by Simon Hawke
"To Mona, it's a sort of game," said Wyrdrune. "See, the management at General Hyperdynamics is apparently not above using Mona for a little corporate espionage in the form of data raiding, so it's not as if Mona's doing anything she hasn't done before. Only the people at G.H. don't know she's also doing it for us. Well, for Archimedes, actually, but it amounts to the same thing."
"There are a lot of possibilities in that relationship we haven't even begun to explore," said Kira with a larcenous gleam in her eyes. "But it's not as if we need the money. Modred's got more money than we could possibly spend. You can build up quite a little nest egg over two thousand years."
Paul shook his head in disbelief. "I've fallen in with a group of criminals," he said. "I used to be a respectable, reputable, and ethical adept. And now I'm lying to the police, withholding information from the Bureau, and aiding and abetting felons."
" 'Ey, but it's all in a good cause," said Billy with a lopsided grin.
"The question is, what are we going to do about this Bureau agent?" Kira asked.
"Wait a minute, what do you mean what are you going to do about her?" Paul said, looking worried. "Surely, you're not planning to—to . . ." He shook his head helplessly. "What are you planning to do?"
"I don't know yet," Wyrdrune said. "We don't know anything about this sorceress. She could arrive at any time. Her name ring any bells with you?"
"No," said Paul.
"We need that file," Wyrdrune said. "You've got a computer and modem in your office, don't you, Paul?"
"You're asking me to help you pirate Bureau files?"
"Paul . . ." said Kira. "We need that file."
Paul sighed. "You're asking me to break the law. I'm a Bureau agent, for God's sake! I'll wind up having my license to practice thaumaturgy revoked," he said. "I'll be lucky if I don't end up in prison. Besides, Loomis will be here soon."
"Okay," said Kira. "Never mind. You're right. We can't ask you to do something like this. It isn't fair."
"You understand, I want to help, but—"
"It's okay, Paul," Kira said. "I understand. You've done more than enough as it is. We shouldn't ask you to compromise your ethics. We'll work something out. Forget we mentioned it."
"I can't believe it," Broom said, coming in from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready and everybody's actually here. I may plotz."
"Plotz?" said Paul.
"Okay, come on now, who's going to help me set the table?" Broom asked.
"What's for dinner?" Billy asked.
"Chile rellenos with chrayn and refried bean knishes," Broom said, pronouncing the l's in rellenos and saying long e's, so that it came out "reeleenos."
"Refried bean knishes?" said Paul.
"Sort of a cross between a deep-fried burrito and a potato pancake," Wyrdrune said.
Paul's eyes grew wide. "And chrayn?"
"Horseradish sauce. Broom must have been reading your Mexican cookbooks. We're about to have Mexican food, deli style."
Paul rolled his eyes. "Oy, gevalt!" he said.
The watch room was full to capacity. All the seats were taken and police officers stood at the back and along the sides of the room, as well as by the stairs. Each of them had a pad and pen and was taking notes. The sergeant had brought them all to order and handed the briefing over to Loomis, who went up to the podium.
"All right, people, before I proceed, one word of caution," he said. "What you're about to hear stays in this room, understood?" He looked around at them. "That means you don't tell your wives, or your husbands, or your girlfriends or your boyfriends or your best buddies, you don't tell anybody. And if any member of the press so much as looks in your direction, you develop a sudden case of lockjaw. I don't want any leaks on this one. Because if one word of this gets out, I'll make each and every one of your lives so miserable you'll want to eat your gun. Got it?"
There was a chorus of nods and "Yes, sirs!"
Loomis took a deep breath and continued. "All right. Now you all know what this is all about. We've got a serial killer on our hands. What's worse, he's an adept. Or maybe it's a she. We don't know and we're not assuming anything. What we do know is that we've had at least two victims so far and there may be more we haven't found yet. Again, we don't know. So far, the pattern of the killings has been the same. The victims were young women, students. They were killed at night, presumably on the streets. And the victims were killed by necromancy. I'll repeat that. They were killed by necromancy. That's black magic, people. The victims were mutilated, with runic symbols carved into their torsos. However, and I stress this, they did not die of their wounds. They were killed by some sort of necromantic spell in a ritual that apparently allowed the killer to absorb their life energies."
There was an undertone of reaction to this. One of the officers raised his hand. "Lieutenant, would you mind explaining that?"
"That means, Sanchez, that the killer's like a sort of psychic vampire. Most of you are at least roughly familiar with the principles of thaumaturgy. Magic use requires energy. The adept generally expends a certain amount of energy in casting a spell. Some spells require very little energy, some require a great deal. That's why airline pilot adepts, for example, have to have their flying time limited, so they'll have time to rest and recuperate after each flight. And that's why they have such short careers and make so damned much money. The more advanced and complicated the spell, the more energy it uses up. You with me so far?"
Nods and mumbles of assent.
"Good. That's basic high-school stuff. Now here's where it gets a bit more complicated. Necromancy, or black magic, is magic that uses spells in which the adept taps someone else's energy, to the point where the person whose energy is being tapped is totally used up. And death ensues. It is, needless to say, a capital offense. And you don't learn those kinds of spells in thaumaturgy schools. However, it seems that there are certain spells that allow the necromancer to draw off another person's life energy and store it for future use. In other words, Sanchez, if I were a necromancer, I could cast one of these spells, and in the process of killing you, I'd acquire your energy and it would make me that much stronger. It could increase my life span, or make me younger, or give me the strength to attempt more powerful spells. And that seems to be what our killer, or killers, are doing."
"Sir?" said one of the other officers. "You mean there's more than one perp?"
"We don't know that for certain," Loomis replied, "but there's a possibility that these killings aren't the work of an individual serial killer, but of a cult." He held up his hand against the audible and shocked reaction. "That's right, I said a cult. However, and I should stress this, although it is a strong possibility, we have no firm proof of that as yet. Now as you all know, the media has been making much of these killings, but this is something they don't know about yet and I intend to keep it that way.
"You all know Professor Ramirez," Loomis went on. "He's working with us on this case. Inspector Cornwall over there is here at my request. He's with Scotland Yard and he's here from England for the convention. He's an adept and he's also a cop. Not a Bureau man, mind you. A street cop, like yourselves. So I'll expect him to be shown every courtesy. He's acting as a consultant on this case, because he's had experience with a similar case in England. He's also assisted the L.A.P.D. in a similar case in Los Angeles, possibly involving the same cult. Now I've been informed earlier this evening that a Bureau field agent has been assigned to officially take charge of this case and should be arriving sometime tomorrow. However, pending the field agent's arrival, we're on our own. And I don't think the Bureau will complain if we can take care of it tonight. So we're going to hit the streets and cover this town like a blanket. Inspector, would you like to say a few words?"
Modred approached the podium. "Good evening,"' he said. "Although I'm here only in an advisory capacity, I urge you all to listen carefully and follow my advice. Believe me, I am not being melodramatic when I say that your lives may depend on it. We are dealing wi
th a criminal who is a highly advanced adept. Possibly, there is more than one. Consequently, I cannot stress strongly enough that caution is imperative. You must remain alert at all times and you must never, I repeat, never be out of sight of your partners. At the first sign of any trouble, even if you only think there's trouble, do not hesitate to call for backup. An advanced adept is easily capable of throwing a lethal spell at you in the time it takes you to draw your weapon, so to all intents and purposes proceed as if you were facing a very well-armed and highly dangerous antagonist who will not hesitate to kill. Again, do not allow yourselves to become separated. Keep each other covered at all times.
"Now—and this is important—what you are looking for may be a man or a woman, and then again, it may not even look human. An advanced adept is capable of conjuring up a demonic entity." He held up his hands to quiet their reaction. "What that means," he proceeded, "is that the adept has used a necromantic spell to animate his subconscious in a corporeal form. It does not mean that he has summoned some supernatural monster from Hell, but the so-called demonic entity, the adept's animated subconscious, can be every bit as dangerous and terrifying. It is a difficult spell that requires a great deal of strength and concentration. The adept remains in a specific location, directing the entity, which acts as a sort of remote-controlled extension of himself. Now, I cannot tell you what to expect. Such an entity may look like some sort of supernatural creature, or it may have human form. In either case, it would be extremely dangerous. And it would be impossible to kill."
"Well, Jesus Christ!" exclaimed one of the officers. "If we can't kill it, then how the hell are we supposed to stop the damn thing?"
"In order for the entity to accomplish its task, it must become corporeal," said Modred. "And in the act of shooting it, you will affect the adept who is directing it and disrupt his or her concentration, possibly even injuring him. And in that case, the spell will fail and dissipate."
"Excuse me, sir," said another cop, "but if this demon thing can look like a person, then how are we supposed to know if it's a person or one of these entities?"
"You will know," said Modred, "because if you confront it, it will attack you savagely. And it will, in all likelihood, change its form as it does so. When confronted with a threat, the subconscious responds in an extremely primitive manner. You've heard of the fight or flight instinct. Well, you can forget about flight. Unleashed, the dark side of the subconscious, what the psychologist Jung called 'the shadow entity,' can be a truly frightening thing, and when confronted, it will react like a cornered animal. Rest assured, it will seek to terrify you in order to gain the psychological advantage. It may look every bit as spectacular as the sort of special effects creations you may have seen in some of those Hollywood films, so be prepared for that.
"You must not allow yourselves to be shocked or frightened into hesitating, for that would be fatal. The dark side of the subconscious is extremely savage and the adept controlling it will, in effect, be giving it free rein. You can expect animalistic behavior, as if you were confronting some sort of feral, rabid beast. It will charge, intent on tearing you apart. In that event, I urge you to waste no time in commanding it to freeze or in shouting something like, 'Stop or I'll shoot.' It would be utterly pointless. You might as well try to intimidate a charging rhinoceros. If you are attacked, you have one chance and one chance onlyy to survive. Shoot and shoot immediately. And keep on shooting. If you lose your nerve and run, I don't care how fast you are, the entity will catch you and death will be horrible and instantaneous. Your one chance is to disrupt the spell by shocking the necromancer into losing concentration. Now, are there any questions?" Modred asked.
There was a long silence, finally broken by a young officer.
"So what you're telling us is that if we encounter one of these demonic entities, the best we can do is try to disrupt the spell and keep from getting killed? We can't actually stop the necromancer himself?"
"No, you cannot," said Modred. "Disabuse yourselves of that notion right now. You may be lucky enough to injure him. Or her. In that event, he or she will eventually recuperate, but it will take some time. It's impossible to say how much time, that depends on the strength of the adept, but time is what we need to buy. Banish from your minds any thought of trying to arrest the perpetrator. You will not be able to, not even if you confront him in the flesh. Only another adept can do that, if he's stronger than the perpetrator. That is why crimes involving magic use are the jurisdiction of the Bureau and the I.T.C. They are advanced adepts and they are far better prepared to cope with this sort of thing than you are. Your function is to prevent the necromancer from claiming any more victims. To buy us time."
The room was utterly silent as the officers exchanged uneasy, nervous glances. Modred moved aside and Loomis stepped back up to the podium.
"All right, people, you heard it. Remember what Inspector Cornwall said, but at the same time, I don't want anybody acting like a hero and I especially don't want anybody getting jumpy and shooting some innocent civilian. So stay alert and, for God's sake, don't shoot unless you know what the hell you're shooting at, got it? Watch yourselves out there tonight. Okay. Dismissed."
The officers slowly filed out of the muster room. Loomis turned to Modred. "Well, now that you've scared the shit out of them, let's hope nobody goes off half-cocked."
"My intention was not to scare them, but to prepare them for what they might be going up against. I don't want to see any of them die."
"Yeah, well, neither do I," Loomis replied. He beckoned to Paul. "Okay, I've got a list of registered adepts, including everyone who's recently arrived for that convention." He scanned it quickly. Some of the names on the printout, arranged alphabetically, were already crossed off. "Shit, we have about fifty names here and there'll be more arriving every day between now and Friday. I don't know how the hell we're going to get to them all, but we're going to have to try. We'll take my unit and I'll have Sgt. Velez drive us. He'll remain with the unit and if anything comes down, he'll hear it on the radio and we'll haul ass. I've got plenty of coffee. It's going to be a long night."
Paul took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. "Very well. Let's get started."
Gomez came back just as it was getting dark. Kira and Billy had put on their jackets, ready to leave. They had the folded map of the city with them.
"Well, the word is spreading," Gomez told them, swishing his tail back and forth. "Before the night is out, about half the cats in Santa Fe will be on the streets and by tomorrow, we should have more."
"We should have rented a car," said Kira. "Paul had to take his and it'll be too slow on foot. We also don't know this town well enough yet to try teleporting. Besides, that would waste a lot of energy."
"Not to worry," Gomez said with a big cat grin. "I've gotcha covered. Ole Gomez thinks of everything."
"What do you mean?" asked Kira.
"Step right this way," said Gomez, turning and padding toward the door.
"Oh, wow!" said Kira as she opened the door.
Standing in the yard were two sleek, muscular, white unicorns, pawing at the ground with their tufted hooves and whickering.
"I'd like you to meet a couple of friends of mine," said Gomez. "This here's Tony and his brother, Champion. They're equine thaumagenes. They belong to a corporate big shot from Scottsdale who keeps 'em stabled here for whenever he's in town with his latest squeeze. Guys, say hello to Kira and Billy."
Tony tossed his big head with its iridescent, spiral horn and snorted. "Hi, Kira."
"Hello, Billy," Champion said, whisking his tail back and forth.
"How marvelous!" said Kira. "But . . . I don't know how to ride! And they haven't got any saddles or reins or whatever you call 'em."
"Well, they're pretty smart," Gomez said, "but they can't exactly put on their own tack. You'll have to ride bareback. But don't worry, the boys'll take good care of you. All you gotta do is tell 'em where you wanna go and they'll handle the rest."
"Climb aboard, Kira," said Tony.
Somewhat awkwardly, Kira swung up onto the unicorn's back.
"Come on, Billy," she said. "What are you waiting for?"
"Gor' blimey, you ain't gettin' me on one o' them things," Billy said.
"Come on, it'll be fun!"
"Bloody 'ell! I'll fall off an' crack me damn skull," said Billy.
Suddenly his manner and voice changed.
"No, you won't," said Merlin. "I'll handle this, boy."
"I didn't know you could ride," said Kira.
"Who do you think taught Arthur?" Merlin replied. He ran several steps and easily vaulted up onto Champion's back from behind.
"What do I do?" asked Kira.
"Just grip with your thighs," Tony told Kira, "and hang on to my mane."
"But . . . won't that hurt you?" Kira asked.
"It won't bother me a bit," said Tony with an amused whicker. "So long as you're not wearing spurs, we'll get along just fine."
There was a loud screech above them and the tinkling beating of a pair of metallic wings as a large paragriffin swooped down to land beside Gomez. It had the body of a large house cat, with the head and wings of a mackaw. The exquisite creature appeared to be made entirely of articulated metal and its silvery wings gleamed in the evening light. It was a masterpiece of thaumaturgic art, not a thaumagene, but a sculpture of precious stone and metal, animated by enchantment. Its eyes were faceted diamonds and its claws were cut from rubies. The scales along its head and neck were alternating rows of gold and silver, as were its wings, and its tail ended in a tuft of fine platinum wires. Kira caught her breath when she saw it. As a simple sculpture, it would have been worth well over a million dollars, easily. As an enchanted, living work of art, it had to be nearly priceless.
"Gomez, I'm glad I caught you," it said, its voice eerie, with a metallic, electronic quality.
"Ramses!" Gomez said. "What are you doing out?"
"Bast said you could use some help."