by J. P. Sloan
“John.”
An unexpected chuckle rose from my aching midsection.
“What?” the bartender asked.
“That’s my father’s name,” I replied, and moved toward the back office.
Ben sat in Julian’s office. No, it was Ben’s office, now. He looked up at me with a wink and a grin, and continued typing up the evening menu on the computer. I left him alone to his work, and moved for the back door.
I stepped outside into the back parking lot. Julian’s funeral would be the following day, and I had plenty of emotions left to deal with.
So many deaths.
And me, directly in the center.
Yet somehow, I’d survived it all yet again. Annarose called me a true magician, because I managed to make it all happen. Maybe I was just lucky.
Maybe I was damned, after all, and the Cosmos was holding its judgment just in case I had something worthwhile yet to contribute.
I turned a slow circle, and paused as I spotted something beautiful.
Something shiny.
A freshly-waxed, seemingly brand new Audi A5 Cabriolet.
I looked around for its owner, assuming that neither Ben nor John the Bartender could have afforded the cherry vehicle.
I took a couple steps toward the car before spotting a slip of paper tucked underneath the windshield wiper. I pulled out the paper, and held it up.
A single word was printed on the underside. COMPLIMENTS.
It was followed by the Eye of Providence, the seal of the Presidium.
Ah, a peace gesture.
Something moved inside the car, and I took a cautious step backward. As I crouched down to peer inside, I spotted a figure hunched in the back seat.
I moved for the passenger side door and pulled it open, sliding the seat forward to find a bound and gagged Nick Polo watching me with trepidation.
Compliments, indeed.
“Hello, Nicky,” I muttered.
He tried to say something around his gag, but was unsuccessful.
I held a finger to my mouth to shush him.
“Oh, let’s not ruin this moment with chit-chat.”
I reached for the Cesare ring and triggered the needle.
sea of dark suits and dresses spread along the paths and lanes of the Brookhaven Cemetery as six pallbearers carried Julian’s coffin to his final resting place. I looked on through dark glasses, finding them unnecessary to hide my eyes which remained untouched by tears. They were tired, perhaps, but my grief for Julian had long since poured out of me.
Madelyn Sullivan stood to my right, looking on as her husband joined the other pallbearers in settling the coffin onto its dais. I would have joined them as well, had my shoulder not been perforated by a bullet. And so I looked on, my arm in a sling.
The Swains stood to my left. Elle gripped my hand, and seemed unwilling to let it go. Wren kept an eye on me, likely making sure I didn’t need a shoulder to weep on. I knew hers would be available, but I wouldn’t be needing it. As a young woman sang Amazing Grace, I searched my chest for the proper emotion for the moment. It alarmed me how empty I felt. If there was ever a time to feel grief, it was this. Instead, all I could think about was the future.
I had dodged the Presidium for so long, considering my workings, weighing them against whether it would finally tip the scales against me in their eyes. But things wouldn’t be the same, even if Wexler was elected to the office of Ipsissimus and began restoring the organization. There was a power vacuum, now, and the interests waiting for the proper moment were likely already in motion.
Sullivan returned to his wife’s side. I could tell by the complexion of his cheeks that he was positively racked with grief. He wouldn’t be addressing anyone today. Indeed, Ronetta Claye had delivered the eulogy earlier, leaving Sullivan out of the spotlight.
At length, the ceremony drew to a close, leaving the casket on its stand for the attendants to inter later in the day. The crowd slowly unraveled, some of the strictly political interests rushing off to make their meetings, others ganging up on Sullivan and Claye. The media gave the funeral a pass, as Julian had ceased to be a going concern for the city. A reporter for AM radio took comments, but was quick about it.
The Swains kept a halo around me, Edgar trying to make jokes to lighten the mood, Wren making sure no one tried to hug my bad arm, and Elle and Eddie looking lost as to what to do. I turned to find Madelyn Sullivan weaving past Wren.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mister Lake,” she announced with a soft tone.
“He was a good man,” I answered.
She turned to the Swains with a polite cock of her chin.
“Would you mind if I had a private word?”
Wren and Edgar smiled, and withdrew.
Mrs. Sullivan took my hand and leaned in. “Pray with me.”
I bowed my head toward hers, and as we clasped hands, she whispered, “The vote is tomorrow. Wexler will be the new Ipsissimus.”
“I figured as much.”
“There have been too many deaths,” she continued, head still bowed in mock prayer. “There is very little trust within the inner circles, now.”
“Well, here’s the thing,” I said, lifting my head and opening my eyes. “They weren’t wrong about the Presidium. It had become fatuous and self-indulgent. There will be some rebuilding to do, but I’m sure Wexler’s up to the challenge.”
Madelyn looked up at me with a wrinkle in her brow. “But will it happen in time, is the question?”
“No way to tell. If there is some major campaign happening, if the Dark Choir is about to leverage the entire human race, then we’re going to have to come together as a species. Can’t be America vs. the World, anymore.” I added with a clearing of my throat, “Any word on the Bakers?”
She sighed, and shook her head.
“You will keep me posted?” I stated.
She patted my hand. “Rest assured, we will.”
She stepped away to rejoin her husband. Mayor Sullivan turned to me and gave me a sheepish nod.
I returned the gesture.
“He was one of a kind,” a voice called from my left.
I turned to find Ronetta Claye approaching, glasses lifted to the top of her head, a tablet tucked under her arm.
“No argument here,” I answered.
Claye stared at me for a moment, then pulled the tablet from under her arm to open her schedule.
“I spoke with Turner this morning. I don’t know what you said to him, but he’s made a complete one-eighty regarding your value as an independent consultant. So, it seems Julian made the right call about you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning… Special Investigations has several open cases they’ll want to discuss with you. You’ll be compensated, off the books. As long as you continue to produce results, and as long as you behave yourself.”
I smirked at her. “No promises.”
She smirked back.
Claye turned away and added, “Turner will be calling on you Thursday.”
“I’ll be around.”
I gave the scene a good, long glance. How quickly the crowd had disappeared! I looked for the Swains, who had returned to their Jeep. I noted Elle had stayed behind, still staring at the cemetery. I turned back and approached Elle.
“Hey,” I muttered.
“She’s going to be mayor.”
I lifted my brow. “Who?”
Elle pointed to her left, where Claye was climbing into the back of a black town car.
“When?”
“Before the end of the year,” Elle whispered.
I frowned. “How… how do you know this?”
She shrugged.
“Well,” I asked, “what about the current mayor?”
Elle shrugged again.
I ran a hand along the side of my face. “We should talk to your mother about these visions you’re getting.”
Elle looked over the gravestones. “They’re so quiet.”
“That’s the ide
a, I suppose.”
She looked up at me. “Those people you killed… did it make you sad?”
I crouched down in front of her with a frown. “What have your parents told you?”
“Nothing.”
“Who do you think I killed, Elle?”
Her bottom lip quivered.
“Elle? Did you see something?”
“You can’t do these things, Dorian.”
My eyes stung. Tears gathered in the corners, one managing to break free and trace a line down my cheek.
“Yeah. I’m trying.” I stood up, wiped my face on my sleeve, and reached for her hand. “Come on. Let’s go do something fun for a change.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Skydiving? Cliff jumping? Tiger shaving?”
She laughed.
As it turned out, we didn’t go skydiving. Instead, we drove to the Inner Harbor for lunch. The sky had cleared up nicely. Deep, solid blue with plenty of sunshine reflecting off the water. Elle and Eddie destroyed a dozen crabs between them. I watched as the kids tried to smear crab fat over each other as they chuckled.
Life felt weirdly normal. Maybe it was stranger than normal should have felt weird, at all. But it didn’t matter. For a good hour, nothing weighed on me. No worries about the Presidium, Julian, or even Ches.
I was in the moment.
We all took the long way back to the car, and the kids spotted a street cart selling snowballs. They immediately launched into hysterics, and Wren reached for Edgar’s back pocket to fish out his wallet. They dragged her up the street while I lingered behind with Edgar.
“So,” he said with a huge grin on his face.
“So.”
“Clement called.”
“Yeah?”
“He wants to show me something in his collection. Said I should bring you along.”
I shrugged. “Always game for a trip back home.”
“Are we going to be safe?” he asked in a hushed tone.
I watched the kids as they nearly collided with the cart, and Wren giving them hell.
“No.” I turned to Edgar. “But, what else is new?”
The hairs on my arms rippled with uneasy energy. A wave of something sinister washed over me, and I sucked in a breath.
Edgar squinted. “What is that?”
“You feel it, too?”
My eyes lifted past Edgar, to an obscure figure standing across the street. The obscurity lifted, and I clenched my jaw as Felix Parrish lifted his glammer.
“Edgar,” I whispered. “Go to Wren. I’ll catch up with you.”
He turned to look across the street, then back to me. “What’s up?”
“Please.”
He nodded slowly, and trotted up the block.
I waited for the light to change, then crossed the street. Parrish stood near the corner of a high-rise hotel, a briefcase in one hand and a cardboard tube under his arm.
“Lake,” he greeted me.
“Parrish?”
“You’ve made some interesting decisions lately. I won’t go so far as to say that I’m impressed. But I am surprised.”
“Thanks.” I checked the Swains across the street. Edgar was watching me, but the others seemed unaware that I’d even crossed the street. “I’m guessing you have news.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“Am I going to like it?”
Parrish sighed. “I’ve come to inform you that the offer for your consideration has been rescinded.”
“Wasn’t it already?”
“You misunderstand. Your soul has been located.”
My head spun, and I paced a quick circle before leaning against the side of the hotel.
“So, it’s all over?” I whispered.
“For the time being, you have nothing to worry about. Your soul has been… secured. As much as it pains me to admit it, we are presently unable to affect its release.”
“Wait a minute. What does that mean, you can’t affect its release?”
“Your soul is safe, Mister Lake. For now.”
I shook my head. “You said it was secured. Who secured it? I don’t understand.”
Parrish smiled. “Surely you realize it is not in your benefactor’s interests to share such information. He simply wanted me to inform you that your consideration is no longer on the table. It is now a waiting game for us, until your soul becomes available once again. And we are very, very patient.”
My mouth tripped over too many questions at once, sending me into a fit of halted sentences.
Parrish lifted his hand, and looked across the street. He nodded to the Swains.
“If I had to guess, I’d say you have another four years. Possibly less. I’d suggest you make the most of it.”
He nodded to me and stepped away.
“Wait!” I called.
But in a flurry of passing foot traffic, his glammer snapped back to life and I lost him in the crowd.
I stood still, staring up the street.
Four years?
Then my soul would fall into the hands of the Dark Choir.
Better get to work!
J.P. Sloan is a speculative fiction author … primarily of urban fantasy, horror and several shades between. His writing explores the strangeness in that which is familiar, at times stretching the limits of the human experience, or only hinting at the monsters lurking under your bed.
A Louisiana native, Sloan relocated to the vineyards and cow pastures of Central Maryland after Hurricane Katrina, where he lives with his wife and son. During the day he commutes to the city of Baltimore, a setting which inspires much of his writing.
In his spare time, Sloan enjoys wine-making and homebrewing, and is a certified beer judge.
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Appetizer:
Book Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Main Course:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
