This is V.L. Barycz 's debut novel. The Metro Detroit resident became a writer when her elementary school convinced her that words were more constructive than fists. Since then, she's written for Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Gravel Magazine and Empty Sink Publishing. The book, A Promise of Sirens, is being published by Outland Entertainment and is available July 1 in bookstores and on Amazon.
A Promise of Sirens
By V.L. Barycz
Chapter 1
In my line of work, you got slammed face first into a lot of things. We’re talkin’ into tables after breaking up illegal sprite wrestling competitions, into the meaty fist of a Hibagon, and as the grey morning started, into the slick and filthy alley wall by the Nain Rouge . While meeting force with force had its merits, I preferred to quote Jake Gyllenhaal.
“This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation.”
The Nain snarled, red claws snagging into my curls like a worn brush, but it was the bright laughter of my partner, from his spot in the alley, that made me hiss.
“Jack Twist, Brokeback Mountain,” Graceland called before he sipped his coffee.
Mashed into brick, I should probably have been more concerned about the state of my mortality, but the only thing I could think was that my last dollar was going to him for that lucky guess. Unless—“We can argue about mind reading later,” Graceland said mildly, pulling thin fingers through his black hair. “We’re on the job.”
“Now you care about the job,” I muttered against the brick.
“Guys, are we fighting or talking?” the Nain asked.
“Shut up Carl,” we said in unison.
He just shrugged and smashed my cheek further into the wall while Graceland took another sip of coffee.
“Care about the job? Nah,” he said, “but you humans do. Plus, I have plans tonight, so move it along.”
“You move it along.” I snapped and jabbed a sharp elbow into the Nain’s ribs. “What if I have plans?”
“You gonna mope in your bathtub again?”
It was a cheap shot, meant to rile me, and I let it. As soon as my elbow connected, I pressed my free palm to my fist. Instantly, the magic of my mother—tendrils of Vodou—curled up my bare forearm in scrawling glyphs. The language of loa, lines and dots, blood and pain, pulsed a bright purple against my brown skin.
“Last chance Carl,” I said mildly, watching the Nain’s eyes widen.
“That’s cheating,” he snarled, but he began to shrink until he was only about the height of my belt.
“So is pretending to be someone’s child. Did you really think the Johnsons would buy the whole bonnet in the crib thing? You have a beard.”
“It’s a goatee,” he huffed, rubbing at the black fuzz on his red face, “and it was funny.”
Author V.L. Barycz
It was, in fact, hysterical, so much so that Graceland and I could only cackle in the Uber to the Johnsons’ mansion, but business was business.
“Give me the jewelry and I’ll tell them I sent you back to the bowels of Cass Corridor.
"You go on your way alive and live to be ugly another day.”
“The nymphs down on Third told me the goatee is distinguished.”
“How much did you pay them?” I asked. “Because—”
The smell always came first, but I stopped and looked around anyway, eyes searching the grime as the taste of blood flooded my mouth. Both the Nain and Graceland straightened, but I only waved my ringless left hand in their direction.
“Carl give Graceland the jewelry and get out of here.”
“I—”
“Now, or I’ll invoke, and it will be a lot more painful.”
“Goddamn Pilgrims,” he muttered, but backed up.
My body swayed slightly, eyes beginning to cloud, the scent of blood, that horrible tang of metal, pulling me deeper into the alley. It was a gift my mother would have liked to see pass her only child over, but death was an old friend to both the Laveau and the Fitzpatrick families. Pain radiated in the bricks under my feet; the history of the roads of Midtown held violence and screams, but I passed by the piles of garbage. I wasn’t here for old wounds. Finally, near the end of the alley, I was pulled against my will to my knees.
The body was tossed, hidden by the alley trash, which meant she hadn’t been killed here. She was young, face done up to look older, but most of it had been washed away by last night’s winter sleet. The thick trails of mascara streaked down like the trenches of claws to the wound on her throat.
“Oh, honey,” I said quietly, trying to think of a proper prayer, then straightened, my face like stone. “I don’t have time for a murder Graceland.”
“Is that an ‘I don’t have time so get rid of the body,’ or you just being contrary?”
I dipped down to touch my fingers to the blood, ignoring the gag of disgust coming from Graceland. It was congealed, too far gone for use.
“I didn’t realize this was an ingredients trip as well,” he snarked. “Third one of these in the last two weeks.”
“Everything’s a multitool if you’re creative enough,” I countered, voice mild. “Third one?”
When no answer came, I dragged my gaze from the body to him, curious. He watched the mouth of the alley, his frigid blue eyes unblinking and mouth tight enough that his bottom lip was almost nonexistent. I’d known him long enough to know it was the careful polite mask he wore for wrong breakfast orders at McDonald’s—and trouble.
I eased up from my crouch and reached for his elbow gently, “Earth to Graceland. Do you think—”
“Shush.”
Anyone else I would have gleefully broken in half, but I only flicked my hand down to the pouch at my waist and mumbled a soft prayer to Maman and Baron Samedi . The seconds were marked by the taps of my fingertips on the soft leather, but finally Graceland relaxed. I’d known him my entire life, but there were times like this, when his blue eyes shone against his heavily angled face, I was struck by how young he looked. There were infinite lifetimes of secrets in his grin.
“False alarm,” he said cheerfully and took another sip from his coffee, offering me the one in his other hand. “You need this, but I want what I’m owed for getting that human reference right.”
Unconvinced, I passed him the dollar and took a slug, shivering at the rush of warmth in the cold. “But there was something?”
“Oh yeah, Horace inbound, less than thirty seconds,” he said.
If it would have accomplished anything, like getting me out of the alley in time to avoid a lecture, I would’ve beaten him to death right there. Instead, I pulled at my shirt, a rumpled Henley I’d found in the semi-clean pile on my floor and wished for a cigarette.
“You promised your mother you’d quit,” Graceland pointed out.
Exhaling through my nose, I snatched the dollar from in-between his fingers, smiling at his squawk of surprise. Horace was going to worry about my rumpled-looking ass no matter what I did, so I eased back down to examine the body.
I pried open the rigid lid of the corpse’s right eye as I listened to the approaching footsteps. Milky white pupil, a fine slit in a field of black. A siren. Leaning farther, I ignored the creaking in my knees as I scrutinized the face, more specifically the smudge on her neck. Even before I rubbed my thumb through the greasy foundation, I could see the faint tattoo, probably a brand from whoever owned her. A grim concept, but not a new one, not in a town as old as Detroit. At the very least it gave me a starting point, and an excuse to break some asshole’s hand.
“He’s here.”
The “he” was a hulking shadow that moved remarkably well for someone his size. The sound of his footsteps resembled a quick tap routine, even though he walked a straight line. Three beat cops trailed behind him but stopped at the mouth of the alley, eyes on me, hands rested on the weapons at their hips. My mouth twitched as I watched them fan out to cover the entrance from curious eyes. If Horace hadn’t come, it would have been another Devil’s Night incident, and I’d end up owing Graceland more than the dollar I’d snatched back.
Horace J. Glen had been chief for about eight years, the first magical creature to earn the position. Standing at seven feet, he was small for a troll—the byproduct of a fairy mother, as was the sharp mischievousness of his face. That mother, who’d raised him by herself from the time of his conception, was the proud owner of Gomorrah, a strip club on the West Riverend.
I knew him from the Wednesdays and Fridays he’d been my babysitter growing up.
For that fact alone, I gave an apologetic smile when his eyes drifted to the blood on my hand. With said fingers, I pointed to the mouth of the alley.
“Watch the street, Graceland.”
“You watch the street,” he shot back even as he sauntered away.
He hadn’t been this mouthy with my father, but if I was honest, I didn’t really mind. The biting banter often kept me from wallowing in the tub he teased about. But it wasn’t sarcasm that came to mind as I looked back to the body. Gently, because I knew it wouldn’t be knocked away, I touched a hand to Horace’s back and kept my tone light.
“What do you think, Bukowski?”
My small joke about his poetry habits never failed to make the angles of his face spread out into a smile, but his eyes were grim as he stared at the body.
“Third one in two weeks,” he said, voice lilted, another product of his fairy blood.
“Told you,” Graceland called.
I ignored both as the bitter taste of blood hit me again. She was younger than me, closer to twenty than thirty, with brown hair someone took with them, judging by the jagged tendrils. But they’d crossed her delicate hands over her naked chest, an illusion of modesty. The gash on her neck resembled an elaborate ruby choker, sparkling in the grime of the alley.
“Is she one of your mother’s?” I asked, voice pitched so only the two of us could hear. “Were the others?”
“No,” Horace said.
I kept my hand on his back, even though his voice was flat. He’d always been a gentle touch, and every scene affected him in a way that I wouldn’t allow but envied. He was at least fifteen years my senior but would live three of my lifetimes. Maybe that was why I was the one who’d gotten harder.
“I’ll clear my case schedule for this.”
His snort was amused. “The way I hear it, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
My hand dropped and I brought up the other, the one with my father’s silver insignia ring on it and flashed a middle finger. I’d inherited the ring along with all the problems of Senior Pilgrim when he stepped down.
“Hey, I worked my dick off the last couple months so next week goes smoothly.” I said with a shrug, “You’d think spearheading an entire organization that loved my father would be easy. Turns out, while they loved him, they tolerate me.”
I hoped for at least a sympathetic smile, but Horace only laughed.
“Well, you do give them ammunition whenever you open your mouth.”
I rolled my eyes and instantly felt twelve again and negotiating bedtime. “Ugh, you sound like Graceland.”
“I can handle this. You got the treaty coming up. I know you’re nervous.”
He would be the one to see it, since he’d been my shadow since childhood. I should have been amused, but I only felt prickling irritation at the softness in his eyes. Gods, I hated being handled. He wouldn’t see it that way after the last year, but the time for that was done as well.
“Is that why I wasn’t told when it was one murder,” I asked calmly, “or two?”
“Brig, the treaty—”
“Did you do this for my father? Keep him in the dark on investigations because it eased his way?” I asked and watched his head dip. “Then you won’t for me. Send me the files, and I’ll take care of it. Graceland, let’s go.”
“Wait,” Horace called.
The seriousness of his voice forced me to turn, but I only raised a brow as he stared back.
“Asim and Moira are in Black Bottom—robbery at Tomes & Bones. Might be worth taking a peek at.”
“Thanks.”
“How are you?”
The words were simple, but the meaning, the worry in them, chewed on me the way my teeth had my inner cheek.
“Tell your mother I said hi,” I offered and pulled at Graceland. “Let’s go.”
I tucked my chin into my beaten leather jacket as the bitterness of January snapped at me. Detroit was awake, shuddering with the gusts of wind, pushing the urban tumbleweeds of BBQ chip bags past us. Sometimes that was all I could see: the grime, the never-ending beating of my head against a wall. But now, as the sun crept across the brick and people hustled down Cass Avenue, I felt the heartbeat of the city, a survivor.
As I shrugged deeper into my jacket, I wondered for the millionth time if Mother Eorthe would feel the growth or only the turmoil, only the chaos. How could she be blamed when there was the body of one of her lost children laying on the cold concrete, her blood coating my fingers? In return, what would the Allfather think of my willingness to set aside everything to handle something solely magic? Balance, the thin lines like cracks in the sidewalk that I avoided as a child, was now my only job.
Hadn’t Gran pulled magic out of hiding in the forties? Then Dad stabilizing it in the eighties? In three days it would officially be in my hands. My gnawed-nailed hands.
“You still have blood on your fingers; don’t you dare put them in your mouth,” Graceland said as he trailed behind. “Your father would have given her last rites.”
“She was fay,” I corrected, “and past the point of collection.”
“Cold.”
It was a favorite game of his, to bait me into a discussion, one I normally would engage in with fervor. But the exhaustion of the last year is still in my bones, like thick heavy liquid lead, and in the end, I agreed with him. It was cold—being a Pilgrim often was, had been, would be. Margot was that lesson.
“It’s not fun when you don’t bite back.”
My snort was short as I led the way down the street, hands tucked into pockets, expertly weaving through the hustle of the morning commuters. They’d spent the most money here, in these few square blocks, to bring Detroit back to something the world could look at without seeing splatters of blood and the husks of houses.
I wasn’t particularly worried about what the world thought, being more concerned with the fact that the fringes of the city, the most loyal of citizens, the true survivors of Detroit, were passed over in the name of progress. History repeating itself. Sometimes that was all life felt like: get out of bed, potentially shower, dress, fill out paperwork, repeat.
“All right I’ve given you enough moping time, and I bought you a coffee,” Graceland announced, jostling me. “Speak.”
As we rounded the corner, the sun finally broke free, its weak rays playing across the icy sidewalk. Tilting my head, I smiled.
“I swear if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the only child.”
His own smile dimmed, like his internal power might have faltered for a half a second, before he shrugged. “Being the youngest of dozens is just as lonely.”
“Now whose moping?” I teased back but gave his arm a pat. “We have work to do. And Graceland?”
“Yeah?”
“I tasted the shot of luck in that latte.”
“I plead the fifth.”
V.L. Barycz's book launch is Tuesday, July 8, 5:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m,. at The Congregation, 9321 Rosa Parks Blvd, Detroit.
