Incarnate (A Spellmason Chronicle)

by Anton Strout

  “Can’t you people call first?” she asked. “I don’t want to explain gunshots to my neighbors when I accidentally fire on you.”

  “Forgive me,” I said, “but I do not think phones are meant to be used by our kind.”

  “At least not the modern ones,” Emily said with a smile. “I might be able to master a rotary with these claws of mine, but I don’t think the phone company is really ready to deal with our kind just yet.”

  Rowland looked at the sides of her window, then back to us. “I’d invite you in,” she said, “but I don’t think either of you’d fit. And I’m certainly not crawling out my window, not after last time’s little flight.”

  “Your roof, then, at your earliest convenience,” I said, and pushed away from the building. My wings caught the air and with two great flaps of them, I came up and over the side of the structure, landing on the roof.

  Emily landed seconds later with a poetry and gentle grace in her motion. Composed as she was, her wings betrayed her nerves and fluttered even as she brought them in close to her body.

  Detective Rowland arrived a minute or two later, having changed into jeans, boots, and a leather coat over the T-shirt she had been wearing earlier. In one hand she held a yellow folder and with her other she pulled the jacket close around her as she walked over to us.

  “If this is going to become a regular thing,” she said, “I should probably install a gargoyle symbol up here. Shine a beacon into the night sky when I want to summon you and all that.”

  I contemplated what the detective meant for a moment before answering. “I do not think such measures will be necessary,” I said. “And as a reminder I prefer the term grotesque over gargoyle.”

  “Right,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “Forgive my impatience,” Emily said, stepping past me and right up to the detective, “but have you found anything concerning my death?”

  Detective Rowland gave a grim smile. “I’m not sure I’m ever going to get used to hearing questions phrased like that,” she said, “but I guess that comes with my new job description, huh?” She held up the folder in her hands and opened it. “Emily Hoffert. You died—your human form, that is—August twenty-eighth, 1963. It was reported in the media that you were slain as part of a series of killings called the Career Girl murders.”

  “Career Girl?” I asked.

  “It was 1963,” Rowland said with a bit of bitterness in her voice now. “The idea of women in the workforce was still a novel concept. In cities like New York, however, women were flocking in droves to seek out their big opportunities.”

  “Some opportunity,” I said. “Become a Career Girl and come to this grand city only to have your life taken from you.”

  “What career did I pursue?” Emily asked.

  “You were a schoolteacher,” Rowland said. “That’s got to be a good thing, right?”

  Emily managed a smile despite the grim subject matter. “I like that,” she said.

  “It would explain why you have been so natural at helping to educate our ever-growing population at Sanctuary,” I said.

  “And . . . I was murdered along with several other of these ‘Career Girls’?” Emily asked, her wings fluttering once more with nerves.

  Rowland shook her head. “That’s the odd part,” the detective said. “Yes, you were reported as part of the murders, along with a roommate, but the circumstances of your death were a bit more complicated than what was reported in the papers.”

  “How so?” Emily asked.

  Detective Rowland stopped and lowered the folder. “You sure you want to hear this?” she asked Emily.

  “Is it that bad?” I asked.

  “It’s not good,” the detective said without taking her eyes off my companion. Emily nodded, and her clawed hand reached out to mine. I took it.

  The detective let out a long sigh, then went back to the folder. “It seems your body was used for some sort of dark ritual. I’ve been over the coroner’s reports and the lead investigators’ notes on it. They wrote it off as some sort of Satanic ritual. Is that the sort of thing your Alexandra and her friends are into?”

  I shook my head as I tried to control my temper. “Your ignorance on such matters will be your undoing,” I said. “You understand little of what the arcane in our world is.”

  “Well, there’s not really a lot for me to go on, now, is there?” she said with a bit of bite in her words, shaking the folder at me. “In our department it’s practically hippie-liberal-progressive that we’ve got Detective Maron and I even dealing with these new paranormal cases, and you see how ridiculed we get. This was 1963. Jesus, America, Apple pie. Hell, Kennedy wouldn’t even be shot for another three months. ‘Satanic ritual’ was the best diagnosis of the time they were going to give. The only thing that’s progressed since then is cynicism, but until your people start teaching me the ways of your magical little world, the idea that dark powers do dark shit like the stuff in this folder seems entirely reasonable to me.”

  I let go of Emily’s hand and stepped over to the detective. “May I see the photographs?”

  There was no anger or demand in my voice, only a natural curiosity. The detective was right. I had lived too long, and understood little myself about the changes in the human world. From a Europe where people were occasionally burned at the stake to this modern one, there was too much for me to process, let alone for me to lay blame.

  Some of the fire died down in Detective Rowland. Instead, there was reluctance on the human’s face. “You sure you want to look at all this?” she asked. “It’s gruesome.”

  I nodded. “Long have I seen the things that have happened in this city,” I said. “The night has always been a time and place for dark deeds to transpire. And do not forget: I also come from a long line of misguided men whose abuse of power drove them to do horrible things.”

  The detective reached into the folder and held out large sheets of photographs to me. “Then by all means, suit yourself.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the thin, fragile sheets from her. I moved across the roof away from both her and Emily, and my fellow gargoyle made no move to join me. I am not sure that I would have been able to take photographic images of my mortal death well, either. My own memories were bad enough.

  Although I knew the photographs to be of a human, there was little I could see in them that would have convinced me. A mangled twist of crimson brown was splayed out all across a large living area. While the sight itself had a chaotic horror to it, it was also clear that there was an order to how things had been arranged. The floor and walls of the living space bore arcane symbols written in what I assumed was Emily’s blood.

  I do not know how long I looked through the photographs, but when Emily moved toward me, I gathered them together and shook my head at her.

  “You do not wish to see such things,” I said, and brought the photographs back over to Detective Rowland.

  Emily crossed over to the detective and held her hand out. “I’ll determine what I should and shouldn’t see,” she said.

  If Detective Rowland had any thoughts on that, she kept them to herself as the two of us watched Emily in silence. By the way her wings worked subconsciously behind her, my fellow grotesque was not taking the images well.

  When she was done looking through them, she carefully arranged them back together as neatly as she had been handed them and gave the photographs back to Detective Rowland.

  “Thank you,” Emily said quietly. “Perhaps Stanis was right.”

  “Yeah, well, he strikes me as an observant guy,” Rowland said.

  “I believe you should share those with Alexandra, Marshall, and Aurora,” I said. “Some of the symbols remind me of those used in my creation, but I have no true mastery of such arcane things.”

  “Got it,” she said, pulling out her phone to make a note of it. “Now
perhaps you have something for me . . . ?”

  “We have not come across the Butcher ourselves, Emily and I, but my people have been keeping an eye out for him.”

  “Great,” the detective said with a heavy sigh. “This is what you got me out of my pj’s for?”

  “I did, however, meet someone the other night who has met at least one of the Butcher’s men. He had turned the Butcher down, and then, to my surprise he turned down becoming a part of my Sanctuary.”

  “And he might be able to tell me more about his encounter with the Butcher,” she said. “Where can I find him?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “But fear not. This Nathaniel Crane is not one to hide away. You will find him, if he does not find you first.”

  Detective Rowland tapped away again. “Nathaniel . . . Crane,” she said. “We’ll see who finds who first. What am I looking for out there? Something demonic like you, or maybe something more serpentine like Emily here?”

  “We do not all look alike, Detective,” I said, scolding her.

  “I know that,” she said. “Just help me out here, okay? Maron and I are dealing with chasing the impossible. We need as much help as we can get.”

  “Very well,” I said. “First, you will need to find an angel.”

  Nineteen

  Alexandra

  I’d been to Madison Square Garden for countless concerts over the years, but I had never shown up there at midnight. The usually busy arena was practically dark except for the barest minimum of work lights from within. Still and silent as it was, all Rory, Marshall, and I could do was stare up at the enormous space. The only one of us who was oblivious to its urban majesty was Caleb, who was too busy to notice as he scarfed down a pretzel he may or may not have just stolen off a street vendor. The short leash I had put him on earlier had me trying to keep things all business with him, which only made him overcompensate in the opposite direction and act out.

  “You sure about this?” I asked him.

  “Pretty sure,” Caleb said, wiping a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Unless Warren was screwing with me.”

  “How likely is that?” Marshall asked.

  Caleb shrugged. “I’m not sure. You never can tell with these arcane types.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said. A day ago I found his antics charming. Now? Not so much. “And now we’re supposed to go before a whole bunch of them?”

  “Relax,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

  Rory shook her head. “I don’t suppose I should break out the glaive guisarme . . . ?”

  “Let’s try the friendly approach first,” I said, “and if that doesn’t work, I promise then you can get all stabby.”

  Rory smiled. Despite the implication of things going wrong, my promise seemed to make her twistedly happy.

  On the other side of her, Marshall dug through his pockets like he had lost his keys. “Do you think it would be gauche to hand out business cards?” Marshall asked, more to Caleb than any of the rest of us.

  “Depends,” Caleb said. “Do you really want to start handing out physical evidence with your name on it? Don’t we already have enough cops in our lives without you leaving a paper trail?”

  Marshall went red-faced and stopped his search, going silent while we waited. It wasn’t long before the scruffy, familiar face of Warren O’Shea appeared at the main entry doors that were set back from the bustle of Seventh Avenue. His hair was a wild mass of black tangles, and the rings on both his hands holding the doors glowed with a constant shift of colors. His long formal coat blew in the wind as he held open the door for us, waiting as we crossed the vast expanse of the open sidewalk.

  “The Convocation will see you now,” he said. “Hopefully you will prove yourself a bit more impressive than when you broke into my home.”

  “No promises,” Caleb said, pushing past him with a bit of bite to his words.

  “Fine,” Warren said, closing the door after we were all in. “Take your chances with every witch and warlock in the five boroughs. Smart move.” There was a bit of disapproval in his voice, but when he noticed me noticing it, he switched on a dime and offered me a cheerful smile. “But I did promise to bring you before the Convocation . . .”

  He turned before I could speak again and led our group along one of the lower circular corridors around the lower floor of the arena. Rory ran ahead to catch up with him, matching his pace.

  “Umm, how many witches and warlocks are we talking here that they needed to hold this thing at Madison Square Garden?” she asked.

  Warren made a sudden right toward the center of the building, entering one of the corridors that led to a set of double doors that obviously led into the arena itself. He spun back around to us, his arms spread out wide across the doors, blocking our path.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “This isn’t about being able to house massive amounts of people. It’s all about location, location, location. Our kind have . . . trust issues. Therefore, our meetings—when we can agree to all get together, that is—are like a moveable feast. They are rarely in the same place twice, although truth be told, I am rather fond of this venue for it.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Warren gave me a smile from one corner of his mouth. “You’ll see,” he said, and turned with a flourish, arms still out to his sides. The warlock flicked his wrists and the doors shot open without him touching them.

  Warren stepped through them as they clattered against the walls, and the rest of us scrambled through after him, a nervous excitement running through us. I was ten again, coming here with my family to catch the circus.

  In the dim light beyond the doors, stadium seating rose up on either side of the corridor, the click of our heels echoing as we went. Moving forward, the confined space opened up to the Garden itself, and as we came to a stop at the edge of the stadium floor, the silence within the space was deafening.

  “It’s empty,” I said.

  “What the hell?” Rory asked, one of her hands coming to rest on the art tube she was wearing.

  I didn’t blame her for reaching for her weapon. “Is this some kind of trick?” I asked. “You get me on the hunt, I take your case, then you lure us here out in the open . . . for what exactly?”

  Warren sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed. “It is amazing you have survived this long,” he said. “If you didn’t have your gargoyles watching over you, I shudder to think what might become of you.”

  “Hey, we don’t need protection,” I countered, but secretly I wished we had brought Stanis along. At the time, it just hadn’t seemed like the best way to show up when you were trying to make nice with an entire magical community. Flustered, I started for Warren, wanting to get right up in his face, but Marshall grabbed me by the arm, stopping me.

  “Hold up,” he said. “This is it, isn’t it?”

  Warren didn’t shake his head yes or no, but raised an eyebrow. “This is what?”

  “This is like part of the audition,” he said, looking all around at the empty space, walking in a complete circle until he faced us again. “This is a test.”

  “Is it?” I asked Warren.

  The warlock simply shrugged at me, which only made me want to punch him in the throat.

  “He’s right,” Caleb said, starting to search the space as he walked out onto the empty basketball court. “All is not as it seems.”

  Marshall joined him, his eyes squinting as he tried to focus his attention off to the far end of the court. “We are not alone,” he said.

  “We’re not?” Rory asked, assembling her pole arm as she crossed the court to join them.

  I followed, not wanting to be left alone in the giant space.

  Marshall shook his head, narrowing his eyes to the point that they looked shut. “I’m not sure who or what else is out there, but if I concentrate, I can
feel some sort of resistance in the air. Whatever it is does not wish to be seen.”

  I looked to Warren. “Well?”

  Warren drew his fingers across his lips, twisted the tips of his fingers against them in a locking motion, then motioned as if he were throwing away a key. To my surprise a little key that glowed an eldritch green flew away from him, fizzling out and disappearing before it could hit the floor.

  Marshall turned back to us, his eyes lighting up and a smile that threatened to split his head in two lit his face.

  “I have it!” he said, practically giggling.

  “Have what?” Rory asked with frustration.

  “Everything that you’re seeing right now?” he said. “All of it is an illusion.”

  “It is?” I said, looking around. I knew the Garden and it looked pretty damn real to me. I turned to Caleb. “Is it?”

  He looked like he was trying to find the right words, but in the end scrunched up his face at me. “I’m not really at liberty to say,” he said.

  “Jesus,” I said, pushing him toward Warren. “Go stand with him if you’re not allowed to participate.”

  Marshall was looking all around the empty space, his eyes darting about.

  “Marshall!” I called out, catching his attention. “You look insane. Like cheese-slipped-off-your-cracker insane.”

  He ran over to Rory and me, grabbing us by our shoulders and spinning us to face the far end of the arena. Lowering his voice, he spoke.

  “Growing up, the bane of my gaming existence in Dungeons and Dragons were Illusionists,” he said. “Much like when non-gamers go see a magician like David Copperfield, illusions rely mostly on the audience choosing to believe in it. So every time I came across something impossible in the game, my knee-jerk reaction was to roll to disbelieve what I thought might be an illusion.”

  “Roll?” Rory asked.