Spell Blind - eARC

by DAVID B. COE

  Even after I had turned off the Z-ster, she continued to sit there, staring, shaking her head, and muttering to herself.

  “What is it you keep saying?”

  Her head whipped around in my direction, her eyes widening. “Was I saying that out loud?” she asked.

  “You were saying something. I couldn’t make it out.”

  She gestured vaguely at her window, shaking her head. “This is so beautiful. And I can’t believe I didn’t bring my camera.”

  “So you are a photographer,” I said. “I saw the work in your place and I wondered if it was yours.”

  “It’s mine. But I’m hardly a photographer. I have my dad’s old Nikon FE and I fool around with it some. I wish I had it now.”

  I grinned. “We can come back.”

  Billie nodded and smiled, and we got out of the car.

  It was hot still, though the sun was low. It angled across the hills, casting long shadows and bathing the sandstone and saguaros in rich, golden light.

  She was wearing her denim jacket and she took it off now. I chanced a quick peek at her shoes, realizing that I hadn’t even bothered to check if she was wearing something suitable for hiking. Turns out she was wearing flat soles, which, while not the best for a desert walk, were far better than, say, heels. I hadn’t thought that she was the stiletto type.

  I still had my pack with me and I grabbed that now. The water I’d put in the bottles this morning would be warm, and would taste of plastic. I didn’t expect us to walk far enough to get thirsty, but a person should never go into the desert without carrying water, and I wasn’t a skilled enough weremyste to conjure a spring for us if we needed it.

  We started up a small hill and, clearing it, descended into a shallow basin filled with saguaros and ocotillos, teddy-bear chollas and prickly pear. A lizard sunning itself on a rock scuttled out of sight, and a canyon wren sang from some unseen perch, its call cascading downward, liquid and melodic. Billie stopped, and shading her eyes with an open hand, turned a full circle, drinking it all in.

  “It always looks so empty from the road,” she said.

  “It does,” I agreed. “You can’t appreciate the desert from a car. You need to wade out into it. Feel the heat, smell the air, listen to the sounds. I think that’s another reason why I like it so much. You have to work at it a little bit. You have to earn it.”

  We walked on, neither of us talking. The sky was shading to azure, and everything seemed to be glowing in the late afternoon light. A red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead, twisting its tail in the wind.

  “You know what all these are called?” Billie asked, pointing at the ocotillos and chollas.

  “Most of them, yeah.”

  “So, tell me.”

  I started rattling off the names, pointing out each plant to her. A pair of sparrows popped up on top of a brittlebush and then vanished again just as quickly.

  “Black-throated sparrows,” I said.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “My dad taught me a lot when I was young, and I’ve spent a lot of time hiking. You pick stuff up.”

  “I like that you know it.”

  I smiled. “Then you’ll love this.”

  I pulled out one of the water bottles, walked off the trail to a cluster of bright green shrubs, and poured some water over the leaves. Instantly, the air was redolent: a sweet, pungent scent that I couldn’t possibly describe.

  “My God! What is that?”

  “Desert creosote.”

  She frowned. “I thought creosote came from coal.”

  “Some does. Some comes from trees. But this is different. Creosote is the name of the plant. I forget the Latin name. But if there’s a single scent that makes me think of the desert, this is it. After a rainstorm the entire basin would smell like this.”

  We walked on, crossing through a second basin and then climbing another gentle incline to a rocky ledge that offered a clear westward view. The sun hung low above the horizon, and already the breeze was growing cooler.

  Billie’s face was flushed from the climb, but she didn’t seem at all winded. I had the feeling that she worked out.

  “I thought we’d stop here,” I said. “Maybe watch the sun go down before driving back for dinner.”

  She nodded. “Sounds great.”

  We sat on the stone, which was still warm. A nighthawk flew over, bobbing and weaving on narrow wings, and a yellow butterfly floated past. It occurred to me that I hadn’t thought about Claudia Deegan or the red sorcerer since driving out of the city.

  “This was good for me,” I said. “Thanks for coming along.”

  She was sitting cross-legged, and she had her eyes closed and her faced tipped toward the sun. “Thanks for bringing me.” After some time she turned to me, shading her face with a hand once more. “Can I ask you about your investigation? Off the record?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do you think this man they arrested is the Blind Angel killer?”

  “I know he’s not,” I said, without thinking.

  Her eyebrows went up. “You know it?”

  Trust and comfort could be dangerous at times.

  “What I mean is I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy. He had his reasons for hating the Deegans, but that doesn’t explain the murders that came before Claudia. I just don’t think it’s him.”

  I didn’t know if she agreed with my assessment or not, but I could tell she was curious about the certainty with which I’d answered the question. To my relief, she didn’t press the issue. Instead she asked, “Don’t you find it depressing spending so much time investigating killings like these?”

  “I wouldn’t call it depressing,” I said. “There’s something sad about any crime, and killings are the worst. But when you’re investigating a murder, you don’t think about it that way. You try to figure out why and how, and who, of course. It’s a puzzle. And when I solve a case I feel like I’ve given something to the victim, and to the victim’s family.” I tried to smile, but I don’t think I succeeded. “These days, though, I mostly work for insurance companies, and corporations, and families falling apart at the seams.” I glanced at her. “This is the first time I’ve worked a murder since leaving the force.”

  “Really? So then I suppose you’re sort of enjoying yourself.”

  I gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. Sick as that probably sounds, I’d rather be doing this than insurance work.”

  The sun was slipping down behind the distant mountains—the Sand Tanks and the Saucedas, the Craters and the Mohawks—coloring each ridge line in successively paler shades of blue and purple, and painting the western sky orange and red.

  “I draw,” I said, blurting it out. As soon as I spoke the words, I felt my face begin to color.

  A small smile touched Billie’s lips. “Excuse me?”

  “I said that I draw. I’m not sure why I told you that. I was watching the sun go down and it popped into my head.”

  “What do you draw?”

  I shrugged. “Landscapes mostly. Desert scenes. I use colored pencils and charcoal. Sometimes I use watercolor paints, too.”

  “Can I see your drawings?”

  “Sure,” I said. “And I’d like to see more of your photos.”

  Billie nodded, then turned back to the sunset.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which is fine until twilight rolls around, at which point it makes for somewhat plain sunsets. But Billie seemed happy, and as we walked back to the car in the deepening blues of dusk she slipped her hand into mine.

  I glanced down at our hands and then at her, unable to hide my surprise.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Hardly,” I said.

  “So where are we having dinner?”

  “Your choice,” I said. “My treat.”

  She grinned. “All right. I know just the place.”

  “The place,” turned out to be a Mexican dive in the western part of Mesa, on a side street off of Southern. I had to
hand it to her: It was one of the few Mexican restaurants in this part of the Phoenix area that I didn’t know, and it was crowded with a mix of university students and Latino families. I had no doubt that the food would be excellent

  Upon returning to the city, though, I felt myself growing tense again. I made us wait for a table in the back of the restaurant, though there were a couple of open ones near the front when we arrived. And then I insisted on sitting against the back wall, so that I could watch the door and windows.

  By the time we were seated and the waitress was handing us our menus, Billie was frowning at me. No half-smile either. This was all frown.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “That bit with the table? The fact that you practically raced me over here so that you could sit in that chair?”

  “I don’t like to sit with my back to the door,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough detective flicks to know that I’m not the first person to be like that.”

  “That’s a load of crap, Fearsson. What’s this about?”

  I put down the menu and met her gaze. “I really don’t like to have my back to the door. And since this case has started, I’ve had the feeling, at times, that I’m being watched, followed.” Hunted.

  “Do you think you’re * * * in danger?” Her frown deepened. “I feel so weird even saying it. Now I feel like I’m in one of those movies.”

  I rubbed a hand over my face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’m scared for you, not for myself.”

  Hadn’t Namid said much the same thing? Nice to know everyone was so worried about me.

  “I appreciate that. I don’t know if I’m in danger or not. I haven’t been threatened or anything like that. I haven’t even seen anyone following me. It’s a feeling; nothing more.” I picked up the menu again and shook my head, eager to find some way—any way—to reassure her. “Who knows? Maybe it’s the strain of working a murder case again. I’m getting paranoid.”

  She still wasn’t reading her menu. “Was that a problem for you before? Paranoia?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. You don’t seem like the paranoid type. And you also don’t seem like the type to act this way unless you were really concerned.”

  Did I mention that she was smart?

  “You’re right,” I said. “That’s why I wanted to sit back here, and why I feel better having a view of the door and the street.”

  “Should we leave?”

  I shook my head. “No. That would be giving in to my fear, and that’s exactly what I don’t want to start doing.”

  She nodded.

  “So what’s good here?” I asked.

  Billie smiled and picked up her menu. “Everything.”

  As it turned out, the food was great and the place had Dos Equis Amber on tap, which you don’t find in a lot of restaurants. We stayed for two hours, talking, laughing a lot. We even spent a little time just sitting, looking into each other’s eyes. I swear. I don’t think I’d ever done that with anyone.

  After dinner, I drove her home. I went so far as to walk her up to the door. My dad would have been proud.

  She got out her keys, but then leaned against the door frame. “What are you doing tomorrow, Fearsson?”

  “Not sure yet. I have some more digging around to do, and I have to go see a band play tomorrow night.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “A band?”

  “It’s work, not pleasure. I need to speak with the manager of Robo’s about the guy the police have arrested, and as it happens, Randy Deegan’s band is playing there.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “I like music.”

  I laughed. “I told you it was work.”

  “But don’t you need a cover, someone to make it seem like you’re a regular guy going for the music?”

  “You mean my girl Friday?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sure, why not? Eight o’clock?”

  “It’s a date.”

  Silence. Our eyes locked again.

  “This was fun,” she said. “More than fun. It was * * *”

  “It was the best day I’ve had in a really long time,” I said for her.

  “For me, too.” She stepped forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Good night, Fearsson.”

  “Good night.”

  I waited until she was in the house before walking back to the Z-ster. And as I approached the car I slowed, trying again to sense the red sorcerer. Once more, I felt nothing. He was out there, of course. Somewhere. But for tonight at least, he had let me be.

  I peered up at the moon, which was radiant and big, shading toward full. Just seeing it made my head start to throb. I climbed into the Z-ster and closed my eyes, taking long, slow breaths.

  One more night. I’d have my date with Billie at Robo’s. And then the phasing would begin.

  CHAPTER 13

  Often on the cusp of a phasing, my dreams become fragmented to the point of incoherence, as if the insanity that’s about to be brought on by the moon has crept into my sleep. But not this night.

  All night long I dreamed of the red sorcerer, and in every dream he was tracking me, hunting me down. I’d wake from one dream, fall back asleep, and slip right into another; my mind was like a flat stone skipping along the surface of a pond. At one point I dreamed that I was back in the monument with Billie, running along a dried river bed, leading her, pulling her by the hand. I kept staring back over my shoulder, expecting to see the red sorcerer. I could feel him behind us, and as much as I wanted to get away, to get Billie away, I also wanted to see his face, to find out who he was.

  We reached a bend in the riverbed, and I hesitated, though now Billie tugged at my hand, trying to get me to run on. She said something to me that I didn’t hear, and I turned to her. And as I did, I saw her eyes widen at something she could see past my shoulder. She screamed, and I spun to look.

  Which, of course, is when the phone rang, waking me from the dream. I groped for the receiver, missed it the first time, got it the second.

  “Fearsson,” I mumbled.

  “Sleeping late, I see,” Kona said. “You alone, or did you have another date?”

  I grunted a laugh. “Both.”

  “Good. What do you have for me?”

  “So much for the social niceties.”

  “You’re lucky you got as much as you did. I’m having a bad day, partner. It’s not even nine o’clock and my day’s shot to hell.”

  I sat up, running a hand through my tangled hair. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  “It’s nothing you don’t already know. Gann is being arraigned right now, and I’ve got no way of proving to Hibbard or Arroyo or anyone else that he’s innocent.”

  Right. “I’ll see what else I can find,” I said, forcing myself awake. “I didn’t get much from Q or Luis, but there’s another place I can go today.”

  “We don’t have much time.”

  I chuckled humorlessly. “Don’t I know it.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that our friend has taken a particular interest in me. I don’t know why; I guess he knows I’m after him. But he’s taken the measure of my warding three times now and—”

  “You’ve lost me, partner. It’s that mumbo-jumbo stuff again.”

  “Sorry. He’s been testing me in a way, and he’s done it three times, which in magical circles basically means that he owns me. The next time, if he wants to hurt me, or kill me, or turn me into a toad, he can pretty much have his way.”

  “And you’re guessing it won’t be the toad thing.”

  I grinned, despite the tightness in my gut. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Well then, watch yourself,” she said.

  “I will.”

  I hung up, showered, and was soon on my way back to Mesa. There was a small park near Falcon Field where I knew other weremystes would be gathere
d today in anticipation of the full moon. The drive was as slow as one would expect on a weekday morning, and by the time I was parking the Z-ster I could see the crowd gathered among the small tents and plywood stalls.

  Passersby would have thought it nothing more than another small farmers’ market, of which there was no shortage in the Phoenix area. This market, though, was far from typical. We referred to it as the Moon Market, because it only turned up for a few days right before the phasing. Rather then selling produce and jams and homemade salsas, the sellers at the Moon Market sold herbs and oils, crystals and talismans, elixirs, incense, and bundled blends of flowers and native plants that resembled the sage sticks burned by the Pueblo people. Many of the items were similar to those Q sold at his place, only in far greater numbers and varieties, and often at much better prices. Some peddled their own spells, which they taught to other weremystes for a fee. Some sold knives or candles that they claimed to have charmed.

  As usual, there were as many wannabes circulating among the tents as there were actual weremystes. Sometimes tourists stumbled across the market as well. They took pictures of the various displays and bought the occasional geode or quartz spear. But it was always easy to spot the weremystes in the crowd, even if direct sunlight obscured the wavering effect from their magic. They weren’t there for the fun of it, and they weren’t shopping for pretty trinkets. They moved around the market with quiet urgency, seeking something—anything—that might take the edge off the coming phasing.

  I’d tried a few of the herbs early on: sachets of stargrass and alyssum that I was told to leave near all the windows and doors of my house; blends of anise, bay, pennyroyal, and rosemary that I was supposed to put in pots of boiling water. Once I even bought a wand made of mulberry. As far as I could tell, none of them had done anything to ease the pull of the moon.

  But other weremystes swore by remedies like these, and who was I to argue? I knew cops who used one kind of aspirin, but not others. Different people have different headaches; same with phasings.