Whiskey Ginger

by Shayne Silvers

  There was no way to be sure, but in the end, it didn’t matter; it wasn’t like I planned to give him the chance to explain himself. He’d have to be breathing for that to happen. Unfortunately, when we were about ten feet away, I caught a flicker out of the corner of my eye. I turned, just in time to see Gladstone’s illusion fall away, revealing a blockish Englishman covered in burns and dried blood.

  “Hey, who’s that?” one of the officers behind us asked, pointing at Gladstone.

  Fuck.

  Gladstone’s expression soured as he realized his disguise had failed. “Well, love, I’d hoped to do this quietly, but…” He raised both hands. “I wonder how the Regulars will explain this one? Gas leak, maybe? Spontaneous fire breaks out, killing several officers?” He shrugged, then grinned as flames danced over his palms.

  Only to abruptly die out.

  “Everyone get down!” Maria yelled, ducking behind a car and dragging me along for a ride. Several other officers followed suit, drawing and pointing their guns in Gladstone’s direction, but holding their fire. Gladstone stared at his hands in wonder. He tried to ignite the air around his palms a few more times, but nothing happened.

  It was almost as if his magic wasn’t working…

  It was me, I realized.

  I don’t know how I knew for sure, but I could sense I was the one interfering with his magic. It was there in the stifled air: my field—the shield that protected me and nullified magic—had expanded. I immediately shut my eyes and felt for it with my other senses, seeking out the edges that typically clung to me as tightly as a second skin. I found it, spherical, like a bubble, reaching all the way to Gladstone.

  My field drew back an instant later, as if called. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew I could perceive it now, if I concentrated. Once retracted, it felt almost like a layer of lotion resting on top of my skin—invisible but noticeable. With that came a host of questions, but none of which I had time to mull over, because—unfortunately—the second my field returned, so did Gladstone’s magic.

  And he wasn’t inclined to waste any time.

  Apparently, having decided his flames were no use, Gladstone had switched gears. Maria pulled me down further behind the patrol car as wind whipped about, so strong the cars themselves started to slide across the pavement. The other officers dropped out of sight below their cars, unable to see with so much wind hitting them in the face. Gladstone’s laughter could only barely be heard outside the gale.

  “What the hell is that?” Maria yelled over the din.

  I ignored her, concentrating instead on the field around me, urging it to loosen its grip on me and swallow Gladstone once again. But it was no use. I wasn’t sure what had made it expand, but I suspected it would take a while before I could control it at will, if ever. Which meant my only chance was to get closer, like I’d originally planned. I tried to stand, but the wind was too strong.

  I dropped back down and glared at Maria. If only I had my gun, I could at least try shooting the son of a bitch. Though, on second thought, I’d probably never get off a clean shot. Besides, killing someone in front of a bunch of cops was basically asking for the death penalty, especially when my only defense was “he was trying to blow me away with gale-force winds.”

  On second thought, that could work.

  Padded cells were probably pretty comfortable, right?

  A sudden crash of thunder made a few of the officers around me cry out in surprise. Rain pelted down, careening left and right as the droplets got caught in the wind. I realized Gladstone was channeling a storm, using his control of the elements to whip the sky into a frenzy.

  A flash of lightning forked, colliding with the ground nearby as well as one of the squad cars. Two officers fell to the ground, twitching. Maria screamed, clutching at her eyes; she must have looked directly into the light. I’d kept mine shut, which was the only reason I was able to glance over the hood of the car.

  And see Gladstone get what he deserved.

  Chapter 58

  The wind died abruptly. Gladstone stood, partially hidden behind an impossibly tall, shadowy figure that I recognized—Magnus, the vampire I’d met in the alleyway.

  My backup.

  I did a mental fist pump; it’d taken calling in more than a half dozen favors to track the fanger down—not to mention enduring a host of threats before I revealed it was Gladstone, and not I, who had strung up Mike and his band—but it was totally worth it to see Gladstone’s face as he stared up at the vampire, his mouth pleading silently, his eyes wild with fear.

  Magnus glanced back, met my eyes, and nodded. Then, in the blink of an eye, he and Gladstone practically vanished—little more than a dark blur speeding off into the night, a stray shadow, gone in an instant.

  Maria poked her head up, her gun propped in both hands, elbows mounted on the hood of the squad car. She stayed that way, blinking, then let out a slow breath. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said, finally. “Where’d he go? What the hell just happened?”

  I closed my eyes.

  Now came the fun part.

  Before Maria could get too worked up over what had just happened, I urged her to check the house again. As tempting as it was to leave Jacob’s body behind and avoid all the questions it would raise, I knew that he’d be found eventually, and I didn’t want to risk getting dragged in for murder—my bloody shoeprints leading away from the body would make likely for some pretty compelling circumstantial evidence, after all.

  I watched Law and Order; I knew how these things worked.

  After finding the body, an irate Maria had put me in handcuffs for the second time. I let her. I knew I was going to the station, either way. Between the dead body, her partner wounded, blood everywhere, an alleged bomber that got away, and inexplicable weather disturbances, I’m sure she had plenty of questions…

  Of course, that didn’t mean I had the answers she was looking for.

  “So,” Maria said, her grip tight on the steering wheel, “you gonna tell me what happened back there, or what?”

  “Shouldn’t I have me lawyer present?” I teased.

  “Can the shit,” Maria hissed. “Look, my partner’s career is on the line. Maybe mine, too. If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t promise any of us will walk away from this. I’ve got a detective and two officers down, not to mention a body, and a bomb threat to explain. Walk me through it.”

  “Off the record?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed. “Ye won’t believe me,” I said.

  “Try me.”

  So I told her. I told her all of it—everything that had happened since I first got Dez’s phone call in Christoff’s office. I talked until my raw throat couldn’t take it anymore, and then I talked some more. The only part I left out was Jimmy’s death and resurrection—even I would have a hell of a time believing that shit was possible.

  When I was finished, Maria ran a hand over the loose strands of her hair, pinning them against her scalp. She took out her cellphone and sent out a text message, her expression, lit by the pale blue glow, oddly soft. When she faced me, her angry, contemptuous face held nothing of that softness. “You’re right. I don’t believe you. And neither will they. So…this is what happened.”

  Chapter 59

  A uniformed officer dropped me off at Dez’s house several hours later. I hadn’t been charged with anything, but giving my statement had taken a while, even though it mostly consisted of saying things like, “I’m not sure” and “you’d have to ask Detective Machado.”

  I’d stuck as narrowly as I could to her version of events: that Jimmy—who’d received the same tip as the department had while driving me home after asking a few follow-up questions regarding the park incident from the day before—had gone to take a look since he was in the neighborhood. There, he’d found Jacob’s body, and tried to subdue the assailant, but had been knocked out. When Jimmy hadn’t returned, I’d followed, and had also been attacked. The assailant h
ad then hidden us in a backroom and fled the scene, only to return and confront Detective Machado and I before fleeing again.

  The story was flimsy, at best, but—because protocol dictated that Jimmy not leave the briefcase out of his sight—at least it explained why it was found at the scene. It also meant that, at worst, Jimmy would have to explain why he left a civilian in his car while responding to a call—an error in judgment, sure, but not worth a formal reprimand.

  The fact that the officers hadn’t located the backroom during their initial sweep seemed to bother my interrogators, but considering a whole crew of cops had missed it, that couldn’t be laid at any one individual’s feet—even if Maria was technically in charge. Her bomb threat claim would be criticized, but—given the damage to the area and the two hospitalized officers—I doubted anyone would entirely discount the idea.

  Frankly, the only concern anyone had at this point was the fact that the guy got away; until they caught him, all they had were questions that no one but Jimmy—who was unconscious in the ICU—could answer. Fortunately, Maria had that angle covered; it was Jimmy she’d texted on our way to the precinct, telling him to keep his mouth shut until they could talk about what happened. I’ll admit I was surprised to find out how devious Maria was—it was almost enough to make me like her.

  Almost.

  In the end, I’d left them to their manhunt; I had other places to be. I walked stiffly up to the door of my childhood home, doing my best to ignore the fact that I’d been up for over twenty-four hours, been beaten within an inch of my life, and had to replace a whole outfit—they’d taken mine as evidence and thrust me in a pair of Boston PD-issue sweats that fit me like a smock.

  I knocked. “Dez? Dez, are ye home?” I called. I turned the knob and felt a flash of panic as it gave beneath my hand; there was no way she’d have left it unlocked on purpose. I tore through the living room. “Dez!” I realized the lights were on in the kitchen, so I booked it down the hall. “Dez!”

  “I’m here, Quinn, stop yellin’! We’re in here!” Dez called from the dining room. I heard Dez say something in a softer voice. I changed directions, trying to slow my racing heart.

  “Who’s we?” I asked.

  “There’s a detective here,” she said.

  I froze.

  I’d totally forgotten that Jimmy had sent someone to check on her. Shit…if her statement got back to Boston PD, they’d have no choice but to question everything I’d told them. My aunt getting kidnapped the day before I survived an animal attack and two days before I witnessed a murder?

  Yeah, that wouldn’t be conspicuous, at all.

  I slowed my walk to a crawl, debating on what I would say to convince the cop to keep his trap shut…I could play the dutiful daughter, pull the detective aside and confess that Dez was really a senile old bag trying to get attention, maybe play it up with a sob story about how I didn’t want anyone bothering her, and that I would be sure to get her into a home, soon?

  Of course, if that didn’t work, I could always throw out a number.

  Something like that would never work on a stand-up guy like Jimmy, but there were plenty of Boston cops out there willing to wade into grey areas if you could make it worth their time—and I could throw out some pretty large numbers.

  I stepped into the dining room, prepared to do or say anything to make sure the detective left without anything to report. Dez turned to me, her smile soft, looking exhausted and pale. She must have changed and showered—her clothes were unsoiled, wrinkle-free and her hair was still wet.

  “Quinn, please, I’d like ye to meet this nice detective,” she said, clearly trying to tell me something with her eyes. “He says he’s been waitin’ to speak with ye about a briefcase?” She snuck a look at me, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Then both shot up. “Quinn! What’s the matter with ye?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know what to say at all. Seated across from my aunt, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit and tie, was a young, teenaged boy. The boy pushed himself out of his seat and stood, offering his hand.

  “Hello, Miss MacKenna.”

  He stood there for a long moment before Dez reached out and swatted my hand, “Quinn, where are your manners? Say hello to the man.”

  The boy pulled his hand back and rubbed at his hair absent-mindedly, a thin-lipped smile on his face. “Please, Mrs. Jones, call me Hemingway. Everyone else does.”

  Chapter 60

  “Mrs. Jones,” Hemingway, the teenaged boy said, “I’m sorry, but would you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Oh, it’s Miss Jones, actually,” Dez replied with a predatory smile that made me feel all sorts of icky. “But are ye sure you’re alright, dear?” Dez asked, eyeing me up and down, her gaze raptorial now that she was turned away from the boy.

  “I’m fine,” I managed. “Go ahead, I’d like to talk to the…the detective, alone.”

  Dez squeezed my arm as she left and—in a voice too soft for Hemingway to hear—said, “We need to talk.”

  I sighed, but nodded. It was a shame…I’d lied to the police, helped kill a fox spirit bent on feasting on half of Boston, survived a wizard, fought an alchemically enhanced bodyguard, and chased away a skinwalker…only to die at the hands of the aunt I’d been trying to save all along.

  “So,” I said, once she was out of earshot, “d’ye want to tell me why a little boy is playin’ detective? And how ye managed to fool me aunt?”

  Hemingway blinked owlishly before glancing down at himself. “Well, that’s new,” he said, sounding surprised.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Hemingway shrugged. “My appearance often depends on who’s doing the looking. Of course, until now I’ve always appeared older than everyone I’ve met. It’s a comfort thing, I think. A side effect of the job...” His eyes narrowed as he studied me. He took a half-step forward, then shuddered. “Another first.”

  “What are ye on about?” I asked.

  “I don’t see your death.”

  “My what?”

  He started to respond, but seemed to think better of it, waving my question away before taking a seat at the table. “It’s nothing, nevermind. Forget I mentioned it,” he insisted. Despite his assurances, however, I found his heavy-lidded stare extremely discomforting; he looked at me like he was a biologist who’d recently counted the tentacles of an octopus and gotten to twelve.

  Mind you, not how a woman wants to be looked at, even by a child.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’m here about the case. You spoke to my…friend, correct?”

  My mouth gaped open, realizing for the first time that this—this child—was the person Othello had sent to help. What had she expected him to do, kick Gladstone in the shins and run away? Had I been wrong to put my faith in her, after all?

  I noticed the kid was kicking his legs, since they didn’t quite reach the floor, waiting for my response. “It’s the small things,” he admitted, seeing my incredulous expression.

  “What d’ye want?” I asked, finally.

  “Well, I was hoping to take a certain briefcase off your hands. I didn’t find you at home, however, so I tried this address instead. Interestingly, I was told that your aunt had been kidnapped…and yet, here I find her, safely tucked away at home.” Hemingway’s boyish grin transformed into something calculating and cold, his insinuation clear.

  “Listen here, ye smug little bastard,” I said, barely resisting the urge to hit a child, “if you’d have shown up when ye were supposed to, ye might have the right to question me. But, as it stands, ye and Othello can go fuck yourselves.”

  Hemingway’s eyes flashed. “I was…preoccupied. Where’s the briefcase?”

  “Did ye know what was in it?” I asked, my voice a hushed whisper.

  Hemingway grimaced. “I was only recently informed. I didn’t think Othello would go so far to help our mutual friend. If I had known, I’d have told her it was a foolish plan.”

  I didn’t know who
their “mutual friend” was, but I didn’t care. The fact that he knew what the briefcase held meant he was just as liable as Othello for leaving me to fend for myself. “So ye knew it would open a gateway to another dimension?” I asked, my temper flaring.

  Hemingway’s eyes widened. “You mean it worked? Where is the portal now? Where did it lead?” His little hands clutched the arms of his chair, already halfway to his feet.

  “The portal is closed, no thanks to ye and yours! A god closed it.” I knew that sounded ridiculous, but something about this kid—his jaded nonchalance, maybe—made me think he wouldn’t bat an eye at the mention of a deity’s involvement.

  I was right.

  “I can’t believe she was successful,” Hemingway said, settling back in his chair. “Did the gateway lead to Hell?” He waved that away before I could respond. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know. The less I know the better.”

  “The less you know?” I hissed. “Me friend almost died tryin’ to help me stop a madman from releasin’ a man-eater on the city, and ye don’t even want to know why?” Hemingway didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, which only pissed me off further. “And by almost died, I mean he died and had to be brought back! But that’s alright, because you were preoccupied!”

  Hemingway rocked back onto the hind legs of his chair, shocked by my outburst. But then I realized it wasn’t my anger that had driven him back, but my anti-magic field; it pressed against him, repelling as surely as a two magnets driven apart by their similar polarities.

  Hemingway’s shock faded in increments. “I’m sorry,” he admitted, finally. “You’re right. I should have come sooner. Creating doorways to other worlds the way Othello planned is…frowned upon, although—thankfully—not easily managed. Opening yet another could have been catastrophic. I’m…grateful. Very grateful, that you stepped in.”