by Simon Hawke
Paul Ramirez was standing in the arched alcove leading to the kitchen when they appeared. He wore high leather moccasins and a sorcerer's robe made of light blue cotton embroidered with Indian designs. His gray-streaked, black hair fell loosely to just below his shoulders. His features were sharp and angular, his complexion dark, his eyes dark brown, alert and thoughtful. He stared at the three of them anxiously and his eyes grew wide when his gaze fell on Broom.
"It's good to see you again, Paul," said Merlin, stepping forward and offering his hand.
Ramirez looked baffled as he stared at Billy. "Merlin?"
"I told you that you wouldn't recognize me," Merlin said with a smile. "But go ahead and use your gift. This time, I won't toss you halfway across the room, I promise."
Ramirez stared at him for a moment, a slight frown of concentration on his face.
"My God. But . . . I sense someone else, as well!"
"I'd like you to meet my descendant, Billy Slade," said Merlin, and suddenly his facial expression shifted. The lower lip dropped down at the corner, the eyes took on a somewhat sleepy cast, and the body language changed completely, displaying a swaggering, cocky attitude.
"'Allo, Professor."
Paul shook Billy's hand. "You're . . . a descendant of Merlin's? But . . . I never knew he had any children!"
"Neither did 'e," replied Billy with a grin. "It seems that bird 'e 'ad it off with back in ole Arthur's time, before 'e went to sleep, got 'erself in a family way. Not bad for an old bleeder 'is age, eh? 'E's me great-great-granddad, twenty-seven times removed or some such thing."
Wyrdrune cleared his throat.
"Oh, sorry. Where's me manners? This 'ere's Wyrdrune. 'E's another former student of ole Merlin's, 'cept 'e never quite finished 'is education. Got 'imself thrown outta school on account of—"
"We don't have to go into that," said Wyrdrune quickly.
"You're the one I spoke with on the phone," said Paul.
"That's right," said Wyrdrune. "I'm sorry about the deception, Professor, but I needed to get past your secretary."
"It's quite all right. You're wearing a warlock's cassock. Am I to take it that you are not a registered adept?"
"That's correct," said Wyrdrune.
"And yet you have a familiar?" Paul glanced at Broom uncertainly.
"How do you do, Professor?" Broom said, offering him a rubbery hand.
"Good Lord! It speaks!"
He shook hands with Broom, staring at it with utter fascination.
"It cooks, too," Broom said, "and cleans house and does the laundry and carries bags and whatever other thankless task happens to come along."
"Amazing!" said Paul.
"And my name's Kira, Professor," she said, stepping forward and offering her hand.
"How do you do?"
He took her hand, and then stiffened as he felt the runestone in her palm through her fingerless, black leather glove. She felt his grip tighten and saw his eyes unfocus. For a moment he looked as if he were about to faint, then he suddenly jerked his hand away from hers and staggered backward.
"Paul!" said Merlin with alarm.
"I'm . . . all right," Ramirez said. He stared at Kira with awe. "Forgive me, I . . ."
"You felt it, didn't you?" said Merlin.
Paul shook his head. "I—I don't understand. What was that?"
Kira took off her glove and held her hand up, palm out, displaying the gleaming sapphire.
"An enchanted gem?" said Paul. "A runestone?"
"That's right," said Kira. "I'm sorry, Professor. I didn't know it would have that effect on you."
"I didn't, either," said Paul. He came closer. "May I? Do you mind?"
She held her hand out and he examined the stone, touching it very lightly.
"I've never felt such power!" he said softly. "You look so young! I didn't realize you were a sorceress."
"I'm not," said Kira. "I'm a thief."
"A thief? You're joking."
"No, she's not," said Wyrdrune with a smile. "You're looking at one of the most successful cat burglars in New York City."
"But it's a former occupation," Kira added. "We're independently wealthy now."
Paul stared at Billy with a puzzled expression. "This is all very confusing."
"We'll explain everything, Paul," said Merlin, "but first, use your gift on Wyrdrune for a moment."
Paul glanced at him.
"It's all right," Wyrdrune said. "Go ahead."
Paul looked at him for a moment, then his puzzlement grew.
"I'm . . . not getting anything at all!"
"That's because Wyrdrune may have said it was all right, but I didn't," Modred said.
Paul gasped as he suddenly found himself confronting a completely different person, a tall, well-built blond man with a neatly trimmed beard and tinted aviator glasses. He spoke with an English accent and even his clothes were different. In place of Wyrdrune's short brown warlock's cassock and jeans, he wore an elegant, custom-tailored, charcoal-gray neo-Edwardian suit with a white silk shirt, a lace jabot, and lace at the cuffs. And while Wyrdrune wore a headband, his forehead was bare, displaying the emerald runestone set into its center. The transformation had occurred in the space of an eyeblink. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a gold cigarette case.
"Would you object if I smoked, Professor?"
"No, please do," said Paul weakly. "In fact, if you could spare one, I could use something to help steady my nerves."
Modred opened the case and held it out to Ramirez, then snapped his fingers and a small jet of blue flame shot out from his thumb. He lit Paul's cigarette with it, then his own, then blew it out.
"I think I could use a drink," said Paul unsteadily.
"Allow me," said Broom. "Where do you keep the booze?"
"Uh . . . there's some whiskey in the kitchen," Paul said. "And the glasses are in the cupboard, to the left of the sink."
"I'll find everything," said Broom. "You'd better sit down, bubeleh. You don't look so good."
Paul sat down on the couch. He looked stunned.
"Forgive me, Paul," said Merlin. "I had forgotten Modred's characteristic flair for the dramatic."
"Dramatics had nothing to do with it," said Modred irritably. "Before you invite someone to read my mind, Ambrosius, you might have the consideration to ask me first. Wyrdrune might not object, but I do."
"Modred?" Paul said, still looking dazed.
"Son of King Arthur Pendragon and Morgan Le Fay," said Merlin. "And a powerful adept in his own right."
Paul stared at Modred, speechless with astonishment.
Broom came sweeping out of the kitchen, carrying a small tray with glasses and a bottle. It poured Paul a drink and handed it to him.
"You look like you could use this," it said. "'L'chayim."
Paul emptied the glass in one gulp. "Thank you," he said weakly. He exhaled heavily. "I can see why this was too complicated to explain over the phone."
"It's a long story, Paul," said Merlin, "and when I've finished telling it to you, you'll understand why there's a need for secrecy. For us, it began when Wyrdrune and Kira teamed up to steal three enchanted runestones from an auction of artifacts found in the Euphrates Valley . . ."
Lt. Loomis stood on the riverbank, staring down at the body. His lips were compressed into a tight grimace. His stomach was growling. He'd been trying to lose weight and had been skipping meals. It was not the advisable way to diet, but since moving to Santa Fe from Chicago, he had become hopelessly addicted to Mexican food and he knew that if he sat down at a table, he'd eat like a hog. It disturbed him that he could think of food at such a time. That's what comes of being a cop in Chicago for ten years, he thought to himself. You get so numb that nothing gets to you. If he'd stayed on in Chicago, he could have retired by now, but he'd had enough of being a big-city cop. He wanted some peace and quiet in a nice, relaxed, warm climate. So much for best laid plans, he thought.
"How long
has she been dead?" he asked the medical examiner.
"Difficult to tell for certain until I've had a chance to perform a more thorough examination," the man said, "but I'd say at least twenty-four hours."
Loomis took a deep breath and exhaled heavily.
"Wounds just like the other one," the medical examiner said, looking at the victim's chest and stomach.
"Yeah. Just like the other one." Loomis turned to one of the officers. "Who discovered the body?"
"Couple of little kids," said the officer. "I didn't think it was a good idea to keep them hanging around. They're home with their folks."
"You did the right thing," said Loomis. "Kids. Jesus. How'd they take it?"
"How do you think?"
Loomis sighed. "Used to be you could raise kids in this town without having them see something like this. You spoke with their parents?"
"Yeah. They were pretty upset. I told them you'd probably stop by to see them."
Loomis nodded. "I'll call social services and see if they can have someone come out and see them with me, in case they need any counseling. Damn. It looks like we've got a serial killer on our hands. And a necromancer at that. The reporters will have a field day with this."
"Speaking of reporters, we've got a slight problem," said the officer. "Fairchild got some pictures of the body before I could stop her."
"Oh, shit," said Loomis. "Where is she?"
"Waiting over by my unit," said the cop. "I'm sorry about this, Lieutenant, I don't know how she got here so fast."
"She's got a police band radio and a fast horse, that's how," said Loomis with a grimace. "Fuck. I guess I'd better talk to her. Maybe I can reason with her."
"With Fairchild?"
"Yeah, well, the cat's out of the bag, but what the hell, it's worth a shot. Meanwhile, see if you can get a hold of Ramirez over at the college. If he's not there, try his home."
"I'll get right on it."
Loomis walked a short distance from the riverbank, stepped over the lines marking off the area, ropes with signs on them that said, "Crime Scene, Do Not Cross," and headed toward the three squad cars parked on the road.
An attractive woman with shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair was leaning against one of them, smoking a cigarette. She was about forty, though she looked younger, and she was dressed in faded jeans, high-heeled western boots, a lightweight flannel shirt, and a khaki canvas-cloth photographer's vest with multiple pockets. She had a camera slung on a strap around her neck and a photographer's bag over her shoulder. Loomis saw the small portable police band radio poking up out of the bag and scowled. Her lathered horse was standing just behind the car, the reins looped over the door handle.
"Hello, Ginny," Loomis said.
"I know what you're going to say, Joe, and the answer is no," she replied, dragging on her cigarette and looking, Loomis thought, like a cross between a war correspondent and Annie Oakley.
"Come on, Ginny, be reasonable. Your editor's not going to publish photos like that. It's too gruesome. You work for a respectable paper."
"That's not the point, Joe. I don't want to see these photos published any more than you do. I'm not some yellow journalist who goes around looking for pictures of dead babies. But if the department denies my story and I'm accused of fabricating the whole thing, I need to have something to back it up."
"Can we talk about this?"
"Sure. We can talk. Want to answer some questions about your cover-up?"
"Cover-up is a pretty harsh term, Ginny."
"What would you call it?"
"The press received a briefing. It's standard procedure to hold back a few pertinent details to facilitate a criminal investigation."
"Right. Did the other girl have wounds like that, as well? Was that one of the 'pertinent details' you held back?"
"Are we talking off the record?"
"Not a chance."
"What are you trying to do, Ginny, start a panic?"
"I'm just doing my job, Joe. She did, didn't she? And you sat on it."
"The media got a full statement—"
"Bullshit. You didn't say anything about the nature of the wounds. You just said she was stabbed. But that wasn't what killed her, was it?"
"She lost a tremendous amount of blood—"
"What was Ramirez doing on the scene?"
"I already made a statement about that, Ginny. The girl was a student at the college. Professor Ramirez was simply there in his capacity as a university official."
"And not as an agent of the Bureau? Then why did he sign off on the medical examiner's report?"
Loomis took a deep breath and let it out heavily. "Somebody over there's got a big mouth."
"You can't sit on something like this, Joe," she said. "Those were runic symbols carved into that girl's chest. I took a survey course in thaumaturgy when I was in college. I don't know what those symbols mean, but I know what they are. Those girls were both killed by black magic, weren't they?"
"Ginny, if you print that, you're going to set off mass hysteria. Every adept in town's going to be suspected of being a serial killer."
"One of them is."
"I'm asking you, as a favor, not to print that."
"You're asking me to suppress the truth, Joe. The people have a right to know."
"You realize you're interfering in a homicide investigation."
"Oh, come on! Don't hand me that crap. You'll never make that stick and you know it."
"Look, it's bad enough we've got a serial killer on our hands. If you print that it's a necromancer, all hell's going to break loose."
"Maybe. But that's not my responsibility. My responsibility is to report the news. If I don't print it, then his next victim won't know better than to be caught alone with an adept, will she?"
"I'm afraid you may have a point there," Loomis said with resignation.
"Is Ramirez taking charge of this investigation?"
Loomis nodded. "Temporarily, until the Bureau can send out a field agent."
"When's that going to be?"
"I don't know. That's up to the Bureau."
"So then when this field agent arrives, he'll be taking charge, but meanwhile, you're working under Ramirez?"
"Let's say we're working together. Professor Ramirez is primarily an administrator. He has no background in criminal investigations. But he's advising me on the . . . unique aspects of this case."
Ginny Fairchild was busily scribbling notes.
"Look, do me a favor, Ginny, please, and just report the facts," said Loomis. "The facts are bad enough as they are. Don't go spicing it up any, okay?"
"A story like this, I won't have to," she replied. "Have you got any leads yet?"
"Nothing I'm at liberty to discuss."
"In other words, no."
Loomis did not respond.
"So Ramirez will be checking on all the adepts in town for you," she said.
"Professor Ramirez is merely acting in an advisory capacity, pending the arrival of the Bureau field agent," Loomis said. "Until then, I'll be conducting the investigation myself."
"Oh? Can you read minds, as well?"
Loomis frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You mean you didn't know? Ramirez is a sensitive."
Loomis stared at her. "Where the hell did you come up with that?"
"You really didn't know? He didn't tell you?"
"No, he didn't."
"Well, that's interesting."
"Where did you get this information?"
"I've done some research on him since I saw him talking with you at the murder scene the other day. I spoke to some of his old friends, people who knew his family. You knew he grew up in this town, didn't you?"
"Yes, I knew that."
"Well, it seems that as a boy, he used to read other people's minds. His mother apparently had the gift as well. She used to be a curandera. Some people back then claimed she was a witch."
"Is this on the level?"
"Ask Ramirez. I wonder why he didn't tell you. You'd think his talent would make him the perfect man to find the killer."
"Yes, I suppose it would," said Loomis thoughtfully.
"Unless, of course, Ramirez is the killer himself."
Loomis shook his head. "No, he's got an alibi. I checked it out."
She smiled. "Same old Joe."
Loomis grimaced. "Same old Ginny. You've been pretty busy, haven't you? Look, I can't control what you write, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd work with me on this. Don't go printing any wild speculations. At least check 'em out with me first."
"Will you level with me?"
"If you use a certain amount of journalistic restraint and don't go off the deep end, yes."
"All right, I can live with that. Up to a point. But the first time you hold out on me, all bets are off."
"Fair enough."
"Okay. Deal."
"How about letting me have that film?" asked Loomis.
"Absolutely not. And if you try to take it, Joe, I'll—"
"I won't try to take it, Ginny, I don't work that way. You know that. But let's be practical about this. Things have a way of getting out. I wouldn't want to see that picture circulated. You give me the film and I'll stipulate to what you photographed. For the record. I'll let you take photographs of the body covered by a sheet, so you'll have something your photo editor can use."
"Yeah, right."
"You have my word, Ginny. I'll go on the record about the nature of the wounds and you can quote me. I'm not going to try to cover anything up. But a couple of kids just found that body. Nobody should have to see anything like that."
She looked at him warily. "If you screw me over on this . . ."
"Hell, it's up to you, Ginny. You either trust me or you don't."
She thought about it for a moment, then took the film out of the camera and gave it to him.
"Thanks," he said.
"This means you owe me, Loomis."
"Okay, within reason."
"I can quote you that the girls were both killed by necromancy?"
"No. You can quote me that there were runic symbols carved into the bodies."
