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Mission Of Murder
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Riding the high of a recent conquest, I killed the engine to my bike and parked behind the clubhouse. Nighthawks’ president and founder, Viper, would kill me if he knew what I’d just done. Not that he’d ever caught me before. Just because we were friends—tight like brothers—didn’t mean I told him everything.
I didn’t really consider it keeping secrets, though. It was simply taking care of business. The supernatural problem in Shreveport hadn’t been too bad compared to New Orleans. Good God, this place was teeming with monsters. I supposed I was one of them... just not the bad kind.
All right... that came out wrong. I am bad. Fuckin’ terrible, actually. I just didn’t kill without reason or thought. This recent victory was for a good cause, and that cause was getting an evil witch off the streets.
Honestly, it had been too easy. Last week, we’d received an anonymous tip that a woman in the French Quarter was doing “palm readings” and then robbing men of their money. The tip said the human would pay her a hundred bucks to see a glimpse of their future, or communicate with a recently deceased loved one, but after the reading, the men would be knocked out cold and wake up in an alley, missing their wallet and their memory temporarily. Two men, that we know of, never woke up, and their deaths were still unsolved by NOPD. They’d most likely died from whatever the witch had done to knock them out cold. When the ones who survived remembered what happened and eventually went to confront the woman, the shop wasn’t there. Or it didn’t appear to be there. It stunk of magic to me, and there was no way I was going to let this crazy witch get away with this shit.
I ditched the bike at a pay-by-the-hour parking lot and walked to the Quarter, easily finding the “fortuneteller” shop. A woman with too much jewelry and makeup greeted me with a practiced smile on her young-looking face—but I knew she was much older than she looked. She put her hand out to shake mine in greeting, and I declined. Once she touched me, I knew she’d make me, and I couldn’t have that. Not yet.
After plunking down a hundred-dollar bill, I said, “I need to contact my dad. He passed last month.”
She quickly snatched up the bill and shoved it into her cleavage. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss... uh?”
“Craig,” I replied.
“Amara,” she said, smiling.
I simply nodded.
“Well, Craig, follow me.”
I did as she instructed, and we sat at a small round table with a crystal ball at its center.
Was this chick serious? Real witches didn’t use crystal balls. I bit back a smile at the ridiculousness.
“Do you have anything personal of his?” Amara asked.
I shook my head. “No, didn’t know I needed it. Do I need to leave?”
She quickly replied, “No, it just makes things easier to have a personal effect.” She studied me hard. “What was your father’s name?”
“William.”
“Okay. May I have a strand of your hair?” she asked.
I plucked one from my beard because I kept my head shaved clean.
She made a face but dumped it into a bowl I’d just noticed on the table. It contained some kind of leafy herbs, and when she threw a lit match into it, it flamed to life briefly before burning small, quiet, and smelly.
I breathed through my mouth. Incense... gah.
She closed her eyes and lifted her hands in the air. “Gods of the afterlife, gods of purgatory, gods of Heaven, gods of Hell. Hear my cry. Let William speak to his son, Craig. Let William’s presence be known.”
I had to resist an eyeroll.
“Close your eyes, Craig,” she commanded.
I did as she instructed but kept one slightly open in a slit to watch her.
Hers fluttered as she mumbled incoherent things that sounded like made-up Latin. After a couple of minutes, she declared she had reached my long-dead father and told me a bunch of crap about how William was explaining to her that they were close and how much he missed me. Blah, blah. Total bullshit obviously, since William hadn’t even been my father’s name.
“Ask him if Mom’s okay,” I threw in for shits and giggles.
“William, is your wife with you?” she asked, her eyelids still fluttering.
She waited a few seconds before replying, “Yes, she’s happy. They’re happy. Together.”
Oh, brother.
“Thanks, Amara,” I said, opening my eyes and standing up.
“What?” she asked, looking up at me bewildered. “That’s it? You don’t want to know anything else?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Sit down, Craig. We’re not done,” she commanded, almost seeming annoyed.
This must be when she drugged or poisoned her victims to steal their wallets.
I shrugged as if I didn’t care and sat back down. “Okay.”
“Close your eyes. Your dad has more to say,” she commanded.
I bit back a smile. “Cool.” I closed them but kept one slitted again.
“He says he’s sorry for what he did,” she starts. “He loves you very much and regrets his mistakes.”
I watched as she took a bottle I hadn’t noticed before and squirted it in my direction. It looked like one of those old-timey perfume bottles with the squeeze pump my mother used to use. The mist covered my face, and the scent went up my nose. It stunk but it did absolutely nothing to me.
“Oh, Dad. I forgive you,” I said dramatically, playing along. I threw in a couple of sniffs for effect. Then, I plonked my head on the table as if I had passed out.
When I heard and felt the witch get up from her seat and come around behind me, I sat very still. She began lifting my wallet out of my back pocket, and it was then I chose to disappear into thin air.
Witch got parlor tricks? Oh no, babe. I got tricks.
Her gasp engulfed the small space, and when I reappeared behind her, she whirled around and glared at me through slitted eyes. “What the hell are you?”
“Your worst nightmare,” I replied in my best Hollywood actor voice right before I pulled the buck knife from my belt and sliced clean through her neck. I watched as her head lobbed off and fell to the ground with a thud. Blood flew into my mouth and I licked it off my lips before wiping my eyes with the backs of my hand. I retrieved my wallet and a few hundred-dollar bills from her corpse before strolling out of the shop, whistling the theme to Bewitched.
God, I loved that show in the 1960s.
Did I just kill someone for committing robbery? Yep. Did I care? Nope. I was sure she’d done much worse. After all, she was a fucking witch.
Witches... shudder. They gave me the creeps.
I strolled through the door of the clubhouse and saw Phoenix standing by the jail cells talking to Kovah.
“What’s up, Shadow?” Kovah asked as I approached. “You look like you’ve been up to no good.” He threw that shit-eating smug smile at me.
“When am I ever up to actual good?” I secretly wondered if I still had blood on my face and beard. I’d washed in the witch’s bathroom before leaving.
Phoenix laughed and looked down at my shirt. “Never. Better clean off that blood spatter before Viper starts asking questions.”
I looked down to see dried but shiny, microscopic red flecks on the white areas of the design on my black shirt. Next time: Solid black clothing. “You never miss anything, do you?”
He raked a hand through his short auburn hair and grinned at me. “No, I really don’t.”
“So... who’d ya kill?” he asked in a sing-song voice, his eyes wide with curiosity.
“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered, heading toward my apartment. I was glad Viper had let us have living quarters in this clubhouse because this club was my life. I didn’t need another home outside of here since I spent all my time working club business or hanging out at the Cobalt Room, the adjacent nightclub we had bought for extra revenue.
Looking in the mirror in my small bathroom, I could see blood in my beard and all over my T-shirt. My forearms were covered as well, and I made a mental note to wear long sleeves next time I went out on a mission of murder.
“Fuck,” I murmured, stripping naked and starting the shower. Once hot, I hopped inside and let the water cleanse me of the witch’s blood and of my sins. But would I ever be clean of those? I didn’t think so. I’d lived a long time and learned that the only one looking out for me, was me.
“Don’t be such a pansy!”
“I’m not being a pansy, Dad. I just don’t know what you want me to do. Where I’m supposed to go.”
My father’s angry blue eyes narrowed, and his jaw ticked in annoyance. “I said, get! It’s time for you to fly the coop, boy. Same as ya’ brothers.” His Irish brogue more pronounced, which was what happened the angrier he got.
“But I don’t want to go,” I said, looking at the small brown duffel packed full at my feet. “I don’t have a job or anyplace to go.”
“Well, ya better find one,” he replied, slamming the door in my face.
I stepped off the porch, its wooden slats wailing in protest under my weight.
As I began to walk down the road, I turned one last time to look back at the house I was born in—where I was raised—and wondered what I had done to make my parents so angry. I had watched my older brothers get the same treatment, being kicked out of the family home at eighteen, but I thought being the ‘baby’, I’d get to stay longer. I guessed that wasn’t the case. I saw my mother peering out of the front window, her eyes shiny with tears. I lifted my hand in a wave and she smiled sadly at me.
“I love you, boy,” she mouthed at me, blowing me a kiss.
“Love you, Mom,” I mouthed back once I could catch my breath.
The curtains went back into place and I turned to look ahead of me at the road leading into town and wondered what the hell I was going to do now.
A ping from my phone broke me out of my memories and I quickly turned off the shower. After wrapping a towel around my waist, I picked up my phone to see a group message from the service Face had set up, alerting us that we had church in ten minutes.