by Debra Dunbar
“Who was that woman? The blonde? The doctor that just got into the elevator?” I asked a man in a polyester uniform who was emptying one of the garbage bins.
The janitor stared at me blankly.
“The doctor,” I urged. “Blonde hair. Pretty. Late thirties, maybe?” The woman had looked younger in the club, but hey, we all look younger in that sort of lighting.
“I don’t know the doctors’ names,” he confessed. “I just clean. Not like I talk to them or anything.”
I nearly pulled my hair in frustration, turning again to the elevator. It had stopped on the third floor, but I didn’t know if the woman was getting out on that floor, or the elevator was stopping to allow someone else in. I waited and saw the elevator begin to descend.
Walking over to the elevator, I looked at the map. This hospital was freaking huge and the third floor had a myriad of wards and hallways. Determined to figure out who this woman was, I headed up the stairs, texting Tremelay that the blonde from the Ottobar was currently at Hopkins and was either a doctor, or was dressed as one.
Was she a doctor? I’d seen the badge around her neck, but had been so shocked to see her that I hadn’t had time to read the name on it or even get a few numbers of her ID.
On the third floor I worked my way through Urology, feeling like a total idiot as I showed every nurse I passed the sketch and asking if they knew this blonde doctor. I went through the outpatient cancer center and the oncology wing before turning back, feeling a bit defeated as I headed to the elevator. Tremelay’s team was better suited to canvas the hospital than me. I needed to get home and talk to Chuck about this ritual and maybe get in a nap before tonight, not spend the day roaming the halls of the hospital trying to find one doctor in thousands of staff, patients, and visitors.
Entering the elevator with two nurses, I pushed the button for the level that would take me to the parking garage, looking down at the sketch in my hands.
“Did you draw that?” one of the nurses asked, looking over my shoulder. “That’s really great. It looks just like her.”
I froze, gaping up at the nurse like an idiot.
“What do you think, Jeff?” she asked the other nurse.
He glanced at the drawing. “Doctor Hendricks? Looks more like her younger sister, though.”
“Does Doctor Hendricks have a younger sister?” I asked, stunned at my odd luck.
Jeff shrugged. “Heck if I know.”
“Where does she work?” I glanced at the lighted numbers indicating the floor in anxiety. “Do you know her first name?”
The female nurse eyed me and took a step away. “Um, neurology. Doctor Ellen Hendricks.”
She and Jeff exchanged one of those knowing glances that made me realize I was one weird comment away from meeting security.
“Thanks,” I told them. “My mother drew this. My late mother. I never knew the doctor’s name, and we’re so grateful for the care my mother received here. She was so fond of Doctor Hendricks. Now I can write her with our gratitude. Thank you.”
It was the worst lie ever, but the two nurses seemed to believe it. I sent a quick silent apology to my mother about her fictional untimely death, and breathed in relief when the elevator doors opened.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Jeff told me as I stepped out. “Glad we could help.”
Keeping my pace to a walk until the elevator doors closed, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Tremelay. Then I broke into a run.
Chapter 23
I sat at my kitchen table, talking to a spoon with my mother sitting across from me in pajamas, holding a sword across her lap. She wasn’t happy that I was dealing with Chuck. Worse, she wasn’t happy with the payment the death mage had asked for in return for his assistance this time.
“One visit in the next two weeks,” The mage repeated. “Bring your sword.”
“You’re not touching my sword.” My mom’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not touching me either unless you want to be known as Chuck the One Handed.”
What was it with Mom and cutting off hands lately?
“They won’t let you bring your sword in anyway,” I told her. “I always have to leave mine behind.”
Mom sighed. “They’ll let me bring it in. I’m not happy about this, Solaria. Not happy at all.”
But she didn’t decline to do it, which meant the deal was made and Chuck would tell me everything he knew about the resurrection ritual or whatever the heck it was these mages were trying to do.
I only hoped Chuck actually knew something, because my mother was going to have to pay a prison visit that she really didn’t want to make.
“Agreed,” Mom said with a sigh.
“Good.” I imagined Chuck rubbing his hands together, even though all I could see in the spoon was his face. “So what do you need to know?”
I told him everything I knew, from the Dimonds’ abduction and the spirit possessing Rick to Knight D’Angelo’s communications at the séance.
“Edward Kelley is a hack.” Chuck made a disgusted noise. “He’s been trying to get across the veil for hundreds of years. He promises all kinds of things—which of course he never delivers on.”
I hid a smile. “Sounds like the disgruntled voice of personal experience.”
Chuck shrugged. “I’m not one to seek guidance from dead mages. I’ll read their grimoires, I’ll study their essays and texts. But in my opinion, a spirit is going to always tell you what you want to hear as long as it will get them out of hell.”
“Evidently the mage trying to resurrect someone thinks otherwise,” I drawled.
“Sounds like it. They must want someone pretty bad to attempt a resurrection ritual not just once, but twice.” Chuck sniffed. “Idiots. One little thing goes wrong and you can wind up with half of hell on your doorstep.”
“So the ritual requires O-null blood? Does it have to be from a specific person? And what about the host body?” I asked, knowing time was not on our side here.
“These rituals were written down long before people knew how to type blood. They specify ‘blood most royal, golden, and precious in its rarity’ for the spell. No one has ever figured out exactly what that meant, so although your mages might be idiots, they’re persistent idiots. I’m guessing they ran a whole lot of test cases to determine the blood type needed.”
“So they killed a lot of people figuring that out?”
Chuck shrugged. “Probably. Personally, I would have used at-risk individuals. They wouldn’t have made suitable hosts for a resurrection, but at least you could determine the appropriate blood qualities without much notice of their deaths. Still, with all the differences in blood beyond type, it would have taken hundreds of experiments. These people are as much scientists as they are mages.”
“And what’s the ideal host?” I felt sick just thinking about all this.
“Well, the original body is the ideal host, but usually there’s a reason the person died, and that makes the physical body no longer suitable. A close relative has the best chance of non-rejection. Identical twin is perfect, of course.”
I frowned. “So whoever these mages are trying to resurrect is a relative of Rick and Liz Dimond, then.”
Chuck’s surprise vibrated through the spoon. “Dimond? You said Dimond? As in the Mage of Marblehead, Dimond?”
Mom’s hands tightened on her sword.
Marblehead. Royal blood. O-null blood. Dimond. Resurrection. It wasn’t just the dead man I’d tripped over Tuesday and Rick’s kidnapping that were connected, but Knight D’Angelo’s murder and the mercenary vampire group as well. A female mage. A female doctor who drugged Rick and hauled him away to an occult ritual.
“There’s a guy named Dimond that was called the Mage of Marblehead?” I asked in a shaky voice.
“You need to learn more than the Crusades.” Chuck made a tsk noise. “Edward Dimond was commonly called ‘John’. He was born in 1641, and lived in Massachusetts, but was far too powerful to be targeted in
the witch trials of the time. The man had eleven children and lived to ninety-one years old, although there are records that he lived quite a few decades beyond that before he passed. The man was one of the most powerful mages who’d ever lived, although he’s not widely known because he tended to keep to himself and wasn’t quite as controversial or flashy as other individuals in history.”
“Like Edward Kelley?” I asked.
“Him, Crowley, and others. Dimond was a bit of a generalist in the occult world. He could find lost objects, divine the future, identify who stole something or murdered someone, or slandered a person. The locals found his talents quite useful, which is probably one of the reasons he was never persecuted.”
“He didn’t leave a grimoire? I’m assuming these mages want to resurrect him so that he’ll reward them with his spells and magical knowledge?”
“If Dimond kept a grimoire, one was never found,” Chuck said. “I don’t know if he’s eager to regain a physical existence or not. Unlike Kelley, Dimond doesn’t jump to every spirit-worker’s call. He’s not easy to communicate with. And I can assume he wouldn’t be easy to bring across the veil—either partially or fully.”
“So why not try another mage?” I asked. “Surely there are mages all throughout history who have skills in divining the future and the past who would be easier to bring across. Heck, I know a dozen Goetic demons who would share information without the need to collect special blood or kidnap a relative off the street.”
“Oh, but the Mage of Marblehead is special.” Chuck’s face distorted as he leaned close and the curves of the spoon acted like a funhouse mirror. “There is documentation that he had control over the weather. Not just within a small geographic area, but for hundreds of miles. He could control the wind and the storms according to several accounts and often led sailors to safety, shielding their ships from the squalls. Of course, those ships had captains who’d paid for such protections. Those who’d refused, or those who had angered him found themselves suddenly beset by gale-force winds, broken up on the rocks after being driven off course.”
I stared in astonishment. The man had been running a seventeenth-century protection racket using the weather instead of a sword or a gun.
“As you can see,” Chuck continued, “that would be a very valuable skill to have in today’s world—especially with global climate change.”
There were all sorts of magical specialties, but none that I knew of made any claim to be able to influence the weather. This Mage of Marblehead had been powerful indeed. And he was clearly a distant ancestor to Liz and Rick for the pair of them to have been considered appropriate host bodies.
Tremelay was hunting down Doctor Hendricks and whoever might have been responsible for Rick and Liz’s abduction. Dario and Mom and I would need to take the other approach and search for the mercenary vampires and the mage, or mages, involved—which might include Doctor Hendricks. The mage at the garage who’d tortured and ordered the killing of Knight D’Angelo, the one who we were assuming had hired the vampire mercenaries, was a woman. I was willing to bet that woman and Doctor Hendricks were one and the same, because that’s the way things seemed to be going in this mishmash of interconnected cases, but I wasn’t going to rule out that there might be more than one woman involved in this thing, and that several of them could be mages.
Going up against one mage who’d been powerful enough to craft that wand, or wealthy enough to buy it, was enough to make me exercise caution. Going up against a group? That was worrisome, even with my mother and Dario by my side. These people might have screwed up the one resurrection ritual with Rick, but they were clearly skilled and ruthless. And if the attempt with Liz failed, how many other descendants of the Mage of Marblehead would be kidnapped to potentially die in these resurrection attempts? How many others with the rare O-null blood would die?
“Tell me everything you know about this resurrection ritual,” my mother commanded. “Please.” She grimaced at the last word, as if it pained her.
“Of course, Knight Ainsworth.” Chuck’s grin was a little unsettling. “There are six mages throughout history who are considered to be the experts when it comes to resurrection. It’s tricky—not really necromancy, not really death magic, not really blood magic, not really demonology. It’s a mix of all four.”
I remembered Russell saying much the same thing.
“You need a special sort of blood, which I assume your mages have determined to be O-null. A direct descendant or someone with close family ties is needed for the host. It’s a very complex ritual. From what I’ve read, a magical wedge must be placed through the veil during Halloween. The strain on this wedge increases as the year goes on, so the resurrection ritual should take place within three months. Ideally, if the mages are powerful enough, it should be timed with the winter solstice to minimize host body rejection.”
“So there’s a lot that could go wrong,” Mom commented.
“Absolutely. That they had partial success with the brother is commendable. Usually the wedge opening the veil doesn’t hold, or allows a ton of spirits and demons to flood through. The wrong spirit can come through, as happened with the brother. The spirit may not completely cross the veil. The host can reject the spirit. The original spirit in the host can refuse to leave, or not cross over, or snap back into the body. There are too many variables for me to list.”
“What if it does succeed?” I asked.
“There is a period of disorientation for the resurrected. They may not be aware of who they are for a few months. They may not be the same or have the same skills and abilities as they did in their first life. No one has ever documented a successful resurrection, so I really wouldn’t know what to expect.”
Mom’s eyes met mine and she adjusted her grip on the sword. “We’ll get them, Solaria.”
We might, but would we be in time? I doubted it.
“Liz is probably dead by now.” I felt sick at the thought. “They took Rick Tuesday night and released him on Friday morning. If they grabbed Liz on Wednesday morning, they would have done the ritual by now. She hasn’t been found, so I’m assuming it worked and she’s now possessed by this Dimond mage ancestor of hers.”
“I doubt it. They most likely waited until Thursday to do the ritual on the brother because there’s some prep time involved. The sister was obviously kidnapped as a backup plan, and held until they saw what happened with the brother. When that failed, I’m sure they took the time to do some additional research. They wouldn’t want to rush into the ritual and risk using another potential host. The null blood is good for four weeks if properly stored. It’s better to wait and do it right, than try to find another potential host with the clock ticking on the blood.”
It made sense. “So how long do you think we have?”
Chuck shrugged, which looked really odd in the spoon. “If it were me, I’d keep the woman in a cell for a few weeks, just to perfect everything. Of course, that would depend on how cooperative she was being as well as the risks of detection. If these mages think you or the police are closing in on them, they may just go ahead and proceed.”
We were closing in on them. I was sure by now that Dr. Hendricks knew we were onto her. Which meant we had to find and stop them tonight.
“When is the ideal time to do this ritual?” I asked Chuck. “Midnight? Dawn?”
“Between midnight and moonrise is ideal.”
Mom and I exchanged puzzled looks. I’ll admit I pulled out my phone to look it up. What a crappy novice mage I was that I didn’t have the moon cycles memorized.
“Moonrise is at 4:30 in the morning.” No wonder it had been so dark at night this week.
“And sunset is around 5:00.” Mom grimaced. “If we want your Balaj’s help, we’ll only have a window of seven hours to find this mage and the mercenary vampires.”
“More like six, since Dario and his family will need to feed and take care of any pressing issues.” I looked down at the spoon once more. “Thanks Chuck.
I appreciate it.”
“Remember our bargain, and feel free to call on me anytime.”
I shoved the spoon back into the cabinet, not replying with either an affirmative or a negative. It was clear that Chuck would require his pound of flesh for any future assistance. The wand had been a freebie, and this request wasn’t bothersome for anyone besides my mother, but there could come a time when Chuck’s help would carry a price that would be too dear for me to consider.
I really needed to find a way to make nice with Reynard, because I’d so much rather deal with him than an incarcerated death mage.
Chapter 24
Sunset came and went. Dario had come over to wait with us for James’s message, sending out teams to patrol not only the Franklin Square area, but Druid Hill and the surrounding areas.
I was going crazy with the inaction, pacing and worrying that every minute we sat in this house was another minute we might be too late to save Liz.
“Look, we know they’ve got to be using some sort of surgery center or office with an outpatient surgical wing. It’s a small or private practice since they’d draw notice in a larger one. Plus a small practice might be closed for the week due to the holidays where a larger practice wouldn’t.”
“Does this Doctor Hendricks have an office?” Mom asked. “I can head over there while you wait for our informant.”
“Tremelay has patrol watching both her office and her residence, but he can’t search them because he doesn’t have probable cause to get a warrant yet. She’s just a person of interest.”
“I don’t need a warrant.” Mom’s mouth was set in a determined line.
“It’s a tiny office with nothing beyond a receptionist and waiting area, and two patient rooms. She’s a neurologist. She wouldn’t do surgery. According to Kyra, she would need to refer patients to a neurosurgeon.”
“She still might be using her office. Or her house,” Mom insisted.
“I’ll go over to her office,” Dario said. “And I’ll send Madeline over to her house. We don’t need a warrant either, and if she’s not involved in any of this, we won’t be facing any liability for breaking and entering.”
