Death Dealers

by M. G. Gallows

  Yeah, I had my macabre side. I had a familiarity with death that most people didn’t want to imagine. But cleaning up a few crime scenes and feeding corpses to some hard-luck ghouls beat the alternative of becoming an active menace to people. Right? Sure.

  I had my feet in three different worlds: civilian, criminal, and mage. It wasn’t a life anyone else wanted, but I had found a balance and I was content. Sometimes you don’t need to shake foundations or build eternal monuments to yourself. Living a life you’re comfortable with is nothing to sneeze at. Even for a mage.

  Besides, I would have worked a groove into the floor if I just paced back and forth. I needed Piotr to call me, otherwise I had nothing to offer Jocelyn.

  While I pondered my next step, the landline rang. I grabbed it. “Yeah?”

  “Hey Alex,” Donnie replied. “We talked to those cops. That chick was fine, man. I mean, personality aside-”

  “You met them?” I interrupted.

  “Yeah, they wanted to meet, so we went to that pizza joint on the Riverfront, about three blocks from here? Thirty dollars for a pizza with chicken on it, can you believe that crap? ‘Gourmet’ my ass.”

  I gritted my teeth. “You took Max outside?”

  “Relax, he was cool. Weren’t you?” I heard an annoyed grunt. “He’s levelled off.”

  I sighed. “What did you tell them?”

  “Oh you know, we dropped out of college, met you at a bar, you got us a job with the Kellers, told ‘em you were a stand-up guy. Never keep us on too short a leash, know what I mean?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Fine, I get it.”

  “No worries, man. Deb, Bill, Ichiro and a few others are coming with us tomorrow night. We’re gonna hit the mall and a steakhouse. Then us guys are gonna see Skullfucker!”

  “Skull-what?”

  “This underground band,” he said. “Warehouse concerts, packed to the gills, totally illegal. One time the lead guitarist got head on stage from a groupie. He never missed a chord man, it was intense.”

  “I’ll bet.” Whatever happened to good pyrotechnics?

  “How about you? You wanna come? I mean, you don’t live in the dumps with us, but you don’t get out much, either.”

  “I’ve got shit to deal with. Remember, the cops?”

  “Your loss, I guess. Anyway, just letting you know, bro. Later!” He hung up.

  I stared at my phone, then put it on its cradle.

  “This was a bad idea,” I told the empty house.

  I thought about making more coffee, but dusk had fallen. Almost three days had passed, and I was on six hours of sleep, total. I sat on the couch, one eye glued to my phone, and tried to work out all the details I’d learned so far. The players on the board.

  The Brothers Midnight. Jesse. Jocelyn. Josh. Stig. Runner. Lorensdottr, Walter, Agni…

  At some point, my mind succumbed to exhaustion. My dreams were a jumbled mess of thoughts and sensations. Detective Loresndottr and those intense blue eyes, Jocelyn and her better-than-Hollywood good looks, Josh Wilkes drowning in a sea of Stig, a cold full moon one chilly April night. Fire and howls, screams that turned into digital shrieks.

  The sound jolted me from sleep. My burner phone rang for about the tenth time.

  I grabbed it. “Yeah?”

  Piotr’s voice, angry and tired, rumbled over the line. “What happened?”

  I glanced at my clock. 7 AM. I didn’t know how much sleep I’d gotten, but it hadn’t been enough. “How much have you heard?”

  “Friend on the force says they arrested you, but let you go. What happened?”

  “I have no idea. I was heading home when the cops snared me. I thought they had me, but then the body vanished from the morgue, and they had to release me.”

  He cursed. “Where is it?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “This is bad. This is very bad.”

  “What’s the word on the street?” I asked.

  Piotr grumbled. “So far? Nothing. I have not spoken to the Mambas yet. But I must tell them something, before they find the body.”

  “So, tell Philip,” I said.

  “The big one will gut me!”

  “He’ll gut you if you don’t warn him. It’s that or run.”

  He sighed. “Dammit. Why do you do this to me?”

  “Me? You dragged me into this. Those cops were waiting for me. They got a tip saying my truck was shipping Stig out of Lincoln. So you tell me, who’s fucking who?”

  “Inside job?” Piotr asked. “Someone knew!”

  “My guess is it’s the same group that killed Josh. The gang the Mambas are fighting. Who are they?”

  “Hm? Eh, no idea,” Piotr said. “New players in the city. No one I have heard of.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I am not!”

  “Bullshit,” I snapped. “An operation like that doesn’t walk into his city without you noticing. Tell me you aren’t playing both sides in this.”

  Piotr hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was clear and cold. “You are a man I respect Alex, so I say this only once. I do not play both sides.”

  “Okay, okay, but you know about these guys. And I need to know, because I’m the one under their scope.”

  He grunted. “I didn’t learn their names. They showed up late last year, sent a man to meet me. Looking for things. Materials for grow op. But other things, aquariums, chickens, booze, crates and crates of each. I tell them I cannot get all these things. They buy what I have and never return.”

  “Any idea where they’re holed up?”

  “Not really…” He mumbled.

  “C’mon man. I know you pride yourself on confidentiality, but they’re not going after a customer, they’re going after me, and by extension, you.”

  “I don’t know where their operation is. But they are the only ones who sell Stig. One of their customers came to me a month ago, looking for a fix. He says, ‘they threw me out of Arlington for not paying’. My guess is the Arlington.”

  “The Arlington? Where’s that?” I asked.

  “Downtown,” Piotr sighed. “Old hotel. It is a drug den now. Police stay away.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me. Whatever you intend on doing, leave me out of it. I left home to get away from this. Violence is one thing, but war is hell. Don’t start a war, Alex.”

  “I don’t want to start anything, but if they want one, it’ll happen. No matter what we say.”

  He sighed. “Be careful out there.”

  “You too,” I said.

  I plugged the burner in to charge, then I dug out Jocelyn’s card and dialed her number on my landline.

  “Yes?” She asked. I heard something in the background. Toddler noises. “Sorry, hello? Who’s this?”

  “It’s Alex.”

  “Hold on.” The baby’s voice faded. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much, but it’s a lead. Think we can meet somewhere?”

  A piercing wail interrupted us. “I’ve got a dental checkup for the little guy this morning. Do you know the Northstar Mall? It’s on the northeast side. Twilight and Forty-Second.”

  “Uh, sure,” I said.

  “Let’s meet there, okay? After lunch, one o’clock?” The crying got louder. “I have to go. See you then.”

  “Yeah,” I said, hanging up.

  Northeast. Where all the rich people lived. Color me shocked.

  I dug out a pair of clean khakis and a purple polo shirt, so I wouldn’t look so poverty-line chic. I put on a dash of body spray, and the nice watch my mom had given me when I’d graduated from high school.

  This is what rich people think is casual, right? I thought.

  I looked like an extra in a college dorm comedy, the type who wrapped sweaters around their shoulders and mocked the cool, disheveled dorm for being disheveled.

  Kappa Lambda Lame. Perfect.

  Then I got into my oh-so-discreet Funeral Home van and headed north. />
  The Northstar Mall tried to be a market, a park, and an art exhibit all at the same time. The architecture boasted angled glass and stone-tile walkways, decorated with hanging gardens and open galleries that displayed sculptures and portraits.

  In my khakis and polo shirt, I could pass for a janitor. I walked to the food court, where unheard of franchises sold organic yogurt and soy-rich salad and other crap people think was a step above the usual swill. I refused to spend five bucks on a ‘pequena’-sized coffee, from a cafe that specialized in decorative frothing, so I sat at a table and waited.

  Ten minutes passed before I saw Jocelyn, dressed in sensible slacks and a knee-length Autumn jacket. She carried a toddler in her arms, a pudgy little guy with big gray eyes and thin, dark brown hair. He brandished a toothbrush like he was ready to shiv someone. When I waved, she veered towards me.

  She’d brought friends, too. Keepers. They’d traded in their monastic uniforms for cargo pants and light jackets, but they still had their sunglasses, earbuds, and humorless glower. Men in Beige.

  “Hey,” Jocelyn said. She set down a sports bag of baby gear that would make a soldier blanch and sat the toddler on her knee. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “Yours?” I asked.

  Jocelyn beamed. “Mine. Say hello, Eddie.”

  “Hogger!” The kid said, more to his mother than to me, and pointed at the ceiling.

  “Eddie?”

  “Edwin. After his dad’s grandfather,” she said with a shrug.

  “Hello, Eddie.” I offered my hand. A bodyguard took a step towards me, so I withdrew it. “He’s well protected.”

  Jocelyn nodded. “The father’s idea.”

  “I didn’t notice a wedding ring yesterday.”

  Her smile withered. “Yeah. It’s an arrangement. Can we talk about my brother?”

  “Sure. I talked to some people I trust, who know other people they may or may not trust. They pointed me to a condemned building Downtown. A place called the Arlington.”

  She frowned. “What does-”

  “It’s condemned, but not abandoned. Some drug dealers—if you have a lot of customers—find it more economical to set up shop somewhere the police can’t find them, or won’t risk going near. Let the customers come to you, where you can dope ‘em, drain their wallets, let them accumulate a debt so you can make them pay it off. Muling, labor, prostitution...”

  “I get it.” She wiped the drool from Eddie’s face with a napkin. “So what can we expect to find?”

  “It’s not a grocery store,” I said. “They’ll have guards inside and out, watching the streets, watching the doors.”

  “Okay, then what can I expect to find?” She asked.

  “That’s not- No, you can’t go in there. Places like that eat good-looking women alive.”

  “Cute choice of words, chauvinist.” She smirked. “I’ll be fine. Fonourge, remember?”

  I shook my head. “You’re serious?”

  “I am.”

  “You’d risk yourself over your brother? Why not get them to do it?” I gestured at the Not-So-Secret Service, who pretended not to watch.

  “They’re not here for me. They’re here for him.” She patted Eddie’s head. “Anywhere he goes, his bodyguards go.”

  I frowned. “Who is the kid’s father?”

  Her silver eyes darkened. “He’s on the Council.”

  Oh. “Oh,” I said.

  Jocelyn sighed. “Before you ask, no, I don’t want to talk about it.” She drew Eddie close. Protective, like a mother. Eddie found the disruption to his playtime bothersome and wiggled until she loosened her grip.

  “Okay,” I said. “Then how about you take Eddie home and I’ll go check out the Arlington?”

  “How about I take Eddie home, and we go check out the Arlington?”

  I chewed my lip. “You really want to do this? Will they let you?”

  “If they cared enough to stop me, do you think they could?” She smirked and kissed Eddie’s forehead, making him giggle. “Yes, momma doesn’t think so, momma doesn’t think so.”

  “Well, if we’re gonna sneak into a drug den, you’ll need a change of clothes,” I said.

  “Sure.” She smirked. “You can lend me some of your factory seconds.”

  “Eddie likes it, don’t you, buddy?”

  He looked at me and started crying.

  “You’ve made an enemy for life, kid.”

  I watched Jocelyn speed off with a black SUV escort and got into my van. She—and Eddie—were VIP’s in a very exclusive club. As I headed for home, I mulled over what I knew about babies and weddings in mage culture.

  The way the Visatori explained it, mages don’t come from any specific part of the world. If you’ve got it you’ve got it, and your gender, race, culture and geographical location have no say. It’s not genetic, it’s not in the blood.

  It’s in the soul.

  Some people just have ‘bigger’ souls, a font of life-force to tap into that allows them to bend reality’s rules. Most of the theories about what makes a mage are steeped in myth, everything from being descendants of the ancient nephilim to random spiritual mutations.

  Point is, it’s difficult to predict when a mage will be born, unless they’re the child of two mages. Something about all that excess spiritual energy makes it a guarantee.

  There were entire bloodlines of mages who hadn’t bred with ordinary people for centuries. That included the Visatori, who are all mage-born. Being nomadic made attachments very difficult, and there was a taboo against intermingling with normal people. The clan kept meticulous records on their genealogy, and ‘reproductive contracts’ were always a topic whenever clans discussed important business. Having kids for them wasn’t a matter of personal desire, it was their duty to keep the clan healthy.

  Archaic, but it made sense. Hedge clans relied on one another to avoid the likes of the Society and the things out in the wilderness that would love to prey on them. They couldn’t afford to raise a non-magical child, or risk an inbreeding mishap that resulted in some less-than-ideal offspring. I had lived with the Visatori for four years, but a contract had never been in the cards for me. I don’t know my ancestry on my father’s side. It wasn’t worth the risk of diluting the gene pool.

  And I was a necromancer. Even among hedge witches, I was a pariah.

  It seemed the Society had similar views on marriage and childbearing; archaic but practical. Formalizing alliances and bumping people further up the totem pole. Seniority was a factor in their hierarchy, since mages grow in power as they age, but like the Visatori, the Society must have kept opportunities open for mages of rare talent.

  I suspected Jocelyn’s ‘arrangement’ with Eddie’s father fell into that category. A voice-mage would be very handy in a clique of advisors.

  And I was about to walk her into a drug den full of gangsters.

  Yeah, that’d look good for me.

  TEN

  Jocelyn beat me back to my place. She sat on the hood of her yellow speeder, spinning her keyring on her finger. “Do you drive everywhere in that sexual-predator POS?”

  “No, I usually drive a rusted pickup POS.”

  I led her inside, and she went into my room. “Kind of cramped, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it’s mine.”

  “Any roaches?”

  I sighed. “This place is clean. I know a spell to break down organic matter. You could eat off the floor here.”

  “No, thanks.” She smirked. “Isn’t magic like that dangerous?”

  “Only works on dead stuff,” I said.

  “Ah. How much dead stuff?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve never tested it on anything more than a few pounds at once.”

  She shrugged and went through my dresser drawer. “I’ll say this much, you have a consistent look, Alex.” She held up a threadbare T-shirt and gave me a suffering look.

  “Just for that, you can’t take any superhero shirts,” I told her.
>
  She gathered an armload of clothing. “No peeking,” she said, and entered my bathroom. “If I find mushrooms in the bathtub, I’m burning this place to the ground.”

  I shook my head. Jocelyn said she hadn’t been born rich, but you wouldn’t know it from the attitude. “We can’t take your car, you’ll never see it again if you parked it Downtown.”

  “No worries,” she said through the door. “I’ve got a private spot, Uptown. You don’t mind a bit of walking from there, do you?”

  “Better if we show up after dark.”

  She stepped into my living room dressed in a pair of my jeans cuffed at the ankles, and a black T-shirt she had tied to show off her midriff. The fabric strained against her assets. The clothes—meant for someone almost twice her size—gave her an impish sexuality.

  “Do I look like a junkie?”

  “Are you saying I do?” I asked. “You definitely don’t have a mom-bod.”

  She smiled and slipped on one of my spare hoodies. “That’s the flirtiest thing you’ve said to me.”

  We climbed into her car, and I breathed in the smell of fine leather and a honey-heather perfume. “Feel like I’m staining this car just sitting in it.”

  She started it up, and the air conditioning kicked in. Heavy metal blasted through her stereo.

  “Okay, the music wins you a few cool points.”

  “Hold on,” she said.

  The vehicle surged forward, hitting sixty by the time I’d inhaled, and left my house in the distance. Jocelyn worked the car like a stunt racer. We hit the highway and rocketed towards the city center, weaving in and out of early evening traffic.

  “You’re looking a little green,” she said.

  “I don’t like speed.” I hissed as she nearly clipped a sluggish box truck covered in moving company logos. My mind conjured some very recent memories of falling out of the sky.

  She laughed. “I can imagine you hangin’ on for dear life in a British compact.”

  “You’d have to drug me first,” I grunted. “I like car around me. Lots of car.”

  Jocelyn shrugged, shifted gears, and we slowed from ‘suicidal’ speeds to a mere ‘thrill-seeking’.

  I let my hands unclench a bit. “Did your baby-daddy buy you this?”