prepared to discard him the way this age discarded magic.
'I ain't see you around, thought I'd chance swinging by one of your spots.'
'You were lucky I didn't mind being found.' A nest of fine braids, not a hair out of place, lined her head. Skin the color of overcreamed coffee, she possessed high cheekbones and a long, Aquiline nose. Her eyes had a winsome slant to them. However, her pointed ears betrayed the fact that the blood of the fey ran through her veins. She brushed close to him, perfectly aware of the effect her presence had on him. Her musk intoxicated him and she stepped nearer to allow him to feel the heat of her proximity.
'What are you up to?'
'Hunting.'
'Hunting what?' Lee tired of her games, though not to the point where he would risk having her leave his bed. She was his ears and eyes to the streets. All gained through whispers between his sheets. She read things and had a view not even the most seasoned cop could. Her intel and insight made him a god in the gang task force. Too onpoint, he determined, to not be mixed up in it somehow. But he pursued a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy as her info led to busts which kept him too useful to fire. Still, even the best runs came to an eventual end. As she lost interest in him, reading the streets became like him fumbling over Braille. And Omarosa could easily go too far.
'Who.'
'Hunting who?'
'The slayer of my brother, Colvin,' Her voice was husky and feminine, sultry with a hint of threat.
'You looking for Baylon?' It was the name she uttered the last time she'd spurned his advances. 'Word has it that he's holed up with Dred. Ain't left the man's side like he's a newborn after some tit. Or else he knows you out here waiting for him. So why not lay low' (with me) 'and wait for him to pop his head up when he thinks it's safe?'
'You don't understand our ways. My brother needed to be put down like the rabid beast he'd become. But honor demanded it be by someone whose hand was worthy.'
'Like King?'
'As you say. Not the dog of a scoundrel.'
'Like Dred.' Lee struggled to connect the players in this puzzle. Unlike Cantrell, he wasn't that kind of cop. He needed a door to crash through or a head to bust. 'I don't know why you're so worked up. It's not like you had any love for him.'
'Love isn't the point. He was of the fey. That motherfucker Baylon needs to get got. The longer I have to wait, the worse it will be for him.'
'I don't give a fuck who he was of. You don't get to 'hunt' on my watch.'
Omarosa's eyes narrowed. That was the only warning Lee had, not that it did any good. Gone were the moments of a cat toying with a wounded bird, which was the normal thrill of her encounters with him. Gone were the ideas of using him to misdirect police attentions or gleaning information about police investigations. Gone was any of the cool numbness which passed for affection from her. All she had was rage. She stabbed her elbow into the side of his neck, then administered a double-palm heel blow to both ears. His arms lashed about, stunned and grabbing the air for purchase. Omarosa grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and drew him near.
'Who are you to judge the ways of the fey? You do not realize your place in the scheme of things. Should you or your brethren get between me and Baylon, you will learn what Baylon will suffer firsthand, what true fey rage is capable of.'
At the release of his shirt, he dropped to the ground. His instinct was to grab for his weapon and haul her ass in. But he knew two things: 1) he'd have a hell of a time explaining the nature of their relationship; and 2) if his hand had touched a weapon, she'd have killed him three different ways before he had the chance to draw it.
Merle poured enough ketchup next to his cheeseburger to make his makeshift plate of cardboard look like a congealed crime scene. He dipped his cheeseburger into the red pool then took loud, wet bites. Reaching for a nearby straw, he dragged it through his ketchup pool. Something in the blood-like smear drew his attention. He poured more ketchup on his plate and plunged his straw into the mess. His eyes glazed over with sights privy only to him. Tracing patterns into the sludge, spreading the goo like a Neanderthal along a cave wall, his hands sped up in a manic fashion. Part of him dreaded this meet, being caught up in things beyond his (no, their) control. Tormented by unwanted persistent thoughts of her. Of them. He marveled at his ability to hold two sets of contradictory thoughts at once.
'Hold on, hold on,' he muttered, both non-committed and diffident. 'Think of it as the principles of geomancy mixed with automatic writing. Ketchup-mancy.'
Merle didn't have the heart to tell King the truth, not the complete truth anyway. The complete truth was too large to handle, like staring into time, past, present, and future at the same time, seeing all of the possibilities and connections and not going a little bit mad in the explanations of it all. So a simple-sounding question like 'How could they do this?' asked by King might have gotten the response 'you mean 'again' or 'why not avoid it next time'?' Would that have been any better an answer than 'They are bound by the echoes of the story. Just as you are.'
Merle tore pieces of bread and scattered it on the ground before him. A brown and black squirrel with a gray streak along its back scampered back and forth between lobbed pieces.
'What say you, Sir Rupert? How do you say he was chosen? Chosen by the story. There was once a man like any other man. At times brave. At times selfish. At times bold. At times troubled. He had a call, but often ignored it. Fought it. Even ran from it. Sorrow without top, sorrow without bottom.'
The squirrel reared up on its hind legs and chewed in greedy rapid bites.
'Yes, yes. He stirred something in them and they dared to hope. They lived for a dream long denied. King's uncertainty broke the circle. His doubt. Once again, it's all at risk. What had been a place, a community, was now separate houses threatening to be razed.'
The squirrel froze. Its nose twitched. Once. Twice.
'Sir Rupert! That's no way for a gentleman to speak of a lady.'
It scurried up a nearby tree across a limb and onto the roof top.
'You're back,' Merle said to the figure emerging from the shadows.
'Did you think I wouldn't return?' Nine circled him.
'No, I feared you would. I know who you are.' It was as if he poured himself into her or her into him. Like using the dragon's breath, giving herself to him, yet holding part of herself back. She refused him her person, letting his unrequited passion bind him to her. The most ancient of magics: lust. A silly girl's power to besot foolish old men. His heart longed for her and doted on her.
'Didn't I fool you for a minute?' Her confidence working up to where she wanted to go, slithering in the dark. She traced the letter 'M' in the air, green iridescent sparkles shimmered in her wake.
Yes, he knew who she was. She unnerved him. His mouth ran dry. 'You're acquainted with my mother, Mab, the queen of the fairies? They are the oldest of all. Like all creatures of old, they came to this new world and slept. Or blended into the background when it wasn't their time. They know things. Their kind was particularly fond of glamours. Some were necromancers and wielded death magic. Some used the power of both and could assume any shape. Recreate themselves. A useful skill when one needed to bide their time. Or was driven underground.'
'Does this form please you, mage?' Nine danced near and ran her finger along Merle's chest. The flattering attention from youth to fill an old man's sails. She delighted in bending men to her will. Beauty and enchantment. Hers was the weapon of jealousy. Trapped, she was doubly dangerous.
'Does it come with a story?'
'It does. I was home-schooled for my entire childhood. Cloistered away in a familial nunnery of sorts. My parents were afraid of outside influences. But while they clung to one image of their little girl, other people could sense my dark side. Other home-school families shunned us and encouraged their kids to do the same. They hated me. The other women didn't trust me around their husbands even as a young teenager. Made sure to read me the story of the adulterous woman whenever they had a Sunday School lesson to impart. They constantly harped on my clothing: my skirts too short, my tops too revealing. Always striving to make me insecure about how I looked. Do you think my top is too revealing?' Nine leaned over to allow a full, teasing view.
'That's a good story.'
'I thought so. Enough to make you feel rather sympathetic toward me.'
Nine was a clever story but a simple one. There was another story Nine could have told. About a little girl long ago, overlooked in her family. Their little girl, all but ignored by the brighter lights in her family. Older siblings.
