She kept on talking, because even if he’d been awake she couldn’t have let him respond to that part. “Which is why I can’t have anything to do with you until I figure this out. I can’t argue with you about the curse, and I can’t listen to you try to talk me into things that I already want to do. I can’t even tell you all of this when you can hear me, because I’m terrified of what the curse might do. Because I’m going to get rid of it. I’m going to find some way to lift it. And if it works, well, you’ll end up seeing a lot more of me, I hope. If you…if you still want to. But for now I have to say good-bye.”
She wanted to kiss him. His face was covered with gauze and adhesive bandages, but that wasn’t what stopped her. She just didn’t dare, after everything that had happened. She didn’t dare take the chance of hurting him even worse. So she squeezed his cast and walked out of the room.
The interview rooms at the US Penitentiary at Gooseberry Bluff were much older than those at the detention center in Philadelphia: naked concrete crumbling in the corners, flickering fluorescents above, cold radiating from the floor and ceiling.
Joy sat and clutched at her coffee, the only source of warmth around. There was Gray, but he insisted on standing behind her. “Sitting is bad for you,” he said. “Besides, you’ve kept me up all night. If I sit down I’ll be snoring in a minute.”
It was no longer late; it was early, about five thirty in the morning. Joy hadn’t yet had a call from Flood, probably—hopefully—because the bureau was busy running down the names Joy had extracted from Fredrick Larch. Joy hoped that the information would blow the case open and put Four Corners out of business. She should be out there on the front lines of this, whether Flood wanted her there or not.
Unfortunately, she had bigger concerns.
“This isn’t how we normally do things,” the warden had told her. She’d been called in during the Stolas manifestation because of security concerns, so Joy hadn’t had to get her out of bed.
“I know, and I apologize,” said Joy. “These are extreme circumstances.”
“So you said,” said the warden in a tone that displayed her skepticism, but she authorized the interview anyway.
The door opened, and Veronica Dada entered.
Veronica Dada was the sort of person that Joy always felt she should be able to recognize. Sometimes she could use clues to figure out faces—haircuts, of course, but also facial hair, prominent eyebrows, the shape of lips or teeth. Veronica Dada’s hair had gone gray, but she still wore it long and natural, a mass of curls that fell back from her face—like the tail of a comet, if a comet’s tail were larger than the comet itself. She had a prominent mole on the left side of her face, below her mouth, and her left ear was set just slightly higher than her right.
Her aura was pale yellow, rippling blue: optimism, openness, a helpful nature.
She smiled at Joy as she sat down. “Hello.” She placed her hands on the table as if they were not cuffed together, and did not react as the guard removed the cuffs, ran them through the ring on the table, and reattached them.
“Ms. Dada,” said Joy. “Before we begin, will you answer a question for me?”
“Isn’t that a question?” Dada said it lightly. Joy thought that perhaps she was stalling until the guard left the room, so she waited.
“I was wondering if you could confirm for me that we have never met,” Joy said after the guard had left.
“That is true.”
“I believe you sent me a message through my brother, asking me to come and speak with you.”
“That is also true.”
Joy hadn’t understood the message at first. It had made her angry, to think that her brother would speak to someone like Margaret May and ask her to pass on such a message. “Talk to Dad”? Joy had no reason to believe that her father was lingering on this plane as a ghost. But at some point in Philadelphia, it had clicked. Trevor had never called their father Dad. As a toddler, he started saying “Dada,” and he had never stopped. For him to deliberately use the word “Dad” was a message.
“Tell me about your connection to my brother.”
“I began a correspondence with him while he was in Leavenworth,” said Dada. “I maintain a correspondence with dozens of brothers and sisters both inside and outside of the prison-industrial complex. You know that the white man sleeps a little better every time one of us is put behind bars.”
“I’m curious what you and Trevor used to talk about,” Joy said.
“When he first wrote to me he was very angry. Your name came up, more than once. He felt that you had personally betrayed him when you became an agent of the FBMA.” Veronica Dada recited each letter of the acronym as if it were a slur.
“Did you agree with him?”
“There are many paths to enlightenment,” said Dada. “I myself joined many organizations as a youth. SDS. The Panthers. ASL. There are many I don’t even remember. It was like alphabet soup in those days, everyone talking about changing the world, most of them with no idea what they were doing. I don’t exempt myself from that. I was naive and I trusted people I shouldn’t have. I was addicted to joining. I’ve mostly given it up.”
“That’s not true, is it?” asked Gray. “That you’ve given it up.”
“Agent Gray here is a truth-teller,” said Joy. “I wanted him to hear what you have to say.”
“Gray, is it? A good name for a lawman—always wading hip-deep in a sloppy mix of black and white.” Dada smiled at her own joke. Despite her words, Dada’s tone was not confrontational. She didn’t seem to have any need to convince either of them of anything; she was certain of her own truths.
“I suppose I do join, here and there, mostly in an advisory capacity. I receive many more invitations, however, than I actually accept. I am a freedom fighter, a warrior for intersectionality, but I am not a lunatic.”
“I was wondering if you could tell me if you ever received an invitation to join or endorse something called the Four Corners,” said Joy.
“Hm. Not precisely, no. I was sent a copy of the Handbook, but as soon as I realized who had written it I destroyed it.” Dada shook her head. “I dislike destroying literature of any sort, but I did not want to see any more brothers or sisters fall into the trap of those pages.”
“Can you explain? The Handbook was written by a, a”—Joy checked her notes—“a Father Light, is that correct?”
“Father Light was obviously an alias,” said Dada. “I recognized the style; in fact I’d read parts of it before, some version of them, anyway. It’s been thirty years since I saw it, but back in those days of ferment I saw his imprint often enough, always on the most dangerous and irresponsible of proposals. We all knew he was an agent provocateur months before he was officially unmasked.”
“What was his name?” Joy asked.
“Kenneth Kite,” said Dada.
“Kenneth Kite was a plant?”
“Yes. FBI. Handpicked by J. Edgar himself. Kenneth was forever talking about arming ourselves so that we could strike back. It wasn’t like when the Panthers began carrying weapons. That was about exercising their legal rights, and forcing the pigs to demonstrate their hypocrisy. No, Kenneth wanted us to escalate every time we were acted upon. If they beat one of us—and they did, regularly—Kenneth said we had to retaliate. If we had gone along with any of his plans, we would have all ended up in federal prison instead of just me.”
“So who do you think Kenneth Kite is working for now?”
Veronica Dada sat back. “You said you brought Agent Gray here to hear what I have to say,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You trust him.”
“I do.”
“Go ahead, talk about me like I’m not here,” said Gray. “That’s not annoying at all.”
Veronica Dada ignored him. Her brown eyes drilled into Joy’s. “What are you prepared to do?”
Joy had a moment of déjà vu before she realized Flood had asked her the same question a few hours a
go. The answer was the same. “Whatever it takes.”
“It’s my opinion that you will only have one option,” said Dada.
“I understand.” Joy’s mouth had gone dry; she almost choked on that last word.
“Agent Gray, if I understand your colleague here, she’s asking me to make you aware of some things which she is magically prevented from telling you.”
Joy found herself unable to even nod her assent at this.
“It’s true that she and I have never met,” Dada went on, “but I share some responsibility for her predicament. One of the organizations that I have been latterly involved with is something called the Thirteenth Rib. Not a political organization, nor an organization for social change, not even a bridge club for aging revolutionaries. In fact, it is a secret society dedicated to defending our world from invasion from another dimension, a task made a thousand times more difficult because of the fact that we believe the enemy has infiltrated the ranks of our government, our military, and our law enforcement organizations—”
“Including the FBMA,” said Gray. He sat down next to Joy and looked at her. She could only stare back.
“Including the FBMA,” said Dada. “Including whoever it is that Kenneth Kite is working for, because I believe that the Handbook is a scheme of provocation on the part of our enemy, a nihilist organization ostensibly bent upon chaos, but ultimately serving the needs of order. Spread fear; unleash infernal powers; create uncertainty among the innocents. Create a situation in which the powers that be are quote-unquote ‘forced’ to impose fascist order and lay the groundwork for a full invasion.”
“You believe this,” said Gray. His aura was tinged with a dark, brownish yellow as he struggled to parse this information. He looked at Joy. “You believe this too,” he said.
“This is new information,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s only partially true. Who are you working for, Joy?”
She shook her head. How could she answer when she had been asking herself the same question for days?
“For myself,” she said. “For my family. For Martin.”
“Martin’s dead,” said Gray.
“Martin sent me to Gooseberry Bluff,” she said. “He knew some of what I was going to find. Not who was behind the demons, or what happened to Carla Drake, but he knew that there was another threat. He knew that not everyone in the bureau could be trusted.”
“But you trust her,” said Gray.
“It’s not just her,” said Joy. “There’s so much that I still can’t tell you, and there isn’t much time. I need you to decide whether you’re going to believe me—whether you’re going to help me—or whether you’re going to turn me in to Flood.”
“You think Flood’s dirty,” said Gray.
“I don’t know,” said Joy. “Something tells me that would be too easy. But he wants me out of Gooseberry Bluff, and the job isn’t finished.”
For a minute, perhaps two, the only sound in the room was that of their breathing. Then Gray faced Veronica Dada.
“You’re asking me to take a lot of things on faith, ma’am,” he said. “But I’m a truth-teller, and faith isn’t something I’ve ever had much use for. Sometimes people believe the lies that they tell themselves, and they can sound the same to my ears as the truth. But in my experience there’s one thing that no one can lie to themselves about, and that’s taking the life of another person. So before I risk my job, my liberty, and possibly my life on this information, I want you to answer a question for me. Are you responsible for the deaths of Officer Terrence Natterstad, Officer Jerome Fink, and Agent Kevin Fuller?”
Veronica Dada smiled and leaned forward.
Joy thought of Hector Ay as she slipped through the campus ward outside of Gooseberry Bluff. She wondered how long it would be before he was able to place the wards again.
“Who are we meeting?” Gray asked.
“I can’t tell you that,” said Joy.
“The Thirteenth Rib?”
“Yes.” She was surprised. “Apparently I can say that much, anyway.”
The campus lawn sparkled with dew, and the crows huddled in groups at the tops of the oak trees. A few of them stirred as Joy and Gray passed, and she wondered if Hector could see what the birds were seeing. She waved, just in case.
“Long story,” she said in response to Gray’s look.
Joy used the keyword for the ward on the door, unlocked it, and led Gray inside. “Welcome to Gooseberry Bluff,” she said.
“I’ve been here,” he said. “Remember? After the mess in the library?”
“Fine. You’re here again. Welcome.”
“Sarcasm. Thanks.”
“Gray, I’m tired. I know I’m asking a lot of you tonight—today—but I would really appreciate it if you let up a bit, because I don’t want to snap at you and make all the favor-asking into something really awkward.”
“Yeah. All right.”
She led him through the high, open lobby to the administration wing and Philip Fitzgerald’s office. Edith Grim-Parker was not in yet, but the doors were all open, and Ken Song was sitting in Edith’s chair with a crow perched on his shoulder and a basset hound on his lap.
“Welcome to Operation: Stopgap,” he said in a rasp.
“Where are the others?” Joy asked.
Ken gestured toward Philip’s office. “Everyone but Cyril, who’s back at the Arms, Bebe-sitting. Who’s this attractive young man?”
“Agent Thomas Gray, Professor Kang-ho Song,” said Joy.
“Agent? Why do I have the feeling we’re being infiltrated?”
“Ken’s just being difficult,” said Simone, entering from Philip’s office. “I’ve been in touch with Veronica. Young man, we are trusting you with some very important secrets. I hope you won’t let us down.”
“If what I’ve been told is true, you have nothing to fear from me,” said Gray.
Simone shook his hand. “I’m Simone Deschamp. I need to borrow Agent Wilkins for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
“As long as you give me your word that you’re not going to harm her,” said Gray.
Simone barked out a short laugh, but raised her eyebrows when she saw Gray’s expression. “I promise that I intend no harm toward Agent Wilkins.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Carry on.”
Simone took Joy’s arm. “I think we’ll do this in the ladies’ room,” she said. “Abel and Yves are just going to argue for a while yet, anyway.”
“OK,” said Joy. “But what are we doing?”
“Well, dear, you can’t go over there like this. For all we know, there is another Joy Wilkins where you’re going, and if you were recognized it could cause all sorts of problems. Lutrineas doesn’t need my help to look like someone who belongs, but you do.”
“Oh.” Joy hadn’t considered this. Clearly the Thirteenth Rib had been making a lot of plans since her calls last night had set all of this in motion. “So who do I have to be?” she asked as Simone led her into the ladies’ room.
“We’re going to be Sons of Order,” said a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair and Lutrineas’s aura. He was sitting on the counter between two sinks, wearing a gray suit. “At least, you are. I reserve the right to switch to the next most comfortable form I run across.”
“Get down from there so I can take a look at you,” said Simone. She turned Joy to face her and looked her in the eyes. “Are you all right, dear? You don’t look very sure about this.”
“I’m not,” said Joy. “I’ve never…I mean, are you really going to…how does this even work?”
“Relax, Joy. This is a practice as old as Tiresias, and we’ve refined it quite a bit since then. It’s going to be temporary, I promise. Trust me, if I could make it permanent, I’d be a wealthy woman.”
“OK. How temporary? I mean, do we have a time limit on this operation?”
“About twelve hours,” said Simone. “Give or take. Possibly longer, if you help me out.”
“Well, this has to be consensual magic, first of all, or it’ll be unstable if it works at all. But it’ll work best if we do it cooperatively. So what I need from you is to gather as much energy as you can, focus it on me, and then just be open to the work. If you have hang-ups about this, talk them through with me now.”
“I don’t know if I have hang-ups, exactly. I just…I’m trying to get my head around it.”
“She’s wondering if she’s going to have a penis,” said Lutrineas.
“Please don’t speak for me,” said Joy.
“Well, that’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” said Simone. “I’ll say this; you will be a fully functioning male for the duration of the spell. You may find the body uncomfortable at first, and you will probably want to work on some of your body language so that you don’t draw unwanted attention, but the nature of such spells is that over time you acclimate to the body. About the time you get used to it, you’ll change back. At least, that’s how it works for most cisgendered people. Are you trans?”
“Um. I don’t think so.”
“You’d know. If you were, the transition back to your current body might be traumatic, so I thought I should ask.” Simone smiled. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to take in.”
“It is,” said Joy.
“You’ll be yourself in a few hours, I promise. And I’m here to help you through the initial adjustment.”
Joy nodded. “All right. Let’s do it.”
“If you’ll just step into a stall and disrobe, we’ll get started.”
Joy paced in the hall outside the administrative offices, trying to get used to walking in a man’s body. On an impulse she grasped her crystal.
“Rosemary Ebrahim.”
Gooseberry Bluff Community College of Magic: The Thirteenth Rib Page 32
