Spell Caster

by Clara Coulson

  The guy spots me staring at him and squints at me in suspicion.

  I give him a little wave and choke back a nervous laugh.

  Riker clears his throat to get everyone’s attention. “I sent you the preliminary report on today’s incidents,” he says to Newsome. “Do you have any questions?”

  Newsome glances at the stack of papers on the tabletop in front of her. “Where is the child now?”

  “In a lounge downstairs. There’s a child advocate with her, along with a team of guards. She’s been checked by a doctor and one of our in-house therapists as well. No major physical injuries, but she’s in a poor emotional state due to trauma. Unsurprisingly.” Riker picks up a small remote and hits a button, switching on the big screen hooked to the wall to my left. He clearly turned it on earlier to do prep work before any of the meeting attendees showed up, because the entire screen is filled with crime scene photos from the Wheeler apartment, with Frances Wheeler’s mutilated body prominently featured. “Our perp took no mercy on the child’s mother, as you can see.”

  Newsome rakes her fingers across the tabletop, and the other members of her party fidget similarly, struggling to keep their aggression in check. “Redmond,” Newsome says to the burly white guy, “you said you knew this woman?”

  Redmond’s face is the color of a tomato, and a vein near his forehead looks ready to burst. “Met her several times at community forums,” he confirms in a deep, gravelly voice. “She was a paralegal at a local firm. Was planning to start law school next year. Wanted to be a defense lawyer. Single mom. No living parents or grandparents. No siblings either, I think.”

  “I see.” Newsome takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. “So the poor child has nowhere to go. She’ll have to be placed with a foster family.”

  “I assume you have a system in place for that?” Ella says.

  “Yes.” Newsome pulls a folder out from underneath her papers and passes it to her right. The other Wolves slide it on around until it reaches Redmond, who tosses it at me. I catch it and hand it over to Ella, who flips it open and peruses one of the pages inside. At the top of the page is the official seal of the Lycanthrope Republic.

  “Our pilot program just went live last year,” Newsome continues, “and we’re still enrolling foster parents across the US and Canada—it’s a slow-going process, since the werewolf population is not that high—but I believe we have enough in this area to find a suitable home for the Wheeler girl.”

  “It’s imperative she be placed with a werewolf family then?” Riker asks.

  Newsome seems mildly annoyed by this question, like she thinks Riker should know better. As if any of us could know better, with how hostile Wolf society is to outsiders. “In a born Wolf, the lycanthropy virus generally begins to assert itself between the ages of five and seven,” she answers. “During this time, the transformation can be unpredictable, and the young Wolf quite hard to control. Parents generally homeschool their children until about the age of ten, when the Wolf nature normalizes shortly before adolescence begins. So, yes, the girl needs to be placed with a Wolf family, for the sake of proper development and socialization.”

  Riker nods. “Very well. We’ll leave that to you. But in order for us to release Sadie Wheeler into your care, we first have to make sure she’s safe from this criminal practitioner. And in that matter, we could use your help.” Ignoring Newsome’s pinched frown—she’s appalled at the mere suggestion we put more werewolf lives at risk after Wallace and company helped us fight Delos, and paid the price—he brings up the photos of the other crime scenes, along with the updated case summary.

  “As you can see, this man has already murdered eight people today, five of them DSI agents.” Riker pauses to glance at the pictures of Byers’ slaughtered team, a subtle fury spreading across his face. “The unidentified creature he’s using as his murder weapon is invisible even to magic sensitives, and the only way for a human to reliably sense its presence is to get close enough to feel its body heat.”

  Newsome leans back in her chair. “Ah, I get it. You’d like us to try using our enhanced senses to hunt down this criminal and his pet monster. Scent in particular, I presume?”

  “That’s right. Not something we here at DSI can easily accomplish.” Riker matches her posture and interlaces his hands on the table. “I understand your hesitation at working with DSI in the wake of your predecessor’s death, but the life of a child, a werewolf child, is at stake here. Given this perpetrator’s clear and extreme drive to eliminate everyone on the Delos family tree, there’s no reason to believe he won’t continue to pursue Sadie Wheeler until he finally kills her.”

  He reaches out with one finger and clicks a button on the remote, which calls up a zoomed-in photo of the baby blanket Sadie was wrapped in when I pulled her out from underneath the couch. “All I ask is that you help us track the killer down, for Sadie’s sake. We’ll do the heavy lifting when the time comes.”

  Newsome considers the proposal for the better part of a minute before she says, “All right. But our involvement ends when the physical conflict begins. And that’s final. I won’t involve my volunteers in any fight that only concerns the Republic in a peripheral or coincidental manner, as appears to be the case in this instance.”

  She motions to Redmond and the heavily tattooed woman sitting beside him, whose leather getup implies she owns at least one motorcycle. “These two are among the best trackers in Aurora. I’m sure they can pick up a useful scent from either the evidence you’ve collected at the crime scenes, or if necessary, from the crime scenes themselves. The rest of this group will act as their backup, just in case something goes wrong.”

  Riker brushes off the accusation and replies, “I’ll have the secondary detective team on this case escort them to our evidence lockup.”

  Ella takes the cue and picks up her phone, shooting off a text, I assume to Delarosa. “They’ll be here shortly.”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled”—Newsome pushes her chair back and rises—“I’ll head back to my office and start the foster placement process for Sadie Wheeler. If the situation changes in any way that negatively impacts my people, please contact me using my direct line.”

  “I will do exactly that.” Riker clicks the power button on the remote, and the screen winks out.

  “Good,” Newsome says curtly. “Because I strongly dislike subpar communication. Especially from DSI.”

  With that, she trudges over to the door and yanks it open, only to reveal a startled Delarosa, who’d been about to open the door from his side. They spend five seconds doing that awkward dance where they can’t figure out how to pass each other, before Delarosa gives up and backs farther into the hall, allowing Newsome to march away. The rest of the Wolves drift toward the door in her wake, Redmond the roid man and Biker Lady introducing themselves to Delarosa as the trackers. Delarosa spins on his toes and motions for them to follow him to the elevator.

  Once the Wolves all shuffle into the hall, Desmond rolls his chair across the room and pushes the door shut. “Well, that was a wonderful meeting,” he says. “How about we do something productive now?”

  Amy snorts. “Do you think the Wolf Congress chose her specifically to piss us off?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them.” Ella drops the folder on the table. “Still, at least she offered some assistance.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, “the ICM is totally stonewalling us?”

  “Some things never change,” Riker grumbles. “Those bastards in Europe put me on hold for an hour, and the ‘high-level administrator’ who finally picked up was obviously some inconsequential pencil pusher who gave me the runaround and refused to even pass a message on to the High Court. I assume my mistake was using the word ‘Delos’ at the beginning of the conversation. Should’ve just lied to them about the reason for my call until I reached someone of consequence.” He sighs. “I am not very good at this part of the job.”

  “You’ll get ther
e.” Ella nudges his arm with her elbow. “There’s always an adjustment period with any new job. And there’s no training course for being DSI commissioner, so unfortunately you have to learn as you go.”

  Riker grabs his cane from underneath the table. “You’re right, of course, but it’s still grating on me. The fact the these people still insist on being so uncooperative when a united front would be far more effective at dealing with our common enemies. I’m not sure whether it’s the sheer hubris, the idea that their special abilities render everyone else around them useless, or whether it’s the historical importance of their secrecy still making them paranoid about sharing. But whatever it is that drives them to act like this, it’s going to come back to bite them in the ass sooner rather than later.” He scratches his chin. “In some ways, it already has.”

  “Yep.” Ella scans the new notifications on her phone. “There always comes a reckoning. But at least when it finally comes, they—”

  Someone raps sharply on the conference room door.

  Desmond slides out of his chair and opens the door a crack. “Yes?”

  A woman on the other side speaks in low, rushed tones. I catch a few words, including “ICM” and “in the lobby.”

  Desmond reels back in surprise. “Really now? What does he want?”

  She says something that ends with “vital information.”

  “Well, escort him to a lounge and tell him we’ll be there momentarily.”

  The woman nods, looking nervous, and jogs off down the hall.

  “What was that all about?” asks Amy.

  Desmond turns to face us, curiosity and concern mingling in his frown. “Apparently, the newly appointed leader of Aurora’s ICM chapter is here, and he’s requested a meeting with Commissioner Riker.”

  Chapter Seven

  Crammed into the elevator, the six of us ride downstairs to meet the mysterious new ICM leader we’re all sure we’re going to hate. The last two guys ended up being agents of the Methuselah Group, and the second one dealt so much damage to both DSI and the city at large that we’re all still reeling from the trauma several months after the fact. So when the elevator dings and the doors roll open, we approach the administrator’s lounge with trepidation, unsure if we truly want to complicate this case by getting tangled up with another potential traitor. Unfortunately, we don’t have much choice, since the guy barged in, so Riker steps up to the plate and knocks on the door.

  As he’s waiting for a reply, Ella shifts toward me and asks, “You feeling all right?”

  I touch my cheek and find the soreness is mostly gone. “Better than I was. I think it’s almost out of my system.”

  “Good to hear. But please, Cal, don’t scare me like that again. At least for the rest of the week. And be careful when pursuing the bad guys, will you?”

  “I literally got nicked by a knife. How was I supposed to know it was poisoned?”

  She shoots me a critical look. “Well, ideally, whether a blade is poisoned or not shouldn’t matter. You should avoid getting hit entirely.”

  “Thank you for that sage advice. I’ll remember that next time I’m involved in a fight with the invisible monster of death and its asshole puppet master.”

  She opens her mouth to scold me for talking back, but the lounge door helpfully swings inward before she can get a word out. We all tense up and look to the doorway.

  Though it’s impossible to peg a wizard’s exact age from his appearance, due to the habit of ICM practitioners using magic to extend their lives by a large margin, the man in the doorway looks significantly younger than either Marcus or Delos. He’s the kind of guy you’d expect to see sitting behind an IT manager’s desk at a trendy startup staffed almost entirely by recent college grads. About my height and build, with close-cropped blond hair, a pair of black-rimmed glasses partially obscuring his light brown eyes, and a smattering of faint freckles on either cheek. He’s dressed in a rumpled white button-up shirt and a pair of dark-wash jeans, each of them purchased from a different high-end boutique.

  What, did the ICM run out of old curmudgeons to torment us with?

  “Commissioner Riker?” the man says, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Riker’s so taken aback by the guy’s polite tone, he almost raises the wrong hand for the shake. “And you are?”

  “Alexander Targus.”

  The name doesn’t ring a bell with anyone.

  Targus, seeing our blank expressions, continues, “I don’t expect you’ve heard of me. I’m the treasurer—well, I was the treasurer—for the ICM’s Chicago chapter.”

  “A treasurer?” says Amy. “What’d you do to get the big chair?”

  Targus chuckles. “I was already on the list to be appointed leader of one of the Midwest’s smaller chapters, before the urgent need for a new Aurora leader arose after that unfortunate business with Robert Delos. The High Court administration simply took that list and whittled it down to a few favorites, then put us all through an extensive, and may I say grueling, interview process.”

  “Well, third time’s the charm,” Amy grumbles.

  “Let’s hope so.” Targus opens the lounge door all the way and steps aside so Riker can enter. “Anyway, if you have a few minutes, Commissioner, I’d like to speak with you regarding the current murder investigation you’re working. I caught wind of some of the details through the grapevine and thought perhaps I could point you in the right direction.” He glances at the rest of us. “Is this the lead detective team working the case?”

  “Yes,” Riker says.

  “Oh great. They can join in too. I’d love to get this issue resolved as quickly as possible.”

  We all stand there for a second, baffled. We’ve never had an ICM practitioner be so nice to us before, and I’m pretty sure everyone else is trying just as hard as me to figure out whether this guy’s act is genuine or not. If it’s fake, then he’s a damn good actor, because I can’t find a single chip in his mild-mannered mask. His smile isn’t tight. His eyes aren’t shifty or cold. His posture is relaxed. And the rest of his body language contains no indications of any contempt for DSI, much less any signs that he’s a threat to our well-being. Huh. That’s different.

  Riker shakes himself out of his stupor and finally enters the lounge, and the rest of us follow suit, still a bit thrown off but willing to take Targus at face value. For now.

  Targus closes the door behind us and moves over to a messenger bag sitting on a coffee table. “So, I hear you’re looking for a man who’s good at summonings and may have a reason to seek vengeance against Robert Delos.”

  Riker crosses his arms. “Who told you that?”

  Targus gives him a sheepish look. “I received a call about it.”

  “From the High Court?”

  He nods. “I was instructed to help DSI resolve the matter, quietly, before the situation devolved into another black mark against the Court’s ability to control their own practitioners.”

  “So it’s a PR problem to them?” Ella, frowning, situates herself next to Riker.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Targus admits. “But, though you may find that viewpoint distasteful, the end result is the same: DSI receives help from the ICM to identify the perpetrator.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Desmond leans against the wall, eying Targus with interest. “But you’ll forgive us if that reasoning still makes us question your motives in the future.”

  Targus raises his hands. “Of course. Diplomacy is always a matter of baby steps.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” says Ella, “why is the ICM interested in diplomacy at all? Why not simply capture and prosecute the summoner through your internal channels?”

  “Good question.” He bends down and unclasps the flap on his messenger bag. “Unfortunately, it’s not one I currently have an answer for. When orders come down from above, they don’t always include a reason. My best guess, however, is that the High Court is wary of spending too many resources in
Aurora on capturing a lone bad actor when they still have so much work to do to weed out the remaining Methuselah rogues in the area.” He slips a manila folder out of the bag and offers it to Riker. “So, they’ve finally decided to willingly utilize DSI as a resource for resolving a practitioner-related issue. At least in this particular case. But again, that’s all supposition on my part.”

  Riker takes the folder. “Well, I’d love to hear their actual reasoning, but I guess that’ll do for now.” He opens the folder and takes a peek. “A list of wizards?”

  “All the wizards in Aurora and surrounding towns who fit the general profile you provided during your call to the High Court. Men who experienced a personal loss during that curse fiasco, and who are known to have dabbled in Eververse summonings. Four of them have past official reprimands from the ICM for wayward magic practices. Nothing too major, according to the records, but you know how those kinds of behaviors can escalate behind closed doors.”

  “You know any of them personally?” Riker taps the folder against his arm.

  “Afraid not.” He adjusts his glasses. “But I can use my network to track down some of the local practitioners who’re acquainted with them, if you’d like.”

  “Will you let us interview these acquaintances?” Ella asks, skeptical.

  “If you agree to do so down at our office, sure.”

  I’m up against the wall before I even register my legs backpedaling. “Office?” I choke out.

  Targus stares at me in confusion for a moment, before his mouth drops open. “Ah, you must be Calvin Kinsey, the one who Delos…” He lets that sentence fall away and plasters back on his tempered smile. “No worries, Detective. The chapter office has been moved to a new location since Delos was arrested, for the sake of security.” He points to the folder in Riker’s hand. “I’ve included the address, along with my work line, for whenever you need to meet or speak with me about a matter relating to the ICM.”