Easy for him to say. I’d spent my adult life inventing ways to stay out of sight and out of mind of the Vigiles Magicarum, the recently-formed branch of the FBI dedicated to hunting down and putting away ‘uncontained supernatural threats’. The agency wasn’t even ten years old, but they’d been hammering away at the magical population of the city ever since they set up practice. They were the worst combination of governmental gray-faces and religious fanatics, because the biggest organizations with the biggest stake in putting away people like me were the Fed and the Churches – all of them.
In July of this year, me and half the senior management from the Yaroshenko Organization and the LaGuetta Cosa Nostra were involved in the magical fire-bombing of a casino in Atlantic City. The Manellis had sent in one of the strongest and most genuinely obnoxious mages I’d ever met to take us out in revenge for a murder we didn’t commit. The Vigiles had been part of that investigation. We’d gotten away clean despite the body-count, but if the Vigiles had any way of identifying me after the fact… well.
There was only one peppermint left in the tin. I got it out and split it under my teeth, working the muscles of my jaws as Zane knocked on a closed door, opened it, and motioned me into the lion’s den. I cocked my jaw, rolled my neck, and went inside without a word, every inch the street-hardened wizard.
GOD-dammit. I really wish I’d had time to buy that gun.
Chapter 9
The room beyond looked like a well-managed squat, clean but improvised. I entered into a cloud of mingled cigarette and pipe smoke and a murmur of conversation, which died abruptly as Zane stepped in behind me and closed the door. Talya was there, dressed down in a t-shirt and blue jeans, along with an odd assortment of people who gathered around on sofas and armchairs, dining chairs and bean-bags. By clothing and disposition, I was able to roughly divide the room into four. The Twin Tigers crew were obvious enough in their black leather and denim uniforms. Facing them were a rag-tag collection of suburbanites and cubicle farmers, people who looked as uncomfortable here as I felt. A pair of intense men in different gang colors to the Tigers occupied a small sofa together.
On the Tigers’ side, I caught the eye of an older Asian woman in a spiked and armored leather jacket that looked like it had come off a Mad Max film set. She leaned nonchalantly against the wall beside a sinewy, tense-looking crewcut bruiser, a man who looked equal part Bruce Willis and Stallone. His hair was graying at the temples, but he had a muscular soldier’s build, that peculiar lock-jawed toughness that only came from protracted military service. Flanking them was a sly, button-faced Latino man with very strong cheekbones and a very weak chin. The President, his old lady, and the Captain, I assumed.
The two plainclothes cops sat apart from the rest. The Chaplain was a fit, handsome, hard-planed man with a thin moustache, smiling as he rubbed his thumb over his ring finger. Beside him, a powerfully built black woman lounged in a crisp skirtsuit and open-collared white shirt, her hair a short fall of neat rope braids bound back in a high ponytail. She was effortlessly charismatic, with the air of royalty. The Vigiles Agent, I was willing to bet.
The nervous norms were positioned around the largest armchair, where a small, tawny-skinned man in a cream and white suit was smoking a pipe, one ankle crossed over the other knee. He could have been fifty-six or six hundred: ageless, narrow-jawed, hook-nosed, with small eyes and big lips. He was not attractive, but he commanded his space with the confidence of a leader. As we entered, he looked up at us, but said nothing.
Talya stood up from her beanbag as silence thickened the small room. She had changed out of her work clothes, but neither she or the man in the big armchair fitted the biker clubhouse vibe. “Rex! You came!”
“I wouldn’t refuse your call, skvorets.” When she came up to us, I patted her arm and kissed her politely on the cheek. Other Slavs thought my greetings cold and impersonal, so brief as to be rude, but our apparent intimacy made a few of the others in the room sit up uncomfortably. Talya was more demonstrative towards Zane. She hugged him, and he hugged her back hard enough to pick her up off the floor.
“Hey kitten,” he said. There was real affection in his voice.
I looked back to the biker crew. The Asian woman in the heavy jacket had stood up from the wall. She was tiny but whip-strung, her dark eyes burning with frenetic energy. Her dry chopped hair and bony hands reminded me of Vera, and a nasty knot formed in the pit of my belly.
“So, now we are all accounted for.” The man in the armchair spoke up. “Talya, Zane. Can you introduce us?”
In the pause that followed, one of the young gang-bangers rose to his feet. He was a strikingly handsome man, his skin so dark that it caught white and blue highlights. His hair was braided in tight cornrows, and his voice was surprisingly soft and melodic. “I am Michael and this is Karim. We are Elders of the Pathrunners. I am here to arbitrate this meeting.”
Talya bobbed her head anxiously as Michael sat down. “So, yes… Rex is the man who did me the reading. Rex, this is John Spotted Elk, head of the Four Fires Community,” Talya motioned to the man in the armchair, who lifted a hand in greeting. “And this is Jenner, the Twin Tigers—”
“Twin Tigers Motorcycle Club President,” the woman in the spiked jacket interrupted her, pushing off from the wall. Her voice was hard, loud, with a strong Californian accent. She strode over to me, extending a hand. “Jenny Tran, but call me Jenner. Nice to meet you, Rex. This here is my Road Captain, Mason, and my other Sarge, Duke. You already met Zane.”
“I have.” I shook, and found she had a pleasantly strong, confident grip. Something here was odd. A female leader in the biker community wasn’t just rare: it was impossible. With the exception of lesbian separatists, motorcycle clubs were notoriously sexist.
I swept back over the room, settling on the pair of cops. They didn’t look nearly as happy to see me. “Thank you. I admit I wasn’t expecting a convocation.”
An uncomfortable pause followed. Then Talya spoke up, her voice high and over-bright. “So, that’s all I had to contribute to this tonight. Rex is a sorcerer, maybe. Any questions?”
“Many,” I replied.
“No doubt. Let me start with one, Rex.” The man she had introduced as head of the Four Fires, whatever that was, waved his hand like a magician. John Spotted Elk was a little effete, I thought, as unlikely a leader as Jenny Tran. His body was soft, his voice was reedy, a little too high-pitched for synesthetic comfort, and heavily accented. He was nut-brown and had the kind of stereotypically hawkish face I associated with Plains Indians. His accent wasn’t like any accent I’d ever heard before, almost affected. “You may be a street mage… but are you a Phitometrist?”
A small thrill passed down the back of my neck, and I turned to face him. “Yes.”
“Do you know what that means?” He arched an eyebrow.
“A mage who has undergone Shevirah,” I replied. “Though your terminology may vary, Mister Spotted-Elk.”
He laughed. “Either call me John or call me Spotted Elk. I get enough Mister-this and Mister-that at the museum. Your answer’s good, though. What does he know about our dilemma already, Talya?”
“Hardly anything,” Talya replied. She was fidgeting, still standing close to Zane. “I didn’t think you’d, ah, want me to say anything much.”
“Yes, so it would be very nice if you could enlighten me.” My accent bled through again. With nothing but natural light to guide my cycles and far less coffee than what I’d drunk at home, I was used to sleeping with the sunset and rising with the dawn. It was way past bed time.