Chapter Text
“So I was right.”
“That you were.” Morrison points his fork at Katherine’s smug smirk. “Now, don’t you act all so clever, miss, I said right away this whole thing seemed fishy to me.”
Katherine lifts one eyebrow skeptically but says nothing, settling for attacking her own pancakes.
“Alright, spill. What was it?” She stuffs her mouth full of the steaming flapjacks; Katherine’s apparent invulnerability to extreme temperatures of her meals will never cease to amaze Morrison. “A Lusachia? A Harpy, maybe?”
Morrison looks at his friend pensively.
She looks so much happier than she did all those weeks ago, dark shadows under her eyes gone and the slightly mischievous spark in her irises back. In the familiar sun-flooded interior of Roddy’s Diner, with a plate of steaming pancakes and a cup of equally steaming and customarily horrible coffee, it’s easy to forget everything that happened since they last met in this very same spot.
“It was a high demon,” Morrison says finally, enjoying a fleeting grimace of shock on Katherine’s face, “A real mean bitch called a nocnitsa.”
Katherine frowns.
“Never heard of that one before.”
“And with a bit of luck, you ain’t ever gonna hear about ‘em again.” Morrison takes a sip of coffee and immediately winces at the taste. “The one I just got rid of, think it was one of the last in existence, and Hell, am I glad for it.”
Katherine swallows the last remains of her breakfast and leans back against the filthy couch.
“Well, if you’re glad then I guess I’m glad as well.” She reaches into her bag to retrieve a weathered white envelope, she slides across the counter towards Morrison. “Here. For the trouble, and all.”
“Come on, Kat, that’s not how we do things.” Morrison crosses his arms on his chest. “You know I didn’t do it for money.”
“I know, but I still feel like I owe you this much.” The detective tries to slide the envelope back to her, but she puts her hand over his, looking him in the eye seriously. “I mean it, Jay. You’ve been risking your life because of me, I’m not going to accept a ‘no’ here. If you don’t take that cash, I’m going to give it to Bridget, she’ll know how to make use of it.” A teasing smile curls her lips upwards; for a brief moment, she looks just as she did when Morrison first met her, a brash, young girl with a crookedly cut fringe and wild hunger for justice. “Besides, don’t you have a mercenary you need to pay?” She must notice surprise on his face because she chuckles lightly. “Words travel fast in this city, you know.”
“About as fast, as Enzo Ferino can keep spittin’ ‘em out, that seems about right.” Morrison sighs tiredly. “There’s a special place in Hell for Italian rumormongers, mark my words. Confidentiality my ass, if he was told to keep the arrival of the apocalypse a secret, that man would gather all living souls for the Last Judgement faster than all of the angels with all of their trumpets.” He hides the envelope in the inner pocket of his coat, shaking his head in displeasure. “That doesn’t feel right, miss, not at all.”
“Just take the girls to the cinema in my name. I’m so busy now, God only knows when I’ll be able to visit them myself.” Katherine pats Morrison’s hand affectionately and gathers her belongings. “Still, we need to celebrate your success properly sometime soon.”
Morrison hums thoughtfully, watching his friend fumbling out of the booth.
“Kat?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember the legend about Sparda?”
Katherine stops rummaging through her bag and looks at him, pushing her short hair away from her face.
“Of course I do.” She runs her fingers through her fringe. “Every child knows that story. The Dark Knight Sparda who conquered the Underworld and saved humanity, what better legend could there be?” A small crease appears between her eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Morrison reaches for his coffee and sighs sufferingly, looking at the muddy liquid. “You don’t remember Sparda having any children, now, do you?”
Katherine laughs in surprise.
“No, I don’t remember that part, that’s for sure.” Her eyes narrow in curiosity. “That’s an oddly specific question.”
“Nah, don’t mind it. Apparently, old men tend to think too much, and that’s what it leads to.” Morrison takes another sip of the coffee, looking at Katherine above the edge of the cup. “Now, scurry off, miss, I’m going to enjoy this lovely morning a little longer.”
Katherine shakes her head.
“You’re getting yourself into some awful mess, Jay, I can feel it in my bones.”
“And that’s where you’re mistaken, young lady,” Morrison replies calmly, setting the cup back onto the counter, “I’m done with all of this city’s messes. Whatever it’s got goin’ on right now, it’s most certainly…”
***
“… not my problem anymore.”
Enzo huffs annoyedly, jumping up on his seat.
“Jay, friend, you must know something! Aiuta un amico in difficoltà! You’ve been working with that ingrato figlio di puttana, no?”
“So were you,” Morrison points out calmly, lighting a cigar and puffing a cloud of smoke, which immediately dissolves in the ever-present coat of mist, covering Enzo’s spot in Bobby’s Cellar. “Don’t see why I should know anything more about where the Hell that kid ran off to than you do.”
Enzo rests his head in his hands in a gesture of utter despair; Vittorino, splayed out in the corner of the booth with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, gives his cousin an amused look.
“He missed out on two jobs in Laferta already,” he says to Morrison; his accent is heavier than Enzo’s, his voice lower and huskier, “I had to send my boys to do his work, but that can’t go on, capisce? We got our own things to take care of.”
“As all of us good, hard-working sons of Lawrence do.” Morrison nods solemnly, raising his own glass to Vittorino. “You know me, if I could help, I’d help. I got no business in hiding anything from you.”
Vittorino shifts uncomfortably, apparently flustered; the detective gives him a sharp look.
“What is it?”
The man’s expression grows even more sheepish.
“Beh…”
“Beh, tu hai un debole per quel ragazzo!” Enzo finishes his cousin’s torments, for which Vittorino is clearly grateful. “I warned you, amico, but did you listen? Ovviamente, no! Nessuno mi ascolta, ed è così che finisce!” The broker’s raised voice echoes in the drowsy bar, attracting the attention of two stray mercs, playing darts on the opposite side of the saloon. “You’ve been going too easy on that piccolo diavolo from day one, and look what you did, sciocco! Spoiled my merc, that’s what!” Enzo gesticulates his cigar vividly, sprinkling ash all over the booth. “That’s what happens if you coddle those little bastards instead of keeping them on a short leash, as you should!”
Morrison scoffs, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
“Keep ‘em on a short leash, eh?” He flicks his cigar onto the ashtray, his fingers shaking a bit with controlled anger. “You almost killed that boy, Enzo! If that’s how you treat your brightest stars, then by God, no wonder they keep dyin’ like flies.”
Enzo’s chubby cheeks assume a shade of especially exquisite wine.
“Muoiono, perché sono bastardi sfacciati e spericolati!” He points the glowing tip of his cigar at Morrison’s face. “Every merc knows they can die any moment, fa parte del lavoro, and I never, never lie when I’m giving them the jobs, you know that, Jay!”
Morrison opens his mouth to point out that while Enzo’s not lying, he’s most certainly not telling the whole truth either, but Vittorino’s deep, calm voice cuts him off.
“Mio cugino ha ragione.” He lifts his hand in a calming gesture, seeing Morrison’s offended stare. “No, no, Jay, I’m not saying you’re not un professionista, perdio, no, ma...” Vittorino pauses to down the remains of his whiskey and reaches across the table for the bottle, proceeding to fill up all of their glasses. “Ma piaci a quella piccola bestia!”
Morrison freezes for a split second with the glass halfway to his lips before he barks a raspy laughter.
“Vittorino, my friend, I’m sorry to say that, but you’ve never been more wrong in your life.”
Enzo’s just about to chime in, but his cousin stops him with a raised hand; to Morrison’s surprise, the little broker actually remains silent, which is an occurrence worth noting in history books.
“I know what I see,” Vittorino says calmly, his dark eyes holding Morrison’s gaze, “That kid, he’s like… è come un riccio, no? All spikes and spikes, no friends, no fidanzata, niente di niente. But you…” He chuckles huskily. “Buon Dio, he’s been following you like a little puppy! If you told him to hang himself, he’d go to fetch a rope, quel piccolo demone!”
Morrison winces at Vittorino’s choice of words.
“Look, there is a story to be told here, I’ll give you that,” he says, swirling whiskey in his glass, “But it’s not the time and not the place for it. And no, Enzo, I have no idea what Tony’s up to or where on earth he is!” he adds, seeing as the broker jumps up on his seat. “Say what you will, but I’ve been in this business way too long to be acting like a clueless teenager.” The detective takes a sip of liquor and sets the glass back onto the counter. “Look after your own and pray…”
***
“… for the whole rest.”
Willie quickly counts the bills and grins, revealing a large gap where his front teeth used to be.
“Pleasure doin’ business with ya.” He stuffs the cash into the back pocket of his jeans; Morrison lights up a cigar and offers fire to the bookie.
“Feeling’s mutual.”
Willie leans against the brick wall, glancing at Morrison with a somewhat pensive frown, a trail of smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand.
“You still workin’ with that little merc? Tony, or somethin’?”
The detective sighs tiredly, pushing his hat to the back of his head.
“Not anymore, no. Haven’t heard from him in weeks.”
“Shame.” Willie coughs and spits out thick, yellowish phlegm into the gutter. “That kid was a real beast in the ring, lemme tell ya. The angriest lil’ cockroach I’ve ever seen, almost beat a guy to death once, can you believe that? Fella was already knocked-out, flat on his back ‘n not even tryin’ to get up, but that mad bastard kept beatin’ the livin’ shit out of him. Took three of my guys to get him out of that ring.” The bookie sniffs loudly. “Never thought lil’ Tony’d be so damn feisty.”
“Well, if I happen to bump into him anytime soon, I’ll send him to ya,” Morrison announces loudly, “Still, I don’t think I’ll be working with him…”
***
“…ever again.”
Nell looks at him skeptically over her cluttered desk.
“I know bullshit when I hear it, Jay.” She reaches for a screwdriver and points it at Morrison’s chest. “I’m willing to bet fifty bucks, you’re gonna be knee-deep in an even bigger mess by the end of the month.”
“You just got yourself a bet, old girl.” Morrison examines an unfinished gun, lying on the counter next to him. “I’m too old for adventures like that last one. Enzo wants me to stay for a while, fine, I’ll stick around, but dealin’ with high demons at my age? No, sir, that’s way too much for me. Told him already, I won’t take anything fishy, even if he was to offer me half of this godforsaken city and his daughter’s hand.”
Nell just hums noncommittally; the workshop is quiet, only the ticking of the clock disrupting the peace of a warm, autumn afternoon, with the dust swirling in the golden rays of sunlight and birds chirping right by the open doors, arguing over a stale bread crust.
Morrison jerks in surprise when Nell’s voice draws him out of his thoughts.
“I won’t be seeing your little bard anymore, I take it?”
The detective scoffs.
“Considering that my ballad-monger turned out to be a demonic spawn, I say it’s unlikely.” He huffs in irritation. “And why everyone keeps actin’ like I’m that kid’s nursemaid is just beyond me.”
Nell lifts her eyes from the contraption she’s currently working on to give Morrison a calm look.
“Well, if everyone seems to be getting the same impression, then we can’t all be wrong?”
Morrison crosses his arms on his chest, sitting up in his armchair.
“Here you have it, a proof that everyone can actually be wrong,” he says firmly, “Whatever he’s up to, wherever he’s gone to and with whoever he’s associating right now, Anthony Redgrave is…”
***
“…not my business anymore, nu-uh.”
A steaming bowl full of carrots and peas lands on the table in front of Morrison with a loud thud; Bridget falls onto the chair beside him, huffing annoyedly.
“I’m not entirely sure who you’re trying to convince, sir.”
“I ain’t trying to convince no one,” Morrison says, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice as he’s putting a generous portion of vegetables onto Mia’s plate, ignoring her grimace of disgust, “All I’m sayin’ is that I’d sure as Hell appreciate it if I could leave that whole mess behind and have some peace, for a change.” He hands the plate to his daughter; she pokes at the carrot mountain with obvious hatred, earning herself a scolding look from her mother.
“Don’t even think about a dessert until all the greens are gone, miss.”
Mia groans, sliding down in her chair.
“But it's too much! Look at that!” She points to Morrison’s plate accusatorily. “Dad’s got fewer carrots than I do, and he’s much bigger than me!”
Bridget narrows her eyes at him, and the detective reaches for the vegetables with a small sigh.
“I’ve raised myself a little traitor, that’s what I did.”
Mia grins a gap-toothed smile, which fades as soon, as she notices Bridget’s strict stare.
“Now it’s even, don’t you think? Look at your sister, veggies are not half as bad as you think they are.”
The girl grumbles something about Jessica being ‘a little toady’, but Bridget pays her no mind, turning back to Morrison, who immediately begins to nibble on his carrots with much more enthusiasm.
“How long has it been? Three weeks?”
“…four.”
“Precisely!” Bridget pours herself a glass of orange juice; the liquid splashes dangerously, but not even a droplet touches the white tablecloth. Apparently, even orange juice must respect Bridget’s authority. “A whole month, and there’s not been a single day that I haven’t heard about that senseless mess you’ve gotten yourself into!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Morrison sees Mia, trying to hide her peas underneath mashed potatoes, but Bridget is too busy cutting the roast to notice; he takes a sip of juice to hide a smile.
“It’s not every day that a man gets a case like that one, bird.”
Bridget scoffs.
“Oh, please, I’ve not seen you so stirred by any case since 1994! No, it’s not about the job.” She points at him with a carrot. “It’s all about that crazy kid.”
Jessica remains entirely oblivious to the discussion going on around her, busy drowning her roast in sauce, but Mia perks up visibly, her eyes darting between her mother and father.
Morrison chuckles huskily.
“The kid, you say?”
“Damn right, I do.” Bridget raises her head to give Morrison a stern look, to which Mia immediately stuffs her mouth full of the greens. “You’re worried about him.”
“Worried? ”
“You repeating everything I say ain’t gonna get us nowhere.”
Morrison hums pensively, chewing on the meat.
Bridget really outdid herself again, he thinks, reaching for the saucer.
“That kid is a mercenary,” he says out loud, “And a real devil at that. I’ve hired him, worked with him for a while, business as usual, don’t see no reason why everyone keeps thinkin’ there’s anything more to that.”
“Good God, Jay, you’re insufferable! Do you think I don’t remember how it was when we were kids? How you’ve been takin’ care of every stray puppy, every injured bird? Your mother was going nuts with all that fur and feathers in your room!”
Mia opens her mouth, undoubtedly to point out that her own pleas for a puppy have all been declined so far and that such a situation is a raging injustice, but stops herself just in time to avoid being promptly sent to her own room to let the adults talk.
Morrison gives the buttery veggies on his daughter’s plate a meaningful look and only continues after making sure the girl’s back to battling her greens.
“It’s been years ago, bird, you know that. A lot’s changed since then.”
“A lot, sure, but you? Not at all. And don’t you dare givin’ me none of that ‘look after your own’ crap, Jay! You can keep tellin’ that to everyone, but don’t expect me to believe it.”
Morrison slowly sets down his fork back onto the plate, three pairs of eyes (even Jess is now very interested in the events at the table) fixing him intently.
Bridget is many things; Bridget is stubborn, and cheeky, and brash, but what can really drive people crazy, is that she’s almost always right, and is never afraid to voice it loud and clear.
Should Morrison care about some stray kid? No. Should he care about a little demon? Abso-bloody-lutely not.
Does he care, however? He damn sure does, because Bridget is right: no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many times he tells himself and everyone around him that he’s above it all, no matter to what lengths Lawrence goes to prove him it can easily crush anyone and anything and there’s nothing to be done about it, Morrison will always end up caring too much.
It only takes one look at Bridget to know that she understands; that she knows how he feels, because deep down, she’s just like him; that beneath all that harsh demeanor, she’s still the very same little girl with a messy braid, who once almost drowned trying to save a bee.
“So what do you suggest I do now, huh? Nobody’s heard of Tony Redgrave in weeks, even if I wanted to find him, I wouldn’t even know where to start…”
“I know!”
All the attention shifts to Mia, who slides down in her chair by a few inches and seems to be deeply regretting her sudden outburst.
Morrison frowns, unease creeping up to him.
“You know where Tony Redgrave is?”
“I… Well…” She looks at her father timidly. “I think so?” Morrison nods invitingly, and the girl continues a bit more steadily. “Uhm… So, uncle Enzo had to stop by Bobby’s Cellar when he was taking Sienna and me for ice creams yesterday…” Morrison makes a mental note to tell Enzo clearly what he thinks about his daughter being any closer to Bobby’s Cellar than at least a mile away, but forces his expression to remain open and encouraging; Mia sits up, clearly beginning to enjoy the attention now, that the threat of being forced to leave the conversation has been alleviated. “We were waiting for him at the back, and then that boy came…” The girl scrunches her nose slightly. “And he looked awful, really, even worse than Johnny Bridges! He talked to Luca first, we couldn’t hear them very well, but then Luca called uncle Enzo, saying that Tony Redgrave was there, and uncle Enzo came out and he got so, so mad at him! He was screaming something in Italian, and Sienna didn’t want to tell me what he was saying because her mother told her she shouldn’t repeat swearwords, but in the end, uncle Enzo said… he said…” Mia makes a funny face she always does while performing her famed impression of Enzo’s accent. “You can go back to the Orphanage for all I care!, that’s what he said, and then he went out and we had to run after him,” she finishes, beaming with pride.
The room is completely silent for a few seconds; thunder rolls somewhere in the distance, a tell-tale sign of an upcoming storm, and then Jess’ voice sounds in the quiet.
“What’s ‘Orphanage’?”
“It’s a place,” Mia says, a malicious gleam in her eyes, “A scary one! If you’re naughty, you get taken there and they take those huge knives, and…”
Jess’ irises widen in terror.
“Mia!” Bridget gives her daughter a stern glare; the girl rolls her eyes and pouts a little, while her mother turns to Jessica, who looks like she’s on the verge of tears. “Nobody’s taking anyone to the Orphanage on my watch, and I don’t want to hear anything about this place under my roof!”
Morrison rubs his temples tiredly.
Orphanage. Of all the possible places, the Dead End, Geordie’s Den, the Pink Cellars, it has to be the Orphanage.
Maybe Mia got something wrong, after all Morrison knows Enzo’s habit of switching back and forth between English and Italian when he’s mad; maybe that’s not where Tony ran off to, maybe…
A small hand touches his shoulder.
“Daddy?”
Morrison lifts his head to look into Mia’s big, brown eyes, now filled up with worry.
“Yes, sweet pea?”
“Is that boy your friend?”
The detective nods hesitantly.
“I suppose he is, in a way.”
Mia bites her lip, fidgeting for a short while before she promptly climbs into her father’s lap; Morrison glances at Bridget, but she just sighs, shaking her head.
“Dad…”
“What is it?”
Mia raises her eyes to look him in the face.
“Uhm… Everyone says that all naughty children end up in the Orphanage, you know?”
Morrison knows; even when he was young, making his first steps as a detective, the Orphanage’s been like a boogeyman for the aspiring mercs and unruly children alike.
Mia shifts slightly.
“Well… that boy looked like he was really, really naughty.”
Morrison’s got a particularly ugly curse on the tip of his tongue, but luckily for him, that is the exact moment when Jessica decides he might need some additional consolation and weasels her way into his lap, earning herself an annoyed grunt from her sister.
The detective sighs and looks at his wife over the warm bundle he’s holding in his arms.
“What am I supposed to do, huh?”
Bridget huffs.
“Oh, so now you want to listen to me? I’ve been telling you from day one: stay away from that damn kid, but no! You always have to dive headfirst into trouble!” She stands up from the table. “Want me to tell you what to do? You, sir, need to go out there and find that boy.” Bridget looks him seriously in the eye. “And I suggest doing it fast, because I swear to God, if on the Final Judgement they find out you left him in the Orphanage, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
***
There are two main roads leading to Lawrence; one through the woods, surrounding the city from the north, and the much more frequented one from the east, leading across the river and commonly known as the Holly Joe’s Road.
Perhaps when it was but a small town, naïve and full of hope, Lawrence aspired to be a fairytale kingdom; in its usual fashion, the time verified those dreams and made the city into the steaming pile of dung it is now, with Holly Joe’s Road serving as the best example of how twisted and corrupted the tale of Lawrence’s gotten. It’s the first sight many of those who arrive in the city remember, always the same, even as the years go by; the highway climbs upon a hill to reveal a vast canyon, with a river glistening way below the Lawrence Bridge, majestic in gold and copper of the last rays of sunlight – and on the other side of the bridge there is the city, growing bigger and taller with each mile, shining with the blazing lights of Dead End, humming and purring like a fairytale dragon, making promises upon promises without ever intending to keep any of them.
Holly Joe’s Road, leading the innocent souls to a false paradise, while Hell’s lurking just beneath the bridge.
There are parts of Lawrence that are best avoided; parts where the only thing one might expect after nightfall is solid beating at best, and waking up without a kidney in a tub full of ice at worst. Parts overrun by gangs, wrecked by local conflicts, desolate and ruined over the course of the city’s long history.
And then there is the Orphanage.
At some point, trying to find a solution to the growing issue of homelessness, the city’s government attempted to industrialize the valley by the Lashlita River; a large estate of cheap houses was built right beneath Lawrence Bridge, and, as is customary in this godforsaken city, it all went downhill from there. The estate was nearly uninhabitable, houses built without foundations on the wetlands by the river were already crumbling before the construction was even finished. The official picnic that was to be held to celebrate the successful completion of the project had to be canceled because of the spring thaws, thanks to which the river flooded nearly a third of the newfound district, and after that spectacular fiasco, nobody ever talked about the Lashlita Estate anymore. Not many people even remember its original name; to everyone, it is and always has been known simply as the Orphanage.
There are parts of Lawrence that are best avoided, sure, but the Orphanage is its own thing entirely. It’s not that it should be avoided; it’s that people just don’t go there, as long as they have any, literally any other choice. It’s a place for the outcasts, for the addicts, the sick and the poor, those too weak to fight for their place in the city.
The place where people only ever go to die.
The night sky is ink-black when Morrison makes his way across yet another muddy alley, scrunching his nose at the stench of dampness, rot, and feces; God bless Bridget for handing him the wellingtons right before he went out.
Another thunder roll somewhere in the east and Morrison lifts the collar of his coat.
The convoluted labyrinth of ruined houses, makeshift shacks, wrecked cars, and occasional trailers makes up for a slightly unhinging landscape; it’s impossible to navigate the Orphanage in any efficient way, and the further Morrison ventures into it, the more claustrophobic the place gets, the alleyways becoming narrower and more twisted, with the empty, dark windows of the houses staring out into the night. Every once in a while, he encounters a bonfire, groups of people gathered around the flames, but most of his attempts at finding out anything valuable are met with stares either full of terror or glassy and hollow. Lawrence Bridge is hanging above the district like a highway to heaven, shining over the darkness, lit up only by the flickering bonfires and battery-powered lamps.
House after house, street after street; men and women, boys and girls, sometimes even little children, the eerie quiet of the Orphanage only sometimes disrupted by screams and sounds of fights, distant cries soon to be stifled by the heavy air of hopelessness, hanging over the place like a thick veil.
Morrison stops on the corner of the street, trying to make sense of where he should head on to next, to no avail; that goddamn district looks just the same everywhere. It’ll be a miracle if he even manages to find the place where he parked his car.
He feels goosebumps on the back of his neck, as if someone was watching him; when he looks around, Morrison notices a couple on the stairs of one of the collapsed houses, a skinny kid, no more than twenty years old, and a bundle of dirty clothes of unidentifiable sex, curled up on the concrete next to him and seemingly asleep, with its head in his lap.
Morrison would have ignored them – after all, he’s already passed by a similar sight more times than he could count that evening, but the unusual awareness in the kid’s eyes makes him pause for a second.
“You mind if I take a minute of your time?”
The young man doesn’t answer, but doesn’t look away either, still watching him warily; Morrison approaches slowly, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.
“I’m lookin’ for someone,” he says, “A kid, fifteen or so, white hair, blue eyes. Goes by the name ‘Tony’. Seen him around lately?”
The kid on the stairs shifts slightly and then points his chin at the ruined building on the opposite side of the street; the bundle of clothes next to him hasn’t even twitched, and Morrison begins to wonder if it’s even alive.
The detective sighs tiredly.
“He’s in there?”
A small nod.
Well, that’s worth checking out, at least.
“Thanks, kid.”
He’s just about to enter the building when a croaky voice sounds behind his back.
“Tell Thiago to go easy on him, huh?”
Morrison freezes on the doorstep before slowly turning around to face the young man, the uncertainty on his face visible even in the dim light of the alley.
“Thiago?” he repeats.
“Y… yeah.” The man begins to stutter, his fear now obvious, “I mean, he’ll do what he wants, sure, but I’m just sayin’… T-that kid’s not gonna take much more, y’know. L-last night, he…” A frown appears on the kid’s gaunt face. “I-I mean, you’re Thiago’s guy, right?”
Morrison shakes his head.
“No. Haven’t stooped quite that low yet.” He leans against the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest. “You’re sayin’ Thiago Scags’ been stalking my kid?”
“Your…” The man’s eyes widen, a feverish spark igniting within his dark irises. “You gotta take him away from here, man. Whoever he is to you, please, if y-you don’t take that kid, he’s gonna… Thiago’s gonna kill him, with the gigs or otherwise, or he’ll…” His fingers clench on the dirty bundle in his lap, urgency in his raspy voice. “You take him away, alright?”
Morrison nods solemnly.
“That’s what I came here to do.” He hesitates for a split second before he comes back to the man, searching his pockets. “And just in case you needed some help, lad… Here.”
He offers the kid his business card; the young man accepts it, holding the piece of cardboard in trembling fingers and staring at Morrison with visible confusion.
“W-why…”
“Because I just never learn, that’s why.” He offers the kid a crooked smile. “Stay safe.”
He enters the house quickly before he can step into yet another mess.
The inside of the place is dark, the dim light of the Orphanage barely making its way through the smashed windows; Morrison fishes out a flashlight from the pocket of his coat and turns it on, blinking at the mold-covered walls and the holes in the floor. A rat scurries away from the light, and the detective scrunches his nose in disgust.
He hates rats.
Slowly, careful not to get his feet wedged up in the rotten floorboards, Morrison makes his way into the depths of the house, the stench of mildew growing with every step, crushed glass and rubbish cracking beneath his feet in the narrow corridor. He slides into a small room at its end, one that was probably supposed to be a bedroom.
The smell of mold isn’t quite as intense there; it is partly thanks to a large, empty window frame, allowing the slight breeze to carry in the stormy air from the outside, but mostly because of the heavy scent of alcohol. The place reeks like a distillery, empty bottles litter the floor; Morrison knocks one of them over, causing a shadow, curled up in the corner to stir slightly.
“Fffuck off.”
Tony’s voice is so rough, Morrison can barely make out the words; he crosses the room carefully and crouches next to him, his hand hovering inches over the kid’s shoulder.
“Tony?”
The kid grunts in response, pulling a frayed blanket over his head.
“Told ya to fffuck off, huh? I ain’t doin’ no gigs today.” He curls up into an even tighter ball. "Tell Thiago that if he wants another go, he's gonna have to actually move his ass for once." The kid's words come slowly, drowsily, like he's already half-asleep again. “’F y'here to fuck me, juss go ahead, I don’t care.”
Morrison sighs.
Damn, he’s old, he’s too old for that.
“Sorry, son, you still ain’t my type.”
There’s some stirring under the blanket, and a pair of glassy, blue eyes peek from underneath the cloth, glistening strangely in the faint light.
“Fffuck.” Tony chuckles, but his laughter quickly turns into a grimace of pain. “Changed your mind, huh? We gonna do this psycho killer thingy after all?”
“I don’t think my wife would appreciate it very much,” Morrison replies calmly, reaching out to brush away long, dirty hair from the boy’s forehead; his skin is dry and scorching hot, and the detective notices how he leans into his cool palm. “But if you’re so hellbent on having it all end that way, well. Bet we could arrange something.”
Tony huffs a small laugh.
“Kinda.” He leans against the wall and looks at something over Morrison’s shoulder, absent smile still tugging at the corners of his chapped lips. “Yeah, I kinda… would…” A frown appears on his face. “Y’ain’t supposed to be here.”
The detective stands up, flicking dust off his trousers.
“Nobody’s supposed to,” he says gently, “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
***
Tony falls asleep as soon, as Morrison manages to transport him to the car, and doesn’t wake up even when the detective carries him to the office, which isn’t all that surprising, considering that he must have drunk the amount of alcohol sufficient to kill a grown man, judging by the number of empty bottles in the ruined house. He’s awfully light in the detective’s arms, a hot, shivering bundle of bones and oversized clothes, his head lolling onto Morrison’s chest and his breathing so slow and shallow, the detective pauses a couple of times on the stairs to make sure it hasn’t stopped entirely.
He hears the first droplets of rain hitting the windows just as he lays the kid down on the couch and turns on the light.
Now, Tony’s always been one Hell of a runty kid, but now, he just looks like Hell, period; his wrists are so skinny, it seems like they might snap under the lightest touch, his skin painfully tight on his bones, bringing out all that strange, distinctly inhuman beauty of his features. Tangled hair cover most of his face, but Morrison can still see traces of blood on his lips, fresh cuts on his face, and yellowish bruises around his neck, his knuckles grazed to the bone, a dirty bandage peeking from underneath a large hoodie.
And he’s asleep, clutching onto the soft blanket Morrison covered him with as if it was a lifeline.
Morrison walks over to the kettle and begins to prepare the tea; the wind outside is slowly growing stronger, droplets of rain on the windowpane bigger.
Demons don’t sleep, as far as Morrison knows, neither the high nor the lesser ones. They can’t, even if they wanted to, which is a huge nuisance, a least in the detective’s personal opinion – it’d be much easier to sneak up on them, for one, and it’d leave them at least a bit less time for killing everything within their sight.
No, demons don’t sleep. Which means that Tony is not only a demon. Morrison’s only ever heard about half breeds in fairytales, but it is the only explanation he’s been able to come up with over the past couple of weeks – the kid’s mother must have been human.
And if the fairytales are to be trusted, that’s one Hell of a crappy fate.
Morrison sits in his cozy armchair with a cup of steaming coffee and busies himself with a book, observing the boy out of the corner of his eye. The storm is slowly rolling in above Lawrence, the wind howling outside of the office, whipping the windows with streams of rain, the night so dark, it’s impossible to see anything but a faint halo of city lights on the horizon, blurry in the curtains of water.
Lightning briefly illuminates the office, and Tony’s breathing quickens, his knuckles, clenched on the hem of the blanket, turning white. Morrison raises his head from the book, watching him closely.
The boy stirs again, mumbling something incomprehensible and the detective leans slightly forward in his armchair.
“Anthony?”
The boy opens his eyes, and Morrison jerks at the sight of dark crimson.
“Eimai farshiltn, anitsvats, maleun. Is féidir liom bás a fháil fós. Quousque tandem?”
Morrison knows the voice – what he doesn’t know is the creature that’s speaking, that cold, unblinking thing that talks without as much as a hint of any human emotion; the usual cheer, the lazy nonchalance, the thinly-veiled mocking, it’s all gone with no trace.
A shiver runs down the detective’s spine; the boy blinks, and when he looks at Morrison again, his eyes are bleary and blue, a thin ring of ice surrounding dilated pupils.
“What did I do?” His voice is hoarse now, rougher than sandpaper and nothing like the smooth tone he’s been speaking in seconds ago; Morrison remains silent when he sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes with a small flinch. “C’mon, I must’ve done somethin’ fucked up. Spoke some weird language? Set your desk on fire?” Tony shudders and wraps the blanket tighter around himself, corners of his lips twitching as if in a failed attempt to smile and something like a silent plea in his eyes. “Just t-tell me.”
It’s uncanny to say the least, seeing the demon lurking within this feeble, broken body; Morrison’s heart skips a beat when he remembers the beast he saw in the dream realm.
It’s there, he’s sure of that. It’s there and it’s real, and there’s no telling which one is true, the boy or the devil. Making a wild guess here would be a madman’s game.
The detective leans back against the comfy chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest.
“Let’s just say, I didn’t expect you to have such fancy linguistic skills, kid,” he says calmly, “Though I’m not a big fan of those red eyes.”
For a split second, not even a heartbeat, Morrison could swear, he sees panic on the boy’s face; then a thunder rolls over the city and the kid’s expression is nothing but a little tired.
“Red, huh?” He’s toying with the frayed cuff of his hoodie, looking slightly to the side, into the storm, raging outside. “That’s a new one.”
Morrison raises one eyebrow at him.
“So that whole talkin’ tongues thing ain’t?”
Tony huffs; perhaps it was supposed to be laughter, but it comes out too choked to be considered one.
“No.”
“You don’t remember what you said?”
“’Course I do.” The boy rubs his nose, still staring into the darkness. “I just… Don’t remember sayin’ it like that.”
Silence falls over the office, filled only by the ticking of the clock and the howling of the wind, viciously attacking the walls of the old hotel; ancient window frames are cracking unnervingly, threatening to surrender to the next blow.
To his own surprise, Morrison realizes he doesn’t feel that deeply-rooted fear anymore, that age-old, subconscious dread he came to associate with the presence of demons a long time ago. His heartbeat is slowing down, and the calmer it is, the more relaxed the kid seems to be; he uncurls a little, though he’s still not looking at the detective.
Another lightning flashes in the sky, and Tony flinches.
“Don’t like the storms?”
The kid swallows and does a little movement, that could be either a nod or a head shake.
“Don’t like what comes with ‘em.”
That’s all; no snarky remark, no cheesy one-liner, no pointless blabbering, no nothing. Like Tony’s really gone, and all that’s left is really not much at all.
Morrison’s seen it before, kids with hollow eyes and nervous fingers, he’s seen it more times than he’d wish to. He’s not sure if half-demons work anything like human kids at all, but if they do, then he knows what’s going to happen if nobody’s there to pick up whatever pieces are still left; they’re going to disappear, shard after shard, until ‘not much at all’ turns into big, black, ugly ‘nothing’.
Humans are destructible. Demons, however, are not. Implications stemming from those two simple facts are numerous, and yet Morrison doesn’t like a single one of them.
“Y’ain’t… scared, huh?”
The detective jerks, drawn out from his pondering, and chuckles quietly.
“I’ve been in this business for more than twenty years, son, had demons tryin’ to kill me with their claws, horns, fangs, and whatnot more times than I could count. I’m sorry to ruin your self-esteem, but you sure as Hell ain’t the most intimidating creature I’ve met in my life.”
A corner of Tony’s lips twitches slightly.
“Looks can be deceivin’, old man.”
“So I’ve been told.” Morrison looks at his empty mug. “Tea?”
The kid finally turns to look at him, his eyes glistening strangely in the poorly-lit office, but free of any crimson glimmers; for a short while he seems to be fighting himself, but then he just sighs tiredly, wrapping his arms around himself.
“Sure.”
The detective gets up, his knee reminding him of its existence with a small pang of pain as he walks over to the kettle, still observing the boy out of the corner of his eye.
The kid’s following his movements, chin rested on the backrest of the couch; his eyes glimmer briefly at the sight of the colorful LEDs lighting up the kettle as Morrison turns it on, and the detective feels a wave of relief.
“Gotta say, you look goddamn awful, kid.”
The boy scoffs softly.
“Man, compliments really were weird in ye olden days. Fine though.” He shifts on the couch, a grimace of pain flickering across his features. “Y’look like a gerontophile’s wet dream, mate, bet y’can’t beat that one.”
Morrison chuckles.
“That I can’t.” He searches the cupboard for another mug. “Still, all the demons I’ve met were pretty damn good at patching themselves up.”
Silence answers him; Morrison busies himself with preparing the tea, the wind outside growing even stronger, though it seems nearly impossible.
“Maybe I just wanna enjoy the full human experience.”
The detective hums but doesn’t push any further, just hands the kid a steaming mug and sits back in his cozy armchair.
Tony’s hands tremble slightly when he lifts the mug to his lips and takes a careful sip of the tea; white hair fall into his eyes and he pushes them out of the way with mild annoyance, that reminds Morrison of Jessica’s tantrums over the state of her fringe, at the same time too long and not nearly long enough.
“How old are you, eh?”
The kid glances at him above the edge of the mug before setting it down in his lap, pressed against his abdomen.
“I… don’t know.” Morrison gives him a skeptical look, but Tony just shrugs. “Honest to… Honestly, I don’t know.”
“You must have some general idea, though.” The detective takes a testing sip of his infusion and decides that drinking it is still not a very good concept. “Is it closer to a century? A millennium?”
The kid gapes at him with a slightly confused expression.
“Closer to fifteen, dude, what the Hell?”
Sweet Jesus, Son of God, he’s a baby. A complete baby, or even less than one, as far as demons go.
“Well,” he manages finally, “It’s good to know you didn’t at least lie about your looks.”
“I never lied to ya, old man.” The boy seems to be surprised with how harsh these words sound; he shifts uncomfortably, his fingers clenched around the hot mug. “I mean… I didn’t tell ya the whole truth, but I didn’t lie, y’know. My pops did leave. My ma’…” Words hitch in his throat. “She’s, ugh… She ain’t around anymore.”
Morrison nods slowly.
“What happened to her?”
The kid tenses, his eyes glued to the mug he’s still clutching in his hands.
“She… died. I don’t wanna remember this.” He looks at Morrison, a hint of fear in his gaze. “They always want me to remember this, and I really, really don’t wanna.”
It takes the detective a solid couple of seconds to connect the dots; he frowns slightly.
“The voices?”
A small nod.
“I just… I got this feelin’, like nobody’s gonna enjoy what comes after I remember it all, y’know.” Tony sighs, staring into his tea. “Look, I’m sorry ‘bout that whole thing with the nocnitsa, okay? I had no idea she’d follow me all the way here, not after I… forgot so much.”
Morrison remains silent, waiting for the kid to collect his thoughts; the storm shows no signs of coming to an end any time soon, thunders rolling somewhere out there, miles above their heads.
“My old man… wasn’t exactly popular around demons, y’know,” Tony says finally, so quiet, his words almost disappear in the howling of the wind, “Guess that’s what happens when y’ain’t playin’ for the good guys, and then quit playin’ for the bad guys either, but hey, what do I know. Anyway, he met my ma’, and she fell in love with him, and he decided to plant a house, build a son, stuff like that, and then realized it wasn’t all that good an idea and went out to get cigs, and then things went south. Like, literally and figuratively, they went further south than Bill fuckin’ Sherman.” Tony swallows hard, hugging his mug even tighter.
“So, then I was alone, and some of dad’s enemies thought it was their time to shine, ‘cause, c’mon, killin’ Sparda’s kid’s like, more fun than Disney World. And y’know, high demons, they can… If they know who you are, they’ll track ya down anywhere, so I figured… If I didn’t know who I was, then they shouldn’t know that either, right?”
Morrison frowns, and then it all clicks.
“You really believed demons didn’t exist, huh?”
Tony nods and takes a sip of the tea.
“It wasn’t even that hard in the beginning, y’know. I mean, it’s all pretty fucked up, ain’t it? I just kept tellin’ myself it was all in my head, ‘till it stuck well enough. Sure, I’d slip every once in a while, but it wasn’t…” He shakes his head. “It’s just that it doesn’t work anymore. I can’t keep it all forgotten now, y’know what I’m sayin’?”
Morrison hums affirmatively.
His father used to say that some families are nothing but inherited misery, carried over to one generation after another until it all breaks under its own weight. And Tony seems to be just that – a kid burdened with years upon years of accumulated suffering and mistakes, like some sort of biblical atonement for the sins of his predecessors. A kid broken from the day he was born.
The boy looks at him, his expression unreadable.
“That’s all?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, y’got your answers.” Tony sets his empty mug on a coffee table with a quiet tap. “That’s whatcha wanted, ‘innit? Why you brought me here.”
The detective shakes his head.
“I brought you here because it seemed to me like you needed help, kid.” He raises his hand to silence the boy, seeing as he’s opening his mouth to protest. “I’m not sayin’ you did need it, mind you, I’m just sayin’ what I thought. Told ya already, son, you stepped in to save my life, and that’s a pretty big favor in my book. Whether or not that’s all… well. I suppose it’s up to you.”
Something dies out in Tony’s eyes; he curls on himself, bringing his knees closer to his chest.
“Can I like, go now?”
Morrison gives him a pensive look.
He’s got a feeling, he should think carefully about what he’s going to say next; the thing is, he doesn’t really have much to go on, not with how difficult the kid is to decipher. Not jumping to conclusions without having enough facts to support them is one of his primary rules, but then again… well, sometimes one just needs to make the best out of what little one has.
Conclusion number one: there are a lot of ugly things about the kid. The kind of capital letter Ugly, Hell, all capital letters UGLY. Morrison knows what he saw in Mollie’s apartment; Tony might not have been the one killing children, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be capable of doing it. It doesn’t mean a part of him wouldn’t enjoy it. It doesn’t mean that he couldn’t do much worse.
Conclusion number two: the kid’s just human enough to be aware of just how ugly he is and (conclusion number three) there’s another part of him that’s just straight-up scared. And that’s something Morrison can most definitely sympathize with because God knows, that beast he saw in the dream realm, now, he could most definitely do without encountering it ever again, thank you very much.
Conclusion number four: all things considered, Tony’s still not a bad kid. Living in Lawrence, Morrison’s seen first-hand what a certain kind of life can do to children, even ones without demons curled around their spines, and yet Tony is… well, not innocent by any means, but not nearly as wicked as he could be. There’s no corruption in him, not yet, as far as Morrison can tell at least; he’s never failed the detective’s trust. He saved his life for Hell’s sake, that’s bound to stand for something.
Conclusion number five: Tony’s not a bad kid just yet.
A part of Morrison knows that he’s treading on thin ice; that even if he’s right, even if he’s not being a hopeless optimist when judging the kid, even if he really is as human, as the detective wants him to be, he still can’t offer much to the boy.
Then again, he could offer him something, which is still better than the nothing the kid has right now.
‘You try to lift all of the world’s sorrows, you’ll only break your back,’ as Fred Morrison used to say, ‘But you can always carry some of them. Christ Almighty never asked no one to bear the cross for Him, but He’ll damn sure appreciate whatever help you can offer.’
And Morrison’s father was a wise man.
“Of course you can go, son,” he says finally, “But let me tell ya, that storm’s pretty damn ugly.”
Tony just scoffs.
“So? It ain’t like I’ll get sick or somethin’. If I get tired of bein’ wet, I can always let someone fuck me for a place to crash in. Hell, if I look pathetic enough, they might even use lube.” He hugs himself tightly. “’Sides, what’s the point? You’re skippin’ the town, and it’s not like it’s the last storm this year.”
“I’m not skippin’ the town.”
Tony blinks at him in surprise.
“What?”
“I said, I’m gonna stick around for a while longer,” Morrison says calmly, “Gotta tie all the loose ends first, deal with the unfinished business. And about that… I’ve got an offer for you, kid.” He leans slightly forward in his armchair. “Half-demon or not, you’re a good merc, and let me tell ya, good mercs are worth their weight in gold in this city. I’d like my prolonged stay in this hellhole to be as smooth and uneventful as it can be, and I’d damn sure appreciate havin’ someone to watch my back when things get too heated, so how about that: you’ll get your shit together and keep working for me, same pay, same old office to crash in whenever you feel like it, and I’ll get your little… disagreement with Enzo settled. How about that?”
Tony just stares at him, his mouth slightly agape.
“You’re totally off the rocker, ain’t ya?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Like, you’ve got a whole screw factory of screws loose in that head of yours.”
“’Course I do. It’s Lawrence kid, we’re all mad here!” Morrison chuckles. “Then again, I could probably never compete with you in that department.”
“Yeah, no.” Tony gives him a tentative look. “And what if I flip, huh? What if I end up goin’ all the way around the bend?”
“You see, son, dealin’ with problems before they occur is not only pointless, but also one of the easiest ways to drive yourself up the damn wall.” Morrison drums his fingers against the armrest. “You let things happen and deal with ‘em one at a time, that’s the only reasonable way. One at a time, and all will be fine.”
There is that look, the one Morrison saw the night when he found Tony bleeding in the bathtub, and that other night, decades ago, when he was trying to free good old Jester from the tangled wire; the defiance that’s more a habit than anything else, crumbling down slowly, only to reveal age-old weariness.
The kid nods slightly.
“’Kay. I’ll work for ya, sure.” He looks at the detective curiously. “Think Enzo’ll really get over it?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will, Tony. See, Enzo might seem a bit emotional at times, but he’s a businessman at heart. You earn him good money, and he’d forgive you anything, except perhaps murdering his firstborn.”
The boy smirks.
“Seems legit.” He stifles a yawn, looking to the side into the darkness beyond the window; Morrison wonders briefly what it is that he sees out there. If perhaps it’s something that his own eyes can’t notice, and if he’d even like to know what it might be. “It’s Dante, by the way.”
The detective’s mind needs almost half a minute to register the importance of the information he’s just been given.
“That’s your real name?”
“Yeah. Dante Sparda.” The kid flinches slightly, still staring into the storm. “Just… don’t tell anyone, a’ight? It’s hella stupid.”
“I won’t.”
Dante nods and the night goes on; the rainstorm’s still raging outside of the office, but truth be told, Morrison’s always been quite fond of them.
***
He must have dozed off at some point because when Morrison wakes up, the office is empty; the golden sunlight is flooding the room, quiet dripping of water on the windowsill the only remnant of the overnight tempest. The detective sits up slowly, cracking his stiff neck and cursing himself for falling asleep in the chair yet again.
Tony (Dante, Morrison remembers; it suits him, in this strange, arcane way demons’ names always seem to fit them) is nowhere to be seen, but the blanket is folded neatly, and there’s a note on the coffee table; Morrison reaches for it and squints at the piece of paper, trying to decipher the almost unintelligible scribbles.
B bck tomorrow. Thx.
xoxo
Morrison chuckles to himself and walks over to open the window.
The morning air is fresh and crisp; the detective inhales deeply, enjoying the warmth of the sunrise on his face, and then he realizes something is missing. He frowns slightly.
The mockingbirds. The mockingbirds aren’t singing; silence is filled only with the dripping of the water, ticking of the clock in the office, and the distant roar of the waking city. Morrison sighs and leans against the window frame.
It was bound to happen at some point, but it still hurts, somehow; this tiny, inexplicable pang of melancholy the detective remembers even from his childhood days, upon seeing bare cornfields, the unmistakable sadness crawling up to him.
Summer is over.