by Jim C. Hines
Will blinked. “You did?”
“It was pretty cool, yah. Also, for what it’s worth, your body is like an hour younger now.” Smudge was pacing in his cage. Smoke rose from his back, and his attention was fixed on Blackwell.
“Officer Blackwell.” Nidhi’s voice was sharper, more authoritative, with an emphasis on officer. Stressing his role and responsibilities. “Isaac is no threat. Helping those people took a great deal out of him. Look how his hands are trembling. He’d probably fall and break his nose if you weren’t holding him upright. In the meantime, there are other people who need help.”
She was exaggerating, but not as much as I would have liked. Pulling a potion or ray-gun out of a book was one thing. Shaping raw magic and belief had a bigger price tag.
Blackwell glanced toward my hip. “That thing in the cage. What the fuck is it?”
Great. Not only was he freaking out about magic, he was probably arachnophobic, too. “His name’s Smudge. He’s harmless. Mostly harmless. He probably just wants some candy. I can—”
“Don’t move! Keep your hands where I can see them!”
“Daniel Blackwell, drop your weapon and back away now!” Rowland raised her own gun. “Nobody wants to do this, Dan. Think about Lisa.”
“But he—Did you really cure him?” Blackwell stared past me toward Will. “Or did you kill him and replace him with . . . with whatever that is?”
It was a fair question, one science fiction had struggled with pretty much since the first story about teleportation. And there was no way in hell I was going to get into that discussion with Officer Twitchy.
“My first experience with magic was a sixteen-year-old client,” Nidhi said, her attention fully on Blackwell. “He’d been complaining about hearing voices. None of the medications I prescribed had helped. I was afraid I’d have to have him committed. It turned out he was magically gifted, but nobody realized it. He’d turned to reading to escape the stress of high school. He was so desperate to escape the real world, he connected with fictional ones. The romance novels he’d been going through had convinced him he was the son of a Scottish lord. It’s called Type Two Partial Libriomantic Possession. His accent was terrible.”
Blackwell appeared to be listening. “What happened?”
“The Porters interrupted a session as he was trying to seduce me. They eventually taught him how to get the delusions under control, and to use his magic. They helped him. Without the Porters, he could have hurt someone, or else he would have ended up medicated and locked up somewhere. Instead, he’s now grown up and married with three kids. They live in Copenhagen. He sends me a Christmas card every year.”
Standard Porter procedure at the time would have been to adjust Nidhi’s memories of the encounter in order to conceal the existence of magic. She must have impressed them a great deal if they’d offered her a job instead.
“The idea that magic was real terrified me,” she continued. “It took away my understanding of the world. I had to question everything I’d learned, everything I believed. Nothing felt real anymore.”
Blackwell was nodding. I just did my best not to move. I hated feeling helpless, but if I was the one triggering his panic, anything I said or did would likely make things worse.
“I don’t know how the police handle scenes like this, day after day, without breaking down.” Nidhi pointed to the wounded, and to the capitol building behind us. “I’m running on nothing but adrenaline right now. I’ll probably fall apart tonight when I get home and this is all over.”
“You never really get used to it,” Blackwell admitted.
Nidhi nodded. “You’ve seen the ugly side of magic in there. You also saw magic save a life. Focus on that. We’re on the same side.”
Slowly, he lowered his gun. Rowland moved in quickly to take it from him. Two others caught Blackwell’s arms and escorted him away from me.
“Are you all right?” asked Agent Steinkamp.
I sagged. “It’s not the first time someone’s wanted to kill me.”
“It’s surprising how often it happens,” Nidhi added.
“Thanks.” I squeezed her shoulder. She nodded once.
“Nice work, Doctor Shah,” said Rowland. “I’m sorry about Blackwell. He’s a good cop, and a good man. I’ve never seen him lose it like that.”
Smudge looked to be calming down, which meant I was no longer in immediate danger of being shot. “Does anyone else need magical treatment?”
“Several others should be checked for infection, including the witnesses we’re questioning across the street.” Steinkamp glanced over his shoulder. “Before that, there’s something else I’d like you to look at.”
“Sure,” I said wearily. “Just answer me one question?”
“Shoot.” He grimaced. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
“We arrived about a half hour after the news broke,” I said. “If I’m remembering right, the nearest FBI field office is in Detroit, about an hour away with clear traffic, eh?”
“That’s right,” he said cautiously.
“So how is it the FBI got here before we did?”
STATEMENT BY DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY SECRETARY LAWRENCE MCGINLEY ON THE ATTACKS IN CALIFORNIA, NEW YORK, OREGON, AND MICHIGAN
For Immediate Release
DHS Press Office Contact: 202-282-8010
Tonight, the United States and the world witnessed a series of cowardly and unspeakable attacks that resulted in the loss of at least fourteen lives. Our hearts and prayers go out to the victims and their families.
The Department of Homeland Security and the FBI are working with state and local law enforcement to bring those responsible to justice, and to prevent future incidents.
We encourage the American people to remain calm and vigilant. “If You See Something, Say Something.”
For the past year, we have worked to improve our security measures, seen and unseen, in preparation for magical attacks. We will continue that work, using the lessons learned tonight, to make our country safer.
These murderers used their power to sow fear. They will find only resolve. They sought to spread violence. They will see justice.
This is a time of tension and change. Whatever magic our enemies might bring to bear against us, they will succeed only in bringing us together. No magic in the world can break our strength and unity as a nation.
“The world has never been kind to people like us. I told my Porters their priority was to protect the world from magic, and to protect magic from the world. I made it my priority to protect the Porters.”
“Were you protecting me when you tried to take my magic and my memories?”
“Yes.”
“Next time, don’t.”
“Next time?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I kept you alive. I preserved your mind and your sanity, more or less.”
“You took a part of me.”
“Which you eventually reclaimed. Many never have that chance. Ask those who fell at the hands of Archbishop Adolph von Nassau.”
“Von Nassau. He started the Baden-Palatine War.”
“The act of pulling your murdered friends and colleagues from a magical inferno changes you forever. History will tell you it was a war over the Archbishop’s throne, but it was far more. Von Nassau hoped to destroy me and my discoveries. I underestimated his resolve, and I failed to act.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re beginning to discover your power and potential. That is when you and those around you are most vulnerable. The world is larger than ever before. You can’t help everyone, Isaac. They won’t let you. Where will you focus your energies? Will you hesitate, or will you act?”
“DID YOU LEARN ANYTHING about who did this?” asked Agent Steinkamp.
“We’re only here to help the injured,” said Nidhi.
“Don’t bullshit me, Doctor.”
“I treated bites from at least two different werewolves.” I searched the c
rowd for Lena. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He led us toward the capitol building. We stopped at the front entrance, where another FBI agent handed us paper-thin, elastic-rimmed shoe covers and rubber gloves.
“You’re sure about this?” asked Rowland.
“I’ve worked with Porters before,” said Steinkamp. “I’ve got clearance to bring them on as temporary independent contractors. Washington wants this solved yesterday.”
I looked back and forth between them. “Who’s in charge here, the police or the FBI?”
“Technically?” Steinkamp cocked a thumb at Rowland. “State Police, until we establish this was an act of magical terrorism.”
“You asked about a group called Vanguard,” I said.
“That’s right, I did.” His expression was neutral. “Let’s go.”
He led us inside past armed guards, up the steps and to the rotunda. The capitol was almost as crowded and busy as the grounds surrounding it. Everywhere I looked, men and women were taking photographs. Others pulled fingerprints. They appeared to be concentrating their efforts in a few specific locations, including the doorway to the governor’s office. Blood dripped down one of the wooden columns to our right.
“This way.” Steinkamp led us to the body of a young man.
I was no medical examiner, but even I could tell he hadn’t been killed by werewolves. I counted six bloody gunshots, most to the torso. “He wasn’t human.” I peered over the tops of my glasses. “You think this is one of the killers.”
He and Rowland looked at one another, but neither spoke.
I crouched beside the body. “Back to my earlier question. The FBI was on site, set up, and working within a half hour or so of the attack. Either you used magic to get from Detroit to Lansing impossibly fast, or else you were already here, or at least on the way, when it happened.”
“You’re right.” Steinkamp scowled at the dead werewolf. “We were driving down to arrest this guy.”
“If you knew what he was going to do—” I started.
“We didn’t. We’ve been watching him as part of a human smuggling operation. Inhuman smuggling, to be precise.” He shook his head in disgust. “Homeland Security picked up whispers that they were on to us, and he was getting ready to go wild.”
“But he decided to try to assassinate Governor Sullivan first?” Nidhi paced around me, examining the body. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Rowland glanced around, as if to make sure nobody else was listening. “He didn’t try to kill the governor.”
Damn. That was the first official confirmation I’d heard. “What about the Attorney General?”
“Both men were dead when we arrived,” said Steinkamp. “We’ll be announcing it to the press shortly. In the meantime, what can you tell me about our killer?”
I pulled off my glasses and tucked them into my shirt pocket. “He’s Lykanthropos Stroudus. From The Golem’s Eye. The Porters can email you the full info on his species. I’m pretty sure he came here because someone had been messing with his thoughts.”
“Explain,” snapped Rowland.
I dropped to all fours, getting as close to the body as I could without touching the drying blood. I moved one hand over the face, like a child reaching for the special effects at a 3D movie. “A lot of magic fades with death. The Golem’s Eye is strongest, and easy to read. But I can see another text overlaid with the first.”
“Can you read it?” asked Steinkamp.
“It’s too degraded.”
Nidhi turned her attention from the body to me, her brows crinkling together. I avoided eye contact.
“Are there werewolf species who can control thoughts like that?” asked Rowland. “An alpha wolf or something, ordering the others to help?”
“I don’t think a were did this.” I sat back. “There are books I can use to look into the past and hopefully give you a better idea exactly what happened. The spells manipulate real light, so you’d be able to photograph the attackers and broadcast their faces throughout the state.”
“Magical evidence isn’t admissible in court, and you know it.” Rowland scowled as she listened to a report from one of her officers via radio. “Defense attorneys would argue it was all illusion, that you could condemn anyone you liked.”
“More importantly, we’ve got plenty of security footage for that,” added Steinkamp. “We’ll be running facial recognition against FBI and DHS databases.”
“Besides,” said Nidhi, “you’re done with magic for the day.”
Rowland looked up. “What’s that mean? Do you libriomancers run out of gas after a certain number of spells?”
“Sort of.” Given the physical damage I’d done to my eyes last year, Nicola Pallas had ordered me to limit the amount of magic I did in any twenty-four hour period. Recreating Will had put me close to that limit. I massaged the tingling numbness from my hands. Close to that limit, or maybe a little beyond it.
“How do you plan to stop the other weres?” I asked. “Stroudus are tough, but they can obviously be killed by normal bullets. That won’t work on most species. Pepper spray will be effective on some. Heightened olfactory senses make them more sensitive. Don’t bother with a Taser. In most cases, that’ll just piss ’em off.”
“You have something that will take them down?” asked a passing CSI. “I didn’t sign up for this shit. The academy didn’t teach us how to deal with ghouls and goblins.”
“Oh, goblins are easy,” I said. “They’re cowards. They’ll run away if you so much as look at them cross-eyed.”
He looked from me to Rowland, probably trying to tell whether I was joking. She waved him away. “The feds have agents who’ve been trained on this sort of perp. They’ll be helping us bring the others in. Is there anything else you can tell us about this one?”
“The Golem’s Eye came out in 2004, which means he might have been a werewolf for more than a decade, but he wasn’t born that way.” Whoever this had been, he didn’t look like a kidnapper or murderer. He reminded me of my high school gym teacher, complete with bushy brown mustache, broad shoulders, and tight-laced high-tops.
“When you take the body out, make sure he’s covered,” said Nidhi. “You’ll want to contact his family as soon as possible to arrange for his burial, once you’re done examining him.”
“We know the procedure,” Steinkamp said.
Werewolves were touchy about proper respect for the dead. “I can ask around up north, see if anyone knows our killer.”
“We’ve got this under control,” he said. “We’ll be interviewing his friends and neighbors, as well as local werewolves.”
“You think they’ll talk to the police or the FBI?” asked Nidhi. “Pack loyalties are as strong as any family bond.”
“But they’d talk to you?” Rowland sounded skeptical.
“Most werewolves would tell me to go piss into a fan, but I’ve got a couple of friends outside Copper River. Give me this guy’s name, and I can find out if there’s been any gossip.”
He and Rowland looked at one another.
“Sandy Boyle.” Steinkamp grabbed my arm. “Anything you find out, you call me, got it?”
I gave him a halfhearted salute.
“Before we take you over to check the other witnesses,” he continued, “would you mind looking at the victims? We want to be sure they won’t come back as mons—as whatever killed them.”
“You’re thinking of vampires, not werewolves. With werewolves, once you’re dead, that’s it.”
“Are you one hundred percent certain, Mr. Vainio?”
I thought briefly about other rules of magic I’d been one hundred percent certain about, and how many of those rules had ended up bent or broken. I extended a hand toward the door. “After you.”
Both the governor and the attorney general were thoroughly dead, and no magic was going to change that fact. So were the three other bodies I examined.
Rowland handed me off to a woman from the Lans
ing Police Department, who took me to check the other witnesses. LPD had a station right across North Capitol Avenue, which was where the FBI and police were completing their interviews.
I treated three more people, using Lucy’s Narnian potion to heal the wounds beneath their bandages. Thankfully, only one of the three had been infected with lycanthropy, and it hadn’t taken hold yet, so the potion was able to eradicate that from his system as well.
By the time we emerged, the streets were mostly clear. The mayor had declared an emergency curfew, and police were working to break up the few remaining groups. All that remained were reporters and law enforcement.
Lena waited for us outside of the station. “The politicians aren’t wasting any time. Senator Keeler gave a speech a half hour ago, calling for tighter regulation of inhumans and magic-users.”
“Of course he did,” I said wearily.
“He also wants increased border security, and an extension of the zero-immigration policy on inhumans. He said Homeland Security would be investigating the possibility that these attacks were orchestrated by America’s enemies.”
Lena had rented a green Chevy Cavalier while Nidhi and I were inside with the other witnesses. I climbed into the back seat and called Helen DeYoung’s cellphone. “Helen? It’s Isaac.”
“You all right, Isaac? You sound—”
“Drunk, I know. It’s a glitch in the phone implant. Have you and Jeff heard what happened in Lansing?”
Helen and Jeff used to live in Tamarack, one town over from Copper River. They’d abandoned their house and retreated into the wild after Governor Sullivan signed the order condemning the old mining town. Nothing remained now but empty roads and bulldozed lots.
In some ways, the move had done them good. Helen said they were in better physical shape these days, and their diets had improved. So had their sex lives, which they both insisted on chatting about in impressive detail. Werewolves were notoriously open about sex. They could talk about their escapades like a Red Wings fan going on about game six of the 2008 Stanley Cup Finals. But at this point, I think they talked about it mostly to make me squirm.