Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  At least the snow covered the trash. The city looked clean, briefly, when it snowed. A group of bums were huddled around a burn barrel, hands extended for warmth; residents of the local Hoover Town. The vacant lots were filled with shacks and huts assembled out of junk and old tires. They looked over, but it was too cold and Sullivan was too physically intimidating to even bother panhandling.

  There was a scream from ahead. A woman, and it didn’t sound like she was playing around. The noise came from a nearby alley. The woman screamed again. There was a bang as a trash can fell over and then a man gave a rough laugh. “Help me! Somebody help me!” The cries echoed down the brick walls.

  The bums just lowered their heads and stared at their fire. There were only a few cars on the street. The local businesses were all boarded up. He was on his own. There wasn’t even a decision to be made, since his nature was set in stone. Sullivan sighed and walked to the mouth of the alley.

  There were six figures in the dark. One was obviously the victim, female, being held against the wall by the neck. The man holding her was nearly Sullivan’s size, and his four buddies were lined up behind. They liked to run in packs, numbers made them tough, these typical urban rats, always thin, hungry, and mean. One of them was tearing through the woman’s purse, looking for cash or anything they could trade for hooch or dope or whatever their game was.

  It was dark, but light enough to fight. His magic was ready. He felt the Power built up inside his chest and used a tiny bit to see the nearby world as it really was. Everything was just matter, some of it was heavy, some light, but everything felt the tug of gravity, and gravity belonged to Jake Sullivan.

  “Let her go.” He didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Part of him wanted the fight. It had been awhile, and he hated men like these.

  “Ain’t none of your business, buddy,” sneered the big one. He turned enough that Sullivan could see the gleam of a little knife in his off hand. “Keep on walking.”

  He felt for the heavy spots that might indicate a weapon, but the only thing dense on these thugs were their thick heads. No guns. Blades, leather saps maybe, but those things were harder to pick out from the background matter. One solid pair of brass knuckles stood out like a beacon. Surprisingly, it felt like the woman might have a compact pistol hidden inside her coat, but she must not have been able to get to it in time, or maybe she’d lacked the nerve to pull it. The other possibility was that she was in on it, and this was all some elaborate attempt to rob him, but it didn’t feel that way. The big jerk with the knife was enjoying himself too much.

  “You get one warning, then I hurt you.” Sullivan hadn’t even taken his hands out of his pockets. “You boys seem young and times are hard, so I’ll try not to kill you, but I can’t promise nothing.”

  “You know who you’re talking at?” said the one with the purse.

  “No, and frankly I don’t give a shit.”

  “We run this—” Not wanting to hear any nonsense about how their group of criminal losers was tougher than some other group of criminal losers, Sullivan reached out with his magic and Spiked. A bit of space broke and the gravity around the gang member changed direction. Left was now down, and the kid suddenly flew sideways into the brick. He crashed hard under the force of several extra gravities, bones creaking, and stuck there until Sullivan cut his Power. The kid fell into the snow in a shower of red dust.

  “I warned you.”

  “He’s a dirty wizard!” the big one shouted. “Get him!”

  The rats charged, which forced Sullivan to take his hands out of his pockets. He easily dodged the first clumsy swing and slugged the hoodlum in the chest. Ribs cracked under Sullivan’s hardened fist. That one gasped and collapsed. The next attacker slowed, confused, as the pull of gravity changed. It must have felt like he was trying to push his way through molasses. Sullivan’s casual right hook broke the man’s jaw.

  The last rat skidded to a stop and dropped his brass knuckles in the snow. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

  “Too late.” Sullivan reversed gravity and the hood fell ten feet into the air, screaming, before gravity returned to normal. Sullivan didn’t Spike very hard though, so the man probably didn’t break too many bones when he hit the pavement.

  The leader was the only one left standing. He let go of the woman and she sank to the ground, coughing. Sullivan looked down at her and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness was surprised to see it was the redhead from the library.

  “Filthy wizard. You stay back!” The thug raised his knife. “Your kind are evil.”

  “You don’t find nothing ironic about saying that?” Sullivan walked toward him. “Bunch of men mugging some poor lady and you’re preaching to me about evil? Robbing better be all you had planned . . .”

  “You wouldn’t be so tough without your magic.”

  “Well, ain’t you lucky? I done used up all my magic on your crew,” Sullivan lied. He had plenty of Power still, but he didn’t need magic to handle the likes of this trash. “I’m fresh out. Try me.”

  The boss thug bellowed and charged. Sullivan let the knife flash back and forth wildly. Sullivan had grown up poor in a tough town and was no stranger to back-alley fights. He’d fought on docks, in rings, at war, and had gotten extremely good at avoiding shivs inside the brutal dog-eat-dog world of the Rockville State Penitentiary. This encounter barely qualified as exercise. He kept moving just ahead of the blade, and when there was the faintest glimmer of confidence from his adversary, Sullivan ruined his night.

  He stepped past the swing and broke the thug’s nose with one fast jab. Sullivan was surprisingly quick for such a large man. Before his opponent could even cry out, Sullivan had grabbed his knife hand and twisted it back until wrist bones snapped. Then Sullivan kicked one of the thug’s knees backwards. He stepped back and let the man topple into the snow.

  Sullivan paused to dust his coat off. Some nasal blood had splattered his sleeve. All of the gang were down, crying, whimpering, or unconscious. He’d broken something on each of them, so that was probably a sufficient lesson for the evening. Sullivan wasn’t even breathing hard.

  The woman was standing up, so he stepped over the thug with the shattered knee and extended a hand. “They hurt you?”

  She took his hand and he helped her up. “No. I’m fine. Just shaken up.”

  “Let me see your neck.” He gently lifted her chin. It was difficult to see. “That’ll leave a bruise, there.”

  “Just a boo-boo,” she insisted.

  Sullivan let go and retrieved her purse. The goon that he’d Spiked into the wall cursed him, so Sullivan stepped on his fingers. That shut him up. “This ain’t the part of town for somebody like you.” He passed her purse over. “What’re you doing here?”

  She didn’t answer his question. “I thought you said you were the kind of librarian that couldn’t help people?”

  “I’m better at some things than others. Come on. It stinks in here. Let’s get you home.”

  There was far more light on the street. He could see that the woman was holding together well. Her expensive coat had been stained by alley grime, but her attitude was firm. Not a crier, this one. Remarkably, there was a cab coming around the corner, which was fortunate timing, since he had no idea where the nearest telephone booth was. He waved at the cab.

  The redhead looked him square in the eye. “So, what you did back there . . . You’re a Heavy, I’m guessing?”

  She did know a thing or two about magic. “I prefer Gravity Spiker. It’s more dignified.”

  The cab stopped before them.

  “Who are you?”

  “Just a guy who was in the right place at the right time.” His headache was coming back. He opened her door for her. “You got cab fare?”

  “I do. Thanks.” She politely took his hand as he helped her in. “Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need a lift?”

  “I’m good. And listen, if you’re going to carry
that piece, you’d better be ready to use it next time.”

  “Oh, I will. I promise.” The woman smiled at him, and she had a dazzling smile. “Thanks. You’re a regular knight in shining armor.”

  Sullivan closed her door. “Oh, you’ve got no idea.”

  The cab pulled away. The driver peered into the center mirror to study his passenger.

  “So, is that the Heavy?”

  “That’s our boy,” she said before turning around and waving at Jake Sullivan out the back window. He was standing there, lighting a smoke, and raised one hand to wave awkwardly in response. She turned back around. “I’m positive.”

  Her Power hadn’t been of much help earlier. Despite appearing to be a lout, he was too smart, and judging from the look on his face when she tried tipping the scales, he could feel the intrusion, so she’d been afraid to push. She’d needed to see his magic in action to be sure, and just like the files said, he was one dangerously powerful Heavy. She waited until they were around the corner before removing the red wig. Her primary concern during the attack was that it might have gotten knocked loose, and that would have looked suspicious. “Radio the others. We’ll pick him up tonight.”

  Miami, Florida

  FRANCIS COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS EARS. He had made the policeman repeat himself, but the message stayed the same. Heinrich Koenig had been killed.

  As a boy, armed only with his wits and Fade magic, Heinrich had survived on the streets of Dead City. He’d walked through the Berlin Wall, joined the Grimnoir, and been one of their bravest ever since. As a knight, he’d fought in dozens of battles, Soviets, Imperium, it didn’t matter, he had a special hatred for anyone who would use magic for evil. Heinrich feared nothing. No matter what the odds, no matter what they faced, Heinrich was always the first to volunteer. He was brash, fearless, and utterly loyal.

  And dead.

  Francis had to lean against the wall as the world dropped out from under him. His forearm was broken and his head hurt, but the physical injuries were nothing compared to the swift kick in the gut he’d just caught. He could afford a Healer, but from what he’d heard, both of the Healers in Florida had exhausted all of their magic trying to save as many lives as possible. He could wait. The policeman said that Heinrich had been on the steps when one of the magical blasts had gotten him. He had helped carry the injured president toward safety when he’d been struck down. The cop told him that Heinrich had died a hero.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Francis flopped onto a bench to stare off into space. Dead. Holy shit, Heinrich is dead. He had to tell the others.

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. Stuyvesant?” the policeman asked as he handed Francis a paper cup filled with water.

  “Bottle of whiskey?”

  “That’s illegal . . . Hell, I’ll see what I can do.”

  They’d stuck him in a detective’s office. There was a name stenciled on the glass of the door. It was backwards and Francis was too tired to try to read it. “How much longer do I need to sit here?”

  “There are some other federal men that still want to ask you questions.” The young officer turned to leave the room. He stopped on the way out, seemingly embarrassed. “You’re a hero too, sir. Everybody is saying that you killed that assassin. Chopped his head clean off.”

  “I’m not feeling particularly heroic,” Francis muttered.

  “Just unexpected is all. I mean with you being a rich guy and all. Getting your hands dirty and being brave like that,” the officer stammered. “And you’re even a . . . a . . .”

  “An Active?”

  The policeman lowered his eyes. “Yeah. Well, I guess you folks aren’t all bad, huh?” He retreated and closed the door behind him.

  They had already questioned him repeatedly, what more did they want? Sure, he could have thrown his weight around and had an army of lawyers descend on the place if necessary, but he was still too numb. What was he going to tell the others? What was he going to tell Faye? She was really fond of Heinrich. And poor Dan. Heinrich was the closest friend Dan had, his partner on a multitude of missions, hell, even the best man at his wedding. Dan was going to take this hard.

  Florida water always tasted vaguely swampy. Francis frowned at the cup, but no matter how hard he concentrated it wouldn’t magically transform into proper mind-numbing alcohol. He was only telekinetic. There was only one person who had ever had the kind of Power useful enough to turn water into wine.

  A few minutes later the door opened again, only instead of another local officer it was a man in a shirt, tie, and shoulder holster. The tie was undone and there was a big black automatic in the holster. He was of average height but with a torso like a heavyweight boxer, probably forty, with dark hair thinning on top, and thick, angry eyebrows. His chin was dark with stubble and his manner was cold. The stranger took in the stained remains of Francis’ expensive Italian suit and the cast around his arm. “You Francis Stuyvesant?” He didn’t offer to shake hands.

  “And you are?”

  He ignored the question and took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “Smoke?”

  “No. Thank you. What’s going on?”

  He pulled the curtain down over the glass door. “I ask the questions. If you try to get all indignant and do some don’t you know who I am rich asshole shtick, I’ll personally shoot you in the head and get it ruled a suicide.”

  The stranger had said it so matter-of-factly that it took Francis’ tired mind a moment to realize that he’d just been threatened. Francis was not used to being threatened. “Who are you?”

  The man struck a match with his thumb on the first try. “The UBF heir . . . In the flesh.” He lit his cigarette. “Why, lucky me. I’m just a poor old investigator for the OCI.”

  “So what’s OCI?”

  “Office of the Coordinator of Information.”

  “Is that supposed to sound intimidating?”

  “Naw,” the man chuckled. “It isn’t the name that’s intimidating. It’s what I’m authorized to do that’s intimidating. We take care of sensitive things. Like regulating magic, or questioning spoiled brats who suddenly became important because their rich grandpa kicked the bucket.”

  Francis had cultivated the public persona of being a useless fop, good for little more than attending social functions. It helped when your enemies underestimated you. The UBF board had thought that he would be an easily controlled figurehead because of that public persona, and he’d used that to his advantage to end up with actual control of the company. Despite that, most of the papers still thought of him as more a topic for the society pages than the business section.

  Apparently that’s what this mystery G-man believed about him as well, so there was no reason it couldn’t work to his advantage. Might as well run with it. Francis played indignant. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “I can and I will. You can call me Mr. Crow. So tell me, Francis . . . You mind if I call you Francis?”

  “That’s Mr. Stuyvesant to the likes of y—”

  The man was quick. The fist slammed into the side of his head so hard that Francis was certain that if he hadn’t flinched his eyes closed before impact they would have popped out of his skull. The world wobbled and then the floor tile came up to meet him.

  Nobody slapped around the upper crust. This wasn’t some collar off a crap-town speakeasy. Francis was somebody important. The surprise was worse than the pain. He knew how to take a punch, but he wasn’t as used to taking an insult. Something was very wrong.

  “Let’s try that again.”

  Francis was dragged up by the shirt and placed on the bench. The blow had staggered him, but he’d felt worse. Francis’ initial reaction was to use his Power. There were dozens of items scattered around the detective’s office that would look better stuck through the G-man’s ribs, but he needed to see what this was about first.

  “Will you get a load of that bruise? You sure did get banged around during that attack, didn’t you, boyo? Let’s try
this again.” Crow returned to his seat, perched on the edge of the desk. “Normally I only get to beat confessions out of darkies or bohunks. I never thought I’d get to beat a confession out of a rich kid. If only mom could see me now.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “Yes. I. Can. State of emergency, OCI is now in charge of any investigations involving Actives. Things have changed. You just don’t know how much yet. So tell me, Francis, why is it that there have been two major acts of magical terrorism in the last year and you were a survivor of both?”

  The Peace Ray had been aimed at his estate in Mar Pacifica because an Iron Guard wanted to blot a group of Grimnoir off the face of the Earth. Today? “Just lucky I guess.”

  Crow casually backhanded him. Francis’ head snapped around.

  “The assassin . . . Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Maybe you’ve seen this?” Crow held out his hand. In it was a familiar gold ring with a black stone. A Grimnoir ring.

  This was very bad. “I don’t know.”

  All knights received one when they took the oath. It was spellbound with a few minor wards, the insides engraved with designs of Power. They were useful tools and a symbol of the office. Francis didn’t wear his in public. He was too famous, photographed too much, and the Society didn’t need the exposure. He always kept his ring nearby though . . . Was that his? Had they searched his luggage? Did this OCI know about the Society?

  “What’s the ring for?”

  “It’s just a trinket. I don’t know. Is that mine? Because I’ve got lots of rings.”

  Crow held it up to the light. “There’s writing on the inside. Magic? Isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Francis said evenly.

  “Funny. This was on what was left of your dead German friend . . .” Crow set the Grimnoir ring on the desk, then reached into his pants pocket to take something out. He placed an identical ring next to the first. “This one was on the man you decapitated. Or was it the other way around? Did I get them mixed up? Hard to tell, since they’re identical, even down to the funny writing inside.”