The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1)

by Brad Magnarella

  Would have been nice if you’d shared the bit about his mental health before inviting me to stay the night, I thought, but didn’t say it. I was lining up the info on her father with what Vega had told me about the sudden rise in crimes back in New York, the riot in the hospital’s psych ward…

  He turned sick a week ago.

  That would have been about the same time I destroyed what I thought was Lich’s book. The act should have deprived Marlow of his power. But if Connell was telling the truth, if I had instead destroyed an Elder book that had been jamming Lich’s portal, then my act would have given the portal new life.

  Allowing more Whisperer magic through, I thought.

  But that was assuming the spike in insanity was a result of Whisperer magic. I could just as easily be seeing a connection where none existed. Or being made to see one. I thought.

  “Why did you come?” Olga asked suddenly.

  I looked up, only now realizing she had been watching me for the last minute. “I told you,” I said, picking through my milky porridge with a spoon. “I wanted to check on an old friend.”

  “You needed his help,” she stated.

  I started to nod, then caught myself. “What makes you say that?”

  “It is in your eyes.”

  Something in her forwardness made the skin over my chest prickle. I thought about how she had been waiting for me in the truck yesterday, how she had appeared with a shotgun armed with salt at Lazlo’s house, how she just happened to have a spare room for me to stay in. Like James, had she been warned about my coming? Beneath the table, I gripped my cane.

  “You knew I’d show up here,” I said.

  “Yes,” she admitted, taking a large bite of porridge.

  I scooted the chair out and stood, pulling my sword from my staff. “Who told you?”

  She finished chewing, unconcerned by my weapon. “Bones.”

  “Bones? Who the hell is Bones?”

  I flinched when she stood, but she walked the other direction into the kitchen, where she opened a cupboard. I watched her carefully. She returned with a small leather pouch, which she held out to me. No magic stirred around it. I hesitated before I moved my sword to my staff hand and opened the pouch with two fingers. It contained a pile of small animal bones.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling foolish.

  She had been referring to cleromancy, or bone-reading, a folk practice as old as human settlement. One many people still dabbled in. For the reading to be accurate, though, the diviner or the divination object needed to possess magic, and I sensed none in either.

  Olga sat again. “I can do reading if you want.”

  “What did you see?” I asked. “In your earlier reading?”

  “I was told that a man of great power would come. That he was trying to know something.”

  “I don’t know about the great power part,” I mumbled.

  “I saw what you did at the house,” she said. “You made fire with voice.”

  She was talking about the fuoco invocation, when I’d cremated Lazlo’s remains to close the vent to Dhuul’s realm.

  “The bones said I would help this man,” Olga finished.

  She had already pushed our bowls and coffee mugs to one side of the table. Now she opened the pouch and upended it. The assortment of bones from what looked like a large rodent spilled over the table. Olga’s brown eyes seemed to darken a shade as she gazed down on them.

  “I see confusion,” she said, her fingers hovering over a configuration of rib bones.

  You’ve got that right, I thought, though she could also have overheard my conversations with James and Vega last night. I’m sure I had sounded plenty confused then.

  “You are torn between difficult choices.” Her strong, country fingers moved back and forth between where the bones seemed to have landed in two roughly equal quantities. “Is it this one, or this one?”

  Lich or Marlow? I thought.

  “And here is your answer,” she said.

  I leaned forward despite that I still felt no magic around the ceremony. Olga was pointing at a small, solitary shoulder blade that had fallen in between the two groupings of bones.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “That when you understand what this single thing means”—she tapped the shoulder blade—“one choice will fall away.” In demonstration, she swept the bones on the right side off the table into her waiting palm and returned them to the pouch. “It will no longer be both.”

  No more fifty-fifty, in other words.

  I eyed the shoulder blade for another moment. The shape of it seemed to tug at something in my mind, but I couldn’t say what. Anyway, what was the point? There was nothing mystical at work here.

  “Great … thanks,” I said.

  She nodded and swept the remaining bones into the pouch and tied it off. How desperate had I become that I was looking to a mortal with a bag of rat bones for answers?

  I pulled the pager from my pocket to see if it was getting a signal. Still out of range. I pocketed it again, hoping it would pick something up at the train station. James had planned to contact the Order, and on the off chance they’d responded, I wanted to know as soon as possible. I started to imagine James waving his message over his flaming cup and then stiffened.

  The cups.

  I thought of my own silver cup. Narrower at the bottom, wider as you approached the rim. From the side, it looked roughly like…

  “A shoulder blade,” I said.

  “You understand?” Olga asked.

  I stared but without seeing her. I had been told that our cups gave us access to an administrative branch of the Order. An office where communications were prioritized and then sent up the appropriate channels for decisions to be made, which were sent back down and shot to us as responses. But if there was no Order, then those same communications were more than likely going to the one person most interested in keeping tabs on us.

  I thought of the gold cup I’d found in Chicory’s room.

  When Olga’s face reappeared beyond my thoughts, a small smile was wrinkling the beauty mark above her lips. “Your eyes have changed,” she said. “You understand the meaning.”

  “I think so, yeah,” I replied, my heart beating urgently. Like Olga’s rock salt, sometimes the best magic was no magic at all. “How soon can we leave for the train station?”

  “As soon as you are ready,” she said.

  I stood quickly. “Give me five minutes.”

  I’ve got a gold cup to hack.

  18

  Somewhere over Spain it occurred to me that I might not have to hack Chicory’s cup. My own cup required an incantation to send messages, but not to receive them. As long as my cup was jetting a flame, the messages arrived on their own. Hopefully, Chicory’s cup operated the same way—in which case, it would just be a matter of igniting the oil crystal.

  By the time the plane touched down at Newark International, I was running on unhealthy levels of adrenaline and caffeine and little else. I shouldered my way through the crowds and stood in the taxi line outside.

  “Where to?” a cabbie asked when my turn came.

  I climbed into his backseat with my pack. “Gehr Place. Near 495.”

  He nodded and shifted his ample bulk as he put the cab in gear and reset the meter. “Where you coming in from?”

  “Eastern Europe.”

  He snorted. “Surprised you were in a hurry to get back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t been following? The city’s a flipping zoo. Last night, we had maniacs running around the streets, climbing buildings, breaking windows. A couple of ’em tried tipping over my taxi on East Fourteenth. Told dispatch I was done for the night. Screw that.”

  “Who were they?” I asked.

  “From the looks of ’em? Vagrants and junkies. The police eventually rounded them up, but it took all night. Like some kind of frigging Night of the Living Dead. Cost a few officers their lives too.” He s
hook his balding head. “Must be a nasty new drug on the streets.”

  Or a nasty new magic, I thought. One I potentially let through.

  If Whisperer magic was coming through, it might not have been powerful enough to influence sound minds—yet—but it looked as if it was worming its way into those already afflicted, dragging them into deeper madness. I thought about the patients in the psych ward Vega had mentioned, Olga’s alcoholic father, and now junkies.

  “You’re my last drop of the evening.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said absently.

  “Gonna return the cab and go straight home to the missus. Bar the doors. No way I’m gonna be out and about with crap like this going on. Not worth it for a few extra bucks, you know?”

  I nodded as, with stinging, sleep-deprived eyes, I peered out the windows. We were climbing onto I-78, the setting sun throwing final, long shadows over the interstate. The west-bound lanes were clogged. It looked like the afternoon rush, but it was almost eight p.m.

  The cabbie snapped on the radio.

  “…mobs and mobs of them,” a woman said in a breathless voice. It sounded as though she was speaking through a telephone. “They’re going block by block, setting fire to anything that’ll light. We’ve got cars on fire, buildings on fire…” She took a sobbing breath. “…people on fire. Me and my husband barely got away. They’re … they’re crazy.”

  “Aw, Christ,” the cabbie said. “You hearing this?”

  “Are you somewhere safe now?” the male talk show host asked.

  “Yeah, I think so,” the woman replied, not sounding at all certain.

  “If you’re just joining us, ladies and gentlemen,” the host said in a grave voice, “the Bronx is burning. I repeat, the Bronx is burning. Roving gangs with no apparent affiliation began setting fire to the south Bronx about an hour ago, and their numbers have only grown despite the arrival of police on the scene. Something similar is happening in Staten Island and east Brooklyn, we’re being told, but the details at this time are sketchy. The mayor has declared a state of emergency and is recommending that those who can safely evacuate the city do so at this time. Everyone else should remain inside with their doors and windows locked.”

  I looked over at the lines of bumper-to-bumper cars in the opposite lanes. Even from my distance, I could see the fear and tension on the drivers’ faces, several of them with children in the back seats. I squinted and craned my neck until I could make out a brown haze rising in the north.

  “Evacuate the city?” the cabbie complained. “How am I gonna do that? My wife weighs five hundred plus. She’s practically bedbound.”

  My pager began to go off. Its signal had come back on in the airport in Romania, but no one had sent any pages. I dug into my pocket, pushing past the Ziploc bag of Romanian salt Olga had given me for protection, and found the pager. I pulled it out and checked the number. Vega’s.

  “Hey,” I said, “mind making a quick stop so I can make a call?”

  “You’re not carrying a phone?” he asked.

  “No.”

  I thought he was going to offer me his, which I would have had to turn down or risk exploding it, but he sighed and said, “I should probably fill up anyway. Let’s make it quick, though, huh?” He turned off the next exit ramp and pulled into a gas station with a payphone.

  I ran up to the phone and called.

  “Vega,” she answered.

  “Hey, it’s Everson. What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” she said. “Are you back in the States?”

  “Yeah, just got in.”

  “The nuttiness I told you about yesterday? It’s gone into overdrive. Mayor Lowder’s been asking about you. He wants to know if there’s something supernatural at work and, if so, what you can do about it.”

  “I’m hoping I’ll have an answer shortly,” I said.

  “One that’ll put an end to this?”

  “Eventually.” I hoped.

  Off to my left, stupid laughter filled the inside of a parked Plymouth station wagon, its windows cloudy with smoke. When the skunky smell of pot reached me, I turned the other way and blocked the fumes with my collar.

  “Eventually?” The rawness in Detective Vega’s voice told me she hadn’t gotten much sleep either. “Croft, I’m not sure we have till eventually. The crazies are going after people now.”

  In her voice, I could also hear her fear for her son.

  “Yeah, they were just talking about that on the radio,” I said. “Look, I’ll contact you as soon as I know something. In the meantime, tell Budge I’m working on it.”

  “How bad can we expect it to get tonight?” she asked.

  I paused as I considered the question. Like black magic, Whisperer magic was probably more potent at night. And if today’s craziness had started before sunset… “Bad,” I said. “Probably the best you can do is get everyone vulnerable out of their path. I think Budge is on the right track with the evacuation order. I promise I’m doing everything I can.”

  We said goodbye, my hand trembling as I hung up.

  Had I unleashed this? Was I responsible for the death and destruction?

  “Hey!” the cabbie shouted. “The hell you think you’re doin’?”

  I turned to the island of gas station pumps, where the cabbie had pulled in to fill up. A man had been hanging around the pumps with a squeegee when we arrived, offering to wash car windows for a few bucks. Now he was wrestling my cabbie for the gasoline nozzle.

  “Help!” the cabbie gasped.

  I ran over as the cabbie sagged to the pavement, clutching his chest. Squeegee Man stepped on his stomach and wrested the nozzle the rest of the way from his grip. He stood back and aimed the nozzle at the cabbie like a gangster preparing an execution.

  I fumbled for my cane and shouted. The cabbie threw his arms to his ducked head as gasoline jetted from the nozzle—and hit my shield invocation. The gas poured off both sides and splashed to the pavement.

  At neighboring islands, people began to scream and back away. Squeegee man wheeled with the nozzle, jetting gallons of gasoline everywhere. Wild, red-rimmed eyes stared from a twitching face. The man was gone—but not far enough. His other hand was rooting inside a jacket pocket for what I rightly guessed was a lighter.

  As I caught the flash of red plastic, I thrust my cane at him and shouted, “Vigore!”

  The force blast caught him in the chest and shot him from the pumps. He dropped both lighter and nozzle en route to the side of a tractor trailer, where he slammed to a stop, then pancaked to the pavement.

  Exhaling, I turned back to the cabbie, who was using the side of his cab to climb to his feet. A tide of gasoline rolled toward a metal grate, its fumes bending the air and making my eyes water. Those who had fled began to venture back. A woman in business attire stooped for the dropped lighter.

  “Are you all right?” I asked my cabbie.

  “Did you see that?” he wheezed, still clutching his chest. “You see that?”

  Behind me, I heard the distinct snikt of a metal wheel. I turned to find the woman who had retrieved the plastic lighter holding it in front of her face, staring at the slender flame. She was an older woman, dressed in a pants suit and wearing expensive-looking jewelry, but like Squeegee Man, she didn’t seem all there.

  “Put that out!” I shouted.

  Her staring eyes fell to the tide of gasoline, some of it running under cars. With a strange flattening of her pupils, she knelt as though to touch the flame to the gas.

  “Protezione,” I called, enclosing the lighter in a shield. Without air, the flame died. The woman released the lighter and stepped back. I shrunk the shield until the lighter detonated inside it.

  The woman’s eyes shifted toward me. Her face began to contort, red lips peeling back from her teeth. I glanced around. Everyone else seemed fine. Maybe this lady had a touch of age-related dementia, making her more susceptible to Whisperer magic. I readied my cane reluctantly, not wantin
g to hit her with an invocation, but not sure I would have a choice.

  At that moment, two young men strolled into our midst, smoke wafting from their long hair and jackets. They were the ones who had been hot-boxing inside the Plymouth—and smelled the part. “Whoa, check it out,” one of them said. “It’s like a gasoline pond or something.”

  For the love of God.

  The other one gave a deep, throaty laugh of agreement. I watched in horror as a third member of their party slung his arm around the woman who had nearly finished Squeegee Man’s job.

  “What happened, lady?” he asked her.

  “Get back!” I shouted.

  The three potheads turned toward me. “Dude, what’s your problem?” one of them asked.

  “She’s…” I almost said dangerous, but the woman was looking around now in uncertainty, eyes normal again. With a sound of disapproval, she drew the young man’s arm from around her shoulder and marched to her car—a shiny white Bonneville—got in, and drove away.

  “Can we get outta here already?” the cabbie asked me.

  The lights over the pumping stations turned on, pushing back the dusk. Near the diesel pumps, Squeegee Man was still down, a gas station employee standing over him to ensure he stayed that way. How long before the magic became strong enough to overwhelm the rest of us? I wondered.

  I turned back to the cabbie, who didn’t appear to have seen my magical exhibition.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Good idea.”

  When we pulled up to the safe house at Gehr Place twenty minutes later, I paid the cabbie double the fare.

  “You sure about this,” he asked, counting through the bills.

  “I feel responsible for what happened to you back there,” I said.

  “You weren’t the one who went apey with the gas hose.”

  No, I thought, but if I let that magic through, I might as well have been.

  “Stay safe,” I told him, clapping his large shoulder.

  “Thanks, you too.”

  The cab droned away as I climbed the front porch steps. At the threshold, I checked the house for wards or protective energy. Still down. Inside, I dropped my pack, then flicked on lights en route to Chicory’s room. A quick look around showed it to be in the same state of general disorder as when I’d left it four days ago. His gold cup still sat on the corner of his lab table.