Shade City

by Domino Finn

  Ambrose, seeing the host he was bound to set free and reunited with the conduit that was his stepping stone, reclaimed his place within the man. Finlay benefitted from Alexander's elaborately executed crimes, which he had committed while possessing his gangster puppets. He had embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars from Blush Bonnet in an attempt to have his fortune repaid to him. Upon his release, he had immediate access to a store of savings.

  He was affluent but he was old, the best years of Finlay's life having been wasted in a cell. With all his knowledge and all his power, Alexander was determined to keep everything he had built. He quickly established himself as legitimate, found a wife, and had a son as a successor, whom he named Alexander. He did think of his daughter, Viola, but his wife died in childbirth. Still, he remarried to try for a daughter, but his second wife proved barren. Finlay grew older, gave in to the excesses of his lifestyle in the seventies and eighties, and had no more kids.

  It was at this time that Viola Ambrose first considered that her father was a bad man. Not an evil man, or a dastardly one (since she had known little of Alexander's darkest dealings), but at the very least, an absent father. Viola realized, on her own and without guidance, that her place wasn't among the living. Finlay McAllister carried the watch less and less over the years, and this suited Viola well.

  It wasn't until 1996, when Alexander and Livia McAllister gave birth to Aster, that Ambrose began to take notice of his family again. In particular, seeing the little girl grow up before his eyes, he remembered the pact he had made with Viola and how they would be together. Alexander found times to return to the Dead Side, when he could, to rekindle their relationship, but it was hard going. The poor girl was broken in many ways. She had never had the opportunity for a normal life. Even in death, she was largely on her own and had to make sense of circumstances by herself. But Alexander was her father, and she loved and needed him. He began plans to bring them together again.

  At seventy-eight, in 2004, Finlay's health suffered a turn for the worse and he died unexpectedly. Alexander was forced to possess Finlay's son rather suddenly and his wife, Livia, took notice of the change. Whereas once they were a perfect couple in love, she found herself trapped with an entitled stranger. She was a strong woman but it drove her to the edge, and she sought council from Catriona.

  Over the years, Alexander convinced Viola to once again take up residence with the living and possess Aster. He promised her love and attention. The perfect family, reunited once again. He gifted the girl the pocket watch. He claimed not to need it anymore, and her use of it might avoid the incidents that plagued Catriona. Viola begrudgingly obeyed but remained distant. Even with the timepiece, she continued to struggle with control. She didn't feel fit for her new life. Aster McAllister drew inward, became depressed, and began cutting herself.

  Livia's marriage was quickly failing and her senses continually tested. Seeing her daughter become dissociated over the years finally broke her. In 2008, believing to catch her husband in proof that he was possessed by a demon, she struck him on the back of the head with an iron. Alexander Ambrose was caught off-guard and succumbed to the attack. He was beaten to within an inch of his life as he lay helpless on the floor.

  Viola, who had always sulked about quietly, saw the entire act firsthand. She saw another life destroyed. She blamed herself for failing her father. She blamed herself for failing the McAllisters. But most of all she blamed her father for meddling with the living.

  As the little girl sobbed, Livia turned to her and said that what was happening wasn't tragedy but salvation. They were prisoners of demons and would be free in Heaven. When her mother came after her with the iron, Aster McAllister locked herself in the linen closet.

  If possessing bodies is not a clean experience, then vacating them is downright filthy. It is possible, of course, for a shade to exit the living, but it isn't an immediate process. The binding is tenuous, unpredictable, and mysterious.

  All that said, as Livia banged on the closet door, hitting wood with metal, Viola had sufficient time to escape to the cold comforts of the St. Angelo Hotel. Viola Ambrose was a child, powerless to save herself against the madness of the mother who meant to destroy her. It would have been normal, even expected, for her to have fled the brutality that descended upon Aster.

  But Viola, though only a girl of twelve, couldn't bear the thought of her counterpart being slain by a mother she loved. Had she left her host, Aster McAllister would have opened the closet door and experienced firsthand the cruel smiting by her own flesh and blood.

  When she had first died, her father Alexander had shown her mercy by doing it peacefully with gas. Now, unable to look after the fate of his daughter, this death would involve no such kindness.

  Viola Ambrose did not think herself brave when the door splintered and broke open. Nor when she stood firm as the iron fractured her skull. She simply closed her eyes and knew that the nightmare would be over soon.

  On the Dead Side, Viola and Alexander argued for a long while. Everything had been set up perfectly, but her refusal to accept her new life had raised Livia's suspicions and ruined the plan. Alexander was just doing what anybody would have done in similar circumstances. People didn't matter, only they did. There weren't such things as good and evil. He would find a way back with or without her.

  In the end, their split was mutual. Alexander no longer needed his daughter to return to the living, and Viola didn't get proper parenting whether she followed him or not. Aster's death sat at her feet and she wouldn't add another, no matter the cost to herself.

  Her father stormed away in the heat of passion, unsure how to proceed in a great many matters. Whether this was a blessing or a curse, Alexander McAllister had survived in a coma. This left Ambrose a stronger link in the world than any other could provide, albeit through a host that was comatose. Alexander once again resumed inhabiting other bodies temporarily for his own means. After time and retrospection, he also reconsidered his feelings for his daughter and looked for her. Surprisingly, she was absent.

  The little girl had decided to act on her own for the first time in her life. Instead of being the victim of abandonment yet again, it was she who had left her father. She took up private residence in the St. Angelo Hotel, a spot only she was familiar with, and kept her head down. She clung to the pocket watch, if only to keep it from her father. Viola Ambrose had no more family, living or dead, and she was reborn as her favorite color, Violet.

  Along the course of the living, a forgotten Hamilton pocket watch found its way to a little antique shop in Burbank...

  * * *

  My beleaguered psyche was devastated by the time Alexander Ambrose finished his account. I could only muster the strength to face the floor.

  Here was a man, standing before me, guilty of crimes of supreme evil. He was a man that had stopped at nothing for his own selfish gain and likely had greater designs ahead. It seemed that this man, above all, deserved the brunt of my vengeful attention.

  But the quiet sobbing of a little girl tugged at me harder than the devil ever could.

  I had always thought of Violet as my sidekick. My little sister even. Now it was hard to get past the fact that she had betrayed me. She was the very incarnation of what I had been fighting against, under my nose the entire time.

  How had I been so blind?

  I tried to rationalize the deception. She had only been a kid listening to her father. She didn't know what she was doing. She had tried, in the end, to do the right thing. But all my excuses rang hollow.

  Alexander Ambrose stood tall and proud over my hunched form that leaned against the wall, and only the guilty tears of my friend mattered.

  "You told me Pearl was an accident," said Violet, under her breath.

  Alexander furrowed his strong brow. "What?"

  "Fingal's wife," said Violet, raising her voice. "You told me she fell down the hill by accident."

  "Ah," replied the man, a morose look on his face. Perh
aps he had gotten carried away in his exposition and revealed too much. He had likely mentioned facts that Violet herself had never known. He'd told so many lies over the years that he probably didn't even realize what it was she was supposed to believe.

  "You monster," I said. "How could you have done all of this to those people? To your own daughter?"

  I stood up feebly as I addressed him. I had no strength. Or will. All it took was his cane to hold me at bay, the alabaster rose at my chest.

  "Tut, tut, Mr. Butcher. I have come to you to confess the past with the purpose of putting it behind us."

  "You expect me to believe that?"

  "I do," he answered. "I will not pretend to be a noble man—pragmatism has always defined me—but a checkered past will either force a man to take stock of himself or continue on his way to destruction. I have shattered lives. I have lost my daughter. My prizes? Suffering at the hands of the Royals, withstanding a prison sentence, and bearing the agony of coma."

  I considered them both. Violet's expression showed that she thought he was just as full of shit as I did. The girl had worked over the years to show remorse. I didn't know her intent, I had to admit, and she had continually lied to me, but she had stopped killing people.

  "What's your business with Alexander McAllister?" I demanded.

  "He is a susceptible man and he is rich," he replied. "I should know—I made him both of those things. I admit I have watched him. Purely for his benefit, of course." Alexander must have seen the disbelief on my face, so he explained. "You must have noticed I have not taken the man. Does that not lend me a spatter of credibility?"

  "I know about Bedros," was all I answered.

  "Yes, of course. Your touch. The Armenian was an associate of Finlay's, by which I mean, mine. His watchful eye has done much of my work for me. Although you must excuse him. He is quick to judgment and action alike, and he had you pegged for a thrall of Red Hat. You will find the man completely harmless from now on."

  "Harmless?" I asked incredulously. "He's supplanting the life of a human being. He's next on my list for expulsion, if you don't mind." I added the last part in a tone mocking the polite indifference of Ambrose. He actually seemed amused.

  "Of course," he said. "By all means, you are certainly welcome to try, but the sage that you find so efficacious against the addicts may do you little good against the Armenian. And I am afraid he is well past my advice on the matter."

  I thought the situation over. It would have been great to not have to worry about Alexander McAllister anymore. If Ambrose truly cut him free, if Bedros backed off, then half my worries would have been solved. I didn't even need to consider how to approach the man again or introduce him to Violet—his true daughter was far from my reach, and I had no more business with him.

  But it seemed too easy. I had looked in on the family too far to just let it go that quickly, especially since I only got the confession when I was on the verge of discovering it myself. It's easy to apologize after getting caught—the true merit of a man lies in what he does beforehand.

  "You killed a man," I said, my confidence against the man growing. "Just two days ago, to avoid being caught. That doesn't strike me as someone who's turned a new leaf."

  Ever formal, Alexander conceded my point with a nod as if we were debating politics. "My morals have never aligned with most, Mr. Butcher. I have already admitted that killing Sal was a mistake, but ultimately he was just a tool in a larger project."

  "And what kind of tool am I?" I asked indignantly.

  The man smiled softly. "A hammer, Mr. Butcher. For the first time in a century, I have met another man who would go against the Royals. It is true what they say," spoke the man, looking to his daughter and then back at me. "Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."

  The lobby of the St. Angelo Hotel drew silent as Alexander Ambrose waited for my answer. Violet, drying her face, maintained her balance of animosity and fright. I had been told not to trust shades, and the events taking place supported that maxim, but I could have used a tool or two myself.

  "Go on," I said.

  "You've got to be kidding me," berated Violet. "After everything he just told you, Dante."

  "At least he told me."

  The girl's look pierced my heart. I felt subdued on the inside, unable to continue, but my practiced countenance remained firm.

  Alexander proceeded to explain his plan. "I have already admitted to being in league with Red Hat as a means of spying on them, but I owe them no affiliation for previous favors. In fact, the Royals know nothing about who I truly am."

  "Who are they?"

  "The more powerful of the shades who control the company, many having lived at the time of the Royal Ruby Millinery. Make no mistake, sir, they are your enemy. Not the company. Certainly not me. I will stay out of your affairs save to assist you against the Royals."

  "You can't trust him," said Violet.

  Alexander did not appear miffed. "I do not ask for trust. I have laid the truth bare for your sole discretion, Mr. Butcher. Keep your actions to yourself. Involve my daughter or do not. It is entirely up to you. Just know that a hammer striking nails into a wall makes a great deal of sound, but unless you are hitting the studs true, your work is for naught."

  The man had charisma. No one else could sound a convincing ally so soon after confessing to murder.

  "So where do I strike?" I asked.

  "I would recommend surveying the scene first," he answered. "You have a party to go to, Mr. Butcher."

  Friday

  A thick rain fell on Los Angeles through the morning. It was the season for it, but weeks could pass before it happened again. This type of weather, the type that blots out the sun and lingers more than a day, is not a staple of the city. It happens once or twice a year. But it never feels native.

  LA is meant to be mired in dirt, caked in its own decadence. No rain or snow or gloom; the constant sameness disguises the passage of time. The unending sun serves as a source of pride to the city's inhabitants. It also prevents their rebirth. There is no pause for reflection on the lives led under the spotlight. The sun rises and sets, like divine clockwork, and we power ever forward.

  Being from Miami, I'd always found moments like these to be a gift. It was the rain that stripped us of our pretenses, that beleaguered us with our own helplessness. This mortal coil had a grander design than I'd ever ventured to explain. And why try? It wasn't for me to set all right with the world. I didn't need any master plan. For the most part, I'd always settled for the washing away of the dirt.

  I lay in my bed staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the patter of drops die down. The pocket watch sat on my nightstand. I knew it was there but I kept my gaze off it. My thoughts, however, were not as tightly under my control. I had stripped away all of Violet's past deeds and reacquainted her with her father. What more evil could I have wrought on her?

  I left her quietly and jumped into the shower. Defining the past helped little to predict what was in store for me tonight. The unknown was ahead. Like the city, if I was to face it, I could use a cleaning.

  I let forty-five minutes pass before I was back in my room, renewed. It was brighter in here. I could see the sun gaining strength between the vertical blinds. I trudged over to the window and drew it open. The clouds were set to give way and the earth, to dry. It was to be a normal Southern California day after all.

  So much for reflection.

  * * *

  "That's the one," I said to Violet, pointing at my laptop screen. I was sitting in the living room now, pillow behind my back, leaning towards the coffee table. It was a meager workstation, but it was the only one I had.

  This is the worst plan ever.

  "I can't just stroll into a private party," I reasoned. "Not one run by Red Hat. They're professional event organizers. They also happen to be run by a secretive cabal of shades. I think the security's bound to be tight."

  So you're going to disguise yourself as someone f
rom the catering company? It sounds like something from a bad detective novel.

  I shook my head. I agreed that it wasn't ideal but Violet couldn't offer anything better. It was a silly argument, but it allowed both of us to stall the inevitable conversation of trust and betrayal until later. It was enough to process that Violet was really Viola Ambrose, the daughter of my enemy. The fact that she was ashamed of her past scored points with me—I just didn't know if it was enough. I decided that distracting myself was all I could handle right now.

  "You would have me just walk up and, if I get caught, play dumb? Just tell them I thought the party was open to the public?"

  There's always a chance of getting caught. You're less likely to explain it away if you're wearing a fake catering uniform.

  Her argument was sound. The image of me trying to rationalize myself out of that situation brought a smile to my lips. But it didn't solve our problem.

  I had known about this party for days. Instead of preparing for it, I had spent the week digging into Violet's history. Now the moment was upon us and I felt unready. Between Red Hat and Alexander McAllister and work, I was stretched too thin. It was likely to lead to mistakes where they were least afforded.

  "So then we need to go to Red Hat," I said. "We need to see if there's a way we could schmooze ourselves into the party."

  After what my father did to Sal, we shouldn't go anywhere near there. Besides, what if you just make your intent on sneaking in more obvious by bothering them?

  "And Soren?" I offered. "He's a guest of honor. Maybe he could score us an invite."

  Maybe.

  It seemed easy enough, except he hadn't told us about the party. In fact, I had to go through his things to discover his secret gig in the first place.