Vicious Moon Read online

  “Michael. As far as I know.” She sounded dismissive. “The day after she talked to him, she went out and never came back.”

  That sounded like this Michael, supposedly a demon’s son, was a good place to begin. Over lunch, I asked Laudine more about the politics of the Barrows and specifically who the most powerful players were.

  She looked annoyed but answered anyway. “The black troops, as I call them, are under Etienne’s charge. Some are weak clowns like the ones you saw this morning. He hires them out as security for businesses. The ones you see are always the weak ones. The ones you don’t see are well trained and far more dangerous. Etienne has a small army hidden in the ruins. You won’t see them until they strike.

  “Michael is powerful, simply by being the demon’s son. He’s the one doing the so-called redevelopment here. Michael’s only companion is a witch’s daughter who is not a witch herself, but the Mother has given her certain . . . powers. I’m told Etienne works for Aiakós. There are a few street gangs called the Bastinados. They are vile, but disorganized and not as prominent as they once were. They have a leader of sorts. I know nothing about him.”

  “The police?”

  “Virtually no presence down here, except for the tax cash cow of the docks. They come if there is something they are forced to notice. A big fire, explosion, things like that. If you call them, they sometimes forget to come before they even hang up the phone. It is an unfortunate consequence of the Earth Mother’s spell to keep attention off the Barrows. To keep attention away from the demon.

  “All other policing is private—or nonexistent. I will admit that Etienne has done a good job of keeping River Street viable. His security team patrols and protects legitimate business so people who do come from town are safe—except my customers.” She stopped for a moment and again, I had the cavernous feeling in my gut that she wasn’t telling me everything.

  “That’s all?”

  “No. There are the Sisters of Justice.”

  “Here?” That stunned me.

  “Two of them. Retired, I believe. They run the Armory, a women’s defense school. And I’m told they occasionally persuade pimps to leave town. Bastinados aren’t safe when they’re around.”

  This was a thing I would never have expected: Sisters of Justice, the Big Brother of witches, doing community service.

  “Okay, Laudine, we have private security, gangs, and Sisters of Justice. Is that all?”

  “There is the demon himself, but he’s never been seen as far as I know. Etienne does his evil for him.”

  “Have you ever seen the demon?”

  “Only once. If you ever do see him, you will understand. You will understand that he is quite capable of killing a witch.”

  A confusing array of players lived here, it seemed. And I could not be sure who ruled and who served. I believed Laudine’s picture, while it might be accurate on the surface, did not tell me the whole story of a very complex place.

  After lunch I left Herschel to his own pursuits and headed up the gentle hill that made River Street. An easy journey since I had walked many miles up and down the hills of San Francisco. Laudine had told me where to find Michael. She said it was safe to walk as long as I got back before dark, so I set out at a steady pace for the glass and steel palace called the Archangel.

  Chapter 8

  I walked past the boarded buildings, stretching my legs along the low rise of the ascending sidewalk. Broken sidewalks required careful steps at times. The faint whisper of a breeze kept the car and truck exhausts to a minimum. That same breeze glided across the storefronts in soft waves.

  Cities intimidated me when I first left the swamp. In my desperation to escape, I’d traded the Okefenokee’s deep natural silence for the babble and roar of human and mechanical chaos. In time, I’d come to respect the power of chaos and human activity, but I would probably never favor it over the solitary peace of nature. That’s why I often left the towers of San Francisco for the woods and more natural places.

  It didn’t take long to reach the line of bars. Only those that offered food were open; the others remained locked until the coming night. They had few customers. I’d had a lot of fun in bars during my soldiering years. I could drink but had enough control not to get dangerously drunk—except when I wanted to.

  A few early prostitutes stood outside, leaning against the buildings. Their faces held bored and somewhat hopeless expressions. They didn’t know or care, but their sisters in Africa and Asia were treated far worse. They were often prisoners, slaves by day and forced onto the streets at night.

  Farther up the hill I passed the small and forlorn businesses, those that seemed to be hanging from the proverbial thread. A grocery store, a rooming house, and across the street the place called the Armory, supposedly run by the Sisters of Justice.

  My first and only actual experience with the Sisters had not been positive. I carried a witch’s wariness of them, hence my hesitance to seek them out. I needed to learn about this place, though, and the Sisters would have their own take on things. I crossed the street.

  A silent door opened and closed behind me, shutting off the grumble of traffic outside. I’d entered a room completely empty except for a plastic-covered foam mat spread over half the floor space. The place had a sense of energy—a very human energy that had nothing to do with earth magic.

  A woman stepped into a doorway that apparently led to other rooms in the back. She had to be at least six feet tall. Sister of Justice indeed. Like all of her kind, she stood balanced on the edge of instant violence. She had tan skin that spoke to heritage rather than baking under a hot sun. Her tank top and shorts covered a healthy, muscled body. A woman that tall, with that kind of bulk, could look coarse and masculine. This one didn’t. Just the same, she wasn’t someone you’d expect to meet at a garden party.

  “Good morning, Sister.” I wanted to stay on neutral ground with her.

  “Good morning, witch.” Her voice was deep but smooth.

  “How do you know . . . ?”

  She grinned. “You have a tattoo on your forehead that’s only visible to Sisters.”

  “Well, damn.” She’d stunned me. Sisters of Justice weren’t supposed to have any power like that.

  The Sister broke out in peals of laughter. She clapped her large hands in delight.

  Okay, I’d been had. “Well, I’m glad I provided your laugh for today.”

  “Yeah, you did. I’m Eunice. I was going to go looking for you. Got a call wanting to know if you arrived. Couple of Sisters said they left you in Georgia. Apparently you didn’t provide any laughs for them.”

  “That’s because they were transporting me under duress. I did my very best to make the journey as miserable as possible for them.”

  That got me another laugh. I guess she approved of the challenge I gave her fellow warriors. Then she sobered. “I’ve been ordered to help you. If you need it.”

  The surprises kept coming. She was ordered to help me. Ordered. Not volunteering. “I’ll remember that, Sister. Thank you.”

  A group of four girls—teenagers—walked into the place.

  “Go get changed,” Eunice said to them. “Gonna work harder today ’cause you were so pissy last time.”

  They didn’t speak. Pretty girls and not so pretty girls, with the hard defiant eyes of juvenile delinquents. They walked with the wariness of the abused. Abused, but learning to fight back. I’d seen that look in young eyes in Africa where children were forced into sexual slavery or to carry guns they could barely lift.

  “I teach them not to be victims,” Eunice said.

  I’d stared at the girls long enough that she noticed. “That’s good, unless they use their skill to become better aggressors themselves.”

  Eunice shrugged. “It happens.”

  I left her there and continued my journey.

  The Archangel came up on my right. I wondered who thought up such an inappropriate name. The parking lot was filled with high-end vehicles, mo
st running in the fifty- to a hundred-thousand-dollar range. I know because I’d considered buying one last year. Given the state of traffic on the streets of San Francisco, I had decided that I could put my sixty thousand dollars to better uses, so I made a down payment on an upscale condo with an excellent view of the city and the bridge.

  Glass and steel made nice modern buildings. and through the clear windows I could see two floors of exercise machines, all filled with huffing and puffing patrons. When I entered, the chilly hush of an air-conditioned breeze brushed my skin. How much electricity did it take to cool a place that massive? Through multiple glass interior walls, a blue swimming pool reflected light around the room. The whole place reeked of a surplus of money, freely spent by management and patrons.

  The first person I met was a receptionist in a pink stretchy outfit that left nothing to the imagination. She not so politely demanded to know if I had an appointment. Her pretty face scrunched into a mask of disgust and she looked at me like I was a derelict, maybe the vagrant Laudine called me. She figured I was going to beg for money from her wealthy patrons. There must be a universal job description for barely dressed girls in places like spas and exclusive clothing stores. Wanted: egotistical young bimbo to dump shit on customers who don’t meet a narrow perception of affluence. My jeans were almost new and while my white shirt was a bit rumpled, it was clean and definitely acceptable. So what was her problem?

  “I want to look around,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. No one is permitted to do that without an appointment.” She didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

  “So make me one.” I shrugged and gave her a go-to-hell grin.

  She frowned, clearly annoyed, but tapped keys on her computer. “Well, how about next week . . . ?”

  “How about now.”

  I’d no more than spoken the words when a woman approached. Long black hair streamed around her shoulders and her stance said she could fight if necessary. I’d seen the posture of course, very recently. It appeared out of place here. Sister of Justice. Although I have to admit I’d never thought to see one in a really sharp, tailored suit. The creamy fabric enhanced her darker skin.

  “Is there a problem here?” the woman asked. She sounded genuinely concerned.

  I shrugged. “No. I just wanted to look around before I signed up.”

  The woman nodded politely. “My name is Madeline. I’m the manager here. I’ll be happy to show you everything.” She turned and I followed.

  When we were out of the receptionist’s hearing, she gave me a formal greeting for a witch. “How may I help you, Innana’s daughter?” She wasn’t a witch, but she knew I was.

  I smiled. I really wanted to keep things friendly. “You look like a Sister, talk like a witch.”

  “I am neither,” Madeline acknowledged my statement, still playing the polite game.

  I’d bet hers was an interesting story, but I didn’t have time. I had to start somewhere.

  “I’m here about my sister, Marisol. She came here a month or so ago and talked to someone named Michael. She had a complaint about some men harassing her mentor, Laudine.”

  “I remember her. She . . .” Her voice trailed off as two men in black fatigues approached, obviously intent on me. My old buddies from yesterday morning, Ralph and Parker. Ralph had a bandage around his hand. I gave him a warm smile.

  Madeline stepped between me and the men. Her rigid stance shouted, Don’t screw with me. “What is it? There’s no problem here.”

  They stopped, glared at me, then turned and left without protest.

  Madeline turned back. “Come, we can talk to Michael.”

  I followed her around the machines and their sweaty, struggling occupants to a long silent hallway toward the back of the building. On my left was a room with a multitude of computer screens monitoring every inch of the pool and exercise floor. We went into an office and I was again reminded of the many bizarre things I didn’t know about the world. It seemed like an inordinate number of them were in the Barrows.

  “Michael,” Madeline said.

  Michael. He was stunning. Blond, beautiful, wholly masculine, he was the most spectacular creature I had ever seen. Oh, he looked like a man, but when I slipped my vision to witch sight, he blazed like a golden statue—a statue that screamed danger. There was something not quite human about him. I’d heard nonhumans existed in the world, but I had never seen one.

  But I now knew why they’d named the place the Archangel.

  A chill settled over me, prickling my skin like nettles. I gathered my magic close and Madeline stepped between me and him. Incredible. She’d felt my gathering power. She assumed the posture of a Sister of Justice ready to do battle. “He will not harm you,” Madeline warned. “And you cannot use magic to harm me.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t relax. I only had her word that he wouldn’t attack. “What is he?”

  “My husband.”

  Michael smiled, clearly amused and unperturbed by being referred to as a what, though there was a cloud of tension gathering around him.

  “And he’s the one who talked to Marisol?”

  Madeline relaxed—slightly. “Let’s start this over again. I’m Madeline, this is Michael, my husband, and you are . . .”

  “Worried. My name is Nyx Ianira. I’m looking for my sister, Marisol. She’s missing and I’m told you were the last person to see her.”

  “I remember her,” Michael said. His voice was low and soft as fog on a swamp. “She was concerned about Laudine, the witch at the end of River Street, being harassed. I spoke to Etienne, but . . . is there a problem?”

  “Only that Marisol has disappeared and Laudine is still getting harassed.”

  Chapter 9

  Michael and Madeline stared at each other with eyes obviously communicating a vast amount more than they were going to say to me. When they looked back, they had locked emotion down completely and were acting as one person.

  “How long has your sister been missing?” Madeline asked.

  “A month . . . I’m told.”

  “And Laudine?”

  “Doesn’t know anything.” I cocked my head a little to show some skepticism about the truth of Laudine’s words. “Except that she’s gone.”

  Michael laid a hand on Madeline’s shoulder, asserting control of the situation. She bared her teeth, obviously objecting, but said nothing. There would be words between them later.

  “I will speak to Etienne again and inquire about your sister.” Michael gave me a brilliant smile that said I didn’t have to worry about anything. “I’m sure everything will be fine.” His voice was like a spell. I could feel it tugging at me—not earth magic but charisma that he apparently thought would work to keep me placated. I laughed softly to show my amusement at the thought he could charm me with his voice.

  Madeline nodded at me. Her expression seemed to acknowledge that I hadn’t fallen for his benevolent Prince Charming ruse—and it amused her, too. “I’m going to talk to some people, too,” she said. “Including Etienne. He has good reasons to intensely dislike witches, but he’s going too far. Laudine is harmless.”

  “I met Etienne. And the fact that some witch busted his—” I stopped myself before swearing. “. . . abused him is not my problem. My sister is.” The assertion that Laudine was harmless was a bit of a stretch, too. The lack of actual power did not always coincide with the lack of the ability to do harm. Even a weak witch could create chaos at times.

  Madeline came toward me, seemingly urging me to leave. She offered consoling and meaningless words as she escorted me toward the door.

  I nodded politely and did as she wished. I’d bet there were going to be fireworks between them before I got out the front door. Laudine was right about one thing. They were power players here. I just wasn’t sure of their actual role.

  A yellow sun had settled on the horizon when I walked back to Laudine’s place. It was that time of day just before afternoon reached its peak and fell silently in
to evening. Traffic quieted as day people went home to families and supper, and night dwellers prepared for their time to howl. An SUV, similar to the one Etienne drove, rolled by and slowed, on pace with me. The windows were tinted so dark I couldn’t see who it was. It turned off after I went a few blocks.

  When I reached the cul-de-sac, I was surprised to find several cars parked there, ordinary cars, sedans in no-color grays and whites. One taxicab waited with them, happily running his clock. I stepped into Laudine’s shop and found six middle-aged and elderly ladies standing frozen, staring at me. Their bodies were hunched, purses clutched to their bosoms and eyes widened in fear.

  I held my hands up in mock surrender. “I’m harmless. I swear.”

  “That’s most assuredly a lie,” Laudine said from her place behind her counter. “But she won’t hurt us.”

  The ladies relaxed, but kept an eye on me. I went to Laudine.

  “These are customers,” she said. “They need my herbs and potions. I called them to come while it was quiet.”

  I grinned at her. “You mean while I’m here to kick ass.”

  She acknowledged the fact with a brief nod. She went back to her deft measuring of dried leaves and powders.

  It was fine with me. In trying to drive Laudine out, someone had frightened these relatively helpless women without just cause, much as I had frightened little Kate in San Francisco only days ago. That was not acceptable. I almost wished some bully would come so I could do a little more ass-kicking.

  More women came, and for the next hour I helped Laudine package her herbs, teas, and lotions. She did, indeed, know every one of them without labels on the jars. By the time the last customers left, a deeper darkness had drifted from Sullen Bog, bringing a less than fragrant odor of rotting vegetation.

  “What did we sell those women?” I asked as she went to lock the door against the darkness. I didn’t care, but what she sold would tell me something about her.

  “Mostly herbs for hot flashes. There were some for arthritis and sleep. They’ve been my customers for years—and their mothers before them.”