Doom Sayer

by Clara Coulson

  “Actually, my request for information on Delos was a misdirect,” Iyanda answers. “My true intention is to speak with you about Witch Milburn.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What about her?”

  “I want to know of all your interactions with her over the past year.” Iyanda sits in the chair and takes on the pose of a savvy businesswoman about to initiate a hostile takeover of a Fortune 500. “As I’m sure you are aware, colluding with DSI outside of official ICM channels is a serious breach of our policy. I have spoken to her at length on the matter, including her brief relationship with you, Detective Kinsey, but I would like to hear your side of the story. Please, tell me what Witch Milburn has done for you over the past year, particularly concerning her role in dispatching the various Methuselah agents that have plagued your city.”

  My face flushes hot with anger, and I have the urge to shout at this woman. The man that her Court placed in charge of Aurora’s ICM chapter turned out to be a major Methuselah player, and she wants to fault Erica for helping DSI dispatch him and his cronies? What an absolute joke, the policies of the Council.

  I bite my tongue though, knowing that whatever testimony I give here could make or break Erica. The ICM is not kind to practitioners who break their rules, any of their rules. So in short, simple, emotionally neutral sentences, I describe all the times that Erica has helped us combat the rogue practitioners in the city, including her takedown of Allen Marcus and the subsequent banishment of Ammit, and her recent endeavor to free me from Delos’ grasp and then storm the DSI building to deploy the counter-curse. Naturally, I gloss over our personal relationship, although Iyanda already appears to know the intimate details, and conclude my monologue with a flourished, “And that’s why you shouldn’t punish her. Because she’s a damn good person and a damn good witch.”

  Iyanda’s indifferent mask bends, just slightly, a crinkle of amusement around her eyes. “It is not my place to dictate policy changes to the Council without putting such matters to a vote in the Court. However, I do have some leeway regarding the matter of Witch Milburn, being that very few people know of her involvement in these recent events. I do have to punish her in some way, you understand, or the Court will censure me severely if it comes out that I did nothing to discourage her wayward behavior. However, you are correct in your assessment of Witch Milburn. She is quite the witch, very powerful and keen for her age, and if she plays these next few decades correctly, she will be able to gain much esteem in the Council.”

  Iyanda sticks a hand in her pocket and withdraws a small object. “As such, her sentence will be a period of servitude in the Court’s European headquarters, where I can keep a close eye on her for the foreseeable future and steer her away from any more…indiscreet actions regarding DSI.” Iyanda’s lips quirk up at the corner. “In many ways, it’s quite the promotion. From a small-time local witch to a position as assistant of the High Court, though I’m sure neither she nor you will see it that way. But it is what it is. There must be a negative aspect to my decision, and that aspect is that I will remove her from her home and force her to work where she least wants to work. It’s the lightest sentence I can pass on her, and also the one that gives her the most opportunity in the future, should the need arise for her to help certain elements once more.”

  She raises a well-groomed eyebrow. “Do you understand the nature of this ‘punishment,’ Detective?”

  Oh, do I ever. Iyanda is giving Erica a huge out, utilizing a loophole in their disciplinary process, while simultaneously setting her up to play an important role in the inevitable future engagements the ICM will have with the MG. No doubt Iyanda’s decision was inspired partly by owl man—I glance at the mysterious “witch’s assistant” still lingering at the door—who must’ve been watching Erica pummel Delos’ mooks until Bollinger dragged me out into the garage and raised the stakes, forcing him to intervene on my behalf.

  “Yeah, I understand perfectly. On a brief tangent though…” I nod to owl man over Iyanda’s shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

  Owl man bows his head. “I was only following orders.”

  “No, you weren’t. Your boss couldn’t have predicted I’d be kidnapped by werewolves, or punted across the forest by Delos, or shot up by Bollinger. You made the decision to save me three times by yourself. And I owe you for that.”

  “If you say so.” He smiles. “But really, it was nothing at all.”

  And maybe it really wasn’t, to him. Maybe it’s a boring, menial task, saving my butt repeatedly.

  Shrugging, I return my attention to Iyanda. “Okay, fine, Erica’s going away for a while. But she’ll be treated right, won’t she?”

  “Absolutely.” Iyanda holds out her hand, offering me the object that was in her pocket. “As proof of my intentions, please take this.”

  I reach across with my good hand, and Iyanda drops a key into my open palm. “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “Witch Milburn’s place of business. An occult shop, I believe.” She stands up as she speaks, smoothing the wrinkles out of her expensive suit. “She kindly requested that in her absence from Aurora, you maintain the shop. Not run it, but simply keep the place clean and make sure nothing untoward happens to the building or stock while she’s away.”

  My hand slowly closes around the key, and a dull ache settles in my chest.

  It seems like everyone is drifting away. Riker’s moving up in the world, off the team, forced to fill the void left by a man he shot. Cooper’s trapped in Siberia, wrapped in the greedy hands of DSI Moscow. And now Erica’s being drafted into the High Court’s halls to help extinguish a threat that isn’t her responsibility, all because she decided to assist the dumb Crow who walked into her shop that fateful September day last year.

  Is my bad luck contagious, or am I imagining things?

  I smile ruefully at my closed fist, feeling the sharp teeth of the key biting into my skin. “Tell her I’ll clean the place once a month,” I say in a lighthearted tone that is not at all convincing, “as long as she treats me to another pizza from Reid’s when she gets back.”

  Iyanda observes me for a moment, a thousand gears turning in her head, making a determination about Cal Kinsey the Crow that I couldn’t possibly surmise if I had a hundred years to guess it. She’s simply too far beyond me.

  “I’ll pass the message along,” she replies at last. “If that’s all, then farewell, Detective.” She makes to leave the room, but as she’s rounding the chair, I catch her shrewd gaze brush over my neck, over the scar left by Vanth’s sword. A spark of interest flares within her dark eyes, before her face turns away and I’m left to lie there in my hospital bed, contemplating the true point of this visit.

  She didn’t come here to pin down Erica’s character. She already knew it.

  She came here to size me up. But I have no idea why.

  I don’t bother to ask her though, as owl man opens the door and she steps back into the hall, because I know she won’t answer me. So I silently watch her leave, and wonder why I ever thought I could maneuver through this minefield of supernatural politics without getting myself blown to a million bloody pieces.

  This, all of this, is so far above my level. It’s like I’m stranded in the middle of an ocean full of secrets. And if I don’t learn how to swim, very, very soon, I am going to drown.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I wake up at the stroke of midnight, confused. The last few times I’ve been woken abruptly in the middle of the night, I’ve been in my own bed, wrapped in sweaty sheets. So I spend at least thirty seconds staring at the unfamiliar ceiling before I remember I’m in the hospital.

  Slowly, I scan the room from left to right, searching for whatever stirred me, but I don’t find anything amiss, not even a nosy nurse, until I reach the nightstand now piled high with cards and flowers; the influx started coming in shortly after Ella left. Nestled among all the gifts, between the iPad and Zhane’s cookies, is a new card with a small glass bottle taped
to the front.

  It wasn’t there when I went to sleep.

  Turning over, I carefully grab the card and examine the bottle. It’s filled with a dark fluid I can’t identify in the dimness. I use my thumb and forefinger to peel off the tape and sit the bottle in my lap while I open the card. It’s a standard get-well card, but the message written inside is more of a letter than a sympathetic note.

  I don’t need to glance at the signature to know who sent it. I recognize the handwriting immediately.

  Lucian.

  He must’ve snuck in. Which explains why I woke up. I always wake up when he drops off “presents” for some strange reason. Maybe it’s my magic sense tingling. Maybe it’s something else.

  It’s hard to read the letter in the dark, but there’s just enough of a glow from the various medical monitors I’m attached to for me to make out Lucian’s words.

  Kinsey,

  * * *

  Sorry I couldn’t stop by and say hello during the day. I just got back in town, and now I have to skip out again. I’ve been recalled to the homeland for a reshuffle of our assets in the wake of the revelations about Delos. House Tepes might pay well, but they aren’t the most patient bunch, so I have to be on a plane tonight and back in Europe tomorrow. Hence this little note. I didn’t want to leave you high and dry without a word from me, but I didn’t want to wake you up either. You looked like you needed the sleep.

  * * *

  Anyway, a few things:

  * * *

  1) Congrats on exposing Delos. I understand Iyanda showed up in the flesh to arrest him, which is a major development. The High Court bunch don’t go out on excursions unless they think their presence is vitally important to the survival of the world, or at least the survival of the ICM. The fact that your actions drew Iyanda all the way to the US is a massive statement. Crows don’t pull that kind of weight. Ever. So huge kudos there, kid. Big first for you. Try not to let it go to your head. Your ego’s already big enough.

  * * *

  2) Apologies for leaving the city during the curse chaos. I was trying to protect me and mine, but I didn’t realize how critical a turning point this would be for the Methuselah forces in Aurora when I left. I should’ve been there when Delos sicced the bounty hunter on you, and more so when he tried to mind-wipe you into oblivion. Especially since he was planning on framing me along with you. But I didn’t think far enough ahead, and I moved too quickly as a result, before I had a clear picture of the situation.

  * * *

  3) To make up for my absence, I left you a little something. I know you’re utterly revolted by the idea of drinking vamp blood, and that I kind of assaulted you with it last time…but according to your chart, you’re pretty fucked up, so I figured you might want a hit. There’s enough in the bottle to heal your worst injuries, but bear in mind that vampire blood isn’t always predictable. After you’ve had surgery and have spent some time healing, it’s kind of a crapshoot as to how it’ll affect you, unless you only have one injury. So don’t be too disappointed if it leaves you with some scars, okay?

  * * *

  4) I plugged my number into your new phone there. But don’t call me unless it’s a Methuselah emergency. I mean it. If the MG is marching on the city again, I’ll be there to help, but don’t go texting me dumb questions or calling me all hours of the day for random information. Not only because I’m busy, but because I’m a goddamn spy, and I don’t need people giving me suspicious looks and thinking I’m not on the level. Got it? Good.

  * * *

  5) There is no number five. I wrote the number by accident and didn’t want to cross it out.

  * * *

  That’s all I’ve got. Enjoy the blood (or don’t, your choice). I’ll get in contact with you when I return to Aurora. Which could be anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, depending on how fast the bureaucratic wheel turns. The ICM is in disarray with the whole Delos debacle unfolding, and the Parliament wants a piece of the pie, and the High Court’s not playing, and you know how it is…a bunch of old people bickering about politics. I’ll be back when I get the chance. Until then, hold down the fort. Aurora might not be my city, but it is my assignment, and I’d prefer it to still be in one piece when I return.

  * * *

  — L. A.

  I think about the letter for almost an hour, rereading it several times as I roll the bottle of Lucian’s blood around in my hand. If I take the blood, it’ll heal a lot of my injuries in a matter of minutes, and I might be able to skip months of therapy, painfully forcing my hand back into shape. But at the same time, it may not work as intended, and I could end up wasting most of the blood’s potential. Vampire blood is not a gift to be handled lightly. I can save it for later, another life or death situation, when I need a boost to heal myself at a critical moment. Or…

  There’s a loose end I forgot about, isn’t there?

  Fingers wrapped around the tiny bottle, I grip it tightly until I can bring myself to tuck it between two flower arrangements on the nightstand for safekeeping. I stick Lucian’s card back where I found it, roll over onto my left side, pretend my shoulder doesn’t hurt, and close my eyes, feigning sleep for at least two hours before dreamland claims me again. Or nightmare-land.

  I never quite remember what I see in the dark corners of my mind, but I always get an impression. Tonight, I’m pretty sure my sleeping thoughts drift to my mother. Not Maria Alvarez Kinsey, the baker, but Maria Alvarez Kinsey, the witch, who fought some kind of unholy creature in her own bakery as the building was burning to the ground, and who spelled her own young son into forgetting what he saw, into believing her death was a typical tragedy instead of a supernatural one. My mother’s forlorn and apologetic face lingers in the shadows, squeezing my heart, until I wake in the early morning, tears streaked across my face.

  When a nurse walks in and asks me what’s wrong, I tell her my pain meds wore off. She ups my dosage of morphine, and I spend the rest of the morning pretending everything is okay when everything is wrong.

  After the edge of the medicine wears off, hours later, and I’m coherent enough to speak without making a fool of myself, I call Ella and ask if someone can come visit me. She sends Amy and Desmond, who look as exhausted as Ella did yesterday. They pace around my room and explain to me that Mayor Burbank, now panicking at the idea that attacks by the MG may become more frequent in the future, is petitioning to triple DSI’s budget and acquire us a new building within the next three months, so we can resume normal operations as soon as possible. I make blithe commentary throughout their discussion, waiting until there’s a natural pause so I can ask: “Hey, can you see if a certain person is currently in the hospital?”

  Desmond raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

  I tell him.

  Amy hums in admonishment. “What do you want to see him for?”

  “I feel like I might need a favor from him in the future,” I say, “and the best way to get one is to give one.”

  They exchange baffled looks, then shrug in unison and head out to the nurse’s station to obtain the needed info and commandeer a wheelchair, since I can’t walk. While they’re gone, I grab the bottle of blood from where I hid it last night and tuck it under a few layers of the massive wad of bandages on my right hand. Amy and Desmond return in short order, load me into the wheelchair with a considerable amount of effort, wave away the nurses who don’t want me moved, and off we go on a field trip.

  The room I’m looking for is two floors up, in a wing reserved for people with serious head trauma. A couple more nurses hassle Amy and Desmond for trying to sneak me into the room, but the two cops guarding the door wave us on through upon seeing the DSI badges clipped to my teammates’ belts. At last, behind a blue curtain pulled halfway around a bed, lying prostrate on a mattress almost completely horizontal, and hooked up to more machines than even I was, I find the target of this excursion.

  Matt Lassiter looks like he clawed his way out of hell. His head is wrapped in a
bandage as thick as the one on my hand. There’s a tube running down his throat pumping air into his lungs, and a large-gauge IV pushing nutrients into his veins. A quick glance at his chart confirms that he’s in a persistent coma, due to being struck in the head by a blunt object, which left him with severe cranial swelling. His prognosis isn’t good. There’s some brain activity remaining, but he hasn’t improved in days. At this point, it’s unlikely he’ll wake up, and even if he does, he’ll probably be profoundly disabled.

  “Can I have a minute alone with him?” I ask my escorts.

  Amy and Desmond mumble positive responses and slip out of the room, partially closing the door so I can have some privacy. They probably think Lassiter and I know each other well, that we became quick friends after he saved me from the snow in the wake of my escape from McKinney’s torture shack, or maybe after our fight with Patrick Feldman. But the truth is I hardly know the detective at all, and his job is actually a sore spot with me, because it reminds me too much of Mac. Every interaction I have with the regular cops reminds me of Mac.

  However, even though Lassiter is merely an acquaintance, and even though he’s totally powerless, totally at the mercy of the dangerous forces prowling Aurora’s streets, he’s still chosen to put himself in the line of fire, again and again, to help DSI, to help me, to help our city and its people. Even though we’ve technically fulfilled our tit-for-tat arrangement, him saving my life, me saving his, I don’t consider it even remotely fair for me to be selfish in this moment. I’ve been through a trial, for sure, but Lassiter has been lying here, wasting away, since the day the curse was unleashed, and the guy that put Lassiter in the hospital was infected by me.