"You're going to want to be quiet now." Dred raised two fingers, his hand rearing up like a cobra about to strike. "Here's what I know. Niggas always wanna hustle. We'll put in more work, do more dirt, often for less than minimum wage, and act like it's somehow better than working a nine-tofive. No matter how much cash I lay out, product I provide, or corners to sell it from, it's never enough. Ain't that right?"
Prez nearly pissed himself when Dred turned his direction. He curled away from him a bit, crossed his arms over his chest as if to fend him off. Dred's eyes bored through him as if examining for any weakness or flaw. Prez couldn't move under their scrutiny.
"Names have power. You name someone, you have power, dominion, over them. When you call someone by name, you imply knowledge of them, a certain level of intimacy. Names have to be respected. God took three of the Ten Commandments to lay it out. This is who I am." Dred ticked off the first finger. "Don't put anything or anyone above me." Dred raised his second finger. "Do not misuse my name." Dred held up his third finger and stopped in front of Fathead. "What's my name?"
"D-d-dred," Fathead stuttered.
"Every time that name comes off your lips, I know."
"Dred, you ain't got to…" Red protested.
Prez moved into a colder, more frightened place.
"You, I'll deal with in a minute. I don't care if I'm dry-shooting as that joint, my name will not be disrespected. You feel me."
"Yeah."
"What's my name?"
"Dred," Fathead said.
"You want to say my name, fine. You do so to po-po and…"
Shadows erupted from the corners of the room. Strands, ebon ropes lashed at him. Two fear-forms held him fast, vaguely human-shaped, at each arm. Four strands latched on to the corners of his mouth, pulling just taut enough to reveal his bleeding gum line. Two more strands hooked into each eye, holding them open. Thousands of threads sprang from the carpet like a harvest of night. They dug into the flesh around his neck, a penumbra obedience collar.
"Here's the problem as I see it. This one here has been snitching. Gave me up. If I hadn't gotten you all out of there, who knew who else he would have given up."
"Let me at that snitch bitch," Naptown Red said.
"Don't worry, he didn't give you up. You ain't significant enough to warrant police attention. However, you did vouch for him."
Naptown Red pulled out his gun. He was at a crossroads moment and had only seconds to make his play. Were he a man of deep thought and methodical planning — or simply had the time to weigh his options — he might have shot Fathead on the spot and thrown himself on Dred's mercy, banking on the show of loyalty to buy him a few days or weeks. However, Red was a man of intuition and opportunity. Fathead had given up Dred's name but not his. What Dred hurled as an insult, Red interpreted as an advantage. He was an unknown, off the radar of Five-O. And Dred was here alone and preoccupied with binding or torturing Fathead. With a few shots, he could remove Dred as an obstacle and bind Fathead to him. Naptown Red fired off five rounds.
Dred turned and waved his hand. The bullets seemed to move in slow motion. The bullets whirred past, their trajectories marking the air like spinning tracers. He moved out the way of all of them except the last one. He allowed that bullet to tear through the muscle of his arm. With a scientific detachment, the pain stabbed straight into his brain and he watched his blood as if experiencing both for the first time in centuries. With a flick of his wrists, he shot a spear of shadow at Naptown Red. The plume pierced his heart, leaving a frozen expression of surprise on his face. Naptown Red dropped to his knees, the Beretta fell from his hands, and then he toppled forward. Dred strolled over to the gun, scooped it up, and then walked over to Prez.
"Don't let all that fool you. Magic takes a toll on a body. People weren't meant to wield it. We just weren't built for it. That kind of energy, even the dragon's breath, can burn up a person."
Prez remained paralyzed in his chair, still unable to move.
"We still have a problem, don't we? Red vouched for Fathead, but Fathead vouched for you. You see my dilemma, don't you?"
Prez's body tensed as Dred pressed the cold metal of the Beretta against the back of his neck. Prez could feel exactly how many hairs it disturbed, conscious of every quaver in the man's hand, down to his pulse. Though the chaos of his thoughts threatened to consume him, he fought to stay calm. A serene calm, one that came with the knowledge that his life was held in a trigger finger. One twitch and it was like blowing out a candle.
"Nakia."
"What's that?"
"Nakia. King's daughter."
"Oh, now that is a useful bit of information. Names have power."
With a gentle squeeze, the candle's flame was snuffed out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Percy walked along the sidewalk closest to the traffic of Michigan Street, his protective nature wanting to stand between potential danger and Had. As much a herding instinct as Kay who trotted alongside them, working in tandem to keep Had on the sidewalk. With school out, the days were even less structured for Percy. He dropped his little brothers and sisters off at Big Momma's place. They'd be able to go to the park across from Breton Court, at School 109. There was a free lunch program there and they'd be able to play. On an overcast day like today, they probably wouldn't be able to break out the Slip 'n Slide and have a time. But they might. He pictured them in their little bathing suits, squealing with delight and shivering on Big Momma's porch when they ran into the shade. He missed being young.
Percy was seventeen.
A lifetime had passed during his high school years. But one more year and he'd be out. He never believed he would have made it, but between Wayne and Outreach Inc, and King, he could imagine himself graduating. He'd allowed himself the thoughts of going to college, Ivy Tech or some other trade school. He loved to cook. But these were dreams of tomorrow. As always, he had to make it through today first.
"I don't like storms," Percy said. Had turned to him as they walked, not breaking stride, but attentive. "See them clouds over there? Every time I see one, they get closer and closer, like they're chasing me."
Had ran his fingers into Kay's fur.
"It's okay though, cause they never catch me. They roll over me and make a lot of noise, but they never get me. I still don't like them, though."
They ambled along the street. Percy spent as much time on the west side as he did on the east these days, but the east side was still his comfort spot. He stayed at the Phoenix Apartments, but hung out all over. So when he thought of searching for the cup and Rhianna's ring, he immediately thought of the castle.
The castle was a house at Michigan Street and Dearborn Avenue. Word was that back in the day, it was originally built for the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. Percy knew the neighborhood. A man pedaled down the street on a slightly rusted mountain bike. An olive-green knapsack slung across his back. Percy waved at him, receiving a head nod in return. The man sold bootleg DVDs in the neighborhood, his current stock including that week's film releases and a plethora of kung fu flicks. Wearing only a pair of tighty whiteys, an old white man rocked back and forth on a porch watching the traffic pass by, beer in one hand. Three days' worth of facial hair stubbled his face. Gray streaked his chest hair.
"Hey, Kool-Aid," the man shouted, a shot at Percy's red shirt stretched over his bulbous frame.
"Hey." It wasn't the first time he had heard the reference. It didn't bother him. Not really.
"Weather's gonna break soon."
"Sure hope so. It's hot. Heat does strange things to folks."
"Where you heading?"
"Off to a castle. Looking for a cup," Percy said in a matter-of-fact tone as if that perfectly explained everything.