“Next time lead with that,” I chastised, my anger dissipating.
For the first time in a long time, I was too tired to fight.
“I will,” Hemingway said. “And I want you to know that Othello’s heart was in the right place. She had no idea what she was creating. She was trying to save a friend from making a horrible, foolish mistake.” His expression had turned wry. “If I’m being honest, perhaps part of me hoped she’d find a way to save him from himself, after all…”
I sighed and fell into a chair, my field retreating, cozying up next to me once more. “I t’ink ye should let people make their own mistakes, don’t ye?”
Hemingway grunted as the legs of his chair hit the ground. “You obviously haven’t met the man. When he makes mistakes, we all tend to get caught up in it.” He probed at the air in front of him until he was sure the field had dispersed, then readjusted his chair. “Your friend? Is he, she, alright?” Hemingway asked.
“He. And yeah, he’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I shot him a glare.
He ignored it. “This is purely speculation, but you should know that bringing someone back to life is not easily achieved. A god can do it, of course. A few mortals have even managed. But there is always a cost.” The expression he wore didn’t belong on a face that young and, for a moment, I thought I saw something ancient and…familiar, in it.
“Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said, finally, though part of me dreaded the fact that he might be right.
Hemingway nodded as he fetched a card from his suit jacket. “If you have trouble, please, contact me.” He set the card on the table. “I’ll tell Othello what happened here. She may have questions of her own, though.”
I cradled my chin in my hands, elbows on the table—Dez would definitely kill me if she caught me doing that, but I was too exhausted to care. “I have a few, meself,” I admitted.
Hemingway steepled his fingers. “Yes. I expect you two have a lot in common.”
“Tell me,” I said, rising to study the sunlight pouring through the dining room window, my back turned. “The way ye reacted a minute ago, and that bit about my death…D’ye know what I am, then?”
I glanced back, but he was gone.
The motherfucker had Batman’d me.
Chapter 61
I marched up the stairs to Dez’s room like a woman heading to the gallows.
Granted, I was being a bit melodramatic, but now that the adrenaline had worn off, I realized there was no way around what was about to happen—Dez would have to learn the truth. About me. About what I did for a living.
She met me at the door to her room, silhouetted in the doorway like some dark, spectral presence. I shivered and ducked my head the same way I had the day after coming home from that concert I wasn’t supposed to go to. “I’m so sorry, Dez.”
“D’ye know why your ma and I left Ireland?” Dez asked.
I glanced up, surprised by the question. “The Troubles?” I volunteered. The Troubles were a period of Irish history during which significant social upheaval—including religious persecution and acts of terrorism—had swept over much of Ireland. From what Dez had told me, she and my mother had been involved in a dangerous paramilitary organization known as the Irish Republican Army. Dez never really talked about what they’d done, but I knew she regretted it with every fiber of her being.
“Aye, but that wasn’t the only reason,” Dez admitted. “We left because your ma wanted a better life for the children she one day planned to have.”
I hung my head. “And ye t’ink I’ve disgraced her memory…I swear, it wasn’t like I planned to do this, to deal goods to Freaks. But I’m good at it,” I argued, fiercely. I took a deep, calming breath. How could I explain to Dez that what I did wasn’t just a job, but a way of life—that, without it, I wouldn’t feel whole?
Dez snorted. “I don’t care what ye do for a livin’, Quinn MacKenna, short of sellin’ yourself on the street.”
I frowned. “What are ye sayin’, then?”
“I’m sayin’ ye need to be more careful,” Dez said, the look in her eyes flinty. “And I don’t mean for me sake, but for yours. If I show up at St. Peter’s gates and have to explain why ye showed up before me, your ma will make Hell seem like Aruba.”
I stared at my aunt for a moment, slack-jawed, and then laughed. I laughed so hard I worried I’d pop a rib. “Aruba…” I whispered, flicking a tear out of the corner of one eye.
“I’m glad I could amuse ye,” Dez said, sarcastically.
I straightened and settled a hand on her shoulder. “Are ye sure you’re alright?” I asked.
Dez shrugged. “I’ve been through worse,” she admitted, her expression closed off.
“And since when d’ye own a gun?” I asked, remembering the shots I’d heard over the phone.
“Patricia suggested I buy one,” Dez said. “For protection. I told her Southie is safer now than it used to be, but she insisted.”
Well, looked like I owed Patricia an apology. Maybe I’d send her flowers. Or a basket full of Bibles to pass out to the needy.
Whatever worked.
“Well,” Dez said, finally, “I need to have me a lie down. And ye look like ye should be in the hospital.” She eyed my throat, where bruises were already beginning to form. “Ye remember what I said, ye hear?”
I nodded and bent down so Dez could kiss my cheek—something she’d been doing ever since I was a little girl. We said our goodbyes, and I shut her door with a sigh of relief. Honestly, it felt like a huge burden had been removed; I hadn’t realized how hard it had been, keeping things from the only family I had in all the world.
But she was right.
If her kidnapping had taught me anything, it was to be more careful, for her sake as well as mine.
By the time I left Dez’s, the sun had completely risen in the sky. I decided to walk a little before calling an Uber while I tried to order my chaotic thoughts. Deep down, I wanted to believe that I could follow through on my promise to Dez, but I knew better than to think that would be an easy task. After the last several days, it had become more and more apparent to me that my city wasn’t as safe a place as I once thought.
I’d always thought Boston was like any other city, and that I—its resident black magic arms dealer—was simply providing a much-needed service. But now I knew Boston was a hub for all sorts of irregular activity; that even the wizard police stayed far from it as a rule, and that, beyond the Chancery’s reach, the world was going to shit—Gladstone had mentioned a war, Cassandra, the Apocalypse, and Hemingway, whoever he was, had implied that Hell was perpetually one Gateway away.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like I understood my clients and their desires to build an impregnable fortress, to carry the biggest stick; the world was a dangerous place, and it paid to be ready for it.
I halted, realizing I was being watched.
“You have finished?” Serge asked, standing on the sidewalk outside my aunt’s house in a light jacket and jeans, a baseball cap tucked low to hide most of his face. He waved at the space in front of his nose with an exaggerated motion. “Smells like death here. Is he gone?”
I reached for the gun I kept holstered at the small of my back, then cursed, remembering that it remained in lockup; Maria had refused to return it when I’d asked, glaring at me so hard I figured I’d have better luck buying a new one than I would getting my old one back.
“Dumb bitch,” I muttered.
Serge frowned and titled his head quizzically, like a dog. “Pardon me?”
Chapter 62
“How’d ye find me?” I asked, ignoring his question. At this point, I was in that state of delirious exhaustion where you sort of accept everything that’s happening to you, regardless of whether or not it makes sense. As such, I don’t think I was even surprised to see him.
Go to another dimension? Check.
Watch a man get brought bac
k to life? Check.
Survive a magic-induced thunderstorm? Check.
Chat with a skinwalker outside my aunt’s place? Sure, why not?
Serge cocked his head. “Find you? No. You are very busy girl, but not so busy I could not follow.”
“You’ve been followin’ me this whole time?” I asked, exasperated. How had I noticed none of these damn men following me? Was I that blind? Never again, I swore to myself.
Never. Again.
“Mostly, yes,” Serge replied. “But, when I lose you, I follow policeman.”
“Aye, well now what? There are people lookin’ for ye, ye know,” I said, trying to gauge Serge’s intentions. He couldn’t have picked a better time to ambush me; I’d been pushing the limits of my body for hours now, and I didn’t think I could arm wrestle the portly, middle-aged man in front of me, let alone tangle with the mangy skinwalker he could become.
“The Academy, yes, I know this.”
“Bit dangerous standin’ out in the open where they can find ye, don’t ye t’ink?” I asked.
“They can find me anywhere,” Serge said, with a shrug. “Here, at least, I can talk to you.”
“And what is it ye want to talk to me about?”
“I wish for protection.”
“Come again?” I asked, arcing an eyebrow, certain I’d misheard him, or that something had gotten lost in translation; I didn’t always understand him.
“I—”
With a resounding clash, two figures in dark robes appeared out of nowhere, huddled against each other, wearing silver masks with mirrored faces that would have fit in well in a Studio Ghibli film—one the face of a masculine sun, the other a feminine moon. I could tell from their voices that the masks were gender appropriate.
“By the spirits,” the man exclaimed, turned away from us, “I’d heard the rumors, but I had no idea they’d actually be there!”
“Those Candy Skull masks!” The woman released her hold and took a step back, turning to her companion. “What do you think it means?”
“It means we may have to figure out a new method of transportation,” he replied, with a sigh. “Shadow Walking may be too dangerous.”
The woman’s shoulders drooped. “I hope they don’t try and bring the nimbus clouds back. I hated that trend...”
“You only say that because you kept falling off.”
“You said it was like riding a horse!”
The man laughed. “I did, yeah.”
The woman punched him in the arm. “Not funny, niisan.”
I studied the man, who was hardly visible beneath his robes. He didn’t exactly look like a Nissan. There wasn’t anything particularly Altima or Maxima about him, either—if anything he seemed quite small and compact.
More like a Honda.
“You’re right, imuoto. No more teasing, I promise.”
I realized they were using pet names for each other and felt a brief flush of embarrassment. “Um,” I said, coughing to cover my slight blush, “I hate to interrupt, but who are ye people?”
The masks whirled to face me. “Oh, damn, we ended up a little closer than I thought,” the man said. “I was hoping to track the skinwalker to a less public area.”
“Where there would be no risk to civilians,” the woman added. “Our apologies.” She bowed a little.
“They are Justices,” Serge answered, on their behalf. “From the Academy. They are here to kill me.” His eyes began to glow green. But, at that precise moment, the two Justices lifted their hands, a surge of gold and silver light flashing as twin bolts of lightning arced out towards the skinwalker, missing him by only a few feet as he dove to his right. Patricia’s yard smoked, the grass scorched and littered with clods of dirt.
Maybe I’d buy her flowers.
Chapter 63
“What the fuck are ye doin’?” I hissed, trying not to wake the neighbors. “You’re not goin’ to fight here, d’ye hear me?”
“The woman is saying something, niisan.”
“We’ll wipe her memory later,” the man insisted. “First, we need to capture the skinwalker. Doctor’s orders.”
Both figures spun to face Serge, who had torn off the ballcap and jacket and was even now tearing away swatches of his own skin to reveal the fur beneath. Despite having seen it before, I had to admit the process still weirded me out.
The Justices split up, edging in either direction to keep the skinwalker from making a run for it. Lightning crackled at their fingertips. Each seemed to have considerably more control over it than Gladstone had. I wondered if wizards had elemental preferences, sort of like how pitchers could throw knuckleballs and changeups—but leaned heavily on their fastballs in a pinch.
Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to ask; the woman rushed Serge, who had fallen onto all fours, his transformation nearly complete. She lunged forward, a slender arm darting from beneath her robe to reveal an arc of lightning that trailed behind her like a comet’s tail. The blast hit Serge directly in the face and sent him flying into Mr. Robertson’s iron wrought gate. I winced.
Serge, in full skinwalker mode, rose shakily. He growled and whipped his head about the way a wet dog might. “That tickled,” the skinwalker said in that weird, ventriloquist voice of his. “We do not like being tickled.”
The woman turned to her companion. “Your turn.”
He nodded, then proceeded to go full-on Emperor Palpatine on Serge’s skinwalker ass; waves of golden, sizzling lightning spewed from his hands, lancing into Serge’s body at voltages I couldn’t pretend to gauge. The smell of burning hair permeated the street, and I wondered how much longer it would be before some innocent bystander, or one of my neighbors, wandered out into the middle of all this.
“What are ye doin’?” I asked over the sound of Serge’s pitiful whimpers. “Are ye tryin’ to kill it?”
“Actually,” the woman responded, “quite the opposite. Skinwalkers are already dead, possessed by their sacrificed familiars, which means they can’t be killed, or even really wounded. Technically, I think you’d call them zombies, only with animal characteristics and willpower, which is what makes them so dangerous. Fortunately, my brother and I are experts at resuscitation. Now please, stand back. We’ll take care of this and be right with you.”
With that, she strode forward, her silver lightning taking over for her brother’s gold, which flickered and died a moment later. He waved his hands a little as if trying to improve blood flow.
The skinwalker, meanwhile, was no longer whimpering, but pleading. “It hurts,” it groaned. “We can feel, and it hurts to feel. Stop. Make it stop.”
I suddenly realized what the woman meant; the skinwalker was dead, which meant it had no pain receptors, no nerves firing to tell its brain that it was wounded. That’s why my bullets hadn’t even fazed it—I’d been shooting at a corpse.
Except now, with who knew how many volts of electricity spiking through it, the skinwalker could feel things—things like pain.
You know when your leg is asleep, and you get up to walk it off, and it feels like a thousand little needles are pricking you all over? Well, my guess was it felt like that times, like, a hundred. The skinwalker whipped back and forth, each wave causing it to shake and clench. The glow of its green eyes began to fade, and I could see Serge’s brown eyes peeking from beneath, desperate and pleading.
Had someone told me several hours ago that I’d consider saving Serge from a pair of masked wizards, I’d have had them, and then me, committed. The Serbian was clearly dangerous, and he’d threatened me more than once before—but he was also powerful, and I wouldn’t mind having someone like him owe me one. Besides, Othello had used him as her personal smuggler—maybe she’d be grateful to have him back under her thumb. Grateful enough to give me access to some of the other merchandise GrimmTech had in development.
Shiny balls that created Gateways to inaccessible places?
Yes, please.
“Goddamnit,” I cursed, grinding my teeth
. “Fine.” I marched over to the Justices and tapped the brother on the shoulder. He spun to face me, although his mask hid any surprise he might have felt. I waved a little. “Oy, I’m sorry, but could ye please stop attackin’ this creature in the middle of me street?”
“Please,” the man said, bowing a little to me, “do not interfere.”
“Why do ye want to capture him?” I asked.
“I am sorry,” the man said, reaching for me. “But it would be best if you go to sleep, now.” Little tendrils of electricity danced along his fingertips…until his hand settled on my shoulder.
He stared at his powerless fingers, dark brown eyes visibly wide beneath the holes of the mask. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said, before I socked him in the gut, as hard as I could. He dropped to his knees, huddled over. I leaned down, so he could hear me. “It would be best if you go to sleep now.” I brought both hands down on the back of his neck, and he crumpled to the pavement.
“Niisan!” The woman yelled, turning her lightning on me. When nothing happened, she hurriedly backed away. “What are you?” she asked, her voice hushed.
I raised my hands. “Listen, I don’t want to fight with ye. I t’ink ye and the rest of your people should leave, that’s all. Boston can handle things without ye. I’ll take it from—”
The skinwalker attacked, interrupting what I’d been about to say, launching itself at the woman, catching her arm between its teeth and gnawing.
“Oh, ye dumb mongrel!” I growled. I rushed forward and swung a swift, vicious kick at its side, hoping to distract the mangy fucker long enough to get the woman free. My kick connected, and the skinwalker yelped, kicking out at me at the last possible instant. I felt the kick connect with my stomach, driving the breath from my lungs. I dropped to my knees and heard one of them—my previously injured knee—pop.
Which was the last sound I heard before I blacked out.
Whiskey Ginger Page 19
