The Immortals

by J. T. Ellison

  “You’re an excellent artist,” Taylor said. “These are the two you were talking about?”

  Ariadne nodded.

  “There’s just one problem. It’s going to be hard to figure out who they are with all this makeup on them.”

  “I took the liberty of trying it without, as well,” Ariadne said.

  She flipped the paper; a second drawing was below. This captured the exact same scene, but none of the children were obscured by makeup.

  “Ah,” Taylor said. “If this is them, we can work with this.”

  “That’s them. The little girl from the photograph slapped the big boy here, then they chased after her. I’m sorry, it’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

  Taylor was glad they’d decided to let Ariadne go home last night, with a patrol on her house to assure that she didn’t try to leave. Taylor imagined it hadn’t been a fun night for her. Regardless, the drawings were as good or better than any of their artists could have done with an Identi-Kit, that was for sure. Taylor looked them over one more time.

  “I’m going to take these pictures with me, okay? I need to see if anyone who knows these children might recognize them. What do you plan to do?”

  “Pray. I plan to pray to the Goddess for your success.”

  Taylor stared at the picture for a few more minutes, then looked Ariadne straight in the eye. She weighed her words carefully.

  “My detective thinks I should trust you.”

  “He’s a very smart man.”

  “Then tell me the truth. Do you honestly believe in all of this?”

  Ariadne didn’t blink, but the pupils of her eyes grew larger. “I do, Lieutenant. With all my heart. It is who I am. I know that’s hard for you—you’re a very black-and-white person. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. I imagine in your line of work it can be quite useful. But me…I see all the colors of the universe, and then some. I find the path between the markers, and set upon that. What’s happened over the past two days is evil. It’s bad. It’s wrong. No true witch would consciously seek such power over others. Psychic vampires, yes. But Wicca is the way of the light, of good. It wasn’t one of ours, I promise you that.”

  Taylor had to admit, Ariadne was at least partially right. She did see the world in black-and-white. It was how she slept at night.

  “Okay,” she said, finally. “I can respect that.”

  “Good. Then we can be friends.” Ariadne stuck out her hand, and Taylor shook it.

  “You have a huge burden on your shoulders, Lieutenant. May I ease it for you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ariadne waved toward the roses, toward Taylor. “There’s a storm brewing behind your eyes. You’re suffering, trying to make a major decision. On one hand is your true path. The other leads to pain and suffering. You’ll choose the correct path, and you already know which that is. But a sacrifice must be made. Use your strengths to divine your way.”

  Fitz? Or Memphis. Who was the witch talking about? And where did she get off prophesying?

  “My path. What do you know of my path? Of my responsibilities? Of the people I care for, and who care for me?”

  Ariadne looked at her with sympathy. “It’s all written on your face, and in your aura, Lieutenant. And I may have done a tarot reading last night, just out of curiosity. If you give me your palm, I can direct you. The key to the occult is applying what works for you. You must seek your own truths.”

  “Ariadne, now you’re getting into the silly stuff. Tarot cards and palm reading? Come on. Give me a break.”

  She smiled, an impish grin. “Aren’t you the least bit curious, Lieutenant? Just the tiniest bit?”

  “No, I’m not. I have absolutely zero desire to know what’s coming.”

  Fitz flashed into her mind again, bloody, hurt. She couldn’t help but shut her eyes and swallow.

  “I can tell you what will happen to him, if you want to know,” Ariadne said softly.

  Taylor opened her eyes and stared into the deep blue of the witch’s soul. Yes, she probably could hazard a guess. She had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, too. There were only two outcomes for Fitz—life or death. Taylor didn’t know if she wanted to think about the possibility of the latter.

  Ariadne didn’t budge, didn’t breath. They stood, locked in each other’s gaze, until Taylor broke away.

  “He’s going to live,” Taylor said with finality, then swept from her office, leaving the witch behind.

  Dear God, I hope I’m right.

  Thirty-Seven

  Northern Virginia

  June 17, 2004

  Charlotte

  Charlotte watched Baldwin leave with the Fairfax County folks, then started her own walk through Harold Arlen’s house. She was deeply unsettled by the whole incident. Arlen really had seemed sincere when he claimed he wasn’t responsible, that the photos on his computer were planted there. He admitted to looking at some porn now and again, but just looking. My God, he couldn’t have done anything, the shots took care of that. Where was the fun in that? He couldn’t explain how photos of the dead girls got on his computer—was in tears by the time they carted him off.

  She could hear the storm getting closer, the thunder booming. There was a sense of urgency to everyone’s movements; dragging evidence through the wind and rain was the last thing they wanted. She could hear the muffled shouts of people trying to set up some sort of shelter between the crime-scene vans and the front door. Arlen was being transported—for the time being, she felt like she was practically alone with the man’s thoughts.

  She went through his bedroom carefully. He was organized, methodical. Shirts in the closet were arranged according to color, and he only had white and blue long-sleeved button-downs. There were five pairs of chinos plus one empty hanger, three pairs of brown loafers. His bathrobe had been securely hung on the back of the bathroom door. His medicine cabinet had inconsequential items—shaving cream, aspirin, all the same brand, Kirkland. He did his shopping at Costco. The shower was clean, not a surprise. His house bespoke the worst about him—controlled, and controlling. Everything in its place. Another check mark on the profile.

  Charlotte trailed through the house, looking at everything. The preternatural organization was evident in every room. Finding physical evidence was going to be tough—he was meticulous. And they needed the physical evidence to tie Arlen to the Clockwork Killer case. Somewhere in this house, there was a knife with a ten-inch blade, and ligatures, and some sort of bat or bar used to break the girls’ legs. The medical examiner had been relatively sure the girls had been lying down when their legs were broken, a rounded instrument used to crack their tibias and fibulas cleanly.

  So where would he have done it? A bed? The floor? Some sort of table? Charlotte tried to get into Arlen’s mind. What would she do if she needed to restrain a young girl?

  She shut her eyes and let the terror overwhelm her.

  She would put her somewhere scary. In the dark. Away from any sort of light. With creepy, crawly things, rats and spiders and the cold, dark, dank air that signaled you were underground.

  A memory rose unbidden to the surface. Her father, a tyrant on the best of days, locking her in the wine cellar below their house, punishment for some perceived transgression.

  She shuddered at the thought, then went looking for Arlen’s basement.

  Thirty-Eight

  Nashville

  12:30 p.m.

  The conference room was set up just the way Taylor liked it—whiteboards overflowing with information, victims’ photographs at the top, so they could fill in any and all information on the victimology. A separate board was kept for information about the killer. Taylor went to that, unfurled the drawing Ariadne had given her and pinned it up.

  “Who’s that?” Marcus asked.

  “This is the drawing Ariadne did of the kids she followed Halloween night. Her view of the killers. With and without makeup. She didn’t recognize Thor
n, but she did pick Susan Norwood out of a six-pack. I want that girl back here. She’s involved in the killings and the drugs.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Marcus said, stepping from the room.

  Lincoln was tapping away at his laptop. She heard him whistle, low and long, then he got up and stared hard at the drawing. He went back to the laptop, tapped a few times, then said, “Come here and look at this, LT. I’ve got something.”

  Taylor joined him, looking over his broad shoulder at the laptop’s digital screen. He was on a video-sharing site.

  “Please tell me this isn’t the movie again,” she said.

  “Nope. This is from the address that was part of the ghost IP. Another upload from the same place.”

  He hit Play on the video.

  A horrendous racket launched from the speakers, clanging, industrial noises overlaid with some sort of melody. A deep screaming emanated, words hardly recognizable. The subtitle read, A Goth Makeup Tutorial. The screen went black for a second, then a girl’s face filled the space. She was pretty, high cheekbones, wide eyes that were very, very green. Taylor knew in an instant they were colored contacts—Baldwin had naturally clear-green eyes that were just as bright, but much more beautiful. The video accelerated, double time, the girl covering her face in pearly makeup, applying blush, penciling in eyebrows, then going to work on her eyes.

  The black rings grew and grew, each swipe applied with a steady, practiced hand. She built a foundation around the eye, each stroke making it deeper, wider, layering on coat after coat of mascara until the green stood out like an emerald and the rest of her face disappeared. She moved to her lips, outlining them in black, then filling the pillows in. A small white line was drawn above the cupid’s bow. Then she went back to the eyes again, adding long, draping tendrils of black in perfect swirls down her cheeks.

  Finished! The subtitle screamed, then the shot went back to the girl, a quick before-and-after. When she smiled, her teeth were white against their black background; the long fangs in place of her bicuspids made Taylor think about the gaping mouths in Barent Johnson’s bedroom. Then the video was over, the grating noise ended.

  “What do you think about that?” Lincoln asked.

  Taylor smiled at him, then went to the whiteboard and brought Ariadne’s drawings to him.

  “That’s her, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Lincoln nodded. “I think it is. It certainly looks like her.”

  “Please tell me that video has a name attached.”

  “It does. The credits say, ‘starring The High Priestess Fane, as herself.’”

  “Fane. Fane. Why does that name sound familiar?” McKenzie said.

  Taylor went to the conference table and grabbed the file folder from Hillsboro High School, held it up triumphantly.

  “She’s in here. On the list of Goth kids at Hillsboro.”

  Taylor flipped it open, scanning through the names until she saw what she was looking for. She read aloud from the folder. “Here we are. Fane Atilio. She’s a sophomore. Hangs out with the Goth crowd, straight-A student, excels in English and history.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “It doesn’t say. The information is sparse on her. It looks like she flies under the radar. She’s never been in trouble, never been disciplined.”

  “Is there an address for her?” McKenzie asked.

  “Yes, there is. Feel like taking a ride? I’m going to bring a few extra patrols, just in case. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “You bet.”

  Thirty-Nine

  “I wrote something for you, my love.”

  Raven was laying on Fane’s bed, head hanging off the edge, watching her study a book on ancient runes. She looked up, set the book down and crawled across the room to him, tearing her stockings further as she scraped along. When she reached him, she slid her tongue into his mouth, sucked on his upper lip, then sat back.

  “You did? What is it? A spell?”

  “In a way. For you to have endless beauty, and my love, always. Say it thrice by the full moon, and your deepest desires will come true.”

  “Don’t tease, Raven. You are my deepest desire, love. Only you. Let me see it?”

  He handed the paper to her. She scooted up alongside him, and he watched her lips move slightly as she read his words.

  “‘Ode to Antigone’

  Black boils beneath thin pink flesh

  Molten emotion devouring rational thought.

  Carrion attacks the filial bonds of lust

  Which lie exposed, faultless in

  Oedipal wantonness, broken by greed,

  Damned to an eternal external hell

  For another’s unknown sins.

  The saving grace of a bleeding hand

  Reaches through earthly bounds to

  Experience the afterlife.

  Hades, Creon, Zeus be damned,

  Simple Antigone is drawn beyond

  Where a silken sash has unforeseen power:

  Haemon’s love cannot penetrate

  The bridal tomb but for layer

  Upon layer of pounded metal thrust

  Through a rib as life ebbs onto

  The musty gray floor.

  Bound forever in the deathly marriage

  Of two minds transgressing mortal thought,

  Drawn to immortality in legend,

  Farther and deeper that bloodless

  Purity bound to bloody passion.”

  Fane hugged him hard, wiping tears away from her cheeks. “Oh, Raven. It’s beautiful. You wrote that for me?”

  “I did. I wanted you to have something special, just for you. Now that Ember and Thorn are…gone, I wanted to give you my soul.”

  She slid back down to the floor at his feet, caressing the inside of his calf. “I’ll take your soul, and damn them. How dare they run off like this? No, I can’t believe they would betray us, Raven. It must be something else. Ember’s parents might have taken her phone away, and you know Thorn is going to be somewhere close to her.”

  He slipped to the floor next to her, put his arm around her thin shoulders. He loved to feel the bones sliding under her skin, so close to the surface he could practically see their edges.

  “I do know that, love. I have to believe that they are being kept away against their will. The spell we did last night was so strong, the only thing that could keep them away is if they were being held somewhere. I should go, actually—see if I can find out what’s happening. It’s been entirely too quiet out there.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Back to my house. I can look into the mirror, see if I can find them.” He stood, and she scrambled to her feet.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  “No. I must do this alone. You know I need all my concentration to scry, and you’re too much of a distraction, my dear. A good distraction, but one nonetheless.”

  He kissed her deeply, running his hands along her body. When she put her arms around his neck and drew her to him, he felt that incredible high that no drug could ever bring him close to. She slipped her hand into his pants and brought him to readiness in an instant, running her tongue along the edge of his collarbone as she wormed her way farther and farther down his body.

  He stepped out of his pants and guided her mouth to his cock, let the warm ache begin inside his balls as she suckled. When he started getting close, he reached down and brought her to her feet, face-to-face, and took her mouth. He loved to taste himself on her lips. Kissing her, he slid up her skirt. She was wearing his favorite garters and panties, the black-and-silver striped ones. They were crotchless, and she was wet, ready for him. He lifted her off her feet and onto the bed, pushed into her body with a single thrust, his hands beneath her buttocks so he could get as deep as humanly possible. They writhed together, becoming one, building to a climax quickly. No spells, no potions, just their love, exploding between them.

  He came back to himself, realized he must be crushing Fane, though
she didn’t complain. He sat up, stroking the length of her, then smiled.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said.

  Forty

  Northern Virginia

  June 17, 2004

  Baldwin

  Baldwin watched Harold Arlen through the two-way glass. Goldman was going at him hard. Arlen just sat shaking his head, repeating over and over, “It’s not me. I didn’t do this.”

  Baldwin watched the nonverbal cues, looking for the lie. Looking for the trail Arlen had left for himself, the winding, narrow path back to reality. Back to the broken body of another little girl.

  The cues were all there. It wasn’t the obvious things he usually saw when interviewing child killers: the leering face during the interviews, the preening, the giggles. The dead eyes that got lively only when the crime-scene photos appeared under his nose. No, Arlen was much more subtle than that. It was all but invisible, masterfully contained below the surface.

  Arlen talked in rapid-fire denials, getting angrier and angrier the longer he was kept in the interrogation room. Baldwin was utterly shocked that he hadn’t asked for a lawyer. There was something wrong with that.

  They still had a young girl missing. There were no signs of her whereabouts found at Arlen’s house, no clues where she might be. If he’d stuck to the pattern, she was already dead, though they hadn’t told the parents that. Baldwin thought it was cruel to let them have hope when the whole team knew there was none, but that wasn’t his call. This wasn’t his investigation—he and his team were simply support.

  In the meantime, Sparrow was scouring property rolls and tax records, looking for anything that could be tied to Arlen or anyone close to him. So far, she’d come up with nothing. Butler was in the same boat—he hadn’t found any matching cases within a three-hundred-mile radius. Geroux was still working the other potential suspects, but they were all checking out. Arlen was their last real hope of ending this.