by Sharon Joss
I hated that helpless feeling I used to get when my mother went off on a binge. She always came back, but it would be sick with worry for as many days and nights as it took until she came home. Or until we got the call that she’d been arrested. If she’d pulled something like that today, I would have gone after her and dragged her out of whatever hole she’d fallen into, but she’d committed suicide when I was in high school. I couldn’t do anything about it then, but I was an adult now. It was me in that hole, and I felt completely helpless to do anything about it. Crap. I thrummed my fingers on the armrest.
Marjorie was a psychic. She’d said she knew her son was going to die for months. She must’ve talked to someone about it. Maybe Mayor Brunson knew something. And she’d mentioned vampires. I shuddered. Ugh. Maybe I could get Lou to talk to them. Lou and I made a good team. We’d figure out what happened to Wiley Willy in no time. Solve the murder—or at least the mystery of his death—and get me off the hook. Just the thought of investigating this case made me feeling better. I yawned. I couldn’t wait to get started.
After a nap.
* * *
The nap didn’t happen—at least not like I planned.
The nagging headache which had started in the wee hours of the morning had blossomed to mind-numbing proportions by the time Fontaigne dropped me off at Madame Coumlie’s. Even though I was living at the house my great grandmother had lived in for close to a century, it was only temporary, and I felt funny calling it home. To my mind, home was where your clothes were in the closet, you knew where everything was, and your bed didn’t smell like mothballs.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers. I took a quick shower and surveyed the closet for something to wear. Even without the pirate uniform, my choices were limited. My underwear inventory was critically low. Only my day job uniform--a white shirt and navy culottes, three tee-shirts and one pair of jeans had survived the fire and ah, aftermath of my old apartment. I silently thanked Henri for doing the laundry, and got dressed.
I pulled the teapot full of bills and coins I’d been using as a tip jar out from under the bed and sat down to count out the money. A second uniform from Mel would probably set me back a hundred bucks—money I’d earmarked for a security deposit my own apartment. As I counted up the rolls of quarters, Blix crawled into my lap for a snuggle.
Blix is my baby djemon.
Oh I supposed ‘baby’ isn’t exactly the right word for it. Once a creature of the ether, Blix became a fully materialized djemon when I named him. Now, he’s with me until death do us part. He’s still small, not much bigger than a kitten, but will grow in size with every command I give him.
Instinctively, my fingers went to his warm little belly. His rear legs kicked out as I tickled him, and his homely, wrinkled face split into a toothy grin. Blix loves being petted and tickled. He’s grown a little since I first named him, and he’s got itchy little nubs behind his shoulders where his wings are starting to bud. His hairless, charcoal-black form is that of a sphinx; I’m guessing that he’ll need to get a lot bigger before he sprouts wings and feathers. I like him small and cuddly like this. At this size, he’s easy to hide and doesn’t smell or eat or poop—he’s the perfect pet.
But there’s the rub. If I don’t give him commands, he can’t grow. A djemon which doesn’t grow will be left defenseless when his master dies and he becomes a djenie. Small djenies cannot transform into human form and are more easily killed. And if I do give him enough commands so that he can grow, but don’t educate him, he’ll be unprepared to live on his own in human form after I die. And Henri told me I can’t just send him into the ether until I need him, because learning to live among earth-bound mortals is a huge part of his education. Most people don’t realize that being a demon master is a big responsibility—and that’s only one of my new roles as the Hand of Fate. I didn’t ask for the job, but I gave my word, and when you make an oath to the Goddess of Death, that’s one promise you don’t want to break.
I headed downstairs for a bit of pre-nap foraging, my heart set on a thick slice of Henri’s French toast. It was the first thing I taught him how to make, and he was already better at it than me. Henri’s version was a heavenly concoction made from thick-sliced cinnamon bread filled with sliced strawberries and cream cheese; topped with whipped cream and drizzled with warm strawberry syrup. Mmmm.
Henri was in what used to be my great-grandmother’s dining room, practicing the stylized movements of his Qhua Bei exercises. Henri had been Madame Coumlie’s djemon before she died—a sphinx, just like Blix only pony-sized. When she died, he transformed into human form.
Henri is a djenie—like Rhys. After his transformation, Rhys introduced him to his Qhua Bei Master, Foo. Qhua Bei was no martial art I’d ever heard of before but Rhys told me he’d been studying it for centuries, and it was not so much as a self-defense practice as a way of life. For Henri, the time he spent with Master Foo was the high point of his week. One of the first things he did after Madame Coumlie left the house to him in her will was to rip out the carpeting and lay down padded rubber mats in the dining room, turning it into his practice room and meditation studio.
Henri moved deliberately through his forms, his face intent, his attention focused on his movements. Still new to his human form, the exercises gave him focus and helped him adjust to life in the world beyond the ether. In the few weeks since he’d begun practicing with Master Foo, his gaunt form had developed into a slim, wiry physique. Like a long-distance runner or an acrobat, Henri was flexible and strong without the hard muscle bulk Rhys had acquired over the last two millennia.
The physicality of Qhua Bei practice was only one side of the discipline. The meditative aspect of the practice was of equal importance, and Henri seemed to be thriving on both aspects. When Rhys left, Master Foo had taken Rhys’s place as a mentor to Henri. Henri would go to Master Foo’s studio every day if the old man would allow it. With my schedule, I could only manage once a week.
I could hear the music blasting through his earbuds from across the room. Once they have a master, djemons only hear their master’s commands. Since becoming a djenie, Henri has become absolutely mad for music. He’s got those earbuds plugged in just about every time I see him. Henri looks to be in his late twenties, but in a lot of ways, he reminds me of a teen-ager. He’s eager to experience new sensations, and explore his independence and quickly immerses himself into each new passion. Without Rhys to guide him, it was Master Foo who cautioned him to cut back on his practice regime, to eat the proper foods, and to give his body time to rest.
Henri finally noticed me standing in the doorway and popped out the buds. “Oh good, you’re ready. Let’s go. We’re going to be late. I don’t want to keep Master Foo waiting.”
My heart sank. There went breakfast and the nap. Before Rhys left for Scotland, he’d made me promise to study with Master Foo and learn the basics of Qhua Bei self defense. After getting abducted by that soul-stealing Papa Shango, I had to admit that it was probably a good idea.
But my feelings about the practice of Qhua Bei and master Foo in particular were pretty much the exact opposite of Rhys and Henri. Henri was far better at it than I, and working two jobs, I couldn’t seem to find the time to practice. But the worst part was the meditation. It put me right to sleep. Every time.
If there was one thing Master Foo did not tolerate, it was sleeping during meditation time. Not one little bit.
Fortunately, the session was only an hour. Maybe I could get a nap in before I told Mel I needed a new uniform.
The Qhua Bei studio was just two blocks away, so we were there in minutes. Master Foo’s house looks like nothing from the street—just a brown shingled cottage with neat white trim. His studio, which is reached by the alley running behind the house, was built much like some ancient Asian temple. Thick beams support a pagoda-like roof structure, and sliding translucent panels divide up the studio into two areas—one for private meditation, and one for his students.
; Thwhack!
I winced as the bamboo slats hit the bottom of my bare feet, yanking me out of the deep sleep I’d tried my best to avoid. I blushed and looked over at Henri, who lay there with the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
Master Foo waggled his finger at me. “Again, Missy.”
I closed my eyes again. I hate meditation. Exhale. Empty your lungs until they are merely flaccid balloons lying limp within your rib cage. Force out the rest of your wasted breath even further. Out with it, until there is nothing left and push a little bit beyond. Rest within the empty place and build up the need to fill it.
Inhale. Breathe deep. Fill your lungs from the bottom up; allow the life and light and peace to fill your soul. Up to the very top of your capacity and beyond. Rest within the fullness and allow the breath of life to expand beyond your earthly and physical constraints.
Thwhack! “Again, Missy.”
I jumped. Adrenaline and guilt surged through me. Dang, that smarts. I fought to stay awake. These late night shifts at work were killing me. As I concentrated on my breathing, I thought about Rhys and wished he’d call. Before he left he told me he wasn’t sure about internet or cell phone coverage in Scotland and not to worry if I didn’t hear from him. Easy for him to say. I hadn’t even gotten so much as a text message from him. The only text I’d gotten lately had been from Lou Scali. I thought about Wiley Willy’s desiccated corpse.
Thwhack!
Sheesh that hurts.
Master Foo tapped me in the center of my chest with this bamboo instrument of torture. “Do not think, simply be. Focus on breath. Again, Missy.”
I hate meditation.
CHAPTER 5
I don’t work on Sunday nights, but the fish tank had to be cleaned, so I went to see Mel after my lesson with Master Foo. Henri came with me, because, well, piranhas. And I told him he could help.
Mel had the door to his office closed, and that meant he either had the safe open inside or he was on the phone. Either way, no one dared to knock on Mel’s door when it was closed.
Business is slow enough on Sunday afternoons that the hostess doesn’t usually seat anyone in the back dining room where the piranha tank is. I got Henri to help me pull the black drapes across the front glass. Hard as it is to believe, piranhas are timid, shy fish. They can easily get over-stimulated, especially by movement or noise, and die or start attacking each other. So whenever the dining room was being vacuumed or for the weekly tank cleaning, the black-out drapes are used to minimize visual stimulation.
Cleaning out the piranha tank twice a week for Mel was the first job I ever had, and over the years I’ve cleaned it more than anyone except for Mel. He’s got thirty of the largest and most aggressive piranhas known—Indigo Diamonds, they’re called in the trade. Big as turkey platters with vicious-looking tricuspid teeth. Dangerous, yes, but I think they’re beautiful—black and silver with blue-purple neon stripes along their bellies.
Since they’re meat eaters, and sloppy feeders, it’s essential that the water in the tank be kept clean. Most of the kitchen staff are understandably reluctant to do it. Either that, or they do a piss-poor job because they’re afraid of the fish.
The tank is topped by a heavy lid—Mel had a folding door-type cover rigged up, because piranhas are incredible jumpers. After a third of the water had been drained from the tank, I folded back half of the lid, used the ladder to crawl up onto it, and went to work.
Lying on the folded back lid, I stretched as far as I could reach; my arms completely submerged in the water while I scrubbed the glass and then ran the water vac across the gravel on the bottom. I knew to take my time and not make quick movements, which tend to aggravate the fish. The piranhas seemed happy enough to play peek-a-boo at me from behind a big rock formation in the furthest corner of the six-foot tall by eight-foot wide custom-built tank.
I pointed to the long-handled scrubber utensil I used to scrape algae off the inside of the glass. “Hand me that, please.” It was the only way to remove the algae all the way down to the bottom of the glass without actually getting into the aquarium, and even I wasn’t that brave.
Henri passed it up to me. “Aren’t you worried they’ll attack?”
“Nope.” They could shred the meat off my arm in seconds, if they wanted to, but they don’t. “They let me know if I’m moving too fast by grunting.”
“I didn’t think fish could vocalize.”
“Piranhas can.” I moved the scrubber toward the huddled group hiding in the corner. Immediately, a staccato of thumps sounded from the group and they immediately grew more agitated. I withdrew the scrubber from the tank to give them time to settle down. “If you know what you’re doing, there’s nothing to worry about.”
After they settled down again, I finished the job and began refilling the tank. They came out of the corner as soon as I climbed down from the ladder. I slowly drew aside the drapes.
“Look how happy they are,” Henri said.
I wiped my arms dry with a clean towel. The fish did appear to enjoy swimming through the stream of freshly filtered water flowing into their tank. I shut the folding door panel across the top of the tank and slipped the locking bolts into place for safety.
“They know her scent in the water. They know she won’t hurt them.” Mel observed. He’d come up behind us. “People underestimate fish, but they can recognize faces and voices.”
It’s true. The only time Mel spoke in low tones was around the fish. They were his babies. Sometimes, if no one was around, I’d hear him talking to them.
Sure enough, the school clustered animatedly at the glass, their unblinking silvery eyes fixed on Mel.
He looked beat, but I couldn’t wait any longer. “I need a new uniform.”
“What the hell, Mattie?”
Immediately, the fish began to dart around the tank in jerky motions. A danger sign. Mel jerked his head toward the office and I followed meekly, waiting for the lecture I knew was coming.
He slumped into his office chair, looking more tired than I’d ever seen him. The guy never took a day off. “What is it this time? Lost at the laundromat or burned up in a fire?”
“Hey, neither of those times was my fault.” No reason to tell him the whole story, though. “I snagged it. The fabric is so cheap, it shredded like tissue paper. I can’t wear it. I’m not kidding, Mel. I need a new one.”
From the look he gave me, I knew he didn’t believe a word. “A whole new uniform.” He shook his head. “I told you it was the last one I had.” He waggled his finger at me. “And if you think you’re going to show up Thursday night without a uniform, don’t bother. You’ll have to buy your own this time. And if I were you, I wouldn’t say the word ‘cheap’ around her.”
“Around who?”
“Felicity Caprice. She runs the dress shop just down the block.”
* * *
By Monday, the news was out that Wiley Willy had been found dead under suspicious circumstances, but the coroner had not yet released the cause of death. The paper said only that the investigation was continuing, and witnesses were being interviewed. His mother’s death was described as a “collapse”, suffered after the shock of hearing about her son’s death. Anyone with information about the case…blah, blah, blah.
I don’t know how Gerard Fontaigne managed to keep the details or my name out of it, but I kept to myself at work that day. I had to take the bus to work because my car was still sitting in an impound lot over in Webster. I had the feeling a big bad cloud of shitstorm was about to hit, and the last thing I wanted to do was to go buy a new cheesy sleazy uniform I knew I was going to hate to replace the previous cheesy sleazy uniform that got me into this whole mess.
Les Belles Jolie dress shop was just three doors down from Dave’s Killer Burgers. It’s one of those places that people walk by a million times and never go into. At least not me. And I’d never seen anyone else go in there, either. Based on the way Mel said her name, with an odd and throaty
kind of yearning, I figured that ol’ Mel might actually have a thing for Miss Felicity, so I was intrigued to meet her, even though the look of the shop left me cold.
The exterior brick had been painted black, with a lot of wrought iron scroll work around the lavender and gold striped window awnings and on the stair railings. The window display consisted of faceless mannequins in lavender wigs dressed in the kind of frilly and frou-frou-frumpy outfits that old ladies wear to tea or Sunday brunch. Faded plastic flowers peeked out from boxes perched below the display window.
I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.
To be fair, it used to be called ‘The Merry Widow’, and sold women’s golf and tennis togs in pastel colors. In spite of the new look and fresh paint, my eyes seemed to slide right past it. Same old, same old.
I stepped up the short flight of steps and opened the door. Overhead a muted bell sounded in the back somewhere. The place was tiny—hardly as big as my old apartment living room. There was a lot more wrought iron here, spray-painted gold for a rich look. Instead of the expected green linoleum, the carpet was dark purple and cushy beneath my feet. Padded satin hangars held more silky old lady dresses like those in the window and some surprisingly sexy-looking lingerie.
The woman who bustled out from behind the purple drape looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before.
Felicity Caprice was a six-foot tall, round, voluptuous woman with black hair that she wore in a sort of loose bun on top of her head with several carefully cultivated stray curls trailing around her face. Attractive, in a high-maintenance sort of way. Fake eyelashes. Fake nails painted the same dark color as the carpet. Wearing four-inch spike heels, she towered more than a foot taller than me. Physically, more than a little intimidating. And similar to Mayor Brunson, she had an odd, murky-looking aura about her, although hers had a distinct maroon hue with a thread-thin crimson lifeline.
