Shadows on the Mowasae

The run-down warehouse at the end of Gantry Way was registered with the city as a storage unit, but it wasn’t, nor had it been for some time. Vito Brasi’s outfit had turned the place into an underground boxing ring, and though they tried to hide this with fake shipments and longshoremen, the crowds of punters flooding its doors each evening were a dead giveaway. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Esme Laveau had cottoned on to this, and if all went well, reckoned she’d soon ruin everyone’s night.

From the back of a parked car, Esme and Baptiste watched the crowd flow through the doors. Each man was stopped and searched by armed Castrian guards. “Three rules,” said Baptiste.

Esme let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ve been through this already.”

“Three rules,” Baptiste repeated firmly. “No one sees us and lives. If anything goes wrong, we get out quick and quiet. We forget about the money. And no arguing.”

“Nothing will go wrong. I’ve got an insider.”

“Agree.”

She sighed. “I suppose your terms are acceptable,” said Esme, though there was no chance she was leaving that money.

“Tell me about this insider.”

“Young guy… His name’s Filippo. Came by my parlour a couple weeks back. He said his fiancée had gone missing, a girl called Chiara. He tried going to the police, but they wouldn’t do nothing.”

“Why didn’t he go to the Fat Man? Doesn’t he work for him?”

“Not properly, just behind the bar at this place. He didn’t go to the Fat Man because he suspects Vito’s involved somehow, or at least that his boys are.” Baptiste went quiet and watched the last of the punters disappear through the warehouse doors. One of the armed Castrians slammed them closed and turned to face the road. “He’s a sweet boy. We can rely on him.”

“You ought to be more careful who you involve in these jobs.”

“Spare me.” Filippo would let them in through a door around the back, but only once all the wagers on the main card had been taken. They’d agreed on 11pm. Until then, all they could do was wait. She didn’t know where Baptiste got off lecturing her. All the boy had to do was open a door for them. If he got killed doing that, he’d only have himself to blame.

The time came, and the car moved on. It headed down the street to where the guards were no longer in sight. Esme and Baptiste got out and made their way back towards the warehouse on foot. Halfway there, Baptiste disappeared. Esme muttered the same spell and turned invisible too. Almost at once, a rush of cold washed over her, raising goosebumps across her body.

They walked faster, now on the clock. The warehouse came back into view. Esme and Baptiste passed the guards at the front and circled around to the side, where a narrow walkway ran between the warehouse and a metal fence. There was no one around, and away from the street lamps, it was pitch black, so they let the spell go and reappeared. Esme had to squint to see the figures on her watch. They were almost bang on.

A door opened at the side of the warehouse, and light spilt out. Inside was a young man practically shaking with nerves. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words escaped him, and he just meekly beckoned them into a dimly lit stock room filled with beer barrels and crates of liquor. Filippo pulled the door closed behind them.

“What do I do next?” He spoke to Esme, but his eyes kept flitting nervously to Baptiste. As he was six five and built like a cart horse, that was a standard reaction to him.  

“Where have the bets been put?”

“They’re in a vault in one of the offices upstairs. The vault’s sat on a desk. Go up there, and you’ll see it straight away.”

“And this office…”

“When you leave this room, you’ll see a staircase on the far side of the warehouse floor. You go up, then take the second door on the left.“

“Clear enough.” Esme and Baptiste headed for the door to the main floor, and Filippo hurried to open it. “Hey, how are you going to get upstairs without them seeing you? There’s a lot of Vito’s guys out there.” The pair disappeared.

The main floor heaved with working men, who all craned their necks to get a look at the ring in the centre of the room. Their jeers and drunken shouts were deafening. The reek of beer and body odour was pungent. The storage room had opened to the right of the bar, where the few who weren’t glued to the boxing, clamoured for new drinks. Esme stood on her tiptoes to try to see the fighters. One was dark-haired with a thick beard and a dense rug of chest hair. The other was bald with otter-smooth skin.

Esme and Baptiste, at least she assumed he was following, made their way around the outskirts of the crowd. They came to the staircase Filippo had described. At its base stood a young Castrian, wearing an expression of self-important sternness. He was armed with a short shotgun and dressed smart, as Vito’s boys always were. Esme headed into the crowd to the left of the stairs, careful not to bump anyone. She cleared her throat and spat. It splattered over the side of his face. The guard spun and aimed his shotgun into the crowd. “Who did that? Who the fuck did that?” Men from the crowd turned, bemused at first, though that quickly turned to fear when they looked into the barrel of the gun. He stepped down from his post and marched into the crowd. “Which of you fuckers is the comedian?” With him out of the way, Esme hurried up the stairs, bumping into Baptiste at the bottom.

At the top, they headed down a narrow corridor and to the second door on the left without running into anyone else. It had all been so easy. Honestly, she didn’t understand why Vito’s outfit still existed in Saint Voltaire. Fucking with them was child's play. They only survived because Papa Lemba allowed them to. What baffled her was why he did.

The door swung open in front of her, meaning Baptiste had led the way inside. In the middle of the room was a desk, and on it sat a large vault. A small man with white hair leaned against the desk, studying a ledger. He turned at the sound of the door, and his brow furrowed at the sight of empty space. Blood erupted from his throat, and he staggered backwards, eyes wide. Esme closed the door and let the spell go. Her teeth chattered violently, and she frantically rubbed at her arms, trying to return a bit of warmth to them. Baptiste appeared too, holding a long bloodied dagger. He pushed the accountant backwards, who fell meekly, all his strength flooding from his open throat.

“Why?” Esme demanded, through her shivers.

“Rule one,” he said firmly. The cold of the spell hadn’t seemed to affect Baptiste much, but that was always the way. Their Lwa blood ran far stronger in his veins than it did hers, and so he could weather the tolls of magic far better.

The clerk’s body twitched as he continued to bleed. The sight of it churned her stomach. She pointedly looked away. “We could have at least had him open the vault.”

“He’ll oblige”. Seemed unlikely. She wasn’t a doctor but knew what a dying man looked like. Baptist squatted down next to the body and started sawing at one of his wrists. Soon, the accountant's hand came free. Baptiste took it and placed it on the desk. He started whispering to it, and the limp fingers began to twitch. The hand rose on its fingers. It scuttled backwards then leapt to the dial of the vault and input the code. Baptiste slapped the hand to the side and pulled the door outwards. He opened a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and started stuffing it with money from the vault. Esme hurried over to get a look at the take. It was just shy of two thousand dollars, she reckoned, and the sight of it made her forget how cold she was. The theft wouldn’t just cut into Vito’s profits; it would send the crowd downstairs into frenzy. She imagined them screaming at the guards for their winnings. Some would even try and rush the stairs, drunk enough for it to seem a good idea. If only she could stick around to see it. The gamblers wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. Maybe they’d even give the cold shoulder to the rest of the Fat Man’s dens. “Let’s go,” said Baptiste as he zipped up the bag. Esme hopped up and down, trying to get the blood flowing. “What are you doing?”

“Trying not to freeze.” Baptiste rolled his eyes and disappeared. Esme followed suit.

By the time they’d gotten back to the storage room, her teeth were chattering like a typewriter. She slipped through the door Filippo had left open for them and shed the spell before even checking the room was clear. Baptiste appeared shortly after and pulled the door closed. “I… Need to get warm.”

“What we need is to get out of here, before anyone figures out what’s happened.”

Filippo appeared from behind some kegs. “You were quick. Did you get what you wanted?”

“We got it,” said Esme, hunching over and hugging her arms around her chest.

“Give her your jacket.” Filippo hurriedly stripped it off and threw it to Esme. She eagerly wrapped herself in it.

“So you’ll help me with what we spoke about?”

“Yes.”

“How do I contact you? Do I come by your parlour?”

“You can come by.”

“What was it you wanted from us?” Baptiste asked.

“Chiara. My fiancé. She’s missing. She was working at Vito’s manor.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

Filippo stammered. “I… I don’t know. I hope not.”

“I’ve got a way you can find her. Come here.” Filippo’s eyes widened, and he hurried to Baptiste. Her uncle had never been quick to help anyone. She didn’t know what this was about. As Filippo entered arm's reach, Esme glimpsed the knife, already stained red. She raised a hopeless hand as Baptiste grabbed the back of Filippo’s head and shoved the blade through his throat. He wrenched it free. Blood dribbled from the wound and bubbled in Filippo’s mouth. He gurgled, eyes wide like a fish, then fell backwards.

Esme stood frozen. Her ears were ringing, and she felt she would be sick. This wasn’t one of the Fat Man’s faithful. It was just some kid. “How could you…” There were a million things she could say to him. They all jammed like traffic in her throat.

“Rule one,” said Baptiste. He stooped and wiped the blade clean on Filippo’s shirt. “Come on. We can’t stay here.”

Baptiste headed for the side door. Esme looked down at Filippo. Blood still bubbled from the cut, and had painted half his face. “I’m so sorry.”