The Wizard of Sante Fe

by Simon Hawke

  "Merlin!" Paul shouted, bolting up from the couch, and then he felt a cold blackness seeping in as the necromancer's will invaded his.

  "What is it?" Merlin said, rushing into the room, and before the scene could fully register, Wulfgar spun around, his eyes blazing, and twin bolts of searing thaumaturgic energy shot out from them, striking Billy's body in the chest. He went flying backward, struck the wall, and slid down to the floor, smoke rising from him.

  Wulfgar turned quickly and seized Paul by the shoulders, his eyes blazing with thaumaturgic force. And suddenly a wailing, banshee yowling filled the air as Gomez came leaping down from the balcony railing on the second floor, landing on the necromancer's head. Wulfgar cried out and threw his hands up as the blinding flurry of claws wreaked havoc with his face. He managed to grab hold of the hissing, spitting cat and he flung it away from him with all his might. Gomez hit the front window of the living room and went crashing through in an explosion of glass.

  Paul was doubled over, moaning, his hands pressed up to his face. Wulfgar turned back to him, and then suddenly became aware of a bright white light that was filling the entire room. He glanced toward the body of the boy and saw that the light was emanating from it and growing brighter and brighter, like a small star going supernova. His face took on a shocked expression.

  "You!" he said with disbelief.

  There was the sound of screeching tires outside and the slamming of car doors, followed by the sounds of footsteps racing up the walk. Wulfgar quickly spoke a teleportation spell and disappeared just as Wyrdrune and Kira came bursting in. The runestone in Wyrdrune's forehead was blazing and Kira had her glove off, the sapphire in her palm glowing with brilliant fire.

  "We're too late!" said Kira.

  "Paul!" said Wyrdrune, rushing over to Ramirez, who was still on his knees, his hands pressed up against his face. "Paul! Are you all right?"

  "My eyes . . ." said Paul. "I—I can't see!"

  "Oh, my God!" said Kira. "Billy!"

  She went running over to him.

  "Oh, Jesus," Wyrdrune said, leaving Paul and following her.

  Kira stood over Billy's body, staring at him with her mouth open and her eyes wide. "What—what happened to him?"

  Wyrdrune also stared, stunned by what he saw. "I—I don't know," he said.

  For a moment they were too shocked to move. There were still wisps of smoke curling up from Billy's body, but aside from the damage to his clothes, there was no sign of any wound. There was a large hole in the center of his shirt. The frayed edges of the cloth around it were charred and crisped. There was a large, bright red patch in the skin over his chest, but even as they watched, it grew smaller and began to fade. But that was not the most shocking thing about what confronted them.

  Billy had changed. He seemed to have aged several years. His face was older, more mature, still with the same elfin features, only now he looked more like a young man of nineteen or twenty instead of a boy of fifteen. And the color of his skin had changed. It had become light, almost translucent, and his dark Mohawk crest had been replaced by a full head of hair that framed his face, falling down to the middle of his chest. And it was absolutely snow-white. As they gazed down at him in shock, his eyelids flickered open. They had changed. They were an extremely light, washed-out blue-gray, so light as to be almost colorless.

  "Billy?" Wyrdrune said.

  His chest rose as he drew a deep, shuddering breath and slowly, laboriously sat up. "I'm all right. Did you get him?"

  His voice had changed as well. It was a little deeper, but not as deep as Merlin's had been. And the accent was different, too. It still sounded British, only it was no longer cockney, nor did it have the same sound as Merlin's accent. It sounded more like a curious mixture of Welsh and Irish, with a touch of working-class London East End.

  "No, we didn't. He got away."

  They heard a crash behind them and saw that Paul had lumbered to his feet and knocked into one of his heavy bronze sculptures. It had fallen to the floor.

  "Paul!" said Kira, moving over to him and taking him by the arm.

  "I'm blind!" said Paul. "I can't see a thing!"

  Kira led him over to the couch and sat him down. Wyrdrune stared as Billy got to his feet. He had grown. They were the same height now, only Billy had filled out. His build had become more muscular, more powerful. He moved over to the couch and bent down over Paul. He got down on one knee and lifted Paul's chin with his fingers, staring intently into his eyes. Little sparkles played in Billy's unsettling gaze. After a moment the sparkles faded.

  "It's all right," he said. "The optic nerve hasn't been destroyed. The blindness is only temporary, Paul. But it will be a while before you can see again."

  "Billy," Kira said with awe, "your voice! The way you look! What happened to you?"

  Billy stood and turned to face them. "I died," he said. He touched his chest. There was no trace of the redness now.

  "You died?" said Kira.

  "Well, in a sense," Billy replied, "only as my life was fading, Merlin gave up his life energy in an effort to save me. And apparently Gorlois had the same idea at the same time."

  He held up his hand, the one with the ancient fire opal runestone ring that had been the repository of Gorlois's spirit. The once-gleaming opal was now a charred lump, veined with cracks and fissures. He removed the ring from his finger. He touched the stone set into the ring and it crumbled into dust.

  "They're not there anymore," he said. "I can no longer feel them. They're gone. They've become a part of me." He held up his arms and flexed his fingers, looking down at himself. "All three of us seem to have merged into one individual. Part Billy, part Merlin, and part Gorlois."

  "You mean . . . you're not Billy anymore?" asked Wyrdrune.

  "Not the same Billy I was. I've changed. I seem to have parts of their appearance . . . and their memories, as well as mine. I—I'm not really sure what happened. How do I look?"

  "See for yourself," said Wyrdrune, going to the door of the hall closet and opening it. There was a long mirror mounted on the inside of the door. Billy stood in front of it and stared at his reflection for a long moment. Then he turned to Wyrdrune.

  "I think this is going to take some getting used to," he said.

  "You can say that again," said Wyrdrune, shaking his head.

  "Gomez . . ." Paul said from the couch. "He saved my life. He attacked the Dark One."

  Kira glanced at Wyrdrune with alarm.

  "What happened to him?" Wyrdrune asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  "The Dark One threw him through the front window," Paul said.

  They all ran to the front door and opened it. And Gomez came limping through the door, bleeding from a dozen lacerations.

  "Is Paul . . . ?" he said.

  "Paul's going to be all right," said Wyrdrune. "He won't be able to see for a while, but . . . uh, Billy says it's only temporary." Though he didn't have the faintest idea how Billy could tell that. "The Dark One got away, but we'll get him."

  "No, you won't," said Gomez with a snarl, his bloody fur bristling. "That son of a bitch is mine."

  At around ten forty-five, Loomis got a call from one of the professors at the university. He sounded very concerned.

  "Lt. Loomis, this is Dr. Ed McManis, I'm in the English Department over at the university."

  "Yes, Doctor, what can I do for you?"

  "Paul Ramirez is a friend of mine and I happen to know he's working on those murders with you in his capacity as a Bureau of Thaumaturgy official."

  "Yes?"

  "Well . . . I'm not really sure what this is all about, to tell the truth, but it seems there's a Bureau of Thaumaturgy agent, a woman named Leary, who's been asking a lot of questions around here this morning. I'm not sure if you have any involvement in this or not, but the sort of questions that this woman's asking could be very damaging to Paul's reputation. And, potentially, to his career."

  Loomis frowned. "What do you mean? What sort
of questions?"

  "Well, questions about his personal life. In particular, she's been asking about a young woman named Kira, whom she apparently believes Paul is having an affair with. From her description of this person, she sounds as if she might be an undergraduate and although I'm not personally familiar with anyone by that name, I happen to know Paul extremely well and I know he has far too much sense to become involved with a student. A university is a very small, very closed sort of environment, if you know what I mean. This sort of thing could get around very quickly and it could hurt him. Now, I have no idea why a fellow Bureau agent would be investigating him when there are these terrible murders to be solved, but if you have anything at all to do with this, or if you have any influence, I sincerely urge you to do something to stop these damaging and invasive inquiries."

  Loomis gritted his teeth. "I didn't know about this, Dr. McManis, but you can rest assured that I most definitely will do something about it. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant."

  Loomis hung up the phone. "Damn it," he said. He shouted through the open door. "Velez!"

  Sgt. Velez came in on the double. "You bellowed, Lieutenant?"

  Loomis grimaced. "That B.O.T. agent, Leary, is over at the university, grilling people about Paul's personal life. Get over there and stop it. Tell her that I want to see her now. At"—he picked up the printout Kira got from Paul's office and glanced at the list of Bureau agents involved in the operation and where they were staying—"The Inn at Loretto. She'll know what that means. I'm heading over there right now. If she's already left the school, she'll probably be there. If not, find her and bring her."

  "Got it."

  Velez left and Loomis got up and reached for his hat. The damn woman was insufferable. He could see now why Modred hadn't wanted the Bureau involved. If they were all like her, they were a bunch of assholes. He was still functioning on no sleep and he was not in a good mood.

  Minutes after he left his office, the phone rang. It was Paul calling to tell him about what happened. Wyrdrune had dialed the number for him, because he couldn't see to dial himself. But Loomis had already left.

  Velez did not find Megan Leary at the university, because by the time he arrived, she had left as well. She had sensed the growing hostility to her questions about Ramirez, from the people in the administration building, in the faculty dining room, and in the student center. And she had quickly concluded two things: 1) whoever Kira was, she was almost certainly not a student at the university, which Megan had already assumed; and 2) that few, if any, of the friends and colleagues of Ramirez knew about his relationship with her. Which was something else she had assumed. But it felt good to have it confirmed. Whoever this Kira was she was shaping up better and better as a suspect.

  Privately, Megan had no question in her mind that Kira was a necromancer, if not the one who was committing the murders, then certainly a member of the cult. There was no way, no possible way, she could have successfully resisted her compulsion spell unless she were, herself, an advanced adept, a sorceress of at least equal standing and ability, and since Megan was one of the youngest ninth-level sorcerers in the country, and Kira looked to be almost a decade her junior, that meant she had either rejuvenated herself magically or altered her appearance. To maintain spells like that over a long period of time required a great deal of energy. And Kira had been strong.

  Megan didn't know that Kira's strength came from her runestone, which had allowed her to resist the spell. Not knowing that, she came to the only other possible conclusion. Kira was a necromancer. As far as Megan was concerned, she had her suspect. All that remained now was to build a convincing case and make the arrest. And necromancy, appropriately, carried the death penalty.

  There was no question but that she would have to take the entire team in to make the arrest. She wasn't about to make any slipups on this case. It would make her career. The people at the upper echelons of the Bureau were absolutely obsessed with what had become referred to in the Bureau simply as "the cult." The I.T.C. was hot on it, as well. In both agencies, it was the case with the highest priority. Necromantic murders committed in London, Los Angeles, Paris, Tokyo, and now Santa Fe . . . all with the same M.O., all following an almost identical pattern. And none of them solved to anyone's satisfaction.

  In London, Chief Inspector Michael Blood of Scotland Yard had supposedly solved the murders, but there were still many unanswered questions and Blood wasn't very cooperative about answering any of them. He simply stiffened his British upper lip and repeated what he'd put down in his report, which officially "cleared" the crimes, but was still full of holes. Ditto the case in Los Angeles, where the L.A.P.D. insisted on blaming the whole thing on some degenerate adept who had operated a mission on the Sunset Strip. But then there was the panic that had taken place at the amusement park and those reports of children being abducted—later claimed to have simply been lost in the crowd during the mass hysteria—and dragons soaring above the magic castle attraction. Some people had even reported seeing a knight in full armor riding atop the dragon and stabbing at it repeatedly with his sword!

  In Paris, more fantastic stories with inadequate explanations. Horrors lurking in the sewers, shapechangers, and God only knew what else. Again, the crimes in Paris had been "solved," but there were too many questions left unanswered. It was no different with the incidents in Tokyo. And in none of the cases had any arrests been made. The perpetrators had all conveniently been killed. It seemed clear to Megan, and to others in the Bureau and the I.T.C. as well, that the local authorities concerned were covering their asses and trying to prevent a panic. But there obviously existed a clandestine and well-organized cult of necromancers, undoubtedly involving some very highly placed and well-respected adepts, most likely in the private sector, but possibly even in the Bureau and the I.T.C. itself. Al Hassan had been the prime example, one of the most powerful and influential adepts in the world, a mage who had sat on the board of the I.T.C. itself and who had died in a cataclysm induced by an incredibly powerful necromantic spell that had gone out of control.

  When the report that Paul Ramirez had sent in arrived at the Bureau, it had induced a firestorm of bureaucratic infighting that went all the way up to the top. There were long and heated debates concerning jurisdiction, whether or not the I.T.C. should be brought in. Technically, the I.T.C. should have been at least consulted, but it was finally decided that the report did not in and of itself constitute proof of the allegations it contained and the case would be kept within the Bureau until the details could be fully investigated. In other words, the Bureau was going to hog the case, on the flimsiest of justifications. They simply wanted it, wanted to break the case themselves so badly they could taste it.

  Once that decision had been made, there was the question of whom to assign to the case. Every single field agent who wasn't actively engaged on some other case, and even many of those who were and had heard about it through the grapevine, had started angling to be assigned. Megan had been no exception. She had called in every favor she could think of, pulled every string, she had campaigned for it like a skillful politician, and she had landed it at last. But meanwhile, precious time had been lost. She had to assemble her team, which had taken more time, but had not proved to be a problem. There was no shortage of volunteers. Everyone wanted in on it. If a bust went down, they all wanted a piece of the credit.

  She had arrived in Santa Fe in a state of nervous anticipation and excitement, like a racehorse anxiously ramming at the starting gate—Loomis's analogy had been depressingly apt—and she had almost blown it. Kira—if that was her real name—had been playing games with her. Her arrogance was simply beyond belief, thought Megan. She was confident, certain of her own invulnerability. That suggested to Megan that Kira felt protected. And why shouldn't she? Who would suspect the sexy young girlfriend of the Bureau district chief? Even if anyone did suspect her, Ramirez, through his position and his local influence,
would protect her. She must have the poor fool completely wrapped around her little finger, Megan thought.

  Well, that wouldn't help her. She was going to make this bust and she was going to crack Kira like an eggshell if it took the combined powers of the entire Bureau team to get her to confess and name her accomplices. And then, Megan thought, she'd be able to write her own ticket in the Bureau. Even be promoted to a position in the I.T.C., perhaps at their headquarters in Geneva. She might even eventually wind up with a seat on the board. And that smug little bitch was going to give it to her. She would get it all.

  She managed to beat Loomis to The Inn at Loretto, where the rest of the team was staying. As soon as she arrived, Rosowitz and Stanley had news for her.

  "You were right," said Rosowitz. "There's no record at the Bureau of Ramirez ever putting in a request for your jacket. And there's no record of anyone having sent it to him."

  "I knew it," Megan said. "I knew that bitch was lying."

  "There's more," said Stanley. "We got a listing of all calls made from Ramirez's office last night. The last call made during regular office hours was shortly before six o'clock and it was a local call. The only other call was made shortly before four A.M., to a number in New York. We checked on it and it's an address on Central Park West. Unlisted number. The line is registered to a Michael Cornwall."

  "Cornwall?" Megan said, frowning. "Why does that ring a bell?"

  "Because you read it in the papers," Chris said. "He's supposedly an inspector from Scotland Yard, in town for the convention, who's been assisting Loomis on this case because he was involved in that case in Whitechapel. Only get this, Loomis has put out an A.P.B. on him. We've been monitoring police calls from here." He pointed to the portable police band radio set up on the table. "This Cornwall assaulted two police officers last night and stole their cruiser. If he's a cop, I'm your aunt Mary."