by Eileen Wilks
I exchanged a glance with Erin. She nodded, telling me what I was already sure of. He wasn't lying.
She spoke, her voice cool and soothing. "I'm going to take the spell deeper now, Michael. Molly will continue asking questions, but I'll be helping you find the answers."
He nodded fractionally. His eyes never left mine.
"Who gave you those wounds?" I asked.
"I…" He licked his lips. "She? Yes, I think… I was escaping. That made her angry."
"What is she?"
"I don't… that's not coming. But I have the idea she's strong. Very strong."
"Who is she?"
A fine dew of sweat sheened his forehead. "I don't know."
"What do you know about how you got here?"
"They were… someone was… they want to catch me. Keep me."
"Not to kill you?"
"No, they want to—want to—" His head swiveled towards Erin. "Don't!" And he heaved himself sideways, one arm outstretched like a drowning swimmer reaching desperately for rescue.
The circle broke.
Chapter 4
THE pop! was like clearing your ears during an airplane's descent with a jaw-cracking yawn, except that it happened under my solar plexus. It should have been similar for Erin, though with more of a sting.
It should not have made her eyes roll back in her head as she sank to the floor in a faint.
I jumped and managed to keep her from hitting her head, ending with both of us on the floor with her head in my lap. Michael rolled off the couch so awkwardly I thought something had happened to him, too. But no, he'd simply made an odd dismount, for he fetched up on the other side of Erin's lax body and sat, staring at her in appalled fascination. "I didn't do it," he said. "I didn't mean to do it."
"Breaking the circle shouldn't have harmed her." I checked her pulse. It was strong and steady, thank goodness.
"No, it wasn't that. But it wasn't me, either—at least, it came through me, but I didn't will it. Maybe…" He put his hands on either side of her face and focused intently on her.
I looked at him sharply. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to fix her. Be quiet."
Should I let him try to repair whatever he'd inadvertently damaged? Or prevent him from doing more harm? Before I could decide, Erin blinked herself back to us. "What… Molly?" She put a hand to her temple. "I have such a headache. What happened?"
"I don't know. Michael broke the circle, and you collapsed."
"Michael? Who's Michael? And what," she demanded, "am I doing lying on the floor with my head in your lap?"
"You don't remember?"
She shook her head.
I considered going back to bed.
"The amnesia should be temporary," Michael said. "I think."
"You probably can't remember."
"I believe that's sarcasm."
"Good call."
Erin sat up, pushing her hair out of her face. Her headband had come off. "The last I remember, you'd woken me up at a godawful hour to ask for help. How did—"
Someone knocked on my door. We all jolted.
"Michael, get on the couch and look like an invalid," I said, scrambling to my feet.
"What does an invalid look like?"
"Pale. You've got that part down, so just lie still and pull the blanket up over you. Make sure your wounds and genitals are hidden. Erin—"
"Not wearing a stitch, is he?" She watched Michael's beautiful backside as he moved to the couch. I couldn't blame her for finding the sight distracting. "But I'm clothed, so we weren't performing a ceremony."
"No, we—" The knocking came again, louder. "Be right there!" I called. "Erin, I know you need answers, but for now pretend you're here to help me with my nephew Michael, who's recovering from a mysterious fever. I thought he'd been cursed, which is why I called you." I headed for the door.
"You don't have a nephew," she informed me.
"That's a fiction," Michael said. "We are supposed to fool whoever is at the door." He pulled the blanket over himself and lay down as stiff and straight if he'd been en-coffined. "Do I look ill?"
Erin was staring at him. "If you had a fever, there wouldn't be anything mysterious about it. Not with those wounds. What—"
"Shh! Michael, until our visitor leaves, speak Gaelic." I jerked the door open and sang out a cheery, "Good morning!" to the stranger on my stoop.
He was alone, so he wasn't from the Mormons. Probably not a salesman, either, not in that suit—gray wool, not top-of-the-line but not shabby, either. Either a Baptist or a business clone, I concluded. Probably the latter. Houston was only forty-five minutes away, and the dress-for-successers there wore suits in spite of our subtropical weather. This was not a testament to endurance; they simply never experienced more than a nibble of it, moving as they did between air-conditioned house, air-conditioned car, and tall, chilly office building.
Or maybe they were icing down the parking garages now, too. "Such nice weather we're having," I told him.
"Lovely," he agreed politely. He was about thirty, with seriously thick lenses on his gold-rimmed glasses. "I need to speak with you a few minutes, ma'am."
"This isn't a good time. Have they started air-conditioning the parking garages yet?"
"Uh… not to my knowledge. Perhaps I should introduce myself." He reached into a breast pocket, then held out a leather case. "Agent Rawlins. FBI."
Going back to bed was sounding better all the time. "A real FBI agent," I said weakly. "How exciting. Are you looking for kidnappers? Terrorists? The Mob?"
"Not today. May I come in?"
"Oh, dear. I don't think my nephew is contagious anymore…"
"Pete?" Erin said from behind me. "Is that you?"
The professionally stern face startled. "Lady? I mean—Erin?"
"Ná hinis faic dhó," said the naked man on my couch.
I sighed and stood aside. "Never mind, Michael. Either someone here has some very odd karma, or God is feeling playful. It seems Agent Rawlins is in Erin's coven."
Chapter 5
"THANK you, ma'am." Pete took the mug of coffee I held out. He was sitting on one of the bench seats at my dinette, looking uncomfortable. "Lady—Erin—I need to know why you're here."
"So do I," she said, accepting her mug from me.
He blinked.
"You performed a truth spell on Michael," I told her, settling cross-legged beside Michael on the couch—which put me next to Pete as well, since my couch butts up against the dinette on one side. My quarters are small. "He has amnesia, too, but rather more thoroughly than you."
"You learned I was telling the truth about that," Michael said.
I nodded. "And then you took the spell deeper, trying to unearth those buried memories. But something went wrong. He broke the circle—"
"I was trying to stop the—the—I can't find the word," he said, frustrated. "It slapped Erin away and she passed out. It's supposed to protect me, keep me from being read without permission."
Erin's brows drew down. "I had your permission."
"You remember!" I cried.
"Some of it," she said grudgingly, and sighed. "Most of it, I suppose. I'm pretty sure he's not evil, not inherently. But he's barricaded like crazy. I never saw such shields." She sipped from her mug. "Molly, you make the best coffee. The fumes alone are curing my headache."
"I helped." Michael was pleased.
Pete was lost. "Who are you?"
"Michael."
"Last name?"
"Not yet." He looked at me inquiringly. "Do you wish to gift me with one?"
"We'll worry about that later. Pete—"
"I'm here as Agent Rawlins."
"Don't be stuffy," Erin told him. "We have a situation here. We could use some help. Probably it would be best if you started by telling us why you're here."
Pete frowned at his coffee. "I can't tell you that."
"You're putting him in a difficult position, Erin," I said. "He owes you truth and all reasonabl
e assistance, but he has a duty to the FBI, too. Pete, perhaps you could ask me whatever you came to ask, and I'll be a difficult witness or informant or whatever and insist on knowing more before I answer. Then we can trade information. Will that work?"
He started laughing. It transformed his face, waking a spark of interest in me. I hadn't supped, as Michael put it, in a couple days. Not long enough to be a problem normally, but my appetite had been roused by Michael's presence. And Pete was really quite attractive when he forgot to wear his official face…
Erin poked me in the ribs.
Pete shook his head, still smiling. "I've fallen down the rabbit hole, haven't I? Okay, we'll give it a try, though I can't promise to tell you everything."
"That's all right." I leaned towards him and patted his hand. "I doubt we'll tell you everything, either."
PETE was quite forthcoming about himself. He'd been bom into a Wiccan family, but had inherited only a modest Gift—little more, he said, than many people unknowingly possessed. But that little had been well-trained, which made him valuable to the FBI. All of which Erin already knew, so his frankness didn't earn him any return information.
He was much vaguer about his reason for knocking on my door. He was speaking to everyone at the Village, he said, because of a report of possible sorcerous activity. He glanced at Erin when he said that, troubled.
"For goodness sakes, Erin didn't do it," I said. "As you ought to know. Not that there has there been any sorcery—at least, a node was involved, which I suppose is what you mean. But that isn't sorcery in and of itself. The current legal definition is absurdly broad."
"How is sorcery defined?" Michael asked curiously.
Pete cleared his throat. "Sorcery is magic that is sourced outside the performer."
I grimaced. "An accountant's way of seeing the world. Follow the funding, ignore everything else." Technically, the law would consider me a sorcerer—if it admitted I existed, which it doesn't. Which is ridiculous. My abilities and disabilities are innate, not learned.
"There was a time when all forms of magic were illegal," Erin said dryly. "As certain of my relatives could have testified, had they survived the flames. It's hard to argue against outlawing sorcery, though."
"All of it?" Michael was startled. "You mean that all forms of sorcery are illegal here?"
"Sorcery is black magic," Pete said firmly. "The blackest."
Michael looked confused. Apparently the bits of knowledge he could remember about our world didn't include much in the way of history.
"Most people associate sorcery strictly with death magic," I explained. "Which, of course, some sorcerers have practiced, especially since the Codex Arcanum was lost during the Purge, preventing them from—"
"Lost?" He sat bolt upright. "The Codex?"
Pete's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Schoolchildren learn about the Purge in the third grade."
Michael didn't answer. His face was blank, his attention turned inward like one who has been dealt a great shock.
"He isn't from here," I told our FBI agent, and went on to explain, sorting out what needed to be shared, what kept close, as I went. For example, I didn't mention my nature. That was none of his business—and I doubt he would have believed me, not without proof. According to the best authorities, I'm not possible. Nor did I tell him about the snippets Erin had unearthed before she passed out. Which left Pete with the story of a man who appeared out of nowhere, naked, amnesiac, and wounded. A man not from our world.
He didn't buy it. He saw the wounds, so he accepted that part. He also accepted that Michael wasn't lying, because Erin had tested him. But he considered most of our account a mixture of conjecture, confusion, and delusion.
Michael was less offended by this than I. "Delusion is a reasonable explanation, from your point of view. You are interested in facts, not subjective analyses of the situation."
"But there's more than opinion involved," I objected. "There was a burst of nodal energy when you arrived. The Unit must have noticed that and—"
"Wait a minute," Pete said sharply. "I didn't say anything about a unit."
He'd just confirmed my suspicions. That vague "report of sorcerous activities" had come from the tiny branch of the FBI charged with investigating magical crimes. "I forgot," I said apologetically. "The Unit is supposed to be hush-hush, isn't it? I shouldn't have said anything."
"You shouldn't know anything."
"I meet a lot of people." I waved a hand vaguely.
"I don't know about a unit," Michael said. "I'm not sure what the FBI is, either, but I've made some guesses. It seems to be a bureaucratic entity which investigates sorcery, espionage, terrorism, and the Mob. But why is the Mob identified by a definite article? Is there one mob that is distinct from all others?"
Pete undertook that explanation. I went after more coffee, thinking hard. I'd been too forthcoming. While Pete might discount most of our story, he'd report it—and that report would find its way to the Unit. I didn't know much about that small, secretive group, certainly not enough to wager Michael's life on their good intentions. Besides, even good intentions can misfire.
Well, I could seduce Pete. Men are extraordinarily suggestible when I turn up the power. But that would embarrass my friends and cause problems for Pete later, when the effect wore off.
Maybe I should crank up the disbelief factor. A few comments about flying saucers, for example, or the entity I'd been channeling… "What?" I said, my head swiveling back towards the others. "What did you say about the Azá?"
"You've heard of them?" Pete was surprised.
"Who are they?" Erin asked.
He shrugged. "A cult. Bit fanatical. They're new here, though they've been around in England and Ireland for awhile. They've been known to source their rituals on death magic—animal, of course, but a nasty habit and quite illegal, so we keep an eye on them. Like most cults, they claim to possess ancient wisdom. Theirs is a mishmash, supposedly Egyptian in origin, but they dress up in black pajamas like a bunch of ninjas. They worship some goddess no one's ever heard of, name of—"
"Never mind that," I said quickly. "Why did you mention them?"
He really was a nice man. He smiled, and it was meant to be soothing, not condescending. "No need to be alarmed. I just need to be informed if any of them show up. Someone in their organization is sensitive to node activity, you see. They believe their goddess speaks to them that way. So whenever there's a disturbance, they hustle out, try to set up their rites on the spot. Which, as I said, sometimes include illegal practices, so we want to know if they turn up."
My choices had narrowed drastically, so I did what I had to. "Pete," I said, letting my voice turn softer, slightly breathy. "I think they're already here." I gazed into his eyes. Such a rich, pretty brown they were behind the lenses of his glasses. I'd seen them alight with laughter and I remembered that, and how attractive he'd been then. "Are they dangerous?"
He moved towards me. "It's all right." His voice had gone husky, but I doubt he noticed. "You're not in any danger, Molly."
Erin's voice came sharply. "Stop that."
"Let her be." Michael's voice surprised me. It was firm, the kind of voice one automatically obeys. "She knows what she's doing."
Pete started to turn, frowning. I turned up the power, but carefully—I wanted him protective, not ravenous—and laid a hand on his arm. "I'm frightened."
He put his hand over mine. "You're safe, Molly. I won't let… ah, tell me why you think they're here."
I described two odd-looking fellows in black pajamas who, I said, had been lurking around the Village earlier this morning. I was frightened, but willing to be reassured. He was captivated.
A little too captivated. He scarcely knew the others were present—Erin with her disapproving frown, Michael with an expression of extreme interest. "You'll want to let your superiors know right away," I suggested, looking up into Pete's eyes.
"Yes…" He was holding my hand, and started to stroke it
. "Molly—"
"About the Azá," I said firmly, and pulled my hand away. "You need to make your report about them." I stressed the last, hoping he'd forget to report about everything else—at least for a little while.
He blinked. "Yes. Yes, of course. Molly, I… this is sudden, but I'd like to call you."
I smiled sadly. "Of course, Pete. You have my number."
I got him to the door. "Don't worry about the Azá," he said gently, worried that I might be worried. "We've checked them out thoroughly. Their rites are harmless—except to the animals, of course. The energy they gather that way is all directed towards their goddess, who doesn't exist."
I had to try. "They aren't harmless, Pete. Be careful. Please be careful. And don't say Her name."
"Her?"
"Their goddess."
He didn't believe me, of course. "We'll be watching them," he assured me. "Don't worry."
As soon as I shut the door on him, Erin demanded, "What the bloody blazes did you do that for?"
"I had to," I said wearily. "The effect will wear off in a day or so."
Michael spoke. "What about these Azá you saw? They are trouble?"
"They are very much trouble, but I didn't see any of them." I headed for the galley, poured out the last of the coffee, and rinsed the pot. My eyes fell on the little yellow pot that held my thyme. I picked it up and saw a face… a little girl with pigtails, glasses, and a smile wide as the Mississippi. I've never had children and never will, but three times I've taken one to raise. The first time it was war that killed my borrowed son, and grief nearly destroyed me. I did things then I'd rather not think about. My second child was broken by age, crippled in body and mind while I was still young and strong.
I'd vowed never to raise another child.
Ginny had made me break my vow. Her parents had been killed in the Great Storm, the hurricane that leveled Galveston in 1900, killing over six thousand people. They had been my neighbors and my friends, and I'd been unable to save them.
But I'd saved Ginny. I'd taken her to raise as my own, against all better sense. And had never regretted it.
She was gone now—grown up, grown old, and buried.