by Jessica King
Please. I’m just an old-fashioned guy. I want to pick you up.
Ugh. I bet my mom would actually like you.
He texted her a laughing face. Is that so bad?
She sent back an eye-roll emoji. Yes! I can’t have her actually approving of people I date. Kinda ruins my whole vibe.
Thought you were supposed to get that impulse out of you in high school, Miss College Graduate.
Lol. Wasn’t allowed to date in high school—no one for her to disapprove of.
He sent two laughing faces. Really?
She sent back two matching laughing faces. I’m guessing your parents weren’t very strict.
They were only strict about me sneaking out to drink or see girls. They never thought about me sneaking girls and alcohol in.
Okay, I see, you little player.
Hahaha. I was actually so skinny in high school. He was all lean muscle in high school. “Not an ounce of fat,” his parents used to say, pinching him in front of their relatives.
Ugh, I’m so jealous. I’ve never had a fast metabolism, and this girl can put away some food.
Speaking of food. Can I pick you up around ten?
Okay. Just don’t kill me, yeah?
Never.
And that had been that. It had taken him until thirty minutes before leaving for the date to finally get her to agree. She’d already divulged that she lived with her mother, which presented a challenge greater than his two previous dates, who had lived alone and made easy prey. But he was ready for a challenge.
+++
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 9:48 a.m.
Marisol smoothed her dress in the mirror. Floral. She looked great in florals, not to mention the cut was perfect for her figure—a rare thrift store find. Morning light streamed through her windows, turning her yellow room into gleaming honey.
“This boy’s going to take you on a date, but he won’t come to church first? I don’t like it,” her mother said in Spanish.
“It’s fine,” Marisol said.
Her mother walked past her room, a laundry basket on her hip, her Sunday hat on her head. She clicked her tongue at Marisol’s legs.
“Too short for Sunday,” she said.
“I like it,” Jayda said sleepily from Marisol’s bed.
“Thank you!” Marisol said, twirling in the blue frills.
“You’re skipping church, too, so you don’t get a say,” her mother said to Jayda.
Jayda pressed her face into the pillow. “It’s not my fault,” Jayda said, though Marisol could hear the smile in her voice.
Marisol grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from her bookshelf and tossed it onto her bed, where the two of them had all but passed out last night.
“Thank you,” came Jayda’s muffled voice.
“Jose made the margaritas strong, but you didn’t have to drink them, did you?” Mrs. Sanchez raised her eyebrows, but Marisol knew it was all in good fun. She may be putting on a front, but her mother had looked a little greenish before her morning coffee, too.
“We’re going to brunch, Mama.” She said. rolled her eyes. “It’s like the least romantic time of day.”
Her mother waved her off and resumed her path to the washer. “Could have invited him to the barbeque!” she said.
“I’m not inviting a boy to a family barbeque until we’re married!” Marisol said, popping her lips in front of the mirror. She put the tube of lipstick into her purse for necessary reapplications after eating. “The whole family will scare him away.”
Jayda laughed from her cocooned position in Marisol’s covers. Her mother’s footsteps turned to clicks with the addition of her low heels. “I’m leaving!”
“I’m napping!” Jayda said.
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 10:24 a.m.
The drive over had been less awkward than Marisol had expected. She had, after all, talked to Reid for about five seconds at the club and had only texted him since.
“You live with your mom?” he asked. “I saw someone leave the house.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Just me and her, since my sister’s out of the house.” Marisol giggled. “She’s angry I’m not dragging you to church with us.”
Reid smiled. “She sounds nice.”
“She can be.”
This made Reid laugh, and Marisol turned toward the window so he couldn’t see her being proud of her own joke.
“Your dad?” he asked, but his voice was tentative.
Marisol shrugged. “Died when I was younger.” She rushed forward, catching him before he could speak. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say sorry. But yes, I miss him.” She’d become too accustomed to people apologizing for the death of a man who died years ago who they’d never met. The only thing worse was when people asked if she missed him. She didn’t offer anything else, and he didn’t ask for more, which she appreciated.
By the time they’d made it to the table, Reid had informed her that she better live up to her claim of being able to put away some food. “They have ridiculously large pancakes here and unlimited hash browns.”
“Unlimited hash browns sounds like a beautiful thing,” Marisol said, sliding into her side of the booth.
“Oh, it is, trust me.”
+++
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 11:52 a.m.
Varsity had made sure to note the type of car Marisol’s mother had been driving when she left for church. It wasn’t in the driveway, and the garage had been left open. It looked like it was meant to be carless, just filled with a collection of mismatched chairs and a stereo with various brooms and tools hung along the walls. He checked the clock. It was just before noon; he likely didn’t have much time.
“Could I use your restroom?” he asked.
Marisol gave him a look. “Are you inviting yourself in while my mom’s not home? Now who’s acting like a high schooler?”
Varsity laughed, trying to push down the flashback her reaction gave him of Becca. “You witnessed the amount of coffee I drank!”
Marisol laughed.
“Please, please, sweet Marisol. Think of my bladder!”
She giggled again and hopped from the car. “C’mon, then.”
She unlocked the front door and strolled into the house, aiming for the kitchen. “Straight at the end of the hall,” she said.
Varsity pretended to break into a run, which made Marisol laugh again. Varsity slipped into the bathroom and pulled up the leg of his khakis. The restaurant had been warm, and the grip of his gun had a light sheen of sweat from his leg. He dried it with an embroidered hand towel and took a long breath.
+++
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 11:56 a.m.
Marisol leaned over the edge of the counter, resting her elbows on the cold vinyl top. She’d missed a call from a number she didn’t recognize, but they’d left a message.
Hello. My name is Ivy Hart with the LAPD. It seems that this number has been increasingly in contact with a number belonging to Reid Carter. We have reason to believe that he means you, and possibly your family, harm. If you could please return this call—
Whatever Ivy Hart had been about to say next, Marisol didn’t hear. All she heard was the echoing click click! of a gun that was ready to shoot. Marisol looked up to her date, whose eyes had gone from their easy-going green to a poisonous color.
“Reid?” Panic rose in her throat until it stuffed her mouth, her nose.
“Seems as though a certain witch is onto me,” Reid said, nodding to the phone. “I hope she’s my next assignment.”
Assignment. That was a Kingsmen term. She’d heard about them. She didn’t think they’d know about her.
“I—I’m not!” She couldn’t manage to say the rest. She waved her hands. “I thought you—”
“Please don’t act so shocked, Marisol,” Reid said. His voice was harsh, his syllables bouncing off walls with a harsh echo. “Did you really think being a witch would lead to anything good?”
Suddenly, her mother’s warnings echoed through
her mind when she’d seen the aftermath of the shooting at a Prophetess gathering on TV. “This is what happens,” her mother had said. “This is what happens when people want to play God.”
But she hadn’t wanted to play God. She wanted to brew a love potion and order makeup from the Prophetess. The man in front of her was trying to play God.
Her eyes shifted to the pocket of his shirt, where his phone’s camera was staring right at her. His eyes followed hers. “Oh, yes,” Reid said, looking down at his phone. “I have to record your death. I have to turn in proof every time I kill a witch.”
“Every time?” she asked. Her eyes grew wide. She’d seen him talking to lots of girls at the Prophetess speakeasy. How many of them were dead now?
“Bingo,” Reid said, brandishing the gun. “You’ll be the third. Kind of a lucky number, huh?”
Marisol took a tiny step to the side, and Reid shook his head. “You pull a knife from that thing, and I’ll shoot.” The kitchen knives were hardly a match for a gun, but what choice did she have?
“You-you're going to shoot anyway, aren’t you?” Marisol asked.
Reid looked to the ceiling, as though he were considering her argument. “Sure,” he said. “But that would be pulling the trigger yourself.” He indicated the knives.
Marisol gulped and saw a flicker of movement. Jayda had stepped out of her bedroom. She had a metal water battle grasped in her hands. Marisol begged her eyes not to look away from Reid’s eyes anymore. If he turned around, Jayda was dead.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, I won’t pick up a knife.”
“Smarter than I thought,” Reid said, laughing, and Marisol felt the barb of an insult. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “I find few people intelligent.”
“You’re complimenting me before you kill me?” Psychotic. This man is psychotic.
“Would you prefer that I say I think you’re a stupid witch and then pull the trigger?”
“Were you this nice to the other girls before you killed them?” she asked, anger straightening her spine. Jayda raised the water bottle level with her head and set her feet.
“None of the other girls received a call from the LAPD and still didn’t have the wherewithal to start running. So, no, I’d say I’ve been very nice—OW!” The metal bottle echoed as it collided with Reid’s wrist.
Jayda dove for the gun even as it still clattered to the floor. Marisol rushed over to her, even as Reid ran past her and out the door, his car keys jingling in his hand. By the time Jayda managed to get a shot off, he was out the door, and there was a hole in the drywall above the light switch panel.
“I—” Marisol said. She blinked. “He actually was a serial killer!”
“I did warn you,” Jayda said, beginning to laugh, hysterical.
“We almost just died,” Marisol said.
“You almost just died, missy,” Jayda said. “I saved you!”
Marisol flung herself into Jayda’s arms. “Thank you,” she said. She started laughing with Jayda, but tears also managed to finagle their way into the mix, her emotions confused about which one was supposed to be taking over after almost dying, and then being saved by a girl with a now rather dented water bottle.
“Let me put this down,” Jayda said, moving the gun to the coffee table. It looked strange there, dangerous and out of place, but Marisol covered it with an empty chip bowl. “I don’t think that helped,” Jayda said.
“I think I’m gonna call that police lady now,” Marisol said.
+++
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 12:11 p.m.
As far as Ivy knew, this was the first intended victim who had not been killed other than herself. The Sanchez home was inviting and warm, other than the fresh bullet hole, which they asked for advice about covering up.
“Is he going to be coming back for me?” Marisol asked.
It was a question Ivy regularly asked herself. She’d likely been reassigned to a new Kingsman … but where were they?
“You should definitely be aware of your surroundings,” Ivy said. “There’s no guarantee that he’s not coming back. Keep your doors locked, don’t walk alone, things like that,” she said.
“Can you give us a description of what he looks like?” Vince asked.
“Or did you happen to take a picture of him?” Ivy said.
“Jayda, did you open that message I sent you?” Marisol asked.
“No,” Jayda said. The young music producer had been quiet since the police had entered, letting the outgoing Marisol recount every detail of her date with her would-be killer to Ivy and Vince. But now Jayda pushed herself off the wall and walked toward the group. She pulled a phone from the pocket of her sweatpants, which glowed to life with a notification from Marisol nearly an hour before. Jayda opened her phone and found the picture waiting for her.
Marisol had captioned it “Kinda a stalker picture, but he has green eyes.” The picture showed a handsome man in his twenties looking at a menu. He was smiling, mid-sentence, with pearly teeth and a slight crook in his nose, like he’d broken it years ago. Blond hair swept close to dark brows, and Ivy tugged out her phone.
“Can you send that to me, Jayda?” Ivy asked, giving the young woman her number.
Jayda did, and Ivy immediately forwarded the photo to Cassiopeia, explaining to send the photo on blast to the L.A. coven, telling them not to spend any time with a man named Reid Carter. “This will hopefully be making its way to every member of the L.A. witch coven immediately,” she said. “We’re lucky you took this.”
+++
Sunday, March 12, 2017, 12:20 p.m.
Marisol beamed, and Jayda’s eyebrows tugged together. It had been lucky. They’d surely post this to the internet, hoping it’d go viral. But the extra reach she had with the remix she’d made from the sounds from the Prophetess speakeasy meeting had connected her with that necessary audience, the people who needed to know about Reid the most.
“Would it be helpful to talk about this on a radio show? I have a lot of Prophetess listeners.”
Ivy nodded. “Outreach to women, especially your age who follow the Prophetess, would be extremely helpful.”
“Jayda,” Marisol said.
Of course, Jayda was near to losing her dream job because of those Prophetess followers. They put her show in such a niche, and she’d hardly managed to make it out. She’d stopped taking calls entirely because so many of them were related to the Prophetess, and most of her requests were for her remixes of the Prophetess gatherings and chants. It only took one listen for her audience to decide her station wasn’t “for them” because it was “focused on witches.”
“It’s fine,” Jayda said.
She looked at Marisol, and at the lively eyes that were already creased with smile lines even at such a young age. If Jayda hadn’t happened to spend the night, those eyes would be closed. Surely, there were tons of Marisols out in the world. When people died young, everyone said: “they lit up the room.” It was a quality that Jayda had decided wasn’t as hard to find as people insinuated. Normal people could light up the room just as easily as extraordinary people could. It simply depended on which room they’d walked into, and who was in it waiting to feel their light.
Keeping Marisols in the world—normal people who had rooms waiting for their light—was much more important than any job she’d ever have.
“If they don’t want me to save lives, then I don’t want to work there anyway, you know?” Jayda asked, realizing it was the truth as soon as it left her lips.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monday, March 13, 2017, 10:12 a.m.
Mason decided to visit Professor Wilkins first. He’d always like Professor Wilkins’s office. For someone heavily invested in the sciences, he kept an awful lot of fiction paperbacks in his office. Everything from Gone with the Wind to Nancy Drew to the most recent New York Times bestsellers. Almost every single one had that white line down the middle that meant he’d actually read it. Or he had cracked the spine
to mislead anyone who walked into his office. He was a professor of psychology, after all. Mason decided to believe he was an avid reader but didn’t put the deception past his favorite professor.
“So, to be sure,” Professor Wilkins said, “you want to endear yourself to a cult leader no one has seen before.” He took a sip of tea, his thumb carefully holding down the dangling tag.
“Right.” Mason didn’t feel deterred by the hesitant look in Wilkins’s eyes. The professor regularly played devil’s advocate against him during his time as a student.
“That’s … intriguing.” And there it was. The sparkle of a challenge in his eyes, finally.
“So, my sort of hypothesis with this is to climb the leaderboard—”
“Through fake deaths?” Wilkins asked, cutting him off.
“Yes, through faking the deaths of witches so that I have some sort of attention from the cult leader.”
“And you want to get to the top of their leaderboard? And if you get to the top spot, you’ll try to meet whoever the King is?”
Mason nodded. “Honestly, I doubt I could get all the way to the top of the leaderboard. Whoever Calla is, they’re killing it … quite literally.” Wilkins raised an eyebrow. “Unintentional pun,” Mason said.
“Quite genius of them to build their following by making this whole ordeal seem like some sort of video game. The usernames, the leaderboards.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “So, if I can get on that leaderboard—especially if I can make it to the top three—then I’ll have the attention of the leader and also the followers. I’ll have some sort of clout among the Kingsmen as a whole, maybe that could give me enough for the leader to trust me with enough information that I can help the police take him down.”
“Yes, but you can’t ever pass the leader. That would make you a threat.” He paused as if contemplating how to say what was on his mind. “I don’t want to see you dead, Mason.” He shook his head. “Some public health experts are calling this an epidemic—a sickness of the mind in both the witches and the Kingsmen that ends in possible death. You are out of the direct line of infection on both sides. You don’t have to throw yourself into it like this.”
