Bryce’s words echoed in my mind. I’m finally going to get this guy… I’d brushed it off at first. The wizard had been concentrating on his spell. I thought he’d just misspoken, but I couldn’t let it go. He wanted to go after this guy again.
It hit me like a ton of bricks.
The little teenaged shithead had been involved in the case before I ever got the call. “Son of a bitch. Bryce played me.”
I stared at Mendoza’s taillights, hands tightening on the steering wheel. I thought back on the way Bryce had blocked the torrent of fire Alastor had unleashed on him. The shape of it stuck in my mind. Normally, a shield had a convex shape in regard to the attack, but his had been different. The concave shape curved the fire back on itself… back at the origin.
“It was him,” I muttered to myself. “He was there the first time Oliver tried to open the Gate in the dormitory. He was on Lowry.”
Oliver had acted as the missing ignition source from the fire marshal’s assessment, but the flames had been rebounded and intensified by the young wizard. Bryce had floated outside the window and assaulted Oliver as he tried to open the Gate the first time.
Maybe the teen killed something that came through, I thought, recalling the sickly tar stain on the wall in the shape of a nightmarish creature.
Part of me clung to the idea that Bryce acted on the “right” side no matter what his motivations might have been. That didn’t stop me from grinding my teeth. I didn’t like being manipulated into action, not by Alastor or by a kid.
“Bryce… you and I are going to have a long talk,” I grumbled.
Getting a handle on my anger required a great deal of effort. I stifled the thoughts of wringing Bryce’s neck and focused past his little con game. The “why” of it didn’t matter right then. Lives were on the line, a lot of them.
Berith was the enemy. Berith…the Exiled, the deceiver. That creature was still my enemy even if I was some kind of pawn. A pawn… this is some damned game between Bryce and Berith. I’m just an extra piece on the board.
Suddenly, my mistake became so clear I groaned with frustration. I was a warlock. I should have known better. Having made a deal with a wily, twisted bastard of a devil, I had firsthand experience with their subterfuge and guile. Why would a demon have been any less convoluted in its thinking and actions?
Berith, “The Great Deceiver”, had failed to live up to its title spectacularly. Sure, it laid traps for me and made preparations that passed far into the realm of paranoia, but the Exiled made following it rather easy. Too easy. It had all been a clever trick.
The mainstream copies of the grimoires like The Lesser Key of Solomon described many of the demons as easy to fool or outwit by the summoner. That simply wasn’t the case and was an example of planned disinformation executed by supernatural beings. The Exiled and the Fallen lulled mortals into a false sense of confidence. Berith had clearly accomplished that with its actions.
In each encounter, Oliver had only barely escaped, always just out of reach but easy enough to find again. I’d forced the demon to flee by the thinnest of margins. It all served to goad Mendoza and me into reckless pursuit, to blind us to the truth of the situation.
It knew what could be done with magic and if my hunch about Bryce was correct, Berith knew damn well that a capable wizard pursued it. The Exiled knew that Mendoza and I had searched Oliver’s apartment. We were doing exactly what it wanted by chasing after Adrian.
The boy was a red herring.
A decoy.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Berith had to know that harming Adrian was just about the only thing that could give Oliver the will to resist its influence. The true sacrifice would be some poor kid Berith snatched off the street on the way back from depositing Adrian in whatever hole it would take us hours to find.
I slammed on my brakes and took the first right turn I could. My lack of a radio screwed me over once again, but I wasn’t sure Mendoza would have believed me anyway. I wasn’t sure I believed myself. After fighting beside the Chosen and seeing the wizard work against my patron, I knew they could handle themselves just fine without me. If I was wrong, they’d be fine.
If I was right…
I didn’t have time to second guess myself. I needed to concentrate on solutions, not an ever expanding list of problems. I had to do this on my own. Well, not entirely…
I had a source of information I could call up in an instant if I could stand it touching my mind. I’d physically summoned Alastor once already, but I didn’t have time for that preferred method of interaction with the minor lord of the Fallen. Desperation frayed my wits, so I concentrated on my power.
While a hot burr of energy blossomed in the space behind my eyes, the rest of my brain felt as if I’d dunked it in cold sewage. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Alastor, my patron, I have need of your council.”
You never call anymore. The voice wormed its way into my mind dripping with smug amusement.
“Look, I know you’re pissed at me—”
How arrogant of you to think you merit so much of my concern, Alastor chided. Actually, you’ve done me a service. You’ve identified the most potent threats to my plans in Denver. Now, think your messages at me. They come through more clearly that way.
My patron spoke casually, careless of the events of the past few days. I wanted to believe I’d gotten off free, but I knew better. The Fallen was biding his time and would mete out my punishment later, after I was no longer useful. There was no way the devil forgot the rage he felt at being bested by a teenaged wizard and a priest.
I need answers, I growled, not more games.
Of course, but… just take a moment, Alastor said. Reflect on the fact that in your most desperate moments, it is I that you seek. I have come through for you yet again.
You’re a regular knight in shining armor, I sent. I’m dealing with an Exiled named Berith. That’s the one trying to open the Gate right now.
I know of this being. My patron projected the words into my mind along with vague images of a mighty creature leading others into battle against formless enemies. A supreme tactician before they got into his mind and poisoned him. I would assume Berith retains that particular trait.
That’s what I think, I admitted, despite some of its behavior to the contrary.
A ruse then. So what need do you have of me, the patron you so revile?
At a red light, I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. I didn’t know what I wanted specifically. I just wanted answers. But Alastor wasn’t like Ipos or other demons. Alastor was a devil, not a demon. A Fallen. My patron’s view of the mortal realm from Hell didn’t afford the same perspective. The devil’s knowledge of things came from vastly different sources.
I want to know how to find Oliver, the host of Berith. I want to know for certain where the ritual is being held. I want to stop it from happening.
Landon… you know my assistance comes with a price. He let the thought linger for a moment. But worry not. You have all the tools you need at your disposal. You need nothing from me. This time.
The whole “the answer was within all along” shtick irritated me to no end. It was a non-answer to a serious question. If it was bullshit, it didn’t matter because I’d be dead. If I managed to survive, I’d have proved Alastor right by sheer coincidence.
My patron sensed my doubt. What can’t you accomplish with the powers I’ve given you?
Well, if the apocalypse happens, we’ll both know, I mentally muttered. So no help then?
If I had to guide you in every step, you’d be worse than worthless to me, Alastor said. In my realm, the weak perish and the strong live. But we all began as equals, separated only by choice and chance. Make your choices and take your chances.
With that, the devil severed the link. The tense pressure behind my eyes that alerted me to my patron immediately vanished and I breathed deeply in relief on reflex. The momentary respite didn’t last as slow-boiling ire filled my gu
ts.
Rationally, I knew getting angry only hurt my chances of seeing something, but I couldn’t help it. I had no answers and no leads, but a bone-deep intuition told me that Bryce was leading Mendoza to a dead end. It was just so damned maddening to have nothing.
I had to find Oliver and he could have already started the Gate spell. No. Berith’s traps must have taken time to lay. I have some time to… to do something.
In my frustration, every minor irritation inflamed my temper even further. My tie was too tight. Despite a lack of destination, the traffic sucked. The bulky leather bag of iron filings in my coat pocket pressed uncomfortably against my side.
I wanted to throw the reminder of Bryce’s duplicity out the window, but I couldn’t reach it easily. My hand fumbled into my pocket in a vain attempt anyway. I stopped as my fingers touched the soft leather.
“That’s it!”
I had an answer, a slim chance at finding Oliver. I nearly rear-ended a sedan and spat out profanity, both for the car’s driver and for the realization. I could still do something.
The pouch of iron fillings sat in my coat pocket and I had just watched the tracking ritual, the seven glyphs still fresh in my memory. I just needed something with a strong connection to Oliver Pontas, something he had poured his emotion into or a blood sample or anything like that. Berith wouldn’t have been that careless, not if the demon was as clever as I thought.
I needed that article or I was dead in the water. Where else would I find it? Grasping for straws, I reached over to the passenger seat where a folder, thick with Oliver’s profile, sat bound with string. Mendoza’s hard work paying off. I unwound and opened it, flipping through when I could afford to take my eyes off the road.
I landed on Gwen’s first statement about Oliver. I didn’t actually need to reread it, having done so many times already. I knew he had been separated from Gwen for months, so I doubted there was anything at her place I could have used. There was nothing at his shit-hole apartment. Where had he been in the time between those two locations?
Rehab.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I pulled over quickly, my mind latching onto the thought like a bear trap. I flipped to the back of the compilation of documents where I’d added the reports Mendoza had given me. Her due diligence provided me the name and address of Oliver’s clinic. With a firm destination, I peeled out from my impromptu parking space.
I arrived at the Lakewood Rehabilitation Center just as visiting hours ended. The grounds were glaringly neat and clean, like a cross between a hospital and prison. I entered the lobby and pulled out my badge before the stout receptionist could even greet me.
Reading her nametag, I said, “Darcy. I’m Special Agent Landon Graves with the FBI. I need to know if you keep the personal effects of former patients on site.”
“Oh, uh, we keep lockers for a few months,” she said, surprised for only a moment as she scanned my identification. “Do you need a warrant for that?”
I gritted my teeth. Glancing around, I saw no one else, though a security camera watched us from a corner perch. Forcing as much of my willpower as possible into the words, I said, “You will show me to the locker of Oliver Pontas and assist me.”
The Voice hit Darcy hard, her eyes dilating and going blank. My vision swam for a moment and I came dangerously close to passing out from the use of so much of my power. I held onto the counter until I recovered.
Darcy turned woodenly and opened one of three filing cabinets. Quickly searching, she pulled out a few folders before replacing all but one. Finding the information I needed, she slid the large drawer shut and stood. Walking to the door wordlessly, I hurried to follow the woman to a locked door with a keypad.
A hefty man in a white security uniform greeted Darcy as she walked through the administration office, though she didn’t respond. I acknowledged him with a false smile and he watched suspiciously as we passed. We entered a long hall, both walls adorned with dozens of lockers like those found in a high school or cheap gym.
Using a ring heavy with dozens of keys, Darcy opened a locker to reveal very little. I nearly cursed in frustration until I noticed a photo held to the inside of the door with a magnet. It showed Gwen and a young boy I assumed was Adrian. Its edges were faded and curled as if Oliver had held it for hours, dreaming of the life they’d had and resolving himself to the completion of the rehabilitation program so he could have it once more.
The photo would work.
It had to work.
I snatched the picture up and left, not bothering to say anything to Darcy or the security officer on my way out. Burying concerns over the ethics of obtaining evidence without a warrant or the morals of using the Voice, I rushed out to my car. According to the dubious teenaged wizard, I needed a few more components to make the tracking spell work.
Tearing into my glove box, I found a map—which I thought would be useful as a component. The flashlight, owner’s manual, multi-tool, and first-aid kit wouldn’t do me much good. Reaching awkwardly across the seat, I popped the trunk and scrambled out.
I had jumper cables and snow chains… and an emergency roadside accident kit. I dug into the rectangular duffle bag to find flares, rock salt, small orange cones and a few other things of little use at the moment.
Nothing. I was going to have to do it with only the map and iron filings.
I needed a surface I could carve the runes into that would hold its shape. Looking around wildly, I spotted a box set into the ground that probably housed the wiring and controls for the landscape lighting and sprinkler system out front of the clinic. I grabbed the multi-tool from my glove box and went to it.
Working rapidly, I unscrewed the hinges and lock casing, resulting in a square piece of plywood about eighteen inches squared. I saw the security guard watching me from inside the entrance of the clinic. Wisely, I decided to depart and perform the ritual elsewhere.
Making a circuit around my car to shut the passenger door and trunk, I jumped in and shoved the keys into the ignition.
The dash clock read five-thirty when I pulled into the lot of a convenience store. I brought the board into my lap and flipped out the small knife from the multi-tool, and then etched the runes into the board just as I remembered them.
I completed the seven symbols after half an hour and I grew more impatient with each passing minute. I wondered if Bryce and Mendoza had made it to Adrian yet, if my hunch was wrong, or if they were even alive. The thoughts were dangerously distracting, but I inscribed the glyphs into the cheap wood with enough precision—I hoped.
I didn’t know what to do with the map, so I ended up tearing it along the worn edges and folding the pieces into little paper airplanes. Planes traveled. Maps showed locations. I needed to get to a particular place. Gathering the paper planes and carved board, I pulled the latch to pop open the trunk once more.
Bryce’s pouch allowed me to pour out even lines of fine iron filings in two concentric circles. The interior of the trunk afforded a relatively level surface and shelter from any errant breeze that might have disturbed the rite. I noticed the seven runes weren’t perfectly spaced or circular in their alignment. “Close enough” would just have to cut it.
There was a spare quart of motor oil I kept in the trunk and I decided to add it to the spell to hedge my chances. Oil was a liquid that got you places and eased machinery. I hoped that it would lubricate my spell. Using a pen, I dripped the Pennzoil into the carved runes.
I gathered my meager power and concentrated it on the circle, repeating the simple incantation three times just as Bryce had. In the relatively dim light, I saw the faint magical power glowing in the runes. The pieces of folded up map floated as if caught by a tiny, slow moving whirlwind that left the iron filings undisturbed.
Beads of the oil rose against gravity and looked like honey dripping from a comb, albeit in the wrong direction. The iron filings began to glow red with heat. The worry about searing hot metal near flammable liquid on smolde
ring wood took a back seat to the ephemeral wonder I felt as I completed my first non-summoning spell.
The oil and paper airplanes fell, igniting as they came into contact with the iron. Reality returning to me firmly, my eyes widened with alarm and I snatched the photo out of harm’s way. I felt something pulling it taut. The spell had worked—continued to work, pulling the picture hard enough that I worried about it tearing.
Grabbing a corner of the board, I carefully lifted it out of my trunk and overturned it onto the asphalt lot. It smoldered, but I didn’t have time to spare. Not with what I had in my hand.
I held onto the picture tightly, unsure whether the force I felt was imagined or actual. Luckily, my Buick was an automatic. I could keep one hand on the wheel and the other on the photo leading me toward Oliver Pontas.
Chapter Thirty
The photo bent with each turn I made, which was incredibly distracting for a driver. I narrowly avoided several accidents during the hour-long drive. The spell gave me no indication of proximity, so I ended up circling around an abandoned factory twice before I came to a stop.
Though a ten-foot tall chain link fence encircled the grounds, the main gate stood open. With every nerve in my body buzzing, I somehow forced myself to slow my approach as I drove past the small guard shack. Dirty windows and dead weeds around it told me it wasn’t occupied, nor had it been for years.
A single car sat in the otherwise empty parking lot outside of the derelict factory, its headlights facing toward me. It wasn’t Mendoza’s Crown Vic. I parked and got out of my Buick. As I crept past the Civic’s headlights with my gun drawn, I noted the broken driver-side window, a gouged side panel with what I identified as claw marks, and its open trunk.
Breathing evenly, I stopped to inspect the vehicle from front to back. Holding my gun at a downward slant, I stalked forward with sure and steady steps. To the casual observer, I probably appeared as a calm, professional agent. It was only the training.
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