Circle of Enemies: A Twenty Palaces Novel

by Harry Connolly

  I was still crouched down. It took all the willpower I had, but I made myself stand straight. “Guess so.”

  “Are you joking about trying to kill your pal Wally? ’Cause I was hoping you could help me out with him.”

  It took me a second to catch up. “I get it. You want super powers for your cousins, and you want me to talk Wally into giving them an origin story of their own.”

  “Not just that, Ray. I want you on my side. Arne was right about you. You’re a sharp guy. You always got your eyes open. I want you on my team, not his.”

  “What about that origin story?” I asked.

  Fidel shook his head and came close to me. He still wore that broad, perfect smile. “Didn’t your boss tell you all of that? You came to town and ran straight to him. We saw you there.”

  “Caramella contacted me, not Arne,” I said again.

  “He was never really your friend, Ray,” he said, as if trying to convince me to stop lying. “You were his loyal guy, and look how he paid you back with Violet.”

  I stepped back, startled. Violet and Arne? So Jasmin—

  “That’s right, dude.” Fidel stepped close to me, but not close enough to touch. “You did everything he told you to do, and he went behind your back with your girl.”

  I flinched. I couldn’t help it—the image of Arne and Vi together in her bed was sudden and sharp. Fidel could have been lying, but I didn’t believe it. Arne and Vi—I knew it was true. It was like a secret I was keeping from myself.

  I closed my eyes and imagined Annalise beside me. Would she think this mattered? Those relationships were five years in the past. I’d come out of prison and turned my back on all of it. Did it matter? Of course not. It hurt, yeah, but I wasn’t here to settle that sort of score.

  “Fidel,” I said. “Where can I find Wally?”

  Fidel smiled and turned sideways. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Ray. You haven’t even signed up with me yet. You’re still on Arne’s side.”

  “Sign up with you, Fidel? Wally King already killed you.”

  He didn’t like that, but he smiled through it. “I don’t think so.”

  “You think I’ve been living easy in Seattle? Wally King put a curse on my oldest friend up there, and …” I wasn’t sure how to say this next part, so I just said it. “And now he’s dead.”

  Fidel’s cousins were focused on me. They didn’t like what I was saying, and Fidel didn’t like the attention I was getting. “C’mon, Ray. Don’t try that shit with me. Are you ready to make your choice? Me or Arne?”

  I absentmindedly rubbed the back of my hand. The tattoos there made my skin dead to the touch. I had a new boss now, and I couldn’t talk about her. “I’m here for both of you, Fidel. Against Wally King. I’m here to save your life, if I can.” I glanced over at Bud and Summer. “All your lives.”

  The short, muscular cousin stepped close to Fidel and said something in Spanish. I couldn’t understand him, but I knew it wasn’t friendly. “No, no,” Fidel said to him, then turned to me. “Ray, why don’t you go visit Arne? Talk to him about Violet and about his plans for the future. Then you can decide if you want to come back to me. Tell me what he has planned, and decide if you want to be safe with him or rich with us. Go ahead, and think about what I said.”

  I started backing toward the door. “You should think about what I said, too.”

  Fidel watched me with a look on his face that I’d never seen before. He looked confident and wise, like a king sending a messenger on a particularly clever errand. I wanted to hit him. His cousins glared at me, but Summer and Bud had peculiar expressions. Had I gotten through to them, at least?

  I backed to the stairs, then forced myself to turn around and walk away. No one shot me. I went outside. It was still cool, and the sun wasn’t up yet, but I could see a faint glow along the horizon. Traffic had already started to pick up.

  It was nearly 6 A.M. I should have been tired. It was unfair that I couldn’t drive back to my rented room and close my eyes for a little while. I’d been in L.A. barely a day, and I was already back on a car thief’s schedule.

  Where could I go next? Was it late enough to stop at Violet’s place to ask her about Caramella again? Probably not, but I didn’t know where to find anyone else, so I thought I’d try it.

  I drove back through the Valley with my windows down. The temperature was perfect, but I knew the heat would roast me later. I had no idea what to do about Robbie—Fidel, I meant. He had magic, almost certainly from a predator—he and Summer and Bud, and probably Arne and Lenard, too.

  My boss, Annalise, would know what to do. She would have killed everyone in that room just because they had magic and wanted more. And having worked against her on one incident and with her on two, I could see where she was coming from. People could be crazy about magic. I’d seen it.

  But I didn’t want to kill them. Not if I could avoid it. In fact, even if I couldn’t avoid it, I didn’t want to do it. I hoped Annalise would be there to meet me outside the Ralphs tonight, so I could hand off the job to her. Maybe it was unfair, but there it was. I’d done my share of killing in Washaway, and I wasn’t ready for more.

  If it was not a predator that gave Fidel his invisibility—if it was just a spell, like the spells on my chest that blocked bullets or obscured evidence I left behind—then I was sure I could take care of it without killing anyone. My ghost knife cuts “ghosts, magic and dead things,” and I could slash it through whatever spell they had on them and put an end to it.

  The odds that their magic came from a spell were so low they were practically nonexistent, but I had to have hope, or I wouldn’t be able to keep going.

  Aside from that, I’d have to find Wally King. I owed him something, and it was long past due for him to get it. Him, I didn’t feel squeamish about killing. Not at all.

  The lights in Violet’s apartment were dark, which didn’t surprise me. I found a parking space just a block away, pulling in behind a woman who was obviously on her way to work, and closed my eyes for a while. I was ready to sleep after all.

  The sun woke me around 8 A.M. I rubbed my face, climbed from the car, and rang the doorbell.

  Jasmin answered. I introduced myself again, reminding her that I’d visited the day before, but she buzzed me in before I could finish.

  It wasn’t Violet who answered the door; it was her mother. “Raymundo,” she said, squinting at me from behind her drugstore glasses. “Vi isn’t here. But come in! Come in! Have a cup of tea.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I’d love some.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, where Jasmin was sloppily spooning cereal into her mouth. Mrs. Johnson put the kettle on the burner. “Please,” she said. “Call me Maria. You are a grown man now. You can talk to me like one. I don’t mind.”

  “Thank you, Maria.” I was careful to keep my tone respectful.

  She leaned against the cutting board and looked me over like an unexpected second chance. “So how have you been? Where are you working?”

  “Things have been difficult,” I told her. That was true, but the next thing I said was a white lie: “I got laid off from one job and haven’t been able to find another.” She looked disappointed at that, and I suddenly remembered that she could talk about jobs and the finding of them endlessly. I changed the subject. “How have you been? How is Mr. Johnson?”

  “Oh,” she said, and waved my question away. “I’m the same as always, but older. Mr. Johnson, he is off in Florida now, fighting for the unions. I tell him, ‘Why go there? They hate unions!’ but he don’t listen. So, Ray, can you tell me what happened to my Tommy?”

  That startled me. “Vi said he left town, although the way she said it made me think there was more to the story. I’m sorry, Maria. I haven’t heard a thing about him.”

  “Can you ask around for me? I tried, but nobody does anything for an old Mexican lady. You’re the only one who ever showed me any real respect. And Tommy … He don’t call me or
his father. Mr. Johnson, he blames me. He thinks I drove Tommy away from the family. You went to jail for Tommy, yes? You’ll do this for me?”

  “If I can, I will,” I said. “But I’ll need to talk to Violet again. Where—”

  From the other room, Jasmin shouted: “Abuela, the ghost is still here!”

  I hadn’t realized she’d left. I rushed into the other room, Maria close behind me. Jasmin was kneeling on the couch, looking down into the space behind it.

  “Jazzy! You come away from there and finish your breakfast. Then we can go to the park. And stop this foolishness about ghosts.”

  I went close to her. There was nothing behind the couch except dust bunnies. “What kind of ghost is it?” I asked. The window was right beside us; I glanced through it and saw a man in a red shirt with long camo pants standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the building.

  “It’s a fire ghost,” Jasmin said. “It burns you if you touch it.”

  I knelt on the cushion beside her and reached into the space between the couch and the wall. I touched something wet and sticky that I couldn’t see. Almost immediately, my fingertips began to burn. I yanked my hand back and pulled the little girl off the couch. “Hold her,” I said to Maria, and the tone of my voice surprised her. She took the little girl in hand.

  I rushed to the kitchen and ran my fingers under the tap. The pain washed away quickly, leaving my skin a little red. I filled a tall glass with water and went back into the living room.

  Maria had pulled the couch away from the wall. “Go to your room, Jazzy,” she said, but she didn’t object when the girl ignored her by jumping onto the couch and peering over the back.

  Maria reached into the space in front of the wall. “Ah! Holy Maria!” She held up her fingers, trying to see what had hurt them.

  “Don’t wipe it on your clothes,” I told her. “Dip your fingers in here, quickly. That will help.” I gave her the glass and she wet her hand, cleaning it off.

  “And I didn’t believe Jazzy when she said she saw a ghost. What is it, Raymundo? What’s in my daughter’s home?”

  “I don’t know yet.” But that wasn’t true. I knew damn well it was one of the predators that had attacked me at Caramella’s house, but why was it lying inert behind Violet’s couch?

  I knelt and poured the water behind the couch. It struck something, then flowed over it onto the carpet. Water could wash off the burning effect but not the invisibility.

  “What is it?” Maria asked.

  I didn’t know how to answer. It was an irregular shape, and rounded. Was it lying in wait? “You have to get Jasmin out of here. Right away.”

  “But what is it?” Maria asked again. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Because I’m not sure, but you’re not safe here. Please.”

  “You brought this, didn’t you?” She looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Is this some fancy plastic you put here?”

  Jasmin hopped off the couch and ran into the back of the apartment. I turned to Maria, incredulous. “How could I have put something behind the couch? And why?”

  “You should know already we don’t have nothing to take,” she said. “I know that’s what all of you boys do. You and Arne and the rest—I know you got Tommy into it, too, before he vanished.”

  There was nothing I could say to that. I was good enough to search for her son but couldn’t otherwise be trusted. Maybe she would have liked me more if I’d lied about having a job.

  Jasmin ran back into the room with a roll of toilet paper, the loose end trailing behind her like a streamer. She leaped back up onto the couch and offered the roll to me.

  The end of the paper fell onto the invisible whatever-it-was and stuck there. Damn. Smart kid. I took the roll and laid the paper over the invisible shape, doubling it back when it reached the end closest to me.

  The paper stuck into place, showing the contours of the object. All at once, I realized what I was looking at. It was a human face, its eyes closed, its mouth open in a soundless scream.

  Maria gasped. “Oh, my Melly!”

  I jumped back, nearly knocking Maria over. Christ, she was right. It was Caramella. I stared at her, stunned. What had happened to her?

  “You brought this here,” Maria said. The way she said it made me think she was trying to convince herself rather than accuse me. “This is because of you!”

  I felt a sudden flash of anger. “You don’t know what you’re saying!” Her eyes went wide, and she stepped away from me. I took a deep breath, pulling back my anger. Of course Maria wasn’t accusing me of feeding Melly to a predator. Of course not.

  I swallowed my anger and panic, trying to get a rational thought out of my brain. “Do you really think I brought invisible acid plastic here? Sculpted to look like Melly?”

  “I—”

  “Take your granddaughter out of here. Something dangerous is going on.”

  “That’s really … her, isn’t it?” Maria looked back over at Caramella. Jasmin was still kneeling on the back of the couch, but she was now laying toilet paper along the invisible form on the floor, outlining Caramella’s breasts, belly, and arms. I didn’t even realize I’d dropped the roll.

  “Hey!” Jasmin said. “Her lips are moving.”

  My guts turned into a tight knot. I knelt close to Melly’s face. It was true; her lips were quivering as though she was in tremendous pain.

  She was still alive.

  “Why is she doing that?” Jasmin asked.

  I lunged at her, caught her by the arms, and lifted her off the couch. I felt like I was violating a taboo—never touch someone else’s child—but I wanted to startle Maria. I wanted her to get the hell out.

  As I pivoted to hand the little girl to her, she was already moving to take her. I pressed Jasmin into her arms, then forcibly steered her toward the door. She let me. “I can’t tell you what’s going on because I’m not sure myself. I only know that, whatever it is, it’s not safe for little girls.”

  Jasmin pleaded as they left. “I want to see Melly some more! I want to see!” I closed the door but didn’t lock it in case I needed to get away quickly.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed a sheet of cheesecloth from the bottom drawer by the oven, silently thanking Violet for keeping everything the way I remembered it. Back in the living room, I tore the toilet paper away; Caramella didn’t deserve to have that stuff over her face. I laid the cheesecloth in its place. Then I laid a second sheet over her neck and chest, then a third over her stomach. I could see it move very slightly as she breathed.

  My throat felt tight and my breathing was shallow. Melly was obviously in agony, and I was sure I knew why. This predator had draped itself over her and started to feed. Whatever had been protecting her when she’d visited me in Seattle—whatever was protecting Summer right now—must have worn off or been taken away. Now she was feeling the full extent of the creature’s acid touch. It covered her entire body, was up her nose and down her throat, and it was slowly dissolving her while she was still alive.

  As if I needed another reason to hate Wally King.

  I took out my ghost knife. When I killed the predator in Melly’s house, I’d had to cut it ten or twelve times before it died. Maybe it had a weak spot, but I didn’t know how to find it.

  I took a deep breath; I’d need steady hands for this. Judging by the cheesecloth, the creature was spread thin over her skin. There was no way I could cut it without also cutting her. That was okay. The ghost knife wouldn’t hurt her while she was alive—it would just alter her personality for a while. The predator—this drape—was made partly of magic, so it would be hurt.

  I heard movement somewhere nearby—this was an apartment building full of people. I imagined the Twenty Palace Society arriving and airlifting Caramella to a secret base in the desert somewhere, where a team of scientists in hazmat suits waited to save her life. Too bad I didn’t have a copter or a desert lab. I didn’t even have a pair of safety goggles. And the society, even though it
was still hours away, would rather burn her to cinders than try to save her.

  It was just me, and if Melly was going to come through this, I would have to cut the predator off of her by myself.

  No more stalling. I moved the ghost knife close to her face, thinking I would scrape it along the skin of her cheek, possibly over her lips to clear her airway. How long had it been blocking her mouth and nose, or was it breathing for her?

  The drape seemed to tense as I came close, and when the ghost knife plunged into it, the cheesecloth over Caramella’s rib cage suddenly jerked upward. I heard her bones crack, and beneath the cloth her mouth opened in a silent scream.

  Then she seemed to sag, and her lips stopped trembling. Her head rolled slightly to the side. It wasn’t a big change in position, but it looked as though the strength had gone out of her. The predator had killed her.

  I closed my eyes and lowered my head. Melly had just died in front of me—had just died because of me, in fact. I had failed her. I remembered her slapping my face just two days before, her face twisted with misery but without tears. Had the drape taken those from her, too?

  I wanted to tear the cheesecloth off her—she deserved a more dignified shroud, but if I did that, there would be no evidence of her at all. I heard more voices outside, and I quashed the urge to yell at them to shut up. People shouldn’t be shouting at their kids. They should have respect for the dead.

  A strange buzzing voice spoke from somewhere near me. Then I heard a second and a third. Something groaned and creaked like a ship in heavy seas. Then there was another crack—this time not coming from Caramella’s body. This one sounded like the world was breaking open.

  I slashed the ghost knife through Caramella’s head. A pale gray line appeared where I cut the predator.