Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  That could ruin someone’s day. Francis took the notepad. “Can I have this?”

  “You have paid me a sum of money sufficient to guarantee the financial freedom necessary to pursue my life’s work.”

  “So . . . yeah?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stuyvesant. You may have my notepad.”

  The spell would be remarkably hard to get right. “Where did you see this one?”

  “Only once. Several years ago I was taking the train to Chicago. A young man boarded and rode for a time. This particular geometry was bonded to him. I have not seen its like since, and I have seen many Actives.”

  Francis put the sheet representing his Mover abilities next to the mystery Power. The new one had ten times the lines. He had no idea how that translated into real world use, but he sure hoped that guy was on their side. “What does it do?”

  “I have no idea. Are you familiar with the principles relating to the creation of a geometry on a solid plane of—”

  “Yeah, I can spellbind.”

  “Spellbind . . . Spellbound . . .” Fuller smiled. “An interesting portmanteau. Would you mind terribly if I were to use that?”

  “Why not? You seem to like sticking words together. So if I create this near a nullifier, it’ll blow it up?”

  “It is the one geometry that I am aware of which, in theory, would do so. However, I have never attempted to activate this particular geometry myself in order to see what would happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Mr. Stuyvesant. That spell frightens me. I can extrapolate no possible explanation of what it may do. It is beyond my comprehension and has troubled my sleep at night.” There was a sudden chill wind as the door opened. “I would urge the utmost caution in its creation.”

  There was a sudden shout from the bar. “Hey, watch it, jerk!” It was Chandler.

  Francis looked up to see what the commotion was. His accountant had gotten up and shoved the construction worker. The big man was getting up with a look on his face that suggested Chandler was about to get pasted. “What in the world is he doing?” And then Francis realized that there were two men standing in the doorway, hands in their coat pockets, with a look that just screamed G-men.

  “What’s your deal?”

  “That’s right! I said your wife’s fat and ugly!” Chandler raised his fists in an exaggeratedly drunken manner, then blundered backwards into the new arrivals, distracting them. One G-man shoved Chandler, who then slugged the construction worker in the mouth. The big man hit a table and took down a pair of dockworkers. Several other toughs took the opportunity to jump in. The UBF vice president of finance began shouting, “Raid! Raid!” Which caused everyone else in the place to stand up to see what was going on. The construction worker got up, charged Chandler, missed and took one of the feds to the ground.

  Most of the patrons who were sober enough to not want to get arrested ran for it. Francis stashed the notebook. “Come on, Fuller.” He got up, grabbed the Cog by the arm, and dragged him straight for the back. These places always had multiple exits in case of a police raid. The whole front of the bar had descended into a free-for-all. Francis looked back just long enough to make eye contact with Chandler, who winked, and then hit a sailor with a chair.

  The speakeasy was in a basement. There was a brick hallway that went past the toilets, up some old metal stairs, and ended at a wooden door. Francis pushed hard and hit somebody with the door. The alley was even darker than the bar. Before his eyes could adjust, the man he’d struck took hold of Francis’ sleeve. “Stop in the name of the law!”

  Francis threw out a wild surge of Power. The G-man was slammed back off of his feet, and from the racket, into a bunch of trash cans. Still pulling Fuller along, Francis ran toward the light of the street. More bar patrons were coming out behind them and there was enough noise now that the downed G-man wouldn’t be able to pick them out of the crowd. Francis turned right on the busy sidewalk and slowed to a walk.

  Fuller seemed really excited. “That was interesting.”

  “You’ve never seen me. You’ve never met me. You weren’t here. They’re after me, got it? And they can’t know we’ve talked. It’s for your own safety. Go home. Understand?” Fuller nodded. “Good. Keep on walking like everything is normal. I’ll be in touch.” Francis veered to the side, saw a break in traffic, and ran across two lanes of traffic. It was an obvious move, but he couldn’t let the OCI know that he’d met the man building their Dymaxions.

  Sure enough, he was spotted. There was a shout as someone gave chase, then the squeal of brakes and the honking of a horn. An OCI man went sliding across the hood of a cab. Reaching the other side, Francis picked out a nearby restaurant and ran for the door. He collided with some customers that were leaving and knocked a well-dressed lady on her ass. “Sorry!” Then he was through the doors, past the surprised hostess, and running between the tables of startled diners.

  There was more shouting as the OCI men followed. “There he is!”

  Francis spotted the swinging doors of the kitchen and barged through. Food was sizzling and fire leapt from around a pan. Several members of the staff looked at him. “Hey, you can’t be in here,” a man in a white apron shouted.

  “Where’s the back door?” Francis asked.

  The cook picked up a meat cleaver and pointed it at him. “Beat it!”

  Francis concentrated his Power and jerked the meat cleaver from the cook’s hand. It stuck hard into the ceiling. “Exit?” The frightened cook pointed to the left. “Thanks.” Francis could see the OCI men heading his way through a porthole in the door. He ran for it, but on the way noticed several big bottles of olive oil on a shelf. He focused his Power and hurled the bottles hard against the floor. The jugs exploded into a slick mess. Francis made it to the back door just as the OCI came into the kitchen, slipping and crashing. Suckers.

  He found himself in the second alley of the night. The door closed behind him, and luckily it was metal. Francis threw a bunch of Power against the frame. It was a strain, but he twisted the metal until it creaked and bent. They wouldn’t be following him out that way.

  Francis paused to catch his breath. Pershing had taught him how to keep a cool head in situations like this. How many of them were there? Which way would they be coming from? They’d be watching the streets. They’d have cars and radios. He had to give them the slip somehow. He had to maximize his advantages. There.

  There was a sliding fire escape ladder leading to the apartments above. It was well out of reach . . . for those poor saps that weren’t born Movers. Francis reached out with his Power, grasped the bottom rung and pulled hard. It came sliding down. He quickly scrambled up the ladder as the OCI began beating on the kitchen door. The metal rungs were rusty and cold, and he was panting by the time he made it to the second story landing. He could almost hear Faye’s voice chiding him. Too much drinking and not enough healthy exercise.

  He tried to use his Power to yank up the ladder behind him, but nothing happened. Nullifier! “Shit.” He pulled up the ladder by hand and then hit the stairs as fast as he could. He needed to get out of sight fast.

  The OCI in the kitchen started shooting holes in the door trying to break the lock. It wouldn’t work, but it told him these guys were not messing around. A bullet ricocheted off the wall below and made a terrible whine as it zinged off into the night.

  The building was eight stories tall. He’d never make it over the top before the OCI got to the alley. Luckily the apartment window on the fourth floor was open a tiny crack. He pushed it up, climbed through and fell onto the carpet just as headlights illuminated the alley below. He risked a peek over the edge to see several men with guns fanning out across the alley, kicking over trash cans and poking through the dumpsters. One looked up, but Francis pulled back in what he hoped was the nick of time. There were all sorts of clotheslines leading from this fire escape to the building on the other side of the alley. With any luck the fed would just think the movement he sa
w was some of the lines swaying in the breeze.

  He was in a plain bedroom. The lights were out, nobody was inside, and the door was closed. The sound of a radio could be heard coming from the other side of the wall. He breathed and listened to the crashing and shouting below. They wouldn’t give up that easy. They’d canvas the neighborhood. Normally his Power would make a real mess of his enemies in a fight, but if they found him, that damnable nullifier would give them the advantage. He pulled out the notepad, craned it enough so that he could see the pencil lines from the reflected light, and tried to figure it out. He was fairly decent at drawing spells. He could make this work . . .

  The doorknob turned. Francis hurried and crawled behind the bed. He tried to duck down as low as possible, but it wasn’t a very tall bed. The door opened and a hand reached for the light switch. Francis reached out with his Power to pop the light bulb, but forgot that it wasn’t going to work. The light came on. Shit.

  “What’s going on down there?” It was a girl’s voice. Footsteps on the carpet. Francis had to shut her up and fast. She went to the window and looked down at the OCI. She was young, probably his age, but short and built thick like a fire hydrant. Francis prepared to grab her. He’d have to cover her mouth so she couldn’t scream, and then try to calm her down. “Who left this open?” and then she looked over and saw Francis coming her way.

  Like a good New Yorker, she did two things without even thinking about it. First, she screamed, and second, she kicked him right between the legs. Francis cried out and stumbled to the side as the girl kept on screaming. He fell over the edge of the bed and hit the floor.

  “Up there!” one of the OCI shouted.

  That really hurt. He just wanted to puke and die, maybe even in that order, but he got up and lurched for the door. The girl hit him with a vase and threw a shoe after him, all while screaming for help. Francis made it through the living room, found the door, and spilled out into the hall.

  That was rather embarrassing. He’d fought a dojo full of Imperial Iron Guards once, and now he’d just been bested by a swift kick from a portly girl. The hall stretched in both directions. He limped toward the elevator. No, they’d expect that. “Stairs,” he gasped. Now is not a good time for stairs.

  He found the stairwell and clambered down a floor. The girl had been barefoot but he felt like she’d been wearing steel-toed boots. There was a noise below as the door to the stairwell banged open. It was too late. Francis turned and went up, or as Buckminster Fuller had suggested, out from the center of gravity. Damned Cogs.

  Francis could hear the heavy footfalls below. He yanked open the fifth floor door as loudly as possible and then tried to move quietly toward the sixth, hopefully they’d veer off to check that. He had to think fast. He could either hide, run, or fight. His magic wasn’t working, but he had a .45 auto and two mags inside his coat. However there were at least eight of them, maybe more. If he hid, they’d find him eventually. That left running. The buildings in this part of town were packed right on top of each other. Maybe if he made it to the roof he could jump to the next one. It was his best bet, so Francis ignored the pain and kept on running.

  He was sweating profusely by the time he got to the roof. Luckily, the door was unlocked. There was a pigeon coop, some antennas, and a dried-out roof garden. Francis ran over to the edge. Too far. A Brute couldn’t have leapt to the next building. Francis scrambled to the other side, but it was even worse over there. There was only a twelve-foot gap between walls, but he hadn’t realized that he’d climbed up the shortest building on the block. Francis found one spot where there was a fire escape on the opposite building. It was far, but using his downward momentum he could . . . what? Rip his arms off on impact? He wasn’t Jake Sullivan.

  Francis pulled the Colt .45 from his shoulder holster and thumbed off the safety. He was going to have to fight his way back to the street. He’d probably get plugged in the process. He should’ve gotten one of those vitality spells bound to him when Heinrich had, but he’d been too scared. It was one thing to risk your life on the fly, it was another thing to do it by going under a slow knife and hoping to come back out of a magical coma. If he lived through this, though, he promised himself that he’d get one for sure.

  He checked his Power. Still nothing. Whoever had a Dymaxion had to be in the building below. If he had his magic, he could easily blast past these bozos . . . Francis pulled out the notepad and studied the design as he moved over and hid behind the pigeon coop. Fuller’s spell was his only hope.

  Trying to burn the lines into his memory, Francis almost didn’t even hear the deep rustle of wings over the cooing of the pigeons. He looked up just as a black shape passed overhead. What now? The shape landed softly on the other side of the coop.

  “Come on out, Francis. It’s over.”

  It was Crow.

  Whisper had said he was some sort of demon, which meant without his magic he wouldn’t have a chance, and if Crow was using a Greater Summoned, he was toast no matter what. Francis took one last desperate look at Fuller’s design. He might have it memorized enough to produce it later, but he didn’t have time to draw it now and he couldn’t let it fall into Crow’s hands. Tearing the little page out, he stuffed it in his mouth and chewed. He almost choked on the dry paper but he managed to swallow it.

  Crow’s footsteps could be heard coming around the pigeon coop. His presence was scaring the hell out of the birds. “I thought about killing you. You have no idea how tempting it is to just toss you off this building and say that you got scared and jumped.”

  Francis circled, keeping the little structure between them. He got glimpses of Crow’s black coat through the wire. “Who said I’m scared?”

  “Guilt then. Maybe a rich kid got in over his head in an Active plot and was afraid of doing hard time. I don’t know. Whatever plays better in the press. You’re scared though, Francis. I can smell your fear. Your sweet little girlfriend was braver than you are. Pert little thing, that. When this is over, maybe I’ll keep her for myself. Show her what a real man can do.”

  “You’re no man.” Francis took two steps back from the coop, raised his gun and fired repeatedly. The flashes obscured his vision, but as Crow moved to the side, Francis tracked him and kept on shooting. He knew that he’d hit Crow several times. Pistol empty, Francis took another magazine from the pouch on the off side of his shoulder holster. Feathers were floating in the air. He got the mag into the well just as two massive hands landed on his shoulders.

  “True,” Crow hissed. Francis looked up into four glowing red eyes. “I’m no man. I’m better than that. You should get to know the real me.” The great black head dipped hard, and a curled ram’s horn, hard as rock, slammed into Francis’ face.

  Head swimming, Francis found himself on his back, staring at grey clouds stained pink by the city lights. Blood was running into his eyes. The demon stood over him, smoke leaking from several bullet holes. He seemed to ripple, like a pebble tossed in a puddle. Francis tried to blink away the blood, and when he opened his eyes, Crow appeared human again.

  Crow’s voice seemed to come from very far away as other feet crunched on the gravel around him. “Put this fink in the hole with the other. We’re not done with him yet.” A black leather shoe rose over his head, descended fast, and everything went black.

  Chapter 13

  You do not comprehend what we are facing. I have lived in both worlds, West and East. The Imperium is more than just another country and the Chairman is more than some mere politician to be bargained with. To illustrate, one of our most popular legends tells of forty-seven warriors whose master was disgraced by an enemy lord, and thus had to take his own life. Though revenge was forbidden by decree, they swore a secret oath. These ronin spent years plotting. They debased themselves, laying drunken in the street, beaten and spit upon by peasants, all so that their foe would underestimate them. But as soon as he let down his guard, they struck the castle, slaughtered his retainers, and sawed the lord
’s head off with the dagger their master had used to gut himself. Having made their point, every single one of them committed ritual suicide together. That is not the attitude of men you take lightly.

  —Toyotomi Makoto,

  knight of the Grimnoir,

  testimony to the elders’ council, 1908

  Unknown Location

  IT BEGAN IN THE RAIN, holding George’s dead head in her hands. A gigantic black bird spread its wings and blocked the rain. It spoke with Crow’s voice. “You can’t stop me, Faye. Don’t even try.”

  The demon was killing her friends, picking them off one by one. She’d Travel to their side, only to arrive a second too late. She’d appear, but they were already gone. She’d just find bits and pieces. Jane’s favorite white dress, soaked red. Dan’s broken glasses. Heinrich’s coat was smoldering in a charred pit. Mr. Browning’s workbench was empty, tools scattered. Lance’s cowboy hat was ripped in half and there were bits of meat and hair stuck to it. Whisper’s fancy umbrella was rolling in the wind down an empty street. She kept on Traveling, faster and faster, trying to catch up to the demon.

  She was with Delilah again, like she’d been at the very end, missing half of her face. “Hurry, Faye. He’s killing everyone!”

  “I can’t. He’s too fast.”

  The pretty side of Delilah’s face laughed at her. “Or you’re too slow. What’s it going to be, kid?”

  “Why can’t I get stronger again?”

  “You must not want it bad enough.”

  Mr. Sullivan was the strongest. Surely, he could beat the demon. But by the time she got there he was holding his guts in his lap and trying to stuff them back inside. “Damn it, girl. I was counting on you. Look what you’ve done. You killed me again.”

  Grandpa. She found him at the haystacks, just like before. Dying from Madi’s bullet, he whispered something that she couldn’t hear, but she knew that it was something about how she hadn’t been there to save him. Bitter sadness ripped her heart in two.