Unmake

by Lauren Harris

  He met my eyes squarely, and I fought to keep the lip-curl to myself. If I let it out, Ritter might make another joke.

  “It will look better if you turn yourself over to us now,” De Vries said to me. “Compliance might win you some leeway.”

  I was still processing the complete insanity of that statement when Eric stood up. I was never happier to have a mentor so capable of looming.

  “Unless there’s an official summons for a trial, Helena’s not going anywhere.”

  The two men stared at each other. I stayed seated—there was enough combined height here to make standing up pointless. I’d be too short to join in the serious eye-shade being thrown.

  De Vries didn’t break eye contact with Eric as he reached into his crisp breast pocket and withdrew a dove gray card. This he placed on the table and used two fingers to slide it across to me.

  At last, he broke eye-contact with Eric and looked straight at me. The contact with his gaze was like a shock of lightning.

  “It’s only a matter of time before people in a less official capacity than mine decide to take you out. They won’t spare anyone who gets in their way. When that happens, you’ll be a danger to everyone around you. More than you already are.” There was that jaw-flex again, that glance to the side before his gaze slid back to me. “You seem to want to do the right thing. If you come to your senses, contact me.”

  He tapped the card with his fingers, gestured to Ritter, and walked out without a backwards glance.

  I glared down at the business card, vibrating with anger and a slow, rising sense of panic. Small, restrained letters that read “V. S. De Vries” with a phone number underneath.

  Eric reached behind me and slammed the door. Without a word, he grabbed the business card, crumpled it, and chucked it in a perfect arc to the wastebasket.

  We sat in silence for a moment. Then Eric stood up, shoved past the back of my chair and retrieved the card from the trash. I watched him shred it into confetti-sized pieces, trash the pieces, and glare at them like he was contemplating opening his fly and following it up with a stream of piss.

  “You good?” I asked.

  “Tossing it wasn’t cathartic enough,” he growled.

  I blinked, and behind my eyes was a perfect image of the card, seared into my unhelpful brain.

  “What did he mean by ‘less-official capacity’ people?” I asked.

  Eric rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, then kicked out the chair De Vries had been sitting in and tossed himself into it.

  “He probably means Rogue Sorcerers.”

  I made a face. “Great. More sanguimancers?”

  Eric took a slow, irritated breath and blew it out, stretching his big hands wide. “Not this time, kid. Not all Rogue Sorcerers are sanguimancers. He means the other kind—the ones who don’t want to use blood magic, but also don’t want to follow the Guild’s rules.”

  “So, vigilantes?”

  “Or guys like your dad, just trying to stay beneath the radar.”

  I winced, and Eric reached across to give my arm a rough pat. “Vigilantes are the kind De Vries probably means. Usually, they’re Rogues with a fairly black and white view of magic. They like to hunt sanguimancers, and don’t give a flying fuck if they get a trial.”

  I snorted. “I’m surprised Officer Blue Eyes isn’t one of those.”

  “Oh, no,” Eric said, his voice going mocking. “Vigilantism isn’t their style. The Guild has always benefited the De Vries, always fallen in line with their worldview.” He stretched his arm across his chest, and his shoulder popped. “The politics suit them. They like their feats of heroism by the book and on the record. It’s part of what makes them so powerful.”

  I thought about how easily De Vries had gone over Deepti’s head. “Do they have a lot of say in the North American Guild?”

  “Here? Not really. Buy they’re practically royal in Denmark.”

  I leaned back in my chair, confused. Denmark? That was…not very intimidating. A big family from a not-very-big country in the Baltic Sea, most famous—as far as I knew—for depressing fairy tales and even more depressing Shakespeare.

  “Okay,” I said. “If they’re so royal, what’s a De Vries doing in Duluth?”

  Eric snorted. “I guess they wanted a voting member in Deepti’s Guild. Or maybe a spy.”

  “And Hamlet chose the short straw?”

  Eric gave me a slightly confused look. “Ham…no. De Vries was on the team after you and Gwydian. Far as I know, he and Ritter transferred right after.”

  Okay, that was not what I’d expected. “Where were they during the big fight?” I said.

  Eric’s face tightened. “Ritter was there. I imagine you missed him in the chaos. De Vries stayed with Isaac.”

  I swallowed, wishing the sight of Isaac’s white face and open throat didn’t flash into my mind every time anyone said his name.

  “Deepti suggested he stay behind. It’s common protocol when losing a close friend or family member.”

  “Amelia came,” I said, but it was an empty protest. “She was Isaac’s sister.”

  “Yeah.” Eric said. “Amelia came.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have a gun. Or maybe she and Isaac weren’t that close. I don’t know. But De Vries stayed with the body and helped with cleanup.”

  Cleanup.

  I remembered all the blood. It had spilled down Isaac’s body like a blanket, draped over the chair, gone sticky in the carpet. I imagined De Vries standing there, his blue eyes looking down at the body of his friend. In my mind, he bent down, closed Isaac’s eyes.

  And then he’d cleaned up the blood. With spells and old-fashioned elbow-grease, he’d made Mrs. Park’s living room pristine, erasing every trace of his friend’s murder.

  A murder that had been committed by my cousin’s hand. On Gwydian’s compulsion. To get to me.

  I could see why that might make De Vries hate me. It was similar reasoning that drew me to hate the Guild for so long. Mom’s death was still vivid in my memory. That little bullet hole.

  “What if they’re right?” I whispered. “Isaac died because of me. Jae can’t dance because of me. My parents are dead, and so is my pack. Now you’re in trouble and Deepti’s got a cubic fuckton of paperwork.”

  I heard Eric’s chair push back, and then he was kneeling beside me, one hand on the table, the other on the back of my chair.

  “Deepti and I are fine,” he said. There was a comforting burr in his voice. “Don’t worry about us. As for the rest of it—let’s put blame where it’s supposed to go. Gwydian, and sorcerers like him.”

  I nodded, but wasn’t convinced. I fingered the sketchbook, suddenly glad De Vries had opened to the page he had. He might have opened to a different page, one where I’d drawn Isaac as my brain had frozen him, on the last day he was alive. He’d been bent over a table, drawing a mandala with a sharpie, streaks of flour on his metal-band tee shirt.

  He’d been alive. Then he hadn’t. All because I was a target, and he was standing between me and the bullet.

  “Come on,” Eric said, his hand coming roughly to the back of my neck. He shook me in that bracing way that said he wanted me to stop feeling sorry for myself. “I need to go shoot something.”

  “I’m drawing blue eyes on the targets,” I said.

  “Deal.”

  Chapter 8

  JAESUNG

  “It just doesn’t make sense to keep racking up school debt if I’m not sure what I want to do with it,” I said. On the other side of the chain-link fence, Krista was chasing down one of the dogs. Sully, the old, half-blind Giant Schnauzer, was dodging right and left, scampering into play-tunnels, and generally putting my best friend through her paces.

  Krista leaned her hands on her knees, puffing. “Your mom—is going to boil you—for broth,” she said.

  “Probably,” I said, watching Sully trot to Krista’s side and sniff her inquisitively.

  “Gotcha!” Krista sna
tched Sully’s collar and clipped the leash onto it. The dog sprang away, twisting her head around to bite at the leash.

  The afternoon was warm—I’d rolled up the sleeves on my Ruff Patch staff tee shirt and, for the past two hours, helped Krista catch the long haired mutts darting around the dog run out back. Grooming day was upon us, and Sully needed a shave in the worst kind of way.

  I opened the gate as Krista led her charge through, and swung it shut behind them.

  “So. You need to soul-search a bit, I guess,” Krista said.

  “Ew,” I said. “You want me to Eat, Pray, Love?”

  She laughed. “Or start a religion. Ooh, want me to hypnotize you? I think I could dig out my tarot cards from high school.”

  I snorted. We reached the battered back door of the firehouse, with its spray-painted paw-prints, and ducked inside.

  “Are you disrespecting my inner eye?” Krista asked in mock-horror.

  “Eeyup.”

  “Friendship over,” she said, and led the big dog to the examination table. I lifted Sully onto the metal surface, which was not unlike the one I’d sat on at Dr. Lambert’s office. Sully’s nubby tail wagged, tongue lolling as she gazed at us with complete trust.

  Krista signaled Sully to lie down. “Your alternatives,” she said, “are becoming a hot yoga instructor, opening a craft brewery, or making sourdough bread.”

  I restrained a smile. “Sounds yeasty.”

  Krista petted Sully a moment and glanced at the overhead lights, looking thoughtful. “I’m pretty sure all of those require you to rock a beard. Can you grow one?”

  “Sadly, only a goatee.”

  “Crap, that means craft brewing’s out.” She said, and turned on the electric razor. Sully lifted her head curiously, and I reached for it, stroking her ears and neck so she would lie flat. “Start a ViewTube channel,” Krista said, and buzzed a line down Sully’s flank.

  “About what?”

  “Not being able to grow a beard. So relatable.”

  I rolled my eyes. “If I were in Korea, I’d know exactly what to do,” I said.

  Krista’s brow knotted. She frowned at me. “What can you do in Korea that you can’t do here?”

  “Two-year mandatory military service. All guys have to do it.”

  Krista went back to buzzing, but the frown didn’t go away. “Right, you’ve mentioned that before. You don’t have to do it, though, right?”

  I shrugged. “If I went back, I would. As long as I get naturalized here before I’m thirty, it should be kosher.”

  Krista continued to frown as she shaved down Sully’s back. A moment later, I realized why.

  “Dude,” I said. “Shut up, I’m not moving back to Seoul. I’m just saying it would give me two years to figure my shit out.”

  Krista’s whole body seemed to loosen. “Good! Because I’d have to go with you, and I don’t think they make lesbians in my size.”

  I sniggered, but there wasn’t much I could say to that without getting myself in trouble, so I kept my mouth shut and kept petting the dog.

  There was a tinkle of bells from the front office, which set off a chorus of barks from the dogs still in their kennels. The evil chow drew back its hackles and began to snarl.

  “Back here!” Krista called, and as the prospective customer stepped into sight, she grinned brightly. “Hi! Welcome to Ruff Patch! Are you interested in fostering a dog?”

  I put a hand on Krista’s arm. She didn’t recognize the gorgeous Indian woman standing in our doorway, but I certainly did.

  She wore a bright blue dress with the sort of folds and pleats that my brain pitched into the ‘expensive lady-clothes’ category. Golden jewelry in every place golden jewelry could go, all of it in that heavy, intricate Bollywood style. Thick eyeliner, perfectly-sculpted face, and the kind of honey-gold gaze that could spear a man like a bug to a board.

  Deepti Iyengar was not the kind of person one forgot, particularly when she held your girlfriend’s liberty in a hennaed spell on the back of her hand.

  “Actually, Kris, this is Helena’s…” Sorceress-Boss. I could not call her Helena’s Sorceress-Boss. Krista didn’t know Sorceress-Boss was a conceivable job-title in the real world.

  “Good afternoon,” Deepti said, her smoothly-accented voice stumbling not at all over her explanation. “I am Dr. Deepti Iyengar, the psychiatric assessment officer for Miss D’Argent’s case.”

  Krista clicked off the buzzer. “You’re with WITSEC?”

  Deepti slid a hand into the outer pocket of her purse and withdrew a badge that read: United States Marshal.

  That couldn't be real. Deepti was a surgeon at a hospital in Chicago, which I’m pretty sure means she didn’t have time to moonlight with the U.S. Marshals, but it provided consistency with Helena’s cover story.

  The cover-story, which we’d given to Krista and Sanadzi and Eugene and my mother and anyone else who’d asked questions, was that Helena’s real name had been Helena Martin (which, to be fair, even Helena had thought was true).

  The story went that she’d gone into witness protection when her parents informed on a drug ring that had been blackmailing them. The family’s cover had been blown, her parents killed, and Helena had run for it and, thinking she was safely anonymous at Ruff Patch, tried to contact the U.S. Marshals.

  The rest was a sort of patchwork we mostly said we couldn’t talk about. Pieces of the truth mixed with necessary fictions had thus far done the trick, particularly once we assured everyone that the threat had been neutralized.

  But judging by Deepti’s presence, and the tight look on her face, I got the sinking feeling that last fact might have been more fiction than we’d first thought.

  Deepti had called Helena last night, and though Helena hadn’t told me what that call entailed, I’d been sure there was something wrong.

  Krista’s face reflected my sudden concern. “She’s okay right? You’re not taking her anywhere, are you?”

  Deepti’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Not as of the moment. But I have a few things to discuss with her. Mr. Park as well.”

  Okay. That wasn’t good.

  I curled my fist, forcing myself not to reach up to the trio of Celtic hounds tattooed on my chest. Had someone talked?

  Krista’s wide eyes turned on me. I gave her a quick nod to let her know that this wasn’t unexpected—though it totally was—and waved Deepti toward the stairs.

  “Helena’s out with Eric right now, but let me…I’ll show you upstairs and give her a call.”

  Deepti nodded. Her dark eyes swept around the cages and veterinary gear. Sully stared at her, breathing huffily around a tongue-lolling canine grin.

  I washed my hands and led the way upstairs, trying to remember whether we’d put away the blankets on the couch. If there’d been any evidence of the morning’s canoodling, I felt certain Krista would have made a big deal about it. Still, I glanced around furtively the moment I opened the door.

  Acceptable. Not mom-is-coming-over clean, but not totally-had-makeup-sex-with-my-girlfriend-on-the-couch-at-four-AM messy either.

  Still, I made a beeline for the kitchen and waved Deepti toward the bar. Then, as any Asian guy with a healthy respect for his mother does when faced with an auntie coming up the stairs, I made tea.

  Deepti accepted her cup with polite thanks. I had the sense she’d been watching me as I scrambled for clean cups and tried to remember not to let the kettle come to a complete boil.

  She took a sip, set her teacup on the bar, and withdrew a makeup compact from her purse. Rather than checking the mirror, however, she extracted a square of paper with a precise mandala drawn on its surface. She touched its edge, then flicked her hand toward the door and the staircase.

  I still couldn’t see magic unless I was in the form of a wolf. She might as well have rolled up the paper and smoked it—I wouldn’t have known the difference.

  That was, until the sounds from the dog rescue below suddenly dropped off, as if muff
led by an airtight seal.

  Deepti shut the compact with a neat clip and slid it back into her purse. “That will keep our conversation private.”

  I gripped my mug, and the burning heat against my fingertips was grounding. “Is everything okay?” I asked. “I know you called Helena last night, but I didn’t realize you were coming into town.”

  Deepti folded her arm across the bar and tapped her fingers impatiently. “I had to. Something like this—it’s best if I am nearby. Especially given, well. You wouldn’t have heard about this morning’s events, but given what happened yesterday.”

  My fingers convulsed on the teacup. Deepti sighed and looked up. She seemed startled to find me staring at her.

  “Did…Helena not tell you what happened yesterday?”

  A cold sort of wave washed down my back. “No,” I said. I’d been too concerned with my own stupid drama to notice she might be upset about something other than me. “I…got some bad news yesterday.”

  Deepti lifted her chin in understanding. “Ah, your knee did not heal well?”

  She’d been the one to do the initial set, and referred me to the doctor who did my surgery.

  “It did,” I said. “For pretty much everything but ballet.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, but her sympathy was distracted, as though there were larger concerns. “I am surprised she kept this back, regardless.”

  I winced. “I was sort of being a d-” Abort. Can’t say that word in front of mom-like figure. “A jerk.”

  Deepti gave me a shrewd look and sipped her tea. After a moment, she seemed to conclude that it was best not to leave me in suspense. I imagined the pity had something to do with my white-knuckled grip on the counter.

  “Helena used sanguimancy yesterday.” Deepti ripped off the bandaid. I flinched. “She did it for the right reasons, but in front of a pair of Guild Enforcers who have been leading the local faction that would rather see her put down than recruited. As of this morning, their testimony has gone to the North American council, which voted this afternoon, unanimously to put her on trial for sanguimancy.”