by Cat Adams
After Special Agent Morris had heard Hasan admit that he’d killed the bad guys, he’d done some research on the ifrit. Today, he looked as good as ever, but even colder, in a gray suit the color of dirty ice with a snow-white shirt and a blue-and-gray striped tie. He introduced the others seated at the table. To his right sat the federal prosecutor, Jean Schulz. Despite the severe suit and the very obvious anti-siren charm she wore, I couldn’t help but think she’d have been the perfect model for an Oktoberfest poster, or for selling schnitzel or strudel or anything else German.
Our hostess had reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, and fresh-faced good looks that probably disguised a brutal, focused ambition, given that she’d made it pretty far up in what was still, generally, a male-dominated field. Just past her sat the two local detectives assigned to the Patel cases, Erik Allbright and his partner, Joe Johnson. Johnson was new to me. He was tall, wiry, and black.
Allbright looked much as he had the other night. At his feet sat a large leather case, big and boxy, with runes worked into the leather. I could feel the power of it from clear across the room. Beyond them was the district attorney, a short, balding man with a large nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. I tried to catch his name and somehow missed it.
I sat at the far end of the oval flanked by my attorneys, Barber having arrived before Roberto and me.
“If I could please have everyone’s attention.” Schulz’s voice was a soft alto, but pitched to carry. The murmured conversation around the table ended and we all looked at her.
“Ms. Graves, I want to thank you and your counsel for agreeing to be here. It is absolutely voluntary, as under the circumstances, both my office and the district attorney have declined to press charges against you.”
“How did you do that, anyway?” the DA asked.
“Do what?” I responded, although I was pretty sure I knew what he was referring to.
Within minutes of my being hauled off to the hospital from the beach, video from the morning’s events was leaked to the press. Crystal-clear images showing that I was defending myself and the Patels appeared over and over again on every network newscast: locally, nationally, even on some of the international stations. Even when the stations decided to stop running it, it would still appear. The anchor would be talking about a bombing in Beirut, but instead of footage of that, my video would run. I’d seen it myself on the hospital television. Over and over … and over again.
“The video,” he answered.
“Not me.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell us it was this…” Detective Allbright made a production of flipping out his notes and glancing at them, “Hasan?”
“No idea,” I admitted, “but it seems the most likely explanation.”
“Who and what is this Hasan?” the DA snarled at me. “How could he have done that? And why are you working for him?”
Special Agent Morris answered before I could. “Hasan is an ifrit. He was imprisoned in a djinn jar centuries ago by one of a special line of Guardians. I’m told that recently some humans engineered his escape, with assistance from the ghost of Connor Finn.”
“An ifrit.” Schulz glared at me, her voice a low hiss. “And you’re cooperating with him.”
“No. I am not.” I said each word clearly, distinctly, and with more than a little heat.
“Then how do you explain this?” Schulz hit the button on the little recorder in front of her. It showed the familiar beach scene from a different angle, and it had been cued to the exact moment when Hasan had slipped into my body.
“Ifrits are well known to be able to inhabit the bodies of the recently dead.” Roberto’s voice was calm, but his hand had moved to rest lightly on mine in a silent warning for me not to lose it. He’s worked with me often enough to know that I have a temper and to recognize that Schulz was deliberately trying to provoke it—to shake me up and see what popped out. “If you rewind your recorder approximately two minutes, you’ll see my client getting shot in the chest with an experimental weapon that hasn’t hit the open market yet.
“The blast was intended for her client, Rahim Patel. Ms. Graves placed herself in harm’s way as part of her duties as Mr. Patel’s bodyguard. Until this incident, these so-called ‘heart attack’ guns have been universally fatal, and, in fact, Celia Graves died. Hasan took over her body while she was helpless.”
“So, did you see the white light at the end of the tunnel? Or something else?” Allbright was sneering again. You’d almost think he didn’t like me, thought I was a villainous scumbag killer or something.
“Actually, I saw Connor Finn get sucked into hell.”
That made them all blink.
“Really?” The DA asked, and I could tell he was both shocked and fascinated.
“Yep.”
The temperature in the room began to drop abruptly. I shivered as my breath misted the air in front of me.
Joe Johnson shifted in his seat and crossed his legs in a casually feminine manner. “Really.” The voice that came from his lips wasn’t his—it was Abby’s. Apparently she’d decided to manifest after hearing Finn’s name.
Using Johnson’s body, she continued, “Connor Finn’s sole purpose for staying on this plane was to see Celia dead. She’d thwarted his plans, saved his enemies, and earned him the eternal displeasure of his master. When her body died, he was there to watch. He went to hell. She was revived thanks to the efforts of Rahim Patel.”
“Abby, why are you here?” I asked.
“They assume you’ll lie. I can’t. So I figured I could answer their questions.” She looked first at Schulz, then at the DA, with a sweet smile. “Ask away.”
“What did you have against Connor Finn? Why have you attached yourself to Graves here?” Detective Allbright asked. His voice was surprisingly steady for someone who had just seen his partner taken over by a ghost. Of course, the fact that she had taken him over meant that Johnson was a channeler. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time this had happened in front of Allbright.
“Connor Finn slaughtered my extended family, tried to kill my daughter, and had me tortured to death. I’m here until the last Finn is dead—and working with Celia … well, perhaps it will give me the opportunity to work off some of my own bad karma. If not, at least it’s never dull.”
That was the God’s honest truth. Frankly, I could use a little more dullness.
“Did Connor Finn kill the man in the hospital?” the DA asked.
“Yes. And Hasan killed the others. Well, all of them except the one Celia shot.”
“Why did he kill them?” Schulz asked.
“I don’t know,” Abby responded. “Why do ifrits do anything they do?”
“Why is Celia Graves working with the ifrit?” Schulz again.
“She’s not. But he intends to use her any way he can, whether she likes it or not.”
While the others had been shooting out spontaneous questions, Special Agent Morris had been making notes. He spoke now, in carefully measured tones. “Give us the names of the humans who arranged Hasan’s escape and the name and nature of the creature they’re working for.”
Abby had turned Johnson’s body to face Morris and opened her mouth to answer him when, from nowhere, a howling wind tore through the room.
With an explosive pop, the power to the entire building failed. We were instantly thrust into total darkness that smelled strongly of brimstone. The air, which had been cold from the presence of the ghost, went hot, dry, and oppressive.
“Abby? Are you there?” I called. Nothing. No response. That couldn’t be good.
“Fuck.” Allbright said what we all were thinking. There was the thud of a body hitting the floor. At the sound, Schulz called fire to her fingertips, giving us enough light to see Johnson sprawled out on the carpet.
Allbright leapt from his seat to kneel beside his partner, searching for a pulse, checking for breathing. Finding neither, he began doing CPR. Morris joined him, doing the compressions
while Allbright did the breathing.
Roberto whipped his cell phone from his pocket. “No signal. Celia, can you use your powers to call for an ambulance?”
“Not from in here,” Schulz interrupted. “The room’s spelled against outside communications, including telepathy. Even with the power out. Go into the hall. Your cell phone will work there.”
Roberto pushed away from the table and made his way out the door. I could hear him calling 911 as Johnson took his first unsteady breath. I heard his pulse stutter to life, unsteady at first, but gaining strength.
The men stopped CPR, but stayed at Johnson’s side. Meanwhile I had risen to my feet and was using the sixth sense I have for magic to try to locate the source of the heat. It was no longer pitch black in the room, thanks to some light coming in through the open door. I was able to move around without tripping on anything or running into anyone.
When I reached the spot where Johnson had been sitting, I felt a difference in the air, about two feet above the table. It was hotter there, and the smell of brimstone was stronger.
“Somebody pass me a gun with holy water.” I ordered. “I need to patch the hole until we can get some warrior priests in here.”
Morris was the only one who moved, drawing a One-Shot squirt gun from a holster at the small of his back. Instead of passing it to me, he took up a position beside me.
Allbright shook his head. “We don’t carry holy water except on the night shift. We don’t deal with the demonic—if anything like that comes up, we call for religious backup.”
“Shit! Okay, my pair of One-Shots should be in the case. Get them.” Here’s hoping they were still loaded. If they weren’t, we were screwed because the brimstone smell was getting stronger and I would have sworn I could hear booming hoofbeats coming closer.
Bless him, he didn’t argue.
“Tell the EMTs we’ll meet them in the lobby,” Schulz called to Roberto as she went to the fallen man. Squatting down, she set about getting ready to put him into a fireman’s carry. “We’re getting out of here.”
I didn’t bother watching her and the others any longer; I shifted into vampire mode, using my enhanced vision to focus on the weak spot in reality. A demon shouldn’t be able to come onto our plane without an invitation. Something was weird and wrong about this whole situation. I’d definitely talk to the experts about it later. Assuming we lived that long.
“Allbright—” I called.
“Got ’em.” He came up on Morris’s other side, passed me one of the little squirt guns, and raised the other. “You do realize that this isn’t going to do anything but piss him off,” he snapped—then took a shooter’s stance next to Morris, the little plastic water gun held steady with both hands.
“We’re not shooting the demon. We’re closing the hole. Which is…” I shifted, moving a little to my right until I found the perfect spot, “right there.” I pulled the trigger.
Holy water sprayed in a steady stream from my water pistol. When the liquid hit the invisible wall of power, the opening in reality flashed into visibility for an instant: a ragged tear about a foot wide, its edges the burning red of embers. There was a loud hiss as the water steamed away; the smell of brimstone grew stronger. Through the opening I heard a furious bellow. The hoofbeats sped up, thundering toward us like a galloping horse that weighed several tons.
Allbright and Morris fired at the spot that had been revealed by my shot. When the breach flared to visibility this time, it was smaller and dimmer. The holy water was working. As the last drop from our guns hit, I felt the rip close.
“Is it shut?” Allbright asked me as he lowered the now-empty squirt gun.
“We’ve patched it. But the seal won’t hold long. We need to get out of here right now, and evacuate the building.”
I wasn’t kidding. There was no time to waste. The heat in the room hadn’t abated at all. If anything, it was getting warmer, and there was a growing presence in the air, a sentience that made my heart thunder in my ears.
A mighty blow hit the patch with a boom like the clap of thunder at the point of a lightning strike. Then another.
“Oh shit.” Morris and Allbright both looked at me with wide eyes. Glancing at them, I realized we were the last ones in the room. Everyone else had left.
“Time to go.” I announced.
“Ya think?” Morris was out the door in an instant, with me right at his heels and Allbright close behind. As we dashed down the hall, we passed firemen and a pair of warrior religious running toward the conference room. The warriors were wearing orange robes that bore no resemblance to Matty DeLuca’s Catholic raiment. Whatever religion they represented, as they passed us, the holy items they clutched started glowing like magnesium flares with the power of their faith. I wondered if I should go back and show them exactly where the problem had been, but then decided to take a different tack.
“There was a weak spot two feet above the table on the right side. We patched it with holy water, but it won’t hold long,” I yelled to them.
The last priest in line gave me a curt nod of acknowledgment. The first fireman to reach the door shouted, “Right. Go!”
I hesitated, still uncertain.
“Come on, Graves. Let’s go! They’ve got it.” Allbright was holding the door to the emergency stairs open for me. Behind him I could see a steady stream of federal workers evacuating the building. Morris was nowhere in sight; I assumed he was already on the way down.
He was right. It was the priests’ job, not mine. And I can’t tell you how glad I was about that.
I took a deep breath of air that didn’t reek of brimstone and we stepped through the door together. It was only once we were in the stairwell, descending with the rest of the crowd, that I noticed the calm, female voice transmitting everywhere, like a magical public-address system.
“Evacuation protocol in effect. This is not a drill. Proceed to your assigned exit and report.”
“Everybody seems pretty calm,” I observed to Allbright.
“Ever since 9/11, every government office has been required to do monthly evacuation drills. People find them annoying, but they are effective,” he explained.
Of course, they don’t know we’re running away from pissed-off demons, I thought to myself.
Demons and an ifrit. Morris’s grim voice sounded in my head. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into, Graves?
His mental voice didn’t feel snide or judgmental. Maybe standing side by side, sealing the breach, had changed his opinion of me. Still, the question wasn’t one to be taken lightly. And I needed to answer it if I wanted to stay both alive and in possession of my soul.
14
Allbright and I exited the staircase into the atrium. I’d had to pass through it coming in, but I’d been in such a hurry I hadn’t really noticed it. Now that the space was full of federal employees who continued to stream down from the upper floors, I couldn’t speed through it, and the place made an impact on me. Three stories tall, it had towering windows on all four sides, which let in brilliant sunlight that shone off the marble floors and made the water in the burbling fountain sparkle like diamonds.
There were big marble planters, their wide edges forming seating, scattered at convenient intervals throughout the atrium. Some were square, others circular. Each planter was filled with full-sized trees and tropical flowers. I even saw a few birds flying around. Presumably they’d gotten in through the revolving doors and had found life inside comfortable enough to want to stay.
Crowds of suited men and women shuffled forward in a steady river toward all the available exits—except for a small one that the firefighters, police, and other emergency personnel were using.
Standing on tiptoe I saw our group, tucked in a corner away from the main flow of traffic. A couple of EMTs had a vigorously protesting Johnson strapped to a gurney and connected to some equipment.
Schulz waved to get our attention. I tapped Allbright on the shoulder and pointed. It took a lit
tle effort, but we managed to shove our way through the crowd and over to them. Roberto moved aside on the planter where he was sitting, clearing a seat for me. I was glad. All the adrenaline from what had happened upstairs was draining away, leaving me shaky and weak.
I sat down a little abruptly, resting my elbows on my knees, my head drooping a little.
“Well, that ended badly,” Schulz observed.
“Not nearly as badly as it could have,” Allbright answered. “Good thinking, Graves.”
The prosecutor glared at him.
“I’d suggest you bring in an exorcist to clean that room once the priests have cleared the building for occupancy,” Morris said.
“Yes, we will. Although how I’m supposed to pay for that with the budget cuts…” She shook her head.
“The church might do it as a freebie,” I offered. “If you need me to, I can make some calls. I know a couple of people.”
She gave me a look that told me she planned to hold me responsible for this mess. Totally unfair, but there you go. Some people need to assign blame.
“I’ll manage,” she said, her tone arid. “Frankly, I’d rather you left. The sooner the better.”
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t trust myself to be diplomatic.
“Detective Allbright,” Schulz called, “do you have the paperwork for Ms. Graves to sign?”
Allbright was still standing by the gurney, one hand resting on his partner’s arm. I heard him tell Johnson, “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” before he trotted over to us. Behind him, the EMTs began wheeling the gurney through the rapidly thinning crowd, toward the main entrance.
Coming up to me, the detective reached into his pocket and drew out a stack of folded paper and a pen. Passing the pages to me, he bent down over the case, which was sitting on the floor at Roberto’s feet. I had no idea who had carried the case out of the conference room, or when, but it made me happy to see it. Allbright didn’t bother with a key, but I heard him chanting a spell to release magical protections.