Venco, p.1
VenCo, page 1
ALSO BY CHERIE DIMALINE
Empire of Wild
The Marrow Thieves
PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADA
Copyright © 2023 Cherie Dimaline
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2023 by Random House Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto, and simultaneously in the United States of America by HarperCollins Publishers, New York. Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
Random House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: VenCo / Cherie Dimaline.
Names: Dimaline, Cherie, 1975- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220256446 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220256454 | ISBN 9780735277212 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735277229 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8607.I53 V46 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Text design: Nancy Singer
Cover design: Jennifer Griffiths
Image credits: (spoon) vxnaghiyev, (birds) oleg7799, (metal fence) Tatiana Prihnenko, (gate) guliveris / all Adobe Stock Images
a_prh_6.0_142470597_c0_r0
For Wenzdae Anaïs, my favourite witch
Contents
Cover
Also by Cherie Dimaline
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: The Oracle Speaks
1: The Legacy of Lucky St. James
2: The Key to Life
3: Meena Good Gets Lucky
4: Player Two Enters the Game
5: New Colour in the World
6: A Complete Fucking 180 Over General TSO Chicken and Shitty Rice
7: Dig
8: A Dark Arrival
9: The First Leg of the Journey
10: Jay Finds the Weak Link
11: Feast Day
12: The First Spoon
13: The Circle is the Strongest Shape
14: Hex the Patriarchy
15: Lucky’s Dream
16: Meena’s Dream
17: The Gift of Silver
18: The Tender of Buzzards Bay
19: A Busted Wizard
20: Everything in Threes
21: A Wolf at the Door
22: Death Rattle
23: Confusion and Clarity
24: The First Strike
25: The Liar, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
26: Wrestling an Alligator
27: The Big Uneasy
28: Burials
29: Mapping Out the Game
30: It was all a Dream
31: Lucky Number Seven
32: Seeds
Epilogue: How it Really Began
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
THE ORACLE SPEAKS
The sky over Los Angeles was streaked with watery orange and soapy pink, as if the receding sun were a pulled plug. Three sleek vehicles drove up to a Bunker Hill building and stopped, waiting for the valet. When the first car’s door opened, loud hip-hop poured out as the Maiden emerged. Tight braids, designer boots disguised as army issue, cargo pants, and full-sleeve tattoos—the Maiden flashed a quick smile, revealing a diamond embedded in her left canine.
The second car’s driver—a bulky man in a pinstriped suit, with a leather cap and a well-oiled beard—tipped his hat to the Maiden before opening the passenger door for the Crone. Her slender cigarette holder appeared before a lace glove, fingers curled in anticipation of the driver’s hand. The Crone was taller than one might expect, wearing head-to-toe Chanel circa 1958, with a Dior clutch to hold her smokes. Her pale face was half covered by exaggerated sunglasses tinted the same deep beige as her outfit.
A pit bull jumped from the third car, all ticking muscle bundled under grey velvet. She sat near the front bumper awaiting her mistress and was rewarded with a pat on her massive head. The Mother paused beside her dog, throwing a curtain of black hair over her shoulder and tapping her stiletto, the red bottom bright against the pavement, until the valet ran over to retrieve her key. Her makeup was all shades of plum to match the Yoruban beadwork at her throat and in her lobes. When the Mother moved, the dog followed, keeping an eye on the terrified valet, who was shaking so hard the keys jingled in his hand.
Together the three women entered the building, glided past the security desk and the first bank of elevators, stopping at the gold elevator doors set along the back wall. The Crone’s driver pushed the button, the doors slid open, and they were carried to the top floor. He waited till each woman had exited before stepping out, then ran ahead to hold a heavy glass door open for them. Printed on the glass, in black letters, was a single word—venco.
The office could have been a fashion magazine, or a brokerage firm, or a front for arms dealers—there was no way to tell. In reality it was a massive enterprise to headhunt, recruit, and place exceptional femmes into exceptional roles—captains of industry, influencers of culture, makers of laws. For the chance to brush shoulders with feminine greatness, companies paid dearly, unknowingly shaking their own colonial foundations.
The reception area was art deco glam, jewel-tone greens with smoky glass and gold trim. The woman at the desk stood at their arrival, nervously pushing her heavy-rimmed glasses up her nose, patting her bun of twisted dreads.
“Ma’ams,” she cooed, her eye dragging on the Maiden, who flashed that diamond once more.
“God, I love coming into the office,” the Maiden remarked, and the receptionist grew shy, sitting down and answering a call on her headset.
“G…Good afternoon, you’ve reached VenCo, where the circle is the strongest shape.”
Behind reception was a long hallway painted deep purple, with a Turkish runner in pinks and golds that muted their footsteps. Offices on either side held neat desks and dramatic artwork and women speaking in a dozen languages, each one pausing to bow her head as the trio passed.
At the end of the hall was a wide oak door with a gold plaque—ceo: coven engagement oracle. This was where they went now, taking off their gloves and sunglasses and piling them into the driver’s arms. The Crone sat at the round table, the only furniture in the room save for the Indonesian woodwork bar against the back wall. She handed over her clutch and patted the driver on the front of his pants, over his zipper.
“Good boy, Israel. Now go,” she instructed. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. He would sit quietly in the waiting room until she was ready to retrieve him. Perhaps they’d have time for a detour before he drove her home to her husband.
The Mother poured herself an absinthe, plopped in a sugar cube, and joined the Crone at the table. The Maiden checked her phone one last time, swiped right on the screen, then deposited it in one of her pockets before sitting. There was a small whirring as the blinds folded down over the expansive wall of windows and the city disappeared. In the darkness, someone snapped her fingers and a circle of candles emerged from a mechanism in the table, popping alight.
The Mother turned to the Crone. “How much time do we have for the final two?”
“Pas assez,” she answered first in her native French. “Not enough.”
“They have to make it.” The Maiden put her elbows on the table, the snakes inked on her forearms slithering in the candlelight. “No room for error now.”
“First of all, how long do they have to get the sixth?” the Mother asked.
“It’s complicated, always changing. The first had seven years to find the second, but the second had half that to get to the third. Deadlines got shorter from there; the fourth, the fifth, they went down by years, then months…” She trailed off.
“How long?” the Mother asked again.
“Half a year—not time to panic.” The Crone fidgeted with her cigarette holder. “Finding the sixth is not the issue.” The Crone was a Booker, the keepers of the texts, the interpreters of words found on the page and in the sky. Her family had passed down this seat to her, and from a careful study of old stories, she knew there was enough time to gather the sixth.
“What is the issue, then?” The Maiden was no-nonsense. She wanted the facts so that she could strategize. Coming from a long line of Tenders, the women who manned the bars and collected the news, she understood the value of information.
“Once she is brought in, this sixth witch?” The Crone paused. She hated being the one to deliver hard news. But the stars were complicated, and having the right kind of eyes to read them? That was an inherited skill. “She will have seventeen days from the moment we find her.”
“Seventeen days? Are you fucking kidding me?” The Maiden raised her voice. “That’s not enough time to get a decent reservation, let alone find a whole-ass witch!”
The Crone sneered. “Perhaps you need better foresight. You are a member of the Oracle, n’es tu pas?”
The Mother sighed, then told the Crone, “Make sure you let the Salem leader know the time frame, please.”
“That’s not up to us, is it?” The Mother reached over and patted the Maiden’s shoulder. As a Watcher, the Mother was their oversight, their protector, keeping them on track. “We keep the network engaged, place our women in the right positions, tend to the coffers, but we do not step in. We are not coven witches and don’t have that power.”
The women grew quiet, watching the flames, which flickered on their faces so that they looked very old and infinitely young at the same time. This could be a messy business, and being as powerful as they were, representatives of their kind, heading a massive enterprise but still being powerless where coven business was concerned? That was a delicate balance, if only for their egos.
“The spell is clear—one witch finds the next. There’s nothing we can do,” the Mother continued. “Whoever this sixth is, she had better be ready.”
“Seventeen days? She’d better be a fucking mage,” the Maiden added. “Have they located her yet?”
“Non.” The Crone rubbed her temples. “But my headaches are back, so she’s close.”
The Maiden rolled her eyes. Enough with this headache bullshit already. “We’re always a couple of Advil away from being helpless…”
“And how are you helping?” the Crone snapped.
“I’m working out the plan, getting my people ready,” she shot back. Then she turned to the Mother. “And you? What’s the update?”
“I am keeping an eye on our friend in the desert,” she answered. “The whole reason we relocated here. And let me tell you, that asshole has a particularly disturbing appetite. I feel like I should be paying a subscription fee to watch him.”
“Any creature who has believed itself into immortality is not to be taken lightly,” the Crone said. “So step carefully. And don’t get too close. Should we share news of him yet?”
“Not yet,” the Mother replied. “He is quiet. We don’t need to deal with the panic that knowledge of his existence would cause. Especially now.” She turned to the Maiden, the most reactive of the three. “Is that clear?”
The Maiden gave her a quick salute. “Yes, sir. Since we placed a local Tender in his household as a maid, I feel better. We know his comings and goings.”
The Mother and the Crone nodded their approval. Since they answered only to one another, it was important they all agreed.
The Maiden’s legs bounced with nerves. The clock was ticking. “I’m serious—this sixth one? She better be ready to roll when she’s found. She better be some kind of living-at-Hogwarts, spell-work-in-her-sleep legacy witch.”
“Have faith,” the Mother said. “She will be exceptional.”
1
THE LEGACY OF LUCKY ST. JAMES
Before she moved into the attic of her grandmother’s apartment in the dilapidated East End of Toronto, Lucky slept in a queen-sized canopy bed scavenged from the trash.
It was what her mother called “a real score.”
“Holy shit, Luck. Would you look at this?”
Hauled out of bed early on garbage day to help Arnya do her rounds, Lucky dragged her worn tennis shoes across the sidewalk, grumbling. At seven, she was old enough to feel embarrassed by her still-inebriated mother’s “treasure hunts.”
“Hurry up, come check this out.”
Her mother was standing at the end of someone’s lawn, staring at a carved mass of curlicued oak coated in glossy varnish—the headboard and footboard of an enormous bed, propped against a small tree.
“Wow,” Lucky said. “Is that a bed?”
“Hells yes, that’s a bed. That’s a beautiful bed. A bed for a princess. No, a bed for a couple of queens. C’mon, Lucky, we have to grab this before some vulture does.”
“And we’re not vultures?” Lucky was genuinely curious.
“No, we’re bargain hunters. There’s a difference.”
“What is the difference?” Lucky asked.
Arnya sighed, thinking. “Well, vultures grab up shit all frantic-like. We grab up shit with style.” She snapped her fingers, then made them into guns and pointed at Lucky.
Even with two of them, it was hard to wrestle the weighty pieces to the sidewalk. Then they spent a good ten minutes trying to figure out how to load them onto their borrowed shopping cart.
“Shit. We gotta make it work, babe.” Arnya St. James was no quitter, except at last call (one of her better jokes). Breathing hard, she extracted a bent book of matches from her jean shorts pocket, lit a cigarette, and scratched her forehead with a thumbnail. “Maybe we have to balance them across the top?”
Bigger pieces secured, they’d come back to get the four columns and frame for the canopy. Arnya carried them one by one to the dumpster beside the nearby elementary school, hefting them up and dropping them in, her ropey arms flexing with lean muscle.
“Gotta hide them. We’ll come back for those fuckers on a second run. Hope the damn truck doesn’t come. Should be okay, seeing’s how school’s out for summer.” Then she broke into the Alice Cooper song of the same name and sang it with a bobbing head, with air guitar thrown in at red lights when the awkward cart was coaxed to a stop.
Lucky was mortified when they went back; garbage runs were usually in the wee hours, and it was now approaching noon. They also usually didn’t involve her drunk mother hanging ass-end out of a dumpster screaming for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and some motherfucking help, while the St. Brigid’s summer tennis league watched. But when the pieces were all home and the bed was assembled with the help of her mother’s latest man friend, Lucky forgave Arnya everything. It was indeed a bed for a couple of queens, one of whom immediately passed out facedown with her boots still on, while the other lay with her thin arms folded under her head, wondering what they would do for curtains. A week later, they arrived in typical Arnya fashion.
Lucky woke to Arnya’s blurry face in her face. Her mother gave her shoulders a shake. “C’mon, I need some help here!” She let go and disappeared.
Lucky heard uneven footsteps and something being dragged. More steps, then the sound of the front door closing. She drifted off.
“Goddamn it, girl, wake up!”
Lucky jerked so hard she rolled off her towel and onto hardwood. Must have fallen asleep on the front room floor watching TV. A little hard on the bones but better than being all alone in that big bed.
Her mother shouted from the bedroom, “In here. You’re gonna love this!”
Anxiety spiked in Lucky’s stomach. She never knew what was going to happen when Arnya got that excited.
She pulled herself up, scratching her bare bottom, exposed by the wide cut in the leg of her mother’s Budweiser one-piece bathing suit. The neckline scooped low and the crotch hung between her thighs, but it was the perfect pj’s for a sticky summer night.
She found her mother standing on top of the futon mattress they’d hauled up onto their new bed frame.
“Ma, you’re wearing your shoes!” Lucky pointed at her mother’s feet, still clad in her favourite pleather ankle boots, the uneven heels showing their plastic bones. “Those are the nice sheets! They take up a whole load at the laundromat.”
Arnya took the last drag of her cigarette, plucked it out of her mouth, and expertly flicked it out the open window behind her. “Oh Christ, Lucky, quit menopausing and give me a hand.”
Lucky finally noticed the voluminous bundle of red fabric spilling across the bed like a murder scene, its edges trimmed in every hue the rainbow could throw up. Arnya bent to lift a swath, throwing an arm out for balance, looking like a goddess statue in a fountain of cherry Kool-Aid.
“It’s a parachute,” she said. “Do you like it?” Arnya’s smile was so wide Lucky could see the silver caps on her back molars. Standing on their bed at four in the morning, with a head full of whiskey and a desperate plea in her dark eyes, Arnya was at her softest.
