The Shadow Guard

by Diane Whiteside

  “Yes, trying something beyond their powers. Everyone’s told me about that, and Christ knows I’ve seen it.” Nathan flapped his hand at the old bogeyman from academy days. “Go on.”

  “But striving to climb higher is the only way to learn what peaks a sahir can reach.”

  “The amount of power he can channel?” Astrid turned the idea over in her head, more intrigued than she wanted to admit. Back in Nebraska, those who wished to survive learned caution, particularly women. She’d learned that lesson before she’d gained words to express it.

  “What if the Council is willing to let you be reckless, just to see how powerful you are?” Elswyth’s eyes were dark and unfathomable, as if they held more knowledge than even she could voice.

  “It’s just a murder investigation: I’m not working magick for this,” Astrid countered. Elswyth’s explanation was colored with far too many dark motives for her taste, even if it did sound like the Council.

  “If you’re reckless enough to risk your life, why wouldn’t you go further and work magick by yourself?”

  Astrid’s stomach knotted but her skin hummed in anticipation. Her brain stalled, racing over and over the same phrases, both attracted and terrified by their potential.

  “You did at Oslo,” Nathan said slowly. “You didn’t have any backup there.”

  Astrid set her cup down on the counter with suddenly nerveless fingers.

  “I was in my ancestral country, in the ancient fortress which guarded its capital,” she countered carefully.

  How many times would she relive in her dreams the moment when the great battle fleet loomed out of the morning mists? Early on a Sunday morning, while so many fluttered over whether the risk was real, she’d looked down the fjord’s mountain-girded throat and imminent death.

  “You had no artifacts with you for aid, nor time to work spells to draw upon the ley lines.” Damn it, Elswyth had been asking her about this for years. That didn’t make her gaze any easier to meet now.

  “You didn’t even have a kubri who could channel magick into you.” Nathan’s eyes narrowed, as if envisioning himself on that battlefield. “If you’d had a powerful kubri there—”

  Somebody who could have fed her power from the earth itself to fill her magick, hotter and brighter than any sex with a stranger. What couldn’t she do with a brilliant kubri at her side?

  What more could she have done if Jake had been there?

  “Were there any Norwegian sahirs on duty that morning?” Elswyth wondered.

  “Nobody, not in the beginning.” Astrid clenched her fists, icy cold rage coming to life once again through her veins. “It was Sunday morning in Norway, a neutral country. Why should they be armed and ready for an attack? They’d given no provocation and received no diplomatic notice.”

  “Instead the entire Nazi invasion force sailed down the fjord to attack the capital.” Nathan’s face was all harsh lines and stubborn angles now, stern as during the Spanish Civil War’s last, bitter hours. “How many sahirs did Hitler send with his finest ships? A dozen? Two dozen? More?”

  “I didn’t know and I didn’t care.” Astrid shrugged and set aside old what-ifs. “I still don’t.”

  “Instead of taking up guard duty at the American Embassy, as was your duty as a Shadow Guard member—”

  “And the conservative tactic,” interjected Nathan.

  Faugh! Cower in the American Embassy with Gerard’s death blow still clawing at my gut? Never.

  “The Nazis would never have attacked the American Embassy.” Astrid poured herself a slug of Courvoisier from her cooking wine stash, the closest place to find good booze. “They’d already proved that while raping far too many capitals.”

  She tossed back the cognac like water, as if it could wipe away the bitter memories. Rage still surged through her veins every time she remembered that dawn.

  “You stayed and fought with a group of naval reservists.” Elswyth’s measured tones allowed no evasion.

  “A split-second decision.” Astrid shrugged off any heroics.

  “Their single, antique torpedo took out Hitler’s finest battleship.” Unaccustomed awe rang through Nathan’s voice. “How? It would have been a damn difficult shot, even if Hitler’s sahirs hadn’t surrounded the fleet with every protection, every disguise they could manage.”

  Nathan caught Astrid and swung her to face him.

  “What did you do? That was a masterwork, worthy of a trio of sahirs backed by their kubris! Or even a country’s sahir council.”

  “I was furious.” Astrid caught his hand and looked at Elswyth, old angers thrumming hard and fast through her. “Norway was my family home; I was angrier than I’d ever been before to see it betrayed like so many other countries. The Nazis killed Gerard the day before.”

  “And so you acted,” Elswyth said softly.

  “When you see evil coming, you take any weapon you can find,” Astrid forced the words out between her teeth. “I bespelled it and hurled it at the best target I could find . . . I didn’t care if my death was needed, so long as it struck home.”

  “How very reckless of you,” Elswyth commented, so softly the hairs on Astrid’s nape stood up. “No wonder you spent a month in a coma afterward. It’s amazing Nathan was able to get you out of Norway alive.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he muttered. He dumped whisky into his coffee and knocked it back.

  The memories made Astrid shudder, too, before she escaped back to today’s worries.

  Could Elswyth be right about the Council’s motives? Astrid had spent years fighting for her own survival and for others. But she’d never hurled herself against magick’s boundaries, except for that one brief moment.

  “You’d have done the same in my shoes.” Astrid poured herself a double slug of brandy and drank it down, wishing sahirs could get drunk. Maybe she should have another cup of espresso.

  “You’re saying we’re the three oldest sahirs who aren’t rated for power.” Nathan’s agile banker’s mind was back to gnawing at the Council’s motives again.

  Astrid frowned at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The Council never summoned Elswyth to the tournaments to see how many levels she can master.”

  “No, their rules blocked an ex-slave’s wife from admittance,” Elswyth said brusquely. “Years passed before they’d even allow me to leave Enfield House to visit other sahirs.”

  “After you became a widow—” Nathan prompted gently.

  “Some of the challenge crystals always clouded with grief and anger every time I tried to lift them. Since you cannot wield full power unless they are perfectly clear, I was disqualified.” Pain shimmered through her voice and reluctant admiration for her masters.

  Like an Argos quest, sahirs had a limited number of crystals—or weapons—to use in each tourney. If a sahir survived a round against other sahirs or preset spells with at least one crystal and his life, then he moved on to the next round, just like a warrior moving on to the next quest in Argos. But if he shattered all of his crystals, then he would only be given magickal assignments at the level associated with the highest round he had survived.

  The process allowed the Shadow Council to know roughly which sahirs were most powerful, while losing the fewest sahirs.

  “I never went to the tourneys,” Astrid said quietly. “World War I started before I was old enough to gain admission. My marriage to Gerard, a British sahir, disqualified me from both the British and American sessions.”

  “They haven’t asked you to do so?” Elswyth asked sharply.

  Astrid shook her head. “The Cold War made my ability to work with the British an advantage to both sides and kept me too busy.”

  “And my story is much like yours, Elswyth,” Nathan said, his deep voice huskier than usual. “Grief and rage clouded the crystals. They’ll not see me there any time soon.”

  “You can still get things done, even if you’re not formally rated.” Astrid pulled Belgian chocolates out of
the cupboard, set them on a plate, and skimmed them across to her friends. Distractions were definitely needed.

  “You were very reckless once before and lived through it. But there was nobody around to rate you for power, based on the results.”

  “Not on our side anyway,” Elswyth corrected him dryly. “The Nazis might have known, if they were aware the torpedo was aimed—and warded?—by magick.”

  Astrid nodded slightly, remembering the layered spells she’d felt that morning. She caught herself up quickly before she could betray too much.

  “So?” She smacked the coffeemaker again and sent another cup on its way. If she needed chemicals to help deceive Elswyth, then only the very best would do.

  “You’re breaking the rules again, but this time the Council can monitor you.” Elswyth carried the argument forward.

  “You mean they’re giving me enough rope to see if I either die or become a highly rated sahir?” Astrid’s jaw dropped.

  Holy shit, that sounded exactly like what those ruthless bastards on the Council would do. Even to somebody who’d been one of their top agents for almost a century.

  “Exactly.”

  “If this cop calls you back, don’t see him again, Astrid. It’s not worth taking the risk,” advised her protégé and partner, the Boston banker.

  Astrid shoved a clean cup under the dripping spigot.

  How could she tell her friends that Jake Hammond was a kubri, more vital and irresistible to making magick than honey was to bees?

  She hoped the kubri recruiters would reel him in far better this time than when they’d originally given him the ear cuff, however long ago that was. Of course, they’d have to find gaps in a homicide cop’s appallingly overcrowded schedule to contact and seduce him.

  Her very workaholic, homicide cop. Astrid refused to shudder.

  Because if her link to him through this investigation was the only way to add a new kubri to the community, then sheer survival for all sahirs dictated she’d have to see him again.

  Maybe she’d get lucky and he’d find the murdered woman’s killer quickly. Very quickly.

  The next day, Astrid curled up on the sofa in a decadently luxurious peignoir and clicked the remote control at her brand-new TV.

  Somehow a full day spent deep in the details of guarding lethally minded traitors had felt more like shoveling mud out of a swamp than building walls to protect innocent citizens. She’d twice needed to refocus her magick on the task at hand, lest she cast a scrying spell on Jake Hammond’s whereabouts.

  But maybe a brutal gym workout the minute she returned home, followed by a pint of triple chocolate ice cream, would make her sleep well.

  She switched rapidly past a multitude of ancient sitcoms, filled with unhappy, badly dressed actors spouting snappy dialogue about domestic trauma. Maybe someday there’d be a game about unhappy families. Until then, she’d never met a show that matched the life she’d led or what her friends had survived.

  Thoroughly bored, Astrid brought up an independent show about tracking ghosts to fill her big-screen TV, while the news played in a small window. Maybe something interesting would pop up that would send her back overseas, where life was more honest.

  “Tonight’s lead story, a plea from the Belhaven murder victim’s mother,” the local anchorman announced, his blue eyes bright with interest under his thin gray hair.

  Despite all logic and discipline, Astrid sat up. She zapped the local news into the wide screen and banished the ghost show.

  Maybe she’d catch a glimpse of Jake . . .

  “My baby,” a black woman intoned. Her voice quavered on the third syllable and then snapped back into rigid control.

  The note drove into Astrid’s gut like a knife. She tried to close her eyes but could only stare helplessly at the glowing wall.

  Three younger women huddled around her on a sofa as if their shared love could somehow blur unbearable pain into something survivable. Tears streaked their faces and the youngest clutched a wad of tissue, her fancy manicure chipped and scratched.

  “Melinda was always the best girl.” The woman held a formal portrait on her lap. Somehow the photographer had reached beyond such pictures’ usual institutional dreariness to capture a beautiful woman’s laughter and strength, plus a solid resemblance to the other ladies on the TV screen. “She worked hard and she was never in trouble. She put off college so she could help her younger brothers and sisters get through.”

  Once again, Astrid heard Melinda’s dying scream of rage and flame-edged agony rip through her skull.

  “If this could happen to her, who never did anything wrong, then it could happen to your daughter.” Melinda’s mother’s voice broke into a shuddering sob. “Please, if you know anything about what happened to her, please call the police. Anything at all.”

  Astrid doubled herself up into a ball and buried her face against her knees.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A door opened in the overcrowded room’s back corner and allowed a brief ray of light to wash out the monitors.

  Jake gritted his teeth against a useless protest. Everyone here knew who had money and who didn’t. It didn’t pay to piss off the folks who might be able to help later. Besides, he too would have rushed over the minute he heard there was a break.

  “What have you got for us, Hammond?” Fisher demanded. The FBI agent’s voice was hoarser than it had been at the Belhaven police station.

  “Good morning, Murphy. Fisher.” Jake lengthened his drawl to emphasize Southern gentility and pushed back from the long table to welcome the two agents.

  As befitted a regional traffic control center, the small lab was packed with monitors showing every aspect of Northern Virginia’s notoriously foul traffic, from video of cars and trucks whizzing past to charts bubbling and popping like demons as statistics changed.

  Two walls contained panels of small monitors, while a pair of large monitors occupied the central wall. The room glowed like a witch’s cave, lit only by the screens’ lambent phosphors.

  Murphy coughed briefly and a smile flickered across her face. “Good to see you again, Hammond.”

  She held out her hand and Jake shook it, again impressed by her grip. He nodded toward the other man in the room. “This is Hamilton, who’s running the cameras for me. We’ve worked together before.”

  Hamilton, a wiry guy who could be any age from thirty to sixty, lifted a hand in the back corner without looking at anyone. Then he returned to pounding on the keyboard and muttering under his breath.

  Fisher raised an eyebrow at Jake, who gave him his best confident shrug.

  “Coffee?” Jake offered. “Makings are in the corner.”

  “Thanks.” The two Feds draped their dripping raincoats over the coatrack and headed for one of a cop’s major food groups.

  “Williams’s fiancé has a solid alibi,” Murphy offered under her breath and briskly stirred cream into her coffee.

  “Are you sure?” Jake’s first breath of hope wouldn’t be so easily denied.

  “Coroner’s pretty damn sure she was killed the day of that last big snowstorm, right?”

  Jake nodded. His stomach didn’t like where this was going, any more than it appreciated the traffic center’s coffee.

  “He’s a trauma surgeon in the District. His hospital called in everyone that day. So we’ve got him on time cards and visual monitors for the full period in question.” Her tone was far too matter of fact, as if she didn’t like these facts, either.

  “Any gaps?” Criminals always found holes to worm through.

  “Fifteen minutes at most. Not enough to drive from the Capitol to the crime scene in good weather, let alone during a major snow.” Fisher’s eyes were bitter pools in the eerie light. “Sorry, man. We’ll keep pushing, but . . .”

  He shrugged.

  Jake nodded, equally hard-edged. The likeliest suspect for Melinda’s killer had the best alibi he’d ever heard. Not impossible to break—there was no such thing as imposs
ible—but pretty damn close.

  “You got a photo of him?” he asked, just to shut that last door. Astrid might be able to rule him in or out, even though the killer had been wearing that mask.

  Murphy’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Think your eyewitness can ID him?” She mouthed the most optimistic explanation for his request.

  Jake shrugged, deliberately noncommittal. The fewer people who knew about Astrid’s involvement in the case, the better for the case—and her. He wasn’t about to say anything more in front of the traffic center dude.

  Murphy and Fisher both gave him looks that yelled they knew better than to ask anything more. Hell, they’d undoubtedly been tight-lipped a few times themselves.

  “Sure, although you’ve probably seen him before,” Murphy said loudly. “Lucius Tyler Johnson, better known as L.T. Johnson or ‘Lightning’ Johnson.”

  “The famous Gamecocks running back who had the big NFL career.” Jake whistled. Well, that explained where Melinda’s ring came from. A fiancé with that background would buy his lady the best diamond he could find.

  “Up until the church bus accident killed most of his family, that is. After that, he finished out his NFL contract, went to med school, and wound up in the District,” summarized Fisher. “Always kept himself clean with no whiff of anything illegal.”

  Jake’s intuition yelled for a stop: Lightning Johnson was a dead end in this case. Disappointment soured his gut.

  Even so, he’d ask Astrid to glance at the picture.

  “What are you working on?” Murphy sauntered toward the largest bank of monitors.

  Every monitor ran a continuous loop, showing a different view of the same section of the Capital Beltway at the snowstorm’s beginning. Cars and trucks whizzed through five lanes in each direction, while snow slowly obscured the pavement and eventually the camera lens. One held steady on a long-distance shot, from tree level, of a muddy car.

  “Zoom in on the sedan, please, Hamilton,” Jake asked. He’d already seen it, but maybe a review for the Feds would help him, too.

  Two clicks later and the sedan’s very blurry image popped up on the big central screen.