Black Market Blood

by Francis Gideon

  “Well, thanks. I’m still going to bury myself in the books, though.”

  “I know. Wouldn’t have it any other way. But at least this time, you’ll do it with pastrami on rye or ham and cheese. Sound okay?”

  Sully thanked Tom one last time before he loaded the next washing machine and Tom took the steps two by two. Sully cleaned out the lint traps and the old clothing—black and lime green, so probably Michael the fairy’s outfit—before he assessed his timeline. Another twenty minutes were needed before the sheets could go into the dryer, and it would probably be another hour before Tom was back from the grocery store because often he walked and was distracted by at least three stores along the way. Sully considered going upstairs to talk to Artie about getting blood drawn but decided he didn’t want to be lectured before his lunch. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and hoped Lisa wasn’t hogging the bathroom.

  He found it empty. He said a silent prayer for privacy as he locked himself inside. Gray eyes and blond-brown hair startled him before reminding him yet again of the night before. The hair dye, the contacts, and the dress-up the client had insisted on was strange but had paid well.

  No wonder my eyes felt scratchy after sleeping. The contacts were the twenty-four-hour kind, probably enchanted by some spell to make them last longer, but Sully was sick of them now. He removed them using the solution the customer gave him (and that Artie verified as safe to use). His brown eyes stared back at him. Boring but his own.

  He ran the water, getting it up to temperature, while he looked under the counter and found an unclaimed box of black hair dye. The color wasn’t perfect, but he liked it. He mixed up the solution, and in no time he was waiting for the dye to set. With the shower cap still on, he gathered another floor’s laundry and switched loads in the basement Back upstairs Tom had left Sully’s lunch, with a note pinned to it, outside his door.

  For my #1 human buddy. Don’t fall in love.

  Sully took the meal into his room and crumpled up the note and threw it into his trash. Tom had gotten him a pastrami on rye sandwich from the deli around the corner and four Kit Kat bars along with a gigantic bag of Goldfish crackers. He’d be set for the weekend at least. Sully ate the meal as he waited for his hair to set, trying not to think about the belt in his drawer and the possibility of seeing Chip again.

  Once the sheets were dry, he removed them from the machine, but before he set to folding the sheets, Sully washed out the hair dye. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t quite what he was used to, but it was close enough. He didn’t know how Trinity could stand switching so much and at will. Sully needed the consistency of his own body at the end of the day, since it was the only thing he ever had for sure.

  When he was done with the sheets, Sully found Artie in the front hallway. She lifted her head as he entered and gave him a soft smile.

  “Hey, there. You look like a new man.”

  “More like an old one. The sheets are done, by the way.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. But that’s not what you need now, is it?”

  Sully took in a deep breath. Tom was wrong. All of life was an exchange. Even if Chip had bought him for one night, that didn’t mean the relationship was doomed. It only meant—like all great partnerships—they had a common goal. “I need to talk to you about giving blood.”

  Artie smiled and led Sully into the back room that he hadn’t seen in years.

  Chapter 5

  CHAZ’S PHONE buzzed against his coffee table. He rose from the couch with a start, not quite asleep but definitely not awake enough to answer his work phone. On the TV, a familiar newscaster named Maxine Dream stared back at him as she reported the local crime stats. The body by the docks had made the news, everyone calling him “the mermaid boy.” Chaz had to fight the urge to call the neon numbers of the tip line at the bottom of the screen so they could get it right. He muted the TV instead.

  Chaz didn’t recognize the number on his phone. He pressed it to his ear skeptically. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mr. MacDonald. It’s Declan Gallagher. New partner—”

  “Right. Of course I remember you, Declan. Am I late? Should I be somewhere?” Chaz glanced down at his clothing that still reeked of sweat, smoke, and sex. He hadn’t changed since the thin nap he’d had with Nat. No, Sully. Chaz blinked away some delirium that had lingered. “We have to go to the autopsy, right? Katja requesting us both?”

  “Actually, that is what I called to tell you about. I can go. I’m awake and ready. So if you want, you can take it easy and I’ll have the report by the time you come in later. Jack wants you there by five at the latest for the night shift, the same time he told me.”

  “How come Jack didn’t call me?”

  A low chuckle from Declan. “I believe he did but there was no response.”

  Chaz blushed. Jack must have called while his phone was in his glove box and he was with Sully. Best not to let that faux pas linger. He sank back into his couch and watched the brightly colored news report change to report something else. His bones ached and his face was scratchy. He could use the extra time, however much it ended up being, to get properly showered, shaved, and dressed. “Well, if you’re sure you can handle the autopsy by yourself, I’ll get caught up later. Maybe I’ll even call a tip line while I’m at it.”

  “Tip line? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, right. Have you seen the news in this city, Declan?”

  “No. No time.”

  “Well, it’s changed a lot in the past few years and our broadcasts are a little different now.” Chaz picked up his remote and unmuted the TV. The nasal voice of the sportscaster merged into the equally nasal voice of the entertainment reporter. The song that had been playing at the bar—“You Belong to Me” by The Unseen Answers—played for a couple seconds with Atticus Dubcek’s image on the screen, fully made-up, in tight pants, and playing a show. It soon flashed to an image of him, without hair dye or makeup, brooding in his cell. Chaz muted the TV again, his heart in his throat. “What’s on right now isn’t the best example. But when the TV news reports on crimes, especially murder cases, they have tip lines for people to call in to that the department doesn’t have access to.”

  “What? That makes no sense.”

  “I know. It’s frustrating. But since the cops don’t always get their monsters right, or even consider monsters to be victims of crimes, the people and reporters band together to get it done their way. The tips that don’t pan out get turned into tabloid stories.”

  “I think I’ve seen those magazines. I thought they were fake.”

  “Most of them are.”

  “So how can they report it?”

  “Freedom of the press. And moreover, most of us don’t know for sure if those stories are fake. They sound fake, but so did the myth of the Oracle until a body was actually produced.”

  “The Oracle?”

  “Never mind. Old legend.” Chaz shook his head and quickly moved on. “Anyway, the fact is that no one knows for sure what’s real and what’s not, so the public has the right to access all information and to decide for themselves later on. They won a court case for it. Ignacio v. Kelley. When monsters are involved, there are a lot of unknowns the police can’t investigate. So the Citizen’s Brigade does it for the public. In Toronto, at least. They stream all over Canada so others can access the information, but it’s more like pirate radio. Other provinces don’t have the same level of supernaturals as Ontario and especially Toronto, but who knows, maybe they’ll have to open more chapters of the Brigade to keep up.”

  “Huh. That seems to be asking for vigilante justice.”

  “Yes and no. When they report on monsters, they don’t use anyone’s name, but give general safety tips like don’t go out during a full moon to avoid the werewolf pack causing havoc in Hamilton, or the gargoyles in the Bluffs… things like that. It’s mostly stringing together legends, you know? Only a handful of people take the stories out of context and do something stupid. And that�
��s what we’re for, right?”

  “Still… seems irresponsible. I guess the pirate radio explains why some of the legends carry all over, even up to Nunavut. I just had no idea Toronto was the hub of things like this. Or that they allowed it to get so out of hand.”

  “You gotta allow it. No other way to survive when the city has become a monster itself.”

  “Well, we might have to agree to disagree on that one for now. At least, let me settle into Toronto for a bit, first.” Declan chuckled, but it seemed stilted. “And let me ask this about the Citizen’s Brigade. Are they obligated to tell us some stuff, even if it’s not everything?”

  “No. But there are a couple good reporters and people I can talk to. I have in the past.”

  “Good to know,” Declan said. “And what are they saying about our boy last night?”

  “The news says he’s a mermaid. Merman? Don’t know the proper term. But that’s it.”

  “So no news on the vamps yet?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Declan sighed. “I mean, at least we can keep some information to ourselves. I will go to the autopsy. I’ll see you later, Chip.”

  After a quick good-bye, Chaz looked through his missed messages and found a couple from Jack. Be at the station whenever you can. Know it’s a brutal case and you need some sleep, but that’s what the crib is for.

  Chaz deleted them without replying. Atticus’s image haunted him, though he was no longer on the TV and the story was about some new buildings the Société de la Technologie de Diamant were installing in Montreal, completely built by gargoyles and their masons. Chaz tapped his fingers against his coffee table. He could get up and get dressed, shave, and make himself presentable, but the allure of a slow afternoon was now gone. He could only think of Nat.

  Chaz rose from his couch and changed to a new dress shirt and pants so no one would question where he’d been last night. Then he dropped down to take out the box he kept hidden under his bed. His small movements made the act seem like a ritual or a prayer.

  When the news of the Oracle having died hit the tabloids, Chaz hadn’t paid any attention to it. But when the local news team started to report on Atticus’s trial and then subsequent prison sentence for sixteen murders and arson, Chaz had rushed out and purchased every single tabloid he could find, and befriended one of the main reporters, a little person named Igby. Over drinks at Adelaide’s, Chaz had gotten as much information as he possibly could about Atticus and stitched it together with what he’d previously figured out. The tabloids contained a million sordid tales, sometimes narrative accounts, of Atticus and the Oracle—a man named Duke—fucking their way to success, but there had only been passing references to Nat.

  “Who is Nathanael Wyatt?” Igby had asked when Chaz brought up the name. He munched on a ham and rye sandwich and sipped his coffee. “I only know the legends, man.”

  “He is one. He’s the firestarter—the person who was first charged with Atticus’s crimes. You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”

  “Oh, but you see, I know him as the Flame. And I’m sorry to say, boyo, but the Flame’s been extinguished.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He’s dead. Don’t know all the details—this stuff gets garbled from so many sources—but if you’re a cop, then look into it for yourself. You know, in the Monster Mythology. I hear Toronto’s got a record-keeping system so that all the heavy hitters are accounted for.”

  “Monster Mythology? What?”

  Igby glanced around and shoved his plate aside so he could huddle closer to Chaz. “From what I hear, you gotta go to the basement where the real treasures are. Evidence holding, you know? There’s a file folder with all the monsters laid out. Find the real names and up pop aliases. Shouldn’t have this information, but the guy’s dead, so I can tell you that the Oracle’s full name was Dennis Gregory O’Malley.”

  “Not Duke?”

  “Duke’s a passing name. Dennis is his birth name. When he died in the badlands, shot by the Ghost, the Flame died with him. None of it was ever talked about much in the tabloids because, well, the whole thing with the Flame is kinda sad. And I sell more copies if I paint Atticus and Duke as lovers who fought hard until the end, going out in a blaze of bullets and glory.”

  Chaz had left the meeting feeling drained. He was still new to the department and didn’t have as many clearances as he did now, so the Monster Mythology Igby mentioned was mentally put aside. Even if he had the clearance to find it, Chaz needed time to mourn. He didn’t want to look into Nat’s or Duke’s death because that would mean it was real. With information from the tabloids, even the Citizen’s Brigade, there was still some room for doubt—that Nat was actually alive and the reports had been misheard.

  “A chance, a chance, a chance,” Chaz murmured now. He ran his thumb over the tabloid clippings that were well-worn with age. He needed to find out the answers now.

  For once, he had time.

  CHAZ PARKED his car at the diner across the street from the precinct in order to walk into the station without raising too much attention. The guard on schedule for the evidence room was Marvin, who towered over Chaz.

  “How are you doin’ today?” Chaz asked, affecting nonchalance.

  “I’m good. Hitting a craving real bad, though.”

  “Well, it’s almost your break, right?” Chaz glanced down at his watch, then tapped the unopened cigarette package in his front pocket. “Want to step out for a moment? I have your duties.”

  Marvin considered the cigarettes more than he did Chaz. He took them without another word and disappeared up the stairs. Chaz plugged the code into the keypad and stepped inside the evidence room. His card would come up if they checked the backlog, but he wasn’t planning on stealing evidence.

  Next to the long stacks of enchanted weapons and confiscated drugs were tall file folders, sealed and stored away for the requisite ten years, exactly like Igby claimed. The Monster Mythology. It wasn’t as ornate as Igby had made it sound, but it was exactly the kind of record keeping Chaz needed but wasn’t always permitted to access for his cases. Each file started with a birth name. From there, the crimes were listed, the evidence at the scene, and any subsequent aliases and legend names. They were short files and meant to act as basic indexes and backups to the computer system all across New Canadiana. The Monster Mythology was in hardcopy to prevent the files from being tampered with by spider spells or viruses from techno-witches who wanted their names deleted. If a cop or detective suspected a file of having been corrupted, they could cross reference the file that was handwritten, signed, and preserved as well as with magical physical evidence. These were the purest form of records. Chaz never thought bureaucratic paperwork would be so enchanting, but here he was, spilling over the filing cabinets and searching desperately for the names he needed.

  He found Dennis O’Malley right away, listed under the Oracle. Blood wizard. Self-taught with an earring power source (still missing). The crimes were long and cross-listed against several other criminals and victims. Sure enough, Nat was there. Chaz went in search of Nat’s cover file next. Nathanael Wyatt. Manifested firestarter at age fifteen (not eighteen as previous records indicate). Innocent of all crimes, framed by brother. Deceased.

  Chaz’s heart stopped. In a blink, he saw Nat sleeping in the backseat of Chaz’s car. Then Atticus taking him inside one of his warehouses. Then that was it. There were years stretched between that moment and Nat’s death with Duke in the badlands of Alberta, but it all boiled down to seconds in the file in front of Chaz. Nat’s body hadn’t been identified, but the car he’d been in had gone up in flames. By the time they put it out, there was no evidence left but blood-soaked sand. The flame’s been extinguished.

  Chaz slammed the file drawer. He choked back a cry. You already knew this. You already…. Chaz tried to calm himself and breathe properly. Marvin would come back soon, and Chaz didn’t need to be freaked-out in the file room over some random firestarter. He
needed…. Chaz straightened up and noticed one of the other file drawers was open a crack. He pulled it out and grabbed the first file that seemed out of place.

  Tex Jacobi. Leader of the Chaos Cartel. Alchemist specializing in golden gunpowder. The list of crimes was extensive, from sex trafficking both human and creature, drug trafficking, murder, extortion, money laundering, and theft under and over five thousand dollars. Deceased. Chaz flipped over the cover sheet and read that he was killed by the Judge—also known as Gabriel Dominguez.

  Chaz remembered the story. The dragon shifter who destroyed half of Canada avenging the one he loved. But the Judge now had a name, which had its own history and legacy attached to it. He’d been a cop in Toronto and responsible for some of the biggest drug busts. He was killed in the line of duty by the Chaos Cartel, though—or that had been the story. The police had needed a bunch of PR wizards to clean up the fact that he’d become the Judge and taken out the Chaos Cartel directly. Chaz was floored, especially when he remembered the tabloids’ reports that the Judge had been hired by Atticus to grab the Flame.

  Chaz searched deeper in the file compartment and realized the next file rearranged as if it’d been touched recently was for Gabriel Dominguez. The Judge. His crimes were the basic ones of murder and extortion, both of which he’d done as a freelancer. Last spotted three years ago over the skies of Saskatchewan. Hasn’t been seen since.

  A million questions swarmed in Chaz’s mind. If the Judge grabbed Nat, why wasn’t there much talk about Nat afterward? Had he lived after all? How could anyone after a bloodbath like that? And if the Judge was supposed to be the scales of justice like everyone said, how come he never saved Nat? Chaz closed the drawer again but was caught by another question: Who had looked at this information before him? He doubted very many people had come down here to look at the files recently, given they hadn’t had problems with techno-witches in months. It would be easy, if given access to the keypad system that often kept track of badge numbers, to weed out who was there for evidence and who was there without a work-related purpose.