Triad Soul

by Nathan Burgoine

  “Ugh,” Curtis said. “That’s it. I’m officially not becoming a grad student. Once I get my degree, academia can kiss my ass. I’ll take a translating gig.”

  The elevator doors opened with a double ping. They got out and followed the number plates until they got to the right door. Curtis paused before knocking and looked at Matthew, a wretched thought occurring to him.

  “Is that why he hooks up with Anders, too? For Malcolm?”

  Matthew frowned. “What?”

  “Professor Mann. Anders and him. They…Anders told me they hook up.” It had been a bomb Anders had dropped on Curtis last year, when Curtis had been working on a paper in the library and Anders had come by. Curtis had struggled to concentrate in Mann’s class for a few weeks, but eventually, the idea of the two men together had faded enough he’d been able to concentrate on Icelandic sagas again.

  Matthew’s jaw dropped, and Mackenzie made a little choking sound.

  Curtis raised his eyebrows. “That’s a no, then.”

  “I…Uh…” Matthew shook his head. “I don’t think my great-grandfather knows, no.”

  “Good,” Curtis said, though he wasn’t actually sure how he felt about it at all. Would it have been better if Mann had been forced to get involved with Anders? He knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Mann looked up as the three filed in. He looked pleased to see Mackenzie and Curtis, but when he saw who was with them, he reached up and stroked his thick black beard. When he lowered his hand again, the smile was gone.

  Curtis had always liked Professor Mann. He was a study in contrasts: a large, burly presence who nevertheless spoke of poetry and mythology as someone might speak of a treasured love affair. He pulled no punches in his class, had zero tolerance for excuses, and had a habit of appreciating and rewarding effort more than talent. Anders had told him he bore quite a few tattoos, but Curtis had never seen Mann in anything other than plain collared long-sleeved shirts and dress pants, which hid any tattoos the large man might have had from view. He was passionate about his subjects, a fantastic teacher, and—apparently—a spy for the Stirlings.

  “I know it’s not office hours,” Curtis said, “but we’re not here about class.”

  Mann gestured to the two chairs across from his desk. “Have a seat.” The words were directed at Mackenzie and Curtis. They sat. If Matthew felt slighted, he didn’t react.

  “How may I help you?” Mann’s voice had a rumble to it even when he spoke quietly.

  “How much of what we talk about will go back to Malcolm Stirling?” Curtis said.

  Mann took a deep breath, his thick chest rising and falling. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I hope you know I think both of you are some of my best students.”

  “That’s not exactly a comforting answer,” Curtis said.

  “Curtis,” Mackenzie said. “It’s not his fault.”

  Mann laughed. “Indeed. I’m tasked with reporting in on those of you I teach. Once a month, or more if I feel something is worthy of attention. It’s not often I’m called to speak with Malcolm face-to-face, but when I am, he generally has a feather handy.”

  Curtis flinched. He’d faced Malcolm that way himself. Certain feathers could be enchanted to stand on their tip and only fall down when a lie was spoken. It was the magical equivalent of a lie detector test, and it was no small insult to be faced with one.

  “I’m sorry,” Curtis said. He meant it.

  Mann slid his glasses back on. “Happily, my education and experience means I am quite free to pursue my own activities most of the time. I’m not called upon to be a hired thug like most.” Mann met Curtis’s gaze. “Others are far worse off.”

  “Can I shake your hand?” Matthew said.

  Mann looked up, surprised. Matthew pulled off his jacket and pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie.

  “Why?” Mann said.

  Matthew blew out a breath. “We both know my great-grandfather is a controlling, bullshitting son of a bitch. But if you let me, I can maybe figure out how much wiggle room we all have here.”

  Mann’s frown grew, but he rose and held out one hand.

  Curtis watched them shake. It seemed to him maybe Mann had squeezed a bit too hard, but Matthew wasn’t letting his discomfort show too much. He glanced at Mackenzie. She gave him a tiny shrug.

  When the small inked triangle on Matthew’s arm bloomed across his skin, Mann’s expression brightened. His eyes widened, and he leaned forward, watching the patterns as they shifted and twisted, ropes of black ink forming images up and down Matthew’s lean forearm.

  “That’s magnificent,” Mann said. “I have a lot of experience with the use of magic in tattooing, but that is…brilliant.”

  Matthew was looking down at his arm. Curtis couldn’t quite make out what the ink was showing him, but after a few moments, Matthew nodded. “We’re fine. At least for the next while. If you’re careful in what you tell him, he’s not going to ask follow-ups. And I can nudge his attention somewhere else, if I need to.”

  Mann let go of Matthew’s hand and watched the ink withdraw back to the small triangle.

  “You inherited your family gift,” Mann said. “And you bound it to a tattoo.” His delight made his teeth shine from within the dark beard. “Does that mean Malcolm Stirling doesn’t have his grandson to cast runes for him any more?”

  “He probably doesn’t want that spread around,” Matthew said. Then he grinned. “But yeah, it’s all me now, and I refuse to be a puppet.”

  Mann held up a hand and came out from behind his desk. He took a moment to close the office door, and then he went back to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle and four small glasses.

  “This deserves a toast,” Mann said. “I assume as people of intellect you all appreciate whisky.”

  Mackenzie raised her eyebrows at Curtis. He shrugged. He hadn’t expected this at all.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever tried it,” Mackenzie said.

  “Me neither,” Curtis said.

  Mann shook his head. “Children today.”

  “Is it from Arran?” Matthew said, looking at the bottle.

  Mann looked up at him and stroked his beard. “Young Mr. Stirling, it’s possible I have misjudged you.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Matthew said.

  *

  For someone used to tea and an occasional gin and tonic, whisky, it turned out, was like swallowing paint thinner. Curtis carefully schooled his expression, sipping tiny swallows and hoping he could make it through the generous finger Mann had poured into his glass. Matthew had said something about it having an “oak finish,” and Mann had agreed. Mackenzie, Curtis was pretty sure, had just wet her lips and then put her glass back on the desk.

  “So,” Mann said. “What makes three of the most gifted wizards in the city come to see an ignored and maligned sorcerer?”

  “Marsyas,” Curtis said.

  Mann didn’t even blink. “The satyr.”

  “Right,” Curtis said. “We were wondering if you knew anything about the knife.”

  Mann frowned. “The one Apollo used to flay him, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you should start from the beginning,” Mann said.

  “There’s not much to start from,” Matthew said. “We’re wondering if the knife could be a real thing. Not just a story.”

  “And if maybe Marsyas wasn’t a satyr,” Mackenzie said.

  “Oh, a demon most likely.” Mann crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Why this myth in particular? And this knife?”

  Curtis glanced at Matthew. He nodded.

  “There have been a couple of deaths and an attack. I don’t know if you heard about it?”

  Mann shook his head. “We lesser servants generally only get to provide the information. We’re not privy to what others know.” He had no real rancor in his voice, though, so Curtis went on.

  “A werewolf and tw
o demons. They were killed and strips of their skin removed.”

  “Loup-garou,” Mann said. “That’s the most common use for a werewolf’s skin.”

  “What?” Mackenzie said. Curtis looked at her, then at Matthew. Obviously Matthew had no idea what Mann meant, either.

  “It’s just French, isn’t it? The French word for werewolves?” Curtis said. He’d just been reading about werewolf myths, and it occurred to him he had read something about the skinned pelt of a werewolf, but he’d assumed it was just folklore. So often the reality was much embellished in the tales that made it out into the world ignorant of the real forces at play.

  Mann shook his head. “No, though I understand why you think so. Loup-garou are French, but they’re not really werewolves at all. It’s an old continental magic, though I don’t know if they were the first to come up with it. A cruelty of French magic, to be sure, but the French have their share of cruelty, I assure you. Skin a werewolf and bind the skin to yourself. If you do it right, it allows you to shift. You become them, in a way.”

  “What happens to the wolf?” Matthew said.

  “Killed. The death of the lycanthrope is part of the enchantment.”

  “Right,” Curtis said. It would never sit well with him how often those involved with the Families could calmly discuss the death and dismemberment of others. “So…someone attacked a werewolf to take the ability to shift to a werewolf,” Curtis said, thinking it through. “And then they went after some demons and did the same thing. The demons got the same treatment, but their bodies didn’t ash.”

  Mann stroked his beard. “So in the same way the skin of the wolf’s form was stolen, you think the same has been done with the demons. It’s a pretty vile bit of necromancy, for sure.”

  “Wait, though,” Curtis said. “The knife was stolen by a werewolf in the first place. Why would a werewolf skin another werewolf?”

  “It would add to their individual power,” Mann said. “So if you’re talking about a lone wolf…”

  “Maybe,” Curtis said. Duane Faris hadn’t had a pack. Whoever had taken the knife from Wheeler had been strong enough to take the hybrid wolf-man form, so maybe a lone werewolf with extra power from the dead Faris could do that? Was that it? A lone wolf trying to gain strength?

  Curtis exhaled. He had no idea. “The latest attack didn’t quite succeed, and the victim described the knife. And then Matthew’s prescience pointed to Marsyas…”

  “You’re trying to track down the killer,” Mann said.

  “Yes.”

  Mann sighed. “The list of magical tools that may or may not exist from myths and folklore is almost endless. But the knife used to flay Marsyas? If that’s truly what’s being used, then I don’t envy you your task.”

  “Why not?” Mackenzie said.

  “Well, for one, the manifest of the confirmed magical tools of antiquity is fiercely held by the Families. I doubt the coven heads would let you peruse their copies, even if you asked nicely, assuming they even have copies here. London and Hong Kong would have full records. Perhaps Melbourne, too. But here in Ottawa? I’m not so sure.”

  “Even if my great-grandfather does, I doubt he’d share,” Matthew said, though Curtis noticed Mackenzie didn’t seem as downcast. He wondered if her mother had something. Otherwise, he’d have to ask Malcolm—and he didn’t think that would go over well even if he was working for him.

  “The other problem is it gives you a much larger group of suspects.”

  “It does?” Curtis said.

  Mann leaned forward on his desk. “What do you three know of enchantment? Real enchantment, I mean. You’re probably strong enough, if half of what I’ve heard of you is true.”

  Curtis felt the yawning chasm of ignorance again. How much he didn’t know always seemed to greatly outweigh what he was confident he understood, especially in the realm of magic. “I’ve enchanted a few things myself. I made a pair of glasses to help see the flow of energies around people. And I’ve worked on some wards.” He shrugged. There were other things, but he wasn’t about to tell someone beholden to Malcolm Stirling. “Not much.”

  “I’ve done quite a bit,” Mackenzie said. “Wands, mostly.”

  Matthew shook his head. “I don’t have the talent for it.”

  “He means patience,” Mackenzie said.

  “It takes a lot of effort, yes?” Mann said. “And not inconsiderable power?”

  “Right,” Curtis said.

  Mann turned back to Mackenzie.

  “And when you use your wands, it still draws on your power, yes?”

  “Yes, but not much,” Mackenzie said.

  It was the same with Curtis’s glasses. That had been the whole point. Casting a spell to try and figure out who around him was more or less than human had been too draining, and spells didn’t last forever. Holding on to the magic was exhausting. Enchanting the lenses had taken a lot more effort, and had left him feeling tapped out for days afterward, but had been worth it in the long run. Activating the glasses was as simple as concentrating, and he could use them for much, much longer without tiring.

  “Do you have them with you?” Mann said. “May I?”

  Mackenzie reached up and pulled the two wands from her hair. She pushed her hair over her shoulders.

  “What do they do?” Mann asked as she handed them to him. “And how do you activate them?”

  “Sympathy of movement,” she said. “My magic is much more effective with touch, so when I want to reach out, these work best. Touch something sympathetic and will it. I don’t often need to speak.”

  “You’re earth aligned,” Mann said.

  Mackenzie nodded.

  “As am I.” Mann held the two wands for a moment, and to Curtis’s surprise, the tips of the two began to glow with a pale green radiance. Mackenzie sucked in a breath.

  Mann touched one of the wands to his now-empty glass and gestured the other wand at Mackenzie’s glass. He drew the wand up carefully, and her glass slid across the table to him. He handed the wands back to Mackenzie, who took them with a visibly shaking hand.

  “As a sorcerer, my own magical gifts are quite limited,” Mann said. “But when I’m dealing with something truly enchanted, it doesn’t matter. Anyone with even limited gifts can supply enough power to use the tool. You put the magic in the wands. Who uses the magic after is only limited by who possesses them.” He leaned back, eyeing the three wizards. “Why do you think the Families bother with us sorcerers at all? We have just enough power to be occasionally useful, yes. But that’s not it. The truth is they keep us close because if we had the right tools? Well. Then we’d be a threat.”

  “Crap,” Curtis said, realizing what Mann was saying.

  “Yes,” Mann said. He picked up Mackenzie’s glass and took a sip. “If your knife is necromantic, then your list of suspects isn’t just wizards. It’s every wizard, sorcerer, or hedge wandering around with enough power to use it. Even a were with the knack could pull it off.”

  “So you think a werewolf could use the knife to skin another wolf?” Matthew said. Curtis heard the tension in his voice. No doubt he was thinking about Jace, wanting desperately to come up with something to take the werewolves out of suspicion.

  “Absolutely,” Mann said. “But don’t forget there are weres other than wolves. The great bears, the foxes,” Mann said, holding up two fingers. “Just to name two. As I said, beyond becoming a loup-garou, the power of the creature flayed would be bound into the stolen skin. In essence, you become them. A weak wolf would become stronger. Strong enough to defeat an alpha wolf, perhaps. And with the power of two demons also?” Mann’s eyebrows rose. “Quite like a hellhound.”

  “Hellhound,” Curtis said.

  “Demonic werewolves,” Mann said.

  “Right,” Curtis said.

  “I hope I’ve been helpful,” Mann said, eyeing the three.

  “You have,” Matthew said. “I think.”

  “You have,” Curtis said, more confiden
tly. “If nothing else, I think we can be sure about the knife itself. It gives me a new starting place, and I think there might be a way to narrow down who had any idea the knife was in the city.” What had Wheeler said? Faris let me know who’d be coming ahead of time. Maybe they needed to visit him again.

  “Why are you getting involved?” Mann said.

  Curtis looked up and saw the professor was gazing at him. He swallowed. “I’m not fond of bullies and murderers.” As he said the words, he realized they were true. It wasn’t just about helping David, or making sure his freedoms or his own little triad weren’t threatened. Some visceral part of him was offended people—even demons—could be murdered in his city, and no one seemed to mind much. Malcolm cared about his power base and threats to his own position. Rebekah’s brother lay dying, but she was the only one in his family who seemed to give a crap because he wasn’t a pure enough wizard to be a part of their lineage.

  Mann regarded him for a long moment. “Nor am I, Mr. Baird. Nor am I.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Mackenzie said, the words coming off a little awkwardly. “I mean, it’s not like we can change how the Families treat sorcerers, but…” Her voice drifted off.

  “Maybe someday you will be able to,” Mann said.

  She nodded.

  They got up to leave.

  “Thank you,” Matthew said.

  “Miss Windsor, Mr. Baird. Before you go,” Mann said.

  Curtis and Mackenzie turned.

  “Miss Windsor, I’m sure you know Malcolm Stirling has me watch you just as a matter of course.” Mann smoothed his beard. “And I’m not sure he’d be pleased the three of you were all here together.”

  Matthew sighed. “No doubt.”

  “It will not be a lie if I say you visited me without mentioning it was at the same time. Though I’d appreciate anything you can do to make the man’s gaze fall somewhere else,” Mann said, looking at Matthew.

  “I can do that.”

  “Good,” Mann said. “And Mr. Baird?”

  Curtis met Mann’s gaze. “Yes?”

  “Malcolm Stirling is a powerful man and has no little skill in hiding how he feels. But I have no doubt the reason he has me watch you.” One of Mann’s eyebrows rose. “Fear.”