Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  “Exactly. She probably could have saved herself if she’d been prepared for the possibility, but she was an arrogant bitch—I could tell that by the kinds of spells she used against us.”

  “Having met the lady, I think I can confirm your opinion.”

  “Arrogant, but powerful, no doubt about that. In fact, her magic was so potent, I was able to divert some of the energy as it was transformed by the mirror spell, and use it to heal myself—the results of which you see before you.”

  “And damn glad to see them, too.”

  “I was able to manage that little trick because my injuries had been caused by Abernathy’s magic in the first place, indirectly. That allowed me to transmute the energy waves along lines of—ah, don’t get me started with the mechanics of it. It’s boring, to anyone but another adept.”

  “I bet your doctors aren’t bored by it,” Morris said.

  Libby matched his smile with her own. “Oh my God, you should have seen them! They couldn’t decide whether to contact the Journal of the American Medical Association or the Vatican. I didn’t like causing all that confusion and distress. But if I tried to tell them the truth, I’m pretty sure I’d have found myself transferred posthaste up to the fifth floor.”

  “Which is—?”

  “The psychiatric ward, of course. So, I played dumb. Said I had no idea what had just happened, but since I seemed to be fine now, there was no reason to stick around.”

  “No wonder they want more tests. You would have made one hell of a journal article, Libby. Or a whole series of them.”

  “I know. It’s very perplexing for the staff, and I feel kind of bad about that. But on the plus side, I think I may have been responsible for at least three religious conversions.”

  “Well, before they start canonization proceedings, what do you say we get out of here? We’ll get your luggage and stuff back to your place, then how about you let me buy you dinner at the best restaurant in town—whatever it is this week.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, cowboy.” She stood up and stretched. “It’ll be good to sleep in my own bed again.”

  Morris nodded. “At least for tonight.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “Did you forget?” Morris asked. “We have one more stop to make before this is done.”

  It took Libby only a second to grasp his meaning. “That’s right,” she said. “So we do.”

  IN A MANSION that was slightly smaller than Alabama, Walter Grobius sat in his favorite armchair, clutching printed copies of two e-mails that had arrived three hours apart. One provided the sad details about the passing from this life of one Christine Abernathy; the other gave the names of two recently deceased individuals whose remains had been pulled from a burned-out car in Massachusetts and recently been identified from DNA analysis.

  Walter Grobius was not given to extreme displays of emotion. He had built his immense fortune on cold calculation and iron nerve, and did not waste his time expressing disappointment through vulgar physical displays.

  He had, it was true, briefly considered sending one of the servants to buy a dog, so that Grobius could kick it to death. But he had abandoned the idea as unseemly and undignified. That was what counted.

  He had always responded to setbacks with greater determination to succeed, and this time would be no exception. He viewed the end of the world as he would any other business project; the scale was simply bigger, that was all.

  He picked up the telephone next to his chair. As soon as the voice in his ear said “Sir?” Grobius said, “Tell Pardee I want him.”

  He hung up without waiting for the “Yes, sir” that would be immediately forthcoming.

  Adjustments needed to be made, that was all. The project would succeed. The Great Cleansing would take place.

  A few moments later, Walter Grobius picked up the telephone again.

  He had changed his mind about the dog.

  EPILOGUE

  Madison, Wisconsin

  The Present Day

  AS MORRIS PULLED up in front of the house, Libby Chastain looked at her watch. “After nine,” she said. “I hope the LaRues don’t mind us coming over so late.”

  “Walter said on the phone that they’d prefer it this way. The kids will be in bed, so they won’t eavesdrop on our conversation. No point in getting them frightened again, now that they’re starting to get back to something like a normal life.”

  Marcia LaRue answered the door, looking about ten years younger than she had the last time Morris had seen her.

  In the living room, Walter LaRue was already standing to greet them, his wide smile a duplicate of his wife’s.

  “Good to see you again, both of you,” he said, shaking hands.

  “Yes it is,” Marcia said, coming over to stand beside him. After a long moment, she asked, “Is it really over?”

  “Yes it is,” Libby told her. “Once and for all.”

  After they were all seated, Morris said, “After all you’ve been through, Libby and I thought we owed you a full report of what we’ve been doing since we saw you last.”

  “More than anything else,” Libby said, “we wanted you to understand that this ordeal you’ve been through really is finished. We thought you should know exactly what that means.”

  “Well, we’re eager to hear about it, that’s for sure,” Walter LaRue said, and his wife nodded.

  “Well, here’s the way it went,” Morris said. “After we left you last time, Libby and I headed off to Boston...”

  Twenty-three minutes later, Libby Chastain concluded with, “And I was able to use some of the residual energy from her spell to heal my injuries from the car crash. And so, here we are.”

  The LaRues sat silently for several moments. Finally, Walter LaRue said, “You’ve been through quite a lot, on our behalf.”

  “All part of the service,” Morris said, with a smile.

  “No, I think I’d call it above and beyond the call of duty,” LaRue replied. He reached into his shirt pocket for a piece of paper, unfolded it, and placed it on the coffee table in front of Morris and Chastain. It was a check for twenty thousand dollars.

  Morris looked at it, then raised his head, frowning. “That’s not why Libby and I came here. I told you before that we had been paid in full.”

  “I know,” LaRue said. “And I accept that. But, from what you’ve described to us, you two have racked up incredible expenses. Your plane fare alone must have amounted to at least a third of this.”

  “This really isn’t—” Libby began.

  “We both agree that we want you to take this,” Marcia LaRue said. “There’s no amount of money that can pay for what you’ve done for us, and for the kids, but it’s a gesture of appreciation. Let us make it—please.”

  Morris and Libby looked at each other for a long moment. Then Morris picked up the check and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “Well... for expenses, then. And thank you.”

  Marcia LaRue said she had brewed a pot of decaf coffee, and asked if anybody wanted some. She also mentioned a cheesecake that was sitting in her refrigerator. Morris and Libby agreed to some of each.

  “Libby, can you give me a hand with the coffee cups and plates, please?” Marcia LaRue asked.

  “Sure.” Libby rose and followed her into the kitchen.

  A couple of minutes later, Libby was slicing wedges of cheesecake when Marcia said to her, “I’m really glad you and Quincey agreed to take the money.”

  Libby shrugged amicably. “It was kind of you and Walter to offer. I’m sure we’ll find a use for it.”

  “Thing is, there was kind of an ulterior motive involved. On my part, anyway.”

  Libby looked up, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

  Marcia nodded. “You’re accepting the money makes it a little easier for me—emotionally, I mean—to ask you for kind of a special favor.”

  Libby put the knife down carefully. “What did you have in mind, exactly?”

  “Well, do yo
u think sometime, when you’re not too busy chasing after demons and zombies with Quincey and all, maybe...”

  “What, Marcia?” Libby’s voice was gentle.

  “Maybe you could, you know, teach me the basics of how to do white magic?”

  Libby picked up the knife again and returned to slicing the cheesecake. “Sister mine,” she said, “it would be my pleasure.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many people helped me take this novel on its long journey from my study to your hands.

  John Carroll, my oldest friend in the world, gave me the idea for Walter Grobius — about whom more will be said presently. Sorry about that time in First Grade, man.

  Jim Butcher was kind enough to take time from getting Harry Dresden in trouble and read an early draft of the book. His encouragement and support kept me trying to find a publisher when I wanted to just give up. Jim’s talent as a writer is matched only by his generosity of spirit. I want to be just like him when I grow up.

  Christian Dunn at Solaris bought the manuscript of Black Magic Woman and then worked with me, very patiently, to make it better. He is a prince among men. At least in my house.

  Lawrence Osborn, copy-editor without peer, amazed me with both the breadth and depth of his knowledge. Anybody who can find and correct my mistakes in history and Latin and computer technology is a polymath of the first order.

  An unknown judge at the Colorado Gold Writers Contest several years ago gave me some excellent advice on rewriting the Prologue, and a great deal of encouragement, as well.

  Michael Kanaly and C.J. Henderson deserve thanks for many favors granted and kindnesses bestowed.

  Terry Bear offered nutritional advice and did copious menu planning, most of which was ignored. Pizza delivery drivers fear him.

  My wife, Patricia Grogan, was the light of my life. On December 22, 2007, that light was extinguished. Every word I write, for the rest of my life, is dedicated to her memory.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Justin Gustainis is a college professor living in upstate New York. He is the author of the novel The Hades Project (2003), as well as a number of short stories. In his misspent youth, Mr. Gustainis was, at various times, a busboy, soldier, speechwriter, and professional bodyguard.

  EVIL WAYS

  Now read on for an excerpt from the second Morris and Chastain book, Evil Ways...

  CHAPTER 1

  QUINCEY MORRIS STOOD alone in the shadows of a decaying eucalyptus tree and wondered if this was the night he was going to die.

  Morris was not by nature a pessimist. Indeed, he had an innate faith in the ultimate power of good over evil. But thinking morbid thoughts before beginning a difficult job was his way of guarding against complacency, which was as dangerous to someone in Morris’s line of work as it would be to a lion tamer or trapeze artist—with the same fatal results likely to follow.

  Except in Morris’s case, death might not be the end of it.

  The house he was watching from 200 feet away was built in the Spanish Mission style that Morris always thought of as Southern California Tacky. The property was surrounded by a high concrete wall that would have done any movie star’s home proud. But the man who lived there now was no movie star.

  Bet he could be if he wanted to, Morris thought. Horror movies, maybe. Jason and Freddie, watch out, ’cause the real thing’s in town, now, y’all.

  Morris had researched the subject, as he always did before carrying out one of these specialized home invasions. He knew that Lucas Fortner was an occultist of mid-level skill and above-average malevolence. He was said to have spent a year in Budapest, studying black magic under the infamous Janos Skorzeny. A year with Skorzeny made Fortner dangerous. Five years would have made him too deadly to mess around with.

  In the moonlight, Morris could just make out the jagged bits of glass that had been set into the top of the stone wall. He knew that the glass was coated with viper venom (Black Mamba, supposedly) that was reapplied weekly—more often, during the rainy season—to keep its potency up.

  Morris checked his watch and saw that it was just after 4:00am. Time to go. There were still two hours of darkness left to skulk in, but midnight was long enough past so that some of the Powers guarding Fortner’s place would be at less than their full strength.

  Morris would not have approached that house at midnight for all the gold in a rapper’s teeth.

  He patted his pockets to assure himself that all his gear was where it should be, then started across the street. He did not cross in a straight line, but angled to the left—a path that would take him to the property of Fortner’s neighbor, a producer at DreamWorks Studios with absolutely no connection to the occult. Morris had checked. He always checked. He was a professional.

  The producer’s grounds were of interest to Morris for a couple of reasons. One was that the exterior wall was considerably shorter than Fortner’s, and free of broken glass, venom-coated or otherwise. The other reason involved an ancient oak tree on the property—the one that rose up tall and stately a mere ten feet from the wall separating the producer’s grounds from Fortner’s, with several of its branches overhanging Fortner’s property.

  Morris scaled the producer’s wall with little difficulty, swung his legs over the top, and dropped lightly to the ground on the other side. He stood crouched among the plantings and flowers, all his senses alert. There were supposed to be no guard dogs on the property, and no human security either, but you never know these things for sure until you’re on the scene. Morris spent the next two minutes absolutely still. He saw no movement except the flowers and shrubbery swaying in the gentle breeze, heard only the drone of crickets and cicadas, smelled nothing except for mimosa and sweet jasmine. Then he straightened slowly and began to make his careful way across the grounds.

  As he approached the oak tree, Morris took from his pocket a gemstone, about the size and shape of an almond, that his witch friend Libby Chastain had given him. He stopped, held the stone in his open palm, and waited.

  If Fortner had decided to hedge his bets by placing some kind of protective spell on his neighbor’s trees, that gemstone would glow bright red.

  The stone retained its pale blue color. The tree had not been ensorcelled.

  Morris slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves to protect his hands, then began to shimmy up the trunk of the great oak. After ten feet or so, he was able to reach the lowest branches, which made his ascent easier. He continued climbing until he reached a branch that seemed thick enough to bear his weight. He crawled out about half its length, then hung from it with both hands, listening hard for the telltale crack that would betray weakness in the limb. But it held him without complaint.

  This was important. The second worst thing that could happen tonight was for the branch to give way while Morris was on his way onto Fortner’s property.

  The worst thing would be for that branch to break while Morris was trying to get out.

  Sitting on the branch now, with his back carefully braced against the trunk, Morris uncoiled from around his waist a twenty-foot length of rope. It was the kind of line that mountain climbers use, except that Morris’s had been dyed jet black.

  He crawled slowly along the branch, pausing every few seconds to listen for any sign that the thing was going to give under his weight.

  Now he was just over the wall that stood between the producer’s grounds and Fortner’s. The deadly shards of broken glass grinned at him in the moonlight.

  Three feet further, and Morris carefully tied one end of his rope around the branch, using the knots that he had practiced a hundred times while blindfolded.

  From between the leaves, Morris could see Fortner’s house, a sprawling, two-story structure. No lights burned in the windows, which was unsurprising. Fortner was away in San Francisco for three days, having left that very afternoon. Morris had watched him board the plane, and waited for it to take off, just in case. The man lived alone, which meant there should be no human presence in the
house tonight.

  Which did not mean, of course, that the place was unguarded.

  Morris stayed on the branch for the next ten minutes, watching Fortner’s house and grounds. Finally he decided that whatever might be protecting the property, he wasn’t going to learn about it from the safety of the producer’s tree.

  Morris lowered the rope to the ground inside Fortner’s wall. He twitched it a few times, to see if anything below would react to the movement. Nothing.

  Wrapping his legs around the rope, Morris used his gloved hands to control the speed of his descent. A few seconds later, he was on the ground, watching and listening before moving on.

  Morris was halfway to the house when he picked up movement out of the corner of his eye.

  He froze, then slowly turned his head to get a better look. Whatever was out there, it was keeping to the shadows. And it was big.

  Morris thought about some pictures he had seen in People or someplace about movie stars and their exotic taste in pets. One well-known actor had a leopard, shipped all the way from Africa. Another, who had played Tarzan in several films, was photographed next to the cage containing his pride and joy—a Bengal tiger. Some states had laws about that sort of thing—but not, apparently, California.

  If members of the Hollywood crowd could get any of the great predator cats, then presumably Fortner could, too.

  The creature moved again, revealing a hint of black fur in the moonlight. A black panther? Fortner would probably enjoy the symbolism of such a sentry. And the damn thing would be dangerous, too. All leopards were formidable, whatever their color. And once they had tasted human flesh...

  No, not a panther. It was closer now, and Morris could see that this thing had a short tail, its fur long and shaggy-looking. And it didn’t move with a cat’s fluid grace. Instead, it had the bouncing muscularity of a—dog?