by E. A. Copen
“You called me here, Josiah. What’s to stop me from just leaving?”
I stepped closer to her, looking the demon straight in her black eyes. “Your curiosity.”
“You’re mighty cocky, aren’t you?”
“What’s written about me in that black book downstairs? About Nephilim? Not many of my kind left, and of those that remain, who’s willing to pay your price?”
She moved her hands to her hips. “And you will? No bullshit?”
“We wouldn’t be standing in this room if I meant to bullshit you, Eosyn.”
The breath of her sigh tickled my face. “I swear to tell no one, so say I, Eosyn, mistress of suffering and pleasure. Now, what do you want, Josiah?”
“My daughter is missing. I need to find her.”
She blinked and leaned back. “There’s so much in that sentence to process that I don’t know where to begin.”
“Can you do it or not?” I pressed.
Eosyn took a step back and began to pace the edge of the circle. “I suppose that depends. Is the girl’s mother alive?”
“Not for eighteen years.”
“A tragedy.” She stopped and pressed her palms against the edge of the circle, testing. “No siblings, I suppose? And you’re her only blood?”
I put my hands in my pockets. “I laid a spell on her bones that keeps her hidden from him, Eosyn.”
She turned away, her dark gaze probing. “Which means she’s also hidden from you. No spell of Earth, Heaven, or Hell can find her.”
I confirmed her words with a nod. “The only way to override the spell is to do something I’d never do.”
Eosyn walked back up to me, her heels clicking. A long, black tail flicked like a whip behind her. “I’ll need more than normal. It may take more than once.”
“Oh, I think I can manage.”
She smirked and placed a hand on my chest. “We’ll see.”
Eosyn pushed me against the wall and covered my mouth with hers. I had no time to react, not even to think before she had my hands pinned to the wall with her magic. I could’ve broken it, could’ve refused to pay. There were other things I could try, but none of them would be as effective as Eosyn’s magic at finding my lost little girl.
And so I let the demon extract her toll, my gaze fixed on a blank spot on the wall, the same bloody spot I’d stared at while Christian took his all those years ago. Only Eosyn took more. Seed and blood, saliva and tears, she extracted them all in time, and in sufficient amounts for her spell.
When she’d collected all she needed, she left me to sit on the dingy carpet, naked, exhausted, and aching to smoke my cigarette and tend to my wounds. She sat a short way off, swirling the ingredients in a thin paper cup as if it were an expensive wine in a fine glass. I looked away when she finished her chanting and lifted the cup to her lips. Even I’ve got limits to what I can watch.
“Well?” I demanded.
“It will work, but it will also take time.”
I finished pasting a bandage on my chest. “How long?”
She shrugged. “A day. Maybe two.”
“Two days?” I tossed aside the bandage. “Fuck me, I thought this would be faster than that.”
Eosyn stood and crushed the cup in her fist. “It will take time to grow,” she repeated. “If you want to give more, perhaps I can speed it up, but even my body has limits, Josiah.”
“No, thanks.” I pushed up to stand on wobbly legs and went searching for my pants. She watched me as I dressed, saying nothing. I almost would’ve preferred conversation to the hungry glares. I slid my shoes on without tying them and opened the grate to collect Milly.
Her eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”
Milly reared at the sight of her, showing fangs.
“Easy, girl.” I petted Milly gently. “She was just an insurance policy for me. In case you didn’t follow the rules.” I placed Milly back in her enclosure, which I slipped into my bag, then went to the door. “I’ll pay for the room for one more night. Have it ready by then.”
“I’m not a butcher shop, Josiah. You can’t order me to—”
“Tonight, Eosyn.” I flicked my cigarette through the open door in front of me. “Or I’ll have to do something neither of us wants.”
She inclined her head as if in agreement.
I closed the door gently behind me and stepped out into the early throes of dawn to leave the Hollywood Sunset Motel behind.
Chapter Five
Stefan
I checked into a two-star hotel downtown under the pseudonym Robert Smith.
In my room, I opened my laptop and logged onto my social media accounts to dig up dirt on Maggie O’Dale. Josiah would never think to check there, especially since he avoided leaving a digital footprint like a Hollywood A-lister avoiding the paparazzi—unsuccessfully and awkwardly. He might not’ve had any social media accounts, but that didn’t mean there weren’t blurry surveillance photos and grainy footage of him somewhere. Conspiracy theorists on message boards had been posting about government coverups of non-humans for decades. It just so happened they were angels and demons, not reptilians.
Maggie’s public posts were few and far between. Like most eighteen-year-olds, she kept everything behind a digital wall, accessible only with follow-backs and friend requests. If I wanted to see what she’d been up to lately, I’d need to get behind that wall. I needed her password to do that. I wasn’t computer savvy enough to know how to get that quickly, so I made a phone call to someone who was.
It was just after midnight in LA, which meant it was around three in New York. Normal people wouldn’t still be up, but Reggie lived on sugar and energy drinks. He did all his sleeping for the week in a big chunk rather than spread out over the week, which is apparently common for trolls.
Instead of answering with a greeting, he said, “Is Josiah dead?”
“No,” I replied, “and it’s not for lack of trying.”
“I figured if you were calling instead of him, he was either dead or dying. The asshole’s enough of a control freak that I’m surprised he gave you my number.”
“I might have copied all his contacts without him knowing.” I collapsed on the bed, staring at the molding on the ceiling.
“Honestly, man. I don’t know what you see in him. It’s none of my business, though.”
“Guess I’m a masochist. Hey, can I ask for a favor? Let’s say hypothetically that I wanted to get into someone else’s social media accounts. Someone who’s missing. Is that something you could help me with?”
Keyboard keys clacked in the background. “With my eyes closed. You give me the account display names, remote access to your laptop, and fifteen minutes, and I can get you their entire internet history. Even the incognito stuff.”
I let out a low whistle. I knew privacy on the internet was an illusion, but hearing him say it so casually gave me pause. I carried the internet around in my pocket all day. My whole life was on my phone or backed up digitally somewhere on a so-called secure server. Reggie was one of the good guys, but there were bad ones out there too. Maybe Josiah was the smart one for staying off the internet as much as possible.
More keys clacked, followed by a decisive click. “What’s the name, Niko?”
“Maggie O’Dale. Los Angeles.”
He went quiet for a moment, working his fingers over the keyboard loudly. “Found her. Now I’m going to walk you through giving me remote access.”
It took a little longer than fifteen minutes, mostly because Reggie had to keep explaining things to me. I thought I knew my way around a computer pretty well, but I felt like an idiot when talking to him. He was gracious, though; never talked down to me, even if he did grow impatient once or twice.
Once I finally got logged into Maggie’s accounts, I said, “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“Just don’t let that asshole get himself killed. Josiah might be a dick, but the world still needs him.” He hung up.
I sighed and l
owered the phone, staring at the blinking call timer on the screen. Reggie was right. Josiah could really be an asshole when he wanted, and he was showing that more and more of late. Part of me wondered if the so-called honeymoon phase of our relationship was over and he was showing his true colors. I kept making excuses, kept telling myself he was under a lot of stress. Losing a mother and finding out your father is a psychopathic fallen angel hell-bent on initiating the apocalypse would do that to anyone, yet there had to come a point when it went too far. Where was my line in the sand? How far would I let him go before I had to turn and walk away out of a sense of self-preservation?
I had to let it go...for now. The more I focused on Josiah’s behavior, the less I could focus on finding Maggie before he did. Then what, I asked myself. What if I tracked her down and she was exactly in the condition I feared, pregnant and strung out? I’d have to tell him, but I was sure he’d rather hear it from me than find her himself.
I checked all of Maggie’s messages. Most of them were pointless chatter between girls, but there was one strange conversation that kept popping up, with a guy named Tag Roque. She chatted with him only once a week or so, and their conversations were unusual. She’d ask him if his car was in the shop and he’d reply with a simple yes or no, followed by a place and time. Looked like she messaged him every Thursday like clockwork, with her last message being around ten in the morning this Thursday.
Thursday was also the day she’d called Josiah. Coincidence? I doubted it.
I blew out a breath and typed a message to Tag.
Your car still in the shop?
I didn’t expect an immediate answer, but three dots quickly appeared, indicating he was typing a response. Yes. Three more dots appeared. I figured he’d just send an intersection in code like he’d been doing, but unlike the previous responses, it looked like he had more to say. Twice this week?
It was impossible to know how much Maggie was using, but I’d seen at least four hypodermic needles in the toilet. Her supply was gone. She didn’t have a habit of messaging him two days in a row, though, so my message had immediately made him suspicious. I had to come up with a story that would put him at ease, quick.
My friend needs his car fixed. I was going to recommend your mechanic. I know he’s safe.
Tag messaged back an address that I immediately mapped—someplace called Ramona Gardens. A quick internet search told me all I needed to know about the area. It was deep in the heart of gang territory, essentially ground zero for a violent Mexican group. Just walking through the neighborhood as an outsider was going to be dangerous, but there were things I could do to minimize the chance I’d get stopped.
I threw my suitcase on the bed and turned it over, emptying the contents and sorting through them. Everything I’d brought was too nice, but I did have a hoodie and a semi-worn pair of jeans. I put those aside and left the room to find a map of the hotel. The guest areas wouldn’t have what I needed, but there was a maintenance closet at the end of the hall on the bottom floor. I could slip down the side stairs, and there it was. All I’d have to do was pick the lock, and everything I’d need for the trip would be right there.
I took the stairs down and checked the hall. It was empty, completely dead at that time of night. If there were any other guests, they were in their rooms, and the hotel staff was probably still doing sudoku behind the desk.
The janitorial closet had a key lock, easy enough to jimmy with a credit card. It swung open, revealing a room of shelves stacked with toilet paper, paper towels, and cleaning chemicals. What I wanted was in a faded green bag shoved to the back, a toolbox. I closed the door behind me and went to my knees to open the bag.
The second my knees hit the floor, I was somewhere else with a bright light in my face, knees on carpet. The light shifted away, and voices surrounded me. People stood at the perimeter of the room, their faces blurred or stretched into shadow. A microphone on a long pole that’d been hovering over my head retreated, and a naked man turned and walked away.
“Where’s Amy?” A pretty blonde dropped a pink bag to the carpet next to me and went to the floor herself, a disposable wet wipe in hand. I flinched as she drew it over my face. She didn’t even seem to notice. “I think that’s a wrap. Looks like they finally got a shot they can use.”
“Finally,” I said in a voice that wasn’t mine, but softer, feminine. A wave of nausea suddenly overcame me. I put a hand over my mouth and pushed the other woman aside, rising to my feet and stumbling through an ivory door. Down the hall, I pushed through another door, this one a bathroom. I gripped the sides of the toilet and vomited violently into it.
“Oh, dear,” said a male voice behind me. “What’ll you tell Nicole this time? Bad eggs again? You go telling her Tommy hit your tonsils the wrong way again, and you’ll cost the poor kid a career.”
I spat in the toilet, my head aching, my forehead covered in sweat. “What the fuck are you doing here, Spyder?”
The lanky man who’d seated himself on the edge of the tub gripped his knee and shrugged. “I think the better question is, what’re you doing here, Maggie dear?”
I glared at him over my shoulder before grabbing the hand towel to mop my face. “I’m working, asshole.” I went to splash water on my face.
“You’re still under contract with the Factory. An exclusive contract, Maggie.”
My body stiffened. Water dripped down from my face, splashing against the porcelain.
Before I could make sense of what was going on, I was back in the hotel’s janitorial closet, breathing hard. My hands went to my face, my chest, and my arms just to make sure I was back in my own body.
“Maggie.” I whispered her name into the empty closet. It had to be her, but when and where? What did this Spyder mean when he said she was under contract? It sounded like he wasn’t happy with her. Maybe that was what’d happened to her.
I looked down at my trembling hands, turning them over. There was no hard evidence either way, and the vision hadn’t shown me where she was. The dealer angle was more promising as far as I was concerned. He’d seen her yesterday, which meant he was the last one to have had contact with her so far. The dealer might be better able to help me put together a timeline. Besides, I had a personal bone to pick with him.
I raided the toolbox, removing a claw hammer and some sandpaper. I took both back to the room. The sandpaper, I took to the jeans and the hoodie, wearing out the elbows, seams, and knees. For good measure, I brewed some coffee and steeped the hoodie in it before using the blow dryer to dry it. It wouldn’t pass as worn under scrutiny, but it’d be good enough to get me down the street and into their territory without looking too out of place, especially with the hood up.
Now all I needed was a pair of shoes to finish the look.
It didn’t take long to find a homeless man willing to trade his for mine. His were a tighter fit and they smelled awful, but it was just plain stupid to walk around in expensive shoes after dark, some places. I could always get another pair.
Dressed and armed with the hammer in the pouch of my hoodie, I got a ride as close to Ramona Gardens as the cab driver was willing to go, which was three blocks. I had him drop me off in an alley. I didn’t see anyone hanging around and started down the street, back slightly hunched, feet shuffling.
It was around two in the morning when I shambled up to the apartment complex. Two-story buildings in faded pink greeted me, iron bars on every window. Broken sidewalk wound through the complex, the small yards dotted with teenagers in white tank tops and sweatpants. Heads turned. Eyes appraised every aspect of me, from the drawn hood to my gait. Three of them fell into step behind me, hanging back as I closed in on the apartment.
Another guy leaned on the balcony. He pushed away from the creaky rail as I approached and drew a thumb under his nose as he moved in my way. He had a .45 tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “You lost, blanco?”
I glanced behind me. The three guys had joined us on the balcony, making i
t feel a lot smaller. “Lookin’ for Tag.”
“Check him.”
I lifted my arms and let the three guys pat me down. They found the hammer and removed it from my sweater, holding it up for the other guy to see.
He took it and got in my face, so close I almost choked on the smell of his sweat. “You think you’re a tough guy, eh?”
“I think it’s stupid to walk around unarmed. Come on, man. You think I’d just leave that there for you to find if I meant to use it on anyone here? I just want to get high. If Tag don’t want my money, I’ll walk. You can even keep the hammer.”
He turned the hammer over, examining it. “This is a nice hammer. Say I break your knees with it.”
The nearby apartment door cracked open. “Hector.”
“Today’s your lucky day, pendejo.” He waved the hammer. “I’m going to keep the hammer.”
I was going to get that hammer back. He just didn’t know it yet.
The apartment door opened wider. I stepped into a tiny living room with a low ceiling. Remnants of a pizza dinner sat on the floor next to a worn sofa. Twenty-pound dumbbells were on the other side next to a weight bench. A brown towel hung from the bench, where it looked like he’d set it up to press about three hundred pounds.
Tag was a big guy. A less attentive person might’ve called him fat, but I knew better. I’d met guys like him before, guys who could lift me and break me in half over one knee. Not someone I could take in a fight.
He grunted and closed the door only after the guy with my hammer and another from the crew outside followed me in. “You’re Maggie’s friend?”
“Yeah.” If he knew Maggie was missing, he didn’t let on. That didn’t mean he didn’t know where she was, though.
“That’s cool, cool. Anyone who’s a friend of Maggie’s is a friend of mine. You got an accent. Queens?”
“You ever been?”
He shrugged. “Once or twice. I got an aunt there. So what brings you to LA, Queens?”
