Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  “Got to take this . . .” Crow muttered. “This might take awhile.” He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. He’d left the ring on the table.

  Hammer stared at it. There was no mistake. Though he had never worn one himself, her father had told her about the men that wore these.

  She picked the ring up. It had carvings all along the inside. Crow had said that it was the assassin’s ring, so she pushed her Power a bit to see if that was true. The impression she got was that Giuseppe Zangara had been the last man to wear it . . . only he hadn’t worn it for very long at all. Before Zangara, another man had died wearing that ring. She pushed harder, trying to see the true history of the ring. The image was fuzzy. The actors were strange. The ring’s true owner had been shot in the back and the ring had been stolen off his dead hand. It had been on so long that they’d broken the finger prying it off.

  The truth faded and she put the ring back on the table.

  She had to let Crow know the assassin was not a member of the Grimnoir Society.

  But Crow was made of lies. Hell, he was a lie. Whatever he really was, he was certainly no normal man. He couldn’t be trusted either . . . Hammer’s gaze turned to the tape player. He had been in a mighty hurry to stop it. The door was still closed. The machine was still running. Hammer turned the knob.

  “I know! You should be getting a medal, not rotting under OCI headquarters. Heh, just between you and me, I know you Grimnoir didn’t do it. We’ve already got conclusive evidence upstairs. But nobody in charge is going to see that evidence until I’m done cleaning house. I’m sure as hell not going to let a good crisis go to waste. My office just got a blank check to do whatever we needed to do to get you people under control. You know how rare that kind of pass is? In a little while, Congress will go back to getting cold feet and fretting about overstepping its bounds, but by then it’ll be too late for your kind.”

  For once, everything Crow had said there was completely true. He knew these people were innocent and he had the evidence to prove it . . . the rat bastard. Hammer heard a noise from the hall so she quickly stopped the tape.

  Crow came back in, shaking his head. “Politicians riding my ass . . .” He looked at her suspiciously. “Why the long face?”

  “Nothing. Ready to get back on the case is all. You need me for anything else, Mr. Crow?” She wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

  “Naw. We’re good here . . . You know, Hammer, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot. You’re one hell of an investigator and you’ve got a rare gift. We’re both professionals here. Once you’ve found Sullivan, maybe you should think about coming to work for OCI as a full agent. We’re not the BI. That was your original goal, wasn’t it? No place for girls there though. OCI don’t care. Looks, brains, Power, somebody like you could go far with us.”

  Snowflake’s chance in hell of that. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  After Hammer left, Crow checked the player. Sure enough, she’d played the rest of the tape. People with integrity were so easy to manipulate. They were like reading an open book. Especially when, because of the rarity of their Power, the OCI had been gathering information on them for years. Even with somebody you couldn’t lie to, you just had to figure out which truths you wanted told, and then steer them into filling in the blanks themselves.

  One of the men reported in a while later. Just as expected, after getting away from the courthouse, Hammer had pulled her car over and spent twenty minutes searching through it and her bags. Perfect. He had wanted her unnerved and thinking about how he’d been able to find her in the middle of nowhere so easily. She’d found the tracking rune that he’d had scratched into the paint just under the bumper and destroyed it. He had specified that it shouldn’t be made too hard to find. That would make her feel like she’d won, like she’d outsmarted him. A small victory would make her more confident that he could be outwitted, and that would make Hammer brave enough to make a hard decision.

  Which was right where he wanted her.

  Hammer found herself back at the crossroads.

  Her father had taught her how to track, magical or otherwise, how to defend herself, how to listen to her magic, and all of the other useful skills that she’d used to make a good living. He’d also taught her about right and wrong, and how sometimes the truth can be somewhere between the two.

  If the OCI’s mission wasn’t evil, then it was damn close. An innocent man was going to die for a crime he’d tried to prevent, and if Crow had his way there would be many more to follow.

  She thought of the ring. She’d been a little girl then, gone to her father’s office to bring him a lunch basket. A stranger had been there, wearing that same ring, and so she’d waited outside. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d listened through the crack as the stranger talked about trying to find someone that was using magic to commit crimes, and how he wanted to catch the criminal before it drew too much attention to their kind.

  Afterwards, her father had talked to her. Of course he knew that she’d been spying. You can’t lie to a Justice. He told her that such men were a force for good, and that though their existence was to be kept a secret, they were on the side of truth.

  She knew that he’d helped them a few times. He’d done things over the years that were outside the scope of his duty as a marshal, dangerous things, and when he’d come home he’d never spoken about them. In a family where lying to your children was impossible, sometimes you just had to say nothing at all.

  Lee Hammer had been a good man. Tough, quiet, hard as rawhide, but always kind to his family, fair to his people, and unyielding to his enemies. She’d grown up knowing that her father’s reputation as an impossibly dedicated lawman had been well earned. He was the one to call when there was a dangerous fugitive that absolutely had to be found. She knew that it was because he could always see the truth of things, but that had been their secret, one Active to another. He was careful to teach her to only use her Power for good, to serve others and not just herself. She’d never been as good at that as he’d been, though.

  Then he’d been gunned down by a gang and carried home on a plank. She still wore his star on a chain around her neck. Her dream had been to follow in her father’s footsteps, but nobody was going to hire a young lady for that kind of work. Marshalls said no. Rangers hadn’t wanted her. The BI had laughed at her. The only places that had female police relegated them to pushing paper as glorified secretaries.

  So instead she’d used her skills in other ways, greedy ways, helping anyone that could pay her enough to get an edge over those that couldn’t. Corporate espionage wasn’t the same as catching crooks, but it had some of the same thrill and it certainly paid better than working for the law, but it had always felt hollow.

  So, trying to follow her dreams again had roped her into something even worse.

  Jake Sullivan had turned south here.

  If she found him, she’d be rewarded. If she betrayed the OCI, then Crow would ruin her life, or from what she’d seen, probably end it. She knew she was being manipulated, but Crow’s oddness kept her from getting a good reading as to what his endgame was.

  When surrounded by lies, what would her father have done?

  She went south.

  Chapter 12

  Dear Miss Etiquette,

  if I think that an acquaintance might be a Mouth and using the power of suggestion on me, is it polite to speak up?

  Signed, Befuddled in Buffalo.

  Dear Befuddled,

  It depends on the social situation. It is never polite to use mind control on anyone, however to suggest something aloud during a party could be very offensive. He may simply be a real charmer. If he is an Active, that is why a proper young lady always is certain that there are chaperones present.

  —Miss Etiquette,

  Newspaper column, 1933

  Washington, D.C.

  J. EDGAR HOOVER slid into the backseat of the waiting automobile with a gru
nt. “What an awful day.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take me home.” The car pulled out of the garage and onto the busy avenue. “Damned bothersome reporters.” He made special note of remembering the names of each of the newsmen that had asked the difficult questions and put him on the spot. He’d be certain to make their lives as miserable as possible. “They’re like sharks when they smell blood.”

  “I know. Dreadful business,” the driver said. Hoover was startled. He was not used to his driver talking back. The agents that rotated through the assignment all knew to just let him talk, and to only speak when asked a direct question. “Right?”

  Hoover sat forward, glad to have someone to rip into. Berating underlings always made him feel better after a hard day at the office. “What’s your name, Agent?”

  “Garrett, sir. Daniel Garrett.” He reached up and tipped the edge of his hat so that Hoover could see his face in the mirror. “I’m really pleased to meet you. This is such an honor. I can tell that we’re going to get along really well. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  The unfamiliar agent had a soothing voice. Hoover relaxed. “Where’s my regular driver?”

  “In the trunk.” The driver laughed. Hoover laughed as well. “No . . . Seriously. He’s in the trunk.”

  Hoover laughed again. “Splendid!” This new agent had a marvelous sense of humor.

  “Don’t worry. He’s alive, just gagged and tied up is all.” The automobile pulled over at the corner. “Well, here’s our other passenger. Isn’t this great? It’s like a party.”

  “Indeed.” He was suddenly feeling very agreeable. His door opened and he had to scoot his bulk across the seat to make room for the new arrival, who was an extremely tall and thickset individual. He slammed the door behind him and the automobile immediately roared away from the curb.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Hoover,” Heavy Jake Sullivan said. “Long time, no see.”

  Suddenly J. Edgar Hoover wasn’t feeling quite so agreeable anymore.

  They’d picked a quiet spot, a condemned warehouse that probably dated back to the Civil War. It was a wide open space and quite a bit of light came in through the broken windows. Pigeons cooed in the rafters. Trash and bottles were strewn around, and from the old dirty blankets, it looked like quite a few hobos slept here. They’d found one busted up chair for their guest and Sullivan sat on an old cable spool.

  Dan had gone to bring the truck around. Sullivan had figured it was for the best to remove the Mouth from the equation. He needed Hoover to make the deal of his own free will. He hadn’t bothered to tie him up either. That would’ve been insulting to them both. Sullivan had given his pitch. Now he sat, arms folded, and waited for the Director’s response.

  “You want me to help you clear your name?” Hoover was incredulous.

  Sullivan nodded. “Yep. ’Cause I’m innocent.”

  “You kidnapped the Director of the Bureau of Investigation!”

  “I didn’t think you’d return my calls.”

  “You should be under arrest!”

  Sullivan looked around the empty warehouse. “You and what army?”

  Being alone and defenseless only made him slightly more humble than when he was surrounded by armed agents. “I used to own you!”

  Sullivan did not respond to that.

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

  “I didn’t think I could go much higher than Public Enemy Number One.”

  “Yes, which is frankly an embarrassment.” Hoover rubbed his face with both hands. “They corrupted my own system and used it to embarrass me.”

  “The Office of the Coordinator of Information, you mean?” Sullivan chuckled. “How’s the power struggle going?”

  Hoover looked at him funny. “You’re well-informed.”

  “Very.” Actually, it had been a guess, but it looked like he was right. “OCI used my parole to hang you out to dry. Way I see it, you either messed up and let a dangerous homicidal Active loose on society to serve as your personal hit man, or the OCI’s got this all wrong, and me and my friends have nothing to do with this plot.”

  “You’re rather clever for a Heavy, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Gravity Spiker, and you knew that when you sprung me from Rockville. We’re innocent, by the way.”

  “The evidence against your group is damning.”

  “What evidence? A mad Boomer wearing a spell and a ring makes hundreds of people guilty? That wouldn’t hold up in any court. We’re scapegoats. Patsies. And you know it. That evidence came from the OCI, didn’t it?”

  “Of course . . . Let me go, and I’ll be sure to bring that to light.”

  Sullivan pointed. “Door’s thataway. Your car is waiting.” He tossed the keys to Hoover, who, surprised, barely managed to flinch and catch them between his knees. “Don’t forget your man in the trunk. That can’t be comfy.”

  Hoover took the keys. “Just like that?”

  “I’m here to make you an offer, Hoover, not hold you for ransom. The OCI is a problem for both of us. I can help fix it.”

  The Director stood and hurriedly fled across the space, shoes echoing on the hard floor. Pigeons scattered to get out of his way. Sullivan stayed in place, but he figured he wouldn’t have to wait long. He had known men like J. Edgar Hoover before. Though they weren’t nearly as powerful, they were of similar makeup. Everything was about them. Any twist of fate that didn’t go their way was a personal slight. In a military officer, any positive report about a subordinate was felt as if they’d received a reprimand. In business, if the other guy made a buck, then they felt like they’d lost a buck, like there were only so many to go around. Everything was a competition, and no matter how successful they were, they were always bitter, petty men, who couldn’t stand being shamed.

  Hoover came back a minute later, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. “What are you proposing?”

  “You want to protect the institution you’ve built. I want to protect my people. Neither one of us likes seeing the innocent taking a fall while the guilty get away.”

  “Of course not,” Hoover snapped. “I know you hate me, but everything I’ve done has been to defend this great nation from our enemies.”

  Sullivan gave a sad little smile. Hoover was lecturing one of the most decorated veterans of the Great War about defending the country. “I believe you. Despite what I think of you, you sure do like putting the bad guys in jail. I respect that. Have a seat.” He waited for the pudgy man to return to the broken chair. “I’m assuming you know the truth about Mar Pacifica?”

  “Anarchist Actives—”

  “It was the Imperium.”

  Hoover scowled. “That’s classified.”

  “I was there. Don’t tell me about defending this nation, when I personally killed the man responsible for taking over the Peace Ray. I cut his head in half with a Jap sword. The Tokugawa? That was us too . . . We’re on the same side here, Hoover, and you know it. I know you’ve got your hooks in everything. I’d like to share information.”

  “You have been busy. Very well. You go first.”

  That was expected. “I just did. Now you’ve got a confirmation about who killed the Chairman and saved New York from being vaporized by a Tesla weapon.”

  “And the Geo-Tel?”

  Sullivan was impressed. Hoover was just as well informed as everyone said he was. “Destroyed.”

  “Hmmm . . . I don’t know what to say about that . . .”

  Thank you would be nice for once. “Tell me about the OCI.”

  It was obvious Hoover didn’t like being manipulated, but he was a man who liked to explore his options. “A very secret, very minor, unimportant agency started by President Wilson, specifically to study magic and gather intelligence on known Actives.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “As I said—secret. They were authorized emergency police powers after Pacifica.”

  “I thought monitoring Active criminals
was the BI’s responsibility.”

  It was obvious this part put Hoover in a sour mood. “It was. OCI was to monitor Actives in general. After the Peace Ray, some . . . confidence was lost in the Bureau’s abilities. OCI had already laid the groundwork and was prepared to step in. They’ve capitalized on recent events to increase their authority.”

  When he put it that way, government infighting didn’t sound much different than the mobs jockeying to control different rackets. Another gang shows weakness, you make a move. “Why are they framing the Grimnoir?”

  Hoover paused, as if thinking about how much precious information he was willing to part with. “Perhaps they think you really are responsible?”

  “I was a detective, remember? They can’t be that stupid. They’re not trying to conduct an investigation. This is an extermination.”

  The top G-man in the country gave him a bit of a smile. “Very good, Mr. Sullivan. A lone killer, no matter how dangerous, the country deals with them and moves on. It doesn’t require any great changes to the system. Now a conspiracy . . . that requires action to root out. That requires men, material, money, and management. Since things are changing so rapidly in these dark times, some parties may see this as their opportunity to insinuate themselves into the fabric of power. Your group is but the means to an end.”

  “And from the way the BI’s been thrown under the train, too, I’m guessing you’re in the way of that end, and it’s probably not because you’re such a fan of civil liberties for Actives.”

  “You might not think so, seeing as how you’re a convict, but compared to my opposite number in the OCI, I am a saint. This may come as a surprise, but I’ve been against their agenda the entire time. I think it goes entirely too far and the American people will not stand for it.”

  “What’s the agenda?”

  The Director was surprised. “You don’t know?” Sullivan cursed himself for the slip. “Perhaps you are not as well informed as I’d thought. Forget that I said anything. I’m not in the habit of divulging classified information.” Hoover had scored a point.