by J. L. Murray
Dearest Niki,
I so enjoyed our talk last night. Thank you for giving me a chance. You will not regret the service you have agreed to. Enclosed is your fee. I think you will find it is more than sufficient. I have also included a temporary badge that you may use as necessary. I trust you will exercise the utmost discretion in this matter. Also as agreed, I am sending you someone that will no doubt be of great use to you. He is adept in the art of magic and can help you. His name is Robert Gage.
I look forward to having this small matter cleared up. I have the utmost faith in you. Please do not hesitate to visit me at the Deep Blue Sea when you have finished the job.
Sincerely,
Sam.
Oh, Jesus. I read the letter again, then a third time just to be sure. I staggered on my feet a little, so I sat down quickly at the table. It was real. All of it. Not a dream. I stared at the letter for a long time. I tried to recall all the details of the night before. I shouldn’t have had that second tumbler of whiskey, but Sam had insisted.
Sam. Who the hell was this guy? He had known everything about me, and there was something vaguely otherworldly about him. And his bar, out in the middle of nowhere. I racked my brain for more information.
There was a seal or a gate, I remembered. An opening into Hell. Someone had cracked it open and the bigwigs in Hell couldn’t see who it was or what he got out. All they could see was that something had escaped, something dark. I frowned. Not something dark, Sam had called it A Dark. Some kind of spirit that regular people couldn’t see. And I specifically remembered Sam saying it liked to murder things.
"Christ Almighty," I said out loud. "What did I agree to do?" I would just have to go back and turn down the job. I sighed. He’d said he could get me off the Registry. If that was true, maybe there was some other way to get off. But it wasn’t worth getting off the Registry if I was dead. Sam seemed reasonable. He’d understand if I didn’t want to round up freaky spirits that went around murdering people. I remembered the package and picked it up.
It felt dense and slightly heavy. It wouldn’t matter if I just took a peek. I could just go back to the Deep Blue Sea and return it. I got the scissors from the drawer by the sink and cut the envelope open and poured the contents on the table.
"Holy shit," I said, staring at it. I dropped the scissors on the floor with a clatter, but didn’t pick them up. I couldn’t stop staring at the pile on the table.
It was money. Not just money, cash. A lot of it, all bundled with paper bands that said $5,000. There were ten of them. I touched them to make sure they were real. I smelled them. I spread the piles out to look at them. I took the bands off with shaky hands to count the individual bills. There was fifty thousand dollars there. Even in the good years when I was running my own agency, I never went over forty-five thousand. And that was for the entire year. I caught my breath. I would be able to pull myself out from under this crushing pile of debt with one job. Even if it was dangerous, it would be worth it. I could have my life back. It was a fresh start. Off the Registry and out of debt.
I picked up the metal badge that sat there as I goggled at the cash. It was an odd sort of thing. It looked a bit like a police badge, only circular-shaped with a six-sided star inside it. Around the edges of the circle it read Department of Order and Chaos. Not something you saw every day. I turned the badge in my hand. It was warm to the touch. When I looked away from it, the corner of my eye caught a slight shimmer, as if the badge had light coming out of it. But when I looked at it directly, the effect disappeared, and it was just a piece of silver metal. I set it on the table. I gathered up the money and put a handful into a freezer bag, which I slipped into my purse. I put the rest into a paper bag, which I then put into a garbage bag, tying a tight knot in the top. I grabbed a screwdriver from a drawer by the sink and took a kitchen chair into the living room. I stood up on the chair and unscrewed the face of the receiver vent, coughing at the dust. I carefully pushed the bag back, making sure I couldn’t see it from below. Then I put the face back on. Sofi and I had never been robbed, but we had been searched by the police. I have to say, I’d rather be robbed. Criminals are more thoughtful than most cops these days. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t entirely sure that what I was going to be doing was strictly legal.
I clipped the Beretta inside the waistline of my jeans and pulled my shirt down over it. I put on my coat, unsticking a peanut shell from the sleeve, grabbed my purse and walked out the door and down the faded red carpet that lined our hallway. I stepped outside and breathed in the cool air. As I headed down the sidewalk to pay my electric bill I dialed Sofi’s number at the hospital.
"Hello?" she answered after six rings.
"Sofi, it’s Niki. You’re not going to believe this."
On my way back to the apartment, I stopped by the landlord’s place just inside the main entrance. I paid the bewildered man two months of back rent and three months in advance. He wordlessly wrote me a receipt, looking with disbelief at the pile of cash I’d put in his hands. I smiled at him. He’d always been nice to us, even when everyone else, recognizing me from the papers, yelled or swore at us or gave us the evil eye.
I shrugged. "Ran into a bit of good luck." I turned to leave.
"Niki?" he said. I turned to look at him. "I am very glad for you and your grandmother. She is a good woman. I’ve known her since we came here. I was not looking forward to evicting either of you."
I nodded. "I know."
"How is she? Sofi, I mean." His voice was tentative now.
"Still in the hospital," I said. "She’s very weak, but they say she has a good chance of getting better. With time."
He nodded. "She is a fighter, your grandmother. Give her my good wishes."
As I walked up the hall to my apartment, I put a hand instinctively on my gun. There was the hulking shape of a man leaning up against the wall by my door. He looked like a clean hobo. His face was unshaven and his hair was shaggy, curling around the nape of his neck in a thoroughly unkempt manner, giving the illusion of a war on his head instead of hair. He wore a faded old army jacket that had large pockets all over the front. He had a tattered brown satchel slung over his shoulder. And he was huge. He was at least as tall as the doorway. He looked up as I came closer.
"Finally," he said in a deep voice. "You’re late."
"For what?" I said.
"For me."
"And who are you?"
"Bobby Gage. Sam sent me."
"Oh, right," I said. "He mentioned you. I thought you’d be--"
"Thought I’d be what?" he growled.
"Shorter," I said quickly. "I didn’t know you’d be so tall."
He grunted. "So, you gonna invite me in or are you gonna stare at me all day? Smells like goddamn sauerkraut in this hall. Can we go inside?"
"Oh. Sure." I took out my keys and unlocked the door. Gage walked in and looked around, taking in the messy living room, holding the bag on his shoulder close to his body. It looked like it contained something heavy, but he carried it lightly. He nodded at the room. I was not what you’d call an organized person. Sofi had always taken care of that department. But since she’d been in the hospital I’d made an effort to be tidy. It was not a successful attempt.
"Homey," said Gage.
"Sorry about the mess."
"What mess?" he said, wandering into the kitchen. I followed.
"You want a cup of coffee?" I said. "It’s not fresh, but it’s still hot."
"Yep. Black," he said, helping himself to a chair at the table. He looked like a giant sitting in our little kitchen. Apparently his ability wasn’t good manners.
"So you worked for Sam before?" I said, setting his cup in front of him. I sat down with my own.
"Sure," he said, taking a sip. "Damn!" he said. "You make a fine cup of coffee."
"Er, thanks."
"Don’t mention it," he said. "I been working for Sam for a couple years now. He’s a good boss, far as bosses go. I was living on the st
reets when he found me. Not a penny to my name. Come a long way since then." He nodded to the badge on the table. I’d forgotten all about it in my excitement about the money. "See you got paid," he said. "Feels good, don’t it?"
"To get paid?"
"To get off that goddamn list," he said.
"The Registry?" I said.
He nodded. "The money’s great and all, but the day I got off the Registry, I felt like I could do anything. I would have killed a man to get off that damn thing. Turns out, I just had to find a couple of demons. Piece of cake. Been working for Sam ever since."
"Demons?" I said.
"Yep. I’m pretty handy with the books. You know, Grimoires, spell books. Stuff like that."
"So you just read the books? That doesn’t seem too hard."
"You wouldn’t think so," he said, patting the satchel on his lap. "But there’s more to it. The languages are old. Older than the dead languages, older than anything that anyone knows. And they’re not teachable. It is what it is. You either have it or you don’t. I have it."
"So you know the language?"
"Nah. I just know. I look at it and I know."
"But if someone really set their mind on it, couldn’t they figure it out too?"
He shook his head. "More to it than that, sister. You either have it or you don’t. It’s in here," he said, putting a fist to his chest, just over his heart. "You could say the words, but nothing would happen. The key to being a Caster is all in being able to understand what you’re saying. To feel it deep inside you, like there’s a river welling up inside you and if you don’t do the magic the water’s gonna tear you apart. That’s how I feel when I find the right spell. But there is a downside."
"What’s that?"
"You feel everything you’re doing, like you’re doing it to yourself. Location spells are easy. It’s the darker stuff that can be really painful. If you hurt someone with magic, you feel it just like they do. There are no marks, of course. But you feel it. And you never completely forget that feeling."
"So what happens if you kill someone with magic?" I said. "Do you die too?"
"No, you don’t die. But it feels like dying." He shifted in his chair, drained his cup of coffee, seemed to have to shrug something off. He got up and got another cup of coffee. "That’s why guys like your dad, they’re the toughest of the tough. Summoners, you know."
"You know about Alexei?" I said, suddenly on edge.
"Famous, ain’t he? Everyone knows about him. It’s not anyone that can Summon. Fact, he’s the only that’s done it and lived. We should probably talk to him actually. So what do you do?"
"What?" I said, snapped out of my thoughts.
"You know, what’s your thing? Your skill that Sam needed."
"Oh. I can see things. Dead things. Ghosts, spirits, things like that."
"I can see how that would come in handy in your line of work. Less detecting to do. Just go ask a dead guy."
"Yeah, it’s worked out peachy for me," I said. "Why do we have to talk to Alexei? Don’t you know about this stuff? Magic and all."
"Ain’t my usual kind of magic, sister. Deep stuff here. Your dad might be useful. And I don’t know if you stopped to consider this, but maybe old Alexei ain’t as locked up as you think he is."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, someone cracked open a seal, opened a gate in Hell, and let a Dark Spirit out. Don’t really know what the Darks do, I’ve barely heard of them. But what I have heard ain’t pretty. Don’t you think old Alexei might have at least known of it, if not had his hand in the thing?"
"I didn’t think of that," I said.
Gage frowned. "Didn’t Sam tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"About the last time?" Gage grunted in annoyance. "This happened before. Someone cracked a seal, not experienced enough to have a clue what he was getting into. He let a Dark out. Sam only let him off because he stopped the Dark. Thought he’d learned his lesson."
"Let me guess," I said. "It was Sasha – Alexei, I mean."
"You got it, sister. I imagine he’s been practicing."
"Well, he’s probably involved somehow or other," I said. "We should definitely talk to him. But if he’s in prison, he probably didn’t do the actual deed, right?"
Gage shrugged. "We won’t know if we don’t ask him. I’m guessing Sam won’t let him off easy this time if he’s involved. I hear folks in Hell are pretty pissed off about this." I raised an eyebrow and Gage shrugged again. "I know a guy, okay?"
"So we’re working for Hell," I said. "Does that mean I’ve sold my soul?"
"Hell don’t need to buy souls," Gage said. "It has more than enough of those without doing anything. Least from what I hear. Don’t worry, you’re safe. ‘Sides, they’re the good guys."
"You sure about that?" I said. "I mean, Satan and demons and all that? Seems pretty evil."
"You ever met a demon? Most of them are pretty personable. ‘Cept the big guys. I would not want to tangle with them. Taste for power." He picked the badge off the table and set it in front of me. "What’s that say?"
"Department of Order and Chaos," I said.
"Right. That’s us. The good guys."
"Well, it’s not like I can give him the money back anyway," I said. I looked at Gage. "So the Registry, am I really off it?"
"Sam say you were?"
"Yes."
"Then you are."
I stood up and grabbed my coat from the back of the chair where I must have put it the night before. "Let’s go. You got a car?"
"Yeah. Where we going? To the prison?"
"Not yet. I’m going to get my guns back."
Chapter Three
The cop shop was buzzing. I could see uniforms rushing back and forth behind the high counter, and the phones were ringing away. The harried policewoman sitting at the desk had her head down, writing with a blue Bic on official-looking paperwork. Gage took a seat and pulled an enormous leather-bound book from his satchel. He opened it on his sizable lap. I approached the desk.
"Be right with you," the woman monotoned without looking up.
"What’s going on?" I said.
"Official business, ma’am," she said, her voice laced with fatigue and irritation. Her hair had been neatly tied up at one point, but had come loose in the front and hung in her face. Her uniform, at least what I could see, was rumpled. The name stitched on the front of her blues said Fick. She kept twirling her wedding ring with her thumb absentmindedly as she wrote with her right hand.
"I’m here to pick up something of mine," I said.
"I’ll be right with you," Officer Fick said again.
I tapped a finger on the desk. "Look, lady. I’m sorry if you’re busy, but I’m busy too. I have a job to do just like you. You people have my guns and I want them back. Please."
She sighed audibly, but still didn’t look up. Her pen was moving furiously. "Name?" she said.
"Slobodian," I said. Fick’s pen stopped moving. She finally looked up.
"You have got to be kidding," she said looking at me. " You are on the Registry, Ms. Slobodian, and you know it. The days of showing up the Department with your voodoo are over. I could have you arrested just for asking, and I suggest you walk out of here before I change my mind. I don’t have time for this right now." Fick was jabbing the pen in the air towards me to emphasize her words, as if she wanted to poke out my eyes with it.
"I think you have that wrong," I said, glaring back at her. "I am no longer on the Registry. So why don’t you go ahead and get your ass out of that chair and go get me my guns. Please."
"That’s ridiculous," she said. "No one gets off the Registry."
"Look it up," I said.
"Just show her your badge, sis," called Gage from behind me. I looked back to see him nodding at me encouragingly. Unsure, I pulled the piece of metal out of my pocket and held it in front of the woman’s face. Fick went round-eyed for a second, looking from the badge to me and back again.
<
br /> "Is that real?" she said.
"Of course it’s real," I said, trying on my authoritative voice. I was extremely puzzled by her reaction, to tell the truth. The Department of Order and Chaos was not something I’d ever even heard of. But I had the feeling the badge held some power that didn’t rely on the name. Fick stood up and smoothed her hair.
"I’m sorry, Ms. Slobodian," she said. "I didn’t know." Then she rushed off.
Before I’d had time to wonder what the hell had just happened, she was back, an older gentleman in an ill-fitting suit following behind her. He looked at me and his face screwed up in confusion.
"Niki?" he said.
"Hi, Ron," I said. "Fancy meeting you here."
Police Chief Ron Smithy had been a detective when I first met him. Back then, I’d even helped him on a few cases. In return he gave me information about my own cases when he could. He’d tried to get the charges against me dropped when Perry was out for my blood, but it was no good. I was guilty before the trial even started. I’d always been grateful to Smithy for his efforts, though. He had even accompanied the officers that sacked my apartment to make sure they didn’t make too much of a mess. His efforts, though not completely successful, did not go unnoticed by me.
As he came through a door to the right of the desk to talk to me, I realized how much I missed the old days. Before the Registry, things had been good. Far better than I had realized. Smithy pulled me over to a couple of chairs in the corner.
"How’d you do it, Niki?" he said, nervously smoothing his mustache. "Perry’s been on a rampage about it."
