Chapter 12

Chapter12

The portal didn’t harm me; it didn’t need to. Delacroix had already done all his damage. I was deposited in the driver’s seat of my car, which I’d parked a few blocks from the Jolly Hellhound pub.

I cranked the heat, then rested my head against the wheel, waiting for Ezra to appear in the passenger seat. Charging back into the Copper Hell—assuming I got through the portal—would make things worse. As would calling for backup. Besides, Delacroix’s grudge wasn’t with Ezra. The shedim only bound and gagged my partner to threaten me without any interference.

Well, if Delacroix wanted me scared that he could find me anytime, anywhere, then mazel tov, demon.

The rumble of tires, a quiet conversation between friends, every little noise outside my window made me jump and check the seat next to me. But it stayed empty. After twenty minutes, I reluctantly conceded that Ezra wasn’t coming. At least not here. That made sense. He wouldn’t be released into my car. He’d either been sent back to the pub, which I couldn’t see from here, or he was back at his hotel.

I texted him, but Ezra didn’t reply. Okay, that didn’t mean anything. He was angry and upset. But he was fine.

I pressed my phone to my chest, then placed it carefully on the console, wrenched the key in the ignition, turned up the music, and peeled out. I pressed down on the gas so hard that the lines on the pedal imprinted into the sole of my bare foot.

Neither Chrissie Hynde’s ferocious vocals nor the driving guitars and frenetic drums on the Pretenders’ early tracks cleared my snarl of thoughts. I didn’t have a choice about telling my team that Calista was alive. Yes, they’d figure out what she’d done to Ezra, but I couldn’t risk the investigation.

And beyond the horror of what Calista was suffering, Delacroix had made my priorities—and his retribution—clear.

I gunned it through a yellow light.

We should have destroyed him when we had the chance, Cherry whispered in disgust.

Yeah, well, we wouldn’t have gotten close enough to weaken him.

Delacroix wasn’t low level like the other demons we’d killed. He was far more vicious, self-serving, and flat-out evil.

I rolled down the window, the wind a mean slap to my skin that I welcomed. I’d always believed that shedim didn’t unearth any desire that a person didn’t have inside them to begin with. For some, these urges were already close to the surface, and for others, they were deeply buried within their subconscious, but they didn’t spring out of nowhere.

Demons spotted those desires and tapped into them no problem. Take my mother, for example. I didn’t develop my love of those 1970s punk goddesses like Blondie and Joan Jett because I was on some retro musical kick.

My rule-abiding mother wore out the grooves playing her favorite songs like “Bad Reputation” and “One Way or Another” on repeat and teaching me the lyrics to the adrenaline-fueled, female-driven, transgressive anthems.

I often wondered if shedim chose their victims because they sensed which people would be most receptive to their particular persuasion. After all, the demon who’d trysted with Mom hadn’t incited her to violence or into conning other people, and I doubted one could. He’d simply coaxed her bad-girl side out for the first and only time in her life.

So, what did it say about me and my game of taunt the demon? I didn’t have a death wish. Did I crave violence so much that I’d take it wherever I could get it to the point of endangering myself?

I’d been badly injured fighting other demons to sate my Brimstone Baroness, but I’d seen those injuries as necessary to my survival. Tonight was different. I hadn’t mouthed off to Delacroix to feed Cherry. I could have kept my mouth shut.

Had Delacroix worked his demon magic to amp me up, or was that all me?

Was he still plying his magic on— I glanced at my phone’s still-dark screen, then smacked my hand against the wheel.

Ezra, who was absolutely safe and sound now, should have been upfront with us from the start. I wouldn’t be in this position if he had. Not that there was a position to be in. I had to tell Darsh and Sachie, full stop.

Ezra kept my secret. I shook my head. No. It didn’t work that way.

I used the fob to open the security gate at my condo tower and pulled into the underground parking. Luck was with me as I took the elevator to the ninth floor, and I didn’t run into any neighbors in my disheveled state. I crept inside the apartment I shared with Sachie, feeling awful at my relief that she wasn’t awake, but telling myself that it was simply because I should update her and Darsh at the same time, and not that I was wavering or feeling guilty.

The living room curtains were open, and the moonlight filtering in was bright enough to steer myself safely past our textured sectional couch. I picked up a whetstone that had slid onto our short-pile area rug and tossed it next to the short dagger on the reclaimed oak coffee table.

Ooh, Sach had bought a dirk. I wonder where she’d stash this one? Hopefully not in the tampon box. Dealing with my period sucked enough without gouging a finger because there was a screwdriver hidden inside the carton. It was worse when I actually required a screwdriver and had to go through all her hidey-holes to find one because our tool kit had been raided.

My bestie owned the place, decorating it with cool artisanal furniture. I was her mortgage helper. Real estate in Vancouver was insanely expensive and, more importantly, we enjoyed living together. We could decompress in comfortable silence after a hard day, or hang out making each other laugh so hard we couldn’t breathe. I might not have made it through the dark headspace I’d been in after Ezra and I broke up if she hadn’t been by my side.

I tiptoed down the short corridor lined with framed photos of the friendship that had started in grade one when we jointly held the championship titles of blowing the biggest bubbles with our gum.

It wasn’t a friendly rivalry at first. I practiced for weeks to beat her, but after I accidentally spat my gum into my long hair, Sachie was the only one who didn’t laugh. She threatened to pummel anyone who called me Gummilocks. In return, I shared my ketchup chips with her and that was that. We shared everything over the years—clothes, foods, good times and bad, and all our secrets.

Other than the one I was too scared to tell her in case she walked away. Like Ezra had.

I checked my phone. No new text notifications.

I shut my bedroom door with a quiet click and flicked on the light. Growing up, my mother had impressed upon me that my ability to keep my person tidy (i.e. hide Cherry) extended to a tidy room. More remarkable multitasking from my mother: teach my young self that demons = dirty and get me to clean my room. The woman hated messes.

I was still excessively tidy, thanks to lots of drawers that I shoved things into. My walls were a soft dreamy blue that matched the tumble of wildflowers on my duvet cover, while the high-gloss white furniture was softened with pieces like my tufted bench that served as a foot board, a plush carpet, and fairy lights cascading down my curtains.

It was my refuge and safe haven, but tonight it failed spectacularly at both.

My phone buzzed, and I practically launched myself over my bed to grab it off the bedside table.

It was spam. I pried my clenched fingers off my phone and headed into my bathroom, hell-bent on calming down.

Sadly, a long, hot shower involving half a bottle of my fanciest bath wash to scour myself failed to relax me enough to fall asleep.

I tossed and turned all night, going back and forth on my decision of whether to tell Sachie and Darsh or keep Ezra’s secret like he’d kept mine. I refused to obsess about whether Ezra was okay, because it was preposterous to think otherwise. Yes, his texts showed only delivered and not read, but I’m sure he saw them pop up as notifications. He just didn’t feel like opening them.

The only reason I checked my phone screen a half dozen times was to make sure I still had a cell signal because Vancouver had a city-wide outage recently, and as Maccabee HQ had been unable to get hold of anyone, protocols had been put into place for checking in.

Thursday morning, I slipped out for an early run to clear my head. After I’d showered, dressed, and eaten, I still had an hour until our meeting with all my team members, so I dolled up in a dark green pantsuit that made me look both fine and super badass and drove to the central Trad precinct in downtown Vancouver.

Never had I appreciated shoes as much as I did today. I rarely wore these sensible black pumps, but after being barefoot at the Copper Hell, they were as precious to me as Cinderella’s glass slippers.

The hulking building that housed the Trad precinct was painted an aggressive yellow, and whenever I visited, I fought the urge to bounce inside with my dukes up. Today was no exception.

I asked to speak with Detective Olivier Desmond, then was left to cool my heels in a bright, airy reception area filled with plants. There was even a small aquarium with colorful tropical fish. I sniffed. Must be nice to be so flush with cash.

“Aviva.” Olivier’s warm smile was a balm of sunshine. His suit showed his lean, chiseled frame off to perfection, the navy fabric hugging his solid hips and strong thighs. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He’d tempered his Nova Scotian accent in the two years he’d lived out west, but it still had notes of that combo that sounded like New York and an Irish twang. He tilted his head, his green eyes twinkling against his black skin. “Is this a hug occasion or business?”

“Can’t it be both?” I said flirtatiously.

“I like how you think.” He pulled me into his strong embrace. His close-cropped, afro-textured hair tickled my cheek.

I inhaled his crisp cologne, my chin resting on his broad shoulder, enjoying this moment with a handsome man before pulling away. “This is business though.”

He laughed. “Can we speak here or do you need privacy?”

“We’re good here.” I sat down and crossed one leg over the other. “Did you hear about the theft at the Supernatural: Debunked exhibit?”

Olivier sat down next to me, notching his chin up with a mock stern look. “Have you come to poach our case?” he teased.

“No. You can do all the heavy lifting. I just want the details.”

“Oh, if that’s all. Can I give you any other sensitive information? A list of undercover officers perhaps?”

I laughed. “Details on one artifact in particular. I have reason to believe that Sire’s Spark may actually be magic.”

“No shit?” He scratched the dark stubble along his jaw. “Well, that would put it in your purview. I’m not on the investigation myself, but I can get you the information and you can try the city’s best burger at my favorite pub. Nine PM?”

“Is this business or pleasure?” I said.

“Can’t it be both?”

I shot him a wry smile. “Given our track record, I have to ask: do you hate this place that much that you’d inflict our bad luck on it?”

“They did take the wonton nachos off the menu, which should land them a special place in hell. But no. This is me being an eternal optimist. Third time’s the charm, right?”

I’d had high hopes for my first date with this hot, smart cop. We’d met shortly after he transferred here from Nova Scotia, one of the Maritime Provinces on the east side of the country. Sadly, those hopes were dashed pretty quickly when part of the ceiling in the kitchen at our restaurant caved in due to a recent snowfall. No one was hurt, but it certainly killed the mood when the chef came out to apologize and say that, unfortunately, our appetizers (and entire dinner) would not be coming out on time. Or at all.

On our second date, the play we’d gone to had barely begun before a fire broke out. Luckily, we helped evacuate the theatergoers quickly because the building was engulfed in no time. We’d stuck around to give our reports and help comfort traumatized patrons. Points for playing good Samaritan, but zero sexy vibe.

Not once had he lost his cool. Olivier was a surfer; his chill nature was in his bones. Being with him would be so easy.

You thought that about the other one too, Cherry scoffed in my head.

I resisted the urge to check my phone in case Ezra had touched base.

Olivier cocked an eyebrow. “Think you can pencil me into your busy social calendar, Fleischer?”

“Provided nothing work oriented comes up, I’ll be there, but the burger better be on point. What’s the name of the place?”

“The Jolly Hellhound.”

I turned my noise of surprise into a light cough.

Olivier was a Trad, but he was also a cop. He might know about the portal in the back room, but if he didn’t, I wasn’t about to bring it to his attention. It required a code drink to access after all, and Delacroix already didn’t like me. I kept my eyes on my phone. “Found the address. I’ll see you at nine.”

“Text me if you can’t make it. I’ll still get you the file.”

I stood up. “Detective Olivier Desmond, you’re a mensch.”

“That’s what my mom always says.” He winked at me. “Stay safe out there, Fleischer.”

“You too.”

Seeing Olivier had drastically improved my mood. I sailed into the basement at HQ at 10:50AM to find Darsh, Sachie, and Ezra sitting in the main room.

My sigh of relief was tempered by a flare of anger. He could have let me know he’d gotten away from the scary demon, especially when he was always going on to me about how I didn’t have to do things alone.

Failing that, he could have simply made eye contact. Perhaps a brief head nod of acknowledgment. But I got nothing.

I dumped my laptop bag on the floor and sat down next to Sachie.

While Darsh’s sartorial choice was to go monochrome in a red T-shirt and jeans, and Sachie wore cargo pants and a crop top, Ezra was armored up in a black suit, a bored look on his face as he spoke.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Primes can’t be killed with stakes. Calista is alive and aware, just incapacitated. She’s trapped in her own body.”

“Damn,” Sachie said, munching her way through an apple Danish.

My eyebrows shot up. All that agonizing and Ezra had taken things into his own hands. It was surprising he’d speak so easily about the suffering Primes could experience, though I should have expected he’d control the narrative. He was as much a master of spin and keeping secrets as my mother.

“Do Primes require beheading to be truly killed?” Darsh said. “Or fire?”

A muscle ticked in Ezra’s jaw. “Both work.”

“Interesting,” Darsh murmured.

I shot him a “Seriously?” look.

“The more you know,” he said unrepentantly. “You learned this yesterday, did you, Cardoso? Since you’d never hold back anything this important and be kicked off the investigation, right?” His eyes glinted dangerously, including me in their feline assessment. “Let’s hear what you have to say on the subject, Avi.”

My stomach sank. I hadn’t foreseen this reaction, and I didn’t want to be responsible for Ezra being booted. He’d go rogue. He’d never forgive me. I twisted my gold Maccabee ring around my finger, darting a glance at my ex, but he studied his nails with a frown. “I learned this yesterday.”

“I see,” Darsh said.

“Cut him a break,” I said.

“I don’t need you to speak on my behalf.” Ezra finally looked at me, and I wished with all my heart that he hadn’t, because he’d excised any shred of feeling for me. He’d gazed at Delacroix with more warmth. “Calista abducted me six years ago.”

I went very still.

“How?” Darsh said.

“After a chaotic and dangerous job.”

“You failed to spot her trap?” Darsh said. He mouthed “Oops.”

Ezra scowled at him. “I was preoccupied. And yes, my knowledge of being incapacitated when staked is firsthand. Before that, I believed a stake would kill me.”

He recited this with impartiality, as though he was reading a grocery list, but he might as well have been firing darts into me. Ezra could imply that his preoccupation was due to the job he’d been on—one for his father, not the Maccabees, since he wasn’t working for us yet—but I knew better.

His preoccupation was our breakup.