by Lisa Shearin
Alain Moreau was a tall, slender, and impeccably well-dressed vampire. I didn’t know when he’d been turned, but company rumor had it that he was at least three hundred years old. He didn’t look a day over thirty-five with the silver-fox-Anderson-Cooper look he had going on.
“Agents Byrne and Fraser,” the boss said.
“Ma’am,” we said in unison.
“Sir,” I added with a nod to Alain Moreau.
“You weren’t at your desk,” my manager noted coolly. “And neither of you are answering your phones.”
Ian and I exchanged a baffled look and reached for our phones.
“Shit!” I jerked my hand away. “Excuse me, ma’am, but damn that thing’s hot.” I winced. “Excuse me, again.”
Ian managed to get his hand on his phone and tossed it on the table. I could swear I saw smoke coming from it. He flipped his phone over with the back of one finger and peered at the display. “Fried.”
Deep fried. The Gorilla Glass was even broken.
I wrapped my hand in a cloth napkin and extracted mine from its holster. Dead as a doornail. Even more baffling was that we hadn’t felt the heat until we’d actually touched the phones.
“I called you when we got back from the Murwood,” I told Moreau. “It was working fine then.”
“That was before both of us grabbed Bert,” Ian reminded me.
And after Bert had his brain grabbed by a demon-possessed corpse.
“Sir, may I borrow your phone?” Ian asked Moreau. “Fred Ash was with us.”
“He won’t be able to answer if his phone got zapped, too,” I pointed out.
Moreau handed Ian his phone, and my partner started entering Fred’s number. “Yes, but we’d get an ‘out of service’ message. That would clinch it.” He waited as the phone tried to call Fred. After about thirty seconds he hung up and passed the phone back to Moreau. “Thank you. Fred’s number is disconnected or is no longer in service.”
Looked like touching a necromancer under attack by a possessed corpse was bad for phone health, too.
Vivienne Sagadraco settled herself into one of the cafeteria’s chairs. “Considering the number of encounters you’ve had today, I think you’d both better start at the beginning.”
Ian and I took turns, starting with our interrupted lunch.
Alain Moreau had a raised eyebrow at the identity of my lunch date, but Ms. Sagadraco didn’t bat an eye. While Moreau was my manager, Vivienne Sagadraco was boss lady to both of us. She’d told me to go and have fun. Her blessing overruled one raised eyebrow. Besides, I wasn’t the one dating the world’s oldest gorgon, Helena Thanos. Though she was the boss’s BFF, and was not on SPI’s perpetual suspect list. Neither could be said of Rake.
We recounted what we’d found at the scene of Sar Gedeon’s murder: the unique and grisly cause of death, and most critical—at least to me—how the killers had gotten into and out of the apartment. In order to describe precisely what I had seen, I had to recall every detail, which I wasn’t too keen to do, but if I wanted to find out why I could suddenly see portals, I had a sinking feeling I’d be telling it more than once. I’d better not only be good at it, but also get used to it.
“This is a new skill,” Vivienne Sagadraco said when I’d finished. She didn’t ask it as a question. She knew what I could do, and until today, what I could do didn’t include seeing portals.
“Agent Byrne and I believe it may have something to do with the ley line convergence,” I said. “I was right on top of it.”
“So were Ben Sadler and Agent Filarion,” Ms. Sagadraco said.
“And Rake Danescu,” Ian added.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “Alain, would you check with Mr. Sadler and Agent Filarion to see if they are experiencing any unusual aftereffects due to contact with the Dragon Eggs?”
The vampire nodded. “As soon as we’re finished here.”
“Is it possible?” I asked. “I didn’t actually touch any of the Dragon Eggs, but could exposure to a magnified ley line nexus do something like that?”
“Prior to Viktor Kain collecting those seven diamonds, they had never been together, let alone activated by a gem mage of Mr. Sadler’s skill. Add to that the fact that they were activated above the convergence of two major ley lines . . . I feel safe in saying that we are treading new ground.”
Holy crap. Vivienne Sagadraco was two millennia old. Alain Moreau was at least three centuries. They’d been around the block a couple thousand times. If they’d never heard of it happening, it’d never happened.
“I’ve never aspired to be a trailblazer, ma’am.”
She almost smiled. “Those who are, seldom do.”
“Could there be another explanation?”
“There is, but it is one that you would find distasteful.”
“I’ve already got a bad taste in my mouth from all of this.”
“You were briefly connected to the mind of Viktor Kain. That combined with your proximity to the nexus and activated Dragon Eggs may be what is responsible for your new talent.”
“I’m trying real hard not to think Viktor Kain might have something to do with this.”
“Nevertheless, it must be considered as a possibility.”
“I don’t feel like I’m being influenced by evil forces.”
“I wasn’t implying that you were, merely that all possibilities must be considered. And as we recently experienced with Mr. Sadler, abilities previously dormant can emerge in startling ways.”
“Seeing a demonic portal was startling all right.”
“No doubt.”
“Ma’am, do you think it’ll be possible to find out what caused it?”
“Rest assured, if the answer can be found, we will find it.”
I knew for a fact that Vivienne Sagadraco could read minds—and emotions. She knew I was scared. She’d hired the best and brightest minds she could lure away from both the government and private sector. What she said was what she meant: if the reason could be found, SPI would find it. I couldn’t ask for better odds than that.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“For now we’ll assume that Mac seeing the portal at the murder scene wasn’t an isolated incident,” Alain Moreau said. “Who knows about this?” he asked me and Ian.
I shifted uneasily. “Aside from whatever was watching me on the other side of that portal, just the four of us.”
“There’s nothing we can do about the one; but on this side, it doesn’t leave this table for now. We’ll bring others in on a strictly need-to-know basis.”
We all knew the reason why.
As the only seer in SPI’s New York office, and one of only five worldwide, I made it more difficult for supernatural criminals to magically disappear into a crowd. My three predecessors at headquarters had met untimely—and highly suspicious—ends. One death could’ve been an accident; two would’ve been bad luck. But three? In a row? That was foul play of the premeditated kind. For whatever reason, someone out there didn’t want SPI New York to have a seer.
Now I could see portals.
Portals weren’t exactly common. It took specialized and expensive talent to create them. Well-connected criminals used portals as escape routes. Powerful and highly placed elves and goblins used them to travel between the dimensions—most notably ours—undetected. For someone in law enforcement to be able to see them? Well, that’d make me the most popular girl on any number of hit lists.
My mouth went dry at the thought, and I downed the last of my sweet tea. “I already have a target on my back by being a seer; now I’ve got the magic equivalent of a red laser dot between my eyes.”
Silence.
“Isn’t anyone going to tell me I’m wrong?”
“I make it a point never to lie to my agents,” Ms. Sagadraco said.
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t mind the occasional happy, fluffy, white one.”
She turned toward Moreau. “I want to bring Martin DiMatteo in on this.”
Oh boy.
That confirmed that demons were going to be a big part of my immediate future; though as long as I didn’t end up like Sar Gedeon, I could deal with it.
Martin DiMatteo was SPI’s expert on all things demonic. We’d been introduced during my first week when, as a new employee, I felt like I’d been introduced to every person who worked at SPI and their intern. No one really expected newbies to remember all the names and faces thrown at them, but I’d had no trouble remembering Mr. DiMatteo. If SPI had business cards, Martin DiMatteo’s would’ve said “Director of Demonology.” When we’d been introduced, he’d had pink scorch marks where his eyebrows should have been. That earned him a special place in my memory.
The eyebrows hadn’t grown back.
A couple of weeks later, what hair he had on his head had disappeared as well—though I think the hair was a personal style choice rather than another work-related mishap.
Martin DiMatteo was probably a nice enough guy once you got to know him, but let’s just say I’d always hoped our caseloads would never intersect on the agency meeting calendar.
Sounded like my luck was about to run out; but like I said, if I didn’t end up on a slab in the morgue, it was all good.
“When we leave here, I’ll be going to see Bertram,” Ms. Sagadraco said. “I would like to be there when he regains consciousness. I don’t want to tax his strength having him tell me what happened.”
“Whereas we were there and didn’t get walloped by a demon,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I let Ian do the honors. He’d had much more experience giving detailed reports.
“Detective Ash and I couldn’t get Dr. Ferguson to let go of the corpse, though I think it was more like the corpse wouldn’t let go of Dr. Ferguson. It was Agent Fraser who was able to help break whatever had hold of Bert’s mind.”
“May I ask how?” Ms. Sagadraco asked.
“You can ask, ma’am,” I said, “but I honestly don’t know. I just blocked Bert’s visual contact with Sar Gedeon. I think Bert did all the work. I just let him know we were there and he wasn’t alone.”
“Sometimes the reassuring touch of another being is more effective than any magic.”
“What attacked him?” Moreau asked.
“That we won’t know for sure until Bert wakes up and tells us,” Ian said, “but I think it was a trap, deliberately set for a necromancer attempting a postmortem contact. In this case, the soul had been taken and the trap left in its place.”
Moreau leaned forward. “Taken?”
“The heart had been removed in addition to the soul.”
“I’m unfamiliar with any demonic significance of those acts,” Moreau said. “Madam?”
“Likewise. Another reason why Martin’s insights could prove invaluable.”
“Fred Ash is one of the NYPD’s investigators assigned to Brimstone,” Ian said. “We’ll share information as needed. Even though we don’t have a solid and proven connection between Sar Gedeon’s killers and the drug, it’s a coincidence we can’t ignore. Fred said that as far as they know, Gedeon wasn’t connected to Brimstone manufacturing and sales, but it’s possible he could be a link in the chain.”
“What effect is it supposed to have?” Ms. Sagadraco asked.
“Unknown,” Ian replied. “Fred said they haven’t been able to get a sample for analysis.”
“Then that should be our first priority. If it is a drug that is not of this dimension, we are most qualified to locate a supply and track down its source. Our lab facilities and technicians are better qualified to analyze a drug of extra-dimensional origin, and determine what effects it has on mortal, immortal, and supernatural alike. That being said, our colleagues of the NYPD could ascertain the reason for its popularity as well as we could. I can’t imagine anyone paying any amount—exorbitant or not—to be scared out of their wits.”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” I said. “We humans can be a pretty flaky lot.”
She almost smiled. “I have observed this on occasion. The same can also be said of immortals and supernaturals. Alain, have our agents with connections in the city’s drug industry find out what they know about this Brimstone. Have any new underworld elements recently arrived here? And by underworld, I mean criminal or demonic—or both. If this drug is of extra-dimensional origin, it is bothersome to me that mortal law enforcement discovered its existence before we did. In the light of a possible connection between this drug and today’s murder, I would like to know why.”
“I will take care of it, madam.”
“Thank you, Alain.”
I gave a silent whistle. I was glad I wasn’t on narcotics detail. For their sakes, I hoped they had a good reason why the NYPD had beat them on this one.
SPI had detectives and investigators the same as any mortal police department, and those who had contacts in New York’s drug industry would be set on Brimstone’s trail.
We didn’t have enough evidence to connect Brimstone with the murder of Sar Gedeon, but someone involved in that murder, whether or not it was the actual killer, had set a trap for any necromancer who tried to have a chat with their victim.
Bertram Ferguson was SPI New York’s only necromancer.
The murder was committed in New York.
Therefore, Bert had been targeted.
Again, we had no evidence to turn my hypothesis into a fact, but my friend nearly died—or worse—and I was fully prepared to take that personally. So I was going to investigate anything that might lead me to the asshole responsible.
I had a source. And as long as Ian bought a lottery ticket later today, he would talk to me.
9
I never liked hospital rooms.
Though I imagine not many people do. No one wants to sit in a tiny room watching someone you care about unconscious and with machines hooked up to them. Aside from the birth of a baby, there is no happy reason to be in a hospital.
Bert wanted to see me and Ian.
Now.
When we got to the infirmary, Bert was wide awake.
For a man who was zapped only an hour or so ago by a trap set in the mind of a dead body, Bert was looking pretty good. His color wasn’t the best, but he was conscious and sitting up in bed. I was glad to see both.
Not only was he awake, he looked pissed. Really pissed.
It appeared that Bert was taking the attack personally. Since he was the only necromancer in SPI’s New York office, I couldn’t imagine who else the killer thought would go poking around in Sar Gedeon’s head.
“Looks like you went one round too many with one of the boys downstairs,” Ian told him.
My partner wasn’t talking about the guys in SPI’s motor pool.
Bert just nodded. “After what you two saw in that apartment, I was an idiot for getting in the ring.” The big guy shrugged. “But taking punches is part of my job.”
I nearly said, “It shouldn’t be,” but he was right. We knew the risks of the work when we’d signed on. It was just that some of us risked more than others. I merely pointed out warded supernatural criminals. Bert talked to dead people, and most of those people had gotten themselves dead by violent means. To me, that was the psychic equivalent of going around and sticking your bare hand in a hole in the ground. You never knew what you were going to find.
Or what was going to find you.
I had a good idea of what had found Bert.
The same thing that’d seen me from the other side of that portal.
“I need to talk fast before Doc Stephens comes in here and tries to give me a sedative.”
I didn’t miss Bert’s emphasis on “tries.” I could see the necromancer being a bad patient.
“What did you see?” Ian asked quietly.
“For starters, I can confirm that class-five demon.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah.”
I concentrated on taking air in and blowing air out.
Today was my first experience with demons.
Like many Southerners from small towns, if someone asked you if you thought demons were real, you gave the Sunday school answer of “yes.” But they weren’t something you thought about on a day-to-day basis. Even working at SPI, you knew certain things were real, but you never really put religion together with anything you might run into on the job. At least I hadn’t.
Until now.
By helping Bert break a hold a demon had on him, I could’ve put myself in its crosshairs. And if that same demon was what I had seen on the other side of that portal, he’d now met me twice.
Cold sweat prickled across my skin at the thought.
I knew without a doubt that I’d help Bert again in a heartbeat, but I really hoped I didn’t have to.
Bert noticed.
“You look like you need this bed more than I do.”
“It’s just been a long day already.” That wasn’t a lie. I tried on a smile for size. “Trust me, I’m gonna do my best not to end up in an infirmary bed.”
Or in a stainless steel drawer next to Sar Gedeon.
Bert grimaced as he pulled himself up further in the bed. Dr. Stephens might have the right idea of sedating Bert to make him get some rest.
“I saw them kill the elf,” he told us. “I saw it because they wanted me—or whoever tried a PML—to see them work.”
“PML?” I asked.
“Postmortem link.”
All corporations had their acronyms, but SPI was a special snowflake.
“Your higher class demons are arrogant bastards,” Ian said.
Bert snorted. “Or drama queens. You two talked to Marty yet?”
“Martin DiMatteo,” Ian said in response to my confused expression. Then he grinned. “You don’t want to get Marty and Bert started at company parties. They try to outdo each other with work war stories.”
“I’ll try to avoid doing that.” Some stories are better left untold, especially if they involved demons and dead people.
“No, we haven’t seen Marty,” Ian said, “but the boss wants to bring him in on this one.”
“A demon coming through a portal and ripping the insides out of an elf drug lord. Marty will love this one.”