Alright, so, I already filled you in on everything up through the Red Court vampire twin slut mistress whatevers trying to strong arm the Warden and his Samurai Sensei-san Stereotype out of your drugs, so I’m just gonna pick up after that.
We repackaged everything except for some unidentifiable silver substance into the steamer trunk, and I stored it with one of my guys up in Harlem. Liam has the last ingredient—it was the only item not readily identifiable, and we all figured if the Red Court wants whatever’s in that box, splitting up the contents might slow ’em down enough to get ’em annoyed. I know you like it when they get their panties in a twist.
Unfortunately, on our way to the storage site, Victoria (the cat burglar I was telling you about) gets a call from some Medium-wannabe NYPD officer saying “there’s been another robbery, and another murder.” This time the mark was some bougie private collector on the Upper East Side; the cachet a wooden fan. It joins the emeralds, statue of Anubis, and statue of Chiron as items that have all been stolen, often accompanied by bloody murders, on Liam’s watch.
Someone’s putting together a ritual—all of the items except for the rocks facially involve themselves with death (the fan turns out to have been owned by some kind of serial killer Samurai. Pretty sure when we found that out you could see Kaze’s boner from space). And the four items thus far stolen also correspond to the classical magical elements (Anubis for spirit, Chiron for water, emeralds for earth, fan for air). A night’s rest and some serious cajoling got the cop to do his psychometry thing to revisit the collector’s death, and we got a lead on what the last item (presumably related to fire) would be: something connected to Kali, the Indian goddess entirely forgotten except by Indiana Jones fans.
Oh, here’s a juicy tidbit for you. The White Council? Zero teeth. Seriously, outside of a couple requests for outside research, these guys can offer literally nothing. No backup support. No ritualists. No firepower. We took the fucking subway because they can’t afford the fucking forty dollar Uber ride. Are we honestly supposed to be scared of these people? I get that the high probability says we play deferential to keep them from messing with your business more than absolutely necessary, but it’s beyond me how their reputation alone keeps the little guys in line. I’m honestly pretty sure Liam is the only sword they have in the city.
That deficit becomes relevant pretty quickly. See, a contact of the Warden’s (some kind of were-archaeologist. Because this city didn’t have enough weirdos already) comes up with a special exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum showing a bunch of ancient Indian artifacts—an ode to Kali, Goddess of Destruction. We go, we look around, Liam does his Third Eye mumbo jumbo, and it becomes pretty clear pretty fast that the next item on these thieves’ lift list is most likely gonna be this twelve-square-foot hunk of wood depicting Kali in the act of, well…destruction. Ruby (fey lesbian park ranger, if anyone else is counting adjectives) distracts the security guard, Liam defaces the ancient, priceless work of art to gain a sliver of wood (thus enabling magical tracking, and setting up an erection joke), and we clear out.
The last couple of times Liam tried to face these guys mano a mano, he got his ass handed to him. Because he is incompetent. And this might be the last shot any of us have at stopping them from doing…whatever it is they’re planning on doing. Because of Liam’s incompetence. So I sort of thought it was appropriate to mention the helicopter kill squad that saved them a few nights ago came from you. And that you might be persuaded to help us with this…tight spot.
Look, you don’t pay me to do big-picture stuff. I totally respect that. But Rusty, odds say this entire thing goes tits-up without your firepower. And I don’t know what sorta fucked-up ritual these guys are trying to pull, but it’s flavored with Death, has the Winter Court running scared, and the Red Court running in. I know there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and you know that when payment time rolls around, you’ll get your due.
But right this second, I hope those guns you promised are gonna do their job. Fuck knows Liam Fitz-puss-trick ain’t any good at his.
Seriously, what do you see in that guy?
Alright, alright, I’m done. Please don’t hurt me.