by Jessica King
The camera crew had not ridden with them, taking their own van so they would have all their equipment to record inside the senator’s home. He’d said it was fine, though he did have a bit of a sour look on his face when one of his personal guards held the door open for a small parade of metal, which then had to all be inspected before the senator’s wife would come out.
“Would you mind … reintroducing yourselves?” Lindsey asked, slipping a comically large pair of headphones onto her small head.
The senator uncrunched his eyebrows, reminding Ivy that politicians were often as skilled an actor as Aline. The camera turned on, and so did his good attitude. Ivy remembered watching Aline do the exact opposite once, going from silly to a soft strength in mere seconds. She cleared her throat, trying to remember what she said upon entering the house. The person who had led her in was no longer in the room.
“Roy Cline,” he said, extending his hands to each of them, as he’d done nearly five minutes before.
“Detective Ivy Hart,” she said, shaking his hand once, firmly, as she’d done the first time. “And my partner, Detective Vince Benton.” The men shook hands. “Your wife is the supposed descendent of …”
“Hattie Carver,” a slight woman said from the top of a staircase with polished banisters. She was wearing business clothes and formal flat shoes, despite the fact that they were indoors, and the woman had made it clear she had no intention of leaving the house anytime soon. “A witch that was on that horrible Kingsmen site.”
Ivy could almost see Lindsey’s finished product of the moment in her mind’s eye. She’d show the handshakes and give a closeup of the senator—everyone loved to capture a politician up close, especially in their own homes. And then when the senator’s wife spoke from the top of the stairs—a dramatic pan to the beautiful but terrified woman.
“I’m Chloe,” she said when she’d reached the bottom of the stairs. She eyed Vince suspiciously, who, Ivy noticed, probably looked like a Kingsman to someone who was paranoid enough.
He was tall, muscled, and rather intimidating for the five seconds one could find him not dancing to ringtones. Chloe folded herself into her husband’s space, and his arm wrapped around her cardigan-covered waist.
“I’m supposedly a reincarnation of Mary Caste,” Ivy said, and the woman’s eyes relaxed.
Ivy took in the senator’s home and its very non-Californian décor. Dark wood, emerald and gold wallpaper that she would have labeled as Victorian, as well as leather couches and decorations like globes and golden bookends littered the home, making the whole place feel like an old library.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
Ivy shook her head. A lie, but she didn’t think that telling the truth would be doing Chloe any good. “Most of the people who got recruited before the site crashed aren’t killers. I know all the same information has been moved to those copycat sites, but without the recruiting algorithm, it’s likely their numbers are dropping.”
Chloe nodded in a way that reminded Ivy of the little dog bobbleheads a friend of hers in high school had kept on her dashboard. They nodded so quickly when she drove over the bumpy roads between their school and a nearby ice cream parlor that they looked like they emphatically agreed with everything she said.
“Lots of people have sent us hate notes,” Chloe said quietly.
“Not necessarily new to me,” the senator said, smiling a too-white smile.
Ivy had gotten a few too. And at first, they’d terrified her. She’d gotten a hotel room the first two nights after being labeled a WIP, unwilling to be home. But as time passed, so did the panic. Most of the hate notes were simply that—hate, without any real threat behind them.
“Unless you have a note that gives you a specific date or time,” Ivy said, remembering the note Jennings Ford had received—the specific date and time, and the relocation of her family in witness protection alongside her family shortly after the Oscars, “the hate notes likely have nothing behind them. People are going to be quick to hate you. They’ll be very slow to harm you unless they already have a plan in place and tell it to you.”
“That’s sick,” Senator Cline said.
“Most hate groups are,” Ivy said. She wished she was still shocked the way this couple was; their reactions showed hope for people in general that Ivy had felt die recently in herself. She didn’t know if it was the type of thing that could be revived—hope that people were good, and the feeling of betrayal when they weren’t.
“So, what can we do?” Chloe asked. “Quite frankly, I haven’t left the house since I appeared on that site, and the new blogs and things still talk about me. I feel like if I go outside, I’ll get a bullet in the head.” She tried to laugh at the thought, but the noise didn’t sound right coming from her.
Ivy smiled sadly. “There’s nothing we can guarantee, if we’re honest here. Take security with you. Go out during the daytime. Make sure there are lots of people where you go. The general things, really,” Ivy said. “And most importantly, listen to your gut. If it says a situation is wrong, it is.”
It was the type of thing Ivy often said to people, but it was something she found was regularly correct. Most people’s internal alarms went off when something felt wrong. It was when they ignored it that things actually went wrong. Chloe’s head bobbled again like she herself were sitting on the dashboard of a Ford Explorer.
“Did Aline Rousseau actually wear a bullet-resistant dress?” Chloe asked. The woman ran her hands down her easily shot-through sweater dress, trying to rid herself of nervous sweat.
Ivy smiled. “That was her idea. I didn’t know about it until after.”
Chloe raised her eyebrows. “Wow.”
“If you’re interested in wearing Kevlar, you always could wear it beneath your clothes, if you’re concerned,” Ivy said. “It’s hot,” she said, laughing now, pointing to her own vest that was making her sweat. “But I wear it a good bit. Just takes some getting used to.”
Chloe leaned in, noticing the cameras. She whispered, not wanting to be heard. Ivy was certain the boom mic hovering precariously close to the top of Vince’s head was capturing their every breath, but perhaps the Senator’s wife had more experience with avoiding surveillance than she did. “Should our security team do anything differently?” she asked.
Ivy shook her head. “As long as you trust them all, I’d say just keep everything running business as usual. And if you don’t trust someone, I’d recommend putting them at least on temporary leave.”
Chloe’s focus retreated away from Ivy’s eyes, which had been intensely focused on Ivy, and back into the far reaches of her mind, but she clearly came up blank. “These guards have all been with us for years.”
Ivy nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve driven over here for nothing, really.” She looked at her husband, a sheepish look on her face.
“Look,” Ivy said. “If you feel unsafe, you call, okay? It doesn’t matter if it turns out to be nothing, but you can always call us. Someone will come check.”
Chloe’s head bobbled, and the senator thanked them.
It took a few awkwardly quiet moments after they’d said their goodbyes for them to actually clear the home, the cameras and sound equipment needing to move slowly, or rather, their bearers needing to move slowly, clearly sweating around their temples and necklines against the weight of it all.
“Did you get the sound on Chloe?” Ivy asked. They were slow down the brick steps, Vince falling out of step behind them to make sure no one was tripped by the extension cords.
Lindsey nodded.
“Don’t make her look too weak in your cuts, please,” Ivy said. “She has good reason to be scared. I just didn’t want to freak her out more than she already is.”
Lindsey promised she wouldn’t, her eyebrows drawing together with the question Ivy’s eyes dared her to ask: If she has good reason to be scared, don’t you have good reason too?
Lindsey didn
’t ask, and Ivy didn’t offer any type of answer to the unspoken words. Ivy looked back up at the mansion once more. It was old and dark against the bright sky—brick and dark-green shutters and dark gray shingles.
When she dropped into the passenger seat, Vince was moving the driver’s seat back to accommodate his height.
“You need a booster seat,” he said, adjusting the mirror.
“Very funny,” Ivy said, stretching her arms in front of her. “That was kind of a weird meeting, don’t you think?” she asked. Ivy pulled the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror off and sniffed. It faintly still smelled like oranges, but for the most part, the scent had vanished. “We need a new one,” she told Vince, hanging it back up.
“Why? Were you expecting the senator to try to dominate the camera?” he asked. “Because he’s up for reelection soon, and I half expected him to start giving a speech about the safety of Los Angeles or something.” He turned his attention to the air freshener. “It’s my turn to pick next, and I choose fresh baked cookies.”
“They don’t make those,” Ivy said.
“Found one online,” Vince said, a smug smile on his face. “Already ordered it.”
Ivy smiled, but it was short-lived. “I guess I just feel strange not being able to give any real advice. I mean, she should be worried about going out and who is on her security team and who can get into the house. All of her fears are valid.” Her fingers now smelled of a plastic orange smell, and she squirted hand sanitizer into her hand. She offered some to Vince, who waved it off, finally able to back out of the driveway now that the documentary crew had gotten all their equipment properly stowed away in the van.
“I think she still felt a little bit better when we left,” he said.
“That’s because I gave her about ten minutes’ worth of reassurance,” Ivy said. “I’m guessing we’ll be back there every few days, if I’m being honest.”
Vince nodded. “Wouldn’t be bad to put in some face time with the senator anyway,” Vince said, a smile creeping onto his face. “A little more funding and I bet we could get a pool table for the station.”
“I don’t know why you’ve been on this for the past year,” Ivy said. “The station neither needs nor will it use a pool table.” Ivy imagined how ridiculous it would look for them to have a pool table in the middle of the police station. They’d have to rearrange the desks, which would mean a mad dash for spots near windows.
“I might use it,” he said. “Chief Marks is a pool shark, or so he’s told me. Kenshin said he’s a pretty good shot.”
“The LAPD is not getting a pool table.”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said. “People think you’re a witch, and we met—and arrested—Oliver Corbyn.” He thought for a moment. “We saw a bunch of famous actors in the same day.”
Ivy considered it. “True,” she said and didn’t offer any further comment on the subject. If she had to listen to billiard balls clack against each other every day …
Vince turned the radio to pop hits, which meant he was happy.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday, March 6, 2017, 6:27 p.m.
It was not lost on Ivy the fact that perhaps if she’d simply knocked on the too-dark wood floors of the senator’s home, she might not have received the exact type of letter she’d warned Chloe Cline against as soon as she got home. She picked up the orange envelope first, which was sitting on top of a cardboard box. She couldn’t remember ordering anything, and she vaguely wondered which subscription she’d forgotten to cancel.
The letter simply had the day’s date with a time listed: 7:06 p.m., but the zero was a smiley face. The envelope had been addressed to Mary Caste.
She looked more closely at the box. It was an old shipping box, but the address had been torn off, and it’d been resealed with clear packing tape. She couldn’t see inside, but she could hear the tick of an alarm clock. Her stomach dropped, and she took off for the lobby of her apartment building.
“Manager? Manager?” she asked, frantic, to the security guard sitting at the front. “You need to clear the building,” Ivy said. “Now. You need to do it now.”
“Miss, is there a fire, or …?” the guard at the desk asked. He’d taken his feet off the corner of the desk—a very Vince-esque pose—but he didn’t seem in much of a hurry to make any moves.
Ivy growled, pulling her badge from her back pocket. The security guard leaned forward and called the manager to the front.
As soon as Ivy had said the word “bomb,” he was pressing the keystrokes that would send the emergency evacuation signal throughout the building. Beeping sounded throughout the building, earning stares from outside the windowed lobby. Ivy dialed her phone.
“Chief, get the bomb squad to my apartment,” she said.
After he assured her they were on the way, she hung up and walked outside, her face breaking and tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
+++
Monday, March 6, 2017, 6:34 p.m.
The conference center was a mess. He pressed his nametag onto his shirt. They were supposed to choose “alternative names.” At least that was what the online invitation had said. Nicknames, gamer tags, and a simple combination of numbers for those who were too nervous to put any type of indicator on themselves filled the main conference hall. He’d simply put “Varsity,” hoping it’d show he was an experienced killer. Solely digital, so far, but he was ready. He’d thought about killing so many times, but had never had a mentor, never had someone encouraging him from the sidelines.
He wanted that type of support, wanted a real cause to fight for. And now he’d found one. Ridding the world of evil was the type of thing Varsity had been born to do. He suddenly felt like he’d been working his whole life for this sort of thing—the understanding of videogame kills, the interest he’d always had in cold cases, in shooting ranges, in anatomy—and its weakest places—had not been for naught. Destroying evil had been his calling all along, though he did admit his origin story didn’t quite hold up to falling into radioactive material or hurtling down from space with the duty to save mankind. But growing up in L.A. and playing sports and videogames would have to do.
He’d been to this convention hall for other things—cons and fan meetups and things of the sort. It looked nearly the same as it had for those events now. Lots of people had on masks or costumes, people too scared to show their faces, scared of security cameras and other eyes. Plain white masks, stormtroopers, dramatic makeup, wigs, it didn’t matter what they were wearing, as long as they were wearing something that hid them. Varsity didn’t mind being seen. He wanted to be known in this world—wanted his fellow Kingsmen to remember what he looked like when he would get his kills accredited next to his name on the new site. Of course, he would only be seen if he could get on the leaderboard, but he surely would. He always broke records on leader boards, always scored the most points.
There were three loud beeps over the intercom system, and the current of bodies headed toward the auditorium. Varsity sat front and center. A man in a police officer’s uniform and a ski mask tapped the microphone onstage. The projector screen rolled down behind him.
“I’m here to inform you on a variety of levels. We’re going to go over basic gun use, most fatal shots, easiest shots, moving targets, silencers, everything you’re going to need to perform as a Kingsman.”
Varsity found the talk fairly simple; he knew most of those things just from his extensive first-person shooting games, and he was a pretty accurate in the range in real-life. If anything, the talk had only made him feel more confident in his abilities. It was the self-defense speaker who had caught him off-guard.
“You never know if your target is going to have knowledge of self-defense. You won’t know if they have a gun or a particularly mean dog. Find out what you can. Social media is great for that type of thing, and prepare to fight back if they go on the offensive.
This was not something Varsity had considered before. He
didn’t think witches would own guns. Anytime he imagined attacking a witch, he envisioned someone throwing flower petals and words at him, maybe a rock. But when they paired up to practice disarming another person, he felt awkward, his arms too heavy and his legs too long. His partner was a tall girl with heavy, dark lipstick and eye makeup; her nametag simply said, “Red.” She probably would look entirely different without the makeup (none of which was red), though he tried his best to make sure that she saw him. That she’d remember him when he showed up on the leader board. She held out a fake gun in front of him, and he moved the way the speaker had demonstrated. He hit the gun aside and grabbed her wrist. The girl winced, and he smiled, hoping he looked apologetic despite the rush of excitement he felt from taking the gun.
The girl didn’t hit him hard enough or fast enough, so he tried to correct her, but she wasn’t as strong as she looked.
The speakers that followed explained the history of the witches. A man in a black turtleneck, black pants, and black sunglasses stood on stage. “What you see on the screen behind me is a series of witching lines. These women contain dark power that allows them to reincarnate into another lifetime over and over again to continue spreading their dark magic, infecting our world.”
Varsity stared at the names and faces. Each line looked like the picture of the same face duplicated over and over again, simply in different eras. Believing these were different women was difficult, and he heard murmurings of Photoshop and fakes flittering through the aisles.
The speaker had apparently been ready for this.
He showed immigration documents, test scores, marriage licenses, death certificates, pictures of family scrapbooks, authored books, and more until the murmurs stopped, and Varsity could feel the bubbling of anger through the crowd.
“No one deserves so many lifetimes,” Turtleneck said. “Especially not these women of darkness.”
A series of pictures popped up. A woman in traditional Indian garb pulled from a social media profile photo, Amrita Patel. A woman with rich-brown hair and stern eyes, Jennings Ford. A fair-haired woman on a red carpet, Aline Rousseau. A woman in a police uniform, Ivy Hart. A woman who clearly worked outdoors due to her deep tan and sun-streaked hair, Claire Rhine. A man with short, spiky hair and deep-set eyes, Edward Thorne.
