The Poison of Ivy Read online

  Each photo received curses and angry noises, but Edward Thorne received the crowd’s deep hatred. He’d failed to kill Jennings Ford and shortly after had refused to take on his next kill, Claire Rhine. “These are our current Works in Progress!” the man said from the stage. “The director has sent me here to not only assign these projects to willing Kingsmen but to assign the ninety-two others listed in the witching lines.”

  Varsity looked around. The crowd in the auditorium was at least six hundred strong, and he knew that L.A. wasn’t the only place hosting conferences that day. The talk about effectively predicting a target’s location and habits was delivered via satellite from Chicago, and the speaker explaining how to avoid leaving DNA identification or, in rare cases, how to frame another for the death of a witch, had a strong Southern accent that suggested another gathering of Kingsmen somewhere in Tennessee.

  “You are also encouraged,” said Turtleneck, “to remain on the hunt for the men and women who have proved themselves to be children of black magic through their association with the Prophetess and the many covens that meet regularly nationwide.”

  Someone in the crowd cried for the blood of the Prophetess, which was greeted by agreement.

  However, the man on stage simply smiled, kindness reaching into his eyes. “Not yet, Kingsmen. The Prophetess is beneficial to us—the ability to continue to inspire gatherings despite the most recent shooting of our own against a crowd of Prophetess followers is valuable to us. In the case of the Prophetess, because we currently do not have a record of those who follow her teachings, our most effective method is to strike them while they are together in the name of the Prophetess.

  He showed a drone image from the recent Prophetess gathering, as witches raced for the exits, bodies draped over chairs. Turtleneck clicked a remote, and the image went opaque, except for a small circle around a couple. A man and woman back to back. “This is Ivy Hart, one of our works in progress,” he said. “She and her partner took out all five of our shooters at the last Prophetess gathering within one minute and twenty seconds.”

  The crowd was still and silent. “She is to be considered armed and dangerous against our people and must be taken out when she is alone. Her partner, who we have identified as Detective Vince Benton at the LAPD, is an accurate shooter, with ninety-six percent accuracy.”

  The image on the screen flickered to Edward Thorne, who received a barrage of insults. “Edward Thorne failed to kill Jennings Ford and admitted to cowardice.” He changed the image to a chart. “As you’ll see in our setup of the hierarchy of the Kingsmen family, all who wish to see the evil of witches eliminated from the world are considered Kingsmen. However, only active Kingsmen are actually eliminating witches. When you are first assigned a witch, you have four days to make your move. If you do not, you are automatically removed from active status. However, if you prove yourself to be worthy enough to continue on as an active Kingsman, you are expected to uphold your sacred duty of eliminating witches. You will have six weeks to take down a witch after each new assignment. If you are not immediately reassigned, you are expected to track down witches through research of your own. You are admitted leaves of absence to lay low, but you are expected to remain active until you feel age or physical limitations render you incapable of active status, thus retiring with honors, as our King—the director of the Kingsmen—is retired. Are there any questions?”

  There weren’t. Or, if there were, no one was brave enough to ask, which was what Varsity found to be more likely. He’d seen people slipping out of the auditorium throughout the day, as people who had only shown for the spectacle became scared and left. Good. Cowards were just dead weight.

  The image flipped back to Edward Thorne. “Edward Thorne has never proven himself to be an accurate shot, but he has killed three witches and is considered to be an armed target capable of defending himself.”

  The picture changed to have Ivy Hart and Edward Thorne side by side. They looked so different. Ivy was a thin but strong-looking woman, with dark eyes and dark hair. Edward Thorne also had dark features, but his skin was pale, and he was built like a rock. “Most of you will be entered into a lottery and assigned one of the many continuations of the witching lines. However, because of the known abilities of these two works in progress, we ask that you only apply to the advanced lottery if you feel that you have applicable experiences that will allow you to successfully take down works in progress of this caliber.”

  The presentation flickered to the next slide. “Experience with guns and shooting, Kingsmen who are also active military or police, martial artists, combat experts, or experienced killers.”

  The room felt tight at those words. Varsity knew there were likely non-convicted murderers in the hall, but calling out to them felt like setting off some sort of ticking time bomb.

  “If you are not assigned to our advanced WIPs, those of you applying to the advanced lottery will be more likely to be chosen for a work in progress from the witching lines,” the man onstage said.

  “You will find electronic applications here,” Turtleneck said, flipping to the next slide, which displayed two QR codes. One will be for the lottery of being assigned to a witch, and the second will be for the advanced lottery. “For the sake of privacy, I’m going to ask everything to close their eyes and place their heads down.” Everyone did. Or, Varsity supposed everyone did. The backs of his own eyelids were not very telling. “And now, if you plan to apply to the regular lottery, please open your eyes and take a picture of the code to redirect you to the application page, which we encourage you to fill out at your leisure.”

  Varsity kept his head down, a memory of playing a similar style of game in grade school returning to him. He heard the snapshot noise of a few phones that were meant to be silenced, and a laugh rang from the back of the auditorium. “And now all heads down.” The man paused. “Thank you. And now, if you plan to enter the advanced lottery, please take a picture of the appropriate code.”

  Varsity raised his head and opened his eyes, snapping a picture of the screen. He did a quick scan of the room. At least thirty or so others had their heads lifted, and he suddenly wished to know their qualifications. He was an experienced shot and had a brown belt, which he predicted would soon be black. But if one of these people was an actual killer, what chance did he have at the pride of taking out a witch hiding under the guise of an actual police officer? He dropped his head back down.

  When they were all invited to stand and enjoy refreshments in the lobby, Varsity found himself in a group of Kingsmen who had also chosen not to cover themselves in masks or makeup. One of the men was heavily tattooed and bulky in his shoulders, who had appropriately alternatively named himself “Ink.” The other three seemed an odd mix to him. A woman named “Calla”—barely a cover for what Varsity assumed was her real name, Lily—had a breathy voice and delicate eyes. The other two, “Spots” and “Stripes,” introduced themselves as fraternal-twin Kingsmen. Stripes being a tall, wiry man and Spots being a short, stocky woman with curly hair and slightly darker skin than her brother.

  “Are you all applying for the experienced position?” Ink asked. “I am.” Varsity and the others nodded. Varsity dug the balls of his feet into the horribly patterned carpet—a mixture of every color imaginable over a burned brown base.

  “What specialties do you have?” Varsity asked, hearing the challenge in his own voice.

  “We’ve both practiced karate, taekwondo, judo, and aikido since we could walk,” said Spots. “I’m a pretty good shot, and Stripes is a charmer who also happens to know a lot about poisons and knife-throwing.”

  “And suffocation,” Stripes added.

  “And suffocation,” Spots agreed. No one asked for elaboration.

  “I have a background in shooting,” Calla said. She held up her phone and scrolled through pictures of her receiving awards for her shooting ability. Varsity raised his eyebrows to let her know he was impressed, and she smiled, though it was a simple li
ft of her lips. “I want to learn knife-throwing, though,” she said quietly, inclining her head to Stripes. She seemed shy for someone considering a life of killing.

  “Shooter and black belt,” Varsity said, stretching the truth a bit.

  “Used to be a hunting guy,” Ink said. “Served some time for aggravated assault. Done a few underground fighting rings, stuff like that.”

  They all nodded at one another, turning their attention to their applications. Did he even have a chance against a guy like Ink?

  By the end of the day, the hall had devolved into several different groups. Some people were reviewing fighting skills, shooting, and knife strikes. Others were gathered into small clumps of people devising tactics for searching out and eliminating followers of the Prophetess. Still, some groups were simply people trying to one-up each other with how they would take out witches and how they planned to climb the leader board.

  By the time the lights went out, Varsity had decided that he would be making his best attempts at eliminating a combination of Prophetess followers and the work in progress he would be assigned, whether it was Ivy or Edward or another member of a witching line. If he could start off fast and get onto the leaderboard, it would be easier to keep pace as that original burst of everyone’s energy dulled in the next few weeks.

  Red laser beams moved across the crowd, who started cheering. Suddenly, words projected onto all the screens that had been set up across the room throughout the afternoon, and Varsity understood why the screens had been set up in groups of four to create cube-like shapes. They were standing among a scattering of makeshift Jumbotrons.

  Each screen was uniform with all the others, and small groups clustered near each, careful to avoid the projector beams. An electronic-sounding voice filled the dark space with an eerie, monotone voice. “If you have been chosen to be an active Kingsmen, you will be receiving a text message now.” The room lit as Kingsmen pulled their phones out, anxiously looking for a text message.

  Varsity’s stomach flipped when he saw a text message from an anonymous number.

  His phone said: Mikayla Martin. Card: Throat. He felt his heart swell. It wasn’t the kill he’d applied for, but after hearing the qualifications of the others, he knew it was a long shot for him to receive such a prestigious mission. But this woman, Mikayla Martin, she’d do. He scrolled through the most recent Kingsmen site. He’d missed seeing the initial Kingsmen site that had been taken down; he wished he’d seen it. He clicked on Mikayla Martin on the recovery Kingsmen site; her picture repeated three other times all the way back to a grainy rendering of a woman cast in black and white.

  Mikayla Martin is the fourth reincarnation of known witch, Betty (last name unknown), a Southern slave known for practicing conjure and hoodoo practices. Mikayla Martin was born and raised in Long Beach, CA. She was a tattoo apprentice for two years in Long Beach. She now lives and works in Las Vegas as a tattoo artist and herbalist. | WIP Points: 50 | Reincarnation Points: 4 | Difficulty Points: 3 (supposedly practicing hoodoo)

  The screen in front of him changed to a slide headed with the words “Points System.” The ominous overhead voice thundered over the murmuring crowd. “Those of you who have been assigned a Work in Progress, you will see that there is a new points system, which will help you keep your ranking on the leader board.” The currently blank leaderboard popped onto the screen, only the first five slots showing. It then showed the names Ivy Hart and Edward Thorne.

  Ivy Hart: WIP Points: 50 | Reincarnation Points: 6 | Difficulty Points: 15 (LAPD)

  Edward Thorne: WIP Points: 50 | Reincarnation Points: 0 | Difficulty Points: 10 (former active Kingsman; 2 confirmed kills)

  “As you can see,” said the measured, robotic voice, “If your target is a work in progress, the target is automatically worth fifty points. Reincarnation points correspond to how many known reincarnations of the witch have occurred. Difficulty points are calculated on the possible threat a target would pose to you, should they fight back against you, whether through witchcraft or physical pushback.” The screen shifted again. “Here, you will find what is most likely to occur with a regular work in progress.”

  Example 1: WIP Points: 50 | Reincarnation Points: 5 | Difficulty Points: 4

  The screen changed again. “All Prophetess followers or any practitioners of black magic are worth twenty-eight points each, as their possible reincarnations are unknown. You will find a small, rechargeable body camera in the Kingsmen kits, available for purchase on your way out this afternoon, or you are welcome to use a cellular device to record your kill from a stationary location. You must submit footage of your kills to receive points. If you can provide identification of your kills and their connection to the Prophetess or magic systems, each elimination will be worth thirty-three points. Each Kingsmen kit will also have twenty Kingsmen cards. These are to be left only with bodies of eliminated witches. If you receive a work in progress, you will also receive instructions on where to leave the card. If you eliminate a Prophetess follower or magic practitioner, simply leave the card shoulder-level next to the body, away from the possible flow of blood.”

  An animated image of a book opening played across the screen. “All this information can also be found in your Kingsmen manual, available in your Kingsmen kit.”

  Varsity searched his pockets for cash, suddenly wondering if anyone would be searching the credit cards on file for this convention down the line. He could show his face to his fellow Kingsmen, but he wasn’t ready to sign his own name onto a list of future suspects. He felt the feathery surface of old bills in his back pocket and felt a knot of tension in his chest loosen.

  A voice now came over the intercom that was most definitely human—a man’s voice, smooth and calming. “Thank you for joining your new brothers and sisters, Kingsmen. If you were not assigned a work in progress today, bide your time. It saddens me to say that many of your fellow Kingsmen will fail in this next week and not achieve sustained active status. We will then look for others who are worthy. And to those of you who were chosen to prove yourselves first …” The red beams returned, moving around the room as if searching for the people who had received WIPs. “Good luck, friend.”

  The lights then returned to the room in phases, as though someone was trying to flip several light switches at once.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday, March 6, 2017, 6:53 p.m.

  By the time Chief Marks had arrived with the bomb squad, with Lindsey in tow with a camera on her shoulder, Ivy’s tongue was bleeding from how hard she was biting on it.

  Ivy’s eyes went wide at Lindsey, who smiled at her, though she was shaking. “Wouldn’t let the crew come in,” she said, aiming the camera at the crew of people with BOMB SQUAD on the backs of their shirts maneuvering a remote-controlled robot through the lobby.

  “Hold your core to stop shaking,” Ivy said, barely registering the words as she pointed to the camera. “It’ll help.”

  Lindsey nodded, though she still shook every few seconds as she recorded Ivy, Chief Marks, and the robot rolling into the elevator. Once the elevator was headed up to Ivy’s floor, a bomb technician was being placed in a dark-green bomb suit that looked like it weighed more than the wearer. He kept the helmet off, leaning over a tablet showing the robot’s field of vision. The camera made small mechanical noises as Lindsey adjusted her own camera’s focus to see the tablet despite the glare of the lobby lights.

  A voice sounded through Chief Marks’s radio, an officer asking how far to block off the streets. The woman next to Chief Marks, in a BOMB SQUAD T-shirt said, “Stand by.”

  “Stand by,” Chief Marks repeated.

  “Let’s see what’s in this thing first,” the woman said. “Could be a prank, but you were right to be safe.” The man in the bomb suit was shown the tablet, and the controls to the robot had been placed on the lobby counter in front of him. He moved his hands across the controls, and the robot rolled out of the elevator and onto Ivy’s evacuated floor. The same ticks
of a clock came through the speaker, and the man in the suit nodded, rolling the robot forward. “Little lower,” he said, and the woman next to him moved the tablet lower, away from the glare of the lights above.

  One of the robot arms had a knife attached, which the controller used barely any force to drag across the tape, the pronged hands of the robot lifting the sides of the cardboard away from a hollow rectangular box made of metal. Inside was a complicated series of wires, blinking lights, and control panels.

  Two minutes left. The robot carefully removed the bomb from the box. Ivy swallowed.

  “Do you need to go up there?” The woman in the T-shirt asked.

  The man shook his head. “Won’t have time to get up there in the suit. This’ll have to do.” His hands were steady as he turned the metal box. Ivy held her breath. “Serial number Bravo, six, five, Victor, Quebec, seven, Charlie, three,” the man read from the monitor. “Two batteries.” The robot placed the box on the floor, face-up. “Evacuate one block on all sides.”

  “Jones. One block. Now,” Chief Marks said. Blue lights exploded in through every window, though the sirens were muted by the glass. Chief Marks looked at Lindsey, who pointedly was not looking at everyone. Ivy figured the woman didn’t want to leave, knew what an opportunity this footage would provide, but likely would if a law enforcement officer told her it was too dangerous. Ivy pressed her lips together. She understood loving a job, risking your life for it. After all, she wasn’t running, either.

  The robot pressed a series of four buttons labeled with seemingly meaningless symbols. However, the arm hesitated before choosing the order of the last two, the woman mumbling something to herself—some sort of mnemonic device. The robot punched the last two buttons. And the clock moved faster.