by Hallows,Kit
For a moment, I thought I might make it past without her noticing, but a shadow fell across the gap under her door.
The stairs leading to my apartment were so close. If I could just reach...
Click.
The door opened and Lyra appeared. She leaned against the frame, as if posing for a photograph. She looked up at me, elegant even in her bath robe. The shadows accentuated her cut-glass cheekbones and the long silvery blonde hair that was piled high upon her head.
"There you are." Her pince-nez glasses flashed over her azure eyes.
"Here I am." I nodded to the stairs. "I'm just going to-"
"You look terrible, Mr. Rook. And you're hurt!"
I rubbed the bruises on the side of my face. "It's nothing-"
"They're at it again." Lyra stared at me with that singularly unnerving gaze. "The cats." She shook her head. "Plotting."
According to Lyra Fitz the entire planet's controlled by cats. And rather than accept her gift of clairvoyance and second sight, she planted the blame of all visions and odd occurrences squarely upon a feline New World Order. Naturally this was a perfect soup of insanity.
"They must be having a convention," she said.
"A cat convention?"
Lyra narrowed her eyes, as if trying to work out if I was mocking her. I wasn't. I was humoring her.
"The streets were packed full of cats this afternoon. Did you see them? I've never seen so much fur in one day, not since Beijing. They're bringing me nightmares." She shook her head. "Ghastly nightmares."
Now this caught my interest. On top of being a very gifted empath, Lyra often has prophetic dreams, and more than a few have been helpful in my investigations. "Nightmares?" I tried to keep my voice as casual as possible.
Her painted eyebrows rose up and she gripped the doorframe with her porcelain-like hand. "I dreamt of a house on a hill, where endless smoke spilled from a canvas. Behind it was a deep black hole."
I did my best to contain the growing unease passing through me and remained silent as I waited for her to continue.
"The black hole pulled everything into it, the earth, the stars, the planets. It smashed them together until they were nothing but dust. And standing behind it all was a man. He waited in the shadows. I could barely see him. His face. It was painted."
"Painted?"
"Yes, white, like a corpse. And he wore a red scarf around his neck, like it was there to hide something. There was sadness, and emptiness in his eyes. And destruction. I didn't like him at all..." Lyra shook her head, and then gave me a weak smile. "Damn cats and their damned nonsense."
I had no idea who the man was, but everything she mentioned harkened back to my hallucination of the asylum. I wanted to press her further, but I could see she was getting agitated and it was late. "Well, you can sleep safe, now. I'm back, I've locked the door and-"
"They don't need doors. They were in the television earlier, if you please."
I reached out and took her thin hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You look tired, Lyra. Get some sleep and try not to worry. I've got everything under control."
She searched my eyes. "If you're sure?"
"Totally sure."
Lyra nodded and stepped back through her door. She closed it softly behind her, plunging the hallway in shadows.
I continued up the stairs to my apartment and opened the psychic locks that sealed the place shut. Usually these kinds of charms only last a couple of hours, but the other great thing about this house is the reservoir of magic that surrounds it. There's a Kabbalist two doors down, a Satanist over the road and a Wiccan in the basement apartment. Which means I can tap into their energy and set a spell that pretty much stays charged all day.
I looked down as I stepped through the door, eager to make sure none of my guests escape down the stairs. If they did, the jig would be up.
There were only five in the apartment tonight. A Persian on the sofa next to the two Siamese sisters, a Bombay on my turntable, and Alfred, a British Shorthair who liked to sleep on my shoes.
None of the cats were mine, they'd just adopted my apartment as their second home. A place for them to go to when they feel like slumming it or having an extra meal.
Their eyes glinted as I lit the candles. "Evening, ladies and gents." Even though I was battered, bruised and totally unnerved, I was glad for their company. Having them around helped take the edge off.
They glanced up with their green, blue and topaz eyes as I made my way through my threadbare apartment and lit the two candles on either side of the framed photograph of Willow. She gazed back, frozen in time, her long brown hair whipped around her in the wind, her hazel eyes mocking me, just as they had when I'd asked her to pose for the picture. And the ghost of that ever-wicked smile forever dancing on her lips.
A smile I'd never see again.
I kissed my fingers and touched the photograph, then I pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured two fingers into a glass. "If I'm going to get maudlin, I might as well go for the good stuff."
Liquid heat stung my throat as I took a long deep swallow and toasted Willow. "To you, my witchy love. Thanks for the birthday." I emptied the glass and filled it with another generous measure, before heading to the kitchen.
Ten glowing eyes grew wide with anticipation as they scampered to the floor and followed me. I opened a couple of cans of tuna and mashed the contents onto a dinner plate. Even though the brand I buy was nothing like the premium stuff they're probably used to, they still seem to enjoy it well enough. I set the plate down and they formed a circle of thrashing tails
I slumped onto the sofa.
The television screen stared blankly at me, but there was nothing I wanted to watch. I thought about putting some music on but then the rain began to patter against the roof. I raised my glass toward the ceiling, made a toast and took another long sip.
My phone buzzed with a message; some friends were out in a bar celebrating my birthday for me. I'd planned to be there too but then the intel on Mr. Tudor had come through and diverted me.
As I thought of Tudor, his words came back to me. The city's going to hell and the ones who have stayed in the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want. The horde's at the gates.
Usually I'd take it as nothing more than an empty threat, but then there was Lyra's weird nightmare. And her dreams have come to pass way too often for my liking. No, something was happening out there. Something new and malevolent. Something my boss at the Organization decided I didn't need to be told about.
Being human and on the lowest rung of the company ladder meant I was used to being kept in the dark where the intel is concerned. Need to know basis, and all that.
But this was a need to know situation, for me at least. The whole business reeked of evil, and if there was evil, there was a good chance Elsbeth Wyght wouldn't be far away.
I considered checking the news for any possible developments, but they rarely broadcasted stories that were helpful in my line of work. Strictly human concerns; murder, rape, corruption, each chasing the other's tail in a vicious circle.
I glanced at my phone, the display reflecting my bruised face and the flickering candles behind me.
There was always Haskins, he might have heard something...
The crossroads beckoned. But instead of four paths, there were two; blissful ignorance, or a Pandora's box. My curiosity outshines caution every single time. Maybe it's why the cats have such a strong affinity with me.
I switched the phone back on and dialed.
There was still time to hang up, to switch it off. Just finish the whiskey and let the world sort itself out.
But that's not what I do.
"Haskins."
"It's Morgan."
"What do you want, Rook?"
I took another drink. "Anything happening?"
"Plenty. And..."
"And what?"
Haskins sighed. "And it's late, and I've had a bitch of a day-"
<
br /> "And what?" I repeated.
"A murder. Weird shit. Must have been done by one of your lot."
By your lot, he meant someone into the occult. Haskins isn't the best at communicating, but what he lacks in expression, he makes up for with stone cold greed. Which meant getting more information would be easy as long as I was willing to pay. "I can't cross your greasy palms with silver if you won't tell me what happened."
He paused, as if waging a silent battle between his fatigue and greed. "Meet me at the diner. And bring a packet."
A packet meant an envelope with a thousand bucks inside and not a penny less. Covert information comes at a high price in this city. "I'll be there in half an hour."
"Right." Haskin's siren blared in the background as he hung up.
My arms ached as I pulled on my jacket and glanced at the mirror by the door. My face was pale in the candlelight. I smoothed back my black hair and buttoned my collar to cover the bloody wound on my throat. There was nothing I could do about the bruises blooming on the side of my face.
Thankfully the lights are always dim in Nika's Diner.
The cats glanced up as I grabbed my umbrella and a final belt of whiskey.
It was going to be a long night.
5
Lunar Avenue was only a couple of turns off the main street that runs through the heart of the city, but almost no one knew about it. There's a heavy glamour in this neighborhood and it works well, keeping non-magical people out. Me and Haskins, we're exceptions.
I hurried down the sidewalk as the rain thundered down on my umbrella. Nika's Diner's at the end of the road, near a shoe shop that I've never seen open in the twenty five years I've lived here, and a bar called The Lucky Coin.
Sometimes the Coin opens during the day, sometimes at dusk, and if there's any rhyme or reason to its business hours, I can't figure it. The place has a reputation for anonymity and easy violence. I've found more than a few of my charges there and some of the bloodstains that littered the grimy pavement outside were definitely my own. Which was why I kept my head down tonight. If I'm not on Organization business, I'm not supposed to carry a weapon. Not that I cared but I wanted to stay off their radar, for now at least.
My reflection was like a ghost in the diner window. The dingy pink light from the jukebox and faded turquoise formica countertops gave the place a 50s look. Not in a retro way, this place literally hasn't changed for going on seventy years. And it didn't need to, not when it had a captive audience who'd come here no matter what the place looked like.
A few customers were huddled in the shadows but the candles on the tables illuminated their faces. Drunks, junkies, dreamers, plotters, planners and people like me engrossed in meetings they probably shouldn't be having.
There was no sign of Haskins.
The door chimed as I shoved it open and stepped inside. The music was perfectly nondescript, easy listening from the 60s and 70s. I looked down trying to avoided eye contact with the people and creatures sitting in the alcoves but I managed to spot a troll who wasn't bothering to cloak himself, as well as a witch and a pair of mages among the usual low life schemers.
The aroma of coffee, pancakes and bacon grease hung in the stifling air. I made my way along the counter to the bar stool where Nika, the owner, sat. She was a tall, handsome lady; her thick auburn hair spilled out from under a small white cap and her emerald green eyes glinted like jewels as she glanced up from her magazine.
There was warmth in her eyes, but also tragedy. I'd never asked Nika her story, and she'd never told it. Not asking questions is part of the Diner's allure.
"What can I get you, Morgan?" She asked, her voice as direct and hoarse as ever.
"Coffee." I also ordered a donut I had no intentions of eating. Nika placed it on a china plate, and there it sat, the sugar gleaming on the greasy splodge of dough. She passed me a cup of acrid black coffee with a sachet of brown sugar balanced on the rim of the saucer.
"Keep the change."
She accepted the twenty without a word. Everyone overpays Nika. The diner's both an institution and a haven within our community. I reached for the coffee but paused as I saw someone appear in the corner of my eye.
"Detective Haskins." Nika barely kept the disdain from her voice. "Coffee and cheesecake?"
"Yeah, that'll get things started," Haskins answered, just as he always did. He squinted at the bruises on my face and the bloody crust on my neck. "Busy night?"
"Probably about the same as yours." Haskins looked more disheveled than ever. Wild spikes of dirt-brown and ash-grey hair crowned his head. His tired pebble-like eyes were red and his frayed suit seemed like it was about to unravel, I hoped I'd be far away from him when that finally happened.
We walked over to our usual booth at the back of the diner and sat in the shadows beneath the flickering cola sign. Haskins' hands shook as he placed his cup and plate on the table.
He looked haunted. A man with a spectral monkey on his back. He stabbed his fork into his cheesecake and swallowed it without bothering to chew. And then he glanced at me with his usual look of expectation.
I slid the envelope across the table. The irony of having a police detective for a narc wasn't lost on me. "So what have you got?"
Haskins poked at the remains of the cheesecake. "I've spent most of my night at a murder scene. The victim was an older man." He paused and set his fork down. "Someone cut his throat, took his eyes out and laid him on the floor like he was sleeping. He was definitely one of your lot, loads of occult shit in the house."
"Can you elaborate on occult shit?"
"Strange old books, black candles, weird statues, hands of glory, that sort of shit." Haskins took the envelope and folded it into his raincoat. "He had some weird scars too."
"Scars?"
"Hocus-pocus symbols. Just above the wrist."
"Scars or tattoos?"
"Both. Rough, like the artist used a knife instead of a tattoo gun."
"What kind of symbols?"
"I don't know what any of that crap means." Haskins shrugged. "I guess they looked like runes."
"They might have been for protection." Protective runes were common in our community.
"Well they weren't very effective, considering...."
"Did you get pictures?"
Haskins pulled out his phone and smeared the display with his greasy thumb as he flicked through it. His face wore a sickly look as he turned the screen my way.
A man, in his late sixties, lay neatly upon polished floorboards with his arms folded diagonally across his chest. A red slash marked his throat and blood pooled around his head like a halo. Flecks stained his white hair and two wet red eye sockets gaped emptily above his drawn lips.
Haskins switched the phone round and thumbed through some more photographs. He pulled one up that showed the faint red rune marked upon the man's wrist.
I felt sick.
I'd seen the symbol before. A friend, of sorts, had the exact same configuration in exactly the same place. I'd only seen it once; the guy wore a raincoat all year round, no matter the season. But I recognized it instantly. It looked like a wheel with nine spiked spokes issuing from its center, the top surrounded by strange, alien writing. "I need a copy of that."
Haskins shook his head. "No. I'm not sending out copies of these pictures. I'm deleting them the minute I leave this place."
I grabbed a pen from my pocket and sketched out the symbol on a napkin, then I asked him for the address of the murder scene. Haskins patted his pocket, no doubt reassuring himself the envelope was still there, and then gave me the location. "You gonna eat that donut?" he asked.
"You can have it."
Haskins wrapped it in a napkin and stood. "Later, Rook."
I nodded. He left the diner, turning the collar of his coat up as he ran for his car. The headlights blazed in the rain as he drove away, passing from the magical quarter back to the city.
The swell of nausea returned as I glanced at the sy
mbol once more.
The victim seemed to be about the same age as my friend, same build too. I took a sip of lukewarm coffee, grabbed my umbrella and headed out, a string of questions churning in my mind.
The train rattled across the city as crimson moonlight washed over the dark monolithic skyscrapers. An ominous sight, as if some demonic painter had colored the city blood red. It looked unreal, like a backdrop of a movie set.
Haskins' words tumbled through my mind, I kept seeing flashes of the victim and the rune on his wrist. I wondered what it meant, and how my friend Tom had come to have exactly the same one.
I hadn't seen Tom for weeks, but there was nothing unusual there. Like a lot of homeless people, he tended to drift from place to place and then he'd reappear like a forgotten season. But I needed to find him now, make sure he was okay and see if he would tell me what in the hell that symbol meant.
The murder, along with Tudor's warning, pricked me like a rash. Something was happening on my patch, something that Erland Underwood, my boss at the Organization, hadn't bothered to tell me about. I pulled out my phone in case he'd left a message, but there was nothing. Just the one text my girlfriend had sent over a year ago, that I hadn't been able to delete. The last message she'd sent before she'd been murdered.
I thought about calling to demand an explanation but I knew I wouldn't. Underwood and the Organization were my only link to the magical world, and there was no way I'd risk breaking it. At least not until I'd found Elsbeth Wyght and avenged Willow.
The skyscrapers receded, their silhouettes like jagged shards of onyx. The train began to slow.
I got up, jabbed the button until the door opened, and leapt to the platform amid a wash of moonlight that looked like blood.
An ominous sign in what was fast becoming an ominous night.
6
Cigarette butts, broken bottles and trash littered the street. The sidewalk was pitted, filthy and stained. The shops had security bars on their windows, and the faint glow of televisions flickered in the cramped apartments above.
