LINDA
We’re doing our best to ascertain the cause of the abnormalities that Pastor Samuelson is experiencing, but suffice to say, we’ve never seen anything like this. He seems to be suffering from a high fever, though we’ve detected no signs of infection or inflammation, no internal trauma like clotting.”
The doctor steadied himself at the lectern. “The effects on his body are similar to what we’ve observed with patients who’ve succumbed to heat stroke, though Mr. Samuelson’s symptoms are more severe. We’re trying our best to cool him down, provide as much comfort as we can. And as for the ocular irregularities… we’ve yet to determine a cause…”
Ocular irregularities.Medical speak for glowing red eyes. Or demon eyes, the term used by everyone and their mama on social media feeds. Linda took in the pasty CDC doctor on her office TV screen at the center of a press conference. Poor man looked like he hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep in two nights, when she was sure he’d been alerted to one of the district’s most historic emergencies. Linda was shocked that it took the news almost a day and a half to break the story, even with footage floating around on people’s phones.
Some stations had IDed the afflicted stranger as Jeremiah Samuelson, native DC resident, associate pastor at Ebenezer Memorial Baptist, a traditional church located in the southeast section of the city. Sixty-four years old. Single, with several siblings and extended family in Alabama. Beloved by his congregation. All things Linda learned on her own the previous day when she looked Samuelson up, verifying key details via her special contact with the feds. Jeremiah being a man of God lent itself to the narrative that he was possessed by a demon. Which remained to be seen.
“Mr. Samuelson also seems to be suffering from acute memory loss, though we have no way of knowing if this is a preexisting condition or stress-induced reaction to his current circumstances,” the doctor said. “We ask for DC residents to remain calm in what I know is a frightening time, and to send their thoughts and prayers to the pastor, his family, and his congregation. I’m happy to take a few questions.” A clamor came from the pool of reporters. A banner slowly scrolled by indicating that Samuelson had been apprehended by Linda Villanueva, a private investigator who ran her own agency near the U corridor.
“Shit,” she hissed.
“Really?! Out of all the crazy news that’s just been shared, the thing that pisses you off is spotting your name on the telly?” Maxine shook her head. Remote in hand, she put the TV on mute. Perched on a corner of Linda’s desk, she held a short glass of seltzer water as if it were a cocktail. “Some things never change.”
Linda glared at her assistant / unofficial business partner. Broken Heart #17. “You know how I feel—”
“—about too much publicity for the agency. Yeah, yeah, yeah.Please, let’s not go down that road again.” Maxine pointed to the ceiling. “I’m sorry, but now that you’re a public hero, new ballgame with the extra billings sure to come in. Pay for a paint job. Get us a full-time team instead of hiring freelancers. Create accounts with some of the big law firms.” Maxine heldup her phone. “Latest update: We’ve received more than a dozen emails and calls from news outlets asking for your comment on the case. Also, several requests for you to appear on the big shows. This couldreallyput us on the map. Come on…” Maxine held up her hands and leaned back. Her trademark gesture. Translation:I’ve said my piece, you obstinate, bullheaded pain in the arse. I know you’re going to do what you want.
Linda really did lament that a badass fox with a posh London accent like Maxine Penderhughes had to toil every day in a crumbling office. How she strutted around, she could’ve been working in a consulate or high-end bistro or private art gallery. She was especially gussied up for the day, hair done up in double crown braids, a purple drape dress on her bod with silver strap pumps. Maxine put together outfits so effortlessly that she could’ve been sporting a rayon tube top with old jeans and high-tops and look like she was about to jet off to the opera. The result of growing up with a supermodel mother, this Linda knew. Yes, Maxine could’ve been in far more pristine places, deserved to know why Linda refused to use her agency’s considerable profits to fix up the town house. Didn’t matter, wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
Maxine turned back to the TV screen and frowned at the captions. Her bravado transformed into a somber, pensive stare. “So has the madness come for us?” she asked. “Is this how it started in New York?”
“I don’t have full intel about what went down, but I don’t think so. The Ghost Equinox happened because spirits found it easier to do their thing. This… I don’t know, it’s different. And we can’t jump to conclusions…”
“.?.?.?We can only go where the evidence takes us. I know.” This time Maxine sounded far less haughty as she completed Linda’s train of thought. She put the glass down and wrapped her long arms around her body. “You’re planning to look into this… to take this on board, aren’t you?”
“I… yes. Yes, I am. I’m technically part of a supernatural community, Max.” A community Linda had distanced herself from for years. Didn’tfeel like she had any right to identify with. “I think it’s my responsibility, whether I like it or not. Can’t just run and hide.”
“I see. You being part of a supernatural community… I didn’t know that.” Maxine said nothing more. For someone who knew the mystical nature of Linda’s work, who seemed to have at least a basic understanding of her gift, Maxine suddenly appeared fragile, unsure. She was one of the few Broken Hearts who fully remembered when they were in ritual, when Linda had given the once strung-out woman refuge. The evening where her soul self was revealed, the same as it had just been for Evelyn. Those who held on to the memory, a select few, which meant that Maxine possessed a level of self-awareness unobtainable to most. Linda’s mind drifted to Evelyn and their ritual last night. Was she okay? How was she coping with what she’d discovered about herself?
“There’s a woman who I also saw this morning, doing an interview on one of the morning talk shows,” Maxine said. “A Hecuba something or another. Said she’s certain we’re witnessing, and I quote, a ‘modern-day, public possession, the likes of which we’ve never seen before.’”
“The person you’re referring to is Hecuba Seraph,” Linda said. “She’s been making the rounds on the talk show circuit, saw her onMCURY Livewhen I was over at Smithie’s. Hecuba’s a fake name. Real name’s Tayisha Plainsfield. Convicted six years ago for running a fraudulent mail-order operation from her parents’ basement over in PG County. Family wants nothing to do with her. Takes a lot of balls to be an ex-con and position yourself as the second coming of Miss Cleo when all someone needs to do is call TMZ to blow your shit up.”
Maxine rolled her eyes. “Well, her approach is certainly irresponsible. So easy to stoke panic. We don’t really know what this is yet, correct?”
Linda tapped her desk. She needed a moment to work up the courage to say what she needed to say. To not keep Maxine in the dark. “Yeah, it’ll be easy enough to take Hecuba from Maryland out the picture. ButI think she’s onto something. I’m not saying that Samuelson’s possessed, but my gut says something supernatural is at play. Like I said, I have people… I know people who deal with spirits and possessions all the time. Who’re legit. A couple in the DMV but tons in NYC.”
“Sounds like we need those people here,” Maxine said.
“I’ve already made a call,” Linda replied. “The person I have in mind, dude from the Bronx named Fonsi Harewood. One of the most powerful mediums in New York. Maybe the world, though he’s also low-key and kinda kooky from what I’ve observed. Still, if it weren’t for him, if he hadn’t figured out how to seal the Equinox breach with his cousin, our asses would’ve been done. We’d be dealing with crazy ghosts to this day. I’ve asked him to come to DC. If Jeremiah’s truly possessed by a spirit or demon, he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAXINE
Oh darling, that’s absolutely brilliant,” Maxine said to her daughter. “Just brilliant. A masterpiece.”
Maxine stared at the smiling stick figure in a jade-green hat with matching shirt and shorts that her daughter had rendered with crayons. Clea giggled and lowered the white sheet of paper so that her mother could see her gigantic grin, missing front tooth and all.
“And I made him Black, Mommy,” Clea beamed. “I’m tryna pay attention and be astooth, like you say is good.”
“Yes, darling.Astuteyou are, as always. Mommy’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Then dinner, dessert, off to the show. Can you put Ms. Baxter back on the phone? Love youuuuu.”
Clea blew rapid kisses to the phone with loud smacking sounds as Maxine said goodbye to the day-care worker. She dropped her phone in her purse, cradling a bag of groceries in the nook of her left arm. The NAACP’s For the People Preschool was a godsend for a working mother. And the early drop-off hours they offered throughout the week, even more so when she had extra admin to attend to. The day had gone well, even with the madness about that poor man with the crimson eyes. Forweeks, Maxine had told herself that DC was safe, that the chances of what had happened in NYC happening in the district were low. Silly, really, when she’d been working for years with a PI who also happened to be an undercover witch.
She turned the corner and spotted one of the plethora of digital posters placed in bus stop sheds across the district. A smiling Joy Woods in jade cap, tunic, and tights floated above an early twentieth-century London cityscape. The theatrical world’s newest Peter Pan. And in the corner of the advert sat a tiny Keke Palmer, glistening legs crossed in a sparkling leaf-fringed minidress. A reinvented Tinker Bell, mischievous wink suffused with salaciousness.
