The Dark Communion (The Midnight Defenders) (5 page)

I stood from the chair and walked to the door. “If I were psychic, I wouldn’t need your help now, would I?” Judging from the look that fell across his face, that one got him thinking. “Number’s on the card. I’ve gotta go chase up a lead.”

“Will do.”

“Cheers,” I said and left the office, stalked back through the sea of desks and cubicles, past phone-sex at the reception desk, and back out into the night.

Seeing Stone again set me off. Maybe what I told him wasn’t completely accurate, but there was a history there. One I didn’t want to think about right now.

I needed a distraction. I needed to work. If I could only wrap my head around this case.

As I began to drive, I started to think how an underground ring of serial-kidnapping, cannibal bums sounded a bit like black magic and remembered what Ape had said, maybe that tramp in the house had found some ritual in some dumpster. Maybe there was a new kind of cult. Whatever it was, it had me curious.

I needed answers.

.

5

When you’ve been at this as long as I have, you learn a few tricks. You meet people you can trust. You also meet people you wouldn’t trust if your life depended on it, but you know they won’t lie to you because they’re fucking weaker than you. That was my informant, Seven.

I hadn’t seen him since that shit went down at the Children’s Hospital. I’d had to squeeze him for information, but he wouldn’t talk willingly, as the Centaur was one of his sodding poker buddies or some shit. I got scary.

Problem was, since then, he’d been avoiding me. I didn’t know where he lived, just his usual haunts. He wasn’t at any of them. I knew one other place, but wasn’t too eager to go back there. It didn’t open until after dark, anyway, so I had some time to kill.

I decided to swing back by the office, check the messages, call Ape. There was still no answer at the house. I pulled out the little card in my wallet that had his cell number and dialed that. His voicemail picked up.

As I hung up the phone, I had another thought.

I dialed the seven digits I’d committed to memory almost two decades ago. There was no answer, no message. Just a beep, and then I spoke. “This message is for anyone but Hunter. This is Swyftt. I’m looking into a case involving missing children, wonder if maybe you’ve heard something and we can compare notes.” I left the office number and the number for the house. That was it.

I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in the Hand of Shanai in ten years on principal alone, but thought if anyone had a lead on what was happening, it might be them. I was fucking man enough to nut up and be the bigger bloke. After all, they were a group of Night-hunters what kept the shit from hitting the proverbial fan when it came to the fucking Midnight. If this thing really was as big as Anderson led me to believe, I could use their fucking help.

I knew procedure. If anyone was monitoring the line, they would call back within minutes. Of course, it might take longer, but I was killing time anyway, so I waited.

I opened the drawer in my desk and pulled out a small Crown Royal pouch. Untied it and tipped the contents into my open hand: a heavy silver coin, engraved on one side with the Fleur-de-lis. The coin was given to all new members of the Hand. I guess I never gave mine back.

I turned the coin over a few times, stopped eventually at the backside, absently rubbed the faded, inscribed letters: Allons, Dieu ayde. It was French: “Let us go on, God assists us.”

“If only that were still true.”

I replaced the coin in the pouch and set it back in the drawer next to a long, rectangle box about the size of a television remote. Took the box, held it in both hands, and thumbed the top open.

Inside was a flawless, six-sided, lavender amethyst, Marquise-cut and roughly as wide as a credit card. It was mounted on polished ebony, only slightly bigger than the gem itself, backed with a blue bird’s feather, and flanked on either side by lavish beads and dried bones.

There wasn’t much light in my office, but what little there was danced and shimmered across the gem as if from a distance, the way the sun looked when seen from underwater. It was as hauntingly beautiful as winter fire, eerily cold and invitingly warm.

I stared at it for a while, but didn’t really see the gem – just what it represented. It had belonged to my mentor, a Haitian voodoo man called Solomon Huxley. One of the few I called friend. Huxley trained me, opened me up to the world of the Midnight, and was proof enough that not everyone in the Hand was a complete fuck-hole like Hunter.

Then, as if waking from a trance, I snapped the box closed and slipped it into my pocket.

As I waited for the phone to ring, I grabbed a beer and worked through a few rounds of solitaire on the laptop before falling asleep. When the phone actually rang, my head was on the desk.

The phone rang again. I just stared at it for a moment, confused. I didn’t remember falling asleep.

The phone rang again.

“Hello?” I breathed into the receiver, barely getting it to my ear.

“Jono?”

I moaned an approval.

“Jono! Thank God, I’ve been calling,” said a female voice.

“Nadia, hey. Sorry. I was waiting for a phone call and…”

“You had us worried.”

“Who’s us, love?”

“I’m with Ape. We picked up a new case.”

Ape said something in the background, sounded bored or irritated. I didn’t make it all out.

“I shouldn’t say much,” she continued. “I’ll tell ya later. Ape wants to know if you’re coming home soon?”

“Fuck. Right. We’re supposed to see the parents.” I patted down my jacket, felt the invoice still in my pocket.

“Watch your language, Jono. There’s a lady present.” She giggled.

“Technically, not present. What time is it?”

“Almost eight. Are you okay?”

“Eight? Fuck.” I looked around the room, not sure what I was looking for. “Tell him I have something to do first. I’ve gotta see a horse about a man. It might be too late tonight.”

“Who are you meeting with? Did you pick up another case?” She didn’t ever really sound worried, but she started to sound a little frantic. Maybe she was just trying to keep up with me. I was scattered.

“Yeah.”

“Not another missing child? Ape told me about earlier. We’re both worried.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about. I’m fine. He’s wrong. That was something else.”

“What was it then?”

“I was…” What, admit I was terrified? I couldn’t say that to her, I don’t even know why it happened. “It’s nothing. Nevermind.” I found my beer bottle sitting on the desk, took a swig of old ale. “Look, love, what I have to do is a little time-sensitive. I’ll tell you more later.”

“Jono,” she said. “You don’t get out of it that easily. Something’s been bothering you. I’m going to find out what it is.” She sounded like my mother. So much wisdom in her young age. Maybe it was a by-product of being the only woman in the house with two pre-occupied men.

“I’m fine, love. I’ll see you later, alright. Gotta make a quick stop off and I’ll be home.”

“Be careful, Jono.”

“Give my love to the monkey,” I said. Then I hung up.

I sat back in the chair for a minute, ran a hand carelessly through my hair. I started to feel a little more awake, but was still so tired. Somehow, I managed to get a little nap, but was far from getting any rest. I needed to close this case first. Needed answers and was going to get some. Seven would be there. He’d know something.

I rubbed my eyes again.

I finished the beer, gathered my stuff. Locked up and crawled into my car. The radio played something soft, and the vibration in the seat was relaxing. I could have just laid across the seat right there and taken another nap.

But I didn’t. With a sigh, I put the car in gear and rolled out onto the street. I had promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.

.

6

I took the highway north out of town and followed the coast to pin #4 on my map: a strip club called the Siren’s Song. After dark, you couldn’t miss it: the glowing words and neon mermaid sign would be more at home on the Vegas strip than some old gravel parking lot on a forgotten back highway.

The Song had a reputation, like the Sirens of old, for taking in men and never letting them go – which was pretty bloody accurate. Since fucking Zeus and the ancient Greeks, the supernatural community has been obsessed with tits, and on any given night, the Song played host to swarms of vicious Midnight, particularly the darker ones, called Korrigan, which Seven was part: half-goblin, I think, on his mother’s side.

About now, you’re probably wondering what a Korrigan is. Guess now’s as good a time as any for an intermission. Here goes.

The way it was told to me, before God made man, there was civil war in Heaven: Angels fought angels, with the losing side being banished, Fallen.

However, a group refused to take sides in the war. Maybe they wanted to see how it would play out. Maybe they were lazy or pacifists. But there’s that old saying, “if you not for me, you’re against me.” That’s how God felt, wasn’t it. When the gates were shut, these “angels on the fence,” as they were, were basically demoted, left with a fraction of their power and shunned by both camps. The bastard children.

With Heaven turning its back on them and Hell wanting nothing to do with them, they found their own place to live: not Earth, not Hell, some place inbetween. Ancient people called them the Faye, the Celts referred to them as the Sidhe (say it with me:
Shee
), and over time, the creatures became synonymous with the world of Fairy they inhabited.

Yet despite their middle-ground, they still tended to polarize, maybe feeling guilty for not choosing sides before. Too little, too late, perhaps, but if the prophesies are true – and they believe them to be – there’s gonna be one final war. You may have heard of it: Armageddon, Ragnarok, the fucking Apocalypse, book of Revelation, and all that. I guess they see it as a chance to redeem themselves of past wrongs.

The ones that vote for God are typically called Sprites. As a general rule of thumb, they protect – or at the very least, ignore – humans, because, well, they’re supposed to be made in God’s image.

The dark ones, the ones that typically feed on humans, are the Korrigan. The way I see it, they can’t get at God, so they take out His kids in any way they can. But they’re scared of humans, same way they’re scared of God, so they try to be all quiet, secretive, and not let other people know they’re around.

In the Seattle area, the Siren’s Song was quite popular among the Korrigan, and when I pulled into the parking lot, it was a little after nine. There weren’t many cars for a Thursday, which was probably better for me – I was likely to make a scene. I parked between a white station wagon and a beat-up blue VW beetle. I thought for a second about arming myself, almost grabbed Grace, but decided against it; too much bang wouldn’t go over very well. Instead, I popped open the glove box and pocketed a small knife. Just in case.

Sirens weren’t very strong on their own; they didn’t need to be. They relied on their charms to subdue their victims and drew their strength primarily in numbers: hunting in packs, living in communities. Back when I frequented the joint, all the club girls – from the waitresses to the dancers – were Sirens. I could usually get away with watching their arses more than my own for one simple reason: I was immune to their charms. Didn’t know why.

As I walked up, the usual doorman, Victor, eyed me suspiciously. He was a pit bull of a body guard, built like a muscleman from those old Bugs Bunny cartoons: round head, over-inflated torso and small legs. He was bald, neatly groomed with a goatee, and sported small, dark sunglasses.

Lorelei, the club owner, kept mouth-breathers like him around for added protection. Victor and his ilk were Gorgons, ignorant as shit but more faithful than some of the other protection Lorelei had used over the years – slimy, self-serving bastards like Bogeys or Imps.

“Swyftt?” Victor said.

“Been a while, mate. How’s the family?”

“I thought you musta finally got what was comin’ to ya. Ain’t seen you in so long…”

“I guess maybe I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Is she expecting you tonight?” His voice bubbled with hesitation and tension. He didn’t tend to like me. Liked me less when I was around his boss.

I shook my head, and he seemed to calm a little after I said, “I’m not here for Lorelei. I’m looking for someone else. I’m in and out.”

He pushed one thick finger against my chest and said, “You’re no good for her. I find out you’re lying to me….”

“Relax, mate, I’m just stopping in to have a word with Seven. He around tonight?”

Victor shrugged and said casually, “Yeah, he’s in there.” Then in a more menacing tone, he added, “You’re not gonna cause any trouble, right? Mate?”

“Me? When have I ever done that?” As I moved past him, I patted him on the shoulder, and marveled. His arm was as wide as a watermelon and just as solid. Fucking Gorgons.

As far as titty bars go, the Siren’s Song was something to behold. It wasn’t old and dumpy like The Hole out by the airport. It had a certain class to it, a style all its own. Sure, there were dried globs of cum under the tables like old gum, but the décor was impeccable, and everything from the polished white-gold fixtures and fancy blue and turquoise table linens to the bubble machines in the corners gave it the look of an under-the-sea prom theme.

As I entered the darkened room, my eyes were drawn immediately to the dancer on the center stage. Dressed as a Middle Eastern genie, she shook and writhed to an old Mötley Crüe song, worked the pole and the scant crowd as one. I took a stool at the bar, propped my elbows up on the counter, and turned to watch her turn upside down on the pole and mop her long, raven hair back and forth slowly. I was so fixed on her and her large, dark nipples, that for a moment, I didn’t notice the way the red spot lights throbbed up and down the length of the center runway stage to the billowy, pubic-black curtains of the back wall and the two other girls that danced on smaller, round, satellite stages of their own.

Glass bottles clattered together behind me, and I spun around to the bartender.

She was bent over, restocking beers in the drink cooler. I could see down the front of her shirt, and for a moment, that’s all that mattered. When I found her eyes, she’d been watching me, smiled. “What can I get you?”

As she stood, I couldn’t help but notice how the cold air from the cooler had teased her nipples erect. She winked at me, and I damn near melted right there.

“Any drink specials?” I asked.

“Half priced well drinks, 2-for-1 Seven and Sevens.”

Seven. Dammit. That’s right.

With some difficulty and a heavy sigh, I regained my composure and said, “On second thought, I better not. I’m actually looking for a friend.”

“Look around, sugar. We can all be your friends tonight,” came the well-practiced answer, and her voice was smooth and sticky like warm honey. She teased a lock of brown hair out of her dark eyes and pursed her seagreen lips. Her tight, tanned body reminded me how lonely I’d been. Maybe I would have even said yes, but as she looked at me, I felt a tingle play along the back of my neck and felt the familiar warmth of her subtle charm spread through my extremities. That was all the sobering I needed. And laughed.

“I haven’t seen you before,” I said. “You new?”

Her smile widened, and the warmth I felt began to spread. “Been here a couple years. Haven’t seen you before, though.”

“I used to be a regular,” I said. “I’m an old friend of your boss.”

“Lorelei?” She looked only a bit surprised. “You don’t look like a Congressman.”

“I’m not.” Nor a CEO or a billionaire playboy. “I was her one exception. What’s your name?”

“Opal,” she said in a sultry, gravelly voice.

I reached in my jacket and pulled out one of my cards, slid it across the bar to her. “My name’s Swyftt.” I studied her eyes as she took my card and looked it over. If she recognized my name, she didn’t show it.

“I’ve heard of you,” she said at length.

“Have you? Then I’m surprised no one told you those Siren charms don’t work on me, love. Don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful in every way, and if I could spare a few moments, I’d play for the sheer thrill of it all, but you can’t work your suggestion ju-ju on me. So why don’t we just fucking cut the foreplay here and get down to business.”

In the next heartbeat, she was stoic, serious, guarded. The warmth I felt was suddenly replaced with a frosty chill. “You can get in a lot of trouble coming in to a place like this. What are you, local law enforcement?”

“The card says Private Investigations, doesn’t it. Probably means I’m not a cop.”

“So, what? You a detective? Nobody’s done anything wrong here.”

“Then why are you getting so defensive, love?” I stood from the stool and leaned in closer to her. She smelled like the beach: coconuts and suntan oil. “I told you, I’m an old friend of Lorelei’s. Out of respect for the lady of the house, I’m not here to disrupt what’s going on.”

“I should probably call her,” she said, a bit sheepishly, but made no move for the phone.

I shook my head. “No need. I’m sure you can help me. See, I’m looking for a missing boy. Guy I know who might have some information about that usually comes in here. Name’s Seven.”

She studied me for a minute, considering. “I know Seven.”

“I heard he’s here tonight. You mind pointing me in the right direction?”

“Hard to say. Place is crowded.”

I scanned the two dozen tables, only three of which were occupied. When I turned back to her, she’d resumed her bottle-stocking role, having evidently lost interest in someone she couldn’t charm.

Sirens were tricky bitches. If I’d been anyone else, she would have made me forget why I’d even come in the first place. Different Sirens reacted differently when their mojo didn’t take hold; it made them feel insecure. Some felt threatened and attacked, others grew confused, felt weak, became elusive. Opal, apparently, was one of the latter. All the better for me.

“Well,” I said to no one in particular, “I guess I’ll have to find him myself.”

One table bore four of what looked like children in the darkness, but could have just as easily been midgets, or more likely, some kind of beardless dwarf. They laughed and carried on, waved empty bottles and glasses in the air. Another table sat two middle-aged men in business suits, stacks of bills in their hands. They sat closest to the genie, waved hundred dollar bills at her. She crawled like a kitten toward them, perched on the edge, arched her back suggestively.

A little further back was a man in a backwards ball cap, torn jeans, and a bomber jacket. He nursed a frosty mug, but didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to what was happening around him.

No Seven.

Which left only one place, really, and I headed for the dozen, round private dance tents that littered the far side of the room. Suspended from the ceiling on cables, each was purple velvet and large enough for a small half-circle sofa while still offering a little space to move around in. Grouped together as they were, the tents looked like they belonged to a herd of Arabian nomads.

As the music faded into Nine Inch Nails, I passed the third table. Saw where at least three of the curtains had been tied shut, meant dances were underway. Knowing Seven, that’s where he’d be.

Of course, behind the tents, a hallway led to private bedrooms for the more hands-on, higher-priced services the club offered, but Seven was a fuck-hole…he didn’t have that kind of disposable income.

I approached the first, grabbed hold of the curtained door flap, and yanked it open. A green, toady looking guy sat on the couch and instinctively hunched over to hide the bulge of his erection. His large grey eyes darted nervously around at the floor. The woman he was with had long, wavy black hair and pale white skin. I recognized her. “Hey, Noelle.”

Although completely nude, she made no move to cover herself the way Toady did, but rather, grabbed the flap from my hand and closed the door.

“Really, Swyftt, wait your turn,” she said.

I could feel the bartender’s blue-green eyes on me from across the room. I wasn’t trying to draw attention, and took a more subtle approach to the next tent, simply popping my head in without exposing the confines to the room at large.

A bald, black woman danced over a pair of what looked like high school girls. She swayed back and forth, twisting like coils of smoke from burning incense, her eyes glowing with a flash of azure light. The girls on the sofa, both blondes, looked like cast members from some teeny primetime soap, save for the pointed ears and vibrant, violet eyes. While they watched the dancer, their hands roamed inappropriately.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

I pulled my head out and heard the blondes giggle. Shook my head. What the fuck had I just seen?

Having narrowed my options, I approached the third tent with renewed vigor. Grabbed the flap, opened the tent to a chorus of, “Lucky Number Seven.”

For a half-Goblin, half-something-or-other, Seven didn’t look like you’d expect. He didn’t have any skin discoloration, horns, or excessive outcroppings of hair. Actually, he kinda looked like Steve Buscemi, the actor, especially his profile, which is how I saw him: arms out to either side, reclined back and sitting on the edge of the sofa, a feathered boa around his neck. A topless woman in a thong held either end, teased him with it as she gyrated and shook in his lap.

Imagine his surprise when I plopped down beside him, threw an arm around his shoulders.

Imagine the surprise on the broad’s face, green eyes widening nervously. She wasn’t bad looking. Cute face with long blonde hair and just the right kind of underwear to let you know the color was a dye job. She had thousand-foot legs made to look even longer with the addition of the red stilettos.

“Jesus! What are you doing here?” Seven gasped, jumping as I got closer. He didn’t try to mask his pecker like the other guy, I just wished he had, especially with my arm around him.