by Jessica King
Ivy’s own phone rang, a number with no caller ID. Her stomach tightened.
“Hello?” she said.
“Did you find the body?” There was classical music playing in the background, and Ivy tried to dredge up the name of the familiar piece.
“Is this Reid?” Ivy asked. The voice on the other end was quiet, just slow, steady breaths. “Is this Reid?” she asked again.
The line on the other end hung up. Her phone had already begun ringing. Chief Marks.
“Chief?” she asked, a piece of her waiting for that breathing on the other end again.
“One of the WIPs was found dead in Vegas,” Chief Marks said. “Mikayla Martin.”
Ivy pulled up the new Kingsmen site. It felt like a recycled version of the old one, and no matter how much she wanted to take this one down, too, they were biding their time. If they took this site down, they would only end up searching for the new one.
“Okay, so that’s the first WIP since the original Kingsmen site went down,” she said. “Or, at least, the first one we know of.”
“I doubt you’re the only one with attempts on their life,” Chief Marks said.
“So, do we think this killer up and drove to Vegas, or could it be another one?”
“I’ll have Vegas PD send in their information on the death. But there was definitely a card next to the body. If it is the same person who killed Becca Viall, we’ve got someone going on a spree.”
+++
Thursday, March 9, 2017, 7:12 p.m.
Reid was feeling overly confident when he went to eliminate Mikayla Martin. By the time he went to pick up Annie Garner for their date, he was second on the leader board, having passed Ink, but he was feeling on edge.
“Hey, Reid,” said Annie when she opened the door.
Reid nearly punched her with the force with which he shoved the bouquet toward her. She didn’t seem to mind his jerky movements, and she was delighted by the roses.
“Thank you!” she said. “I’ll just put these in some water really quick.”
“I’m sorry if you called earlier today,” he said. “It broke.” He’d actually turned it on airplane mode and planned to keep it that way except for when he sent messages to the Kingsmen now.
Surely there was a way for them to get a new number and remain in contact with the Kingsmen? His Kingsmen name Varsity was registered to that number, but something was going to have to change. He was fairly certain the police were calling his number. They’d probably found his number on Becca’s phone. Why didn’t he think to destroy the phone? Amateur move, he thought. And he could only hope airplane mode kept his number off the grid. It’d stopped the phone calls, at least.
But then again, he was an amateur. Going in for his third kill in just over twenty-four hours. He didn’t feel sick about it in a moral sense … but he did feel perhaps a little queasy about his chances of being caught. But instead of bending over to hold onto his knees and breathe the way he wanted to, he held out an arm to Annie, who accepted it with a smile.
He didn’t even want to go on the date, and even though he’d made reservations under a fake name, he didn’t want any extra suspicion around him. He’d bunker down in his apartment until his brunch with Marisol. Let someone else distract the police. Wasn’t someone supposed to have taken out Ivy Hart by now? His targets would pale in comparison to her death. He just needed to rely on his fellow Kingsmen.
“Reid Cunningham,” Varsity said, and a man in a suit at the host stand scanned a list. It was a fancy restaurant, the kind of place that likely had its own wine cellar, but it was also the kind of place the police would hopefully not think to check.
“Cunningham?” Annie asked. “I guess I never did get your last name?”
“You’re surprised by it?”
“It sounds a bit … uppity for someone with surfer curls,” she said, playfully batting at his sun-blond bangs.
He grinned at her. “Aw, it’s an old family name. Don’t let it fool you. I’m a beach bum.”
This made her laugh harder, though that was at least one true thing he’d said. He spent a lot of time on the beach, and he suddenly felt proud. Like he was breaking the mold of what most people would consider a murderer to be like: someone who spent their days cold and pale in a basement, chopping up body parts for fun. He was tan. Blonde. A “Cali Surfer”—who was at least moderately good at surfing. A murderer with a hobby. The thought made him have to stifle a laugh.
They were escorted to a table in the back of the restaurant, and he had a conversation that was far too similar to the one he’d had with Becca the night before. He flirted, and she giggled.
“What made you want to go to the Prophetess meeting?” she asked. It was something he wasn’t prepared for—Becca had let him ask most of the questions.
“Just curious,” he said, and Annie tilted her head. “I know that’s boring,” he said, shrugging. “But that’s the truth!”
He ran a hand across his smile. He’d gone with a clean shave for the date, and he could tell he’d guessed right about Annie’s preference. “Ah, I mean, I saw that debut in the skate park and started doing some online searching and stuff.”
Another truth. He’d searched it out and landed right on the Kingsmen site. He’d had a proclivity for superstition his entire life. Surfers had their beliefs about luck. But he’d never seen something like this where something other than nature itself controlled life and death. It made him … angry. That anyone could think they owned that power. That anyone actually had that power. That anyone dared to use it the way the Works in Progress did. The way the Prophetess wanted to train her followers to do. He couldn’t stand it.
“And you got to the Prophetess website?” she asked.
“I did,” he said. “I found out about the speakeasy and decided to check it out.”
“To pick up crazy chicks,” Annie finished for him. She smiled.
“What? No,” he said, though he laughed and pretended to brush off the insult.
“Oh please,” she said, sipping from her wine and surveying him over the rim. “I saw you talking to at least two other girls in the span of, like, ten minutes.”
Varsity took a sip of his own drink and rolled his eyes. “Not my fault the Prophetess happens to recruit gorgeous women,” he said, tipping his glass in her direction. He’d said the right thing. The top of her cheeks warmed red, and he took another, longer drink.
Annie, like Becca, was less witchy than expected. She was nice and didn’t say any weird stuff around their food or ask him to participate in some sort of spell or blessing. She did tell him that he should attend the next L.A. coven meeting.
“There’s a coven here?” he asked.
“Oh, sure,” Annie said. She gave him an address of a home, not fifteen minutes from the restaurant. “There are lots of us who meet up to learn spells and things like that. You should come check it out. But,” she paused, lifting eyes trying to melt him with their sweetness, “don’t hit on any girls there, okay? Kinda like you. I’d like to keep you around.”
He couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thursday, March 9, 2017, 9:32 p.m.
By the time they were back at her apartment, Annie was clearly tipsy, and it was almost too easy. He took her phone this time, turning it off and slipping it into the dumpster of a gas station. He didn’t want to take it to his home to destroy it—he didn’t know how well those GPS tracker things worked, and he wasn’t willing to find out this way.
When he got home and texted in his points about Annie, he saw that he’d received four more calls from random numbers, and one had left a message.
Hello. This is Detective Ivy Hart with the LAPD.
His heart nearly stopped. Ivy Hart was calling him?
This number has been found in connection with someone going by the name of “Reid” who is a suspect for two accounts of murder in the first degree. I’m encouraging you to turn yourself into the LAPD. If you d
o so, we can work toward a plea deal. If you do not, I’m afraid we will be forced to find you. As the two accounts of murder have occurred in separate states, the FBI has also taken an interest in this case. If you have committed the crimes we suspect, it’s likely your sentence will encapsulate most of your lifetime. Again, we are offering a psychiatric evaluation as well as a plea deal if you decide to turn yourself in and introduce the LAPD to any information you have about the Kingsmen. If you believe you are not guilty, you are expected to visit the LAPD to have your name and number disconnected from these charges.
The phone abruptly hung up.
He stared at the darkening screen on his phone. He needed to return the device to airplane mode. His phone lit with one more message.
Your new target is Edward Thorne.
He scrolled.
Edward Thorne: WIP Points: 50 | Reincarnation Points: 0 | Difficulty Points: 10 (former active Kingsman; 2 confirmed kills)
Taking out Edward Thorne would leave him at the top of the leader board unless Calla had been assigned a WIP like Ivy Hart. A thrill ran through him, and he smiled. He nearly had so many targets he couldn’t choose. Edward Thorne’s information popped up onto his screen, and he texted Marisol before returning his phone to airplane mode. And he had the address of the L.A. coven. He couldn’t go in guns blazing there; he knew that. He’d surely be caught even if none of the witches were packing. But his actions might attract some … collateral damage.
He slipped into a deep slumber on his couch, too happy bathing in his latest assignment to consider getting up and getting ready for bed. He kicked off his shoes, happy he hadn’t gotten any blood on his clothes this time and fell asleep. In his dreams, he was an avenging warrior. And something told him, he was one in real life, too.
+++
Friday, March 10, 2017, 7:48 a.m.
Mason took a steadying breath and hit “Apply.” He started a timer. As far as he could tell, anyone who applied to be a Kingsmen got accepted, given an assignment, and had four days to complete their assignment. He’d gotten a burner phone with a new number for this, just in case.
There had been no indication of how long he would need to wait before he got his assignment, but he didn’t have to wait long. Within two minutes, he had received an assignment. He wrote: Auto-assign? in his notes. He read his assignment, confused. When he’d first started following the Kingsmen during the observation period of his experiment, he’d thought they solely assigned works in progress, or known witches, and allowed the Kingsmen to pursue Prophetess followers of their own volition. He picked up his pen. Notable Prophetess followers included as assignments? Social media tracking? It would be more difficult to work his way up the leaderboard if he didn’t receive any WIP assignments, but he decided it was best not to exaggerate his skills too much. He wrote down the contents of the text message.
Katie Moore: Points: 33 | Reincarnation Points: 0 | Difficulty Points: 2 (Physically Active)
He searched Katie Moore online. A young woman just out of college, she’d apparently been a Prophetess follower for three days before Delilah Leigh made her Venice Beach debut. She’d posted a dramatic photo of herself in all green garb. The caption was a simple THE PROPHETESS IS COMING followed by a series of black diamond emojis. Since that post, her entire feed had taken on a green and black theme.
Mason wrote down his observations about his fake target. He had four days to convince her to help him play his role as a killer, and afterward, he could work his way up the leaderboard with the L.A. coven witches who had volunteered to fake their own deaths. He could set up a death scene for a single image—he knew where the body would be most vulnerable, where to place the fake blood. But a video, like the site required?
He dialed Ivy’s number, which she’d left with him after their last meeting. “I’m in,” he said. “And I think I could use the help of that friend you mentioned. Could we set up a time?”
As they spoke, he began drafting a message to Katie Moore in his notebook. It’d be no use to send her a message and have her block him. He’d send her a video of one of the L.A. coven witches—alive and well and promising that Mason was there to help. So, she could be sure that she wasn’t simply being conned to her death. Surely, a girl well enough connected with the Prophetess to know about her before her grand opening, for lack of a better term, knew about the Kingsmen and wanted to see them taken down just as badly as the L.A. coven.
+++
Saturday, March 11, 2017, 3:43 p.m.
Vince skipped to Ivy’s desk and waited, panting.
Ivy looked up from her screen slowly. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Vince ceremoniously set a brown cardboard box on her desk.
“You just set that on my dessert,” Ivy said, returning her eyes to her screen.
Chief Marks had forwarded her an email from the president of a small university in Los Angeles. Apparently, a sorority had taken up Wiccan practices, claiming the Prophetess as their inspiration, and a fraternity had started to adopt Kingsmen ideals. He was worried the two might run into what he called “an altercation” and was wondering how it might be stopped. Had they any experience with shutting down organizations like this in their work on the Kingsmen case?
Ivy had started the email response. Or rather, she’d started the greeting. She had no idea how to keep a bunch of college kids from attacking each other if things really came down to it. As an officer, she couldn’t quell these types of things until plans were made to inflict injury.
She sighed as Vince pulled the box off of her cupcake. “Thanks,” she said.
Vince’s excitement was unquelled. He leaned into her desk. “Are you ready to find out if you’re a witch?” he asked.
Ivy’s head popped up at this, now paying attention to the fact that the boxes inside the brown cardboard were bright lime green. He put one of the boxes on Ivy’s desk, and sat down at his own, tearing open the packaging.
The inside looked like a pretty basic blood-testing kit, though the key was much different from the one she’d used before to test her blood type.
The full board seemed rather extensive to her.
The first three dots said, “Lick.” The second three dots said, “Scratch and Sniff.” The third three dots said, “Spell.” The fourth three dots said, “Blood.” She found a piece of cardstock with instructions and a pen, as well as a small white crystal.
She looked over at Vince, who had already brought the paper up to his face and was licking it.
“We are ridiculous,” she said, before bringing the paper up to her own face and licking the dot.
On the cardstock, a corresponding dot said: WHAT DID YOU TASTE? ANSWER:
She wrote down chocolate and repeated for the next two. Oranges. Mint.
On her answer sheet, the next three dots asked: WHAT DID YOU SMELL? ANSWER:
Fire. Roses. Grape?
For the “Spell” portion of her answer sheet, there were simple instructions: Use the included pre-blessed crystal to tap your first name in Morse Code. The first three letters will be in the circles provided moving from left to right. From there, start back at the beginning until you run out of letters.
The key for Morse Code was listed beneath this set of instructions, and Ivy searched out the three letters of her name.
She picked up the crystal. It was roughly cut, and she turned the most pointed end of it down. I. She tapped inside the first circle twice. Tap. Tap.
V. Three dits and one dah. Tap. Tap. Tap. Hold. She kept the crystal inside the circle for a moment during the dah, then lifted back up.
Y. Hold. Tap. Hold and lift. Hold and lift. Hold.
“Ouch,” Vince said next to her, and she turned to her partner. He’d done the finger prick already. “Shouldn’t have done my dominant hand,” he said.
Ivy shook her head and unwrapped the finger prick from its packaging. One drop of water went in each dot first, and then one drop of blood. She complied, mixing the blood when the instructio
ns told her to until her board was done.
“Now, you have to visit the site at the bottom,” Vince said.
Ivy found the website listing the key.
If you get 7 out of 12 “Witch” answers on this key, then congratulations! You’re definitely a witch. If this test says you are not a witch, but you believe you are, please contact us at your earliest convenience, and you will receive your second test at half price with free shipping.
Witch Answers will show as follows:
Tastes | Chocolate, Orange, Mint
Smells | Firewood, Rose Oil, Grape
Blood | Coagulated, Coagulated, Not coagulated
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ivy said.
Vince rolled his chair over to her desk.
“I got a twelve out of twelve.” Ivy rolled her eyes and dropped the kit into the trashcan next to her desk. “What’d you get?”
Vince’s eyes skirted to his desk. “Well, now I’m embarrassed to say,” he said.
“You didn’t get any,” Ivy guessed.
“I got four.”
Ivy sighed through her nose.
“Face it, Hart,” Vince said, grinning. “You’re a witch. Magic runs through your veins. You are spooky through and through.” With the word spooky, he wiggled his fingers.
“I will zap you away from me if you don’t go sit down at your own desk,” Ivy said, staring at her partner. His smile only grew.
“Yes, your witchy one!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 9:27 a.m.
Varsity tucked his favorite button-down into khaki pants. He’d decided to go with glasses instead of contacts because he knew they made him look more trustworthy. Glasses made everyone look more trustworthy, he thought, and he pushed the bridge of them up his nose, so they sat squarely on his face. It’d taken him three tries to get Marisol to agree to let him pick her up instead of meeting him at the restaurant.
How do I know you’re not some sort of serial killer? She’d asked, but it’d been followed by enough emojis that he knew she didn’t think he was dangerous at all.
