by Lyn Benedict
“Why are you taking my sister out of the country? You think to ask me first?”
“Your parents don’t object,” Val said.
“You bewitch them?”
“Only a little,” Zoe said. She put her hand on Sylvie’s arm. “I need to go. I need to learn, Syl.”
“She’s safer with me than with you, at any rate,” Val said. “Consorting with gods again, Sylvie?”
“Not if I can help it,” Sylvie admitted. “Don’t suppose you can whip up any god-be-gone or some such.”
“No,” Val said. “Zoe, we’re leaving in four hours. Are you packed?”
“Yes,” Zoe said. It was a total lie. Sylvie knew it. Zoe never finished packing until the very last minute. Given Val’s tightening mouth, Val knew it, too. But she said, “Fine. I’ll go finish up with Julian. Visit with your sister. Don’t go anywhere with her. You’re too vulnerable right now.”
“Whatever,” Zoe said. She dragged Sylvie into a room that was windowless, soundproofed, and covered with protective symbols. The only piece of furniture in it was a long table, covered with a cloth. A stranger might take it for a Wiccan altar, but Sylvie knew Val. Despite the fancy cloth, it was nothing more than a magical workbench, as secular as it came.
“So this is the deal,” Zoe said. “Val says we’re leaving because there’s a god and a power in the city. She says that’s a bad combination.”
“The god’s not here yet,” Sylvie said. “I’m hoping to keep it that way. The power? He won’t be a problem if I have my say in the matter. He’s a cursed sorcerer who’s got himself in the god’s bad books and is using innocents as a shield.”
Zoe frowned. “Val didn’t think they were connected. A curse would be a connection. And I don’t think she’d consider a sorcerer a capital-P power.”
“Even one cursed with immortality?” Sylvie asked. “Azpiazu’s not really human any longer.”
“She doesn’t think you’re a power,” Zoe said. “And you’re the new Lilith.”
“Hey, I don’t call you names,” Sylvie said. She was going to have to deal with that at some point. Find out what being the new Lilith meant before the rumormongers decided for her. Before more men like Azpiazu started getting expectations. “Look, if it’s not Azpiazu—”
Zoe shrugged. “She didn’t really say. Just a power.”
“So what’s a power when it’s at home, then,” Sylvie said. “Not a sorcerer—not a human?”
Zoe said, “I don’t know. So far, Val’s lessons about powers and gods consist of Stay away from them. But if I had to guess, those demigod kinda things. Immortals with magical abilities. Like the Sphinx.”
“Like Azpiazu,” Sylvie said. “Immortal. Sorcerer.”
Zoe said, “Whatever,” again. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Not,” Sylvie said, knee-jerk. “I want you on that plane with Val. Safe.”
Zoe’s jaw tightened. “We had this conversation, Syl. I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself. Besides. That wasn’t what I meant.” She gestured toward the table. “I was thinking more along the lines of a new warning bell.”
“You know it broke?”
“Val said it did. It gave her a headache. Spell backlash, you know. There was a lot of her in it.” Zoe looked at the table, frowned. “Maybe not a warning bell. Maybe something better. A spell neutralizer. I know there’s one around here somewhere.”
Sylvie said, “Hey, Zo, how is Val doing? Magic-wise.”
“Magicless? Kinda sorta?” Zoe leaned back against the table; the cloth wrinkled up behind her like a boat’s wake on the sea. Every movement left ripples, Sylvie thought. She’d asked Val’s help on a case, brought her face-to-face with a god; the result had been a textbook case of magical dynamics. What made a witch a witch was the ability to draw bits of power toward them—the scavengers that Wales called them. Val, brought smack up against the god of Justice, ended up like an ungrounded circuit after a lightning strike.
“Actually,” Zoe said. She lowered her voice. “When that bell broke? She got a boost. A little bit of power coming back to her. The link remembered.”
“Like a rut in the world,” Sylvie said. That fit with what she knew of magical energy. It took on the flavor of its wielder. “So wait. If Val goes touring around, smashing up her old charms—”
“Yeah,” Zoe said. “She’s thinking maybe it’ll kick-start her motors again. But that’s why we’re running. I mean, look at it from her perspective. She’s just getting hope back that she can do more than teach magic, and a god’s in town?”
“Coming to town,” Sylvie said. “Maybe.”
“Val seemed pretty sure,” Zoe said.
“Val’s biased,” Sylvie countered.
Zoe poked at her own fingernails, clicking them thoughtfully against each other. “What I don’t get . . . Val said gods burn out witches. But I was doing a basic illusion spell last night. I was supposed to make a tabby cat walk across the room, and I got a jaguar that tried to take my face off. It actually smelled real, sounded real. Kinda cool once I realized it couldn’t hurt me. But Val freaked. Said I shouldn’t have that much power to draw on.”
“Gods shed,” Sylvie said.
Zoe said, “That’s what she said. So why do witches hate gods? I mean, Syl. The jaguar was so amazing. I could see the carpet dent beneath its paws. Feel its breath. It felt so good and so easy. Why not just avoid the gods? Feed off their shed power?”
“Zoe,” Sylvie said. “That makes you a parasite. No one likes parasites. Least of all the creature they’re scavenging.”
Zoe sighed. “Do you know how much cooler senior year would be if I could tap that kind of power on a regular basis?”
Sylvie said, “Zoe—”
“I know, I know,” Zoe said. “No magic when I go back to school. But you have to admit, it would be amazing. Gives entirely new depth to daydreaming.”
Sylvie’s lips twitched against her will. “Just try not to cause a riot.”
Zoe pulled the cover off the table, revealing a series of cupboards beneath; she opened one, said, “Aha!” and pulled out an amulet strung on a white satin cord. “Here.”
It was a cold glimmer in Sylvie’s palm, a thorny golden circle that, on closer inspection, turned out to be an ouroboros.
“A snake,” Sylvie said. She didn’t particularly like snakes.
“An ouroboros,” Zoe said.
“I know that,” Sylvie said. “Why that shape?”
“Purification,” Zoe said. “Consumption and production. It cancels each other out. Hence—”
“A magic neutralizer,” Sylvie said. She hefted it, then tucked it into her pocket. It was cold and heavy, had some of the same comfort as her gun. A tool to be used.
“More powerful if you wear it,” Zoe said. “I promise, it’s safe to wear.”
“I trust you,” Sylvie said. It was easy enough to say. Was even mostly true. “Could I get a replacement for the warning bell, also?”
“Greedy much?”
“Hey, long time since I’ve been enough in Val’s good graces to be let in the door. Got to make the most of it. Besides, the warning bell works for more than me. Alex depends on it, too.”
Zoe made her usual face at the thought of Alex but bent obediently to search. “It won’t be as strong as the last one. Won’t be keyed specifically to your place.”
She dug out another tool, a single baoding ball. It chimed the moment Sylvie’s hand closed around it, vibrated in her palm.
Zoe took a step back. “Syl?”
“What?” Sylvie snapped. “Why’s it doing that?”
Zoe licked her lips. “The door alert went off, also. I just thought—”
“Zoe—”
“You’ve crossed paths with that Power recently. Closely. Enough that some of his energy stuck to you.”
Sylvie sighed. Azpiazu had touched her, it was true, but she thought she’d gotten off lucky with just losing the gun.
Zoe took the warni
ng bell, tucked it into a silk bag, silencing it, before passing it back to Sylvie. “Why don’t you come with us? Get out of town?”
“Got a job to do,” Sylvie said.
“I could stay,” Zoe suggested. “Maybe help you.”
“Val’s keeping you wrapped up tight,” Sylvie said. “There’s probably a reason for it.”
“I’m the youngest witch in the city. Apparently that makes me tasty.” Zoe paced. “It’s sort of like being grounded all over again. At least Val gets every cable channel known to man.”
“What about that goth witch, Aron? He didn’t look that much older than you, and he’s roaming around unsupervised.”
Zoe shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him. Val said I’m the youngest by a whole lot of years. I mean, besides Julian, of course.” There was pride in her voice that made Sylvie twitchy. It had to be magic that her sister took a shine to.
“Aron’s working for Patrice,” Sylvie said. “Strong, a little crazy. Don’t know his field, though.”
“Some witches only look young,” Zoe said.
“Yeah, that’s going around,” Sylvie said, thinking of Patrice, of Azpiazu.
Zoe said, “I’ll ask Val about him, call you if I find anything out.”
“Hey, Zo? Any way to find out if Azpiazu left anything nasty on me? I’d hate to be carrying around a magical time bomb, and I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Zoe gnawed at her lip. “I’m not supposed to do magic without Val.”
“Just a quick look-see. C’mon, Zo. A little witch-sight. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“All right, all right,” Zoe said. She closed her eyes, murmured a quiet incantation—for focus, Sylvie knew, not any intrinsic magic of its own—and then opened her eyes again.
Brown eyes flared wide; her pupils shrank to dots. “Christ Almighty, Sylvie.” Zoe backed away, bumped into the bench, slid down the side, and sat. She closed her eyes tight, shook her head.
“Bad news?” Sylvie tasted dust, a sour sting of adrenaline. She jammed her twitching hands into her jacket pockets.
“No,” Zoe said. “You’re just . . . You’re very vivid. Alive in kind of a scary way.” She shook her head again. “Okay. I saw what brushed up against you. It’s dark, but it’s not doing anything, and it’s fading. Like mud getting brushed off as it dries.”
“Anything I can do to wash it off faster?” She was going to ignore the other stuff. She was alive? She knew that. Felt it every time someone tried to kill her.
“I don’t know,” Zoe said. “Wear the ouroboros. Be careful.”
“Back at you,” Sylvie said. “Val means well, but sometimes running’s the worst thing to do. Sometimes running just gets the attention of things that like to chase.”
“And sometimes it’s the only smart thing to do.”
“Come on,” Sylvie said. “Show me out before Val comes and kicks me out. That way, I can call this a successful visit.”
Zoe grimaced. “She can really hold a grudge.”
“We were friends for a reason,” Sylvie said. “Like to like.”
They stood there in the vaulted foyer, a little awkward in each other’s company, that gulf of secrets between them exposed but not dealt with in any real fashion, still reluctant to part. Finally, Zoe frowned, and said, “Is that my jacket?”
“Not yours anymore,” Sylvie said, ducked Zoe’s smack, hugged her baby sister tight, and took off.
She had barely made it back onto the road out of Key Biscayne when Alex called. Sylvie, dealing with tight traffic, let it ring to voice mail. But Alex called right back, and with a groan, Sylvie found the nearest shoulder—a sloping sandy patch of straggly grass way too close to a watery ditch—and pulled over.
“What?”
“I think I’ve found Azpiazu,” Alex said. There was triumph in her voice, and fear.
“Tell me,” Sylvie said.
“I called Lio about the two dead patrol cops. They were found near the dumped van, near the golf course. And in the center of all that—a lot of nice houses.”
“You called Lio?”
“It was easier than trying to piece together decent info from the skimpy news reports. He’s annoyed with you. Not me.”
“Whatever,” Sylvie said, and bit her lip. Dammit, Zoe’s teenage speech pattern was as contagious as chicken pox. “What did he say?”
“The two cops died, officially of poisoning. Unofficially? Lio says that the coroner says they died from having molten lead replace their blood.”
“Jesus.” She shuddered. That would be one hellish death. She fingered the ouroboros amulet in her pocket and reluctantly pulled it over her head. If Azpiazu could do that, she couldn’t afford to be squeamish about using magical protection. “What connects it to Azpiazu?”
“Sigils on their hands,” Alex said. “The alchemical symbol for lead. It’s transmutation. What with the women in the Everglades having sigils on their faces, and what he did to your gun, I thought it must be linked.”
“Sounds like,” Sylvie said. A heavy truck whizzed by, buffeting her in its wake.
“One of the last things the patrolmen did was check up on a missing person. A magazine editor for StyleMiami didn’t show up to work a couple of days ago. When he missed a meeting, his coworkers called the police, and they sent a patrol car out to check his house.”
“And?”
“Patrolmen reported that he was there, just down with the flu. But, Sylvie, they didn’t take a picture or ask for ID. It was just a courtesy check. After that, they died.”
“You think Azpiazu took his place. His house.”
“You’re the one who said he might do something like that.”
“I did,” Sylvie agreed. “I just didn’t expect him to be so—”
“Stupid? Blatant?”
“Arrogant,” Sylvie said.
“Sorcerer.”
Sylvie sighed. “Your point. Got an address for me? Or are the police swarming the scene?”
“They’re still trying to figure out what kind of freak accident replaces a man’s blood with metal. You’ve got a head start. And, Syl? The StyleMiami guy, Serrano, his house backs up pretty damn close to the golf course where the dead doves were.”
Sylvie looked at the clock in the dash, squinting in the sunlight. A couple of hours until sundown. If she could roust Wales from his sulk, collect him, the Hand of Glory—maybe they could sneak into Azpiazu’s lair. Maybe he’d have come up with something special to free the women, something to pick apart the spells that held them. If Azpiazu could move them without breaking the spell into a flaming disaster, maybe Wales could do the same. Like a bomb, picked apart in precisely the right order. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
She wanted certainty.
12
In the Monster’s Lair
AN HOUR LATER, SYLVIE, WITH A NERVOUS AND SULLEN WALES AT HER side, drove into Serrano’s neighborhood. No wonder the police had been so willing to make a house call. Serrano lived on the distant edge of a golf course. The neighborhood was nice, professionally landscaped, spacious plats, two-story houses, expensive but not too expensive. Uppermiddle-class; the kind of area where people still called the police instead of their private lawyers.
Sylvie had been concerned that it would be a gated community, but it was one of the holdouts—a wealthy neighborhood that didn’t want to masquerade as an island resort. She took a last look at the real-estate paper in her hand: Jose Serrano’s house listed an indoor lap pool. She sighed.
“Think we’re wasting our time?” Wales said.
“Trying to figure our approach. If Serrano’s home sick, like the cops reported, breaking in is a no-go. And using Marco to sneak us in—”
“If he’s really ill, I wouldn’t chance it,” Wales said. “Marco’s bites take a lot out of you.”
“I remember,” she said.
“Even if it is Azpiazu there, waking Marco is a risk,” Wales said. “Azpiazu’s familiar with necromantic magic.”
“You think he can take Marco from you?”
Wales shook his head. “No. Marco’s mine, for good or ill. But using necromantic magic in his vicinity? It’ll be like ringing an alarm bell.”
“Will Marco be able to knock him out?”
“Doubt it,” Wales said. “You’ve gotten resistant to him with exposure. I’d imagine an immortal necromancer would be a sight more resistant than you.”
“Then we’re stuck playing cat burglar,” Sylvie said. “And if Serrano’s home?”
“You’re a fast liar,” Wales said. “I’ll leave the talking to you.”
“Thanks,” she muttered. But she didn’t see another option.
If this was an information misfire—if Serrano really was inside, sick with the flu, and the cops had brushed up against Azpiazu elsewhere—she couldn’t afford to break a window and climb inside. She had enough of a reputation with the cops that she didn’t want to add a B and E charge, especially since she was armed. That kind of thing could be difficult, if not impossible, to shake. Her life plans didn’t include a detour for jail time.
Sylvie touched the ouroboros at her breastbone, tapped the warning bell in her jacket pocket, and headed around the back of the house, Wales a clumsy afterthought.
One thing she’d had proved to her over and over again in this career path was that people’s idea of security was often more for show than fact. They made a big deal about locking the front door, the windows, put up security gates and signs, then left their back doors unlocked, unguarded, or shielded from all watchful eyes.
It made no sense to her, but the nicer the estate and surroundings, the more likely the homeowners fell into that kind of carelessness. They thought that privacy and space equaled safety when, in truth, what they mostly meant were no witnesses.
The lawn, thick and vividly green, denting beneath her boots, made her steps as soundless as if she were walking on pillows. Behind her, Wales swore softly as he tripped over a sprinkler head.
The twilight moving in made her as close to invisible as a human could be without magical intervention, turned the world into moving columns of grey, purple, black. Her red jacket sucked in light, turned dark and shadowed, better than camo prints.