by Alex Gates
Whatever darkness he referred to, I had a funny feeling that my new shadow magic wasn’t just a happy coincidence to that logic. I gnawed on my fingernail for a second. The shittiest part about this conversation—other than listening to the babbling baby talk—was that I actually understood where he was coming from. He did what he had to do, not what he wanted to do. If that doesn’t boil Xander down to a few words, I don’t know what does.
“You know this is probably a trap, right?” I asked him. “We didn’t go with Gladas, but we’re still going to end up in the same spot eventually.”
Xander shrugged. “And? They knew we’d connect the dots. They knew we’d come after them. It might be a trap, but it’s one we’re aware of. Gladas won’t be with us, feeding us information he wants us to know. We hold the cards now, even if they expect us. They don’t know about your new abilities. They don’t know Gabriel has deemed them a threat to the world and is working in our favor. I think we’re the ones setting the trap.”
“That’s very optimistic of you,” I said, closing my eyes and hoping to catch a quick snooze.
Xander’s phone vibrated, but I didn’t peek to see who called. Keeping my eyes shut, I heard him answer. “You’re on speakerphone. Any news?”
“Not really,” Dakota said, her voice tight. “Dr. Tacet said it must have happened overnight. No evidence left behind. The cameras lost their feed during the theft. Unfortunately, that’s really all we have. Is Joey there?”
They were talking about Mel’s missing corpse like a common burglary.
“He’s right next to me.”
“Hi,” I said.
“You remember last night,” Dakota said, “when I told you about the missing boy and the cult?”
“Is that rhetorical?” I asked.
“Is that?”
“We can play this game forever,” I said.
“What about the missing boy and the cult?” Xander cut in.
“They found his body. His throat was wide open and he was drained of blood.” Dakota paused. I heard her breathing heavily.
“Could you keep us updated on that?” Xander asked.
“Of course,” Dakota said. “Oh, Joey. Something to think about. I know a guy who knows a guy—and we’ll keep it at that for now. But I may have a job for you. Xander knows a little about it. He can fill you in on some details.” She hung up.
I definitely needed the work, but after being reminded of Mel’s disappearance and no additional leads and hearing about the little boy drained like livestock, I was beyond fired up. “I don’t want to hear any details,” I said. “You couldn’t pay me enough money not to find and kill Hecate.”
We pulled into a run-down neighborhood just after two in the afternoon. The houses that lined the cracked sidewalks practiced lawn care much like I did—not at all. Weeds had overtaken the yards that were overwatered, their owners trying to compensate for a lack of effort, while the other lawns had faded to a dull brown from the dry winter. Old cars filled the driveways and lined the curbs of the entire street. Xander found a spot a hundred yards from our destination.
After walking to the front door of the provided address, Xander rang the doorbell, but it didn’t chime. So, he rapped on the locked screen door. We waited beneath the cover of a thousand cobwebs and a wasp nest about the size of my head. Luckily, the little devils had all headed south for the winter. After about twenty seconds without a response, I stepped forward and rapped on the window beside the front door, surprised it didn’t shatter from the frustrated force I put behind it.
“Get off my fucking property, you two-timed homos,” said a voice more akin to a cartoon witch’s cackle than the actual cartoon witch.
I glanced at Xander, shrugging, and whispered, “What’s that even mean? Should I be offended? I’m flattered and all that she thinks we’re together—you’re way out of my league—but I’m confused.”
“Ma’am,” Xander called out, “my friend and I are here on official business regarding an Annabel Nevis. We would appreciate if you could spare a second of your time to answer some questions.”
A pregnant silence followed his declaration.
I leaned over to him and said, “Do you think she’s loading her shotgun right now? I’m not ready to die. I’m too young and beautiful—though, that’s how the best of them go out. On top of the world with everything to lose. I guess that’s where the comparison ends, though. I’m more at rock bottom with nothing—”
About ninety-two latches from behind the door unlocked. The door opened, revealing a hefty woman of about sixty and a noxious odor that about knocked me on my ass. Her eyes drooped and she had a thicker mustache than I could ever dream of growing, yet the hair on her head grew in thin, snowy patches.
“You two lovers? I been seeing on the news about all them homos getting married. End of the world, I tell you. You’ll go straight to hell and burn for eternity.”
“Actually,” I said, “Xander here is a very gentle lover. Let me tell you, I’m spoiled with a trip to heaven every night—sometimes twice. If hell is my punishment… so be it.”
Xander cleared his throat and wiped his hands on his slacks. Knowing him, he probably agreed with Ms. Crazy’s perspective on the matter. He skirted over the topic and said, “Excuse my friend. We’re investigators, not lovers—contrary to what he said. Do you know Annabel Nevis?”
“I’m her mom,” the lady said.
Before I could shove my foot in my mouth, Xander said, “I work for a special investigative agency, and I recently came across the statements Annabel gave to the PPD and EDSO ten years ago. If you don’t mind, my friend and I would like to come inside and ask you some questions about your daughter.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we don’t think your daughter lied about what happened that day. And we might be able to find out what actually murdered your son.”
The woman turned her head and looked back into her dimly lit home as if looking for assurance, then nodded and unlocked the security door. After opening that, she said, “Come in. You can sit at the kitchen table.”
An overwhelming stench of sour piss and unflushed feces smacked me as I stepped into her home. I coughed out of reflex to the odor, and Xander nudged me with his elbow. The door led us into the living room, which was a hoarder’s dream. Boxes were stacked up to the ceiling. Old newspapers were bundled together in short columns. Tied trash bags and loose garbage and old junk and tattered clothes were scattered over every square inch of available floor. The woman crossed over it all like a second carpet and walked around the corner, presumably into the kitchen. My eyes locked onto—and I’m not even kidding you—a pile of dried shit resting atop a lining of paper towels. Not like a single shit either, but a fucking human litter box. I didn’t cough, but straight gagged, trying not to vomit.
Xander, still glaring at me, whispered, “Get it together.”
I don’t know how he managed such poise as he followed the woman into the kitchen. My skin crawled, as if the bacteria that festered and lingered within those walls clung to my body and skittered around my limbs. With all my open wounds, I felt less than okay about wading further into her house, but I held my breath and rounded the corner into the kitchen.
Rotten fruits and vegetables lay on the grimy, crumb-littered counters. Dirty paper plates stood piled in the sink, as if she might actually wash and reuse them. A table was placed in a nook area, covered in soda cans and used napkins and old photographs—the kind that people used to have before cell phones.
With a bazillion comments sprinting through my mind, my head about exploded trying to keep them bottled up. But I didn’t dare open my mouth in that sty, fearing what might creep onto my tongue and into my body if I did. I read somewhere that feces particles were thrown across the bathroom if you didn’t lower the toilet seat before you flushed. Well, what about if you didn’t even use a toilet? Where did the feces particles go then? I didn’t want to find out—not in the least. I bit my
lip, resigning my quick wit and allowing Xander to take over.
He actually sat his fancy-ass suit on one of the chairs at the table. His face gave away no emotion. He could have been catching rays on a private beach for all you could tell. “Thank you for sitting down with us,” he said, folding his hands atop the table. “And I apologize for my manners. My names is Alexander Shells. This is my colleague, Joseph Hunter.” He gestured toward me.
The woman stood in the center of the kitchen, her pale skin splotchy with rash. “I’m Sandy,” she said. “Would you like some coffee or water?”
I nearly vomited all over the floor at the mention of consuming anything she offered.
“No thank you,” Xander said, his voice calm and reassuring. “We only have a few questions.”
“You really think…” Sandy began, stopping. Her eyes widened and her mouth flapped as she tried to find the words. “You think she told the truth?”
“Your daughter?” Xander asked. “Annabel? I believe her story. Do you not?”
“Do you mind if I make myself coffee? I… I get nervous easily and it helps to stay busy.”
“Please,” Xander said. “Make me some, too. I would enjoy a cup.”
I would have to reevaluate everything I knew about Xander. A Jesus junky who claimed his body was the temple of God, a clean freak, a germophobe, someone more inclined to bathe in bleach than jump into a public pool—but he was willing to drink coffee made from this woman, in this house? I didn’t know if I should be ashamed, amazed, or dumbfounded. Keeping my lips sealed, though, I just stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“Of course,” Sandy said, turning her back to us and shuffling through her cabinets for who knew what. “But, back to your question. I’m ashamed to say… no. I didn’t believe her story.” The hefty woman paused on her tiptoes and shuddered at the memory, one hand reaching into an upper cabinet. “I thought her and Andrew—my son—had been up to no good that day, and she had lied to protect herself.”
“Why make up such an incredible story, then?” Xander asked. “Why not make something more believable?”
“Annie always lived in her own little world.”
I glanced around the house and thought about a black pot or something like that.
Sandy continued, “She always claimed that magic existed, and so did vampires and all that. She would argue with me about it. ‘Where do you think the ideas came from for movies?’ she would ask when I said they’re just make-believe.” Sandy chuckled, though without any humor. “Sometimes, I lay awake, and I wonder if Annie killed Andy just to prove a point to me. Those are the worst thoughts a mother could have.”
Xander didn’t respond right away. He fingered through the pictures on the table, actually touching something in that house. Pausing on one, he pried it from the surface and studied it. “Is this them? Your children?” He turned it around, showing an image of three towheaded children—a boy and a girl in their early teens, and another child about three.
Sandy looked back from whatever she was doing—I’d never seen anyone go about making coffee like her. After squinting at the photograph, she nodded. “That’s Andrew and Angela,” she said. “The two oldest. They’re twins. Annabel was a miracle. My husband became sick, and the doctor said having children would be impossible. Well, God had other plans and exchanged Robert’s life for Annie’s. He passed just before she was born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Xander said, setting the picture back on the table. “Did your daughter always stick to her story about the monster?”
Sandy shut the cabinet she’d been rummaging through and grabbed two coffee mugs from the kitchen counter. She dumped the contents into the sink. “She never changed it once.”
“And it was just her and Andrew hiking that day?”
“I don’t know,” Sandy said, opening a drawer and retrieving two packs of instant coffee. She shook them. “One of Andrew’s friends—he had a weird name, like a girl’s—had fallen in love with Annie. She was very attractive, but still young. Eleven years younger than her brother and his friend.”
“Was his name Gladas?” Xander asked.
The woman’s saggy face tightened with excitement. “Yes! Gladas… Gladas Irving, I believe. A very sweet man, just so much older than my Annie. You know him?”
As Xander responded, I recalled what Dakota had said about the letter. Gladas refused my love after I made him a Demi. What else had Dakota mentioned? Out of anger, I issued the Scylla curse upon the woman, or something along those lines. Was Circe mad because Gladas loved Annie and not her, so she cursed Annie? Could a Nephil demoted to a Demi even curse someone, or was that a Nephil-exclusive power? Either way, was Annie the victim of a Scylla curse?
“Where’s Annie now?” I blurted out, interrupting their conversation. The room fell silent for a second, and I stepped toward the woman. “Where’s your daughter now?”
The woman stammered, “I… I don’t—she went away. She’s been gone. I don’t know.”
“Who would know?”
“Joey,” Xander said, but didn’t go any further as I raised a hand to silence him.
“Would anyone know where Annie is?”
“Yes,” Sandy said. “Her sister, Angela. She speaks with her on occasion and will give me updates.” A tear streaked down the woman’s rounded cheeks.
“Where’s Angela?” I asked.
“New York, for work.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“Joey.” Xander stood from his chair and grabbed my left arm. “Calm down.”
Pulling away from Xander and moving closer to Sandy, I said, “Call her, then. Get on the phone and call your daughter.” Sandy stared at me with wide eyes, coffee packets torn open but still full. She didn’t move a muscle. I may have raised my voice a little. “Now!”
Sandy startled at my command and skittered out of the kitchen.
Joey grabbed my arm again and asked in a low, urgent voice, “What was that?”
“Do you remember Circe’s note to Medea? What it said?”
Xander pined for a second. “‘Gladas still refused my love after I made him a Demi and issued the Scylla curse upon the woman.’ Exactly that, if I’m not mistaken.”
What a tool, right? Bragging about his awesome memory. Still, I had the gist of it, which goes to show you I’m more than a bruised and battered face.
“Okay,” I said, “you’re not going to make me spell it out, are you? Gladas loved Annie. Circe loved Gladas. Gladas becomes a Demi. Someone becomes a Scylla. God, I feel like a freaking genius when I’m with you.”
Sandy returned with a phone to her ear. “No, Angela… Angela,” she said, “everything is okay. There are two people here who want to help. Yes. I told you that. They want to help Annie. Yes… no. Here, you talk to them. I’ll put you on speaker, okay?” She pulled the phone from her head and tapped the screen.
“Mom, don’t—”
“You’re on speaker now.”
“Angela,” Xander said in his the most calming voice ever. I almost fell asleep right there. “My name is Alexander Shells, and I’m with a colleague, Joseph Hunter. I’m employed by an investigative agency that specializes in supernatural cases. I know that sounds out there, but sometimes there are things that law enforcement doesn’t have the resources for. That’s where we step in. I came across your sister’s statement to the police from ten years ago. When I read it, I believed every word she said, though I was hoping to speak with her. I’m sorry to catch you off guard like this, but would you be willing to provide us with a way to contact Annabel? If we can talk with her, I believe we can finally solve your brother’s murder.”
A steep silence followed Xander’s speech. For a second, I thought that Angela had decided to fuck off and hang up the phone. But she proved me wrong. “Annie is… she’s not okay. She’s distanced herself from society. I only hear from her once a month, when she makes it into town and finds a phone to use. If you want to speak with her, you’ll have to pay
her a visit. But… sir, she’s lying about this story.” Angela spoke slowly and clearly. “I don’t know what happened that day, but a giant river monster didn’t kill my brother.”
“Who did?” I asked, knowing that she would say Annie.
“Either his friend Gladas, because Andy wouldn’t allow our sister to date him—but I don’t even believe that—or he just drowned, and Annie was high, unwilling or unable to save him. I think that when she sobered up and realized what had happened, something in her mind snapped. Out of remorse or embarrassment, she made up that story, then disappeared from this world.”
“Where did she disappear to?” Xander asked. “I appreciate your willingness to speak with us, but as I said, it would be most productive to speak with Annabel herself. Where could I find her?”
Angela allowed the silence to stretch again. After a few seconds, she gave us directions.
10
If you follow the American River far enough east, it leads straight to Folsom Lake. It’s a perfect place to have picnics on the shore, go on a hike, jet-ski, wakeboard, or pervert around and check out some beach bodies.
We drove right past the lake and headed southeast.
The river split in two directions from the lake—North Fork American River and South Fork American River. I know. The naming was clever. How they decided on those names… it’s beyond my simple abilities to imagine. We followed along the southern stream for a solid hour. Cityscape turned to forest.
“This might sound like a joke,” I said. “So, please, don’t take it the wrong way… because it’s not a joke. Are you planning to kill me way out here? Did I say or do something wrong?”
Xander smirked, but he never took his eyes from the road. That non-answer didn’t help me feel better about driving to the middle of nowhere. After another twenty minutes of some pretty tense silence, we pulled onto an unpaved side road that wiggled through the dense forest. The economy-sized car wasn’t equipped to handle the uneven, potholed path, bouncing us around like beads in a maraca. Pine trees needled above us into the blue, sunny sky.
