“Sounds easy enough.”
“It isn’t.” He paused. “Are you thinking of killing a Vampire?”
“No, but—I was afraid just now.”
“I’d be worried if you hadn’t been. Aside from staking them to the ground, decapitation works, but is exponentially more difficult to accomplish. Fire is the most often used method.”
“Fire?”
“Yes. Fire will destroy a Vampire, but it has to be so hot, so intense, that it takes them out quickly. If they have even a heartbeat, they can use it to kill whoever casts the spell. Believe me, Sam, a Vampire can move faster than your eyes can track. Only a Wizard in full control of their power can take one on and hope to survive. Now, let’s get in out of this rain.”
I followed him back up to the house, where Kylie waited with steaming cups of hot coffee.
“How did it go?” she asked. “I saw the flash.”
“He tried to get in again.” Mayfair took his coat and hat off and hung them up, then helped me out of mine so I could take the mug of coffee being offered to me.
“Will he ever learn he cannot enter?”
My ears perked up at this new voice. A man stood just inside the doorway leading to the office area. He stood about five nine or ten with short, neat black hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore a crisp gray suit that fit him so well it had to have been tailored. With a smile, he held his hand out to me. “Nevil Daniel Silsbury.”
I shifted my coffee to my left hand to shake his.
Fairly quickly, Nevil switched from shaking my hand to taking just the fingers. Bending over, he pressed his lips between my two top knuckles and said something in a decent enough French accent.
I cringed and yanked my hand away as soon as his grip lightened. “Sam Kane,” I said. “He’s tried before?”
“Oh, many times,” Nevil answered before Mayfair could. “There are quite a few stories, actually. Some amusing, some tragic.”
“And we can tell them another time,” said Mayfair. “What did you bring me?”
Nevil handed over a rather large brown book. “Translations of the third-century text you wanted. King’s English circa 1730, though.”
Mayfair winced. “That’ll be rough.”
Nevil said, “Still, best lead we have.”
“Agreed. Add it to the pile,” he said, handing it back.
Nevil mock saluted and disappeared back into the office.
I took another sip of coffee, aware that Mayfair watched me.
“We need to finish our conversation,” he said.
I nodded, not really wanting to talk. I couldn’t see an alternative to it, though. The part of my mind that wasn’t terrified was curious. How had I done any of it? Really?
“Kylie?” he said. “We’ll be in the lab.”
* * *
“The Lab” turned out to be “the basement,” which is a lot less dramatic to say. Seeing it, however, is a whole other thing.
As basements went, though finished, the decor left something to be desired. Early dark ages with a mix of Tesla thrown in for modernization. A door behind the grand staircase led down a narrow, ill-lit flight of stairs ending in this enormous space most home owners would kill for—except for the lack of light, poor air circulation, row of dungeon cells complete with iron bars, and the smell of ancient rock, mold, must, dust, and burnt hair that seemed to hang in the air like a haze.
When Mayfair’s feet hit the stone floor, he waved his hand, and a light sparked across the space, bouncing from torch to torch, candle to candle, until the room glowed brightly. The torches burned and spit in holders evenly spaced along the walls and on the columns cutting the area in half. Sparsely placed candles, spread out in groups on just about every other surface I could see, trailed waterfalls of frozen wax cascading down to the stone floor. It was almost pretty. Except for the dungeons. And the chains hanging from the walls.
“Overwhelmed yet?” he asked.
I smiled my response rather than speaking. Of course I’m overwhelmed! Who wouldn’t be? Yesterday my life had been complicated, sure, but I knew where I stood and what was what. Today? Today I’m talking to Vampires and dragons are apparently real. There’s a whole other world sharing space with the one I grew up in, and no one seems to mind, notice, or talk about it. How can that be? It’s like a bad B-movie gone wild.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I really am.”
While Mayfair talked, I moved slowly across the room, taking it all in. Everything here felt ancient—really ancient. He said his grandfather built it? Or his great-grandfather? I wasn’t sure. Either way, old. Cracks ran through these huge blocks of stone, same as the towers outside. In fact, in the far corner, the curved wall was probably part of the tower. Maybe the foundation? The cells or dungeons or whatever were each about five feet wide but a little more deep, maybe seven or eight feet. Loops bolted to the stone held chains and cuffs—manacles, I think they’re called. Nothing by way of comfort inside, either. Just straw spread across the stone.
“Sam?”
“I’m listening,” I replied.
“I believe you, that you are what you say you are, but not everyone will. Nevil, for example, is probably upstairs right now trying to figure out what faction sent you.”
“Faction?” I asked.
“There are several. I can keep Nevil in check, mostly—I’m his boss. But he’s always wanted my job, so if he can use this, use you, to push me out and take over, he will.”
“What is your job?” I asked. “You’re not a cop—not a real one, anyway. All this task force stuff is just bullshit, right?”
He nodded.
I didn’t realize my heart had leapt into my throat until he agreed. Then it dropped like a bomb. So. Am I still a cop? If not, then what am I? A Wizard? Like you can put that on your resume.
“I’m a Steward,” he said.
I kept walking while he stood stock still in the center of the room. I let my eyes scan the walls, the shelves, the oddly placed door on the other side of the room set into a solid stone wall.
“The Stewards enforce the laws as passed down by the Wizards’ Council,” he continued. “Nevil is one of my Wizard-Rangers. They are the enforcers, really. They act as my hand, do what I tell them.”
Okay. Made a little sense. Chain of command and everything. “Wrangers?” I asked. “Wizangers?”
He smiled. “He would hate those names.”
“Where does this go?” I pointed at the odd door. Maybe four feet wide and six tall, with a carved relief depicting winged fairies frolicking through a forest scene.
“Nowhere. Open it.”
I did. Sure enough, it opened up to the stone foundation. I slapped it to be sure. Solid. “Weird.”
“A little. My great-grandfather was a bit of an eccentric.”
So, his great-grandfather after all.
“Has anything changed in your life recently?”
Back to business. I shook my head.
“Nothing? Nothing at all?”
I hesitated. Actually, there were quite a few changes in my life recently, none of which I wanted to think about or talk about or dwell on.
“Sam, you reacted instinctively and used magic. I don’t believe your magic manifested itself out of the blue. It has to have always been there, so why haven’t you used it before? Why weren’t you aware of it? Why didn’t someone like me find you before?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I, but that’s what we need to find out. Together. Changes in your life, your environment, might point to a clue. Think. Anything at all.”
“I broke up with my boyfriend of three years,” I offered up, wincing as I said it because there is something else, probably more important, that I can’t talk about. Not yet. Saying the words aloud makes it real, makes it tangible.
“Could be part of it. A bad break-up could mean high emotions, lots of stress. Anything else?”
I ran my fingers down the spines of a stack of books piled up on a
low table shoved against a wall, leaving a trail through the dust and cobwebs.
“Sam?”
“There’s …” I had to clear my throat. I stared down at the dust on my finger, oddly absorbed by it. I don’t want to say this.
“What?” Mayfair asked, close enough to me now I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.
“My dad … he’s dying.”
Chapter Seven
Is it pretentious to think to oneself, “the silence hung heavy in the air”? Is that just me?
“I’m so sorry, Sam. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, no one knows, really. We don’t talk about it much.” This is the other part of why I hate talking about it. People treat me different, with kid gloves. Oh, her father is dying, so we need to cut her some slack. As if I’m somehow incapable of dealing with it and doing my job. Living my life.
“How long have you known?”
I swiped moisture from my eyes. “A while, actually.” Final diagnosis came in six months ago, but we’ve been dealing with this for close to three years now, in and out of doctors’ offices and hospitals. Hasn’t been easy. Mom’s a wreck; family’s in turmoil. “Can magic heal people?” I whispered.
“No.”
He said it so quickly, so emphatically, I flinched as if slapped. I turned to see him walking away from me. When he faced me again, I knew what it meant to be a perp in the hot seat. Mayfair observed me, looking for reactions. No matter what he said, the man still didn’t trust me. I couldn’t blame him. Didn’t know if I trusted him yet either.
“Why not? You can burn things down, conjure water out of thin air, but you can’t cure cancer?”
“Would you let a blind surgeon perform open-heart surgery on you?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then you don’t want someone trying to heal you with magic. It doesn’t end well for anyone.”
I didn’t see it, but I also didn’t feel like pushing him on it, either. He’s the magic expert, after all. Maybe I could search those books upstairs on my own time, see if there might be something Mister Wizard doesn’t know.
He continued as if I’d never asked the question. “I can see everything you’re going through causing issues and forcing magic to the surface. But I still don’t understand how or why it hasn’t happened before. That’s what we need to figure out.”
I shrugged, starting to really feel the last couple of days getting to me. Tired, sore, angry, and the adrenaline I’d been running on with the occasional booster shot of caffeine, left me feeling stretched thin and ready to snap.
“Do you trust me, Sam?”
“Sure,” I lied. I don’t know you yet, Jack Mayfair, is what I should’ve said. Now that you have me alone in the dungeon in your basement, who knows what you’ll try?
I still had my gun, the weight on my hip lending me comfort as Mayfair motioned me to the center of the room. Something I hadn’t noticed before cut the stone floor here—a large inlaid circle. I traced its perfect path with my eyes before looking up to see Mayfair watching me again.
“Some call it a summoning circle,” he said. “Copper inlaid in the floor, no cracks or breaks anywhere. There are a lot of different beliefs out in the world when it comes to magic, including the importance of a circle like this one.”
“What does it do?”
“It acts as a focal point and a barrier. Inside a properly closed circle, nothing magical can harm you, and nothing magical can escape.”
“Sort of like a threshold?”
“No,” he answered. “This is actually more powerful. A circle is much smaller, for one. If you close it correctly, no magic can get in, no matter how powerful the user might be. They can sit outside, hammering all day and night with all they’ve got, and they’ll never get in until you let them in.”
“Or they shoot you.”
He grimaced. “Exactly. The circle is not a physical barrier. Won’t stop someone from simply walking across it and stabbing you, for example. Or shooting you from afar. But it will stop magic, and that’s important for what we’re going to be doing.”
“Which is?”
“Figuring out who you are, Sam. Where your power comes from. Your first use of magic had some pretty catastrophic results I’d rather not repeat.”
“I couldn’t control it,” I admitted.
“Not entirely true. I think it was all instinct, something buried deep inside you, reacting to protect you, protect your partner. You may not have been consciously controlling it, but your subconscious did.”
“Okay, so what are we going to do here?”
“Magic.” He smiled.
* * *
“What do you want me to do?”
Mayfair sat on the cold stone floor, legs crossed, knees touching. He closed his eyes and placed his hands, palms up, on his knees.
I followed his lead.
“You need to clear your mind. Let all the pain, anger, anguish, fear, and everything else you’ve been feeling bleed away.”
“Easier said than done.”
“True, so here’s a little trick. Are you familiar with meditation? Close your eyes and breathe in through your nose, real deep breath, then out through the mouth. Now again. Let all the tensions of the past couple of days melt away. Breathe in again, then out—that’s right. Listen to the sound of your heart beating—can you hear it? Become aware of the rhythm and how your breathing begins to slow it. The same rhythm flows throughout your body, pulsing with each beat. Focus on the beat, on the rhythm, and let it wash over you as you breathe in deep, then out again …”
I did as told, breathing in deeply, then blowing out through my mouth. Over and over, listening to Mayfair’s voice, so soft, so warm. I let my mind go. Turned out to be easier than I thought.
I could feel something changing. Like a rush of cool air, just enough to prickle my skin, and then everything became different, more crisp and clear than before, like walking in the mountains at sunrise after a night of rain. The air tastes better—cleaner—and sound travels for miles and the sun is so warm, so bright.
After that moment, everything melted away and became clear. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so relaxed and calm before or since. Mayfair mumbled something about imagining yourself in a restful place, like lounging on the beach or something. As soon as he said it, I got this image in my mind of sitting on the edge of a still lake, watching the gentle breeze make tiny ripples on the surface of the water. A mist slowly flowed out over the water, hiding the island I could barely see on the horizon. Someone stood there on the edge of the mist, half in, half out. She wore a white dress, long and flowing and trimmed in gold. She spoke to me, the sound swallowed by the distance between us. She waved me forward, but I couldn’t move. I wanted to go to her, wanted it with all my heart, and still couldn’t move. All around her, the sky turned bleak and cold, yet on her little island, a warm and bright light bloomed. I struggled against whatever held us back and away from each other. I could feel them moving around me, behind me, shuffling. A deep cold spread around me, and the scent of death and decay rose from the surface of the lake, choking the breath from my lungs. Across the lake, our eyes met, and I—
“Well. That’s strange.”
I blinked at Jack Mayfair. He stood over me, hand held out to help me up.
“What?” I asked. “Wait—are we done?”
“Yeah, we’re done. Let me show you.”
He waved his hand and I took it, letting him help me to my feet. My legs caved like rubber and I stumbled, catching myself against one of the stone columns. My back ached, and the beginning of a headache formed behind my eyes.
“How long were we sitting there?”
“Couple of hours,” he replied, turning away.
“Hours? That’s not possible. Five minutes, maybe ten, max!”
He chuckled. “At least two hours, maybe more. We solved one mystery but opened up a greater one.” He walked out of the circle and over to a workbench shoved up against
the wall. A weathered apothecary table, small enough all the drawers were at the perfect height for Mayfair to rummage through, rested on top of the bench. He slid the tall drawer on the right-hand side open and removed a bottle of liquor with a couple of glasses. Splashing what smelled like Irish whiskey into first one cup and then the other, he handed one to me and downed the other. Quick as a flash, his glass had another finger of whiskey.
“That was never two hours!” I said instead of taking the drink. I’d just thought about the need for a stiff drink, and now I had one and didn’t want it?
He pointed to the candles around the room, all of which were considerably shorter than they’d been when we’d started. “Two hours, Sam. Swear it.” He did another quick shot of whiskey, then refilled his glass and set glass and bottle on the bench. From two different drawers, he took out handfuls of colored sand and tossed them into the air between us. Rather than fall to the floor the way sand should, these grains danced around each other.
Mayfair took another sip from his glass and wiggled his fingers at the sand.
In response, the sand shifted and took on the shape and form of a human brain. A salmon-colored sand formed the pink, bumpy parts while a pale silver sand crisscrossed the image like a net hugging the surface. The net covered the brain pretty closely. Too closely. Squinting, I could make out nets inside each square of the larger net, and even smaller nets inside each square of those nets. It seemed to go on forever, getting smaller and smaller and more delicate.
Oddly beautiful and mesmerizing.
The image rotated to reveal areas where the net had gone slack or had torn—ugly, ragged little bits out of place with the rest. Other spots showed wear and strain as if they could burst any moment.
“What is this? What does it mean?” I asked.
“That’s you, Sam,” he said, coughing after another shot of whiskey. “Your brain. The net is something someone did to you.”
I stood a little straighter. “Did to me? Like a surgery or something?”
Into the Fire Page 6