Chapter 16 #3
“Alphonse Magariue, come forward.”
The empty doorway quivered, and deep inside, a haze brewed, gaining form as it drifted closer until a thin man wearing a cowboy hat, a tattered long-sleeved chambray shirt, and jeans—the kind in sepia photos of the Old West—stepped out of the archway.
He stood—well, hovered—there, glaring at Des, his weather-worn face screwed up in a scowl. “Why you calling me, boy?”
“Tell me what happened to Isa.”
“Hell if I know. Ain’t like I hang around watching you idiots.”
“You watch Isa all the damn time, Al. And I know you were watching her today. You left your damn shot glass on the counter.”
A crafty look slid over the phantom’s face. “That ain’t mine.”
Magic surged, and the room took on a menacing stillness. Then Des moved almost preternaturally fast, snatching the phantom’s shirt and dragging the spirit close. He loomed over the old cowboy, his head passing through the brim of the hat as he snarled, “Tell me what happened, Alphonse.”
Locke never thought a ghost could pale, but Des must have scared the spirit shitless. The cowboy’s hands fluttered uselessly against Des’s hold. “Don’t git yourself all riled up, boy.”
A low, unearthly moan seeped out from the spectral doorway, and Alphonse twisted in Des’s grasp, his eyes wide with terror as he stared into the writhing pit behind him. He turned back around.
“All right, all right,” he said, his voice high with panic.
“She was back in the kitchen, putting stuff away. I just wanted a taste. Figured if I left it out, she’d share.
She does that sometimes. Then these two dress-suit burglars slid on in, one of ’em throwing magic around like tossin’ lightning.
The other can’t stay on his feet, stumblin’ like a one-eyed drunk—nearly took out one of them tables.
She must’ve heard him ’cause she came out, but they jumped her.
She managed to get one in the gut with the bottle, but they got her trussed up good then dragged her out. ”
“Describe them.”
“I don’t know.” Alphonse kept trying to pry Des’s hands off his shirt with no success. “One was taller than me, the other wider than me. The clumsy one, I mean.” He stopped struggling and hung from Des’s grip, resigned. “The silent one, Tall Man, he was definitely in charge and mean.”
Wanting to join the interrogation but knowing he couldn’t, Locke clenched his teeth and fisted his hand, Des’s rings biting into his palm.
Des cocked his head. “Mean? What did he do?”
“Nothing to the woman. He even told the other one that the boss wanted her unmarked. It was just…” His hands fluttered then dropped. “He carried the dark with him, you know?”
The muscles in Des’s back went rigid, but he let the ghost go. “They say anything else?”
The ghost shook his head so hard his face blurred.
“Nothin’, just in and out, slick as shit.
This ain’t the first rodeo for those two.
They’re old hands.” The phantom drifted carefully back, as if trying to stay out of Des’s reach.
“You know I like that girl—she’s good people.
I’d’ve tried to help, but not much I can do.
You’ve got us locked down so tight I can’t even get a tick in here without you.
Maybe you might want to consider letting us help now and again. ”
Des’s hands fisted on his hips. “Don’t need your help, Al. Bad enough you like breaking my stock when you throw a hissy fit. I don’t need the added aggravation of keeping you off my customers.”
The old cowboy managed to look affronted. “If they didn’t want people gawking at their illicit activities, they’d take themselves elsewhere, garner a little privacy. Besides, ain’t like I can do anything but watch anymore.”
Clearly deciding the conversation was done, Des flexed his magic, and dark tendrils emerged from the archway to coil around the phantom’s form. “Leave, Alphonse Magariue. Go back to sleep.”
For a moment, something ugly rose behind the cowboy’s amiable features, but the inky ribbons coiled around him and pulled him slowly back into the shadowed depths.
When the last hazy fragments dissipated, Des’s magic surged forward, crawling back through the archway, moving in the reverse of their original path until the sigils were once again buried within the urban art spanning the back wall.
Locke got out of the booth and moved toward Des, who turned. Locke held out the rings. “Angel took her.”
Des’s mouth tightened into grim lines as he took the rings. “No, he sent two of his crew to take her because Angel likes to play with her.”
“Isa’s not a toy.” The words came out on a vicious snap.
“No, she’s not,” Des said. “But she knows his game better than anyone. She can hold her own.”
For how long, though? He tried not to let the fear rise, but it was there. “I need a starting point.” He wasn’t asking.
Des slid the sliver rings back into place then flexed his fingers. “I’ll get you one, but it’s not going to be fast.”
Cold determination settled deep in Locke’s gut. “Let’s see what we can do to change that.”