Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4)

by Faith Hunter

  Tandy pushed away from the keyboard and took a sip, opened a tiny plastic tub of cream, and poured it into his mug. Sipped again. All of our mugs had been painted by an anonymous artist, Tandy’s with clouds and lightning, which was kinda mean, though he seemed to find it amusing. Mine was painted with green leaves. Tandy asked, “Do you hate paper trails as much as I think you do?”

  “I’d rather have a bad cold than have to do an NCIC search and now I have two of them.”

  “Summation?”

  “Grindylows are scary. The list of were-creature kills is spectacular and a little terrifying for the U.S. grindys.

  “Also, blood-sacrifice witch circles are a pain in the neck. I’ve been paper-tracking through police records for reports of sacrifice on the bank of any river or creek and trying to tie it to waning moon cycles. So far I have nothing. You got any idea how not-user-friendly NCIC is for magic-related records?”

  The National Crime Information Center—NCIC—might be the lifeline of law enforcement, but it was downright painful for us to use. The agency was an electronic clearinghouse of crime data available to virtually every criminal justice agency nationwide, twenty-four/seven. It had helped LEOs identify terrorists, track down and apprehend fugitives, locate missing persons, and convict serial killers. It had been estimated that there were currently thirteen million active records available, and searchable according to specific keywords. But not magic keywords.

  And it was boring.

  “I’m aware,” Tandy said. His understanding smile was sweet as he continued, “JoJo loves it, which I’ll never understand.”

  “Are you and JoJo getting married?” I asked.

  Tandy’s cup bobbled in his hands and some of the creamy coffee splashed out onto the table. “What?”

  I frowned at him and maybe at my own unexpected and blunt question. “Well. Ummm. You don’t think that it’s a secret you two are practically living together, do you?”

  “No. But, married?” The last word squeaked.

  I frowned at him. “I’m less and less inclined to find importance in the institution of marriage, but for most people it tends to be the next logical step in a sexual relationship.”

  “Nee-e-ell.” Tandy dragged out my name and I thought he might have blushed, but I couldn’t be sure. He stood and mopped up his spill with a roll of paper towels kept on the windowsill, silent as he worked. I waited, not sure what I had said wrong. “This is a most inappropriate line of discourse,” he said after a too-long silence, and he sounded uncomfortable and snippety, which I found odd.

  “Really?” I asked, trying to figure out what was going on. “It’s all anyone in the church ever thinks about: who’s proposing concubinage or marriage to who—whom?—and when.”

  Tandy tossed the towel in the garbage and sat back down. “Okay. I guess I understand that.” He met my gaze across the table and dragged his cup closer, fiddling with a spoon and sweetener packets. “Meeting her parents would be the next logical step, and JoJo hasn’t asked me to do that.”

  “Why not?” I stirred my coffee, watching from the corner of my eye as he dipped the spoon and stirred his coffee—without adding anything more to it. He blushed harder, the red a certainty now, but he hadn’t walked away, so I went on. “Tandy, why hasn’t she asked you to meet her parents?”

  “I’m this white guy with crazy red hair and bizarre red lines on my skin. I’m fine for a roll in the hay but not for taking home to meet her parents.”

  “I know for a fact that JoJo would never say something like that.”

  Tandy smiled slightly, but didn’t retract his statement.

  “You asked her to meet your parents?”

  “My father is … not around. And my mother is an unsubtle racist and a bigot. She kicked me out of the house when I was struck by lightning and developed the lines and my gift.” He paused and sipped his coffee again, his expression pained. “She touched me when she threw me out. Her hatred and fear were palpable, so terrible that I—” He stopped. “I haven’t been back and have no intention of ever going back.”

  I had nothing helpful to say to that. Sifting through my limited, recently acquired, socially appropriate lines of comfort, I said simply, “Families can suck all the red offa life’s lollipop.”

  Tandy burst out laughing, his muscles unclenching. “Yes, they can. Why do you think JoJo hasn’t asked me to meet her family? Has she said anything to you?”

  “Not a word. But the reasons can be all over the place. You should ask her instead of assuming it’s the color of your skin.”

  “And when I read her emotions when I ask that? And I know exactly what she’s feeling about it? That’s a terrible invasion of privacy, Nell.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. “So send her an e-mail. You won’t be there when she reads it. She can think about it for a while before trying to answer.”

  “Isn’t that taking the easy way out?”

  “No. If you tell her in the first paragraph that you’re doing it this way to give her emotional privacy, then it becomes sweet.” I thought about words normal people might use and added, “Mushy sweet.”

  Tandy laughed again, and I remembered the anxiety-ridden man he had been the first time I met him. He had changed a lot. We all had.

  “I’ll take it under consideration,” he said. He changed the subject. “You need to examine the soil on the roof. It’s been a while and with so little rain and the winds last week, it might have blown away.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, but I tucked the reminder away for later. I could tell the soil was still up there. I could feel it. Rick and Occam had carted ten five-gallon buckets of dirt from my land and deposited it onto the flat roof, as soon as I was human enough to think of returning to my job. They wanted me to have a safe place to rest should I need Soulwood to rejuvenate. Or heal. Or a place to plant green things. Or anything. I wasn’t planning to use it, but it was nice to know it was there and even nicer to know that my coworkers—my friends—cared enough to do that for me.

  He looked up and I heard the door to the stairwell open. T. Laine trudged up the hallway. Tandy asked me, “So what did you find in the dreaded NCIC database?”

  “Local sheriff’s deputy reports about witch circles that were not routed to us, going back over three months.”

  T. Laine dumped her gobag and laptop on the conference room table. “Yeah. That means I’m not getting any sleep tonight,” she groused.

  “Should I have waited till morning to send them to you?” I asked.

  Tandy tilted his head as if trying to read our emotional reactions.

  “No. You did right. Update me.”

  “I’ve found ten witch circles reported to the sheriff’s department that were not routed to us, plus the two we already know about. Three had dead black cats, two had white rats, one with a raccoon, four with no sacrifices on-site, all of them located on the bank of a creek or river.”

  “Needless to say,” T. Laine said, “there might have been more circles that weren’t discovered or reported. And near running water is not an ideal location because of the possible disruptive action on workings—unless we have a water witch involved.”

  “Was Rick in town on the other black cat ceremonies?” Tandy asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m doing a prelim comparison on the photos of all the circles,” our witch said, her words slow and her tone thoughtful. “So far, they all bear the same magical signature.” She punched buttons on her keybord and photos of the circles I had gathered appeared overhead. “The runes are confusing. The focals are mismatched. Nothing about any of the workings or circles makes sense under the accepted rules of magic. Most importantly, according to the lunar calendar, none of the circles appear to have been worked at the full moon, which I would expect to be the case for any working calculated to hit a were-creature. Rick being called, showing increased signs of ageing, but not being killed when he shows up at the circles, still only makes sense as coi
ncidence. In which case the curse is for someone else and that someone is in danger.”

  “But none of us believe in coincidence.” Tandy pushed back away from the table and turned up the lights. “Let’s finish our workups. Send out the reports. In-house only. We’ll backtrack the local reports and see who sent them out.”

  “Already done,” I said.

  Reading my reports, T. Laine said, “And it isn’t just one officer. Multiple reports, five officers, and that doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if they send them all to one up-line officer who is supposed to liaise with us,” I said. “Tracking that requires more access than I have. Or an internal search.”

  “Ah. That sucks donkey—” T. Laine stopped. “Oops. Sorry.”

  An internal search meant someone in KPD looking through the records for us. Or a certain hacker going in for a look. Tandy and I stared across the table at one another, neither of us willing to take that step. Knowing I was being wimpy by passing the buck up the chain of command, I said, “I think we should send it to Rick and let him handle that info through proper or improper channels, as he sees fit.”

  “Proper channels means we’ll never know who was suppressing reports to us, because KPD will never share that.”

  “Copy that,” I said. I started typing my summation report to Rick. “The sacrifices appear to be evolving, accelerating and decelerating in terms of the focals used and the animals sacrificed.” I stopped typing and looked out the window into the night. “She’s good at killing things.” I put my fingers back on the keyboard and took up where I left off. “The runes in the circles suggest preparation and planning toward a greater black-magic spell. Future human sacrifice cannot be ruled out as an ultimate intent.” That part hadn’t occurred to me until I typed it out, and a chill went through me.

  T. Laine said, “I just pulled up Rick’s schedule. He was hundreds of miles away on some of the older black cat circles. Either he felt a calling from way off and didn’t tell us or the summoning spell has a limited footprint. I’m going with a limited footprint. But we need to talk to him.”

  Haltingly, Tandy said, “But—well—I have to tell you both, privately.” We both turned to the empath. “I’ve noticed an increase in anxiety, irritation, and temper from Rick on the waning moon for the last two or three moon cycles.”

  “That’s not good,” T. Laine said. “Is it getting worse?”

  “No.” Tandy looked puzzled at that. “And it goes away. Coincidence again?”

  “Or he’s lonely and that’s the time of the cycle where he feels it most?” I suggested.

  “Were-creatures are sensitive to lots of things,” Tandy said, “and I may be the only empath to ever work closely with werecats, so I don’t know what’s normal.”

  “Occam acting jumpy?” T. Laine asked.

  “Not at all. Rick is … different.” The empath stood, went to the coffeepot, and refilled his mug. Black this time.

  I held a hand over my own cup. Tandy started pacing and sipping his coffee, his body movements beginning to take on a human version of Rick’s lithe motions. I realized he was drinking coffee the way Rick drank his and I was fascinated at the transformation. T. Laine sat up in her chair, watching the change, her eyebrows up in surprise.

  “You felt maggots at one site,” he said. “I think we need to know if Mithrans had been called there. Maybe before Rick got there?”

  “Could be. And if so, then the fact that we got to tonight’s circle so fast could mean the vamps arrived but were able to stop approaching the circle before we saw them.” I stopped and drew out the site of that circle on a legal pad, including nearby roads and parking areas. “Yes, there could have been vamps present. I never read with the psy-meter here”—I pointed to a warehouse—“here”—I pointed back to Walmart—“or here”—I pointed to the roads near the creek where a vamp might have parked. “I haven’t been to all the circles, so I don’t know if there were vamps there or not. Why?”

  “What if there’s a para hate group with a single witch attached, calling on the undead, trying to capture or kill a vamp, and Rick just got caught up in one of the spells with a black cat,” Tandy said.

  “It’s been tried before,” I said, recalling a few cases I had studied at school. Under a different file, I added to the list of possibilities as we worked through them, and said, “Someone in the CIA leaked info on paranormals to the Human Speakers of Truth. The Speakers are all dead or in jail, but we never discovered who in the Central Intelligence Agency leaked the info.”

  “Brainstorming, here. Maybe targeting vamps with the objective of delivering true-death?” he asked, his syntax remarkably Rick-like. “Or blood theft? Or using the vamp in the circle, sacrificing the undead as part of the casting.”

  “Or since Rick was called, maybe all the para species in the area are being targeted, one at a time.”

  “Maybe with an emphasis on law enforcement paras? Which means a spotted cat might be sacrificed next and call to Occam,” I said, a strange feeling settling in my chest. I was good at research, but I didn’t like where this was going.

  “And since the KPD hasn’t notified us, we have to consider that a faction of the department is involved. This could get messy.”

  “I’ll add the possibilities to my reports,” I said. “Oh. And with the proximity to the witch circle, we have to consider the possibility that the thief at Pilot Gas was a witch hiding under a a very good glamour.”

  “I have to hit the sack,” T. Laine said, groaning. “Morning comes early, so I’ll use the mattress room. Later.” She left the room.

  Tandy nodded and the body mechanics of his boss fell away. Tandy returned to the coffee tray and added cream to his mug. Interesting. Tandy was very, very interesting.

  • • •

  Rick came into the office before daybreak. He was walking more slowly than usual and dropped by his office before joining us in the conference room, where he filled his own mug. It was painted with a black leopard on the shiny finish, with the letters SAC—special agent in charge. As he poured coffee he said, “I read your report on the lack of interagency communication between a certain sheriff’s office detective working up possible paranormal crime, and Unit Eighteen. Good summation, Ingram. I sent it up-line, but Soul and FireWind were called to Maine, working a crime scene involving the Master of the City of New York. I doubt either of them will address the issues anytime soon, as it might require a face-to-face with KPD and the sheriff’s office.”

  Tandy was watching Rick’s careful movements. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  Even I could tell Rick was lying, but Tandy didn’t call him on it, saying instead, “Do you think we can wait until they get back to address the issue of the local LEOs not alerting us to the presence of a black-magic user in the area?”

  “No. I don’t. I’d like Ingram to call her friend at the FBI and prime the pump.”

  “I don’t have a friend at the FBI.”

  “Sure you do. In your report you described her as a ‘Coffee addict going on a four-hour withdrawal. Dark-skinned, African-American female FBI agent, jacket and pants, hair cropped close. History of familial witches.’ She called you her telepathic new best friend. Ring any bells?”

  “Oh. Special Agent Margot Racer.” Margot had a strong truth-sensing ability, which I had left out of my report, though I had told Rick privately. It seemed important that my boss know when he was talking to a walking, talking lie detector. Like Tandy. “But she isn’t my friend.”

  “Racer called—how many times was it, Dyson, while Ingram was out on disability?” Rick paced along in front of the window, sipping, just as Tandy had done during the long night.

  “Five times,” Tandy said. “The last time was a month ago.”

  I squinted up at Rick, a silhouette against the graying skyline. Margot Racer calling me was strange. Unless … unless she had more than a strong truth-sense. I had wondered if she was a budding, true empath. But wh
at if she was a budding precog instead? Or something even more arcane. “Why did she call?”

  “Your disability was a secret only from your family. Racer called to see if you were getting better. Why not call her back. See what she knows.”

  I frowned, thinking. I wasn’t sure how to do that—call up someone and question them.

  “Ingram?”

  “I can do that.” But even I could hear the uncertainty in my tone.

  Rick smiled, not unkindly. “Give her a call and go for coffee. Offer to share what’s happening in return for any info she might dig up on the local LEO who isn’t passing along information. It’s called quid pro quo, Ingram. You don’t have to do a spa day or become BFFs or anything.”

  “Okay. I can do that,” I repeated, but more certainly this time.

  Rick took his seat and rubbed his head. Tandy looked from Rick’s hand, massaging his temples, to me. Rick was in pain. “Are you okay?” I asked the boss.

  “Headache.” Rick dropped his hand and said, “Kent’s having no luck tracking the witch via arcane means. We somehow got lucky last night and found a second black-magic circle. I don’t believe in luck. Is it possible that we were lured to the most recent circle? I want you to contact your friend with the Mithrans in addition to talking to Racer. See what they know.”

  He wanted me to call the vampires. I had expected him to contact Ming of Glass.

  I studied Rick. There were dark circles under his eyes, his skin was sagging, and the fine wrinkles that used to be laugh lines had become deeper, downward frown lines. “How long have you been having headaches?” I asked. “Now that we know there have been circles for a while, do we need to posit that the circles are giving you headaches?” And making you act fidgety, I thought.

  Rick’s tone was sharp. “I don’t know.” He shrugged slightly and amended, “A couple three months.”

  I considered the timelines of the witch circles. “The same time as the circles. Okay. Take some Tylenol. I’ll make the calls, then I’m heading home. While I’m gone, the team needs to ask our boss some pointed questions about witch circles.” I glared at them and left the men sitting in the conference room, Tandy watching Rick, Rick looking ornery. At my desk I made calls. Yummy was on the security team of the new Master of the City of Knoxville. I got a voice mail, but as it was after sunrise, I didn’t expect to hear back until after dusk. The voice mail left on the service of FBI Special Agent Margot Racer was more tentative. “Hi. Um. This is Nell Ingram. I thought we might have coffee tomorrow. If you want. If you have time. If you’re in town. And not working a case. And, um. Yeah. Okay. ‘Bye.” I gave my number and hung up. “And that didn’t sound like a twelve-year-old desperately trying to make a new friend at all.”