Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8)

by Brad Magnarella

  “Punks,” Bree-yark muttered, letting the rock drop from his sling.

  I took back ownership of Arnaud as fae magic stirred the air, glamouring Bree-yark, Gorgantha, and Arnaud into modern-day New Yorkers. Bree-yark was a neckless bruiser in a red track suit, his pouch now a gym bag. Gorgantha had become a large man, arms hulking from a sleeveless shirt while a Scottish kilt concealed her tail. And even though it had to be over ninety degrees out, Arnaud had reprised his role as a frail old timer bundled in winterwear, a scarf over his mouth.

  Fanning my sweaty neck with my collar, I waved to the others and led the way toward the street. Still in my trench coat, I’d gone from hypothermic to borderline heat-stroking in the space of five minutes.

  When a cab pulled over, Gorgantha hunched into the front seat, while Caroline, Bree-yark, and I sat three across in back. Arnaud went on my lap, eyes glaring at me above his scarf.

  “Would you rather go in the trunk?” I whispered.

  The cabbie looked us over with a sober face. “Usually I can guess where I’m taking someone,” he said in a thick New York accent. “You five? No idea.”

  “Belvedere Castle,” I told him.

  “You some kinda wise guy?”

  I caught my slip-up too late. Post-crash, the park had become a mecca for the city’s nastiest creatures, both human and supernatural. Homicides through the roof. Which made me wonder how Jordan and the druids had ended up there.

  “Sorry, bad joke,” I said, releasing an awkward laugh. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art.” That would put us close to where Seventy-ninth cut through the park, winding right past Belvedere Castle.

  The cabbie muttered something about everyone being a comedian as he pulled from the curb. Caroline got my attention and drew out a newspaper someone had shoved into the slot in her door. I angled my head to read the date. Early September—no surprise there—but we were deeper into the Crash than I’d thought.

  I glanced over the headlines. They all had to do with the city’s budget problems and ballooning crime. There was even a column about the rapacious terms Arnaud’s investment firm had set to manage the city’s debt.

  “Is this today’s paper?” I asked the driver.

  “Sure is,” he responded without even looking.

  He turned onto Eighty-third Street: a shallow canyon of apartment buildings and street-level businesses. Though we were still in a time catch, and in one of the most dismal periods in New York’s recent history, a part of me embraced the familiarity. I squinted out my window, lining up the date with my personal timeline.

  After Romania, meaning I’ve already been trained and inducted into the supposed Order. The true Order, headed by my father and Arianna, was still in hiding. Vega will be an NYPD officer, pre-Homicide, whom I’ve yet to meet.

  I thought back to the night I’d failed to get to a conjurer in time and then exhausted my powers banishing the creature he’d called up. Before I could flee the scene, my incubus, Thelonious, came calling and raided the liquor cabinet. The police found me passed out on the apartment’s couch with the victim’s blood on my hands.

  Vega handled the investigation. She knew I was withholding info—she’d always been good at spotting that—but without a weapon or apparent motive, she pushed obstruction. That got me a two-year probation. But it also led to us working our first case together, at St. Martin’s Cathedral.

  The rest, as the saying went, was history.

  And let’s see, I’m teaching at Midtown College. Caroline will be there too, still a few years away from marrying Angelus and becoming fae.

  The day was Wednesday, meaning we would be on campus. The thought that a fifteen-minute ride could put us face-to-face with ourselves from five years earlier sent a wave of unreality through me. But there was no point and even less time. Our objective was to recover Jordan, hope to hell Malachi, Seay, and the half-fae showed up, and then get to the St. Martin’s site and finish this.

  The cabbie pulled up in front of the steps leading to the museum’s columned main entrance. “The Met,” he said wearily.

  “Actually, would you mind taking us down a few blocks?” I asked.

  Grumbling, he honked his way back into traffic. As the massive museum scrolled past the window, I thought about Gretchen transporting me to its back lawn earlier. You want my help? she’d asked. Beyond the museum, Central Park appeared. A line of cement barricades blocked street access at Seventy-ninth.

  “Here’s good,” I said.

  As I paid him, the driver looked from the park back to me. “You really are going to Belvedere, aren’t you?” When I didn’t answer, he muttered something about a group discount on coffins and drove away.

  The paved pathway that entered the park was roped off and flanked by an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign and another warning that the city wouldn’t be responsible for anyone who trespassed.

  We filed around the barrier and entered a dark tunnel of overgrowth that put me on immediate guard. Large gouges in the paved path looked claw-like. I pulled my cane into sword and staff and conjured a shield around us.

  “Lots of baddies in here,” I said. “Including a race of goblin that’s especially warmongery. No relation to Bree-yark, though.”

  I looked over, surprised to find he’d fallen behind. He had been gimpy ever since landing in the time catch, but now his limp appeared more pronounced. With each step, his face drew into a sharp wince.

  “You all right, dawg?” Gorgantha called back.

  We slowed so he could catch up. “Need some healing magic?” I asked.

  “Naw,” he grunted. “Just need to walk it off.” But when he waved the hand that had been clutching his hip, it was stained a dark red. And he was bracing the left hip, not the one he’d been favoring earlier.

  “Whoa, hold it,” I said. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah, that punk’s bullet grazed me. No biggie.”

  “That’s no graze,” Gorgantha said. “I can smell the blood. Lots of it.”

  When Caroline dissolved his glamour, his left pant leg was soaked.

  “C’mon,” I said, supporting him under his left arm. “No more tough-guying this.” I led him grumbling past a flattened section of iron fencing and into a small clearing beside the path. The others followed.

  “Aw, this is ridiculous,” he complained.

  “Bree-yark, you’ve been shot,” I said. “There’s a frigging bullet in you.”

  “Yeah, and now I’m slowing everyone down.”

  “Just shut it and do what the man says,” Gorgantha scolded.

  I lowered him onto his good side and pulled his pants down past his bikini briefs. There was a sopping hole near his hip where the round had entered. “You’re in luck,” I said. “I’ve done this before. All you have to do is relax.”

  While Bree-yark protested, I removed Dropsy from his pouch so I could stuff it under the side of his head. The lantern hopped around to Bree-yark’s front. When she saw his wound, she began flashing in distress. Caroline coaxed the lantern toward her and picked her up. Dropsy watched the procedure from Caroline’s arms.

  I began by touching my cane to Bree-yark’s forehead to prompt an endorphin dump. As his eyelids turned heavy, I tented my fingers over the wound. I connected with the bullet energetically before snapping a Word off my tongue. The round dislodged from the bone where it had embedded and landed in my palm. I tossed it aside. Hovering my cane over the wound now, I spoke words of healing. The opal glowed, forcing a thick plug of blood from the hole before filling it with cottony light.

  I sat back on my heels. “He’s going to need some healing time before he can walk.”

  “How much?” Gorgantha asked.

  “Considering that the round hit bone, at least a couple hours.”

  As I stood, Caroline knelt down in my former spot. “I can halve that, and without expending much magic.”

  I nodded for her to go ahead, time being at least as precious a commodity now as her magic.

&nb
sp; “Maybe you and me could check out the castle,” Gorgantha said. “Try and bring Jordan around like you did Seay?”

  I peered west into the thick growth. Caroline had put up a light glamour to screen our clearing from outside view, obviating the need for Gorgantha’s and the others’ disguises. “Under different circumstances, I’d agree,” I replied. “But we have no idea what we’re walking into. I’d rather we go as a group.”

  “What are we supposed to do till then?” Gorgantha asked.

  But I only half heard her. I was still puzzling over how Jordan had come to occupy the most dangerous piece of real estate in Manhattan. And what about the hoodlums demanding tribute for the Raven Circle? I didn’t like it.

  “I need to go somewhere,” I said.

  Caroline looked up. “Where?”

  “My apartment in the Village.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I want to cook up some potions. That will also give me time to check out a couple resources in my library. Alternate me will be at the college. I’ll take Arnaud so you can focus on Bree-yark. Gorgantha, I’ll ask you to stay here on security.”

  The mer nodded. “I can do that.”

  When Caroline’s gaze lingered on mine, I had to remind myself that I’d chosen to trust her. No waffling.

  “Go carefully,” she said.

  37

  I peered up the four-story building that was my West Village apartment. A faint nebula of magic hung around the top floor, but it was ambient, left over from prior casting. I wasn’t picking up anything fresh. And there was no sign of Tabitha on ledge patrol, either.

  Big surprise there.

  “C’mon,” I said to Arnaud, taking his arm and heading up the steps.

  I’d checked his infernal levels shortly upon arriving in the time catch. Satisfied they were ample, I restored the wards to full strength. It would deplete his energy, but I didn’t want him tripping the citywide wards and alerting the time catch version of me that a demon was afoot. I’d open the wards out again before we left.

  As we arrived at the building’s doors, Arnaud moaned. I was preparing to ignore him, but like an echo from earlier, my magic suggested I listen. I unfastened his muzzle/scarf and removed it from his face.

  “This better be good,” I muttered.

  “Have you forgotten about your wards?”

  He was referring to the ones protecting my unit. “They’re still under my control,” I said.

  Agitation edged the demon-vampire’s eyes. “And if they’re not?”

  “Then you’ll be incinerated.”

  “Which means you’ll lose your ride home.”

  “Then what are you worried about?” Grinning, I pulled my keyring from my pants pocket and unlocked the building’s front door. As we climbed the stairwell, I could feel the wards pulsing from the top floor.

  So could Arnaud. Even under the power of the subservience enchantment, he managed to drag his feet. At the top floor, I had to pull him from the stairwell. Bound hands to his face, he shrank from the power emanating from my door. I incanted until the energy idled down. Arnaud watched warily as I unlocked the door’s three bolts and pushed it open. The rack where I hung my coat and cane was barren, telling me I was truly out.

  “After you,” I said to Arnaud. “You’re invited.”

  Creeping to the very edge of the threshold, he tested it with a toe, then jerked his foot back. Nothing happened.

  “See?” I said.

  As if to reclaim a modicum of dignity, Arnaud straightened and stepped through the curtain of weakened energy. I followed, bolting the door behind us. Hot sun illuminated the covered bay windows, while icy air-conditioned currents swirled around us. Except for some minor rearranging, my present-day apartment was much the same as this older version. Down to the orange mound on the divan.

  As a pair of green eyes squinted out at us, a bolt of emotion shot through me. Not just at seeing Tabitha, but at seeing her so young. In this time catch, it had only been a couple years since I’d channeled the succubus into a stray kitten. Her hair was brighter, her eyes a little more keen, and she was less voluminous. Even knowing it would be a very bad idea, a part of me wanted to rush over and smoosh my face against hers.

  Her eyes closed again. “Oh. You.”

  On the ride over, I had considered how best to deal with her, but now I remembered how little she spoke. She’d only just progressed from her determined-to-kill-me phase to simple hatred. The upshot was that pretending to be Everson from this period would be easier to pull off than I’d thought.

  “Nice to see you too,” I said. “I’m going to be working up in the lab.”

  The fewer words spoken, the better. I headed for the ladder, waving for Arnaud to follow.

  “Who’s the old man?” she murmured, her body repositioned away from us.

  “Oh, just a … friend.”

  It took every ounce of willpower to force that word out.

  “Are you sure he’s not a ghoul?”

  Indignation gathered on Arnaud’s face. But before he could respond, I held up the muzzle to tell him it could always go back on. He compressed his lips, yellow eyes glaring at Tabitha through his glamour.

  From what I remembered of the two-year-old Tabby, he’d gotten off easy.

  We climbed the ladder to my library/lab. Spell implements and ingredients littered the iron table, while a notepad and pile of books occupied the desk beside my shelves. The hologram of the city was dim, telling me the wards hadn’t picked up Arnaud’s arrival into the time catch. One less worry.

  “Have a seat,” I told him, pointing to a stool in the corner.

  As he complied, I went through the bins under my table to see what I had to work with. This was before my pre-made-potion phase, unfortunately, but I seemed to have stocked up recently on spell ingredients. When I happened on a stash of lightning grenades, I pumped a fist and loaded them into a pocket.

  I can definitely use these.

  Thinking potions now, I cleared a space on the table for my portable range. I placed a cast-iron pot onto each of the two burners and split a bottle of absinthe between them. There wasn’t time to prepare anything complex, but I had the ingredients on hand for basic stealth and encumbering potions and so prepared a pot of each. When they began to bubble, I snapped the burners to low so the potions could reduce.

  Now research…

  Turning toward my floor-to-ceiling bookcase, I whispered a Word. In a rippling wave, mundane titles became arcane tomes and grimoires. I’d reordered my collection as it had grown, but I quickly spotted what I wanted. Navigating the rolling ladder, I returned with two books considered authorities on rune magic. Arnaud remained silent on the stool, eyes fixed on a spot between his feet. He had to feel his energy depleting again and was likely trying to preserve his strength.

  I made room on my desk for the books, settled into my chair, and flipped the notepad to a fresh page. Despite being an intruder in my own apartment, I felt right at home. The only thing missing was a pot of Colombian coffee.

  “You won’t find anything in there,” Arnaud said after several minutes.

  I finished scanning a section of the first book. “How do you even know what I’m looking for?”

  “Information on the Night Rune.”

  “Why won’t I find it?” I asked absently.

  “I believe ‘Night Rune’ is just the name Malphas gave to whatever he’s doing.”

  “I didn’t know you were an expert,” I said, flipping to another section.

  “Don’t be crass, Mr. Croft. Though I don’t care for the connotation, I suppose I am a survivor, as you suggest. As such, I have cultivated an extensive understanding of the races, magics, energies, and artifacts that could potentially destroy me. While there are some powerful runes, as well as manipulators of said runes, none can break the demonic plane and permit the passage of one of Malphas’s status.”

  “Hmm-mm,” I murmured, turning now to a back sect
ion.

  Though I was biasing hard against whatever Arnaud had to say, I found myself skimming more quickly. I finished book one—my notepad page still blank—and started on the other book I’d selected. The potions continued to simmer, filling the loft space with a bitter-smelling mist.

  “Hellcat Maggie,” Arnaud said.

  I paused. The vampire we’d encountered in 1861? If Arnaud had intended to get my attention, it worked. I cut my eyes from the book until I could see his thin shadow on the very edge of my vision.

  “What about her?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that her revelation piqued your curiosity,” he said. “The one about the locket belonging to her daughter? Would you like to know the full story?”

  “It’s irrelevant.” I went back to the book.

  “Oh, I disagree. I believe it’s very apropos to the larger picture.” When I didn’t respond, his voice thinned. “For an accomplished magic-user—one who succeeded in expelling me—you disappoint me, Mr. Croft.”

  “I’m shattered.”

  After what seemed a brooding pause, Arnaud went on. “Maggie’s daughter was murdered for the locket. It had historical value, but neither she nor her mother could have known this. Maggie was determined to find her daughter’s killer. Being hopelessly impoverished and absent one leg didn’t stop her. She crutched along the dodgiest New York streets day and night, questing for scraps of information. And yes, by her diligence, she was eventually given a lead to her daughter’s killer. But he found her first.”

  I quit all pretense of reading and narrowed my eyes toward him.

  “You can lose the sourpuss face, because it wasn’t me, Mr. Croft, but a rogue collector. Only by happenstance did I find Maggie in the alley that night. The scoundrel had slit her throat. Most of her blood had pooled into the filthy cobbles and turned cold, so it had no appeal for me. I might have left the poor woman there to die, but I saw something in her dimming eyes that reminded me of my own mortal circumstances so many centuries before.” A raw memory seemed to pass behind his visage.