by Battis, Jes
“And you knew Jacob was using it?”
“I suspected. It was impossible to confirm, though. Drugs like heroin metabolize into morphine, but Hex nearly vanishes into airborne materia. It’s difficult to trace.”
“Are you a pharmacist, Ms. Kynan?”
She smiled darkly. “When your only son is an addict, you become quite well versed in these matters. I could probably write a book by now.”
“If I ever wrote a book about this place,” Selena dead-panned, “it would make millions.”
“She’s winding down,” Derrick said. “She’s going to let her off easy.”
“Selena never lets anyone off easy. She just switches tactics.”
“All right.” Selena looked carefully at Devorah, who maintained flawless eye contact. She was undoubtedly accustomed to being interviewed. “I’m going to be honest with you. There have been two other cases similar to this one in the past four weeks. They were also the children of people from our world. People like you, Ms. Kynan. They were murdered in Ontario, and we think all three deaths are related.”
“The same killer.” Her voice was velvety soft. “Who are the parents?”
“Lyrae and Baxter Simms. Tobias and Patricia Davies. Lyrae passed away in February of last year.”
“I know. Her cancer metastasized.” Devorah rubbed her temples for a moment, wincing, looking tired. She could have been any middle-aged professional. Only the scent of her power gave her away. “Baxter moved to Quebec after Lyrae died, but Andrea stayed in Vancouver with a paternal uncle. Tobias and Patricia recently took a leave of absence from their posts in Manitoba. Now it makes sense.”
Selena nodded.
“Aside from the Hextacy, was there any other magic involved?”
“The first two cases were normate. Aside from the victims’ connections to our world, nothing marked their deaths as being particularly noteworthy. But Jacob’s murder was different. The killer used magic to subdue him, and there was a ritualistic element.”
“Show me,” Devorah said simply.
“Are you certain about that, Ms. Kynan? These images are graphic.”
“I’ve already seen my son’s dead body.” Her face seemed to collapse for a moment, but then the mask returned. “I know that his death was violent. I know that his throat was slashed. Nothing that you can show me will make a difference now.”
With genuine reluctance, Selena withdrew the crime scene photos from a nearby folder. She slid them across the table. I saw the bloody cauldron, Jacob’s body splayed across the ceiling, and the arc of arterial spray on the hotel room wall. I shivered.
Devorah scanned the pictures as if they were a museum exhibit. Her eyes betrayed no feeling. Her shields were up for good now.
“A coire,” she said. “How odd.”
“The killer obviously has some knowledge of magical history,” Selena said. “And he—or she—didn’t use necroid materia. So we’re dealing with a mage.”
“One of our own,” Devorah breathed.
“Exactly.”
“And this cauldron—it was filled with my son’s blood?”
I swallowed. How do you ask a question like that? How do you answer it?
“Yes,” Selena replied levelly.
“Sometimes blood is used in rituals designed for longevity. But those are ancient. Forbidden by the Mage’s Rede. And nobody knows if they even work anymore.”
In the middle ages, the Rede was an informal code among witches, an oral tradition passed down through the generations. But this was the computer age, and the Rede had become a hefty online manual with footnotes and hyperlinks. Searching through it was like trying to read the guidelines for NAFTA.
“We think that the killer has been perfecting some kind of—performance,” Selena said slowly. “The other two were designed as preparation, but Jacob was the first real test subject. We just don’t know what the purpose is.”
“It could be anything,” Devorah said. “A plea for immortality, a shape-shifting, a curse. Blood has many uses. Were the other victims left on the ceiling?”
“No. Jacob was the first.”
“But you don’t think he’ll be the last.”
Selena’s expression was grim. “No. I’m afraid not.”
Devorah rose. “I understand.” She handed Selena a card. “This has my cell number. I expect to be updated, day or night.
Keep the information flowing, and I’ll give you all the resources and contacts you need.”
“Thank you, but we’re perfectly capable of conducting this investigation without your help, Ms. Kynan.”
The woman barely smiled. “We both know that’s not true. Keep me informed, Detective, and things will run smoothly. If I feel that I’m being excluded, I’ll have to contact my cadre of lawyers and explain to them how you coerced me, under duress, to give you an interview without legal counsel present. I’ll also have to notify them about the OSHA infractions and code violations in your morgue—particularly how you let me view my son’s body. Alone.”
Derrick exhaled. “She’s good,” he whispered.
“Are we clear on this matter?”
Selena rose. “We are, Ms. Kynan.”
“Thank you—Selena.” Devorah extended her hand.
Selena took it. I felt the planets shift—two titans were clashing.
“I’m sorry” was all she said.
“Yes. I am, too.”
The door opened, and Devorah emerged from the interrogation room. She didn’t look at Derrick and me. She just walked away.
Selena leaned in the doorway with a sigh. I saw for the first time that she was sweating. Devorah had almost completely drained her.
“That could have gone worse,” Derrick said.
Selena closed her eyes. “Yeah. She could have eaten my face off.”
“But it sounds like she’s going to cooperate.”
“She’ll cooperate as long as it’s convenient for her. But if we piss her off, she’s going to come at us with all the armies of hell.”
“Not like we haven’t faced them before,” I offered.
Selena chuckled. “True that, kiddo.”
“So where do we start?” Derrick asked.
“You start with Duessa.”
“Who’s that?”
Selena’s look was incredulous. “You work in this city, and you don’t know who Duessa is? Child, remind me why I promoted you to OSI-2!”
“Because of her good looks, of course.” Derrick smiled, turning to me. “Duessa’s kind of like a social worker for throwaway kids—the ones with power.”
“The House of Duessa is a shelter for mage kids—almost like a co-op for addicts and runaways. They get food, beds, clean gear, and some medical care. She’s seen all kinds of screwed-up kids coming through her place, including the sons and daughters of the most powerful mages in our community.”
“She’s not going to talk to us without some kind of referral,” Derrick said.
“Of course not.” Selena’s eyes fell on me. “You know what that means, Tess.”
Fuck. That meant talking to Lucian Agrado. It meant pouring salt on a wound that had been festering for six months.
“Just talking,” Selena said. “Remember that.”
4
Moonbase was still the hottest club for supernaturals—and various immortals—in Vancouver, although from the outside it resembled a warehouse or a paper company. Dunder Mifflin for vampires. It was within walking distance of Crush, the underage trolling ground, as well as the Roxy, which was just—gross. Plenty of snacks for those inclined to devour stupid teenagers. The last time I was here, I had to interview Sabine, the vampire who almost killed me. Good times. I don’t know where she went after Caitlin banished her from the city, but I liked to imagine that she was Dumpster diving somewhere south of the border.
At 11:30 a.m. on a Tuesday, the building was understandably dark. All the vamps were still sleeping, warm in their Murphy beds, like Cindy Lou Who waiting for Chris
tmas (i.e., dusk) to arrive. I sipped on the dregs of my Tim Hortons double-double, enjoying the crystallized sugar as it slid down my throat. No, it wasn’t a beautifully pulled shot of espresso, but for a dollar fifty, their extra-large cup was the size of a bell jar, and it definitely made the morning pass smoothly.
I hadn’t seen Lucian Agrado in quite some time, and despite the fact that this was strictly a business meeting, I didn’t see any harm in looking good for the occasion. Hence, the vegan “leather” boots (Derrick made me buy them in a fit of social conscience, but they actually looked good), gray cardigan, patterned silk scarf, and jeans from Mavi that accomplished the impossible task of making my body look svelte. I have hips, and body fat, and breasts that don’t always stand at attention. I’d rather tweak than hide, since it’s not as if my genetic legacy was going to reverse itself anytime soon, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t weave an illusion here and there.
Besides—if I remembered correctly, Lucian hadn’t complained the last time he saw me without my clothes on. And with that thought, I was slipping back into the dark and bad place.
Keep it together. This is CORE business. This is an official interview.
An interview with soft lips, and a tongue, and great skin, and spiky black hair that was baby soft to the touch, and Holy Mary, those arms—
—and necromancy. Evil. Powers of darkness.
I crossed Granville Street, which was quiet at the moment. A homeless couple dragged two carts full of junk behind them, followed closely by two dogs. Adrenaline Piercing was open, and I saw a preppy girl with caramel highlights, wincing in pain as the tattoo artist applied a vibrating needle to her stomach. Don’t be a butterfly, I thought. God, not another butterfly. Stoners and drummers and their shady girlfriends gathered outside the Rock Shop, where you could still buy Skinny Puppy tees for twenty bucks. Tourists who had wandered too far north up the street were gazing in confusion at the grimy pizza joints and bars, wondering why they couldn’t find Urban Outfitters. I could hear the rumbling of cars and buses on the Granville Street Bridge a few blocks up, the corridor to West Broadway and the land of boutique shops and hip cafés. Under the bridge, a very different economy was operating.
The entrance to Moonbase, with its wrought iron gate and creepy Doric pillars, was just as I remembered it. Undead Savannah chic. I smoothed down my sweater, took a breath, and knocked. My athame was in my back pocket. Not that I expected a scuffle, but it’s always nice to have a ritual dagger close at hand. I’d left my Browning in the trunk of the car. It wasn’t worth trying to sneak it in, and if I needed a gun in a building full of vampires, I was pretty much dead anyway.
I heard some shuffling, and then a heavy metal scraping. The door opened, and a guy in a tank top appeared. He was wearing sunglasses. I grinned as I recognized him—the same bouncer I’d spoken to the last time I was here.
“Tess Corday,” I said. “Remember me?”
He kept to the shadowed area of the doorway.
“Huh,” he said simply.
“I need to see Lucian.”
The vampire scratched his head. “He doesn’t work here anymore.”
My stomach did a flip. “What?”
“He’s—not—here.” The bouncer sneered. “He turned over the keys last month. Said he wanted to get out of the club business.”
“So what’s he doing now?”
“What am I, fucking directory assistance?” He spread his hands. “Maybe he’s working at a nonprofit. Maybe he’s getting his fucking MBA. Who knows?”
I sighed. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Let’s see your ID, Detective.”
I rummaged through my purse and drew out my laminated CORE ID. The picture was not flattering. He scanned it and smiled.
“Level two. Somebody’s moving up in the world, eh?”
I glared at him. “Do you need anything else? Some letterhead, or a reference or something? I’ve got a busy morning ahead of me.”
“Don’t get tetchy.” His smile widened. “Give me your hand.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hand. I need to smell you.”
I made a face. “Look, I’ve heard a lot of weird come-ons before, but offering to smell me isn’t exactly going to get you any trim, all right? That’s not my thing.”
“Just give me your hand. It’ll only take a second, and I promise not to enjoy it.” He crinkled his nose. “You’re not my type anyhow. Too fragile.”
“I guess that should make me feel better.” Tentatively, I held out my hand, knowing that he could rip it off in a second if he wanted to. It was like sticking your fingers in a metal press and hoping that nobody pushed the button.
He turned my hand palm upward, and inhaled. His eyes closed. I resisted the urge to scream. His cold fingers encircled my wrist, and he brushed his nose against my flesh, raising goose bumps. I felt like a wine being tested, and briefly wondered how I would rate. Hopefully a sweet little Shiraz, something Chilean. More likely, a cheap Arbor Mist.
The bouncer let go of my hand. “Okay, you’re good.”
“It’s creepy that you guys have my scent on file.”
“Not your scent.” He smirked. “His.”
I felt my cheeks go red. “That’s—I mean, I haven’t seen Lucian in six months.”
“Try three.”
I blinked. Shit.
Okay, so I lied a bit. I may have met him for coffee a few months ago. It was awkward, and I didn’t want to talk about it. He barely said anything, and I drank two mochas to compensate, until I was vibrating at an impossible frequency. When I got home, Derrick was confused by my sudden need to clean every inch of my bathroom, including the door-knobs.
“Fine—three months,” I replied. “But even that’s a long time for a scent to hang around. It’s not like I haven’t showered.”
“I could tell you what you had for breakfast two weeks ago, if you like.” He frowned. “Stay away from the chimichangas, by the way.”
I filed that under GROSS. “Whatever. Do I have to sniff you now, or can you just tell me where he is?”
“Just doing my job. Only certain personal contacts”—he smirked a little at the pun—“get a copy of his home address.”
The knowledge that I was on this list made me feel—well, kind of stupidly happy, I’ll admit it. Happy and a little freaked out, since Lucian had made these creepy arrangements without telling me. He knew that I’d come looking for him eventually.
It was ridiculous to think, even for a minute, that I’d be the one in control this time. Lucian was always one step ahead. It drove me crazy.
The bouncer handed me a card with the address written on the back. I took it from him, and our fingertips brushed. Cold and dry. He could be an antiperspirant commercial. I smiled neutrally.
“Thanks for this.”
He lowered his sunglasses a bit, and I saw his eyes. They were the color of ice.
“Any time.”
I walked to my car without looking back. But I knew he was watching.
The last thing I’d expected to do this morning was visit a necromancer’s apartment in the pathologically trendy Yaletown district, but here I was, trying to find parking on Davie Street as it became a steep incline before intersecting with Pacific Boulevard.
Yaletown butted against Vancouver’s West End, where gay hipsters, artists, and designers shared space with urban retirees and two-dog families. Everyone wanted to live next to the beach, and at the corner of Davie and Denman streets, you could see muscle boys on rollerblades grinning as they passed Korean exchange students, huddled in a pod and clutching their ice cream cones, while bearish couples lounged on bright afghans with their Pomeranians yipping up a storm. Joggers in formfitting lululemon shorts huffed and puffed as they sped by, squirting arcs of filtered water from their Fiji bottles, and at night, the beach was filled with roaming kiosks, fire eaters, and occasionally a Tibetan monk with a cart on wheels who handed out paper fortunes. You could hear
the sound of his gong echoing through the mist on chilly evenings, as tendrils of cream white fog drifted along the seawall, obscuring the distant tankers.
Unlike the urban sprawl of Toronto, or the old-meets-new, Victorian schizophrenia of Montreal (schizophrenic in a good way, like that crazy uncle who makes you feel oddly comfortable), Vancouver was a city of autonomous neighborhoods. The West End was a mixture of longtime residents, overtaxed students, and hopeful gay men competing for face time on the strip (from Burrard to Broughton, which roughly defined the borders of Vancouver’s LGBT neighborhood). Commercial Drive, nestled eastward, was for activists, teachers, aging hippies, and lesbians who’d grown tired of the politics on Davie. Kitsilano, the realm of the eternal tan, was for UBC students, surfers, yoga instructors, and anyone daring enough to play shirtless volleyball at Jericho Beach. It shared space with Point Grey, the tree-lined haven of politicians and civil servants, and the Jericho Army Base, where army cadets got drunk and tried to sneak in strippers from the Copper Room.
Farther east, you had Nanaimo, an ethnic mix and settling point for families who couldn’t afford rent on Commercial Drive. And then there was everything else—the suburbs, the in-between neighborhoods, the crisscrossing lengths of the Lougheed and Barnet highways, and the waterfront industries, where plastics were melted, sugar was refined, and more than occasionally, people disappeared.
Ask tourists, and they all say the same thing: “The city is so beautiful.” But that beauty was surrounded by skyscrapers, glass condos, private marinas, and gated communities. You couldn’t just plunk down a house next to Stanley Park and expect to enjoy its natural splendor—not unless you had about four million bucks to spare and healthy contacts among the real estate emperors who controlled property access within the city. New apartments, even in the suburbs, were like novelty items. Before the foundation was even laid, you could bet that every unit was already snatched up and paid for by overseas millionaires and greedy developers.
While places like Shaughnessy and North Vancouver—which was a separate municipality—served as bastions for old money, Yaletown was the epicenter of yuppie wealth and power. Hamilton Street practically shone with new blood, and you couldn’t enter a café or restaurant without experiencing the invasion of the gorgeous twenty-somethings. Visiting this neighborhood without an LV or Hermès bag was sacrilege: instantly, all eyes would lock on your obvious fashion faux pas, and the residents would converge on you like well-dressed children of the corn. Your best camouflage was a BlackBerry, a decent scarf to draw attention away from the rest of your outfit, and a general aura of fierceness.
