That’s when I move.
With my left hand, I toss the paperweight, the small glass rectangle appearing in the air for a split second before it lands in the trunk—right as the bellhop drops a suitcase in that exact spot, concealing the paperweight entirely. Then, with my right foot, I sweep one of the businessman’s legs out from underneath him, and he yelps as he tumbles down onto the sidewalk.
The cabbie and bellhop distracted by the man’s impromptu fall, I dive into the back of the cab. The bellhop, a fan of good customer service, helps the businessman back up. And though the businessman, while brushing off his pants, looks around suspiciously for the thing that tripped him, he can’t be bothered to dwell on the mystery for more than a minute. He dismisses the incident, as normal people are wont to do when something odd happens, slips into the cab, and resumes surfing the internet on his phone.
The trunk is shut, the bellhop retreats, and the cab takes off down the street.
So far, so good.
I huddle up against the door to make sure the businessman doesn’t touch me by accident and panic at the realization there’s an invisible guy in the cab, and I sit quietly for the next fifteen minutes as the vehicle speeds down a series of nearly deserted streets, rush hour nothing but a blip on the slowly lightening horizon.
Predictably, the cab turns onto Mormont Street, the home of Aurora’s large commuter train and bus depot. Most travelers heading to Aurora’s small domestic airport come through the depot because the airport is so far outside the city proper that it’s prohibitively expensive to take cabs all the way there. Much cheaper just to take a cab to the depot and spend a few bucks on the convenient airport shuttle bus.
This cab pulls into the depot’s main drop-off lane, and the businessman pays his dues and exits the vehicle. I follow him out, pulling a move reminiscent of a tango step to squeeze around the man before he can slam the door against my face. I then hustle over to a wide stone column that supports the massive glass overhang meant to shield the pickup area from inclement weather. Once I hunker down behind this column, I take a moment to reinforce my veil for the umpteenth time before I focus my attention on the cab.
The businessman grabs his two suitcases from the trunk, pausing to glance at the paperweight for only a second. He probably figures it either belongs to the cabbie or is something a previous fare left behind, because he dismisses it with a tiny shrug and shuts the trunk. He gives the cabbie a little wave to indicate he’s done with the guy, and the cabbie returns the gesture with a nod of acknowledgement. The cabbie then puts his car in gear and pulls away from the curb.
When the car begins to roll away, I mentally probe for the magic energy inside the paperweight and “tear” a small bit of the shell keeping that energy contained. The energy begins to bleed out of the paperweight.
Sharpening my magic sense, I spot a diluted violet plume emanating from within the trunk of the cab. As the car heads farther down the drop-off lane, the small, continuous stream of energy leaves a clearly identifiable trail. And with the amount of energy I funneled into the paperweight, it will continue to leave an identifiable trail all day long, everywhere the cab goes.
Targus might figure out early on that I’m not anywhere near the cab, but with my magic signature spread all across the city and my actual presence obscured by the veil, he’s going to have a hard time figuring out where I actually am. Unless he’s brazen enough to break into my apartment and steal something with my DNA on it to do a tracking spell—something that’ll involve significant risks, since I threw up a bunch of hilariously unstable wards all over my apartment before I left—it’s going to take the Rook a while to hunt me down.
I have about ninety minutes left on my clock before Edith spills her beans to Riker, so as I jog away from the bus depot and across to Seymour Lane, my veil bouncing and bobbing all the way, I whisper a prayer to no god in particular that Targus’ unfamiliarity with me, coupled with the memory of the blows I dealt him in the woods, will cause him to err on the side of caution and not act too rashly. Or rather, too swiftly. Because if he’s too quick on the uptake with my little scheme, then Sadie Wheeler will be the one who pays the price.
I’ll never forgive myself if that poor girl gets hurt as a result of my failures.
From Seymour, I take a roundabout path to my destination, cutting through small parks with bare trees and industrial lots rife with worrying fumes, through dingy alleys smelling of urine and poorly lit “rough” neighborhoods where most people fear to tread. Even the best tails, like Delilah Barnett the cowboy witch, would have trouble following such a mazelike route, and Targus, a new arrival in Aurora, hasn’t yet had enough time to comfortably learn his way around the city, no matter how quick a study he is, no matter how good his memory.
But me? This is my city, and I know it like the back of my hand. Know its eccentricities. Know its secrets. Know what hides beneath its masks. So I’m firm in my belief that I’m not being shadowed as I crunch across the gravel parking lot of a recently demolished factory and approach an unremarkable three-story office building.
The building is made of brick, but the red color has faded to a dull brownish gray, no doubt the result of the years of exhaust from the smokestacks of the factory that used to operate next door. There’s a chain-link fence around the back parking lot of the office, but several large holes dot the metal, the sharp edges peeled back to reduce the chance of injury. A sign that people frequently come and go from the premises without passing the guys who playact security guards at the front entrance. And it’s not hard to see why they would come this way: the office building conveniently abuts a narrow patch of woods that lead directly out into the “wilds” beyond Aurora.
I imagine this back exit sees a lot of activity around the full moon.
Not that there’s zero activity right now. I can sense the presence of multiple people.
They’re hiding in the shadows, some in the woods, some behind vehicles parked in the lot inside the fence perimeter. With the sensory enhancements I experience while utilizing my magic, I hear the quiet breathing of large, inhuman lungs and the subtle shift of loose asphalt under clawed paws. I feel the quiver of displaced air as bulky bodies crouch low to peer under cars and past thick brush. And I smell the distinctly unpleasant and unmistakable scent of wet dog, the result of an early morning jaunt through tall and dewy grass.
They sense me coming across the gravel same as I sense them, so there’s no point in keeping up the ruse of the veil. I whisper a word to untangle the magic suspended above me, and the spell dissolves with a fizzle of violet light and a sound not unlike rice crispies in milk. Inwardly, I cringe, because this area of the city is so quiet this time of morning that I might as well have set off a car alarm for all the attention I just called to myself.
Not for the first time, I rue my lack of a magic instructor. Erica’s veils dissolve like soft silk slipping off skin, and my virtual fireworks display is a far cry from that kind of finesse. She could’ve taught me so much better than I’ve been teaching myself these past few weeks. Trial and error can only take you so far so fast when it comes to learning the complex fundamentals of spellcasting, and I just haven’t…
I mentally kick myself. Now is not the time for moping.
Because the Wolves are coming out to play.
Three of them emerge from behind the two cars in the parking lot, and four more slink out of the underbrush at the edge of the woods. I halt as the three in front squeeze through the holes in the fencing and block my path, while the four bringing up the rear fan out in a half-circle to surround me. All of them wear hostile expressions, eyes glinting yellow in the night, sharp teeth bared, soft growls in their throats, the threat of bloody violence in the undulating rumbles.
There’s a moment, I admit, where I find myself teetering on the verge of a flashback: The echo of a terrifying sprint through a winter-bound forest. My half-frozen feet crunching through deep snow. Snarling beasts in pursuit, too close and getti
ng closer. A showdown at a construction site. A blazing fire and a burning corpse. A metal pole jammed through a bad man’s chest. Blood on snow at my feet. Fear, heartrending and unforgettable.
I dismiss the edges of the memory with a deep, harsh breath.
I am not afraid of werewolves anymore.
One of the slimmer Wolves, whose fur is a soft gray speckled with white patches, pads a few steps closer, claws scraping against the large-grade gravel. The Wolf stops about eight feet away from me and sits back on their haunches as they tilt their head side to side in a distinctly human manner. Then, without warning, the Wolf morphs back into human form.
A completely nude Asian woman about my age stands in the animal’s place. She does a few stretches to work out the kinks in her human muscles, and lets out an involuntary shiver, her skin no longer insulated from the cold temperature of a dreary winter morning. She doesn’t take the time to hunt down any clothes, however, and settles for crossing her arms over her breasts and giving me the kind of ire-filled look that can stoke a nice, hot fire in anyone’s chest.
“What do you want, Crow?” says the woman with a faint Chinese accent. “I thought Representative Newsome made it quite clear that your lot isn’t to meddle in our affairs anymore.”
“I’m not here on Crow business,” I counter. “Hence the veil.”
She cocks her head sharply, long bangs falling over eyes that still hold a yellow sheen. “I did wonder about that. Didn’t think Crows could do that sort of magic. Least not the ones that march around in the streets.”
“That would be one of the many bullshit rules imposed on us by the ICM, yes.” I grind my heel into the gravel. “None of our minor practitioners can be detectives.”
“And yet you are a detective, Calvin Kinsey. You, who are clearly not mundane.” She frowns. “Says quite a lot about DSI’s intent, or lack thereof, to foster cooperation with the supernatural communities, doesn’t it?”
At the mention of my name, several of the Wolves repeatedly snarl and snap their jaws. People who were friends of Vincent Wallace, I assume, and who know that he died trying to help me stop Delos and end the curse epidemic. The fact that I also nearly died in that battle, thanks to the brainwashed Commissioner Bollinger, is irrelevant to them. As far as they’re concerned, I got their previous leader wrapped up in non-Wolf business, and he died as a result.
As if I didn’t feel guilty enough about Wallace’s death already. They’ve just got to rub it in, don’t they?
Ignoring the spark of irritation scratching at my ribcage, I return my focus to the Asian woman. “First off, let me clarify something: I am not a minor practitioner.”
The woman stiffens, and all the other Wolves go deathly still.
Now that I have their rapt attention, I continue, “Secondly, I’m not here to grovel at Newsome’s feet in some vain attempt to convince her to help DSI again, or to try and persuade her not to go on the hunt for the wizard who killed six Wolves yesterday. If you all want to play predator and try to hunt the guy down yourselves, be my guests.”
I raise my empty hands, palms out, a sign I mean no harm. The Wolves can probably smell the gun in my pocket, but as long as I don’t brandish it, they can’t justifiably pretend I threatened to hurt them with it. “I’m here to enlist Newsome’s help to save Sadie Wheeler, a two-year-old werewolf, from a second, and likely more successful, murder attempt. And since I don’t have all day to stand around chatting with you lookouts in a parking lot, I would really appreciate it if one of you would go tell your boss I’m here, and why. Let her decide if she wants to speak with me or not.”
One of the Wolves looks ready to bite my head off for the impertinence, but I stare down the hulking brown figure, unflinching, and they eventually back down. No Wolf in their right mind will tussle with a major practitioner if they can help it, which is the primary reason I spilled the beans about myself.
After an extended period of unconformable silence, the Asian woman huffs. “Glen, go inform Rep Newsome of the situation, will you?”
One of the smaller Wolves, who I assume is a young man named Glen, breaks away from the circle and trots off to the office building. At the base of the steps leading up to a narrow back entrance, he stops and takes the requisite seconds to shift back into human form, revealing he is, in fact, a skinny white kid, fresh out of high school.
Glen then continues up to the door, knocks in a cadence that must be a coded message to the person guarding the entrance from the inside, and waits until said person opens the door. Once the guard verifies his identity and moves out of the way, Glen slips into the building. The door slams shut behind him.
The next ten minutes consist of me and the Asian woman awkwardly shuffling back and forth on our feet while the Wolves still in animal form lick their chops and occasionally snap their heads toward the growing sounds of a city waking up from a troubled night’s sleep.
Finally, just as the grating silence starts prodding me to spit out a series of silly quips doomed to spur a number of ferocious Wolves to lunge for my neck, the back door squeaks open again. Glen reemerges, wearing a track suit. He waves at the Asian woman, who takes that as a signal to escort me into the building. Without a word, she spins on her toes and makes an impatient gesture for me to follow her.
Given that I’m blocked in on all sides by werewolves, I trail her with some pep in my step.
As we near the entrance, the lookouts drop out of formation two at a time until only the Asian woman remains, returning to their original positions in the parking lot and the woods. We meet up with Glen at the top of the steps, and he takes up the role of rear guard, his eyes pinned to the back of my neck, body tense and ready to act if I make any sudden moves.
The entry guard, a burly guy in a leather jacket with a shaved head and neck tattoos, holds the door open for our little train of three. He also eyes me like a hungry predator eyes a slab of fresh meat, right up until I turn out of the stumpy entry hall and emerge into the building proper.
The interior of the office is less like a workplace and more like a hangout for werewolves. On the first floor, we pass two gyms, one for cardio and one for weightlifting, two sports rooms, one with a net and one with basketball hoops, two lounges dotted with dirty tables whose crumbs and crumpled, oil-stained napkins must be the remnants of last night’s pizza party, and a TV room complete with a theater projection screen and pair of long leather couches that, judging by the amount of cracks in the upholstery, were purchased sometime before 1995.
Blessedly, for my sake, none of these rooms are occupied, I assume because most of the employees are still out running wild and won’t return to the building until dawn finally rolls around and the work day kicks into gear.
The Asian lady makes a pit stop at a storage closet across from the elevator, where she grabs a track suit identical to Glen’s from one of a dozen boxes of track suits piled onto a set of flimsy metal racks. Since werewolves frequently lose their clothes as a consequence of transforming, someone—my guess is Wallace—decided to simply buy some cheap throwaway clothes in bulk so no one would have to run around the building naked for an unreasonable amount of time.
Baggy tracksuit covering up her naughty bits, the Asian woman guides me over to the elevator, and up we go to the big boss’s top-floor office. The elevator opens right in front of the office door, which sports a wooden bottom and a frosted-glass top. The glass section has a sizable decal on it that says PAMELA NEWSOME, but you can still see the outlines where the letters for Wallace’s name used to be.
The Asian woman walks over to the door and knocks in yet another cadence, and from inside the office comes the muffled but clearly furious voice of Pamela Newsome: “Bring him in.”
Glen roughly nudges me out of the elevator, and I march toward the door as the Asian woman pushes it open, revealing a swath of stained and ratty carpeting that leads up to a battered desk. Behind which sits a stern woman with eyes like a raging fire and a scowl that could flay flesh fro
m bone if you were forced to sit under its weight for long enough. Newsome, hands planted firmly on the desktop, stands up as I slip past the threshold and into her domain, a hundred and one insults on her tongue, and ten times that many threats hiding beneath them.
Here comes the hardest part of my scheme to outwit Targus: convincing Pamela Newsome to put herself and her comrades at risk in order to save a little girl and stop a dangerous wizard in his tracks, without telling her the true culprit is Targus and revealing the ICM is behind the whole thing.
There are really only two ways this conversation can end. Either Newsome agrees to help me and we part with a stiff but agreeable handshake. Or I have to zap a bunch of werewolves with lightning bolts and flee out the nearest window.
Judging by how hard the door slams behind me as the Asian woman leaves me to my fate, I’m thinking I have my work cut out for me.
But then again, when do I not?
Chapter Fifteen
From the outside, Reid’s Pizza appears to be a grungy hole in the wall awkwardly jammed between a building undergoing renovations that used to be an arcade and a recently refinished apartment building bearing all the faux-rich indicators of the plague that is gentrification. Despite the fact I’ve passed Reid’s Pizza on no less than a hundred occasions in my life, I’ve never once gone inside the building or ordered any of their food for delivery.
The only time I’ve eaten their frankly delicious wares was after Erica rescued me from Delos and holed me up in her secret apartment. When the pizza magically arrived immediately after she ordered it, Erica informed me that the eponymous Reid is actually a faerie, and his pizza parlor is operated entirely by a faerie staff. Erica also warned me to, and I quote, “Let the faeries be.”
So you can imagine my trepidation as I stand on the corner across the street from Reid’s, a large rectangular white envelope embossed with an unknown sigil tucked under one arm, Pamela Newsome’s instructions still ringing in my head.
Spell Caster Page 17
