Call me old-fashioned. Cassie and I had been friends when we were younger, but nothing more than that. Ten years is a long time. For the moment, I was most interested in getting to know the person she’d become since high school and keeping the promise I’d made to her dad to keep her safe.
Of course, the vision I got when I cracked open an eye in response to the tapping on the frame of my bed made me want to kick the paladin part of my personality in the shins.
Hands on her hips, Cassie cocked an eyebrow. “Up and at ‘em, Gandalf.”
Yoga pants. Why did it have to be yoga pants?
I scrubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands and groaned. “I am not growing a beard.”
“Hey, your hair’s the right color,” Cassie pointed out. “Could be a great Halloween costume.”
Despite myself, I laughed. My hair has been bone-white ever since the hellish night that Mother killed my dad. For a while, I colored it to a more natural brown, but that was a lot more work than I wanted to invest in maintenance of my personal appearance. So I left it white and kept it buzzed with a beard trimmer. Saves on dye and barbers.
Checking my watch, I pulled the blanket over my head and gave a mock groan. “It’s not even eight. You can’t seriously be ready to hit the road.”
She tapped the bed again with her foot. I flipped the corner of the blanket down and gave her a dirty look. Cassie grinned. “Nope. Today is day one of the ‘get Paxton into shape’ boot camp.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m the picture of health.”
“Obviously,” she said. “Which is why you keep getting tossed around like a hacky sack.”
Sitting up, I shrugged. “In my defense, most of the guys kicking my ass aren’t exactly human-normal in terms of strength.”
“Which is why you need every edge you can get. Come on. It’s been too long since I stretched my legs, and there’s a nice walking path around the rest area. We can go for a run before it gets too busy.”
She had a point. If I wasn’t burning excess calories with magic, my eating habits and general lack of activity—intermittent running for my life excluded—would have made for a bad combination. I hemmed and hawed a bit as I pulled on a ratty T-shirt and some sneakers, but I followed her out the door. For the barest of moments, I considered hauling the grimoire along, but I pushed the paranoia down. I’d locked the door, and it wasn’t like the rest area was all that big. I’d be able to keep an eye on the motor home as we exercised.
Feeling awkward, I imitated Cassie’s effortless stretches and tried not to wince. Nothing in particular hurt, but my entire body ached just enough to be distracting. Between the smorgasbord of torture Melanie and her crew had put me through, and the exertion of healing Cassie, I’d pushed myself beyond the ragged edge. My hands were shaking a bit as she took the lead, but I forced myself to follow, and not only that, keep up.
The latter wasn’t the hard part. Cassie was tall, a few inches under six feet, but I was taller and had longer legs. I settled into a comfortable pace and my perception of the aches faded away as I focused on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other.
By the fourth or fifth lap, my breath was a little ragged and a stitch ran up my side. I don’t know if Cassie sensed me lagging, or if she wanted to motivate me, but she increased her pace. She began to pull away.
Annoyed, I lowered my head and tried to push past the pain. The stitch in my side was nothing, I told myself. Less than a week ago I’d had my leg stomped on until I suffered a compound fracture. This was nothing in comparison.
And then it happened.
For me, magic isn’t something that requires any incantation or external focus like you see in the movies. I don’t know if that’s normal. Mother, for example, seemed to be of the chanting type the few times I’d seen her cast. I just go with it. Some stuff seems to work better with an external focus or wave of my hand—the push is a primary example of this—but it’s not an absolute requirement. For the most part, the spells I use come about more like muscle memory, but in a very focused way. I described a spell to Cassie once as standing on my head, crossing my eyes, rolling my tongue, and thinking about the flavor of blue.
But that’s just the initial mastery. Once I’ve cast a spell, I can recreate it by envisioning a mystical control console. It’s as though I can encapsulate the massive initial focus required into a simple, mental command.
The feeling that fell over me was something similar. All at once, my physical annoyances fell away. They were still there, in the back of my head, but they were outside of my attention, so they were of no particular concern. The sense of my magic was there, as well, as though I’d focused myself on the mystical control panel but decided to put it away.
A smile spread across my face, and I lowered my head, pushing harder. I caught up with Cassie and drew even with her. She glanced at me, gave me a nod, then turned back to focus on the path ahead.
We didn’t set any speed records, but we kept up a steady pace, and by the time Cassie stepped off the walking trail, I was surprised to find that my shirt was drenched with sweat. As I snapped out of focus, I was even more flabbergasted to see that the sun was significantly higher in the sky. How long did we run?
Gulping air, Cassie cocked her head. “I may have underestimated you, Snowball. Not bad.”
I shook my head. “I cheated. Or something.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“I kind of zoned out, I guess. The same way that I concentrate when I’m casting, but I didn’t actually do anything, I just ran.”
Cassie laughed. “If you’re going to use wizard-juice to fuel working out, you’re not going to get any benefit out of it.”
I put a hand on my chest and considered the thumping of my heart even as my legs started to tremble. “No, I’m feeling it,” I said. I frowned. “I’m going to have to be careful with this. If I push too hard…oof.” I met Cassie’s eyes and forced a grin on my face. “At least I’ve got you to carry me if I overdo things again.”
She frowned and look worried. “We need to spread the load a bit. Or you at least need to teach me the healing magic, so you don’t drain yourself dry again.”
I bobbed my head in agreement. “Roger that. I tried something last night after you fell asleep.” I steeled my focus and brought up the imaginary control panel in my head. For a while, it only had five buttons. Yesterday’s study had added a sixth.
“What did you try?”
“Hit me,” I said to Cassie, and her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“What?”
“I want to try something.” I grinned, and added, “C’mon, free shot.”
She rolled her eyes, but she hauled back and swung. She didn’t put everything she had into it, but it was enough to sting.
Her fist reached my bicep, curled in, then passed through my arm and into my chest before she staggered off balance and pulled back. And didn’t that feel weird? Not painful, really, but like something was probing around inside of me.
She shook her hand and grimaced. “That felt nasty. What the hell?”
“Phase spell. I should be able to walk through walls, shake off a punch, and avoid strangling by traveling cannibals.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Can I call you Kitty Pryde?”
I winced. “Please don’t.”
“So, it works, then,” Cassie said.
I’d burned the grimoire to ashes, years ago, worried about some of the things I’d seen its pages, but Mother’s escape from prison had made me reconsider the logic of that. The same spell that repaired compound fractures had turned a sack of ashes into a worn, leather book.
I’d mouthed doubt that the magic had been fully restored by my efforts to Cassie, but I had to admit to myself that I’d known deep down that it was going to work. Maybe it was possible to permanently destroy something so powerful, but I didn’t think a diesel-fueled fire had the oomph. For better or worse, the book was back, and I had to keep it out of the
hands of anyone that would use it for fell purposes.
“Yeah,” I said, finally. “It works. Feel up to studying when we stop for the night?”
She gave me a thumbs-up. “It’s a date.”
I tried to play it cool, but I’m pretty sure the dopey grin on my face was anything but.
Valentine
Mercy Medical Center, Iowa City, Iowa—Tuesday afternoon
The city cops standing a post in front of the hospital room gave the approaching crew a curious look. Valentine let the faintest shadow of a smile crack the corner of his face. He supposed that he and Eliot seemed ordinary enough, and the clothing similarity between the pair of them and Morgan screamed ‘Feds.’
George, leading the way, was the obvious reason for their confusion. His ATF windbreaker strained over his broad shoulders and muscular arms, and the electric whir of his wheelchair’s tires served as ongoing punctuation to the click of Valentine’s cowboy boots on the floor.
We may not look like much, but that’s kind of the idea, officer. Valentine kept his face blank as they stopped. Morgan took lead and displayed her badge. Her tone was firm; in no mood for jurisdictional nonsense.
“Take a coffee break, gentlemen. We need to inspect the survivors.”
The younger cop puffed his chest as if to protest, but the other put a hand on his shoulder to forestall any response. “You understand that they’re in no condition to talk.”
Morgan’s tone didn’t waver. “I chose my words for a reason, Officer.”
He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded his assent. “Right. Let’s go, Andy.”
The younger cop looked back over his shoulder as his partner led him away. His face turned red with barely restrained anger. Valentine considered tipping him a mock salute but decided against it.
Turning soft in your old age, hoss. He smirked to himself.
“George, you’ve got the door,” Morgan pronounced. She stepped into the hospital room. As Eliot and Valentine followed, George wheeled his chair around and assumed the city cops’ abandoned post. Anyone who thinks ol’ Georgie is a pushover is in for a rude awakening. He grinned, but the two men in the room’s hospital beds wiped the mirth from his expression.
He’d seen victims in worse condition. But not many, and not recently.
The burns weren’t serious enough to need debridement, but their burns were so extensive that the frat boys looked more like mummies in traction than hospital patients. The room was cool and quiet, the silence broken only by the metronomic beep of the heart rate monitors. Heavy IV bags of painkillers hung over the young men, but even a drug-induced sleep wasn’t enough to still the intermittent jerks and cries of painful nightmares.
“Lord be with them,” Eliot murmured.
Morgan didn’t spend much time in assessment. She moved across the room to the left bed and muttered half-heard, arcane words under her breath as she neared the first college student. The sounds of the room became murky, as though they were under water. Valentine and Eliot took up positions on either side of the door, waiting.
“Four women entered,” Morgan murmured. Eyes closed, she gently stroked the frat boy’s temples. He relaxed, sinking into the hospital bed, and the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor slowed. If her initial foray into his consciousness had brought him pain, the continuing presence must have been a soothing one, because the tension on the unconscious man’s features eased into placidity. “Four women left. They brought three of his friends with them.” She frowned slightly and cocked her head to one said. “The fourth woman—” Morgan cursed.
Eliot and Valentine were familiar enough with Morgan’s intelligence-gathering process to hold back any reaction until she’d extracted herself. It became more difficult, though, in times like this where something concerned her and she left them hanging.
Morgan withdrew from the burn victim and turned to face them. “We’ve got problems.”
Eliot coughed a laugh and Valentine shrugged. “What else is new, darlin’?”
Morgan rolled her eyes at the appellation and ticked off the points on her fingers. “They pulled three hostages out with them. We already knew Locke gave her groupies a familiar spell, so we’ll have that to deal with.”
Valentine shrugged. It was a shitty way to go, yeah. If he had to decide between being burned alive or being torn into pieces and turned into a magical lapdog, he wasn’t sure which way he preferred. But dead was dead. Familiars just meant more targets to service.
Tough targets, to be sure. But that was what bullets were for.
“There’s another issue. Locke used a Bathory spell, so our APB is out of date,” Morgan added. “And that means she, and possibly her coven, can change appearance at will.”
“Bathory?” Eliot echoed.
She sighed. “Don’t you guys read your e-mail?”
“What’s an e-mail?” Valentine joked. Her face darkened in anger, and he raised a hand to placate her. “Kidding. But I must have missed that particular memo.”
“Elizabeth Bathory was a Hungarian countess. History records her as perhaps the most prolific female serial killer ever, with over six hundred victims. Folklore after her conviction and death spread the legend that she bathed in the blood of young peasant girls to extend her life.” She gave Valentine a significant glance. “In a sense, it’s similar to the Dracula legend that sprung up around Vlad Tepes in the same region a century earlier. Eternal youth, blood sacrifice, vampirism.”
Valentine rolled his eyes and made a ‘go on’ motion. “And the truth?”
“Local authorities convicted the countess and four accomplices of murder, torture, and the like. The Church archived various related documents and records. Much of it is, of course, lost to the passage of time. But, the memo I mentioned noted among some of the various historical artifacts that Helen Locke managed to acquire while at the University of Chicago were ‘various historical records from the Habsburg region of Hungary.’” She shrugged. “These, at least, were in one of the storage sites that we cleared out after her incarceration. Who knows what we didn’t find.”
Eliot barked a short laugh. “Oh, marvelous. I’m starting to come around to Val’s point of view. We should have put a bullet in the back of her head years ago.”
“What’s it do?” Valentine asked, sighing.
“Bathory and her coven were, yes, trying to extend human life. And at the same time, their own youth. The research is incomplete but based on the historical description and what this young man saw, the spell seems to allow the caster to drain the youth from a victim. It makes her younger, but it also gives her some of the attributes of the victim. The Helen Locke who walked into the frat house was a slender woman in her late forties. She walked out a stacked blonde in her late twenties. Some similarity in the face, but not enough that the APB would work.”
“Without the fire, I imagine we’d have seen the effect on the victim,” Valentine mused.
“Right. It’s not something we’ve tested, obviously. Based on the spell’s structure, the donor is consumed in the process.” She made a face. “I’ve put in a request to destroy it, but obviously if Locke already mastered it, the genie’s out of the bottle.”
“Maybe not,” Valentine replied. “Is it teachable?” For those with the ability, simple spells could be taught without the use of source documents. Based on the power of the Bathory spell, it didn’t sound like it would qualify. Archiving it in the first place would have been an arduous process requiring inscription magic. Copying onto regular paper was generally bad for the destination material in a ‘burst into flames’ sort of way. Valentine had been present in the research department back in the day when a newly-hired employee of the Division had made the mistake of attempting to photocopy a simple telekinesis spell. Morgan and the rest of Division M’s thaumaturges had been able to grow Kevin’s fingers back, but the Xerox machine had been a total loss.
“No,” Morgan said. “It’s complicated enough we don’t have to worry about
that.”
“So, what now?” Valentine said.
Morgan shrugged. “I’ll sit down with a sketch artist. With some reasonable pictures of Helen’s coven, we head back to Wisconsin and see if any of Melanie Gennaro’s friends can give us names. We get names, we can start tracking cell phones and stop chasing shadows.”
Eliot slapped Valentine on the shoulder. “Real police work, you’ll love it.” He gave Morgan a wink. “We just have to keep you from shooting anyone.”
CHAPTER 7
Helen
Las Vegas, Nevada—Tuesday evening
Helen wrinkled her nose at the smell in the suite.
Arms laden with shopping bags, she slid sideways into the room and bumped the door shut with one hip to keep the smell from wafting into the corridor.
She’d let the girls cast the familiar spells on their own, though she’d conducted a lesson in siphoning chi from external sources before she’d let them do it. The spell was draining for the caster, and fatal for the target. If the frat boys hadn’t been pushed to silence, their screams would have brought the house down on them. The smell, though. The smell was almost as bad.
“Open a window,” she snapped. “If this seeps out under the door, housekeeping will be sticking a head in here, do not disturb sign or not.”
The main sitting room of the suite seemed far larger than when they’d arrived, and for good reason. They’d pushed the couches and side tables back against the wall, opening up the central area. In that open space, the trio of tan, egg-shaped objects sat, pulsing. Every now and then, the surface of one of the eggs would ripple, as though from some internal pressure.
Helen smiled with pride at the cocoons. In a few hours, they’d open and a trio of twins would emerge. The creatures would be identical in appearance to their donors—on the surface—and utterly loyal to the casters who’d forged them from flesh and arcane power. She didn’t know why the process created such a stench, but it would pass after the familiars emerged.
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