03. sorry, we're dead: clover and curses
PART THREE:
OF MONSTERS AND MEN
WARRENWICK
It was less than an hour later when I finally strolled into the office, which just showed how good I was at restraint. My ink-black hair was still a little damp under the pomade I'd combed over it, but my suit was pressed and shoes were shined. I was the picture of a put-together gentleman. No one could guess what I'd been up to--
"Someone's already been lucky tonight," my other partner said before the door had even closed at my heel. He gave me a quick glance over the top of his paper, knowing smirk hidden by the newsprint.
"What've I said about keeping your nose out of my private life?" I said without any real venom as I pulled off my coat and draped it over the wooden rack by the door. It was a nice piece of office furniture, made of polished maple with gleaming brass hooks. It matched the large desk and pair of chairs, part of a full set. When business had turned around last year, that was one of the first changes we had made: making the space look professional. We were still in the same building, though, because we half-expected the luck to run out if we moved to a nicer neighborhood -- and Virgil joked that he'd gotten accustomed to the smell in the hall and would miss it if we left. "Anything important happen today?"
"The front page story is about a thwarted break-in at the museum's new Egyptian exhibit, if that tells you anything," Virgil said dryly. He shifted in the swivel chair, the leather squeaking against his gray pinstriped suit. It had taken us a while to find a chair we both could use -- he was a big man. Not fat, just substantial. He had another four inches on my six feet, much broader shoulders, and at least another seventy pounds on me, all of it muscle. With his build, deep voice, and glossy black skin he looked like the worst kind of man to meet in a dark alley at night. And, to be fair, he was dangerous to cross. But he also had a propensity for downright awful puns, a smile that produced the occasional boyish dimple, and had developed a habit of dressing like a dandy, as evidenced by the emerald green pocket square at his breast and shiny gold tie pin. That latter habit was probably due to the influence of his current flame, Maggie Belladonna, though I suspected there had always been a peacock hiding behind the cat.
"We're a right pair of vultures," I said. "Disappointed that there wasn't a horrific murder or major robbery."
"Hey, a man's gotta eat," Virgil said with a shrug, turning a page. His dark face went darker. "That damn Callahan's at it again. Take a look at this header." OF MONSTERS AND MEN: THE NEW POLICE FORCE screamed the article. "Fucking muckraker," Virgil muttered, shaking his head irritably, the way a were will when someone blows a dog whistle. "All he does is stir the idiots up into a fever pitch."
"At least it's on page six," I pointed out in an attempt to mollify him. "Even the paper knows he's trying to make mountains out of mole hills."
"They still printed him, didn't they?" Virgil said waspishly.
Don't get me wrong: I had no love for the shill myself. I'd call Cary Callahan pond scum, but I'm sure there are some very polite wiggly things living in ponds. If Virgil and I were vultures waiting for the next body to drop, Callahan was the fly, or perhaps the maggot. Our work wasn't pretty but his was downright disgusting. I like to think that we did a service for the city: we wanted to help the grieving and find justice for the victims. Callahan was utterly self-serving; his only concern was what he could get out of the mess, and fuck the families left behind or the people just trying to make an honest living.
He was a new breed of journalist: the kind that crept up to windows with a camera around his neck, who purposefully went digging in the dirt just so he could spread it around. He wasn't interested in the truth unless it was tawdry and scandalous; he didn't care if his articles drove men to suicide, destroyed marriages, or tore families apart. In fact, I'd swear that he reveled in having that sort of power over people.
He'd gotten on Virgil's bad side -- an inadvisable place to be -- a couple months ago, when he'd first started trying to whip up anti-preternormal sentiments with a series of exposés outing preters who held prominent positions in the city.
Our kind has been 'out of the crypt' for fifty years now. In a single night humans learned that all of the goblins and beasties of their nightmares were real; that we'd been rubbing elbows with them from the beginning. The reaction was predictably mixed and more than a little bloody, but things smoothed over much sooner than I'd expected. Now, decades later, most of humanity had come to terms with our existence. But that didn't mean everyone liked it, and that didn't mean it was entirely safe to be a preter in today's society. So I couldn't hold it against those who could pass as human and chose to live as such.
What did it matter that the District Attorney's wife was a brownie? That was between the two of them. So the CEO of Stiefvater Enterprises was an incubus -- so what? Didn't mean the man was any less of a shrewd businessman; didn't mean his stock deserved to tank almost overnight. And who cared that WKPO Radio's latest voice actor was a banshee? She was reading melodramatic copy for everyone's entertainment, not screaming someone's death on air.
I don't know if Callahan is actually racist and speciesist or if he just knows how to use the rhetoric to get what he wants. I do know he's opportunistic enough to do whatever it takes to make his name a household one. No amount of reasoning with the bastard -- pointing out that preternormals were more than happy to keep to themselves and, for the most part, leave humans be -- would stop him from implying that we were all constant menaces to society.
"Just listen to this horseshit," Virgil said with a growl. " 'All signs are pointing to the commissioner actually following through with the suggestion, and we may soon see scales or fur in uniform. I, for one, won't feel safe knowing the boys in blue may become the bats in blue. Far better to see a woman with a badge than a preter.' "
"Charming," I said. "Though it's somewhat impressive how he can be speciesist and sexist in all of two sentences. You know, if you didn't read his drivel, your blood pressure would probably be better."
"Yeah, and if you don't read the writing on the wall sometimes you're surprised by what comes next," Virgil muttered darkly. "I can still remember what it was like in the bad old days, before the Chaney Laws."
With his imposing physique, it was easy to forget that Virgil was so much younger than me. I've been around so long that I'm not even sure how old I am, but I'm close to a thousand. I may look like I'm in my early forties, but then Virg looked not much older; in his case, it was off by a couple decades. In mine, it was centuries.
And I couldn't blame him for his anger. Thanks to stories and fairy tales, weres had always been seen as slavering monsters. When a person could turn into an animal at will, people assumed that they were more beast than man regardless of their current shape. And at the same time vampires had somehow become romantic. A relatively recent trend in fiction liked to paint us as seductive charmers. Valentinos with sharp teeth. I knew how fucking ridiculous that was; some of us came across as cultured or refined, sure, but we were still bloodthirsty predators. If we played the seduction card it was purely a means to an end -- namely, the end of the chosen prey, when we ripped their throat out.
Humans. And they claimed that preters were the weird ones.
"Look at the bright side, Virg," I said, attempting to mollify him before his hackles could bristle further. "We've got the Chaney Laws now, so if anyone tries to shoot you full of silver, they'll be fully prosecuted for murder in a court of law."
"Jeez, that's reassuring," he snorted, but I could see that he was calming down. "This piece of dreck does remind me, though -- know how I had dinner with Tommy the other night?"
"Yeah?" I unbuttoned my jacket and sat down. Detective Tommy Tiller was the best cop either of us knew, and one of the few humans I'd met who truly accepted preters. In my experience, the people who welcomed us with open arms were people who knew what it was to be persecuted, and Tiller was black.
"We talked about this new push to diversify the police force, and Tom says it's pretty much a done deal. The Comish already has his eye on someone."
"Tiller know who?"
"Yup," Virgil grinned, flashing sharp white canines. "And when the news breaks, I hope it makes Callahan's head explode. It's not just a preter -- it's a dame, too."
I whistled. "Really?"
"The Comish isn't doing things by halves. If he's gonna bust down one door, guess he figures he might as well bust another, too. Her name's Lucretia Crux. And you'll appreciate this -- she's a vamp. Ever cross paths with her in the past?"
"Not that I recall." But there were a lot of spots in my memories, years when I'd been more animal than man. "Lemme guess: she's Roman."
Virgil cocked a finger at me. "Got it in one."
"Well, I hope things go smoothly for her. If Commissioner Francis handpicked her, she must be able to hold her own."
The door swung open abruptly but neither of us turned. We'd heard the footsteps hurrying down the hall and recognized the distinctive tread. "I'm so, so sorry," Vera said, tossing her red coat onto the rack, her hair -- only a shade lighter than said coat -- windblown and tangled beneath the black veil she habitually wore. "I know I'm late, I had an awful time getting out of the Dance--"
"It's alright," Virgil said charitably, folding the paper. "We know how it is."
"Anything in particular I need to do tonight?" she asked, tucking back her hair and straightening her veil. Vera Lynne was our night secretary. She was usually in early enough to pick up the proverbial torch from the day girl, Lily Tsu, but there are certain nights of the year when we're more lenient on when she clocks in. Some awkwardness in a shift change was a small price to pay when you're dealing with the Sidhe.
(We'd hired Vera for three reasons. One: she had an excellent resume and a near perfect typing score. Two: she'd turned up just before we placed the want ad and we took it as Fate. And three: there was a very good chance she would have given us permanent bad luck if we hadn't. Vera is a nice enough girl, don't get me wrong, but she's also one of the Fair Folk. And in all of my experience, the Fair Folk are very rarely fair if it conflicts with what they want.)
"There's a bit of paperwork left over from the Frisky Wilson fiasco that needs to be filed at the D.A.'s office," Virgil suggested. "Since his trial's coming up next week. And Lily left a note about updating the contact information rolodex -- looks like she got up to the 'G's."
"How'd the Dance go?" I asked.
Vera pulled a face. "It's bloody difficult to bring a new season into a city," she said, accent thickening. There was a bit of London in it, but a lot of heather. "Ever try summoning the spring when yer feet are on concrete? When the sky's full of chemicals and there's electricity everywhere? The leylines are a snarled mess in this town, and no wonder." She sighed and cracked her fingers; there were a few too many pops, as if she had more joints than most women. "It's gonna be a dreary spring," she finished blandly. "Hope you've got a good raincoat."
She sat down at the secretarial desk off to the side and pulled the rolodex towards her with one hand, the phone with the other. There was that to be said for Vera, too; she didn't mince time when it came to work. We certainly got our money's worth from her.
"So what's on your docket tonight?" I asked Virg.
He shrugged. "If something doesn't pop up in the next hour, I'll probably head down to Mac's. Oh, that reminds me -- you and Nora are still gonna make it on Friday, right?"
Friday! Stevie and Lily's engagement party! "Oh, God, yeah," I said. "Thanks for the reminder. My head hasn't been screwed on properly these days." The words were still falling out of my mouth when I caught Virgil's expression and winced -- I'd only brought it on myself.
"Well, you've been screwed properly in other ways," he said, fulfilling the promise of his smirk. It was a testament to the depth of our partnership that I didn't lean forward and smack him.
"How is Stevie?" I asked, choosing not to rise to the bait. Stevie Yoo was our other partner, the daytime face of the office and the only human in the entire outfit. Little more than a year ago he'd been a cabbie, our getaway driver of choice. But then he'd met Lily Tsu, the huli jing granddaughter of a very old friend of mine, and decided that being a cabbie wasn't going to cut it any more. If he was going to get serious about his future, he needed a bigger paycheck. Luckily, the resolution of Nora's case had led us to enough steady work -- courtesy of Nora's boss, Peder Bjørnson -- that we could afford to not only hire Steve on full time, but Lily as well. In the past year, he'd distinguished himself nicely with a couple dozen closed cases under his belt. "Now that he's on days I never see the mook."
In fact, barring the brief conversation we'd had three weeks ago, it had been months since we crossed paths. And that last conversation had been more than a little awkward -- Stevie had come to me for advice about Lily. It had been quite a surprise; given our backgrounds, I would've expected him to go to Virgil for romantic advice, not me. But then, I suppose when it came to such a serious topic, perhaps I was the best choice. Stevie had been so nervous he'd seemed more like a teenaged boy than a man nearing forty, although in my eyes he'd always be impossibly young, even should the day come when he was a grey-haired oldster.
"I just don't know, War," he'd said, starting to pace the length of the office. "I love her, God knows I love her, but... Is it right for me to ask that of her?"
"This is because she's a huli jing and you're a--"
"Normal, yeah," Stevie said quickly. "It's not that I'm afraid of what people will think, don't get me wrong on that. I don't give a fuck if people disapprove. I just keep thinking that... Marrying her would be so selfish. It would really just be about me, wouldn't it? Because no matter what I'll be gone in another fifty years and she'll be alone. Won't it hurt her more to have had that time and then... nothing?"
"Steve," I'd said. "This isn't the sort of decision you can make for her. Don't be a fucking idiot and pull the noble self-sacrifice card. You can't break things off because you think you're ultimately doing her a favor -- you need to sit down with her and talk about all of this. Be completely honest about everything that's on your mind, lay it all out, and let her make the call. If you don't take a risk on something that could be great just because you're afraid... That's no way to live a life, Stevie. And in your case, you've only got the one. It's not like you get a do over later."
And Stevie had grinned that boyish grin of his, run a hand through his messy black hair, and nodded. A week later Lily's grandfather was crowing to me about what a beautiful bride his favorite granddaughter was going to be come the fall, and how I had missed my chance when I refused to take her off his hands in exchange for free dry cleaning a year ago.
"Pretty sure he's built a permanent castle up on Cloud Nine," Virgil chuckled, breaking through my reverie. "Picked up a gift for 'em yet?"
"Obviously not. What did you get them?"
"I didn't get them anything," Virgil corrected. "Mags found them a beautiful antique tea set down in Chinatown. Swears it's just the thing a new bride'll love. And... speak of the devil," he added as the door swung open again. "Hello, gorgeous."
"I'll just overlook that comparison to Lucifer," Maggie Belladonna said as she sashayed towards the desk -- and sashay was the exact right word. It was incredible how such a tiny woman could convey such raw sex appeal, and it was close to unbelievable how she could swing her hips like that in such a tight black skirt.
Maggie was a witch, and a very successful one. Her virility tonics were reportedly the best in town; no one could scry the past or divine the future like her, either. And she always looked like she'd just stepped off a Hollywood set, with her jet black curls, hourglass figure, ruby lips, and sapphire eyes. Only the cat hairs that inevitably clung to her fitted dresses marred the impression. "Hello, War," she said politely as she passed. "Hello, lover," she purred as she paused beside Virgil's chair and pressed a firm kiss to his waiting mouth. Seated as he was, neither of them had to lean or stretch.
"What brings you to our humble part of town?" Virgil asked with an arched eyebrow, licking her lipstick from his lips. (Maggie's neon-lit office was downtown in the high-rent district, across the street from the biggest bank in the city.)
"You forgot your hat," she said smartly, dropping said chapeau onto his head. "...And I just tried to do a reading for a client that didn't go very well."
"Oh?"
"Because for some reason I couldn't focus on her lifelines. You kept popping into my mind's eye." She pressed a brightly lacquered black fingernail to his chest.
"Sorry I'm such a distraction," Virgil began with a crooked grin.
"No, that's not it. I'm a professional, kitty. I'm more than capable of divorcing my personal from the business. This is not a testament of your incredible prowess in the sack. Something big and not very good is looming on your horizon and it's bleeding through the planes to the point where I'm picking up on it even when I'm not looking in your direction."
"That doesn't sound good," Vera said, glancing up from the rolodex. Her index finger had frozen in mid-dial.
"So I decided to march down here and warn you to pass on whatever case next tries to land in your lap. Whatever it is, no matter how enticing the perks may be, you need to pass. You hear me, Meriweather?"
"I do believe the little woman cares," Virgil said, looping an arm around her waist.
"After all the time and effort I've put in to domesticate you, you big lummox," Maggie teased, tapping his nose with a fingertip as she sat on his knees. "I'd hate to see it all go to waste. Do you promise?"
"Ah, Mags, you know how I hate--"
"Virgil Eugene Meriweather, you're not too big for a smack," Maggie threatened. "Don't make me put a hex on you to keep you out of trouble."
"You wouldn't dare--"
"You bet I wouldn't."
"Thought all witches who set up licensed shops had to take an oath not to..."
My ear picked up the creak of the elevator down the hall, the rattle of the cables audible only when I tuned out the fond bickering next to me. It had to be a client -- everyone else knew better than to risk that unreliable contraption. I was about to say something, warn the others that their little tableau was about to be interrupted, when Virgil straightened abruptly in the chair, nostrils flaring.
"That perfume," he said hoarsely. "It couldn't..."
The door swung open -- we should install a revolving one at this rate -- and a statuesque woman stood silhouetted in the light from the hall. She was already imposingly tall, but the red pumps she wore added another three inches. Her long honey-hued hair set off golden highlights across her dark skin; the crimson of her houndstooth dress perfectly matched her full lips and nails. She had an undeniably magnetic quality about her; she had only to walk into a room and she would draw every set of eyes.
She had one particular pair's full attention right now.
"Molly?" Virgil said in a strangely strangled voice. I had never seen him wear such an expression before.
"Hello, Virgil," she said in a voice as mellow as her smile. But there was a brittle sharpness to her eyes that the smile didn't wholly soften. "It's been a while."
"Eleven years," he said distantly. He seemed to have forgotten that Maggie still sat in his lap -- she was, I realized, looking at the woman with a calculating and knowing air.
"I'm sorry, I wouldn't've come if it wasn't...." She fell silent for a moment. "I need help, Virgil. Very badly."
"Hello, Mother," Maggie said suddenly, sliding from Virgil's knees and standing, cutting through the moment like a razor.
The woman inclined her head politely. "Miss Belladonna."
"I should've seen it," Maggie said. "Should've known whatever it was would be magical. That you'd be mixed up in it. So what happened?"
"There's been a murder. And the police are looking at one of my girls. She didn't do it -- I'm absolutely certain of her innocence. Please, Virgil, I know it's awful of me to come to you, but I can't be sure of who to trust..."
The look on Virgil's face was unsettling. I'd never seen my partner look so... Empty. Melancholy. I stood from my chair and cleared my throat, holding out a steady hand. "Allow me to introduce myself," I said, hoping to further diffuse the tension. "I'm Warrenwick Gam, Virgil's partner. And you are...?"
"Mother Molly Mason," she said, shaking my hand. "I'm--"
"A witch," Maggie supplied. "Head of the Clover Coven. And she's also--"
"My ex-fiancée," Virgil said quietly.