“How do you know this?” she asked, pulling a notepad from her very large bag.
“Well, the Wellingtons are famous around here. You know, lots of money.” The man glanced around the empty parking lot before offering more. “Everyone knows who they are. No one likes them. Never saw the kids around town either.”
“You wouldn’t know what school they went to, would you?”
“Nah. Public school’s good enough for my kids. All five of them went here. Didn’t need no fancy school to educate them. Two of them are doctors, one’s an accountant, one’s a lawyer and the other, well, she’s gone down her own path.” He sighed.
“Do you know anything else about the family I can use in an article? What the family did for a living, where they lived, who they socialized with? Anything?”
“Sorry ma’am. I can’t tell you much. They didn’t socialize with anyone from town. I know they did socialize. Had their own parties. I worked the grounds several times. But they kept to themselves. I’m sorry I can’t tell you much.”
“Thanks for your time. I’ll let you get back to work.”
The gardener watched as Rebekah slid into her car and pulled from the lot, heading back out of town.
I wonder who he’ll tell after I’m gone.
Rebekah drove past the open lot, the bars, and the drug store on her way to the highway, disappointed in the wasted day. Near her turn to the highway, she spotted a street sign and recognized the name as the street where Jordan Wellington grew up. Without a second thought, she turned and followed a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.
A little further from the turn-off, she parked her car near the street and trekked up the long winding driveway, a claustrophobic trail with both sides lined with tight bushes. As the journalist followed the turn to the left until a Victorian mansion came into view. Passing through the circular driveway, Rebekah climbed the stairs to the front door; halfway up, the door flew opened.
“Enough of you! Leave my property before I call the Council. Get out!” His glare was enough for Rebekah to turn and nearly run. As she headed back down the drive, the door slammed shut, and the glass rattled.
Jumping in her car, she sat in the seat, her mind racing. The Council?
Rebekah wondered what that meant while fumbling with the car keys, attempting to ignite her engine. When the car rumbled softly, she pulled away, still thinking about who or what the council might be.
*
Two Wizard Guards stood outside the door. They neither blinked nor smiled and did not let anyone in without thoroughly checking their credentials. A second team of Wizard Guards remained inside the office, one stationed at the window, the second by the door.
Unable to focus on his work, Ryan paced his large, spacious office, skirting around the guest chairs and around the small conference table until finally stopping at the large windows overlooking the Chicago River. A brownish-gray haze hovered from the lake to his office window. Below, a water taxi drove across the green water.
As the Grand Marksman took another turn around his office, the prying eyes of two Wizard Guards bore down on him. They neither judged nor mocked their charge, only ensured his safety, but the lack of privacy stifled the leader of the magical community. Nothing could remedy the situation—at least not until the threat to the Wizard Council passed. When pacing did little to ease his anxiety, Ryan sat behind his desk to review the pictures of Rathbone with Cyril Stonewell: innocuous meetings at coffee shops and Rathbone’s mansion, Stonewell leaving Rathbone’s business. Wizard Guard training still engrained in his consciousness, Ryan examined each photo with tough scrutiny before moving on to the next one, committing every detail to memory should he need the information again. A knock interrupted his work; sighing, he waved his palm across the pictures, making them disappear.
“Enter.” Ryan looked up as the door swung open.
Milo Rawley stepped through the doorway and strode to the guest chairs across from his boss without waiting for an invitation. The wooden door closed effortlessly behind him. The short, stocky Milo had clearly raced to the office; his breath was heavy, and sweat poured down his forehead.
“Milo,” Ryan acknowledged.
The Wizard Guard sat himself in a chair too small for his large girth and wiped his forehead with the back of his pudgy fingers. He tossed a file across the wide table. The wood gleamed under the artificial light.
“Magical trace found outside Wizard Hall in the alley. It definitely matched one of the signatures found at the hotel suite.”
The Grand Marksman put his hands together and examined Milo thoughtfully while processing the information, which did not come as a surprise to him. The Wizard Guards would never find the owner of the leftover energy. Whoever cast those spells was long gone, either sent away or dead. He guessed which option Rathbone would have chosen.
“It was attached to a secret passage into Artifact Hall.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. We discover those more often than I’d like.
Milo nodded.
“Have it noted on the internal floor plans. For future reference,” Ryan said, though mostly to himself. Silence fell between them. Milo’s hands shook with frustration at the lack of any real evidence.
“I’m assuming this, but Stonewell must know about the passage,” Milo finally said.
Ryan waved his palm across his desk, revealing the picture of Rathbone and Stonewell together. The two had spent a lot of time together in recent weeks. Or maybe the tail had simply exposed what was already going on under their noses. “Does Stonewell know we’re investigating him?”
“We can’t link him to Rathbone or the murders, so he probably has no idea we suspect his involvement. He’s been known to be delusional, if you remember.”
Ryan nodded. “Keep the investigation to yourself. As long as Stonewell thinks he’s clean, that’s good for us. Don’t scare him off.”
“We have no proof against Rathbone, either,” Milo reminded him.
Milo recognized the expression on his companion’s face. Ever since Jason Pearce’s death, both men had struggled with a personal vendetta against Rathbone.
“They’ve been keeping company as of late. Or we’re just aware of it now that we’re tailing them. It’s more than we’ve had before.” Ryan passed Milo the pictures.
The department head perused them quickly, as each image was mostly the same as the others. “Still, that doesn’t link either of them to the missing athame or to the murders.”
“But they’re together. It’s not a coincidence. I bet that magical signature belongs to Rathbone,” Ryan said leaning back in his chair. “Annie doesn’t know about this?”
“No. But she’s a smart girl, and she lied about giving up the lead.”
Ryan stared at him, his eyebrows raised briefly before checking his emotions and nodded. “You think she’ll go after him.”
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised it took her this long.” Ryan’s smirk lasted all of three seconds and was replaced with worry at the thought of his goddaughter searching for her father’s murderer. If in the same position, he’d do the same. “I’m not going to stop her.”
“I didn’t think as much. Is there anything else?”
“No. Just keep me posted. About Rathbone… and about Annie,” he said quietly as Milo left.
*
Against her better judgement, Annie had followed Rathbone to the Snake Head Letters, unsurprised by his association to the shop and its owner. While she hid across the street she took a sip of her chai tea, checked her phone for the third time since arriving at the coffee shop, and discovered there was still time before meeting Cham.
Rathbone entered with arrogance, his cloak swinging behind him, his cocky smirk breaking across his face, under his upturned nose. She guessed from his outburst aimed at the owner that Rathbone was angry.
Annie didn’t like Archibald Mortimer, but she felt
sorry for him as he shrank from Rathbone’s fury. Fuming, the dark wizard aimed for a bookshelf, chanted a spell, and watched as the shelves and their contents crashed down—causing hundreds of books to dump to the floor. Terrified, Mortimer ran off, leaving Rathbone pacing, his expensive shoes stomping through the piles until the shopkeeper returned. Tentatively, the shopkeeper handed over a large tome to Rathbone, who threw a bag on the counter. With the book in hand, Rathbone turned, his cloak swishing and swirling around him as he exited the store.
Mortimer surveyed the mess before pocketing the payment. Annie tossed her book inside her field pack and ran after Rathbone.
The evil wizard ducked between two buildings in a seldom-used alley. Annie slipped in after him; the alley was empty. Scrying for the wizard left her with nothing. His cloaking spell worked well with this teleportation. Checking her watch again, Annie realized she was running late. Frustrated, she shoved her things into her pack and headed back to the Snake Head Letters instead of following Rathbone.
Archibald Mortimer had inherited the Snake Head Letters from his mother, who had inherited it from her father, and so on through several generations, dating back to the mid-1800s. The Mortimers had always been considered an unpleasant and distasteful family whom many feared, and only the most evil of black wizards and witches entered their store to purchase their wares. As generations wore on, the family lost power, and fewer wizards feared them. More powerful and dangerous magic was sought at the black market. But with his connections in the underground market, Mortimer still maintained a healthy list of clientele. Many deemed it less dangerous to come to the Snake Head Letters than to go elsewhere.
Though the Mortimer family walked a thin line between good and evil, they adhered to the Secrecy Decree by not selling to nonmagicals and using all means to dissuade them from entering the store. Inventive charms changed the building’s façade depending on the passerby. A young mother with children might walk by the store and see a sports bar filled with smoke and noise while a straight-laced businessman might walk by and see a biker paraphernalia shop. Annie saw it as it really was: a dilapidated building missing pieces and parts.
“What did Rathbone want?” Annie sidestepped the piles of merchandise that littered the floor.
“None of your bus’ness, girl. You need to leave.” Mortimer picked up a book, read the title, and tossed it to one pile.
“You sold him a book. What book?”
He grimaced with obvious distain for the Wizard Guard. Annie ignored him, summoned several books, and piled them on the counter.
“Go away. I have work to do.”
Annie shook a bag of avrum and tossed it on the counter. “The book?”
He eyed the coins, grabbed the sack, and pocketed them to keep her from changing her mind on payment.
“Magical Black Arts.”
“I was never here.”
*
Annie snuck into the meeting from the only door to the conference room. It opened at the front of the room where forty Wizard Guards were corralled for the meeting. All eyes followed her when she entered the bland, four-walled space that lacked any windows or adornments, unless you counted the whiteboard at the head of the room. Although Annie was not easily embarrassed, her face burned red as she headed toward the back of the room, away from the eyes of her colleagues. Cham’s confused expression made her stomach churn.
“You’re late,” Milo said dryly.
“Sorry, I had business to take care of.” Annie stood against the wall to avoid disrupting anyone else.
If Milo was mad, his eyes didn’t reveal it. They glinted as if her tardiness was a good thing. He returned to speaking, his voice droning on as he explained each Wizard Guard assignment. Annie ignored the chatter and made a note of Rathbone’s purchase in her copy of Book of Shadows.
Why didn’t Mortimer want to sell the book? Why did he?
Annie decided to head for the library after the meeting finished.
“The fake orb is ready to set the trap… ” Milo continued in a monotone.
Preoccupied with her own thoughts, Annie only realized the meeting had wrapped up when she saw bodies filing out of the room.
“Where were you?” Cham asked. His icy gaze unnerved her. He’s mad at me, Annie thought, shuddering.
“I, um, researched stuff.”
“Annie, I need to see you.” Milo’s lips were drawn tightly, and his gaze hardened as if angry with her—and yet, he was happy she had come late to the meeting. I know that’s what I saw.
“I need to see what he wants,” Annie told Cham.
Cham glanced at his watch. “Are you available to interview the vampire?”
“Yeah. I’ll catch you later.”
Cham attempted one last look at Annie, but meeting his gaze was near impossible; she had never lied to him before, and the guilt was unbearable. Reluctantly, he left Annie alone with their boss.
“Where were you?”
Annie bit her lower lip and focused on the wall behind him.
I was reckless; it’s dangerous.
“Don’t tell me. I think I know. Scrying for Rathbone? Figuring out his plan?” Milo smiled.
“You want me to stop.”
“No.”
Annie stared at Milo, surprised by his answer. She had admitted to breaking protocol, and his lenience made her nervous.
“Does Cham know?”
Her face burned red from embarrassment, knowing her rash act had led her to lie to her partner and best friend about it.
“I’m only going to warn you once. Your father died because no one knew his plans or where he was going. I don’t want to bury another Pearce. You tell someone.”
For the first time, Annie worried at the thought that she might be turning into her father.
Chapter 22
Again with the scraping and pounding.
The two giants lumbered past Sturtagaard’s cell for the second time in an hour. Their dark green eyes gazed upon the prisoner before moving on. Enormous footsteps shuffled against the stone; it had crinkled and annoyed the demon for the last six days, an admittedly short period for an immortal who had lived hundreds of lifetimes.
Since he had nothing to do in his cage, the sounds of the prison had become familiar to Sturtagaard: squeaks, creaks, water dripping, the moans of others locked in the cells along this hallway. When the demon wasn’t learning the noises, he memorized the feeding and prisoner check schedules of the guards. A plan formulated in his head.
As the demons passed his cell, they tossed in his next vial of blood. Not even good blood—always cold and tasteless, most likely from a cow or a mouse. The demon cringed before drinking it, but his plan relied on his strength to escape.
The vampire cells at Tartarus, designed to drive the demons mad, contained one flaw: clever creatures like Sturtagaard adapted, growing accustomed to the changes in the fifteen-foot prison. Once he learned the path of the sunlight and where it landed throughout the day, surviving became much easier. In the morning, the sun lit up the cell door where the blood was served. The vampire ran for the liquid, his blood heating up as the sun kissed his skin. He’d grab his meal and head to the far corner of the cell as the sun traversed the room.
By midafternoon, sunlight blanketed most of the cell, leaving him with a small, thin path at the back of the cell. Sturtagaard found himself impressed by the Council’s foresight and planning, designing a dungeon to make the vampire’s life—such as it was—hell, and it worked. The vampire was sufficiently miserable during the day. By sundown, the square footage became his own, with little for him to do except plan.
Sitting in the middle of the cell on the cold, stone floor, the vampire closed his eyes, thoughts shuffled through his head as he decided where to hide—not only from the Wizard Council but from his employer, too. Sturtagaard grimaced. How the girl and her boy discovered who his employer was when the vampire still couldn’t work it out bothered him more than expected.
For a vampire, trav
eling by night was his only option; unfortunately, Sturtagaard had little information about the creatures guarding the prison after sunset. He glanced at the window—he’d have to jump the twenty feet to determine who patrolled outside. The glass sparkled, and a stream of light cascaded down the twenty-foot drop. How does it do that?
When he wasn’t planning his escape, Annie dominated his thoughts, which always ended with her bloodless body crashing to the dirty floor of his cell. Though Sturtagaard had only dealt with her on a handful of occasions, the young Wizard Guard had quickly become a pain in his ass. Of course he’d torture her first—not his preferred method, but it would give him great pleasure.
The last of the giants shuffled up the corridor, having finished with their final check on prisoners. When the hall door clicked shut, the vampire checked the hallway for any stragglers and then glanced at the window.
It was easier to examine the window with the sun down. Sturtagaard took an effortless leap up twenty feet, landing precariously on a six-inch-wide ledge. Holding himself in the tight space, the vampire felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of viewing the outside for the first time in days. Like a drunk drawn to their beverage of choice, the vampire was mesmerized by the pane of glass; the longer he stared, the more muddled his brain became. Just beyond the window was an ethereal view as prison lights reflected against the fog that rolled in from the lake.
A beautiful, shimmering vapor in blue, pink, and chartreuse twirled in front of his eyes like a kaleidoscope, beckoning him to touch the mist. His hand moved on its own, reaching for the window, the mist, the unnatural pane of glass.
“Aaahhhhh!” The consequential scream, agonized and terrified, escaped from his throat and echoed off the stone walls. Sturtagaard fell from his perch, landing on the floor; blood sprayed from his wrist where his hand used to be.
Above him, a hearty laugh broke the spell. Gibbs and Cham towered above the vampire, who clutched his arm and whimpered. The two Wizard Guards drew closer, and Sturtagaard growled.
As the vampire struggled and rolled around, his stump oozed blood. It spattered on the floor sinking into the cracks. Gibbs chortled; Cham held him back. Sturtagaard stood, swayed, and fell to his knees.
Wizard Hall Chronicles Box Set Page 23
