Adrian drew the tattoo machine through the next sweep of the sigil. It was a good thing his audience sat too far away to make out the small design. They might not realize what it was -- but then again, they might. John himself couldn’t see it, since Adrian made sure to keep his free hand blocking the man’s view, supposedly pulling the skin tight as he worked.
The minute the sigil was finished, he’d cover it over with the colored ink of the surrounding tattoo’s intricate shading. No Norm would have any idea it was there.
He’d been playing this game for months now. This was the longest job he’d ever done -- at least not funded by the Federal government. Virginia Laurel had a serious hard-on for Talents, or she wouldn’t be willing to pay him two hundred K to run them out of her county. Gotta love a rich bitch with a grudge and no sense of proportion.
The conversation died down. To keep them occupied, Adrian asked, “How’d the protest at BFS go today?”
“Cops showed up.” Pell was a wiry little man, with a narrow face and a nasty temper. Adrian had given him a tattoo of a mermaid who looked like the man’s wife, her tail wound around his biceps. Oddly romantic choice for such a hardass, but everybody had a weakness. Adrian had made note of his. “You were right about us needing our weapons permits. The bastards demanded our ID. Like we don’t have a right to protest that goddamn place.” His lip curled. “One of them was that fucking Feral.”
“You could see the devil in his yellow eyes,” Garrison put in. “I wanted to blow his fucking head off. I should’ve done it.”
Not if you didn’t want to get the death penalty for killing a cop. Fortunately, these assholes were more talk than action. They might consider themselves dangerous men, but getting drunk and busting up a bar would’ve been enough to feed that illusion. It had taken months of work on Adrian’s part to turn them into useful weapons.
At first the process of cultivating the local HHers had been slow. They were highly suspicious of strangers, so when Adrian had started showing up for meetings, they initially treated him like a possible FBI agent. Which, ironically, wasn’t that far off the mark.
Luckily Adrian was a big man, and he could be intimidating when he chose. His willingness to kick ass -- he’d sent one little prick to the hospital -- quickly convinced them he couldn’t possibly be a Fed.
Not that they really had anything to worry about as far as the FBI was concerned. The fact was, HH wasn’t all that far off the mainstream Humanist movement. He doubted the Roth administration would send anyone to investigate this crowd unless they killed someone.
Of course, Adrian would promptly throw them all under the bus -- after first making sure none of them could identify him. Once the HHers accepted him, convincing them to go under his needle had been surprisingly easy. His work was gorgeous, and he’d told them he was happy to give fellow Humanists a generous discount. They were equally happy to cooperate.
Now he owned them.
Adrian reached out a rubber-gloved hand and dipped the needle of his machine in the plastic cap filled with magical ink. Reese flinched slightly as the needle hit a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves on his chest. The film beneath his body rustled faintly as he shifted. Like everything else in splatter range, the table was wrapped in protective plastic. Tattooing was a notoriously messy procedure, and as with anything involving bodily fluids, there was a serious risk of blood-borne pathogens. Which was why Adrian was as obsessed with cleanliness as any surgeon. If one of his clients died, it wouldn’t be by accident. Besides, the risk of contagion served as a good excuse to keep everyone else at a distance.
He’d been working on Reese for three sessions now, beginning with the intricate line work of the armored warrior on horseback, carefully drawn freehand across the man’s chest. Next he’d added the highlight effects with paler shades. Today he’d finish the tat with the most vivid inks applied over his own sigil. He always saved the magic for the next-to-last step, minimizing the chance that a client would spot something to make him suspicious.
At this point, though, Adrian wasn’t all that worried. Every member of the Laurelton HH wore his sigil, making them more inclined to believe anything he told them.
Finished with the spell, Adrian paused to remove the liner needle from the machine and replace it with a thick, three-needle shader. The one he used for sigils was so fine, the ink quickly became invisible even on white skin.
Once the new needle was seated in the machine, he dipped it in blood-red ink and began to lay down the first of the vivid colors. Reese barely winced as the needle bit deep, though a muscle in his jaw worked.
The kid had possibilities. A Marine Corps veteran, Reese had returned from the Caliphate War with a haunted look in his eyes and a deep and abiding hatred for Talents. That included the ones on his own side, whom he described as “stuck-up Feral fuckers.”
Adrian could understand that attitude. Arcane Corps Ferals had a definite strut that always made him itch to put them in their place.
Which was part of the reason he’d agreed to this job -- a chance to settle accounts with Kurt Briggs and Jake Nolan. He’d worked with the Fords back in his CIA days, before Indigo went batshit from torture. Virgil had saved his life once when a Caliphate sorcerer had been about to put a bullet in Adrian’s brain. Making Nolan and Briggs bleed for what they’d done to the Fords would balance that debt.
Adrian figured it was only a matter of time before Virginia would send him after the two Ferals she considered her most dangerous opponents. Plus, it pissed her off that they were considered heroes for saving President Roth and the entire U.S. Congress.
Which only proved the old woman didn’t know shit about Talents. She should be a lot more worried about Genevieve Briggs. That bitch had power to burn.
As far as Erica Harris went, Adrian didn’t consider her much of a threat. If the deputy’d had any real talent, she’d be working in corporate magic. Still, she’d make a nice appetizer. He didn’t doubt killing her would eventually become necessary, judging from the way she’d thrown a monkey wrench into the Carson plot.
And to make things even more delicious, she’d served two tours with Nolan and Briggs. Her death should piss that pair off nicely. With Ferals, their Familiars’ instincts were a major weak spot. A man driven by emotion was easier to manipulate into a mistake.
As for Genevieve, that was going to take some thought. A simple spell wasn’t enough. She’d spot it, break it, and use it to figure out who he was.
Which was basically what had happened to the Fords. They’d made the critical mistake of underestimating Genevieve, and it cost them everything. It was an error he had no intention of repeating.
Fortunately, he had an idea or two about that.
Which reminds me. Adrian looked up from Reese’s bare, ink-smeared chest. “What’s happening with the march?”
Garrison spoke up, the beer halfway to his mouth. “I just heard from the Atlanta boys. They’re bringing a hundred guys.”
“Sounds good.” He wiped away the excess red ink from the warrior’s axe. “How many is that total?”
Garrison shrugged. “If everybody shows, maybe eight thousand.” His eyes gleamed. “Enough to scare every devil worshiper out of this town.”
Adrian made a noncommittal sound. Talents had lived in Laurelton for generations. It would take a lot more than a mob of HHers to scare them off. Besides, he figured only a few hundred Humanists would show. It was one thing to talk big, but a couple of recent marches had blown up in the bastards’ faces. Injuries, arrests, and protestors losing their jobs tended to discourage all but the most hard-core. On the other hand, even a couple thousand fanatics could do a lot of damage with the right inspiration.
Adrian could be very inspiring.
* * *
Erica spent the first few hours of Tuesday driving her usual patrol route, trying to keep her attention on her job and off her three-day weekend with Jake. Her mind kept drifting to the love they’d made, the comic book movie h
e’d dragged her to, the way they’d shared popcorn and laughter and snark. Best weekend she’d had in… well, ever.
She later realized her happy mood had cursed her, because the rest of the day went straight to hell.
The call should have been a routine stop. But as Erica parked her patrol car in the driveway of the brick ranch, hair rose on the back of her neck. “Oh, shit.” Her instincts weren’t infallible, but she’d learned not to ignore them. And they didn’t approve of whatever was going on here.
Grabbing the handset of her radio, she keyed the mic. “Laurel Dispatch? Alpha 22 10-23 at 401 Miller Court.”
“10-4, Alpha 22.”
She’d been dispatched to do a well-check on Rachel Bryer, who’d been scheduled to pick up her four-year-old son from kindergarten at one o’clock. When Rachel didn’t show, the school called her cell repeatedly, only to get no response. When they tried her job, they learned she hadn’t shown up for work either.
The school principal managed to contact the little boy’s grandmother, who’d agreed to pick him up. She’d also called 911, since it wasn’t like her daughter to forget Christopher or skip work.
All of which might be sufficient motivation for the creeping sensation between Erica’s shoulder blades. It was possible her admittedly vivid imagination was masquerading as a psychic impression; sometimes it was difficult to tell the two apart.
Unfortunately, she didn’t think this was one of those times.
Getting out of the car, Erica drew her Glock and started toward the carport and the Ford Focus parked there. A glance revealed no one sitting inside.
Turning toward the house’s door, Erica stopped, eyes narrowing. It stood ajar, and the doorframe was splintered as if someone had kicked it in. She keyed her shoulder mic. “Laurel dispatch, Alpha 22. Code 5A at 401 Miller Court.” Which was the code for breaking and entering. “Requesting backup.”
There was a brief pause. “Affirmative, Alpha 22.” Judging by the dispatcher’s grim tone, he didn’t like the situation any more than she did.
The dispatcher repeated her request for assistance, but Erica knew it might be a while before backup arrived. There’d been a bad wreck on Oakland Avenue that had a couple of units tied up, plus a shoplifting call that had come in a little after that. It might be twenty or thirty minutes before anyone could shake free.
What if Rachel Bryer was injured? The woman could die while Erica stood around waiting for backup. “Fuck it.”
“Police!” Pushing the door open with her foot, she ducked aside in case someone opened fire. Nothing happened.
She stepped inside, swinging her gun in an arc to clear the room. It turned out to be the kitchen, neat at first glance, nothing out of place…
Except for the pool of milk that spread across the vinyl floor, leading to an empty plastic jug lying on its side in front of the refrigerator.
Erica could imagine the scene: Rachel getting out the milk, only to drop it as someone kicked the door in… “Ms. Bryer? Police. Are you all right?”
No answer. An open doorway led into the room beyond. Erica’s heart pounded as she sidled toward the doorway. Feeling something sticky under the rubber soles of her uniform shoes, she looked down, half expecting blood. But despite her howling instincts, nothing was visible. Probably drying milk, tracked across the floor when Rachel ran through the puddle.
Weapon raised, she edged around the corner. Only to freeze halfway through.
No, Rachel Bryer didn’t need first-aid.
Erica keyed her mic. “Laurel, Alpha 22. Code 1 at 401 Miller Court. Please send an investigator, the coroner, and the crime scene van.”
Rachel lay on the beige carpet of the tiny living room in the middle of a pentagram painted in something rust brown. Presumably blood from her own slashed throat. Her hazel eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling fan over her head, her oval face slack, mouth open. She’d been a pretty girl, maybe thirty pounds overweight, long hair spilling across the carpet around her head. It was blonde where it wasn’t soaked with blood.
Sigils were sketched in a circle around the corpse, their shapes clumsily drawn, again in blood.
“Shit.” Someone had sacrificed Rachel Bryer to power a spell. Even as her heart twisted in pity at the thought of the woman’s orphaned little boy, Erica knew the implications were almost as grim for Laurel County’s Talent community. “The Human Heritage wing nuts are going to lose their collective minds.”
Well, nothing for it but find out what the hell kind of spell the bastard had cast. She narrowed her eyes and drew on her Talent, meaning to examine the patterns of magic that should linger after such a working.
There was nothing there.
Oh, there was the usual aftermath of violent death -- the swirl of lingering aural energy hanging in the air like a dark fog, composed of the victim’s agony and despair blended with the perpetrator’s rage, viciousness, and sickening triumph. But despite the pentagram, there was no sign whatsoever of the magical energy that should echo the painted symbols.
This had nothing to do with magic.
Which was obvious in retrospect. Had it had been a real human sacrifice, the killer would have painted the sigils with blood from non-fatal wounds before Rachel was killed, so her life force could be used to power the spell. Otherwise there’d have been nothing to focus the energy of her death, and the spell wouldn’t have worked.
Erica moved to the closest of the symbols and knelt, careful not to touch it. It was clumsily drawn, with none of the skill a real practitioner would have displayed. What’s more, it was the sigil for “water,” while the one beside it meant “stone” and the one next to that “sky.” It was as if someone had strung random words together without any idea how to write a sentence. “You copied this crap from a photograph on the Internet, didn’t you, you son of a bitch?”
The murder had been staged to look like a magical crime. Which strongly suggested the killer thought the cops would otherwise suspect him or her.
Grimly, Erica studied the whirlpool of psychic energy lingering on the scene -- all the energy the killer hadn’t really used in his faux spell. But she could use it… After she finished clearing the house, something she hadn’t yet done. Damn it, Harris, get your head out of your ass.
Careful not to step in the blood, she rose and edged along the wall toward the hallway.
Five minutes later, she’d confirmed there was no sign of the killer anywhere else in the house. In the process, she’d gotten far too good a look at Christopher’s room, with its Spider-Man-themed bedspread and plastic toy chest shaped like a football, overflowing with superhero action figures. She could imagine the boy’s anguished bewilderment when Mommy didn’t come home.
You’re not getting away with this, asshole. Stalking into the living room, Erica jerked a notepad and a pen out of out of her back pocket…
Yeah, that’s not going to work.
Drawing in a deep breath through her nose, she blew it out from her mouth on a slow ten count. Closing her eyes, she worked to center herself, thrusting aside her impotent, boiling fury. Strong emotions could contaminate the magic, decreasing the spell’s accuracy.
Feet spread wide, eyes still closed, Erica reached out her aura into the unanchored energy left behind by the murder. And wanted to recoil at the storm of rage and pain, hate and fear embedded like flies in the amber of the victim’s sundered life force. Despite its psychic stench, she drew on that dark energy and began to draw the swirling patterns. Her pen darted over the pad in swift, unhesitating strokes as she worked to capture what she sensed.
Fifteen minutes later, Erica opened her eyes and looked down at the pad. There, in slashing lines of blue ink, a man stared back at her, eyes narrow, his lips curled back in a snarl to show the crooked line of a front tooth. His hair was thinning, swept back from a high forehead, and his face was long and bony with a crooked nose and a weak, scarred chin.
Even Erica had a hard time understanding how she did magical forensic sketche
s. For one thing, she had to draw them with her eyes closed, so the lines should be all over the place and her pen should run right off the page. Yet her drawings often beat surveillance video when it came to capturing a useable likeness.
True, sometimes she struck out completely, but this wasn’t one of those times. She’d been doing sketches long enough to know a good one from a dud -- and this was a good one. She might not have the raw power of someone like Genevieve Briggs, but Erica’s sensitivity to magic gave her a keen ability to pull images out of a crime scene.
Unfortunately, the sketch was only a starting place. Though certain types of magical testimony were admissible in court, forensic sketches based solely on magical impressions were not. Even if they found the asshole, they wouldn’t be able to convict him on the sketch alone.
“So we’ll just have to dig up something else,” Erica told the sketch. “Because you’re not getting away with this, you son of a bitch.”
“What the flaming fuck are you doing?” a male voice roared.
Erica jumped and whipped around, damn near going for her weapon.
Sergeant Roger Johnson glared at her in fury.
Chapter Nine
“You called for backup, Harris. Why in the hell didn’t you wait for it?” the sergeant demanded, gray brows drawn down over furious blue eyes.
Erica snapped to attention in a reflex ingrained by years in the Corps. “There were signs of forced entry. I was afraid the homeowner had been injured and needed assistance.”
“And you could have ended up just as dead as she is,” the sergeant snapped, his mustache twitching with every angry word. “Instead, you tracked through a crime scene, contaminating who knows what evidence. As first on scene at a murder, your job is to string crime scene tape and keep everybody else the hell out to preserve the evidence so we can catch whichever bastard did this. Or weren’t you paying attention that day at the Academy?”
Arcane Heart (Talents Book 2) Page 11