Magie Noire

By Rurouni Star

Chapter Eleven

The kind of nightmares you get while you're dying of scorpion venom are something else, let me tell you.

The human voices around me blurred into a low, uncomfortable drone. My brain, high as a kite and firing on all the wrong cylinders, suggested to me that I was covered in stinging wasps. Some of them burrowed beneath my skin, crawling through my veins. One of them dug into my forehead, and a single very clear thought tore through me:

Don't take any more drugs, Bob had said.

Drugs and venom share a lot of stuff in common. As they say, the dosage makes the poison.

Dark clouds leaned on the sky, heavy with power just on the edge of spilling over. I caught a glimpse of Marcone, standing off to one side, slowly soaking in the rain — I wasn't sure whether he was physically there or whether he was just another of those strange ghosts from the past, but looking at him made me keenly, uncomfortably aware of his humanity. I know killers like him are human at heart — it's what drives me to distraction and depression. Having it shoved in my face hurt in a way I found it hard to articulate. You chose to be like this, I tried to tell him. You could be different, but you chose this, and you keep choosing it.

A woman with bloodstained hands pulled an oxygen mask over my face. A man with a hole punched through his heart calmly murmured to someone nearby. The shadows leaned in upon me, coalescing into a tall figure.

"Someone dies tonight after all, Detective," the shadow man said. "You should have stayed out of it."

I screamed and tried to lash out at him. Someone held me down. I saw the crimson bonds at my wrists, tightening slowly. I tried to tear at them with my fingernails again, but I was still pinned, unable to move my arms.

I stared at the red knots instead, willing them to uncurl.

The first tiny strands of rope began to fray.

0-0-0-0

I woke up to the distant sound of polka.

Given that I've come to associate polka with the morgue, this did not help my level of panic. I tried to bolt upright, but my muscles weren't working quite right — instead, I half-thrashed, half-rolled to one side, trapped within a thin hospital blanket. A stint in my arm tugged painfully, and I bit off a harsh swear word.

The hospital was choked with awful echoes. Someone else — many someones — had laid where I was, scared and uncertain. The walls had absorbed their whimpers, their prayers, their weariness, their desperation.

"Karrin?" Quick footsteps. The polka drew near, soft and tinny. It was playing on a pair of headphones, dangling around the neck of the man that now leaned over me, concern evident on his face.

Waldo Butters was a welcome sight — or maybe he was a welcome Sight, now that I think about it. My cracked Third Eye saw him nearly as he was. That funny shock of black hair and that familiar set of blue scrubs were a soothing island of normality among the strangeness. The more I looked at him, though, the more I saw hints of things leaking out from beneath the surface, like little motes of light. Waldo had a weird kind of inner strength to him, but I knew it mostly came out on behalf of other people instead of for his own sake. There was a music threaded through his soul, a determined smile and a kind of "oh well" shrug in the face of death that didn't quite eradicate the fear behind it.

I realized I was staring, but I couldn't bring myself to look away. It was the most comforting thing I'd seen in ages.

Waldo grabbed me carefully underneath the arm, helping me back into a seated position. He checked my stint with a frown. "I don't think you busted anything," he mumbled. He looked back up at me, blinking behind his glasses. "How are you feeling?"

I closed my eyes, but the physical action didn't help my Third Eye. Waldo's image remained imprinted on my eyelids, clear as day. "Out of it," I mumbled. It took most of my willpower to get the words out. "Just… give me a second."

I steadied my breathing, as I'd done before. I numbed my mind, trying to let the images wash over me without taking possession of them. But Waldo's calm, kind, patient image was the most stubborn of the lot. It was so hard not to want to cling to it. After all the horrible things I'd seen, it was the vision of a halfway-decent human being that gave me the most pause. Part of me didn't want to shut away that Sight, to go back to thinking about dead bodies and people who'd cut away their empathy on purpose, as though it was an unnecessary limb.

Waldo waited. And waited. I gritted my teeth. I slowly, reluctantly searched for the point in my forehead that had come loose again, dragging it painfully closed. There were tears in my eyes when I opened them, but I had a hundred excuses easy to hand if I really needed them.

I didn't need them. Waldo had pulled off his glasses. He was openly wiping at his own eyes, with obvious relief. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm not used to… there's a reason I don't come upstairs very often."

The smile I gave him felt weirdly soft and fuzzy. I couldn't help it. I knew that glimpse of his soul would flood back to mind now every time I looked at him.

"Living people freak you out?" I joked.

To my surprise, Waldo nodded. "I mean… not in general. But in a medical sense. A body is an empty shell. I don't have to worry about hurting it. But there's something, um. Fragile. About living people."

I considered that for a second. "Yeah," I said. "I get it." I frowned. "What are you doing here?"

Waldo gave me a surprised look. "You're at my hospital," he said. "I work right downstairs. Someone told me you'd come in."

Quiet, scratchy polka music filled the silence between us. Waldo didn't seem to realize he'd left his headphones playing.

"...was it bad?" I asked.

Waldo hesitated. He nodded slowly, though. "Your chart says scorpion venom. It's a neurotoxin. A little sting isn't so bad normally, unless you're already part of a compromised group… but you had a lot in you. It's lucky the hospital even had enough antivenom on hand."

I frowned. My stomach was queasy. My body still felt shaky. My fingers spasmed every once in a while. I knew I wasn't up to standing on my own, much as I wanted to do it.

The memory of the hospital walls' whispers trickled back to me, as clear as day. I swallowed and leaned back into my pillow. I suddenly wanted out of there very badly. Hell, I wanted out of my own head. I couldn't accomplish the latter, but if I was persuasive, maybe I could get a discharge.

"You think I'm good to go home?" I asked.

Waldo frowned. "I'm pretty sure they'll want you to stick around a little longer, just to be sure…" My expression must have been just this side of devastated, because he winced. "…but you're technically past any chance of anaphylaxis from the antivenom. If you swear to get some bed rest, your doctor might cave."

Bed rest. Home. There was a reason those words inspired a knee-jerk defiance in me. I groaned. "God, the case. How long have I been out?"

"Almost a full day," Waldo said. He fixed on me the sternest gaze I'd ever seen cross his face. "There's no way you're going back on the job like this, Karrin," he said. "You're lucky to be alive. The others can handle your cases for a while. That's why you've got a team."

"Shit," I muttered. "Ron really is primary now, isn't he?" I searched around for my phone, and spotted it on a chair next to the bed, nestled on top of what was left of my clothes. Paramedics are hell on clothing — I didn't even see my shirt on the pile, though they'd been kind enough to leave my blood-stained bra. My mother's bracelet glinted there too, though I didn't see my gun or badge. To be fair, they weren't the sort of things you left laying around in a hospital room. I'd probably have to ask to get them back.

My brain sputtered and tried to start up again. Hendricks had my phone, last I'd checked. That meant he'd somehow gone to the trouble of returning it. Smart man — I wouldn't want to be a criminal caught with an injured cop's phone either. He'd probably also been the one to suggest they treat me for scorpion venom. "Can you pass me my phone?" I asked Waldo.

He eyed me suspiciously, but in the end he politely complied. The screen was flickering weirdly, and I wondered if it had gotten caught in the rain. I had to press a few of the buttons more than once, but I eventually managed to call out to Carmichael.

The line hissed and spat, but I heard his voice as he picked up.

"Murph?" Carmichael's voice was exhausted, but there was a hint of relief to it too. "You alive over there?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "Shit. Sorry to leave you in charge like that."

"I'll put it on your tab," he said. "You mind me asking what the hell happened? All I hear is Marcone's bar is trashed and you're in the hospital pumped full of poison or something."

"Someone tried to kill Marcone," I said flatly. "I stepped in the way."

Waldo blinked at me. Belatedly, he seemed to realize he was eavesdropping. He pushed to his feet and stepped back toward the door. I'll be outside, he mouthed, and I nodded.

"That tracks. We know he was there, but we haven't been able to find him. Guess he's gone to ground so no one takes a second shot. I kind of wish you'd just let Marcone kick it, Murph. Lieutenant says you're on medical leave till the doctors clear you for duty again. We've been passing around your caseload, and it's enough to make a man cry."

I bit down on my lip, frustrated. Walker must have been in a great mood. Between the medical leave and the weapon discharge, there was no way I was cutting through the bureaucracy and unbenching myself in a hurry.

But there was the problem. Carmichael, resident S.I. skeptic, was possibly the worst person to deal with this case. If I tried to tell him everything I'd learned about wizards and spells, he'd probably send me to a shrink.

Why not show him Bob? The thought plunked into my brain. Sure, Bob hadn't wanted his existence to get around, but maybe I could convince the spirit to let Carmichael in on the secret, if I asked really nicely and made a bad joke.

"About the case—" I started.

"Don't start that shit," Carmichael told me. "I've got it handled, Murph. I don't want to hear another word on it."

I gritted my teeth. "Ron, there's things you don't know—"

"That's a word, Murph. Night."

The line went dead.

I tried calling a few more times. Carmichael didn't pick up.

A few minutes later, Waldo checked inside. I waved him in morosely.

"Hey," he said. "Good news. I know your doctor. He said he's willing to do a quick checkup and let you go, if I promise to keep an eye on you for the night."

I raised an eyebrow. "You've got work, Waldo," I challenged him.

"I've got personal days," he replied. "And you're a friend." Waldo paused. "If you want to stay in the hospital, on the other hand—"

I shuddered. "You've got a deal. Get me the hell out of here."

0-0-0-0

Discharge still took a lot longer than I wanted, between getting my final check-up, signing my paperwork, and tracking down my last possessions, but I was glad to be free of the hospital. I gave Waldo directions back to my place, with an exceptionally weird feeling, and he drove us back.

I spent that time trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do about this case.

There was still a quiet gang war raging out there, and a psychopathic wizard with the ability to make hearts explode and scorpions grow. The department's resident skeptic currently had my case, and he'd made it super-clear he had no intention of sitting down long enough for me to explain the crazy stuff to him. Meanwhile, it seemed like it was only a matter of time before someone else died, if it hadn't happened already.

Marcone, I knew, would eagerly accept any scraps of information I gave him, no matter how nuts I sounded. But I'd meant what I said to him, no matter how much it pissed him off. A few years back, Marcone had gotten involved in a firefight that claimed the life of a little girl in passing. He'd gotten away from it without ever going to court, but given how deformed the bullet was, there was no way to tell whose gun it had come from. It might even have come directly from Marcone's gun.

Careless was the word I'd use for him. Not because he was stupid, but because he literally just didn't care.

I frowned. If that was the case, then why had Marcone doubled back for me before?

Maybe, I thought, he just didn't want the hassle of a dead cop on his doorstep.

The idea didn't fit right. I didn't like that. The truth, I admitted to myself, was probably some kind of messy in-between. Human beings like to think that we're logical, consistent creatures… but a lot of the time, we're a weird assortment of conflicting choices, all rationalized and made to fit together after-the-fact. It was possible Marcone had just reacted instinctively under pressure, pulling a momentary ally out of the line of fire.

Either way, no matter the reason, I had to admit that he'd risked his life to do something decent. That didn't negate all his other crimes — the fact that he ran an entire empire of misery — and it didn't make him a good person as a whole… but ignoring it didn't serve any good purpose either. It was just a way to make things feel neater than they really were.

Anyway, whatever I'd led the mobster to believe, I'd already given him the most important information I'd managed to dig up so far. I had the means — the murder weapon, a kind of magic known as Thaumaturgy. Everyone involved knew the motive now — the gang war — Carmichael included. What I decided to do from here would depend on the best way to find that last piece: opportunity.

I needed to get my legs to stop shaking, get my head on straight, and figure out my next move.

Waldo pulled up in front of the house, and got out to help me from the passenger's seat. Any illusion of competency or control I'd had up until that moment evaporated abruptly as I staggered my way up the sidewalk, leaning heavily on his shoulder. The short walk felt agonizingly long. I took my keychain from him, searching out the right one with fingers that shook uncontrollably.

By the time Waldo helped me collapse onto my couch, I knew I wasn't going anywhere that night.

The medical examiner straightened, readjusting his glasses. I'd expected him to be a little more winded, but I'd somehow forgotten he spent at least part of his day cracking open rib cages. "I'll go grab the rest of your stuff," he told me. "Just take a breather."

He headed back out the door, and I took a deep breath, leaning into the couch arm.

"Psst!" I blinked, and jerked my head up. Dim little golden lights flickered in the eye sockets of the skull on the fireplace mantle. "Kid," Bob said. "Who's the nerd?"

"Friend from work," I said. "He's nice."

Bob scoffed. "That's not a cop," he said. "Not unless the police have really lowered their standards since your dad's time."

"You're right," I said. "He's a nerd. He's a medical examiner. And he's nice. So don't be a jerk."

The two golden fireflies in the skull's sockets winked out abruptly as Waldo headed back inside, carrying my personal effects. He paused as he came in sight of the mantle. "Hey," he said. "How old is that skull?"

I blinked. "Uh… don't know, honestly. It belonged to my mom."

Waldo set down the stuff in his arms, then reached out to take Bob's skull delicately in his hands. There was a fascinated concentration on his face as he turned it over, peering at it through his glasses. "This doesn't look chemically bleached," he mused. "I wonder if it was actually sun-bleached? These carvings on top look kind of like chemistry symbols…"

I snorted. "You know, most people would get a little creeped out, walking into my living room and finding a human skull."

"Are you kidding?" Waldo said. "It's a mystery — that's even better!" He narrowed his eyes at Bob. "This looks like a male adult. I want to say it's a pretty old find, given the wear and tear, but that's probably just the romantic in me. I don't guess you ever got it carbon dated."

I gave him a bemused look. "I literally found it in the attic today. Uh… yesterday, I guess."

That was probably the wrong thing to say. I watched the words pique Waldo's interest. "If you didn't mind letting me borrow it for a bit…" he began.

I shook my head quickly. "I, uh. Not high on my to-do list, Waldo. Sorry." It was a lame comeback, but I needed some excuse not to hand over the skull. Waldo looked immediately embarrassed though, and I felt a little spike of guilt.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Obviously." He cleared his throat, and set the skull back down on the doily. "Are you still nauseous, or do you want to try getting some food down?"

I frowned. "I'm still not feeling so hot, but I figure I better try anyway. I think there's some oatmeal in the pantry."

I tried to push to my feet, but Waldo waved me off. "I'll go find it," he assured me. "That's what I'm here for."

I waited on the couch as he disappeared into the kitchen. That weird feeling hit me again. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had anyone over to the house, even as a friend. I sure as hell couldn't remember the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of me without being paid to do it. Grandma Murphy, I thought dimly. The day I came home from Academy with the flu.

"You gonna let everyone who comes in here manhandle me like that?" Bob demanded from the mantle.

I gave him a warning look. "Bob," I said. "If you want to keep yourself a secret, you're gonna have to practice being quiet."

Bob's teeth clacked together reluctantly. Quiet, I had figured out, was not his speciality. I didn't entirely blame him — he'd been stuffed in a trunk in the attic for years. It didn't seem to have affected him quite as badly as it would have done with a human being, given that he wasn't stark raving mad, but I couldn't imagine it had done nothing.

Waldo returned with a bowl of hot oatmeal. I normally found oatmeal depressing — probably the reason it had lasted so long in my pantry — but I ate it down with unusual gusto. My stomach didn't immediately threaten to toss it up, which I considered to be a good sign.

He helped me to bed — another bit of embarrassment all its own — but I managed to convince him to bring Bob to keep me company. It occurred to me that Waldo Butters had to be the only man in the world to whom that made sense.

"I'll be around until morning," Waldo told me. "Just let me know if you need something."

I considered him for a long moment. The image of his soul, warm and comforting, flooded right back to mind.

Once you See something with the Sight, Bob had said, you're stuck with it forever.

I was stuck with a lot of images. Not all of them had come to me supernaturally. But for once in my life, I was glad to have this one.

"Thanks, Waldo," I said. "Really. I won't forget this in a hurry."

Waldo looked away from me, pleased but clearly flustered. "Yeah. Um. No problem." He shot me a wavery smile. "G'night, Karrin."

A good five minutes after he'd closed the door, Bob's little eye-lights slowly kindled back on again. I had the feeling he had taken my warning to heart.

"Something feels different about you," Bob said. His voice was quiet now, like a sigh on the air. "Did you crack your Third Eye again already?"

I sighed. "Yeah, for a bit. I don't guess there's some kind of exercise I can do to strengthen it again? Like… physio for the brain?"

Bob made a little hm. "Guess it couldn't hurt," he said. "I could go back over some of the exercises you forgot. Most of those lessons were on the assumption you'd eventually get some magic of your own, but it's not like it would hurt you to learn 'em anyway."

I chewed on my lip. "Yeah. About that. Would you be willing to go through all of that again? All the knowledge and the facts. Like… back to elementary school, you said." I rubbed at my jaw. "I know it's a lot to ask. And I wouldn't want to ask for free, exactly. But I don't know what I could give you in return."

Bob's little eyelights blinked in surprise. "Uh… huh. That's a weird question. I don't think anyone's ever tried to pay me before." He ruminated on that. Then, sheepishly, he said: "Can I get back to you? Like… just call it an unspecified favor for now."

I nodded. "Yeah, that works." I had a feeling it was a bad thing to make an open-ended promise like that, but some weird half-remembered part of me was still a little kid talking to Uncle Bob. There was trust and affection there, however deep it had been buried.

"You want to start now?" Bob asked.

I grimaced. "Not like I'm doing much else at the moment. May as well take advantage."

"What about the nerd outside?"

"I guess we'll just have to keep it quiet." I frowned. "And Bob?"

The golden lights flickered expectantly.

"You are literally the ultimate nerd. Stones and glass houses and all that."

He didn't have a ready response to that one. I heard him grumble a few times, before he said: "Fine. Let's talk about magic."