On the road somewhere near New York, his phone had rung on the passenger seat, and he scooped it up to answer.
“Korshunov.”
“Hello there!” an older man’s voice answered. “You’re the one who called about this symbol in the picture, aren’t you?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s a veve—the symbol of a loa, or spirit. They’re used in vodou religious practices. Where did you find this one?”
“It was burned into the floor of a factory where I was fighting Nathaniel Moore. He used some spell that did that, and his eyes went red, and they started seeping something black. He became immensely strong afterward—he didn’t seem to feel pain. And I couldn’t speak once he’d done it until I left the area.”
“My God,” the man breathed. “Nathaniel Moore did magic using this symbol? You’re positive.”
“You saw the picture.”
A few seconds of silence passed, and then the man began to laugh. “I knew it. I told them I knew how he did it, how he didn’t need groundings, how he did things no one else does, and none of them believed me! I’ll show Ferguson who’s got a pointless specialty! That son of a bitch owes me fifty dollars.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This veve,” the man went on, clearly excited now, “is the symbol of a loa called Kalfu. He’s a spirit of the crossroads, diametrically opposed to a spirit called Papa Legba—his mirror. Papa Legba is responsible for letting all good magic into our world, they say. He opens the door, allows practitioners to speak with the spirits of the dead and work their magic. Conversely, Kalfu allows everything bad to pass through. Bad luck, destruction, all magic with an evil purpose—these are his domain. To keep the world in balance. Papa Legba controls positive, well-meaning spirits of the day, and Kalfu is the master of the dark spirits of the night. Our world has both, you see?”
“So Moore is controlling this spirit for his own use?”
“Oh, I doubt that. I don’t know of many real witches who work with him, since the population is low to begin with—you really only see this sort of thing practiced in the Caribbean, and some in Louisiana. But Kalfu isn’t a spirit that anyone controls. No, I think—I think that if Moore’s abilities come from Kalfu, it’s more of a blessing, for some reason. Something that allows him to tap into the source, in a way. Free access to the crossroads of magic. I told Ferguson that it wasn’t any European magic that could—”
“So what do I do about it?” Nikita interrupted, unwilling to listen to the details of this man’s personal wagers.
“Do?” He paused. “Son, what you described to me just now—that sounds like a possession. They call it being mounted or ridden by the loa. Possession is a matter of course in the vodou religion; it’s a standard part of any service for the Houngan or the Mambo to be temporarily possessed by one of the loa. And what you mentioned about not being able to talk—that’s also common when a practitioner is mounted by Kalfu. But this sounds different. This seems like it had purpose. He acted on his own?”
“He did seem to do it to himself, yes.”
“And he was performing other magic during this time?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fascinating. Something else is definitely going on. Kalfu may be protecting him, for some reason.”
“Any idea why that would be?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. You’d have to ask Kalfu—not that I’d recommend that, either, even if you knew how.”
Nikita frowned, squeezing the steering wheel tight. “I want you to send me all the information you have on this spirit. Anything you think might help. I’ll call you if I have any questions.”
“Oh, feel free, son, feel free! I don’t get many inquiries about vodou up here in Ottawa. I was beginning to think they’d fire me soon if I don’t start earning my keep.”
“Thank you,” Nikita said briskly, then he ended the call and dropped the phone back to the seat beside him, staring out at the highway ahead of him. He needed to know more before he could decide how to proceed. But this was a start.
The Massachusetts breeze still carried a chill even at the end of April, rattling the leaves above and stinging Nikita's nostrils where he waited beyond the treeline. The stark black house stood out in the neighborhood even at the end of its long, tree-lined driveway, and the stolen car with the Pennsylvania plate was just as out of place.
He watched in silence as Willis loaded a pair of suitcases and a wooden chest into the trunk of the car, and he waited while Moore leaned against the door and smoked a cigarette. They were separating. Why? Nikita's eyes skipped between the men climbing into the car and the young woman waving at them from the doorway. Moore was leaving her behind. In another few seconds, he and Willis would be gone. Nikita would have to chase them again. But Moore was waiting for him. Moore knew he hadn't died in that factory in Miami. And Moore would be the one laying traps, wards, and barriers in front of every step his pursuer tried to take.
Nikita's head tilted slightly as he focused his gaze on the closing red door, allowing the sound of Moore's tires to fade from his hearing. The girl, on the other hand—his companion, his apprentice, his friend—she would be able to tell Nikita his secrets.
The house was suitably far away from the town itself that the night was black enough to hide his approach. He had waited until the last light in the window went dark, and then left his belongings behind in the woods and moved toward the house with a slow, even step. He placed a hand on first the front door, then the one at the end, and finally on the door at the back of the house and found the warm pulse of barrier magic at each. His softly incanted counterspells did nothing to weaken the wards, so he began to try the windows. They didn't seem to be protected, but they wouldn't budge from the force of either his hands or his magic. He couldn't see anything inside except for a few small silver coins resting on the windowsills. He even scaled the back of the house with a bit of help from a vikhor—a spindly, vaguely feminine spirit who hoisted him effortlessly within reach of the ledge with sharp, guiding hands. But when he attempted to reach his arm into the chimney, he was blocked by a barrier he couldn't see, and no charm he knew would allow his hand to pass.
Nikita tried for two hours to break the wards protecting the house. For all his efforts, all he ended up with was a sweaty brow and scratched fingers from where he had attempted to pry some of the windows loose. He stood back from the front door and scowled at it, resisting the urge to simply throw a large rock through the nearest window pane. There would be no quietly getting into this house. He glanced up toward the second story window where the light inside had been the slowest to go out. She was in there—he knew it. The girl who had burned his face and fractured his ribs. The girl who was closest to Nathaniel Moore, and who he would return to protect, given the right incentive. She would come out sooner or later.
He returned to the woods and scanned the trees, stepping over his abandoned backpack to get at an ash tree with peeling bark. With the small knife from his pocket, he cut a few strips free and twisted them together on his way back to his bag, then dug out a handful of short lengths of wire and used them to shape and secure the bark into a sharp woven pattern. He laid the rough talisman in the grass and sat down, ripping a long shred of fabric from his shirt with the help of his teeth. With the cloth plaited carefully through the wood, he laid the completed charm against the tree closest to the house, pressed his palm against it, and spoke the words, “Смотрите их.” The amulet snapped forward against the wood, sealing itself to the surface of the bark with a quick, burning hiss, and Nikita lowered his hand to inspect it. It would do. It was a simple fetish, but it would suffice to alert him of any spikes in magical energy in the area.
With one last glance back at the stark black house, Nikita gathered up his backpack and made his way through the woods back toward the main road. Now he could wait.
4
Nathan had been too well-behaved. He had quietly drummed on the sid
e of the car along to the radio with his arm hung from the open window the entire way to the airport, given them both unobtrusive glamours that got them through security without incident, and now sat beside Elton on the plane with a stolen crossword puzzle book open in his lap. He took up the armrest between them and leaned his chin in his hand, two fingers idly brushing his mouth the way they sometimes did, as though missing the cigarette he couldn't have. He hadn't even tried to have a drink at the bar while they waited to board their flight.
Good behavior made Elton nervous.
“You're staring, darling,” Nathan murmured without looking up from his puzzle.
“You're quiet.”
“You're suspicious.” Black eyes flicked up to him as Nathan tilted his chin in his hand to better face the blond. The amused little smile on his lips didn't comfort Elton at all.
“Shouldn't I be? You're always more trouble than this.”
“I didn't want you to regret going off with me straight away,” he chuckled. He sat up a bit straighter and let the book fall closed. “It's quite a leap for you to go from dogged pursuer to eager accomplice in such a brief span. You can't even claim you're here to protect Cora anymore.”
“Was I ever claiming that?”
“You're a known associate,” Nathan said, his smile turning sly. “They'll put your name in the archives right next to mine before we're through; you know that, don't you?”
Elton frowned and let a few moments pass without answering. He did know. He knew the decision he'd made months ago when he’d freely let Nathan escape custody back in Arizona, though he hadn't realized it at the time. He hadn't really been a Chaser anymore, even then.
“What I still don't really understand,” Nathan went on, “is why.” He waved away Elton's protest before he could make it. “I know about the sense of duty, the criminal past, and what-have-you. I know that something about my story caught your attention, and that you wanted to be the proud Chaser bringing in the collar of a lifetime—but that isn't quite enough, I don't think. What makes a man give up his best years to chasing down a ghost?”
Elton held the other man's dark gaze. “You want to know more about me?”
“I think you're an interesting sort of person, Mr. Willis—and I'm curious by nature. I can only glean so much from our precious time together.”
“Quid pro quo,” Elton answered.
Nathan's eyebrows lifted, and he gave a soft laugh and leaned against the window. “Cheeky,” he murmured with a smirk pulling his lips. “As you wish. If I like your answer, I'll give you one of my own. Provided it's a question I'm willing to answer. You can't just string your birthday out for days.”
“You were a way to prove myself,” Elton said. “I started upper school late. My mother couldn't afford to send me to a Magistrate school. I went to regular mundane public schools until I was seventeen—if I went at all. That was when my best friend got sent away for murder, and his brother was able to get me sponsored for the Academy. That's how I met Thomas. Every other person he'd roomed with had complained so much that he got stuck with me—two years behind and a juvenile record.” He looked down at his hands and subtly traced the line where his wedding ring had once rested. “I took a lot of shit. If it wasn't for Thomas and Jo, I wouldn't have graduated at all. When I heard about you, and how no one had even come close to you all those years, I thought...maybe I could undo all the bad things I'd done if I could just do one great, good thing. And show everyone who'd ever put me down that I was worth more than they thought I was.”
When he looked up, Nathan's smile had faded slightly. He didn't answer right away, but watched the blond with pensive eyes. Then he said softly, “Ask your question, Elton.”
“You died in Philadelphia in 1789, didn't you?”
“Like a dog with an old bone,” Nathan chuckled. “Fine. Yes.”
Elton waited, but no elaboration followed. “That's it? Yes? Why were you involved in the riot? How did you survive?”
“That sounds like two more questions, darling.”
The blond scowled at him. “That's not a very good answer.”
“Ask better questions,” Nathan said with a blithe wave of his hand. “Who was the first person you killed?”
Elton spared a glance at the occupied seats behind them, and Nathan put up a narrow barrier of magic to mute their conversation, seeming to guess the other man's worries.
“Marco Cheung,” Elton answered.
Now it was Nathan's turn to wait. After a beat of silence without further explanation, he laughed. “Fair enough.”
“Why did you help a mob attack the Magistrate in 1789?”
“Because they killed my wife.”
Elton pulled back slightly in surprise. Nathan's tone hadn't changed, but his black eyes were sharper than before as they scanned the blond's hesitant face.
“Your wife?” Elton echoed, and Nathan shrugged, picking at one of the stones on his bracelet as a pretense for breaking the other man's gaze.
“My fiancée, more precisely. A Spanish girl I brought back from Cuba with me—a reg, which they didn't take kindly to. You know how it goes from there.” He lifted one finger in a gesture of denial as he heard Elton's soft intake of breath. “And that's all you'll get on that topic. If you want this little game to continue, then change course. And tell me if any part of your gang initiation was sexual.”
Elton snorted. “We're done,” he said, and Nathan laughed and settled back into his seat.
“I'll take that as a yes, you know.”
Elton pointedly ignored him as the barrier around them broke and Nathan returned to his puzzle, but he couldn't keep the frown from his face. The more he learned about Nathaniel Moore, the less he felt he understood. This was a man who killed nigh indiscriminately and seemed to feel no remorse for any of his crimes—and yet he protected those close to him with unrivaled ferocity. The image of Nathan, young for the first time, with a bright, hopeful smile on his face and a beautiful bride-to-be on his arm, made Elton's stomach ache. This man had—Elton had to assume—sold himself to a dangerous spirit in exchange for merely the opportunity to seek revenge on the government that took his future from him. As ruthless as Nathan seemed, and as cruel as he could be, there seemed to be only one thing that really mattered to him. Family. And it seemed to be the thing that had been most frequently denied to him.
Elton glanced at his companion out of the corner of his eye, guilt thickening in his chest. Nathan hummed tunelessly under his breath as he filled in an answer on his crossword, apparently unbothered by the end of the conversation, but Elton shifting in his seat drew his attention.
“I'll give you one for free,” Elton said, and Nathan ticked a curious eyebrow at him. “Something that I should have told you a long while ago.”
“I love you, too, darling,” Nathan chuckled.
Elton shook his head. “Your other two children,” he said slowly, waiting a moment for Nathan to give him his full attention. “One of them married. And had a child. He's living in San Jose, last I heard.”
Nathan's brow furrowed, and he looked back down at the pen between his fingers. “Living,” he repeated.
“I could help you find him. If you wanted.”
Nathan hesitated. “He's a reg?”
Elton nodded.
“Then I suppose he'll need all the help he can get,” Nathan snorted. He glanced back at Elton and offered him a small nod. “I'll take you up on it. Perhaps when this Magistrate business is sorted and I won’t be more of a danger to him than a blessing.”
“When has anyone ever called you a blessing?”
“Only while they try to catch their breath,” Nathan teased, and Elton sighed and plucked a magazine from the seat pocket to put an end to the conversation. “Where did you say we’re going after this? Nevada?”
“Not that I'm looking forward to keeping hold of your leash in Las Vegas, but yes.”
“Oh, I’ll go easy on you, darling, just this once.” Nathan paused o
nce more with his dark eyes locked on the other man's green. “Thank you, Elton.”
“...You're welcome.”
When they landed in Mexico City, it didn't take Nathan long to sniff out a fellow witch willing to speak to him. Elton was forced to follow and trust while Nathan chatted with locals in rapid Spanish and stopped a street vendor right before closing to obtain a quick meal of some sort of blue-black, eye-shaped tortillas smothered with pork belly and cheese that he told Elton were called “tlacoyos.” It tasted much better than it looked.
They walked the city together as the sun set, leaving their way illuminated only by the bright orbs of streetlights. It wasn’t as hot as Elton expected from Mexico; the air was cool, and a breeze ran through the streets that would have been pleasant if not for the smell of sewers it brought with it. Nathan led him from person to person, apparently following the directions of one to the next until they found themselves on a quiet, cobblestone street lined with low-roofed houses, each painted a different bright color. Nathan put out his cigarette with his shoe when they reached an ivy-covered house with vibrant blue paint around the windows and a broad rooftop balcony.
“This is the place, supposedly,” he said with a tilt of his head toward the matching blue door. “Casa de Marquez.”
Elton led the way to the front step and laid a hand on the door to try to feel the subtle vibration of a barrier, but there was nothing. “It's not warded,” he said over his shoulder, but Nathan only shrugged.
“Maybe Marquez is a trusting sort. Just give it a knock. See what happens.”
“You're serious?”
“It's only polite to knock, Elton. We do come in peace, after all.”
The Left-Hand Path: Disciple Page 3
