Grave Sacrifice

by Russ Linton

  Folks of West Baltimore have known the end is nigh for more than a minute. About time somebody helped somebody without being asked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We left Baltimore by midmorning and drove until nightfall. Long stretches of highway rolled by and nothing to do but think. Araceli was more talkative than on the way here. Meeting Izaak had done the trick and had taken a weight off of my chest for sure. But we kept coming round to the serving two masters bit and the conversation would die. I could’ve asked for face to face alchemy lessons on Astromancy or whatever subjects her art covered, but I didn’t need more magic floating around my brain. Timucuan ritual and Kibaga’s Cloak, now in the wind like Araceli’s thrift store disguise, was enough.

  Each city we passed, throngs of traffic would ebb and flow. You could go state to state and see different driving quirks, different local mannerisms: tailgating, late merges, respect for the posted speed limits and willful blindness to them. What united them all was the pulse, the beat, keeping them in synch from Atlantic to Pacific.

  Nine to five. Couldn’t imagine a bigger, more consistent ritual or whatever. Farmers, hunter-gatherers, they all kept time with the sun and the seasons. Modern life, we’d replaced those with a time clock and holidays celebrated in special aisles of big box stores on the regular.

  What had this country been like under Atofo’s people? Secluded neighborhoods, their corners miles apart, I’d seen some common links between Atofo’s magic and Great Sun’s. How those links could exist without highways and wireless connections, my modern mind couldn’t see.

  With all the new conveniences though, why hadn’t magic become more powerful, not less? Online Alchemy schools and Facebook Groups for networking with patrons made sense. Instead, it’d been lost. Buried.

  And the rituals we followed had become mundane. Or had they?

  “You ever sleep?”

  “Huh?”

  Araceli yawned, her face flickering in and out under passing headlights. “Sleep. Dormir. Lie down in bed without having been beaten within an inch of your life.”

  She had a point. “Not so much since my shift work with BPD. Kinda wrecks your patterns.”

  “Find a hotel. We’ve been on the road since Saint Augustine yesterday. If we’re headed back toward Fenwick Manor, I want to be rested.”

  “Expecting trouble?” I knew the answer but wanted to hear her take.

  “I’m going back to a crime scene in a town owned by demons and riding in the same hearse we fled in. What do you think?”

  “Fair enough. Just not sure how we’ll explain your spiffy outfit to the hotel manager.”

  We reached a long bridge over a tree-choked river, the opposite lane separated by a gap too far for the headlights to reach us, but I saw her smile spread in the dimness.

  “Don’t want to be my submissive boyfriend?”

  I wanted to laugh but recent memories had me cringing. A phantom pain spiked in my side. Araceli’s magic had closed a few wounds — I needed to get me some of that magic silver of hers — but I could still see Tina’s sneer and feel her fists.

  “The last dominatrix I met up with wrecked me.” My attempt at a joke failed. A tone I couldn’t quite mask let her know the pain was real. She got quiet. In the dim illumination from the dash, her eyes asked for more. “The SHU, the basement underneath that prison, Mordecai’s bitch broke me in there.”

  We hadn’t talked details about my time in prison. She’d been too angry and I’d been happy to keep it a bad dream. She stayed quiet and attentive, waiting patiently and not pushing. I busied myself with watching the road and angling for the next exit where the blue travel information sign claimed we’d find lodging. But I couldn’t hold back the words now that I’d started. We came to a stop off the interstate ramp.

  “I died down there.”

  “What do you mean? Died?”

  “Like, I stood over my own body and communed with spirits or whatever.”

  “The Gallu?” Her gray eyes burned through the night like polished chrome. I’d almost forgotten that bleary moment when she had intervened the last time I’d been on the brink of death. She’d surrendered the sword for me then, I think. Maybe more.

  “No Gallu. No boats. I was in this place between worlds. A lost section of corridor not even Mordecai knew about. Red Feather, Great Sun’s warrior, said bottling up all that magic had caused some kind of rift. A crack between the Realms.”

  Araceli’s gaze flicked up and down, searching to see if I was cracking jokes or what. I held her stare until headlights lit the cabin casting splotchy shadows through the hearse’s rear curtains. A horn sounded and she twisted her lip in annoyance, her eyes knifing toward the rear. I made the turn onto the street before I became an accessory to Alchemical Road Rage.

  Darkened landscape opened up under a sodium glow, an orange bruise in the sky above a short stretch of streetlamps. No more than half a dozen buildings scattered the darkened streets. A nearly empty truck stop and a multi-story hotel faced the road.

  The hotel could’ve housed the population for miles. Two stories, gleaming, it had to have a hundred rooms behind the arched and tiled carport. I found a dark corner of the lot and slipped Bubonic into park.

  “What was in this hallway?” she asked. “Describe it to me.”

  “Well, it was like a mirror world of the basement, which was this long hallway, original to the historic plantation they’d built the prison on. I think they held slaves down there back in the day. Once I died though, the hallway got weird. It never seemed to end in both directions. The lights would go on and off, guiding you. And the rooms...” I shook my head in frustration, trying to make sense of it all. “The dude I was with said he’d found those slaves down there. Maybe some kind of time portal?”

  Araceli bit her lip and stared out the windshield. With her experience, maybe she could give me an answer, maybe not. But all the celestial mechanics about how that place worked didn’t mean a damn thing to me. She’d said I was direct, but I’d take my time with this line of questioning. I knew we were headed into dark territory for her too.

  “Manipulating time gets into Alchemical theory,” Araceli said, offering up wisdom I knew hadn’t come from any magic prep school. “No magic known can alter the flow, though some have tried.”

  “Maybe you can hook me up with some of these theorists.” I knew this would hurt but I was probing for the truth. I wanted to hear it from her.

  She shot me a glance. “Alchemy is a practical field. Time? Other dimensions? You’re better off talking to a pure physicist.”

  “Sure enough. Lots more of those around than alchemists.” I’d laid on the sarcasm a little too thick and she eyed me suspiciously.

  Araceli shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. “Spiritually, magical energy flows from a source and emanates through all worlds. But space or distance isn’t an issue. What matters are the magical connections to the source and their strength. A physicist might say magic is like dark matter or quantum particles in that way. Time and space are intertwined for This World, why not magic as well?”

  “Where’d you really learn all this?”

  She crossed her arms and sank into the seat. “Where is this going?”

  I looked down at the steering wheel, my eyes vacantly tracing the chrome. “I found out something down in that hole. Great Sun’s men had taken a piece of the Primal Flame there to keep it safe.” She perked up at the mention, maybe envisioning her own epic sword smithing session. A companion blade to the Shaw sword so she didn’t have to wait until I died to get her hands on one. But I cut those fantasies short. I had to. “Then there was Triple H.”

  “Triple what?”

  I’d tried to drop this on her carefully but the mention of that talking Alchemist’s skull came off like a bomb. Fine. I’m direct. My determination to hear the truth slipped as I realized there must’ve been a space for her skull on that wall. Next to her father’s.

  But I wanted the truth. I wan
ted a partner I could trust. For once. Going solo into this Armageddon hadn’t ever been the plan. This whole Armageddon, not the plan. We had a long ride yet though and I’d need to figure out a way to come at her with this. Just, maybe not now. Not after she’d done me a favor. My whole life doesn’t need to be some big transaction for my soul.

  “Doesn’t matter. Point is things are getting furred, you feel me? For me, my family, I need to know I can count on you.”

  “Ace, I know your boy is your life. And I’ve pledged to protect you.” I tried to interrupt and tell her I didn’t need her promise and she raised her palm. “Whether you know it or not, you found your faith on that trip to Fenwick Hall. The Crossroads Devil, Kibaga, they’re all a part of your magic, your history. While I am duty-bound to protect you on your spiritual journey, I’m not sure where my own has taken me.” She leaned forward, pleading, her damp eyes a metallic sheen. “I needed to end Mordecai. And he’s still here.”

  “Hey, listen. We’ll stop him and everything he stands for, that’s my promise to you. You aren’t alone in this. We both could use a solid partner”

  Araceli drew in another breath and fiercely wiped her eyes. She didn’t make it clear whether or not she’d accepted my promise to her.

  She gave a silent nod. I’d never seen her uncertain before. Maybe taking her to meet Izaak hadn’t been such a good idea. I’d cleared up the weight on my chest and dumped it on her.

  We went into the lobby together and I ignored the night manager’s raised eyebrows. His attitude showed he didn’t approve of whatever arrangement we had. This far from the big city, the trigger could’ve been the leather get up or the mixed skin tones. It’s whatever. The cash though was good so he let his giant, empty ass hotel sway his moral dilemma.

  I had enough for a double room. As Araceli drifted off to sleep, I sat down at the desk and dug out the cheap plastic pen and notepad from a drawer.

  Dear Izaak,

  A friend of mine saw you today. I was there too, waiting outside. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry for not being around. I’m keeping you safe even when I’m away. That’s what matters most. One day, you might understand. Might not. I’ll accept whatever. But I’m there with you, every minute of every day. You’ve got to trust me on that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Under a cloudy late afternoon sky, Fortune’s house appeared faded. The flaking white paint blended with colorless light. The place had an empty feel. No buzz of magical wards. No movement inside. Even the porch rocker looked too weathered and neglected to have cradled the old hoodoo anytime this century.

  I squinted through the driver’s side window.

  “He’s not here,” Araceli said. “Maybe he’s the type to stay away from demons?”

  Another dig. I didn’t take the bait. She’d been sideways since our talk last night, and I couldn’t blame her.

  “Let’s knock. Maybe he left something behind.”

  “Like what?”

  “Manuals for this Kibaga power or whatever.”

  “Deu meu,” Araceli muttered as she hopped out.

  I sidled out of the driver’s door and slid the Emperor Scorpion from its holster, chambering a round. Then I reached behind the front seat and drew the Shaw Sword from the concealed sheath.

  Araceli waited at the curb, eyes on the house but an ear turned to the clack of my gun’s action and the whisper of the blade. Almost as an afterthought, she whipped out one of her knives and casually twirled it.

  “Any good at dancing?” I asked as I passed her up.

  “With these,” she said, holding up her knife. “Yes.”

  “Follow me and do exactly what I do.”

  Even though I didn’t feel the wards, I wasn’t taking chances. I led her to the fissured driveway and took her through the steps Fortune had shown me to bypass his security system. As catlike and agile as Araceli was with her knives, she moved jerky and wooden to mimic my moves. I suppressed a grin and the fierce Catalan snarled.

  “There better be a reason for this.”

  “You gotta trust me. Old man had some serious security.”

  By the time we got to the stoop, I knew the wards were down. Mostly because Araceli hadn’t set off any alarms with her awkward dance moves. It was like she wasn’t even trying. I eyed her and she just glared back.

  Without the constant rhythm of Fortune’s rocker to hide the noise, the rickety porch groaned. Creaks, pops, a loose rattle — I aimed for an edge where there’d be more support. One of the beams holding up the roof wobbled as I brushed it.

  “Are we sure anybody ever lived here?” Araceli asked.

  The screen door hung loose on the hinges. Patches sewn with fishing line covered small gashes and rips. Muddy glass set into the front door prevented a clear view of the interior. I pointed above the door where a graying film of age and dirt had left the bone-white cutout of the horseshoe which used to hang there.

  “No longer protected. Here or the yard.”

  The screen door opened with a tortured creak. I could see the front door was ajar, a raw, unpainted square surrounding the strike plate exposed. Araceli didn’t seem bothered.

  Raising the Shaw Sword as a signal, I dropped it then landed a kick. Glass rattled in the small panes and the door burst inward. I let momentum carry me after it.

  Training instincts kicked in like cold, tight muscles. Stepping to one side, gun raised and sword ready, I swung my sights right to left. No threats.

  The entire layout of the little shack could be seen from the entryway. We’d barged into a small living room. Through the opening across from us was the kitchen. On our left, a gauzy pane of light spilled into a bedroom with no visible exits. Bathroom had to be out back, country style.

  Araceli stepped through behind me. She’d put on the green-lensed goggles which hung around her neck. One hand gripped a knife, the other a vial of some swirling green smoke. Standing square in the center of the door, backlit like a range target, she gave zero fucks. My old partner, Nelson, might’ve been a scumbag but he never went in half-cocked.

  “We need to work on your entry technique,” I said.

  An eyebrow arched and her goggles twitched. No snappy reply, she checked to each side and walked right in. I eased down my sidearm and frowned. Wasn’t until I saw what had caught her attention that I understood.

  A red light blinked on the far wall. A security camera had been mounted near the ceiling above the pass-through to the kitchen. A wire ran to it from the baseboards secured with shiny new staples.

  “We’re not the only ones who’ve paid a visit.”

  Araceli gave an uninterested grunt and stood underneath the camera. While she swept the kitchen and examined the camera through her lenses, I poked my head in Fortune’s bedroom.

  Colorful, hand-woven blankets covered his twin bed. Careful stacks of aging newspapers and magazines littered the nightstand and floor. On top of the tallest stack was a glass half full of a cloudy, white liquid. Against the wall was a crazy three-stringed banjo with a body made of rawhide.

  What I didn’t see was his walking stick. No hat. He’d left under his own power, I guessed. Had he really been at Duncan Correctional? Was that more than a vision?

  A glint caught my eye under another rocker in the corner. I squatted in the doorway and strained to see. Beneath the chair, a small, overturned crystal bowl covered a pile of unrefined salt flakes. Another crystal bowl from a mismatched set sat in the corner behind the bed.

  Maybe all the wards hadn’t been dismantled. Had that crafty hoodoo hidden some?

  Curious, I dipped out of the bedroom and crossed the living room. Old Fortune had a row of framed photos on an end table beside a kerosene lamp. I picked one up. In the picture, he wasn’t so old. Shrewd eyes peered out from a younger face under an army uniform cap, his dress jacket decorated with medals.

  “Fought in somebody’s war,” I said, half-surprised.

  The next black and white photo was right from the homeland. A fa
mily posed in front of a thatched roof hut. Two little girls, maybe Izaak’s age, stood between their parents. They wore long shirts, flowers woven into their hair. The mother held an infant to her uncovered breasts. A beaded necklace draped over her collarbone, her head covered with a bundled wrap.

  Their father could’ve been royalty. He could’ve been a wizard. Black and white even, the velvety robe he wore shone through. Lighter thread embroidered the cuffs and hem. I tried to see Fortune’s features in his face like I’d seen my own reflection on the porch back in Baltimore. I couldn’t be sure.

  A lot I didn’t know about Fortune. I returned the photo, bent down and checked the corner beneath the table. Another pile of salt underneath a bowl. Unrefined, he hadn’t used table salt for a reason. Why?

  Three corners. He’d need a fourth. I moved for the kitchen, intent on checking the final corner of the house.

  Just outside the kitchen, Araceli cut me off. Her eyes shot pointedly to the camera. My own mission in mind, I didn’t mean to even break stride. Following her gaze stopped me dead.

  The camera was marked. MiRA. The same corporate logo which had been haunting me from day one in this sleepy, murderous little town.

  “What do those goggles show you?”

  “Magic resonance. They’ll pick up existing or lingering effects.”

  “And?”

  “Res. Nada. Nothing.” She lowered the goggles and slung them around her neck. “He got smart and left. Nobody’s here. We should be on the road too.”

  Was she holding back something? With the way the MiRA tech had been integrated into Hallewell’s squad car, the station, the prison, I wanted to believe this was more than a regular camera. Then there was my televised beatdown in the prison yard which had looked different on the recording.

  “Does magic show up on video?” I asked.

  “Cameras aren’t eyes,” she said, with a shrug. “But if you’re asking if a magical effect should’ve been picked up on a camera, I’d have to say...probably?”