Unholy Magic dg-2

by Stacia Kane

  His black-ringed eyes glittered faintly as he shook his head. “I apologize, Cesaria. I find myself in a rather philosophical mood today.”

  “Anything I can help you with, sir?” The minute the words left her mouth she realized how much she meant them. It wasn’t simply that she’d always liked him; it was the desire to deal with problems that had a possible solution. Or at least problems that belonged to someone else, for a change.

  But he shook his head. “Thank you, no. ’Twill pass. What are you working on?”

  “What?” Her hand covered the paper as much as it could. Not enough, though. Some of the squiggles and half-runes she’d drawn peeped out from around the edges of her palm. “Oh, nothing. Just playing, you know.”

  “May I see?”

  Shit. How could she say no without looking suspicious?

  She couldn’t. So she handed the notebook over, while her cheeks started to ache from artificial cheer.

  “Creating a new sigil?” He glanced up to see her nod. “Interesting. What’s it for? Protection, I assume, since you have Higam there. But what are these for?”

  “Actually, I’m trying to recreate a sigil.” Seized by madness or inspiration, or a mixture of both, she grabbed the camera and turned it around. The photo had been taken close up, so close Daisy’s dead face did not appear. Hell, her neck didn’t even appear. Nothing indicated that the sigil she showed Elder Griffin was burned into a corpse.

  If she hadn’t been watching him so carefully, she might not have noticed the delicate lift of his eyebrows, the blink, before his forehead smoothed. Had he seen that before?

  “I saw it the other day,” she said, before he could ask. Technically it wasn’t a lie. “Thought it looked interesting.”

  “On whom? Where did you see it?”

  “Um, in Cross Town.” Now that was a lie. “Just some woman in a restaurant. Why?”

  “Yes …” He didn’t look at her, though.

  “Elder Griffin? What is it?”

  “What? Oh, nothing. It merely reminded me of … well. It looks a bit like something I saw once years ago, while I was training. Did you know I was one of the first here to enter the program? Before Haunted Week proved our Truth to the world.”

  She nodded. Ordinarily she’d enjoy hearing his stories of the world BT and the early days of the Church, but today more important issues pressed on her mind. “What was the sigil you saw years ago, sir? If I may ask.”

  He shook his head. “No, on second thought I don’t believe they are so alike after all.”

  “But—”

  The camera clicked back onto the table. “I’m sorry, dear. ’Tis far later than I realized. I should go.”

  “Please, I just—” Fuck! “I just want to know what it’s for, I was hoping … well, you know how pleased I am to be working with other departments, and I thought maybe if I could really expand my esoteric knowledge, I could do it more often, is all. Couldn’t you please just tell me what the one you saw does? Or if you know any of the elements?”

  She widened her eyes, let her mouth pucker slightly. Not enough to look like she was trying to seduce him, but enough to catch his sympathy. She hoped. Every muscle in her body tensed. Please … please …

  He bowed his head, lifted it again. “I really know nothing about it. But we have better sigils, as you know. Ones that protect much more consistently. Some of those we learned in my youth were not as sa—not as foolproof as what we now use. I appreciate your desire to advance yourself, but I fear moving down such a twisted path will not do you the good you seek.”

  “I just want to know what it does, is all, I don’t plan to use it.”

  He sighed, watched her for a minute while her still dry eyes started feeling sticky with the need to blink.

  Finally he spoke. “I’m sorry, dear. I cannot, not today. Perhaps another time. Good morrow, now. Facts are Truth.”

  “Facts are Truth,” she echoed, but she didn’t hear the words leave her mouth. Didn’t hear the tapping of his buckled shoes on the floor as he exited the Restricted Room and reached the main library.

  When he was in training, he’d said. Either he’d spoken without thinking, or he’d been giving her a hint. Either way, it took her only a few minutes to find the old training manuals, in the far corner beneath the smiling golden Buddha.

  The Buddha and the other outdated religious relics lining the walls were one of the reasons she enjoyed doing work in the Restricted Room so much. Of course the Archive building contained even more: Christian Bibles hundreds of years old, printed on paper so fine she could almost see through it, an entire room full of Nativities, a Buddhist temple reconstructed beneath the high ceiling. Korans and prayer rugs, statues of Hindu gods and goddesses with gold leaf still clinging to their stone arms like a luxurious rash.

  None of it meant anything anymore, but the images still fascinated her. Once they’d given humanity solace. Now they sat in a museum, viewable only by those who applied and were approved for a pass. How quickly importance deserted people and things, how quickly the revered became the forgotten.

  She shuddered and grabbed the dusty books, flipping to the back to check the index, then scanning the pages to see if she could find the sigil. Mustiness rose from the pages, filling her nose, making her eyes burn. She swiped at them with the back of her hand and kept looking.

  Nothing in the first three books. She was just about ready to give up when she found it.

  Not the sigil she was looking for, not exactly. It appeared to be missing several lines; one entire letter or rune? No way of knowing, really. It could be one, could be three, thanks to the overlapping nature of sigil lines. Still this was better than nothing, like a sketch had been done of Daisy’s before it was finished.

  She’d been right. It was protective … but not for the dead. The sigil was designed for Church employees, to hold their souls in their bodies in case of severe injury.

  The Chester Airport case had hinged in part on a dead man whose soul had been trapped in his body, held by magic and used to power a dark spirit. For a second Chess’s blood ran cold. Fuck, there couldn’t be another—

  No. No, Daisy had been dead. The other hookers Terrible and Lex had mentioned were dead.

  So why had their souls been fixed to their bodies, when their bodies had then been emptied and discarded? What were the other runes in the sigil and what did they do?

  She sighed and snapped a picture of the book, zooming in to get the printing at the bottom. In the Church’s early days every employee had been required to mark this sigil somewhere on their person before doing battle with spirits. Seemed like a pretty good idea to Chess; she wondered why that had changed and the sigil had fallen out of use, even out of teaching.

  In her classes, starting at age fifteen and continuing until she graduated at twenty-one, they’d been taught hundreds of protective sigils, mainly to study and use as a basis for designing their own. Each Church employee was supposed to create and develop their own individual system, their own way of interacting with the herbs, symbols, and energies of magic. Grade points were taken off for simply copying the Church’s designs.

  So it was entirely possible that this sigil, which had apparently been designed sometime in the mid-twentieth century, had been used as the basis for the one she’d found on Daisy … entirely possible, given Elder Griffin’s discomfort, that the variation used on Daisy had been used before. With results so disturbing that they’d removed the sigil from Church training entirely.

  She closed the books and checked the ornate carved-wood clock. Its eldritch ivory face told her it was almost three. Time to go. She planned to head to the Pyle house that night and wanted to take a nap.

  Besides, unless Elder Griffin changed his mind and came back to tell her everything he knew, her chances of finding out more about the sigil were nonexistent. There might be something about it in the files, but considering there were thousands of them, she didn’t much want to look. Better to compare the two pic
tures and see if she could separate the differing elements.

  Most of the employees had left already. Chess descended the wide marble staircase in the main hall in silence, nearly the only living thing in that vast space of dark wood and stone.

  The Reckonings had ended for the day, too, although one man still hunched over the stocks with his wrists and neck trapped. An overnighter, she guessed. Thievery, perhaps, or … yes. Red gloves—now spattered with bits of food, as were his bowed head and pale stockings—indicated he was an adulterer. An unlucky one, too, if his spouse pressed the point this far.

  She passed him, gave his Church guard a short nod. Icy wind cut through the fabric of her coat as she trudged through the dead grass and over the cement to her car, sitting alone along the wall at the far end of the lot.

  Her keys were in her pocket, the metal still warm from being indoors. She slipped the car key into the lock, opened the door, and froze as energy raced from the door handle up her arm. Black energy, thick and hot, making heat blossom in her chest and between her legs. Her heart did a flip in her chest; not just sex, but fear. The darkness in that power, the pure voracious evil lurking beneath the boiling surface …

  Two eyes sat on the driver’s seat.

  Eyes, sitting placidly on the gray fabric. Looking at her. They were looking at her. They knew who she was. Knew she was involved.

  And whoever they were, they weren’t pleased.

  Chapter Nine

  Being married, being joined by love and blood and magic in the eyes of the Church and society, is a sacred trust. We cleave ourselves unto our spouses in hope, in love, and in obligation.

  —Mrs. Increase’s Advice for Ladies, by Mrs. Increase; from the Foreword by Elder Thomas

  As she wound her sneaky way through the barren forest behind the Pyles’ house, she decided she was glad she’d gone ahead and worn black. Not much of a choice, really, as she didn’t own any white clothing; still, the prospect of scaling the broad side of the house, standing out like an ink spot on a tablecloth, wasn’t one she looked forward to. Especially not when every time she turned her back she felt phantom eyes marking it.

  Hopefully she wouldn’t be so exposed for long. Hopefully they hadn’t discovered the popped lock and the missing wire at Arden’s bedroom window.

  Cold wind howled through the empty branches. Good. It masked whatever noise she made, gave her some cover until she reached the house. From what she could tell, the security team made rounds every thirty or forty minutes—she’d waited in the woods long enough to see them go by twice—but who knew if one of them might decide to up the schedule just for fun? She couldn’t sit out there all night trying to figure out their pattern.

  That morning before the service she’d managed to get her hands on a Church-issue expanding ladder. It looked like nothing more than a metal tube, painted a pale gray, with a few short spikes sticking out of it in two neat rows. She pulled it out now and turned the dial on the bottom to thirteen feet, then knelt in the grass and pressed the button.

  The rest of the ladder emerged, like a snake from its old skin. More foot- and handholds popped from the sides. The ladder wasn’t sturdy, it wasn’t the safest thing to climb. But it did the job, and it collapsed on itself again quickly.

  She unfolded the prongs at the bottom and jammed them as far into the frozen dirt as she could, then started climbing.

  The ladder jiggled under her weight but held. Hopefully her luck would do the same.

  It did at Arden’s window, at least. The pane slid up easily. Chess hauled herself inside and retracted the ladder, remembering to change her grip to avoid pinching her fingers when the bottom got within reach. The ladder went back into her bag; several wires and baggies came out. Much as she wanted to explore Arden’s room, especially that closet, she had to set up her wards and warnings first.

  The sound of laughter made her jump when she opened the door, but the hall was dark and empty. The party was downstairs, and loud enough to wake the dead. Or not, which Chess fervently hoped would be the case.

  In 1924 BT, five people had died on this land, brutally murdered. The newspaper clipping Roger Pyle had included with his documents told part of the story, but she’d had to go to the Church records for the rest of it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Michael Cleveden; their adult son, Andrew; and two servants. One of their neighbors—this part of the city had been a small town in its own right at that time—had stopped by that morning hoping to borrow a cup of sugar. Finding the place oddly silent, she’d let herself in through the unlatched door and found them in their beds, the rooms awash with blood. The Church had absorbed the police records, which included photos and suspect interviews. There hadn’t been many of either. The Clevedens had been popular in their small town. Nice people.

  Too bad that niceness wouldn’t have carried over into death. If there was anything more mindlessly violent, more full of rage, than the ghost of a murder victim, Chess didn’t know what it could be. And she didn’t want to find out.

  “Shedka ramedina,” she whispered, sprinkling white salt in a semicircle at the top of the staircase. With her left pinkie she etched a warding sigil into the air, felt it breathe into life and set. It wasn’t perfect. She would have much preferred setting it at the bottom of the stairs. But if all went well, any partygoer planning on coming up here—not that many would, she imagined, given the supposed ghosts—would decide it wasn’t so important after all.

  There was a handy electrical outlet in the wall below a long table. Chess plugged her floor alarm into it and switched the alarm on, then pulled out her box cutter and made a tiny slit in the carpet by the baseboard.

  The music downstairs grew louder. She glanced up, saw nothing, and went back to work, sliding the alarm under the carpet until the tiny lump at the end hit the opposite wall. Good. She’d checked the system before she came. If anyone broke the weak force field emitted by the alarm, the unit on her belt would buzz.

  Time for Arden’s room. Chess clamped her penlight between her teeth and started hunting.

  So many clothes hung in the closet that the pole bowed under their weight. They were almost impossible to move. Chess scooped up as many as she could and set them on the floor, making careful note of their order. Next she shone the light along the ceiling. Nothing again.

  Her electric meter came from the bag next. She set the sensor on the floor with no result, and tried various places along the wall. Only one spot beeped, and it was low-level enough to make her certain it was nothing more than regular wiring in the wall.

  So what was dear little Arden hiding?

  A small collection of decidedly inappropriate clothing, for one thing—spangly halter tops, skirts Chess imagined barely covered the girl’s bottom. A small white shoe box …

  Pay dirt. Well, not pay dirt, but items of interest. A few keshes, a little baggie with more weed waiting to be rolled. Chess sniffed it, made a face. Nowhere near as good as Bump’s product. A razor blade. Hmm. No straw, though, so unless Arden clipped fresh ones every time, she wasn’t cutting lines with it. Condoms. A tacky butterfly necklace made of different shades of gold. A gift from a boyfriend, maybe, that Arden’s parents didn’t know about? Either way it didn’t matter. None of this was Chess’s business.

  Twenty-five more minutes of searching convinced her the girl’s room was clean, which sucked. But then, nothing had ever manifested in this room, had it? So that was a point in Chess’s favor.

  She replaced the clothing, then set the light on the carpet by the bed in order to slide out the photo albums and various books and papers under there, but they gave her nothing either. No information on ghosts, no books on electronics, no wires or machines anywhere. Nothing. She put those back as well, and opened the door.

  The noise level on the lower floor had abated somewhat. Was the party ending?

  Knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to resist, Chess sneaked along the hall to the top of the stairs. Her transmitter buzzed when she crossed the warnin
g line, a nice little additional test of the system.

  She lay on her belly on the carpet and peeked around the corner.

  From here she could see a small slice of the couch. Men lined up behind it, their eyes intent, their hands wrapped around their …

  They were naked. Watching the bodies on the couch, writhing together. Kym Pyle half-sitting, her skin glowing with sweat, kissing a dark-haired man Chess hadn’t seen before while he kneaded her breasts like bread dough. Kym’s hands reached down her flat stomach, tangling in another man’s sleek, swept-back hair.

  Against the wall, behind the spectators, stood Roger Pyle, his pelvis moving energetically against a woman whose face Chess couldn’t see.

  A swingers’ party.

  No wonder they’d sent Arden away. Although the girl probably knew. Her comment about her mother’s exhibitionism now took on a whole new level of meaning.

  Chess gave a mental shrug. The ritualized sex below, with its furtive lack of spontaneity, meant nothing to her. She was relieved to notice it didn’t even call up any bad memories, though this sort of scene wasn’t new to her. Those parts of her mind were blessedly silent, and she was grateful for that.

  One last glance—another man had joined Roger and his partner—and she scooted back toward the Pyle bedroom.

  She should start in the bathroom. Should, but didn’t want to. Instead she checked along the ceiling, looking for cracks in the crown molding or the glint of projector lenses. The Pyles hadn’t actually seen anything in this room, but this was where the most direct attack—the only violent attack—had allegedly taken place.

  Next she checked the bed, pulling back the thick comforter and soft silk sheets. She hoisted up the heavy mattress and peeked beneath it, but found only the box spring.