Death Dealers

by M. G. Gallows

  “No, paid for it myself.”

  “Ah, the sugar-daddies,” I grunted. “That’s skirting your Society Edicts, isn’t it?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like they don’t give it up willingly. Edict of Consent, yeah? They have to agree to what I’m telling them, if only subconsciously, or it won’t work properly. Their brains fight back. Nature of free will and whatnot.”

  I grunted an acknowledgement. “Can you make them do something they don’t want to?”

  “You mean if I didn’t care about breaking the Edicts? Sure, with enough juice I could make them obey me. But that can damage the psyche, and it would wear me out fast.” She was quiet for a moment, her eyes distant, but she shook whatever thoughts she had aside. “Anyway, I don’t have to use it like that. If you’re smart and subtle, you can make them think it was their idea. Then they’ll go for anything you say.”

  I frowned. It wasn’t fair. Jocelyn had the magic, looks, and skills that made her life infinitely easier than mine. Even if she weren’t a mage, it wouldn’t be hard for her to make most men—and some women—do what she asked.

  A necromancer couldn’t dream of having a car like hers, and while I wouldn’t trade my rusty pickup or my magic for anything in the world, it still felt like the universe was playing a cruel joke on me.

  “You’re quiet,” she said.

  “Wondering how we’re going to handle getting into a drug den.”

  “Leave the talking to me, sweetness.” She winked.

  Yeah, wasn’t fair.

  Jocelyn parked at one of those well-lit, high-rise parking garages about six stories up. An armed guard approached, and Jocelyn flashed him a badge he had to scan with a digital tool. He glared at me like I was not part of the system, and thus a problem.

  “Go easy, Burt,” she said. “He’s a friend.”

  Burt grunted. His eyebrow twitched in a dismissive gesture. Kiss off, he told me in American Thug Language.

  We rode an elevator to street level, then started hiking it towards Downtown. Uptown’s nightclubs were alive with light and the steady, muffled heartbeat of techno or dubstep or whatever people liked these days. It followed us until we hit the Center Street Bridge. Then the only sound was the sloshing river some fifty feet below.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a nice steakhouse on the way,” I said. My breath came in a plume.

  “Getting cold feet?” Jocelyn asked.

  “What’s to be nervous about? Walking alone with a beautiful woman?”

  She smirked. “Hand-in-hand into a crackhouse.”

  I smiled back and shrugged. “She picked the venue.”

  My eyes wandered over the water below, to the marinas that lined the south side of the river. Amidst crowds of smaller craft I saw a small cruise ship, or a large ‘rich-person boat’, sitting in dry dock and bathed in spotlights. A repair job, I guessed. There was no reason to bring a big boat so far upriver, otherwise.

  Jocelyn turned and walked backwards to meet my gaze. “Would you date me?”

  “That’s rhetorical, I’m guessing?”

  She flinched. “A little. Jesse didn’t like me hangin’ ‘round boys. And by the time I knew what romance was all about, I could already make a man strip and beg me to talk dirty to him.”

  “How old were you?” I asked.

  “Seventeen.” She sighed. The shadows around her face deepened. “Never thought much about it after that. Dating. Romance. Even after I met Edwin’s father, and especially after Eddie. If I had to pick between a date or a nap, I’d choose the nap.”

  “You must have had a few dates that weren’t business?”

  “They never went very well. You tell a guy what they want to hear, and he’ll do backflips for you. But the moment you want to be honest, to be real…”

  To be real, like she was now? I thought. I wondered what to say that wouldn’t make me sound like an idiot.

  “I know a little how that feels,” I told her.

  She looked up. “Necrourges get treated like criminals, yeah?”

  I nodded. “Those hedge witches I ran with, I met a girl there. Spent a lot of time with her. We got close.”

  “What happened?”

  I sighed. “The truth. Her mom had a bad run-in with a necromancer, and it left scars. So I told them I was a fearcrafter, er, a Fovourge? Whatever you Society-types call a fear mage. A long lie. For years.”

  “But she found out.”

  “Yeah. Woke up one morning, and they were gone. The entire clan. That was almost a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry. You’d think, being Versed and living these double lives, she would be more forgiving.”

  I shook my head. “I used to think so. But if she had stayed, she would wonder what else I lied about for the rest of her life. And I’d be walking on eggshells for the rest of mine.”

  Jocelyn flinched. “I guess so.”

  We walked in silence for a time. The confession had roused my sense of loneliness. But even in arm’s reach of Jocelyn, we may as well have been miles apart. I wondered why she had opened up about the skeletons in her closet to me. Was she as lonely as I was? She wasn’t exactly single, as far as relationships went.

  But I got the impression that the father cared more about Eddie than Jocelyn. Maybe she loved Eddie’s father. Or thought she did. Between that, and the sugar-daddies? The hopeful first dates that withered on the vine? I was lonely because I was a creepy bastard. But I could imagine being in Jocelyn’s shoes. Being seen as a commodity. A beautiful prize for the shelf. Or something to play with and then discard.

  No wonder she was so desperate to find her brother. He was the only person in her world who might still give a damn about her.

  You do, too, I thought to myself. You don’t have to embarrass yourself by trying to woo her, but you can at least be her friend. Maybe that’s all she really needs?

  Yeah. I could do that. But for the moment, I needed to keep my head in the right place.

  “So what’s the game plan?”

  Jocelyn shook her head. “We go in, split up. Cover more ground.”

  “Not a great plan.”

  “Nope. But we need to move quick and quiet. If you see someone who fits my brother’s description, follow him until I get there.” She patted her pockets. “I hate not having my gun.”

  “If they see a piece, it’ll send up red flags,” I said. “We’ll have to be smart.”

  We stepped into Downtown, with its old gothic-deco architecture and archaic ideas of power, where the slum lords and old crime families ran the streets under the shadows of old money dynasties.

  I steeled myself for what I was about to face. I’d have to lie, and hurt people, to get what I needed. I wasn’t comfortable using magic on the living, but would I have a choice? Would doing so breach the Edicts? And would the hex kill me where I stood if I did?

  The whole idea suddenly felt stupid. I wasn’t a cop, and I was barely a mage. Now I was about to toss myself into the meat grinder, and for what? The blind hope of catching the guy who framed me? To find Jocelyn’s brother?

  “You alright?” She asked.

  “Those cold feet are catching up to me,” I admitted.

  She nodded, but didn’t stop. “Look. This’ll be dangerous. You don’t owe me anything, but if my brother is in there, I’m gonna get him, with or without you. I’d rather have someone watching my back, you know?”

  “You barely know me.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “And you don’t know me. It’s your choice. Stay outside if you don’t have the balls for it. It isn’t your blood on the line, right?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

  Hey, remember friends? My mind scolded. I sighed. “You wanna start fighting on the doorstep to this place?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Tuck your balls in your purse and let’s do this.”

 
Once upon a time, the Arlington Hotel had been a fancy establishment. An ancestor to the modern nightclub, full of old-school glamour and class. But in the present day, it was a corpse, dead almost a century. A fire had gutted its top floors. Boarded windows, condemned signs, and graffiti only added to the decayed look.

  The surrounding neighborhood didn’t look any safer. The city had abandoned it. No one cared.

  “What do you think?” Jocelyn asked.

  “I think if I look too hard, this place will collapse.”

  She grinned at me. “Balls, purse, tuck.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I see two sets of street watchers. Three men outside, at least one inside near the front door. Don’t stare. We’re supposed to look like customers, not casing the joint.”

  “How do we get in?”

  “The alley. It’s out of sight. A fire exit or kitchen entrance. There’ll be more guards, and someone to check us at the door. C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

  She hooked her arm around mine and leaned against me. Through her borrowed clothes, she smelled of heather honey. The warmth of her arm and the curve of her breast in the crook of my elbow were distracting.

  Jocelyn giggled, then gave me a slap on the chest. “Don’t be such a sourpuss, babe! You’ll love it!”

  It took me a second, but I caught on that she was putting on an act. “I dunno. ‘D‘ said he knew the guy to talk to.”

  “D sells regular shit,” Jocelyn said. “This isn’t about getting high, it’s about religiosity. Like opening the door to the spirit world and shit!”

  We turned the corner into the alley. It was dark, but dim lights glowed over a steel door further in. A skinny man in a fancy blue suit stepped into the light. He had dark skin, a shaved head, and eyes hidden behind a pair of round sunglasses.

  “What do we have here?” He rubbed his hands, his attention on Jocelyn alone.

  Jocelyn untangled from me to put her hands on her hips. “My buddy says you’ve got some candy to sell.”

  “That we do.” The doorman got so close he was practically in her ribcage. His hands snaked around to her backside, not shy about checking for ripeness.

  I fought the sudden urge to slug him and did a slow turn to scan the alley. I spotted the glint of a cigarette nearby. It illuminated the face of a bigger, meaner-looking thug who looked on in silence. I pretended not to see him.

  “Handy,” Jocelyn said. She didn’t flinch as the doorman ran his hands over her curves.

  He grinned. “I guess you ain’t carrying a piece. What’s yer pleasure?”

  “Stig,” she said. “Heard you got it.”

  The guard nodded. “Mmhmm. Seventy-five each to get biblical. Unless you wanna pay some other way?” His eyes roamed her body.

  Jocelyn looked my way. “What do you think, babe?”

  I didn’t like it, but I dug out my wallet. I wouldn’t let Mr. Handy try to settle the bill with Jocelyn.

  “You wanna search me, too?” I asked, handing over a handful of twenties.

  “Watch your mouth, or you’ll be taking a different flight.” He knocked on the door. “Enjoy your trip.”

  “Thanks,” Jocelyn drawled.

  The door opened, and a third guard waved us into an old kitchen. “Damn, girl. Where have you been all my life?” He asked.

  She laughed until I closed the door, isolating him from the men outside. In a pleasant voice she said, “Go fuck yourself.”

  The man’s eyes bugged out. “Uh, yeah. There’s uh, there’s stuff upstairs. Excuse me.” He hurried off, out of the kitchen into the hallway beyond.

  I chuckled. “Is that breaking the Edicts?”

  “It was just a suggestion. He’s already in the mood. Sorry you had to lose your cash.”

  “You can pay me back later,” I said. “What now?”

  “He said the Stig was upstairs. You check there, I’ll scope the main floor.”

  “Okay, thirty minutes. Then we meet here.”

  Jocelyn grabbed my hand. “Hey, if things go sour, don’t wait on me. Get out of here, soon as you can. I’ll call you.”

  “I never gave you my number,” I said.

  She smiled. “This was my idea. I’ll feel like shit if you get hurt. Be safe, okay?”

  “That’s my line.”

  She gave me a gentle push, then followed the guy she’d sent away.

  Here we go, I thought, and headed for the stairs.

  ELEVEN

  I headed upstairs, unimpeded by any guards. Either security was lax, or they only cared about who got in. After that, the junkies could find whatever corner they wanted and shoot up. My plan was simple, ascend as many floors as I could, then take a quick look on each floor as I descended. If I were a magic drug lord, I wouldn’t want to stick to the ground floor. I’d want a view of the city, a place to feel above it all.

  I made it as high as the fourth floor before I realized going further wasn’t safe. Fire damage and years of exposure to the elements had weakened the structure. I turned back to the third floor, where the gang had reinforced the floors with slabs of scavenged particleboard and plywood. It bent under my weight, but if the floor hadn’t given way before then, I told myself I would be fine, probably.

  Hotel rooms lined the hallway, their doors destroyed or pulled off their hinges and used to reinforce the floor. I thought the Brothers would hold court there, but I saw no guards or pushers. Each room had a filthy mattress or mat, where people could seek escape in a syringe.

  A few haggard people occupied the beds, sprawled out and lost in their high. Most looked like they hadn’t bathed in months. Instead, they had traded every penny they earned or stole to feed the monster that was addiction. They were so weathered by life on the streets that I couldn’t tell what their ages were.

  Curious, I stood by one door and watched a man with a wrinkled pug face prepare to shoot up, so intent on his task that he didn’t notice me. On the mattress in front of him were two plastic capsules I realized were syrettes, like the army used for battlefield first aid. A dose of chemicals in a plastic bag, with a syringe on the end. Inject, pinch, and done.

  The two capsules had different colors, one blue, the other red. He steadied his hands long enough to inject them both into either wrist. It didn’t take long to have an effect. He gasped, his back arching, and he relaxed onto the bed with a wheeze. After a moment his rapid breath became steady, and he smiled. Tears stained his craggy face.

  I had no idea what a magical narcotic could do. An illusion of a happy life? A visit to the Layered, or the Far Lands? Or Stig could just be an ultra-powerful hallucinogen, a madhouse of dreamlike visions that was a welcome escape from the harshness of the actual world.

  I continued my search. When I reached the end of the hallway, I had nothing but junkies or empty rooms to show for it. Disappointed, and more than a little frustrated, I started back.

  How much time left, I wondered. Twenty-five minutes? Twenty?

  I descended to the second floor. It was in better shape, but the air smelled damp and moldy. The hotel rooms here were closed, and I could hear music and muffled voices within. From the sound and smell, I could tell some junkies had traded themselves for their fix.

  Anger bubbled in me. However they got themselves hooked, the Brothers had exploited it. They fed on desperation and pain, offering nothing but a toxic placebo in exchange. The dead rotted cleaner than the poor dregs in the Arlington.

  A door at the end of the hallway opened, and two big men in expensive clothes lumbered into view. More thugs, like Mr. Handy and his boys downstairs.

  I didn’t have time to hide. Thinking fast, I shuffled my step, rubbed my wrists, and leaned against the wall. “Hey, hey,” I croaked, trying to sound half-awake. “Hey man, where’s it? Where’s it at?”

  One thug made a disgusted sound and pushed me out of the way. I let myself hit the wall. “Outta the way, shithead.”

  “Just wanna find some more,” I slurred.

  The o
ther thug grunted. “You want more, you can either sit n’ wait for Bettany to get ‘round to you, or you go join the prayer circle at the end of the hall.”

  Prayer circle? That sounded ominous and helpful.

  “Hey, thanks, man,” I said, drawing the words out.

  “Whatever.” They kept going and didn’t look back.

  I lurched my way towards the door they’d come from, then dropped the junkie act when they vanished downstairs. I hoped they didn’t run into Jocelyn.

  I went to the end of the hall, and heard low, rhythmic, guttural chanting. Hand drums joined them. I twisted the doorknob and spied a private banquet hall or conference room through the narrow crack. There were no tables or chairs, but a squat stage stood at the far end. About two dozen men and women sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it, with simple hide drums on their laps. They swayed and chanted in a constant, disharmonious rhythm.

  A contingent of men, stripped to the waist, surrounded the drummers. Their faces were pointed downward and their lips quivered in mumbled prayer. Like the Haitian I’d dismembered days ago, they had sun-weathered faces and an assortment of tattoos depicting dancing, leering skeletons.

  The Brothers Midnight, I thought.

  Three of their number stood on the stage. The first, tall and dark-skinned, had to be the one Jocelyn called Samuel Kincaid. His face was painted white like a skull, and intense eyes watched his flock like an angry god demanding worship. He held a gnarled cane in one hand, and a chicken in the other. The poor creature flailed in a hopeless struggle for freedom.

  To his right was an old woman, by centuries if she were a mage. She wore a sarong made from sackcloth and carried a basket of white and purple flowers like it was a newborn baby.

  Dread knotted in my stomach as I spied the third. Scorpions and skeletal snakes tattooed his tanned skin, but the resemblance was clear. Jesse Kendall. He had the same good looks as his sister Jocelyn, but he scowled at everyone around him with naked contempt. His eyes were an ashen gray, almost white. An automatic sat in a leather holster on his belt, next to a coiled whip.

  Samuel spoke in Haitian over the drums. Jesse dug into the pouch-like pockets of his cargo pants and produced a lighter and flask. He and Kincaid doused the chicken with the flask’s contents. The old woman spoke in a creaky, dry voice.