Merle's words brought back a memory to Percy. When he was on the streets, raising ruckus with his mom, Miss Jane, he once broke into Rhianna's place.

Miss Jane convinced him to break in. Rumors of the household h.o.a.rding money and jewelry, eccentric ghetto millionaires. Such tales bubbled up from time to time, excusing would-be treasure hunters their Robin Hood ethos, though the poor who were targeted by their charitable impulse were usually themselves.

Two windows in the apartment, one with an air-conditioning unit in it, though it too was stolen from a first-floor apartment down the street. The bedroom window slid open easily enough. A young girl stirred, disturbed by the rush of traffic sounds from the outside, Percy closed the window behind him. Pausing, he bent over the frame in case the girl fully woke and he needed to make a hasty retreat. He sensed her in the dark, could hear her breathing. Fumbling along her dresser, his large, nimble hands found no jewelry. He ran them along a chalice; inside was a lone ring. He picked up the ring, holding the metal goblet in case it clattered against it. He peered over his shoulder. The sleeping figure didn't move.

Percy leaned over her. Rhianna. The warmth of her brushed against his cheek. He took in a deep breath. Flowers and powder, a gentle scent. Peaceful. The ring grew hot in his hand. He lost the heart to continue going through her things. It was a violation. He ran his finger along her face. Gripped by the panic that always seized him when around her, that sense that he might break her, he scuttled out the window.

"Anything?" Miss Jane demanded.

"No, Momma." The ring burned in his pocket. A memento.

He returned the ring, but it and the cup came up missing not too long ago. He'd always meant to find it again.

"Though the journey be fraught with peril," Merle continued, "when isn't life a risk? Only the innocent can enter their castles. Do not eat anything within the castle, no matter how tempting or hungry. The chalice must be brought home. Its true guardian will know what to do with it."

Mad Had calmed and then moved to lie down with his left hand supporting his head. He dragged his empty pillow case. Mad Had had taken to carrying a pillow with him everywhere. An old, ratty thing, yellowed by sweat, but he insisted on toting it about, sniffing it on occasion. "Momma, my pillow's broke."

"I know, baby. I told you I didn't want you dragging that thing everywhere." It comforted him, but Big Momma wasn't going to drag a mangy pillow around with them everywhere they went. So she let him take his pillow case, which she was careful not to wash a hard-learned lesson. Babies with his condition tended to wither without the attention of their mother, but Mad Had had thrived as well as a crack baby could. Big Momma had the distinct feeling he could speak more regularly if he wanted to. She saw the glint of the tempest in his eye no one else noticed.

"Be strong and be true, my precious knights. It is in your nature to win the battle."

On the way to Haughville from downtown, off Oliver, a gravel road branched from a railroad crossing, appearing to be little more than a service road. A graveyard for garbage, it wound past rusted-out rail cars to a thick copse of trees between warehouses. This whole side of town stank, as the old garbage dumps had been built over. Not too long ago, folks had brought every bit of metal they could get their hands on. Rumor had it that when China hosted the Olympics, they bought sc.r.a.p metal in such quant.i.ties, it was going for three dollars a pound. Fiends became industrious. Outreach Inc.'s air conditioners got jacked twice during this time. Two days after the Olympics, the price had dropped to seventy cents a pound.

The industrial park closed at dusk as it was difficult to find one's way around at night. The woods took on a sinister aspect of their own. Paths turned and shifted in the darkness. Merle kicked at a dirty little blanket. It was in her. All he had to do was touch it and the darkness took on a life of its own inside. This particular shade of shame was different. There was no fear in her eyes, only questioning. Startle become calculation. Thieves needed the night.

"What are you doing?" Nine asked.

"I had to make a phone call," Merle said.

"You had to contact them."

"Send them on their way."

"Ever the nudge. Push them in the right direction, did you?"

"You're a skilled manipulator. You tell me."

"Promise me you won't do any of that on me," Nine said.

"I so swear. I'm cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs." Merle squatted on the ground and scooped up a handful of gravel. Sniffing it and apparently satisfied, he dropped it and clapped his hands together. "Hopefully they're off to fetch G.o.d's pimp cup."

"You sent them after the grail?"

"It was my penultimate act in service to King."

"Penultimate?"

"I have one more trick up my sleeve."

"That counting what I want you to do?"

"What is it that you want me to do?" Merle knew the answer but wanted her to play out her role.

"I want you to make a place for us. A magical place. I want to learn how to build it."

"A place of joy and solitude. Never undone. I will teach you."

"Why?"

"I am impelled by a fatal destiny."

Merle knew that his fate was in her arms. And it would not be pretty. Having fallen asleep beneath a bush of white thorn, laden with flowers, while resting in her lap. As the story went. Like how children fall for one another; find one another without introduction, he was hers the moment they met. Beauty reduced to a blues ballad. Not content with his devotion, hers was a mission to isolate him, to get him alone. Nine was dual-natured, both girl and ancient. She would kill him if she could, to satiate the hunger. And still, he cleaned up his alley, his secret place. He swept the broken gla.s.s, and picked up the cans and bottles before he brought her here.

"I am but one of the Guardians of the Totems."

"One of the Lords of the Wheel?"

"Coo coo cachoo."

Bored and restless, Merle panted after her worse than an adolescent in love. Truth be told, by now, he probably was an adolescent. He went where she went, jumped when she asked, begged for her company like an old, well-trained dog. And, as girls often were with old men, she was wary of him, impatient with him. And he frightened her. For all of his seeming feebleness, he was the devil's heart, she thought, and she feared when he might turn his powers on her.

For all of her craftiness, her agenda was obvious: she wanted his knowledge and traded it for time spent with her. When the "inborn craft of women" met the "inborn weakness of men". For many, it pa.s.sed as love. Helpless before her, he was unable to break out of the girl's spell. He wanted to teach her, be her tutor. Show her wonders. To show her his house.

"Show me, mage. Teach me everything."

"The magic is deep and the magic is old. But there is little room for magic in this age. In this world. So little faith. Magic is pure faith. A wellcast magic circle isolates you. The spell is just you and creation. You are cut off. One with..." Whatever image he chased after, the words escaped him.

"Perfect communion."

Merle nodded. "Look around you. What do you see?"

"A thin copse of trees."

"This is my home. My true home."

"A glamour?"

"No," Merle sighed. "Look. Even when you were young, you thought you knew so much. In all your travels, in all your acc.u.mulated knowledge, in all your years, you still overlook the basics. The primal forces."

"The dragon's breath."

"Forget the dragon's breath. You forget how powerful you are. You have it at your fingertips to shape that energy into reality. It requires a boldness to repurpose reality. You have to be careful. Concentrate. Block the energies. You tap into it. Can you feel it?"

Old, deep, eternal, a call. The ley line. Lush, thick, green. Candlelight flickering in the night. The delicate hum of whale song. The gentle fragrance of rose petals. The scent of a newborn. A lover's embrace, the feeling of home. The thrum of life. Intimate, deliberate. Intentional. Knowing, probing, wanting. A whisper. A caress.

"Here we are, male and female, in perfect balance. I know that is the final key. Co-equals. Co-heir. Communion." She circled behind him and stretched her arm along his. "Tell me the words."

"The spoken word is the final tool. You have to form your own path, not walk someone else's. What you fear shapes the experience."

"And what do you fear?"

"You. I'm a foolish, foolish old man. Besotted with age and drunk on the promise of the charms of the young's fickle embrace. I know this and I am powerless to stop myself."

"Tell me the words."

"Et Verb.u.m caro factum est."

"Et Verb.u.m caro factum est," she repeated. From her lips, the power carried different images. Tiny skulls crushed under boot heel. The slow spill of intestines from a gutted animal. Graveyard dirt spilling overhead. Old bones grinding together. The splintering of joints. A selfish voice. Proud. Shrill. Chaotic. A living fear. Doubt. Insecurity. Violence. Death. "The home you created. The home you will stay."

The fabric of s.p.a.ce bubbled out. Created a slit and then resealed as if swallowing the home in a single gulp. When the light faded, the trees remained as they were. The camp cleared out.

Only Nine stood in the clearing.

In her hands a green orb shimmered. Merle's face flickered across the surface, bewildered then resigned.

"Our time is done, my love. Let the children have their end game."

CHAPTER TEN.

Bo "The Boars" Little was known for his propensity for violence. It came to him naturally, he believed, as if G.o.d Himself gifted him for violence. By his freshman year at Northwest High School, he had the sculpted physique of an African Adonis. Well over six feet tall and 250 pounds of solid bulk; skin a lighter shade of onyx, his head shaved bald, yet nursing a full beard, he had a grown man's body. Playing left tackle, when he hit someone, they stayed hit. The stands chanted his name when he was on the field, the students parted in the school hallways as he strode down them, girls were quick to offer themselves to him, talent scouts up and down the east coast knew his name, but none of that was enough. He wanted his name to ring out in the streets. Navigating the complexities of office politics proved more difficult than he would have imagined. He attached himself to Garlan, positioning himself as his second-in-command, not really out of any sort of corporate climbing move for that he would have sidled up next to Nine or perhaps to Dred directly.

They didn't come up as boys but had been thrown together to put work in. They got high on occasion. A couple of times while high, they spoke of things they rarely mentioned. Not especially close, the only thing they had in common was the ache, the one they only spoke of when high. They spoke of missing their fathers, of not belonging anywhere, they let breathe the dead areas of their souls and gave voice to their pain.

"I'm tired of being poor," The Boars said.

"A n.i.g.g.a just needs a break." Garlan took another hit in commiseration.

"I'm tired of being poor," The Boars repeated, confused, thinking he had only thought the sentiment rather than said it aloud the first time. "I'm tired of having to claw through every day just to keep my head above water. It gets so I don't give a s.h.i.t who I got to hold on to as long as I stay afloat."

"I just need some money. Rich motherf.u.c.kers ain't got s.h.i.t to worry about."

"Taxes, where to go out to eat, and how much to pay their nanny."

"What if we weren't here?" Garlan touched his ring. Garlan was so low-key, he was practically invisible. No one would ever guess that he had thousands stashed away. He was cut more from a business cloth than anything else.

"What you mean?"

"What if we had been given a chance? Born somewhere other than here?"

"White?"

"Nah, s.h.i.t, I didn't say all that. But, you know, into a real family. With a mom and dad. No n.i.g.g.as trying to shoot each other as soon as breathe your way."

"I don't do no 'what if' s.h.i.t. That's enough to drive a n.i.g.g.a madder than he already is. I think more about how it's all gonna end."

"How's it end?"

"For me?" The Boars turned toward the night sky, lost in dreams. "Maybe taking out a cop, going out in a blaze."

"Putting yourself out of your misery."

Misery took a toll. All the death and hopelessness drove him to a place of despair. Stuck between life and death with only jail or the grave as a way out.

Garlan treated the fiends fair, like customers, and if they shorted him, he had The Boars administer swift recompense. Between them, product moved like clockwork. They weren't pleased when they were charged to bring Naptown Red's spot on a running as smoothly. Though both Garlan and Naptown Red were in the inner circle, Garlan's presence tended to carry more weight. A fact not lost on Red.

The only reason Garlan was present was because he was due to collect a money drop. Garlan made sure no one handled both money and product. Their crew paid some apartments to stash guns and drugs. The corner smelled of re-breathed beer and p.i.s.s. They could only venture to guess what liquid soaked the pavement. When windows were shattered they remained broken. The procedure was simple. The crew left a taped-down grocery bag full of money under the pa.s.senger's seat in a car. All they had to do was drive up, get out, make small talk, watch for police, and switch drivers. He wisely pulled out exactly ten dollars without exposing the rest of his wad.

Naptown Red, Prez, and Fathead had their own thing going on, right under the nose of The Boars and Garlan. Which was difficult, because Garlan was always watching. Even when he wasn't around, if you were working Garlan's spot, you did the work cause his eyes were always on you and he had a way of just showing up. They'd be careful, unlike those other crews. They'd sell to only those they knew. They'd use check points to guard the stash house. On the spot, no drugs and money would be handled by the same dude. All re-ups would be taken to the cutting house and then split up and delivered to safe houses.

Naptown Red enjoyed the role of schooling these young'uns, molding them in his image. The stoop offered the best vantage point to take in the action of the neighborhood.

"Isn't that your lady's girl?" Fathead whispered.

"My girl can't stand her," Naptown Red said.

"Why not? She seems nice."

"You know how women get about each other," Naptown Red said.

"Nah, brotha. That's what I come to you for. So you can school me about these things."

"They too much alike and want the same things. Women know how cruel women are. If they know you got something, they don't care. They think they can take it."

"So she thinks she can steal you from any woman out there?"

"Man, she was ready to give up the goods from the jump."

"You r.e.t.a.r.ded. You think every woman wants you."

"I'm part thug and part businessman. I can be calm, but I know when to go off. And I know how to treat a lady. Women love that crazy stuff, that versatility." Relationships, Naptown Red long ago realized, were little more than altars to yourself. Either you wanted someone to adore you, dote on you, take care of you, or you wanted someone to reflect you, be like you, so you can be with you more. "But most, I'm telling you, most are wolves in sheep's clothing. Can I break it down philosophically?"

"Go 'head, brotha." Fathead became his oneman amen corner.

"Women try to be of a character that they really ain't to try and get that good man. Fake him out, hook him, and they don't care about being a good friend to another woman. They mess up a good thing to try and get their thing."

"That happen to you a lot?"

"f.u.c.k you." Naptown Red tipped his bottle of beer in Prez's direction as he came waddling up the street. As low man on the totem pole, Prez made the food runs. Brought back to-go boxes from Yats, a Cajun joint up in Broad Ripple. They ate like men ravenous and entertained.

"What, you no good?" Naptown Red ran his tongue along the roughness of his teeth, ground down from years of gnashing. His jaw clicked when he yawned.

"You won't find the answers to your questions in a bottle," Prez said.