by Simon Hawke
Paul looked at him with alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. But then that would mean we can eliminate anyone I've known for longer than, what? How long has it been since the Dark Ones have escaped the pit?"
"A little over three years," Wyrdrune replied, "but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. The Dark Ones are clever. Consider the possibility that one of them could have killed someone you've known for years and assumed his identity."
Paul moistened his lips and took a deep breath, exhaling heavily. "I can see it was an understatement when I told Joe Loomis that I wasn't qualified for something like this. I suppose I'm just not used to thinking that way. I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help to you."
"You'll be a great help, Paul," said Merlin. "You know this town and we don't. And you are a man of position here. You can open doors for us, if need be. My greatest concern is that you not be exposed to any unnecessary danger. Until the killer is found, at least one of us should be with you at all times, for your own protection."
"I appreciate that," said Paul. "In that case, perhaps it would be best if you stayed here with me. I have plenty of room and it wouldn't be an imposition. In fact, at a time like this, I'd be very grateful for your company."
Before the others could reply to his invitation, the phone rang.
"Excuse me," Paul said as he got up to answer it. He picked it up and said, "Ramirez." And then, "Oh, God. Yes, of course, I'll come. Oh, all right. I'll be waiting. Thank you."
"What is it?" Kira asked, seeing the expression on his face as he hung up the phone.
"There's been another murder," he said heavily. "Exactly like the last one. They found the body in the river. Lt. Loomis is sending a police car for me."
"One of us should go with you," Merlin said.
"How shall I explain it to Loomis?"
Wyrdrune shapechanged.
"Tell him that I'm an old classmate of yours from school, visiting from England," Modred said. "I'm an adept who's gone into police work, an inspector at Scotland Yard."
"He'll most likely check," said Paul uncertainly.
"That is why I've chosen Scotland Yard," said Modred. "We have a trusted contact there, Chief Inspector Michael Blood. We've worked with him before. He knows about the Dark Ones and can be counted on to cooperate. We can call him from here and warn him to prepare a cover story for me."
"I'll call him right now," said Kira. "May I use your phone?"
"Of course," said Paul.
"In the meantime, we'll have to think up some sort of cover story for the rest of us," said Merlin.
"You could be tourists or visiting adepts," said Paul. "There's supposed to be a conference of corporate adepts next weekend, a convention running in conjunction with the fiesta."
"The fiesta?" Wyrdrune asked, changing back to his own form.
"The Fiesta de Santa Fe," said Paul. "It's a three-day festival held the weekend after Labor Day. It's a very old tradition, celebrating the Spanish reconquest of Santa Fe by Don Diego de Vargas. The major event is the burning of Zozobra, a forty-foot effigy of 'Old Man Gloom.' As dean of the College of Sorcerers, it's my task to animate Zozobra."
"And then you burn him?" Broom said incredulously.
"Well, I do not literally animate Zozobra," Paul added quickly with an uneasy glance at Broom. "I merely use magic to work the effigy as a giant marionette. In no sense is Zozobra ever actually alive. The effigy only appears to writhe as it burns."
"Feh! Sounds sick, if you ask me," said Broom.
"Nobody asked you," Wyrdrune said.
"Well, fine. Since nobody's interested in my opinion, I'll just go and clean the kitchen, as that appears to be my role in life . . ."
"Broom, this is not our house . . ." said Wyrdrune. "We're guests here."
"All the more reason to show our appreciation by helping with the dishes," Broom said.
"It really isn't necessary, Broom," said Paul. "Please don't trouble yourself."
"Nu? So while everybody else is busy solving grisly murders, I wash a couple glasses, sweep a little, what's to trouble? You keep a neat house, Professor, but it needs a woman's touch. A man your age, living alone, it's no good, you know. You should find yourself a nice girl and get married."
"Broom . . ." said Wyrdrune.
"All right, all right, so I'll shut up, already. Far be it from me to give advice . . . as if anybody ever listens . . ."
Paul smiled as Broom swept off toward the kitchen. "That's the most astonishing creature I've ever seen," he said to Wyrdrune. "A truly impressive piece of conjuring. How did you do it?"
"I wish I knew," said Wyrdrune sourly. "Then maybe I could come up with a spell to make the damned thing shut up."
"Tell us more about this festival," said Kira.
"Well, it officially begins with the burning of Zozobra on Friday night," Paul said, "and then there will be fireworks, followed by a parade to the plaza, where there will be booths serving food and selling crafts. There is a children's parade on Saturday, and in the afternoon a reenactment of Don Diego's triumphant entry into Santa Fe in 1692. There is a grand ball in the evening and on Sunday the hysterical/ historical parade, with floats and costumes and other foolishness, and a Mass that evening in the cathedral, followed by a candlelight procession to the Cross of the Martyrs, where the Franciscan priests were killed during the Pueblo Revolt. The festival is the highlight of the year. People come from miles around to . . ."
His voice trailed off as he saw the expressions on their faces. And then it dawned on him. "Oh, Lord."
"So the city will be crowded with people, celebrating all day and all night for three days," said Wyrdrune. "And somewhere in the middle of it all will be a necromancer."
Joe Loomis stared at the tall blond man who got out of the police car with Paul Ramirez. He had never seen this man before and he wondered if this was the Bureau field agent. The man looked to be in his mid to late forties, well built, with angular, somewhat cruel-looking features. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and tinted aviator glasses. If he was an adept, he did not favor the traditional long hair and robes that many sorcerers affected. His well-styled hair was combed back at the sides and stopped just below his collar. The elegant, neo-Edwardian suit looked tailor-made. Instinctively, Loomis looked for the telltale bulge of a gun, but he could not detect one. The man's suit was exquisitely tailored. If he wore a gun, he would have taken the trouble to obtain a good concealment holster and his tailor would have made the coat so that it wouldn't show.
All these things went through Joe's mind automatically, in a flash, the result of years spent quickly sizing people up at a glance. He did not know why he had automatically looked for a gun, but he had. The man looked like a cop, thought Loomis. Or a hitter. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Both cops and criminals, he thought, the good ones, at any rate, had that same aura about them. An alert wariness. Eyes that scanned constantly and didn't miss a thing. A controlled tension in the bearing. What particularly caught his eye as they approached was the emerald set into the man's forehead, like a third eye.
"Joe, I'd like to introduce an old classmate of mine," said Paul Ramirez. "Inspector Michael Cornwall, Lt. Joe Loomis."
"Inspector?" asked Loomis. "You're with the Bureau?"
"Scotland Yard."
Modred displayed a shield and ID identifying him as an inspector of London's Metropolitan Police Force. He had many such IDs, but unlike most of the others, this one was genuine, obtained from Chief Inspector Michael Blood of Scotland Yard.
Loomis glanced at the ID, then shook Modred's hand. He was having a hard time keeping his gaze from centering on the gem in the man's forehead.
"Michael's just arrived in town for the convention and he's staying with me," said Paul. "When I told him about what happened, he asked if he could be of any assistance and I took the liberty of bringing him. He's experienced in thaumaturgic crime as well as street crime. I thought we could use the help."
"You're an adept and a
cop?" asked Loomis. "That's rather unusual, isn't it, Inspector?"
"Yes, I suppose it is," Modred replied. "You're no doubt wondering why I didn't join the Bureau."
Loomis smiled. "That was my next question."
Modred smiled back. "Most crime involving magic use investigated by the Bureau is of the white-collar variety," he said. "I have never found that especially interesting. I wanted to go into straight police work. I felt it was more challenging and that adepts were needed there, as well."
"True, but you could make a lot more money in the Bureau," Loomis said, "unless Scotland Yard pays its detectives a lot more than we do."
"I doubt that most of us become policemen purely for the money," Modred replied. "There are far more lucrative and less demanding professions. In my case, it's also something of a family tradition. My father was an important man in British law enforcement."
"Is that right? My old man was a cop, too," said Loomis. "So the two of you went to school together. Well, I could think of better circumstances for a reunion, but seeing as how that Bureau field agent still hasn't arrived, I guess I could use the help. Mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"No, go right ahead," said Modred.
"What's with the stone?"
"It's an old family heirloom," Modred replied.
"How come it's glowing?"
"It's responding to thaumaturgic trace emanations," Modred said. "Fairly strong ones, I should say. Coming from over . . . there."
He glanced toward the riverbank.
"I take it that's where the body is," said Paul uneasily.
Loomis glanced from him to Modred with a look of interest. "Yeah. You picked the trace emanations up all the way over here?"
"As I said, Lieutenant, they are quite strong. May I . . .?"
"Go ahead," said Loomis.
They walked past the police lines and down toward the riverbank. There was already a crowd of reporters waiting behind the lines, shouting questions and aiming cameras at them. Loomis ignored them. The body of the murdered girl was covered by a sheet.
"We fished her out of the river," Loomis said. "Her body was discovered by a couple of kids."
"My God. She was just like the last one?" Paul asked.
"Yeah."
"Have your forensics people completed their work here?" Modred asked.
"Yeah, go ahead and take a look, if you want," said Loomis.
Modred crouched over the body and pulled back the sheet. Loomis noticed that the emerald in his forehead started to glow a bit more brightly.
"What do you make of it?" asked Loomis.
Modred stood. "This girl was unquestionably killed by necromancy," he said. "It's just what I was afraid of, Paul."
"How's that?" asked Loomis.
Modred turned to Loomis. "I've seen this sort of thing before, Lieutenant. Those symbols carved into her torso are part of an ancient spell designed to drain the victim of life energy in a manner that will allow the necromancer to absorb it. Whoever killed her quite literally consumed her soul."
"Wait a minute," Loomis said. "Consumed her soul? What the hell does that mean? Are you telling me we've got some sort of psychic vampire on our hands?"
"That's exactly what you've got, Lieutenant," Modred replied. "I understand that you've already had one other murder just like this one?"
"That's right," said Loomis. "Paul filled you in?"
Modred nodded. "I am afraid there will be more," he said. "And soon."
"You said you've seen this sort of thing before," said Loomis, prompting him.
"Yes, in London," Modred replied. "It was the work of an unspeakably savage serial killer. An adept. A necromancer."
"You're saying this is the same killer?" Loomis asked with a frown.
"No," said Modred. "The Whitechapel Ripper is dead. But this is the exact same pattern."
"So what are you saying, it's a copycat?"
"Worse than that, I'm afraid," said Modred. "There were similar killings in Los Angeles about two years ago and, more recently, in Paris and in Tokyo."
"I heard about the killings in L.A.," said Loomis, "but this is the first I've heard of the ones in Paris and Tokyo. Those damn Bureau files still haven't come through."
"When they do," said Modred, "you'll find a number of disturbing similarities between the killings in Los Angeles, Paris, and Tokyo. And now here."
"So what have we got here, some kind of international black magic cult?" asked Loomis.
Modred nodded. "Exactly. Although the Bureau will not admit to the existence of any such group, such a cult exists, I can assure you. I've encountered them before. They are criminal adepts who have become seduced by the dark side of thaumaturgy. They have discovered certain very ancient spells that allow them to absorb the life force of their victims. Each time they kill, they become stronger. And much more dangerous."
"Jesus. Why do they do it? What are they after?"
"Power," Modred said. "Preeminence over other adepts. Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, Lieutenant. Given enough of it, there's almost nothing a highly skilled adept cannot do."
Loomis exhaled heavily. He signaled to the men from the meat wagon. They picked up the body and strapped it onto a gurney.
"You seem to know a great deal about this," Loomis said. "I'd like to discuss this further, if you don't mind. Only away from all these damn reporters. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
"Thank you. I'd appreciate that," said Modred.
"Oh, and speaking of reporters," Loomis added, as if in afterthought, "one of them turned up something about you, Paul, that I found rather interesting. Why didn't you tell me you were a sensitive?"
Ramirez glanced at Loomis sharply. "It's not something that I like to talk about," he said. "It makes people uncomfortable."
"I see," said Loomis dryly. "We're involved in a homicide investigation where the killer is a necromancer, and you have the ability to read minds, but you didn't think this was something I should know about?"
Paul shrugged. "You're absolutely right. I should have told you. I'm sorry, Joe. It's just that . . . well, I haven't used my gift in a very long time. I had disciplined myself not to use it. It can be . . . very disturbing."
"You know what I'm thinking right now?" Loomis asked as they walked back toward the street.
"No, I don't," said Paul a little stiffly. "But I think I could guess."
"Oh, don't guess," Loomis said. "Go ahead. Tell me what I'm thinking."
"What is this, some sort of test?" Paul asked. "Are you asking me to look into your mind? Is that what you really want, Joe? Are you sure?"
"I don't know," said Loomis a bit uneasily. "Does it really make much difference what I want? I mean, if you wanted to look into my mind, I couldn't really stop you, could I? I probably wouldn't even know you'd done it. Maybe you already have done it."
"As a matter of fact, I haven't," Paul said. "But you're quite right, if I wanted to, I could. I could easily find out everything there was to know about you. I could discover all your deepest secrets. I could learn things about you that you didn't even know yourself. And you would never know I'd done it."
Loomis stared at him.
"That makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?" asked Paul. "It distresses you, makes you feel threatened. You can't help wondering, has he or hasn't he? And if I say I haven't, how do you know I'm telling the truth? And if I say I won't do it, how do you know I won't?"
Loomis did not respond.
"You see how it is?" said Paul. "This is why I have concealed my gift for years, so that only a very few know of it. Some people who knew me as a boy, some of my childhood friends, some fellow students . . . and none of them have ever been very comfortable around me. And those are my friends, Joe. Now that you know, our relationship will never be the same."
"I didn't say—"
"No, don't protest," said Paul. "It's something you can't possibly help. You will never be completely at ease in my presence again. I know. Not because I ca
n read your mind, but because I've lived with this thing all my life. So do you wonder why I choose to keep quiet about my sensitivity?"
Loomis nodded. "I understand. And I don't blame you, Paul. But considering the circumstances, you should have told me."
"Perhaps," Paul replied. He shrugged. "I suppose it makes no difference now. If some reporter has uncovered my secret, it certainly won't be a secret any longer. And the relationships that I've enjoyed with a lot of people in this town will never be the same again."
"I can ask her not to print it," Loomis said. "I can't promise that she won't, but Ginny's not unreasonable. Maybe if you explained it to her the way you just explained it to me . . ."
"Ginny Fairchild?" asked Paul.
"Yes. You know her?"
"I've never met her, but I'm familiar with her work. And I don't hold out much hope that a reporter could resist such a story."
"Why don't you let me introduce you?" Loomis asked. "Once she's met you, heard your side of it, she might not be unsympathetic. She can be a royal pain in the ass, but she's fair and she's a straight-shooter. I think she's still around here, somewhere."
Paul sighed with resignation. "Why not? I have nothing left to lose. Except my friendships."
"I'll introduce you. Only listen, Cornwall, do me a favor. Don't say anything in front of her about this cult thing, for Christ's sake."
"I'm generally very careful about anything I say to the press, Lt. Loomis," Modred replied.
Loomis grinned. "Call me Joe. I guess reporters are pretty much the same in England, aren't they?"
"We should be grateful that they can't read our minds," said Modred.
"Amen to that," Loomis replied. "Oh, and Paul, one other thing. About this gift of yours . . . you weren't planning to strike off on your own to hunt for this killer, were you?"
Paul hesitated. "I'd considered it," he admitted, "but I've come to realize that this is not something I can or should do alone."
"Good. I'm glad to hear you say that. I wouldn't want you to take any foolish chances. This is going to be risky enough as it is."
"More than you know," said Paul. "More than you know."