Blood Justice, page 38
“Most people haven’t. Oberun is an ancient god of justice, older even than Eshu. I learned a little about him from some old books in the Council Library at St. John’s.”
Cris goes on to give me the abridged version of the sparse history of this Oberun and his absolute disappearance from existence, including the part where she suspects he was the one who blessed her with the snakeskin that she used to bind Oz from gen magic. Though let the record show that I am in perfect alignment with her decision to ban Oz from further appropriating our culture. Ten out of ten.
I shake my head, not bothering to fight the way my posture subconsciously wilts. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice low and timid.
“Last summer, when I was in that car crash with Aunt Ursula, I was knocked unconscious and accidentally astral projected to the Kahlungha.”
“Wait,” she says. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“It’s the secret hallway between the natural realm and the spiritual realm,” I explain. “The place Auguste was trying to find to enhance his necromancy abilities.”
“That doesn’t make sense though,” Cris says. “If Auguste died trying to access that place, how’d you end up there by accident?”
“I’m not sure, but the entity I encountered there was the Moon King, and that place was his prison—until a little over a month ago.”
“How’d he escape?”
I run through the very brief story of how the Moon King hitched a ride out of the Kahlungha on the back of Jean-Louise’s soul—the same as he’d tried to do with me—and then fled to gods know where to do gods know what.
Cris hugs herself. “So, he’s out there now, prowling around New Orleans?”
I nod. “And Jean-Louise is terrified of the Moon King. He’s been shut up in his room ever since it happened. He’s effectively abandoned magic and me too.” I stare into my sister’s worried brown eyes and my reflection in them. “I’m scared too, Cris. But I won’t leave Yves hanging the way everyone’s done to me. It all seems silly anyway because I haven’t seen or heard a peep from the Moon King since Jean-Louise’s warning.”
“This … Moon King”—Cris’s voice is steady, careful—“is that his real name? Could he go by another?” She swallows hard. “Like Oberun?”
“Cris, I hate to tell you this, but I think the Moon King might’ve been catfishing you as Oberun this whole time. You’ve gotta be more careful. He’s really dangerous.”
“Shit,” Cris says under her breath.
“But we don’t need to get too distracted with the gods and their ancient drama right now. We’ve got more important shit to deal with—like finding Fabiana so maybe she can help with clearing Mama’s name and de-zombifying Yves.”
“Yeah,” Cris says. “You’re right.”
I ponder our next move for a moment. “All the clues we’ve gotten so far don’t make sense, but I think it’s because we can’t see the connection yet.”
“Right,” she says. “Let’s review what we know.”
“Fabiana’s been missing since November,” I say. “There’s a high possibility she was kidnapped by someone. She left a cryptic message on the floor of her apartment—the letters J and K and nothing else.”
“And her Nite-Lite gas was used to knock everyone unconscious right before Ben was murdered,” Cris adds. “So whoever abducted Fabiana might’ve also had access to the Nite-Lite formula she developed.”
“And a white man dressed in a tuxedo and covered in blood had a run-in with our new friend Emma,” I say, “in this same parking lot.”
“What if the letters Fabiana drew on her kitchen floor were initials?” Cris asks.
I consider that for a moment, and then realization plunges my heart. Of course! A portion of the larger picture comes into focus, and it’s so obvious that I feel ridiculous for not having figured it out sooner.
“I thought he was acting strange when I ran into him at Vice Hall that night,” I say, “but I brushed it off because I had so much other shit going on, but I should’ve known.”
“Clem…” Cris says, annoyed with me already. “Who are you talking about?”
“Jack Kingston,” I tell her. “I think that’s who killed Ben Beaumont.”
It takes a moment for the pieces to click together in her mind, but when they do, realization brims in her expression too.
“Come on,” I tell her. “It’ll be dark soon, and we need to go.”
“Wait … where are we going?”
“To pay Jack Kingston a visit.”
THIRTY-FIVE
CRISTINA
It’s early evening when we pull up to the yellow-paneled cottage belonging to Jack Kingston, and the Sun’s already begun preparations to pack up and transition to the other side of the world for the night. I’m grateful Clem already knew where Jack lives because otherwise I have no idea how we would’ve gotten this man’s address. But as it turns out, Clem’s been here before.
Way back in sixth grade, he came over here after school one day to work on a science fair project with Zac, his assigned partner. They were a dreadful match. Zac came over to our house once to work on that same project, and he and Clem squabbled nearly the entire time. And when they weren’t arguing, Zac was being really weird—lots of quiet staring and scowling. I never understood that boy.
Clem parks the car at the edge of the driveway and glares intensely at the white pickup truck parked at the other end. It looks familiar, but I can’t recall why.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He stares a moment longer then shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just … I feel like I’ve seen that truck somewhere before.”
“Me too,” I say. “But are you okay? Really?”
He sighs hard and runs a hand down his face. “I’m good. Let’s go see Jack.” He’s out of the car and halfway to the front door before I can unlatch my seat belt.
I get out and catch up with my brother as he pounds on the door. We stand there and wait for several slogging minutes without a single sound of life from the other side.
Clem squints and tries to peer through the tiny gap in the curtains on the other side of the window but can’t see anything. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” he says.
“Then whose truck is that?” I point my thumb over my shoulder at the pickup in the driveway.
He shrugs. “I think I know how to break in. Yves showed me last year.”
“Clem!” I whisper-shout at him. “Stop that! What if someone’s home?”
He ignores me, closely examining the panes of glass in the door.
I’m about to drag his ass back to the car when I feel a draft slide across the back of my neck like clammy fingertips. I jump with a start and turn around as my hand flies up to my neck.
Clem glances over his shoulder at me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Must’ve been the wind, I guess.”
“Wind?” His brows pinch together. “What wind?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a screwdriver on you, would you?”
I screw up my face at him. “What? Boy, no. Can you stop?”
Desperate to try anything outside of breaking and entering at this point, I turn the doorknob—and the door creaks open.
“No way,” Clem gasps.
We exchange a cynical glance. I can see the gooseflesh on his bare arms. He swings the door open, revealing the disaster inside.
The house looks like it’s been sacked. Clem holds out an arm protectively, then steps through and gives the front room a quick once-over before gesturing to me that it’s safe to come inside too.
The entire living room and what I can see of the kitchen beyond are completely disheveled. It reminds me of those fight scenes from action movies where two people go at it so hard that they completely obliterate their surroundings.
“Were they robbed?” Clem asks in a hushed voice.
“No, this was something else.” I point to the cracked flat-screen television on the wall and the broken laptop on the floor.
Clem and I both pull our shirts over our noses to mask the harsh smell. Clem groans, “This place reeks,” which comes out muffled from beneath his shirt.
I nod, not really wanting to open my mouth. There are so many notes to the pungent stench in the air that it’s hard to pick them out; however, I do get very distinct hints of body odor, urine, and mold that are bold enough to make me gag just a little bit.
Clem’s hand jackhammers my shoulder. I look to where he’s pointing at the barely noticeable rust-colored droplets of blood that trail from the living room and disappear into the next room. We follow them to find a quaint and egregiously unkempt kitchen.
Flies buzz around empty pizza boxes, and the fermented smell of stale beer burns my nose. The dirty dishes have been removed from the sink and piled on the countertop on either side to make room for the giant wad of something that’s soaking in murky copper-colored water.
“We can use this to see what’s in there.” Clem bends down to pick up a long-handled spoon from the floor, but I yank him back up by his arm before he can touch it.
“No!” I tell him. “Don’t touch anything. We don’t know if this place is a crime scene yet.”
He side-eyes me. “Know a lot about those?”
“Yeah, I do,” I say, glowering at him before directing his attention to the sink—and more specifically, to the mildewed edge of a tan suit jacket’s sleeve poking out of the water. “That’s a tuxedo. And judging by the color of that funky-ass water, I bet it was covered in blood. It matches what Emma told us. But why would he kill Ben Beaumont? And why kidnap Fabiana?”
“None of this makes sense.” Clem huffs. “We’re missing something.”
“We’re missing a lot,” I say. “We just need to find the source. If Jack’s not here, then where could he be?”
A loud whimper resounds from somewhere in the house, startling us both, and my heart plunges into my stomach when I realize we just assumed no one was here and forgot to check.
Shit.
Clem directs me to get behind him, and we follow the faint sound down a short hallway to a bedroom door that’s slightly ajar. We lean close and listen to the sound coming from inside.
It’s … crying?
Clem and I look at each other, and when I nod, he pushes the door open and leads the way inside.
It’s a bedroom, but it’s so plain that it’s painful to look at. There are empty light-colored rectangles on the wall, where I assumed posters once hung. There’s a barren desk pressed against the wall but no other furniture aside from a double bed.
Curled into the fetal position atop the unmade mess of the bed is Zachary Kingston. He’s almost unrecognizable and stinks like he hasn’t bathed in days. His eyes are red and swollen from crying, and snot runs in a stream that cascades over his lips and into his mouth and down his chin. He doesn’t notice us at first, until Clem steps into his line of vision, and then Zac shoots upright, suddenly alert.
There’s a bloated and charged moment of silence before Zac shrieks and flails in a fit of unnerving terror and screams, “Don’t take me, demon!”
Clem and I exchange worried, confused looks.
Zac, shivering like a wet puppy, cocoons himself in a tangle of sheets and continues mumbling about demons.
“Maybe we should’ve called Aunt Ursula or Jean-Louise for backup,” I say.
“Too late,” Clem replies, deadpan. “We’re already here. Let’s see it through.”
He approaches the bedside with cautious, measured steps, calling Zac’s name, gentle at first, then louder when Zac doesn’t respond.
Clem bellows, “Zac!” But the boy beneath the sheets doesn’t reply. Clem grabs a fistful of the covers and rips them off, exposing Zac again.
He scampers up toward the head of the bed and cowers there, hiding his face in his arms.
I can feel the frustrated energy rolling off Clem in waves, which is unsettling for me, so I can only imagine how disoriented Zac must be right now. But it’s not him I’m worried about.
My brother has never struggled to show empathy before. I know he’s been depressed and exhausted and a lot of other not-so-good emotions lately, but today he feels closer to the edge than usual—and that troubles me.
I step between Clem and Zac, then put a hand on my brother’s chest, which partially snaps him back to the reality of the gentle Clem I’ve always known.
“Can you get a glass of water for him, please?” I ask.
He cuts his eyes at me. “So, I can touch stuff now?”
I throw him a treacherous glare. “You wanna keep being able to?”
He stomps off and immediately trips over an errant sneaker and curses. Once he’s gone, I wander a bit closer to Zac and ask if he minds if I sit. When he ignores my question, I sit anyway.
He cries quietly with his head turned and his face hidden.
“I know you’re scared, Zac,” I tell him. “Magic and the gods who govern it can be downright terrifying. But it’s okay now. You’re not alone anymore. You can relax.”
He doesn’t respond. But his breathing slows enough that he at least doesn’t seem to be panicked anymore. Maybe we can have a coherent conversation now.
Clem returns with a glass of water. I take it from him and offer it to Zac.
He takes it in an unsteady hand, examining the trembling surface of the water in the glass and then my face for a long moment before drinking. He’s stopped crying at least, but his face is pallid, his cheeks still wet with tears like the boardwalk after a fresh hard rain.
“We didn’t come here to hurt you,” I tell him.
Zac cuts his eyes at Clem, and my twin glares back at him unflinchingly for a tense second that charges the air in the room. I watch with bated breath, not sure what to do, but then Zac releases a sigh, clenches his jaw, and then drains the glass as if it’s his first drink of anything all day.
I take the empty glass from him and set it on the bedside table. “Where’s your dad, Zac?”
He shrugs with exhausted nonchalance that’s frustrating as fuck. “He’s been acting strange for a while now,” he murmurs.
“Strange how?” I ask.
“Like he’s possessed.”
Clem and I lock eyes, and I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing. Could the Moon King be possessing Jack Kingston? But why? This whole ordeal just keeps getting messier and more unhinged by the minute. I worry Clem and I are never going to be able to make sense of all this.
“Where’s your dad right now?” Clem asks from where he stands a few feet away, his face hardened and stoic, his arms crossed over his chest.
“The cabin in the woods,” Zac answers.
“What cabin?” Clem asks. “And when’s he coming back?”
Zac’s face flushes again. “Look, I don’t know. He goes there every evening, and before you ask, I don’t know for what. And I don’t want to.”
“Okay,” I interject, just as Clem drops his arms in preparation to get out of pocket. “Where’s this cabin? Can you give us the address?”
Zac huffs and shakes his head.
Clem takes an angry step forward, his fists balled at his sides, but I hold up a hand, and he stops. I mouth, Chill. His frown intensifies, but he falls back and stays quiet.
I turn back to Zac, who’s no longer hiding his face but staring at his hands in his lap. His blond hair’s greasy and overgrown, and his nails have been gnawed down to nubs, some covered in caked blood. This boy’s a mess. What the hell happened to him?
“Look, Zac,” I say, my voice as soft and empathetic as I can muster right now. “We believe you about the demon. If your dad’s possessed, we might be the only people who can help him. Please. Can you tell us how to get to the cabin where your dad is?”
Zac shakes his head. Clem throws up his hands and slaps them onto his hips, then turns his back on us like a disappointed uncle.
Zac looks into my eyes for the first time. His have dulled considerably despite their light color, making me wonder again what he’s been through.
He chews his bottom lip for a second, then says, “I’ll take you. But we need to leave now. It’ll be hard to see how to get there after sunset.”
Clem spins around, suspicion heavy on his face.
I stand and nod at Zac. “Thank you for helping us.”
He stares at me curiously, and his left eye twitches with a few uncomfortable ticks before he says, “I’m not helping you.”
“What?” Clem growls over my shoulder.
“A demon is eating my dad,” Zac says. “And when he’s done with him, I hope he eats you next. Both of you. And I want to watch.”
A chill skates across my back.
“The fuck did you just say?” Clem starts for him, but I tug him back before he can take a second step.
I narrow my eyes at Zac, but he doesn’t flinch. He meant every sadistic word.
“Leave it,” I tell Clem. “Now’s not the time.” I turn to Zac and say, “Let’s go. Now.”
He makes a show of getting out of bed on the opposite side so he doesn’t have to walk by us, which, whatever, as long as he gets his ass outside to the car. No wonder he and Clem never got along. Although a part of me—a very tiny, miniscule part—wonders what kind of person Zac could’ve been had he grown up under different circumstances … with different parents.
“I need to pee first,” Zac announces, and hurries from the room.
Clem and I hang back in the bedroom. “Should you be going to confront Jack if the Moon King is after you?” I whisper to him. “What if he’s there?”
“Seems he’s been following you too,” Clem says. “The answers to all our problems could be at that cabin. Neither of us can afford not to go. Besides, I’m not leaving you alone with that creep.” He cuts his eyes toward the hallway. “If the Moon King shows up, we’ll just have to deal with him.”
Clem’s “jump right in” attitude is annoying at best, particularly right now, but I don’t have a better idea, nor do we have the time to come up with one.
