The Wizard of Sante Fe

by Simon Hawke

  "Your mistress is liable to have a heart attack when she finds out you're gone," said Gomez.

  "She'll understand," said Ramses. "This is important. I'd like to help, Gomez. Please? I've never done anything important."

  "Guys, this is Ramses," Gomez said, "pride of Santa Fe's most famous thaumaturgic sculptress, Lady Rhiannon. And if she finds out he's gone, we're all liable to get hit with a charge of grand larceny."

  "Oh, no, I left a note," said Ramses, "so she wouldn't think that I'd been stolen. Besides, I'll be back in the morning."

  "I don't know, Ramses . . ."

  "Please, Gomez? Bast got to help. And I never get to do anything except sit in the gallery all day and have people look at me."

  "Bast is a thaumagene like me and he can take care of himself," said Gomez. "If anything happened to you, Rhiannon would never forgive me. And I don't want to be the cause of any trouble between her and Paul."

  "Nothing will happen to me, Gomez," Ramses said. "I can take care of myself, too, you know. I'm more than just a pretty thing. I can fly. I can help out with all the cats on the ground, provide aerial reconnaissance . . ."

  "Aerial reconnaissance, huh?" said Gomez. "Well, I guess you could, at that. What do you think, guys? It's up to you."

  "He's beautiful!" said Kira. "But . . . he won't break or anything, will he?"

  "I may look fragile, but I'm very well made," said Ramses proudly. "And I've got eyes like an eagle!"

  "Having a spotter from the air would help," said Merlin.

  "All right," said Kira. "Come along, Ramses."

  "Oh, thank you!" the gleaming creature said. "You won't regret this, you'll see!"

  "Okay," said Gomez, "I'll hold down the fort here, in case any of my troops out there spot anything and report in. Good luck. Be careful out there."

  "Thanks, Gomez," Kira said. "Okay, Tony, let's go. We'll check out the downtown area, first."

  "Hang on," the unicorn said as Ramses bounded up into the air and started circling above them, climbing higher and higher. As the sun slowly started to set, they galloped off into the twilight.

  Wulfgar sat cross-legged on the floor near the center of the room. His long, fiery red hair cascaded down his shoulders and his coppery-gold skin seemed to gleam in the candlelight. In the center of the dimly illuminated room, there was a pentagram painted on the floor.

  In the old days, Wulfgar remembered, the evocation of demons was a solemn ceremony, carried off with elaborate ritual. There was, however, no real need for ritual, or such props as a human skull, a grimoire, or a "hand of glory" the amputated and mummified hand of a dead man. The old rituals had served a purpose in their day, to maintain tradition and to help create an atmosphere conducive to the proper frame of mind and focused concentration. However, Wulfgar was an advanced adept, even among his own kind, and he had no need of such trappings. He had done this many times before and he had reduced the spell to bare simplicity. The most important thing about the evocation of the demon was for the adept to maintain discipline and concentration. Some spells grew easier with practice. The evocation of a demon, however, was always dangerous, even to an Old One, for there was nothing in the world that was as dangerous as the dark side of one's own subconscious. The stronger the necromancer grew, the stronger it grew, for it was a part of him. Mastering the spell itself, while difficult, was nevertheless the easiest part. The hardest part was maintaining control over the demonic entity.

  As the candles guttered in their holders on the floor, around Wulfgar and at each corner of the pentagram, Wulfgar closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply and regularly, gathering his concentration. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, then let the air out in a deep and resonant "Ohhhhhh," like the baritone chanting of a Russian Orthodox Church deacon. Gradually, he induced a state of calm and inner-directed strength within himself, then he began to intone the words of the evocation spell in a language that had not been heard on earth since before the dawn of history.

  The glow of the candles seemed to wane, even though their flames did not diminish. The atmosphere within the room seemed to grow thicker. The darkness in the corners of the room intensified. As Wulfgar intoned the words of the ancient spell, the candles started strobing and there seemed to be a pressure building up inside the darkened room. Something began to coalesce in the air above the pentagram. At first, it resembled the swirling of tiny motes of dust, then it gathered into a mist that spun like a whirlpool and gave off a blue glow of thaumaturgic energy. Faster, it spun, faster and faster and faster, building up a force of wind that threatened to suck the air out of the room. Wulfgar remained motionless, with his eyes shut, still chanting the spell as his hair billowed in the wind and blue bolts of thaumaturgic force discharged like lightning in the swirling turbulence above the pentagram.

  Slowly, Wulfgar raised his hands over his head and thaumaturgic energy crackled like blue fire from his fingertips. There was a loud, hissing noise, as if all the air were being sucked out of the room and into that churning whirlpool of blue flame. Wulfgar began to jerk spasmodically as he spoke the final words of the spell and then his eyes flew open and a stream of blue fire shot out from them to strike the swirling cloud above the pentagram. There was a loud crack and the whirling cloud seemed to collapse into itself as a moaning, echoing howl filled the room, a sound like a bear caught in a steel trap.

  A glowing, bright blue aura outlined a vague form within the pentagram, a shape that undulated and thrashed, in the grip of some invisible force. The aura crackled with energy as the shape within the pentagram resolved into the demon entity, Wulfgar's dark subconscious given form and life.

  The candles had all gone out and only the crackling energy within the pentagram illuminated the room in a ghastly blue glow. Wulfgar strained as he fought with it, the veins standing out in his temples, his gaze locked with his bestial inner self. It howled like a banshee as it struggled with him, then finally subsided, subdued by the overwhelming strength of its master's will.

  In the sudden silence, there came a loud thumping on the wall.

  "What the hell's the matter with you people in there?" shouted an angry voice from the neighboring apartment.

  The entity turned toward the wall and gave out a deafening bellow. The pounding on the wall resumed with fresh intensity.

  "Seek," said Wulfgar, oblivious to the pounding from next door.

  The entity crackled with a brief burst of energy and disappeared.

  The Lady Rhiannon was in a foul temper. She stood in her living room in the elegantly appointed apartment above her gallery on Canyon Road, shaking a piece of paper in their faces. She was dressed in a long, diaphanous blue robe that did nothing to hide the lush, voluptuous curves of her body and Loomis was having a hard time not staring. She was wearing nothing underneath it.

  The Lady Rhiannon was not really a Lady. Her name implied a peerage of some sort, yet she wasn't British. She wasn't acting much like a lady in any other sense, either, Loomis thought as he patiently listened to her tirade. Her real name, according to the Bureau files, was Ronnie Levine and she was originally from Hewlett, Long Island. Lady Rhiannon was her chosen magename and the name under which she operated her exclusive gallery on Canyon Road, in an old adobe house dating back to the days before the Collapse.

  "I'm going to sue the goddamn police department!" she stormed, shaking the note that Ramses left her in their faces. "Where the hell do you get off, commandeering people's personal property? Do you have any idea how much Ramses is worth? He's priceless! He's irreplaceable! He's the crowning achievement of my art! My entire business is built upon him! What the hell gives you the right to waltz in here and just take him? If anything happens to him, I swear to God—"

  "Ma'am," Loomis interrupted in a weary tone, "I've already told you, the department had nothing to do with that. However, if you wish to file a complaint—"

  "Nothing to do with it? Then what the hell is this?" she demanded, shaking the note at them. "Who th
e hell is this Gomez, one of your detectives?"

  "Gomez is my familiar, Ronnie," Paul said.

  "Your goddamn cat?" she said with disbelief. "You mean to tell me you're behind this? I can't believe it, Paul! How could you?"

  "I didn't know about it, Ronnie, honest. Not until a little while ago. We've had similar complaints from a number of other adepts we've seen tonight. Apparently, Gomez took it upon himself to recruit some thaumagenes to patrol the streets tonight in an effort to do something about these murders. He meant well, he was only trying to help me."

  "I'm holding you personally responsible for this, Paul," she said. "If anything happens to Ramses, or to Bast, you'll hear from my lawyer! And what's more, I resent your coming here with these insinuations! After all the years we've known each other, I should have thought you'd know better. To come here and question me in my own home, like some common criminal . . ."

  "I'm afraid that was my fault, ma'am," said Loomis, trying to take the heat off Paul. "Professor Ramirez is here merely at my request. We're questioning all the registered adepts in town in an effort to determine if—"

  "If one of us is the murderer?" she bridled. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of! It's insulting. It's beyond insulting, it's insufferable! Do you have a warrant, Lieutenant, for invading my home?"

  "Ma'am, we did not invade your home. We merely came here to ask you some questions and you invited us in—"

  "Well, now I'm asking you to leave! I'm not about to stand here and be interrogated like some common criminal in my own home! If you're determined to pursue this harassment, then I advise you to get a warrant, but rest assured, you'll be hearing from my lawyer! And if anything happens to my Ramses, if there's so much as a scratch on him . . ."

  Loomis shook his head sadly as they left the house, heading back toward the patrol car. "I'm afraid this isn't going very well," he said with a sigh.

  "I could have told you that," said Paul. "By the time we're through, I won't have any friends left in this town."

  "Well, nothing personal, but I can't say I think much of your friends," Loomis replied. "There's a savage killer on the loose, an adept who's practicing necromancy. You'd think they'd all be anxious to cooperate."

  "Don't judge them too harshly, Joe," said Paul. "They're frightened and upset. Something like this strikes very close to home. There isn't one of them who doesn't know how this will affect the general public. And it hasn't been all that many years since adepts were regarded with suspicion and distrust. Try to put yourself in their position. Imagine what you'd feel like if there was a cop out there who was brutally murdering young women and Internal Affairs came around to ask you questions."

  Loomis nodded with a wry grimace. "I'm afraid I see your point. But that doesn't make things any easier. I've got a job to do."

  Modred gave Paul a slight nod as they got into the car.

  "Anyway, she's clean," said Paul, picking up the cue. Loomis thought that he was using his sensitivity to read their minds, when actually it was Modred, or Wyrdrune, or perhaps both of them, relying on the runestones to detect any possible trace of the Dark One. Paul was happy to be spared the task. He would not have liked knowing what some of his friends were thinking now.

  "Who's next on the list?" asked Loomis, reaching for the thermos with the coffee.

  "Lorimer, William G.," said Modred, glancing at the printout. He read off the address on Paseo de Peralta.

  "Okay, let's move it," said Loomis to their driver. "We're not even halfway through the list yet."

  As the car pulled away from the curb, gliding silently about two feet above the surface of the street, Loomis sipped his coffee and glanced out the window at the growing darkness.

  "He's out there somewhere," he said. "I just know it. I can feel it."

  "Developing a bit of sensitivity yourself, Joe?" Paul asked with a smile.

  "Just an old cop's instincts," Loomis replied. He exhaled heavily. "This whole thing is getting out of control. The last three adepts we spoke to were already expecting us. The word is out. They're all on the phone to each other. And now, on top of that, we've got a bunch of thaumagenetic vigilantes out there, fucking animals trying to do our job. It's crazy. That goddamn cat of yours is going to get me fired."

  "I'll have a talk with Gomez," Paul replied wearily. "I'm sure he meant well, but . . ." he trailed off.

  "Don't look a gift thaumagene in the mouth," said Modred. "They may turn out to be very helpful."

  "Yeah, well, maybe," Loomis conceded, "but I keep thinking about the headlines in the papers. 'Pet Posse on Patrol, Cops Caught Catnapping.' The commissioner will have a hemorrhage and I'll be the laughingstock of the city."

  Suddenly the emerald runestone in Modred's forehead began to glow.

  They had been sitting in the park on the downtown plaza, across from the Palace of the Governors. Not far away, a group of young people dressed in the tatterdemalion fashion of renaissance punk sat in a circle on the ground, smoking cigarettes and listening to music coming from a tape player. The rectangular box reeled among them on stubby, retractable little legs, performing an old, nostalgic pre-Collapse dance known as the Slam. The sounds issuing from its speakers brought to mind the image of electric guitars being fed into a meat grinder. It kept knocking into their knees as they laughed and shoved it back and forth between them.

  "It's getting dark," Maria Delgado said, pushing her long black hair away from her face. "We should be going."

  "Not yet," replied her boyfriend, Andy Brewer, a husky, young athletic type with the build of a football player. "It's still early."

  "I've got to work tomorrow. Besides," she added nervously, "I don't want to be alone in the streets after dark."

  "You're not alone, angel. You're with me. We're perfectly safe here. There's all these people around."

  "We still have to walk back to my apartment," she said. "And I don't want to be out after dark, with what's been going on."

  "Hey, there's cops all over the place," said Andy. "I've seen about five police cars pass since we've been sitting here."

  He put his arm around her and pulled her close, to kiss her. She pulled away.

  "Please, Andy. I'd really like to go."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ," he said petulantly. "Nothing's going to happen while you're with me."

  She got up off the bench. "Come on," she said. "Walk me home."

  He sighed with resignation. "Okay, okay. I tell you what, we'll pick up some wine, then when we get back to your place, we'll send out for a pizza."

  "Andy . . . we're doing inventory at the store tomorrow. It'll be a long and very boring day. I have to get some sleep."

  "So? We'll sleep."

  She glanced at him with an expression that said she knew perfectly well what sort of sleep he had in mind. "Yeah. Sure."

  "What?" he asked innocently.

  "Don't give me that innocent act," she said with a smile. "The minute we get in the door, you'll want to jump my bones and I'll want to let you and we'll be up half the night. Then, tomorrow, I'll be walking around half dead and yawning all day. Wait till Friday night. I'm off on Saturday and we can party all through the fiesta."

  "I don't know if I'll make it till Friday," he groused.

  "Take a cold shower and do some push-ups before you go to bed."

  "I'd rather do push-ups with you," said Andy with a grin.

  They were heading east on San Francisco Street, about ten blocks away from Maria's apartment. Suddenly he grabbed her and pulled her into a narrow alley.

  "Andy!"

  He pulled her along a short distance into the alley, then pressed her up against the wall.

  "Andy, for God's sake . . ."

  He put his hands up against the wall, his arms on either side of her. "Give us a kiss."

  "Andy . . ."

  "Just one kiss."

  "Yeah, right. It isn't going to work, you know."

  "What isn't going to work?"

  "You're not g
oing to get me all hot and bothered so I'll ask you to spend the night. I told you, I've got a long day tomorrow and I need to get some sleep."

  "Don't you get tired of sleeping alone?"

  She sighed. "Are you going to start that again?"

  "Come on, why don't you move in with me?"

  Maria rolled her eyes. "We've already been over that. Things are working out fine the way they are. Let's not rush it, okay? Now, come on, let's go."

  "Every time I bring it up, you always say the same thing. 'Let's not rush it.' We've been going together for six months, for God's sake, and you know I'm serious about you. What is it, are you afraid of commitment?"

  "I am not going to discuss this in some dark alleyway next to a stinking dumpster," she said. "Now come on, I need to get home!"

  She shoved him away and started back toward the street, but stopped after a few steps. There was someone standing in the entrance to the alley, watching them.

  "Andy . . ." she said nervously.

  They could see a dark figure, wearing a long, hooded robe. As she spoke, the figure started to approach them.

  Andy took Maria by the arm and drew her back, behind him. "What do you want?" he demanded.

  The figure kept on coming closer.

  "Andy, let's get out of here!"

  "The hell with this," said Andy, stepping up to meet the approaching stranger. He reached out and grabbed the figure by the robe. "Look, you . . ."

  And then he screamed.

  "What the hell is that?" asked Loomis, staring at Modred over the back of the front seat. "That stone in your forehead is glowing again."

  "It's the necromancer," Modred said.

  "What?" said Loomis sharply. "Where?"

  "I'm not sure yet," Modred replied, "but he's close. We seem to be headed in the right direction."

  "What do you mean, he's close?" Loomis said, frowning. "You said that stone responds to thaumaturgic trace emanations."

  "Yes," said Modred, catching himself. "Someone is casting an extremely powerful spell."

  "How can you be certain it's the necromancer and not some other adept?"