“Won’t lie to you, Mojo.” The old man threw it right back at him. “Won’t talk ‘bout it either. They’ll be by presently.”
“Damn, Blin’.” Tweaked, Boone had to laugh a little laugh.
“What you need anyway?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Every time you come see me it’s usually cause you want somethin’.”
“Fuckin’ forgive me for not knowing I was supposed to pay the occasional social call.”
“You already flyin’ high on somebody else’s dope, I can tell.” Among other things, Blind Melon was Boone’s cocaine dealer. “So it ain’t that.”
“Nah, it ain’t that.” Boone told the man what he needed and when the old man’s brow raised Boone asked him if that was going to be a problem.
“No, not going to be a problem. But I’m a need a few days on that.”
“Take your time.”
“Feelin’ like a reading?”
“You got your cards?”
“Mojo ask do I got my cards.” The old man reached inside the mohair sweater he wore for a jacket and returned with a deck of tarot cards.
“You want me to work the cards, you must have a question you want answered.”
Boone thought about what he wanted to know. “Where’s all this going?”
Blind shuffled the cards, let Boone cut them. He proceeded to lay out ten cards between them, covering the first card with the second, horizontally. The third through sixth he placed around the first two, forming something like a cross. The remaining four cards he laid one above the other.
“That’s you, on the bottom.” Boone looked at the first card the old man had laid down.
“The Knight of Swords?”
“Represents war and wrath, destruction and resistance. Your situation in the present. It means anything to you, you’re fighting the good fight.”
“That’s good to know.” Boone didn’t feel good about it. Rainford was manipulating him and he was letting Rainford manipulate him.
“What’s with her—” the second card lying across his Knight of Swords “—the Queen of Cups?”
“That’s what you’re facing right ahead. A card’s facing you, Mojo, it means one thing. When it’s reversed, it means something else.”
Boone looked at the horizontal card, thinking about Kreshnik’s mother and all he’d heard about her. “So what’s she mean?”
“She could be a good woman, fair and honest, gonna do you some kind of service.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Or a perverted woman, one you can’t trust.”
“Sounds more like it.”
“This is what you left behind.” Mojo tapped the third card he had placed down, a little boy and a little girl, the little boy holding a cup, smelling a flower in it. “This is in your past, but it’s influencing you now.”
Boone thought that kind of eerie, how right on the old man was with that. Rainford holding Jennifer over his head.
“This is your destiny.”
Boone considered the fourth card. A man hung upside down from a Tau cross, the card itself upside down from him, reversed. “Well, looks like I’m fucked.”
“Look closely at the card, Mojo. Look at the boy’s face.”
A nimbus of light circled the young man’s head. He didn’t look bothered. In fact, he looked peaceful, entranced even, like he was focusing on something outside of his situation, something off the card.
“This card represents life is suspension. Life, Mojo. Not death. The kid’s alive. He ain’t dead.”
The fifth card depicted another young man, this one standing on a cliff and wielding a staff, fighting off a bunch of other staffs. “This look like any recent past events?” Boone grunted in affirmation, thinking of the bamboo kendo swords clobbering him, of the nest of vampires he’d waltzed into at the warehouse, of his showdown with Kreshnik on the baseball field.
A hand emanated from the clouds on the sixth card, holding a sword aloft. The sword pierced a crown. Boone described it to Blind, asked him what it meant that the card was facing away from him.
“Ace of Swords, reversed. Conquest and triumph, but disastrous results.”
“Great.”
“Could have been worse, Mojo.”
“How’s that?”
“That card could have been death. This card here,” Blind put his finger on the seventh card, the bottom most of the four that rested one above the next. “This card represents you now.”
Boone scoffed. “The Devil.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re the devil himself. Violence, force, fatality. What’s predestined. You’re on a path, Mojo.”
Boone spoke to the eighth card. “Why’s that woman got a bunch of swords over her in bed?”
“That’s not a bed, Mojo. It’s a divan. And those swords are horizontal.”
“Meaning what?”
“Look at her. What’s she doing?”
“Crying?” The woman’s face was in her hands.
“Right. Death, failure, deception. Disappointment. This is your influence on other people and events.”
Boone nodded because it sounded right to him. If he had his way, Rainford was definitely going to be disappointed with the way the upcoming little European vacation was going to play out.
“What you see here?” Blind pointed to the ninth card.
“King of Swords, facing away from—reversed.”
“This represents your hopes and emotional state. Cruelty. Perversity. Barbarity.” With each word, Blind’s tone grew more somber. “Evil intention. That about where you at?”
“Just right.” Boone sniffed, his nose running from the meth. He was going to kill them all. Kreshnik’s mother. Colson in Europe if he got the chance. Rainford when he got back. And that black fuck, Big Duke, just as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
“You got a lot of bad in you right now, Mojo.” Blind sounded sad.
“Well, there he is then.” Boone indicated the tenth and final card, death. “Let me guess: death means death.”
“Only if you continue along the way you are now. Wherever you at, Mojo,” Blind pointed to his head, “get out of there. This is not going to end well.”
“Says the cards.”
“Says the cards.” Blind picked up his cards, returning them to his deck.
“I want to thank you, Blind. That was a lot cheaper than calling that Dionne Warwick bitch.”
Blind tried to smile for the man he considered a friend. “Watch how you talk about the Princess of Pop, Mojo. All kidding aside, you gotta run. Get the hell out while you still can.”
Images of his sister, of the Cerberus, flashed through Boone’s mind. “Can’t do that now, Blin’.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I don’t believe the cards anyway,” Boone offered, almost as an afterthought.
“There’s a lot you not seein’, Mojo.”
“Like?” Boone was tapping his foot.
“Think on this. That Kreshnik sucker—when’s the first time you seen him?”
“Think I told you that already once.”
“Tell me again.”
“It had this blood collection scam going in the ghetto, Red Crescent bullshit. You should have seen it, people were lining up to donate blood in the trailer, get some cash.”
“You seen it in the trailer? That the first place you saw Kreshnik?”
“No. I seen it in a bodega.”
“And it never occurred to you, what’s a vampire—creature that don’t need to eat, don’t need to drink nothing but blood—what’s a vampire doing in a deli?”
No, if Boone was being honest, he’d have to admit, he never had thought about it like that.
“Think on that why don’t you.”
“Don’t think I like the way you’re talkin’ to me, Blin’.” Boone ready to get up and walk away, didn’t need anybody talking to him like he was a kid. Needing another hit.
“Quit bein’ a fool. I’m talking to you like I’d talk to my own. You too stubborn to listen and too thick headed to realize that not everyone that talks a lot is telling you what you need to hear, Mojo.”
Boone narrowed his gaze on the old man. “What’s that supposed to mean, Blin’?”
“Let’s just let it go at that.” Blind rose, unfolding his cane. “Oh yeah.” He paused and reached back inside his jacket, his hand coming out with a small, rolled up paper bag. “This is for you.” Blind handed the bag to Boone. “Take care of yourself, Mojo.”
Boone watched the old man shuffle away before peaking in the bag. The growth hormone. From China. He’d been waiting on that. Hadn’t been working out lately, but he’d get back to it soon as this little bit of bullshit was behind him.
When he looked back up Emmanuella was approaching him. The last time he’d seen her…Damn, if she didn’t look good. Black dress over black flats, the dress some kind of fabric that hugged her curves. Legs just right, neither too thin nor too thick, well-toned. Her hair was pulled back behind her head and piled in a bun. Boone couldn’t see the thing but he knew she had to have that Gurkha blade on her somewhere.
“Fuck. What are you doing here?”
“You can’t trust Rainford.”
“I know.”
“No.” Emmanuella sat down next to him on the bench, looking at him. “You don’t.” Boone didn’t move away. “You’re high, aren’t you?”
He ignored her accusation. “The enemy of my enemy is my enemy too, right?”
“It’s not that simple. You have to destroy him when you get the chance.”
“Oh, I decided that a long time ago.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“He’s an old fuck.”
“He’s still a very dangerous adversary. Why do you think they haven’t moved on him yet? Destroy him when you can. Don’t hesitate.”
“He’s giving me the chance to kill Kreshnik’s mother.”
“He’s using you.”
“Yeah, no shit. And you’re not right?”
“At least I’m upfront with you.”
“Upfront my ass.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re all liars and deceivers.” Boone wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.
“In what way?”
“Sister Emmanuella? Of the Sisterhood of—what was that bullshit again? And you could have at least come up with a better name than something from some softcore porn. What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
“The character’s name was Emmanuella.”
“Look at you, sister. How’d you know that?”
“I’m virtuous, not chaste.”
“Yeah, chaste.” Boone looked her over sitting there, her one leg crossed over the other, dress riding up, showing him a little bit of her lower leg. “Now you sound like him,” And he looked away, all too aware that he’d been thinking of vampires like Rainford and Poermoy as he’s and not it’s lately, the thought bothering him, unintentionally humanizing something that was in no way human.
“You’re irrepressible. Do you know that Boone?”
“I’m horny as fuck is what I am sister.” He snorted, wiped his nose with his hand again. “Wanna help me with that?”
“No.”
“Then get out of my way. Because I’m getting ready to kill a whole bunch of motherfuckers.”
“Boone. Listen to me—” something in her eyes, imploring him. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
“You mean Rainford—”
“Rainford, yes. But you and me too, Boone.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Do you know there is a presence that accompanies you?”
Stash. Boone looked around but the apparition was nowhere to be seen. “You can sense him?”
“Sense him? It’s an ethereal being, Boone. It has no gender.”
“Nah, Stash is definitely a dude.” As soon as Boone had said it he regretted it, thinking he’d said too much. The fuck was Stash lately anyway?
“It might appear to you as a male because those are the qualities you’ve transferred upon it.”
“Why’d you leave me in the park with him, sister?”
She quieted for a moment, understanding where the conversation had gone, what Boone was asking her.
“There’s a lot going on here, Boone—”
“Yeah, right. A lot going on that none of us understand. Or maybe it’s just me, because I’m a simple motherfucker. Something like that? See, where I stand, sister? It is simple. There’s me, and then there’s a whole bunch of other motherfuckers who aren’t going to be around much longer.”
“Boone. Be careful. There’s a great evil afoot in the land.”
“Wooooh.” Boone twittered his fingers in the air, feigning fear. “Don’t worry, sista.” He put his hands back in his lap but couldn’t keep them still. “I’ve got my eye on Rainford. I never trust a motherfucker who doesn’t use contractions—”
“You’re not hearing me.” Emmanuella looked genuinely upset and Boone considered her considering him. “There are things in this world—aside from Rainford—that you need to beware.”
He looked her over a last time. Sure, she was pretty as shit. She could wear a tent and there’d be no denying that figure. And, Boone had to grudgingly admit, there was something sincere in her manner this afternoon, but…but this was the woman who’d left him in the park, left him bloodied and broken, left him near death by Kreshnik’s hands, left him to Rainford’s devices.
“Can’t help myself, sister.” Boone stood before she could, gripping the paper bag Blind had given him. “And despite all your bullshit, I like you.” He looked down on her like he was going to say something more and then decided against it. “I really do. Do yourself a favor,” he said before turning, “Try not to get caught in the crossfire,” turning then and walking off, leaving her in the park.
32.
5:55 P.M.
For several days, they watched the short, stout woman.
They followed her wherever she went, from her own apartment to the various stores she visited. They watched her with their binoculars and eavesdropped with their hand held listening devices, but there was never really much to see or hear. They monitored her comings and goings from the rooftops and from parked cars, following on foot and in a variety of vehicles to avoid detection. They found her car incongruous, the Ninety-Eight Olds large and loud, the woman herself short and quiet. She spent most of her days and many of her nights at another apartment, away from her own.
In a neighborhood of immigrants, many of them ageing, the woman did not stand out.
Sarafina came out of Olga’s apartment at five of six. Olga had been packing her son’s wounds with poultices, in the hopes of mending some of the appalling injuries incurred upon him. Sarafina had her own opinion as to whether the cataplasms had any emollient effects on such grievous wounds—Eddie’s head, for one, kept falling or getting knocked off—but she kept her opinions to herself. Olga was magistra, and if Olga said she knew what she doing Sarafina knew better than to ask. If Olga asked her to go the supermarket to pick up some bran, Sarafina would go to the supermarket to pick up some bran.
She walked to her car, slow and steady. Olga’s downstairs neighbor, Lou, gave her a small wave and asked her how she was doing. Lou spent his days in his folding chair outside the entrance to the apartment building. He wore a neck brace because of an old injury he’d incurred with the Sanitation Department, Lou out on disability all these years.
Sarafina smiled at Lou and continued walking towards her car, aware that Lou was checking her out from behind, the way a man would. Sarafina in her sixties, Lou close to it himself if he wasn’t there already. Olga had told Sarafina the neck brace was bull, just something Lou wore in case any inspectors from the Sanitation Department came snooping around. Didn’t want his checks cut off. Lou’d been married once, but his wife had left him.
A cat was rubbing
itself against Sarafina’s Oldsmobile. She exhaled, slightly annoyed. She loved Olga’s cats and animals in general, but she imagined this cat had been out here spraying her car, marking it. She hated the stink of cat pee.
The sky was darkening and a breeze stirred the few trees on the block. The leaves had gone red and orange and would start falling in the next week or so.
As she got closer to her car, Sarafina noted the cat was well-kept, its coat short and lustrous. Didn’t look like a stray. Maybe it lived with someone nearby and went out for walks. Not a good idea, Sarafina thought as she shooed the feline away from her car and fitted her key to the door of the Olds. A lot of times house cats lacked the instincts their cousins honed on the street. But even a street cat wasn’t safe out here on the streets, not with the ASPCA and their kill shelters, all the cars, and these murderous young kids today who tortured animals for fun.
Sarafina lowered herself onto the tasseled cushions on her driver’s seat, behind the leather steering wheel. She found she’d lowered herself right into the fixed iron sights of an H&K MP-5, the submachine gun gripped by a woman sitting across from her in her car.
“Hello, priestess.” Another woman in the back seat spoke. Sarafina craned her neck. “My name is Emmanuela. The woman next to you is Daniella.” They were both young, beautiful girls, curvaceous and wearing black clothes that didn’t hide it.
“Do you know what this is?” Emmanuela held up an amber amulet on a chain.
Sarafina took it all in silently. The muzzle of the submachine gun next to her. The amulet dangling from the woman’s hand and the silver branching root charm hanging between her cleavage. The decorative glass ball one of them had hung from the rear view mirror. If Sarafina didn’t already know what it was, she might have confused the glass ball for a Christmas ornament. But she knew what it was, knew it served the same purpose as the amulet being held up for her consideration.
“It nullifies our magic,” said Emmanuela, “but also yours.”
The submachine gun in Daniella’s hands did not waver.
A third woman out on the street closed Sarafina’s door, smiling the whole time, looking friendly. Anyone who saw it going down from outside the car would think an old lady was going for a drive with her granddaughters. From outside the Olds they wouldn’t see the MP-5 threatening Sarafina.
I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) Page 18
