"No, nothing like that. But I grew up in a family of witches, so I wanted to go somewhere that had some coursework in nontraditional religious topics, and I got a scholarship to Notre Dame. It was either there or Cambridge. Those were the only places I could find with any real opportunity to study demonology and spell craft."
"Yeah, Hogwarts has been closed to new students for a while now," I quipped. I knew of at least half a dozen other places someone could go to study about witchcraft and spell-slinging, but they all worked very hard to keep themselves hidden. I was glad to see their efforts were working, it made me feel like I had a shot at staying off the radar myself.
"So what's the play?" Beth asked.
"Well, I was kinda planning on hanging around the school long enough to see who the demon is, maybe figure out what it wants, and then send it home with extreme prejudice."
"You're not going to kill it?" she asked.
"I thought you said you'd fought demons before," I said, folding my arms over my chest. My bullshit detector was going off like a Geiger counter at Chernobyl. You don't kill demons. At least not easily, and certainly not demons with the kind of power this one was throwing around. A lot of times the best you can hope for is to send it back to Hell and hope it doesn't find a way out anytime soon.
"It's been a while." She didn't meet my eyes when she said it. Because of course she didn't.
"Yeah, like your whole life? Look, sweetheart, this isn't fucking playtime. This isn't a goddamn movie or some kind of bullshit academic lecture under your pretty little golden dome. This is real life, and real people are going to get real hurt. And I don't have time to waste on a fucking amateur ghostbuster who watched too many Paranormal State reruns and now thinks she's a goddamn expert on all things supernatural."
She looked me in the eye, then, and she was pissed. "Okay, Mr. Big-time Demon Hunter, here's the deal. My kid brother is missing, probably dead, and I think it's got something to do with whatever is going on here. He was a sophomore here last semester, and when I came home for fall break, he was missing. The police said he ran away, but the more I talked to his friends and poked around the school, the surer I became that something fucked up was going on. So I got a job as a perma-sub for an English teacher on maternity leave and started looking for the source of the magic."
"What made suspicious of the school? The winning football team?"
"That was part of it. The Lions have always sucked. There just aren't enough people in town to build from. The school's too small. But now they're rolling over bigger schools like they're the friggin' Steelers, and it's the same kids that got their asses kicked nine games out of ten last season. So something's definitely going on there. But that's not all."
"It never is," I grumbled.
"What?"
"Demons never just fuck with one thing. They're total shit-stirrers, so with most demons, if they're doing one thing, they're doing a bunch of things. They might all feed into the same big plan, but it might just be more opportunities to fuck with humans."
"Or kill them."
"Or kill them," I agreed.
"I think that's what's happening here. I think someone is killing any students with any magical or psychic Talent." Most normal people don't have shit for magical Talent. A little bit of deja vú, a tiny precognitive moment once in a blue moon, that's about all most folks get in their lives. Then there are the folks with Talent. They're rare, but not as rare as most folks think.
"What makes you think something is taking kids with Talent?"
"I checked the school records. Since the beginning of this school year, there have been a record number of transfers, relocations, runaways, and kids just up and vanishing. In some cases, the whole family is gone without a trace."
"So you're saying you think students with Talent are being targeted?"
"I'm saying that there are eight hundred kids across four grades in this school. You'd expect seventy-five or eighty of them to have a bit of talent, right?"
She had a point. A good ten percent of all people have some latent magical power. Those are the people who might never use it for anything, might not even know they have it, but they've got a really green thumb, or a really lucky streak that lasts for years, or maybe they just know who's going to call before the phone rings. Those people could develop some power with the right catalyst and the right training, but most of them live out their lives never knowing it.
So yeah, with the number of kids in the school, eighty or so kids should have at least some Talent. "Sure, something like that," I agreed.
"I know of three. And they're all major Talents."
"Three?" I looked at her, and I'm sure she could read doubt all across my features because that number was way off, even by my most conservative estimates. There should have been a lot more people with some ability, and realistically, there should have been fewer major Talents, as she described them.
Those major Talents—people like me, and apparently Beth and her whole family, the people with significant power, are really rare. It's even more rare to find someone with power and an environment that believes in it and nurtures it. Even most people with a lot of natural Talent don't ever do anything with it.
And to do anything significant with it took years of training. Most humans die before they master any part of spell casting. Maybe Beth couldn't see latent ability in people as well as she thought she could. Some witches could sense Talent in others better than others.
She let out a sigh that said she knew she wasn't convincing me, then said, "I cast a spell during the pep rally this morning. Three students lit up to my Second Sight like beacons. As did you, Coach Rocco, and Coach Balomb.
"Those are the only coaches that you found?" Now I knew her spell was bullshit. Since half the football coaches were demons, if she couldn't see them, then she was way off base.
"I wasn't looking for demons. I cast the spell specifically to find Talented or magic-touched humans. Or at least mostly humans."
I wasn't sure if she meant me or Coach Werewolf with that and decided not to ask. "Okay, that explains why the rest of the football coaches didn't light you up, but are you sure the spell reached the entire gym? Maybe you missed them."
"I cast it on the doors. Anyone using any type of magic who passed through was dusted with magic that would show up in my Second Sight. It had no effect on normal humans or other-dimensional beings. And I cast it at lunch, so everyone who came through the doors of the gym all afternoon was dusted. I didn't miss anyone. I didn't cast it wrong. I didn't fuck up the spell. I know what I'm doing, and I'm right. There are no Talents left in this school."
If she was right, then I was pretty sure I knew what was going on. "We've got a problem."
"No shit, Sherlock." Now I saw why Holmes didn't like that phrase. It was really fucking irritating when it got turned back on you.
She sat on the top of a desk and stared at me. "Well?"
"Well, what?" I asked, looking at her and trying to figure out how she managed to sit on the desk like that. If I tried that shit, I'd be flat on my ass in a heartbeat.
"Well, what's the problem?"
"Oh, yeah, that. Sorry. Yeah, there's a problem. If the whole football team is hyped up on magical super-juice, and the school only has three kids left with any magical ability, where do you think the demons are getting the mojo?"
Her eyes went wide and the color drained from her face. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yeah."
"You mean...?"
"Yeah," I said with a sigh. "I hate to tell you this, but it's looking very much like your brother and the other missing students were killed for their magical energy, and that energy was pumped into the football team like some kind of mystical steroids."
12
"What, that thing? No, there's nothing special about it. Other than fond memories, of course," Luke said when I showed him the sword.
"What kind of memories?" I asked.
"Oh, you know, the normal thing. I remember the
look on the face of its previous owner when I ripped his heart out through his chest, the feel of his blood splashing across my face, that sort of thing." He waved a hand in the air like he was talking about the weather, and I was reminded once again just how bizarre my life had become.
I was sitting in my boyfriend's living room with Dracula and descendants of Dr. Watson, John Henry, and Abraham Van Helsing plotting to hunt down and fight a demon before he opened the gates of Hell, with my guardian angel, who, by the way, borrowed her name from a Buffy the Vampire Slayer villain, watching over the proceedings. This was not something that I expected when I graduated from the police academy.
"Who was the previous owner, Luke?" Watson asked.
"An SS lieutenant, I believe, or perhaps a colonel. They do all blur together after a certain number, you know. It was in France, I believe...yes, Northern France in about 1943. It would have to be late 1942 or 1943 because I was following Quincy through Europe cleaning up some of his messes and trying to keep attention off the two of us. Yes, it was early 1943, there was still snow on the ground.
"I don't remember the name of the town, but it wasn't a large town. Just one of those typical French towns in the middle of the countryside with a collection of homes, shops, and the occasional farm. The Nazis had taken over some time before, and the population was fairly well quelled. The colonel—I remember now, he was a colonel—had taken over the biggest home in town. It sat atop a hill which once was in the middle of a quaint little forest, but the Germans had cut all the trees down and set up a few small barracks buildings surrounding the mansion. I suppose the colonel wasn't feeling all that secure in his position. It turns out that was a good idea.
"Quincy was in a very bad place, emotionally. His love, Anna, had been murdered by a Nazi less than six months before, and the severing of his bond with her drove him to savagery the likes of which I haven't seen...well, since my own losses drove me to certain unpleasant excesses some many years ago." Luke paused, and you could hear a pin drop.
I had certainly never heard him mention his life before becoming Dracula, back when he was Vlad Tepes, ruler of Wallachia. I'd read some of the stories before meeting him, and after I learned that not only was he real, he was in my city, I consumed every piece of Dracula and vampire lore I could. And there's a lot, not all of it good. Some guy even wrote a book about a vampire accountant, if you can believe that crap. But I never mentioned any of that to Luke. It seemed rude, somehow, like I was trying to pry into something that was none of my business. But here he was, talking about it, despite the obvious cost to himself.
He took a deep breath, seeming to push away memories that still pained him over about six centuries and continued. "Regardless, I was following Quincy's trail of Nazi corpses through Europe when I came upon him in France. He was in the living room of the mansion, surrounded by dead soldiers, battling the colonel. He was obviously tired because the colonel was actually doing him harm. Quincy was staggering, bleeding from several cuts along his arms and legs. Both his and the Nazi's guns lay on the ground out of reach, and it looked as though their battle would quickly become one of attrition, where whoever could withstand the most punishment would be the survivor. While I had faith in Quincy's abilities, I did not think it wise to leave anything to chance given his current mental state."
"You thought he was out of his head enough to let the Nazi kill him?" I asked.
Luke gave me a long look. "Anna was the first woman he ever shared his blood, his essence with. Her death would have devastated him had it happened under normal circumstances. When she was murdered in front of him, he went completely insane. His rampage was terrifying to watch, and I am not a man who is unaccustomed to the sight of carnage." I looked into his cold eyes and remembered that this was the man they dubbed "The Impaler" because of his ferocity in battle and his treatment of captured foes. Carnage was his milieu, so if whatever Quincy was doing scared him, then it was seriously awful.
He continued. "I stepped into the room behind the colonel and pulled out his heart. I drank my fill of his blood from the still-beating reservoir, then dropped it at Quincy's feet. I still remember the words I said to him that day as I dropped the drained heart at his feet. 'Eat it,' I said. 'If you're going to behave like a beast, you may as well go the whole way.' Then I plucked the sword from the dead man's hands as a trophy, turned on my heel, and walked out. I didn't see Quincy again for nearly seven years, until he met up with us in America near the beginning of 1950."
He clapped his hands, breaking the spell he'd held us all in with his words. "And that's the story of how I came to possess that sword. It is also all I know about the blade. I have never sensed anything supernatural about it in all the time it has been in my possession, although I can tell you from the manufacture that it was made around the time of my mortal life."
"What was that, the early fifteenth century?" I asked, more to confirm than anything.
"Yes," Luke said. "I was born around 1430. Records in that time were a little sparse, and I was ill-equipped to write down the date myself."
"Fair enough. So the sword was in France in the 1940s, and it originates from some time in the fifteenth century, that's all we know?" I asked the group.
"And it resonates to those with the ability to sense magical items, and Orobas wants to get his hands on it," Jo added.
"Then all we care about is that the demon doesn't have it, right?" Gabby asked. "Good deal. Demon doesn't have it. What's next?"
"It is important to understand why our adversary is interested in the weapon, Gabriella," Watson said.
"But she's right, isn't she?" I asked. "It's nice to know the provenance of the weapon, but if none of us have any magical ability, then all we care about is that we kept it out of the hands of the guy who wants to destroy the world, right? Or did you graduate from Hogwarts when I wasn't looking?"
Watson held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine, Detective. Far be it from me to want to know as much information as possible about the tools we have on hand before rushing into a fight. I'm sure that the American method of rushing in guns blazing will sort everything out just fine."
"Worked okay in Yorktown," I said, leaving the word “prick” unsaid, but heavily implied. I turned to Luke. "What's the plan? What's our next step?"
"I suppose it isn't any different than it was before we found the sword. We find Orobas, and we put a stop to his plans. Along the way, we should probably clear Quincy's name and think about finding a way to send Orobas back to Hell."
"All admirable goals, Luke, but do you have an actual plan to accomplish any of them?" Watson asked.
"Well, I could sit around the apartment staring at a sword, or I could start punching all the members of the local supernatural community. While diametrically opposed, I think that both methods would meet with a similar lack of success." Luke didn't look offended at Watson's snottiness. I guess when you've been around for a few centuries, a snotty Englishman isn't a big deal.
"There's always Option C," Jo said from her computer. All eyes turned to her as she stood up and grabbed a jacket from the back of her chair. She slipped on the leather jacket, then reached under the table and picked up a big maul with a long handle and hefted it over her shoulder. "I just got an email from Sparkles. He found Mort."
"Why was he looking for Mort? I mean, wasn't he just going back to the bar after we left Luke's place?" I looked over at Watson, who shrugged.
"That's what he said he was doing, but what’s to say he wasn’t lying? He's a demon. Who knows what he had in mind?" he replied.
"I can't argue with that," I said. "But that doesn't answer the question. Why was Sparkles looking for Mort? And am I ever going to meet this Sparkles person?" Who the hell even answers to a nickname like Sparkles? Was this an out-of-work stripper moonlighting for the Shadow Council?
"Probably not," Jo said. "And I had Sparkles put a trace on Mort's phone when he was with you two. He seemed pretty motivated to find Orobas, and he has
connections that none of us have, so I figured if we all kept in contact, and I had a way to track Mort, then all our bases were covered."
"Seems good," I said. I grabbed my jacket and car keys. "What's with the hammer?"
"It's a family heirloom," Jo replied. "Besides, I don't like shooting people."
"You should really give it a try," Gabby chimed in, strapping a pair of nickel-plated Colt 1911 pistols to her hips. "It's a lot of fun. Especially arterial spray. That's my fave."
I sighed, then looked at Watson and Luke. "You two coming?"
Luke gestured to the window. "Still daylight. I think I shall continue my long-standing tradition of not bursting into flames for a little longer, for all the good it does me." I stared at Luke, and saw, not for the first time in the past few days, a level of melancholy and loneliness haunting his eyes. This was a man that was accustomed to people dying around him, often at his hands, but losing Renfield was different somehow. There was something cracked inside Luke, and it would take a long time to heal, if it ever did.
"I suppose I may as well," Watson said. He walked to the end of the sofa and picked up a bowler hat, trench coat, and a cane topped with a wolf's head.
"What the hell are you supposed to be? A parody of an urban fantasy novel cover? Do you come with your own smoke machine and creepy soundtrack?" I managed not to laugh at Watson, but only just.
"I think we'll find that my cane serves multiple purposes, and the coat is a type of tightly-woven fabric that is similar to Kevlar, but more puncture-resistant and is completely flame retardant." He huffed. He walked past me to the door of the apartment and held it open. "Shall we?"
"That depends. Jo, where are we going?" I asked.
"I have an address on Brookshire Boulevard. It's someplace called Coyote Joe's?" She looked at me with an eyebrow up.
"I know where it is, but I don't know why in the hell Mort would be there, unless he's looking for cheap beer and loud music," I said.
Heaven Help Us (Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Book 7) Page 8