to contradict what I’ve said. “And you’re right. Mine is one of seven, if you don’t count the minor ones with very little influence. The Los Angeles geographical area is quite extensive, and all of these groups have, at least up until now, coexisted in relative peace due to certain agreements.”

  “What kind of agreements?” Nick asks.

  “Carving up the territories,” I say. “Right?”

  Happenstance chuckles. “Such colorful language. You make us sound like a collection of old-time gangsters. I assure you, it’s all much more civilized than that. Or at least it’s supposed to be.”

  “What’s happening now?” I glance over at Twyla, but she’s sitting quietly, taking everything in without comment. It’s odd for her to do that, but I don’t try to draw her into the conversation.

  “Nothing major—small incursions into each other’s spheres of influence, usually associated with certain affiliated groups.”

  “Affiliated groups?” Nick asks.

  “Gangs.” Max has returned from putting the card away, and now straddles a chair next to Nick. “Mundane gangs who operate in the magical organizations’ territories, handling the mundane business the magical bigwigs don’t want to dirty their hands with.” His words sound harsh, but his expression is easygoing and amused. It’s pretty clear he’s long ago accepted and come to terms with his position in the hierarchy of things magical.

  “Wait,” Nick says, frowning. “You mean the other magical organizations are stirring up the mundane gangs?”

  “Up until now, that’s all that’s occurred,” Happenstance said. “Do you remember the night we first met, when I had to put our conversation aside to deal with a pressing matter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One of our neighboring organizations’ groups had g
otten into an altercation with one of ours, and dealing with it before anyone else got involved required a personal touch.”

  “Huh. I never saw anything about it in the news.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  I sit back, amazed. I know a little bit about the organizations—I’ve heard of Happenstance and a couple of his counterparts in the other syndicates, and I know different ones specialize in different types of activities, but I had no idea it was this big. I wonder just how much of the Los Angeles magical scene these groups control, and how much I’d managed to avoid their influence by staying away from anything to do with magic.

  Still, this is troubling. I’m having a hard time getting my mind around all of it. “So you’re saying that somebody’s stirring up the gangs, trying to set the magical syndicates against each other by making them think the other guy is breaking the rules?”

  “That’s my speculation,” Happenstance says, nodding. “It’s all very subtle, you understand—in a system like ours, it’s inevitable that there will be a certain amount of…friction. Mages tend to have large egos and larger ambitions, and any sign of weakness can lead a rival to test boundaries, as it were. We’re all guilty of it. But this is something entirely different. The fact that someone has escalated to murder—particularly grisly and obviously magic-based murder—troubles me.”

  “I’d think it would trouble you even more that somebody’s trying to pin that murder on your organization,” Nick says. “If the cops had found that card…”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about the police.” Happenstance waves a dismissive hand. “They’ve, frankly, never had any jurisdiction over us. Our activities occur completely outside their purview, and their involvement is usually little more than a temporary inconvenience.”

  His words piss me off, mostly because of how certain he sounds. It’s one of the things about mages that I’ve always found frustrating: most of them, even the so-called “good” ones, don’t have much respect for mundane law and its enforcement. They do what they do, and they have plenty of ways to make sure they don’t get caught. Quentin Happenstance is no different, and might even be worse, depending on what “activities” his organization specializes in. But I still begin to see the problem he’s not naming, and that’s even scarier.