Druid Bond

by Brad Magnarella

  “Yes, thank you,” she said in an English accent.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No.” She accepted my hands and I helped her to her feet. She straightened her dress and fixed the basket still hanging from her arm. As she adjusted her bonnet, she peered at where the men had disappeared.

  “Brutes,” she muttered.

  “Is there somewhere I can walk you?” I asked.

  “It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m just down the street.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m heading that way myself.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

  As we returned to Broad Street, she peered back as if to ensure the men weren’t returning. I did the same, but the lane they had dragged her into was empty save for the length of revolver barrel.

  “Has that happened before?” I asked. “With them?”

  “You mean the Patriot soldiers?” She shook her head. “But it was only a matter of time. I believe in treating the enemy with compassion, Mister…?”

  “Hanson,” I said, coming up with the name on the spot. “Thomas Hanson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hanson.” She peered at me through her slender lashes. “Especially under the circumstances. I’m Elizabeth Burgess.”

  When she offered a bent hand, I panicked. What was the protocol? Was I supposed to kiss it? I accepted her hand and bowed my head slightly. “A pleasure, Mrs. Burgess.” If I’d committed a faux pas, she didn’t let on.

  “Yes,” she said, bringing her hand back to her stomach, “I believe in treating the soldiers with compassion. But to turn them out in their state? I can’t fathom what General Howe was thinking.”

  My gut was still telling me there was a connection between the Stranger’s presence and the soulless soldiers. I couldn’t imagine that the soldiers had been allowed to roam the streets in our history, attacking Loyalists. Especially pregnant ones.

  “There’s a rumor that someone paid for their release,” I said.

  “Paid General Howe?” I picked up a note of offense. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

  “A case of prison overcrowding then?” I suggested.

  “Hardly. I was just in one this morning delivering apples and some of my husband’s shirts.” She held up her basket. “Conditions may change as the war continues, but for now, there’s plenty of room in the prisons.”

  That explained what she’d been doing at the sugar house that morning, but her husband’s shirts?

  I must have looked at her oddly, because she said, “Rest assured, Mr. Hanson, I remain a devout Loyalist. My husband is a British captain.” She sighed. “I suppose I see my donations as a form of sacrament. If my husband were ever captured, I want to believe someone on the Patriot side would show him the same compassion. Plus, the state of the prisoners…” She clucked once. “They just look so pathetic, hardly a flicker in their eyes.” Her face hardened. “That doesn’t mean they should be turned out, though.”

  Someone must be possessing their souls while they’re in captivity.

  “Have you seen anyone else in there on your visits?” I asked. “I mean, besides the guards.”

  Her eyes cut to one side as she considered the question. “I did see Mister Harland from St. Mark’s Chapel there recently. Ministering to them, no doubt. Other than him? I can’t say that I have.”

  Rector Harland?

  “Here we are,” Elizabeth said. I followed her gaze to a two-story Georgian colonial with a flagstone drive. “Can I invite you inside for tea? It’s the least I can offer.” She gave a demure smile, her hand absently caressing her swollen stomach.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I must be going.”

  “Well then, thank you, Mr. Hanson.” She stepped back and curtsied.

  “Be careful on the streets. Better you not go out alone.”

  I felt a strange responsibility for the young woman, even though she would only exist as long as the time catch did. The actual her had already lived and died.

  “No,” she agreed. “I’ll have one of our servants escort me from now on. I’ll also be writing General Howe,” she added sternly.

  I couldn’t blame her, though I doubted it would do any good. Whoever or whatever had arranged for the prisoners’ release was also possessing them. But to what end? My magic was telling me I needed to find out. I tipped my tricorn hat to Mrs. Burgess, not knowing if that was proper either.

  “Good day,” I said.

  I continued down Broad Street until I reached Duke. Following a left, I began scanning storefronts until I spotted what I was looking for: the sign Otto had described to me from the driver’s seat of his cargo truck. And there it was, the largest one on the street: VANDER MEER’S FURNISHINGS.

  That part of the story had been accurate, anyway.

  Finding the front door ajar, I pushed it open and stepped into what must have been the eighteenth-century equivalent of a showroom. The space was crowded with tables, chairs, cabinets, armoires, you name it—all finely crafted. A scent of stained wood dominated. To one side, a fire crackled in a cast-iron stove. I opened my wizard’s senses slightly. If Vander Meer was casting magic in here, it wasn’t obvious.

  Voices sounded from the back of the store.

  “Hello?” I called, craning my neck down a narrow hallway.

  “Yes, yes, be there directly,” a man called back. In a lowered voice, he spoke instructions about the length of something, probably to an assistant. A moment later, a heavyset man in a leather apron and striped trousers bustled out. He was clean-shaven, tufts of blond hair flipping up above his large ears.

  “Can I help ye?” he asked.

  Struck by his resemblance to Otto several generations later, I stared for a moment. He had the same boyish face and close-set baby blue eyes. He was even sporting a similar smile as he watched me expectantly.

  “Mr. Vander Meer?” I asked finally.

  “Yessir, that’s me.”

  “I’m, ah, hoping you can help me.”

  “If you don’t see what you need in stock, I can make it. I do fast work, and you’ll not find better quality in all New England.”

  “It’s not furniture I’m looking for, actually,” I said. “Do you know where I might acquire some pale root or dinji oil?” They were specialized ingredients that would complete my stealth and slick wizard potions. Ingredients you couldn’t just purchase at any marketplace in eighteenth-century New York.

  “And what would you be needing those for?”

  Though the man’s face remained pleasant, I caught a glint of suspicion in his eyes. Nothing notable in his aura, though, which bothered me. Then again, if he were an advanced magic-user, he could be hiding that.

  “I’m trying to track someone,” I said. “Someone who shouldn’t be here.”

  If he were a fellow magic-user, he would know what I was talking about. But Mr. Vander Meer shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I’m not following ye.”

  I was on the verge of apologizing and leaving—I’d come into the wrong shop—but my magic seemed to be nudging me from behind, telling me to keep going. And I was trying to learn to listen. I steeled my nerves.

  “Spell work,” I said in a lowered voice.

  I watched for his eyes to alight with understanding. Instead, they darkened as if by sudden storm clouds, and his face balled up.

  “This shit again?” he shouted. He searched around, his hair flopping wildly, before stooping down. When he stood again, he was wielding a thick table leg. “Ye wanna see magic, huh? How ’bout I disappear this up yer backside?”

  “No, no,” I said, backing away, hands held out. “You don’t understand.”

  “I’ll not be driven from my own store, d’ye hear me? I’ll never leave!”

  “We’re on the same side,” I cried as he rushed forward.

  But he was beyond listening. I landed against the closed door of the shop. When he drew back the table leg, I fumbled for the knob, managing t
o get it open. I fell backwards, the table leg whooshing inches from my face, and landed in the street. Expecting the portly Dutchman to press the assault, I was already shoving myself away on hands and feet. At that moment a lean man appeared from the back of the store. He restrained Mr. Vander Meer’s arms, pulled him back inside, and drew the door closed.

  I gained my feet, dusted my hands off on my breeches, and retrieved my hat, which had fallen to the road. A few passersby had stopped to watch, but now that the show was over, they continued walking.

  “Holy hell,” I breathed.

  Ever since learning the time catch was in old New York, I suspected that my meeting with Otto had been no accident, that I was meant to hear about his furniture-making forebear. My magic gave me those little gifts sometimes. So up until a minute ago, I’d been counting on not only acquiring the needed spell ingredients, but understanding what was happening here. As a magical resident, Vander Meer would have had insights.

  But he wasn’t a magical resident. And with the visit a colossal bust, the only thing to do now was walk the streets in search of an herbal shop or its equivalent. The one positive was that it would give my system time to adapt to the patterns of ley energy.

  But man, what a frigging misread.

  As I walked off my shame, I wondered how my teammates were faring. I also thought about Jordan. I checked my pocket watch. It was a little past eleven, meaning he still had an hour to get back.

  Still no signals from the bonding sigil, which I chose to view as a good thing.

  I’d set off in an aimless direction and now found myself in an alleyway near the southern end of Manhattan. Beyond a narrow lane lined with barrels, crates, garbage piles, and stacked wood, I could see the fort I’d glimpsed from the north, only now I was facing its eastern side. The surrounding buildings looked like homes and offices, not shops. I needed to get back to a commercial district, one that dealt in food and, hopefully, herbs. I was trying to orient myself when a voice sounded behind me.

  “Well, hello there,” it purred, disturbingly close.

  I knew the voice. The texture made my back break out in gooseflesh.

  It belonged to Arnaud Thorne.

  28

  The vampire wore a thick powdered wig beneath a tricorn hat lined with gold trim. His dark, regal cape was open in front, revealing a colonial-style three-piece suit, the blood-red coat matching his knee-length breeches. White stockings and a pair of black shoes with gold buckles completed his wardrobe.

  He looked princely, powerful. And it was definitely Arnaud. Like the predator he was, he’d used preternatural stealth and speed to steal up from behind without me hearing.

  Control yourself, I thought now. No surprise. No fear.

  Arnaud watched closely, searching for a chink in my calm facade. His vampiric eyes were red-rimmed, probably from a recent meal. The rest of his face had been heavily powdered as if to conceal his waxy flesh. Though only half the age of the vampire I would come to know in the present era, he was no less dangerous. His lips broke into a sharp grin, as if picking up the final thought.

  I cleared my throat. “May I help you?”

  “I don’t believe we’ve seen you before,” he said. “Have we, Zarko?”

  The man standing behind him and to one side wore a tailored blue suit over a silk shirt, a frilly cravat tied around his throat. I immediately recognized his bowl cut and almond-shaped eyes. This was Arnaud’s faithful servant of centuries.

  “No, master,” Zarko replied in a chilly Eastern European accent.

  “No, I didn’t think so,” Arnaud agreed.

  He began to circle me in a way that was creepily reminiscent of our first encounter in his office almost three years before. An ornamental walking cane appeared from Arnaud’s cape, and he tapped it against the dirt lane. I’d placed Grandpa’s ring in my pocket before setting out. Now I slipped a hand beside it and fingered the humming band.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “It’s Thomas Hanson.”

  “And your provenance, Mr. Hanson?”

  He was behind me now, his voice low and leering.

  “I grew up here,” I said, affecting slight impatience.

  Arnaud clucked his tongue. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.”

  “How is that impossible? I should know where I grew up.”

  The vampire swept in front of me, his cold eyes peering into mine. If he was searching for a lie, he wouldn’t find it. Technically, I had grown up in the city, only it had been the late twentieth-century version.

  I squeezed the ring, wondering if I was going to have to deploy the power of the Brasov Pact.

  Arnaud stepped back suddenly, his expression bright. “Then I do apologize.” He remained at the edge of my personal space, not quite outside it. One of the subtle ways vampires controlled their prey. “It’s just that I don’t forget a face, and I believed I’d encountered all who call New York home.” He smiled seductively—careful, I noticed, to keep his teeth concealed. “You would certainly have stood out in my mind.”

  I understood now that Arnaud’s finding me was no coincidence. He had blood slaves combing the streets in search of fresh additions to his growing legion. One of them must have alerted him to my presence.

  “That’s all very well,” I said, “but I have to be going.”

  He slid in front of me. “But you haven’t asked who I am. Or perhaps you already know?”

  “Everyone has heard of you, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Is that so?” He sounded pleased. “Then perhaps you’ve also heard that I’m always on the watch for enterprising young men. Men like yourself, Mr. Hanson.”

  I caught my head nodding before realizing he was using his vampiric voice, the words massaging deep into my limbic centers. Screwing my thoughts to a point, I checked our surroundings in my peripheral vision. Except for the three of us, the narrow lane was empty. Just the way Arnaud wanted it. I could repel him—I wasn’t worried about that. But the amount of magic required, even through the Brasov Pact, would be the equivalent of a Fourth of July spectacular.

  No way that would go unnoticed.

  “I’m not interested,” I said, taking a deliberate step past him.

  I’d risked the use of my wizard’s voice, but it didn’t do any good. Arnaud seized my arm and pulled me sharply around. If I’d needed any reminding of the vampire’s strength, there it was. “You are interested,” he said in a rasp barely above a whisper. “And you’re going to come with us.”

  In his fever-bright eyes, I saw bloodlust, power hunger, and a virile hatred for humans—all the qualities that made him what he was. I tried to draw back, but he maintained his death grip on my arm. Red lights jagged through my head in time to my racing pulse as Arnaud struggled to bend my mind to his will.

  “Come,” he seethed. “I’m right over here.”

  He gestured with his cane to a dark building with a crenelated tower that rose two stories above the neighboring rooftops. As I followed his gaze, I used the opportunity to angle my pocketed fist so the ring was aimed at his heart. I would gain nothing by destroying this version of Arnaud, but what was the alternative? If I escaped him through magic, he would hunt me, creating major problems for our mission. On the other hand, the ring’s booming release of energy would alert Demon X, eliminating our element of surprise. The demon could shift his Stranger and the possessed victims before we located them.

  Arnaud squeezed my arm until I felt the bone yielding. In my head, I had already shaped the Word that would unleash the power of the Brasov Pact, but on the brink of releasing it, I hesitated. There had to be another way.

  “Release him!” someone shouted.

  I turned to find a tall man in a gray work shirt and trousers running toward us. Dammit. Time catch or not, I didn’t want to put an innocent in harm’s way, and this guy had no idea what he was stepping into.

  “Stay back,” I called.

  But the man arrived in front of us, chest heaving. He star
ed at Arnaud with icy blue eyes.

  “Release him,” he repeated in a thick, no-nonsense accent that might have been Dutch.

  Arnaud’s lips leaned into one of his dangerously charming smiles, not relaxing his grip one degree. “I’m afraid you’ve misread the situation, friend. This gentleman and I have just met, and he’s agreed to come to my office so we might meet in less intrusive environs. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hanson?”

  “Yes,” I said, willing the man to leave.

  But he crossed his arms as if to say he’d read the situation perfectly. Expecting Arnaud or Zarko to fly at him, I readied the Word in my mind. My ring resonated like a struck tuning fork in a way I’d never quite felt before. Arnaud’s smile shrank inside his hardening face. Then, with a scowl, he released my throbbing arm. I backed away, still angling my pocketed fist at his chest, but Arnaud appeared too fixated on the man to notice. The man’s returning stare was fearless.

  “I preferred it when we left the other to his own affairs,” Arnaud said.

  When the man remained silent, Arnaud turned to me and forced a final smile. “Perhaps we’ll run into one another again, Mr. Hanson,” he said in a slippery voice. “Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

  Don’t be so sure, I thought.

  With a sweep of his cape, Arnaud turned and paced in the direction of the fort, cane tapping beside him. “Come, Zarko,” he called. His servant grinned at me over a shoulder as he caught up to his master.

  The blue-eyed man stared after them. I drew my hand from my pocket, leaving the ring.

  “Do you know them?” I asked, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  “You were asking after some ingredients earlier,” he said. “There is an apothecary on Fieldmarket Street. You will find them there.” When he brushed absently at the sawdust clinging to his sleeve, it clicked.

  “You work for Mr. Vander Meer,” I said.

  I hadn’t gotten a good look at him earlier, but this was the same man who had been in the back of the store and emerged when Mr. Vander Meer came at me with the table leg. He’d apparently overheard my question.