When did this guy grow a conscience? Harkin was a businessman—entity, whatever he was. That was the only reason I’d been able to face him again. He didn’t care about me being a warlock. He only cared if I could pay.
I huffed a sigh. “It must be bad if you’re concerned. What can you tell me?”
“Not much, but one of the seals is intact.” He pointed to a circular symbol on the page. “The main form is only partially visible. This... could be a Gate spell. Where did you find this?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It survived a fire. A Gate spell? That’s it? Creatures are conjured all the time. Why so much worry about this one ritual?”
“No, you’re mixing spells up. A Gate is more than a simple summoning. It can pierce the barriers between realms more deeply. It allows more than one creature through and gives form to the ethereal. The invoker could call one of the Exiled demon lords and it could bring its whole army. No time limit either.”
My summonings typically lasted no longer than a few minutes, but I’d heard of potent incantations that could last until dawn of the next day. Making a permanent pass into the mortal realm? I couldn’t believe it, or rather, I couldn’t believe that was what I was dealing with.
“The Powers would never let that happen.”
It was one case in which both devils and angels could agree. Earth was a haven of sorts and the Exiled would have destroyed it given half a chance. They were always trying—or so I’d read. If my home was worse than Hell, I’d be trying to get out too.
Harkin shrugged. “Well… I wonder what started that fire you mentioned.”
I was floored. It hadn’t occurred to me that the fire might have been the result of someone trying to stop the ritual. I was working under the assumption that something went wrong with the summoning. I grabbed a card from my wallet and slid it across the counter. “Give me a call if anyone—anyone—asks about this ritual.”
Harkin gave me a bland look. I rolled my eyes and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, shedding mental tears. “And another hundred if your tip leads to something.”
The occultist rolled his shoulders and reluctantly accepted my offer.
There was a common misconception about making deals with devils. Everyone thought that the Fallen could create money out of nothing. I had been guilty of it too. Alastor had paid off my student loans, my wife’s medical bills, and all my other debt when I signed the pact. I had believed it was supernatural until I read the section of the pact that detailed how my wages would be forever garnished.
I didn’t make a lot of money in the FBI. Sure, there was the glamour and respect, especially after Waco and the World Trade Center bombing. I got a cool badge, too. But being an FBI agent was about passion for justice. I hadn’t started out believing that way, but, despite being forced into the FBI Academy by my patron, I ended up that way. It would have been nice to get a full paycheck every once in a while.
Taking my wages for his own nefarious purposes was some cruel trick my patron played. Someday I’ll trace that money. I’d have loved to know how deep Alastor’s pockets were.
After searching around the shop, I left with a few books on demonology that I didn’t already own; cheap English translations that I could barely afford. Calculated misinformation filled most books on demonology, but Harkin’s stuff was legitimate, even the ones translated into English. I wasn’t sure how much I would be able to glean from them, but I spent a few hours reading them over once I got home.
I was finally about to turn in when the phone rang. I rubbed my sandy eyes. Glancing at the clock, I saw 4 a.m. glared back at me in electric blue. I picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Mr. Graves. It’s Harkin.”
I was surprised, but I didn’t dwell on it. “Got something for me?”
“Perhaps,” Harkin replied. “I know someone who might have the information you seek.”
I reached for a notepad. “That’s great. What can you tell me about this person?”
I used the term lightly. There was no guarantee it was a “person” at all. I was already apprehensive about it, but it could be a lead.
“Look, this can’t get back to me. My customers have a right to privacy.” I could hear Harkin second-guessing his decision to call.
“I’ll be discreet,” I said, trying not to sound offended by his lack of trust. “Who is it?”
“A wizard. Bryce Campbell.”
I asked for a phone number. Harkin balked but gave it, knowing that he was essentially giving me an address as well. “Thanks. I really think this will help.”
“Just be careful. Campbell is first-rate.”
Harkin hung up before I could clarify. I considered calling him back, but the need for sleep overwhelmed my better judgment. Looks like I’ve got plans for tomorrow now.
Chapter Four
The damned neighbors came out in force at eight in the morning to tend to their lawns, ruining my hopes for a full night’s sleep. I never seemed to have the time to take care of my own lawn, so I paid a service with my precious little spending money. It kept the Home Owners Association off my back and the mowers never showed up before ten.
I started my Mr. Coffee, grumbling about my jerk neighbors as I showered and dressed. Running a comb through my short brown hair, I couldn’t help but notice in the mirror the bags forming under my eyes. I sighed. I would catch up on sleep next weekend.
I’ve said that before.
During the drive to the address Harkin gave me, I decided to play it straight with Mr. Bryce Campbell, acting as if I was just a normal, mortal FBI agent. As a wizard, I assumed that he was basically a plain human with no extra senses to give away my supernaturally infused nature. My obscurity gave me an advantage in case things turned ugly. I told myself it wouldn’t come to that, but I checked my Glock in its underarm holster.
The neighborhood was upper-class and gated, but my badge got me past the guard shack. Tall lines of coniferous trees reinforced the privacy afforded by the eight-foot brick walls that surrounded each property. I reached a cul-de-sac and parked.
On the short walk from the street, I immediately began noting details, paying even closer attention since I was walking into potential danger. I spotted discreetly placed security cameras along the walls of the Campbell residence. The white enamel finish on the metal frames looked pristine. Maybe a recent upgrade? I put the thought aside and continued to the intricately wrought gate of the Campbell property.
The intercom emitted static for a second after I buzzed it. A voice came out a few moments later. “Hello? Who is it?”
It was a bit hard to tell, but the speaker sounded like a kid. “This is Special Agent Landon Graves with the FBI. I’m here to speak with Bryce Campbell.”
There was a pause. “What’s this about?”
“I can’t discuss that out here,” I lied. “May I come up to the door?”
“Sure, I guess.”
The intercom cut out and the gate’s lock disengaged. I walked down the winding cement path through a perfectly tended lawn to the front door. I took a deep breath and knocked. A boy in his teens opened the door and appraised me. I could tell I was going to get attitude.
I hated attitude.
“Let’s see some ID,” he said, pushing back the tangled mass of black hair from his eyes. He seemed to have just woken up. I suppressed my jealousy.
Pulling out my badge, I asked, “Is Mr. Bryce Campbell home? He was recommended to me as an expert in… certain fields.”
He took the badge and inspected it closely. “He’s here.”
I stared at the kid for a few moments after he finished verifying my identity. He made no move from the doorway. My patience wore thin.
I raised my eyebrows.
He crossed his arms.
“Oh god,” I moaned. “You’re Bryce, aren’t you?”
The no-more-than sixteen year old nodded. “What do you want?”
Using magic was difficult. I knew that well, even with my limited experi
ence. I found it difficult to believe that Bryce had the expertise to be considered first-rate by the likes of Harkin. He was just too young. But what could I do? I had little choice but to see what I could learn from the kid wearing a faded Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt and plaid pajama bottoms.
I sighed and pulled out the bagged scroll fragment. “This was found at a crime scene. We believe it may lead us to the perpetrator. You were recommended as an expert who might have a complete version of the document.”
Bryce took the piece of evidence and glanced at it. With a derisive snort, he said, “You want me to hand you a full sigil of this? Get lost.”
A lot of things went through my head at that moment. I considered the Voice, pistol-whipping the little snot, and several other nasty things. I breathed deeply and calmed myself down forcibly. It wasn’t like I could arrest him for needing a haircut or having a crappy attitude.
Before signing my pact, I never flew off the handle at such trivial things. With the infernal energy buried deep inside me, my fuse was dramatically shorter. I started looking for weaknesses to exploit. I didn’t really understand it, but attributed it to augmented instincts.
My temper got away from me if I didn’t keep a handle on it. That was one of the reasons I was a divorcee. Thankfully, I never acted on my anger, but hasty words did plenty of damage. Damage that Jessica and I never recovered from.
I barely kept a civil tone. “Listen. People are going to get hurt. If you know—”
“No, you listen warlock.”
Uh oh. He knows. That’s not good. Anonymity was one of my only defenses and I’d counted on it as a trump card.
“You’re going to leave or I’m going to send you to your master. One way trip.”
I’d have liked to chalk the threat up to false bravado, but I couldn’t take that risk despite the wizard’s age. Still, I’d faced devils—well, one devil—before. Bryce might know what I was, but I wasn’t so easily cowed.
“You can try,” I said coldly before reengaging my professional demeanor. “But that’s really unnecessary. I am here on an investigation. I need to find out who tried to cast this spell. Luckily, they failed. I want to make sure they don’t get a second chance.”
Bryce frowned and tapped a foot while he mulled over my words. Perhaps his threat had only been a test of some kind. “What exactly are you asking for?”
“I need the details of the ritual. If I can get a look at the spell, I’ll know what the caster needs to complete it. That can lead me right to him.”
“Well, get used to disappointment,” he shot back. “Looks like you’ll just have to work a little harder.”
I’d never wanted to punch a kid more in my life.
“I could charge you with obstruction, you know.”
“And what? Tell some vanilla judge that I’m a wizard? Good luck with that.”
The rest of the world didn’t believe in magic. They were better off not knowing. I’d only been brought in on the case because of its occult nature. To Phil and most of the other people in the world, occult meant weird-as-hell, not magical. Bryce knew I couldn’t jam him up easily.
He tossed the bag at my chest and I awkwardly caught it. I shook my head. I had the feeling that if I tried to use the Voice, I was just going to embarrass myself. What’s he going to do? Blast me with some flashy spell? Maybe he will for all I know.
Instead of giving him an excuse to fry me, I took out a business card. “Fine. I’ll take what I can get. If you can think of any way to track down someone who is putting together this spell, call me. Believe it or not, no one wants this to happen.”
The kid gave no indication of whether or not I was wasting my time. My frustrations welled up and I decided to go, but I turned back before he shut the door. “So, how did you know what I am?”
He rolled his eyes. “As if I’d tell you. I’ll throw you a bone. Sometimes scrolls like that fall into the hands of rare book collectors. Normals. They don’t even know what they have. You might check a few of those places out.”
The door shut heavily before I could respond. I told myself it was worth a try as I left.
Wizards… What a pain in the ass.
Chapter Five
Wizards.
Avoid at all costs, I noted.
It wasn’t like I’d personally dealt with many—or any for that matter—but I’d definitely formed my opinion on that rare breed based off that brief interaction and the stories I’d heard in my visits to Harkin’s shop.
Reaching the street, I put aside my frustration and got in my car. With nothing more to go on and the rest of the day to kill, I decided to check out a few shops like Bryce suggested. I picked up some fast food and ran a few errands before I found a payphone with a moderately intact yellow pages section.
I drove to three stores and found nothing, wasting a few hours and getting nowhere. That was an unfortunate aspect of investigation. You reached a lot of dead ends before the pieces started to come together. I got to the fourth bookstore that evening, hoping to go home with something after spending so much time searching out extra copies of the ritual.
Stanton’s Rare Books was located uptown near Aurora. Various small businesses filled the street, sporadic customers coming and going. Cars occupied every metered parking space along the sidewalk, so I pulled around to the backstreet to find a parking lot. The walk to the front of the store ate up a few minutes, but it felt good to stretch my legs after so long in the car.
Metal bars and thick panes of glass made up the outer door. It was locked which puzzled me since it was only six o’clock on a Saturday. Frowning to myself, I rang the intercom buzzer. There was no answer, so I buzzed again looking at the interesting ornament hanging on the interior door.
A man in his early fifties opened the inner door. He was short, sported a well-groomed beard, and wore a black kippah. The crows’ feet around his eyes gave me the impression he was used to smiling. I hoped my instincts didn’t fail me.
“Is this important?” he asked with a wan smile.
I was puzzled by the question. What kind of business turned away customers? I gave the man the benefit of the doubt. When it came to the supernatural, you tended to deal with odd individuals. A healthy sense of paranoia was a requisite.
“Um, yes. It is.”
“Well, if it’s not a matter of life and death, you can come back tomorrow,” he replied, turning away as soon as he finished speaking.
“It very well may be,” I said hurriedly, regaining his attention.
He looked back and, after only a moment of consideration, opened the outer door. “Then by all means, please come in.”
I followed the man inside, passing through a foyer with an eclectic collection of worn but comfortable looking reading chairs. The man led me up a few steps into a miniature library. It was dark—well, to me it was red—and I wondered why there weren’t any lights on.
The man rounded a counter and leaned against the surface. Business cards sat in a little tray on the countertop beside the register. It had the same graphic as the storefront: a six pointed star in blue. I got the feeling that I was missing something as I stared at it.
I made the connection and felt pretty stupid. The symbol appeared in so many occult and arcane texts, that I forgot that the Seal of Solomon was better known as the Star of David. I was intruding in the home of a practicing Jewish man on his holy day.
Now, I just felt like a jerk. Not only was the store a business, it was a residence.
I cleared my throat. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. Maybe it could wait until tomorrow, but lives are on the line.”
“If people are in danger, then no apology is necessary,” the man said with a brief smile. “This is my store and I make the rules. I’m Mr. Stanton. What can I do for you, sir?”
I figured it would be rude to come into the man’s home without a proper introduction. “My name is Landon Graves. I’m an agent with the FBI. Mr. Stanton, my current case involves…”
“No, unfortunately it’s a bit more bizarre than that.” I took the plunge. “I need to know about the summoning of demons. A suspect believes that they can accomplish such a thing.”
His eyes widened and his entire demeanor shifted. “I see. That is a little odd. We do have some occult books here. Tell me more. We’ll see what I can do for you.”
As a matter of course, agents didn’t give out any details regarding active cases. It was bad practice and unprofessional. One of the worst things that could happen was for a bad guy to get out on a legal technicality. And one of the best ways to catch a perpetrator was to trick them into revealing undisclosed information about a crime.
Of course, I didn’t suspect Mr. Stanton, but I couldn’t exactly share what I knew either. Despite his line of work, Mr. Stanton didn’t appear to be a part of the supernatural community. It wouldn’t do any good but to make him think I was crazy. If he was in the know… well, that was one more person who might panic about the consequences of a Gate opening in Colorado.
“All I have to go on is a scrap of a scroll. One seal,” I admitted as I handed him the evidence bag. He seemed to follow my esoteric terminology. “I’d like to find a whole copy or some kind of reference that describes the, uh, process and materials called for.”
Mr. Stanton pulled out a pair of glasses and looked every year of his age as he hunched over the plastic-covered fragment of parchment. The man shrugged as he inspected the single arcane glyph. “Well, this is better than nothing.”
He stared thoughtfully for several moments, before sighing heavily. Abruptly, he turned and called through the empty doorway, “Regina? Would you come out here please?” He turned to me and added apologetically, “My memory… it’s not what it used to be. My daughter will know more about this.”
A young woman walked into the room. She was pretty in a librarian sort of way, her curly brown hair stuffed into a black knit cap. A silvery medallion in the shape of a down-turned hand hung from a chain around her neck over a demure flat-black sweater. As she approached, her skirts swished and the heels of boots tapped on the hardwood floor.
Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1) Page 3