“It’s the portal—well, the location.” Annie looked at him, her brows crinkled in confusion. She was unsure what he was getting at.
“Look again. Just between the trees,” he advised.
Staring at the picture again but not yet seeing what he wanted her to see, she closed her eyes and imagined the location. Between the trees where the portal hung, the air chilled her to the bone. Annie shuddered and reopened her eyes.
There!
She finally saw what he wanted her to see: the faint mark that hung in the air. It was the portal—hazy and out of focus.
“Oh crap. That’s not good.” She held the picture and pointed to the portal.
“Photographic evidence of magic.”
Annie circled the portal with a red marker and made a note for Bucky to lose the picture. She stuck it on top of the folder.
Most likely they won’t ever notice the anomaly.
But Annie couldn’t help think of the reporter Rebekah Stoner, who had been investigating her since Princess Amelie’s murder eight months ago. The journalist knew more than even she realized about the existence of magic. It wouldn’t do well for her to discover real proof.
“Any thoughts?” Cham asked.
“If I run a scenario, I have to believe this is a wizard coming to the black market, either to purchase something or sell something,” she speculated.
There’s no other reason for him to be there.
“So if he’s there to sell something, the negotiation for price goes badly, and he’s killed,” Cham surmised.
“That’s my assumption. What I can’t figure out is, why throw him outside the portal? Why risk exposure? This most certainly would get the attention of the Wizard Guard. Even if Jack didn’t lead me to this case.”.
He laid the pictures on the desk and sat back in the chair. “Any other scenarios?” he asked.
“He was trying to get to the market to sell something and didn’t make it there. Was gunned down, so to speak. He’s outside the market, and that’s not a coincidence. Buying or selling, those are the options.” It was the same either way, though Annie hadn’t answered his question. Which led her back to why the murderer had left the body there. No one in the market could have been that stupid.
Annie rummaged through the photos and pulled out one of the victim on the autopsy table. His exposed chest was blackened by a round burn mark that curved, tapered, and thinned at the end. A measuring stick estimated that the burn was six inches long.
“So how does it look?” Cham bent forward.
“Well…” She held out her magnifying glass, examining the burn. “It’s definitely a burn mark. Can you shoot electricity from your hand?” she asked, though she knew the answer to her own question.
He responded with a confused grimace. “Uh, no. You need a spell to control nature. Why?”
“So there’re no super-wizards who have that power?”
Cham smiled broadly. “No wizard should be able do that without a spell. Maybe a creature?” he guessed.
Annie handed him the preliminary autopsy report. He held his hand out, his palms facing the ceiling.
“Ignis,” he said. A puff of smoke pulsed and swirled above his palm until a small fire ball formed and hovered an inch above his hand. Flames danced and stretched as he added more magic. “What’s lightning in Latin?” he asked.
“I… I don’t know.” Annie summoned the elemental book and perused the contents for a spell to summon lightning.
“Try fulgur,” she offered.
He released the fire spell and muttered, “Fulgur.” A bolt of lightning spit from his palm, singeing his skin. A nauseating scent of burnt flesh hung in the cubicle.
“You okay?”
“That won’t kill anyone. Embarrass them, maybe.” He shook out his hand. “I’ve never heard of a creature who can do that. That doesn’t mean there isn’t any.”
He was still shaking his hand, so Annie grabbed his wrist and applied a salve to the charred flesh. The resulting burn was far smaller than the mark on the victim’s chest.
“Do you think more than one person sending the same spell could create a bigger burn?” she inquired.
Cham grimaced as Annie wrapped his hand in a bandage. “Maybe. But that’s multiple people with exceptionally good aim to hit the same mark.”
“Person or demon,” Annie muttered. Something had happened outside the market, and she was certain it wasn’t a coincidence. After taping the bandage closed, her fingers grazed Cham’s hand. Annie felt lightheaded as her heart beat faster.
“You know; this is the second call from Jack Ramsey leading to a second really weird murder. You should be wary of him.” A slight tinge of jealousy was evident in his voice, which surprised Annie.
“Too late.”
Annie’s essential supplies were stored in the credenza behind her desk. Inside the top drawer was her locked box where she kept all of her false identifications. She bypassed the FBI badge, grabbing the Chicago Police Department identification.
Bucky’s right, I could probably use a badge to the Chicago City Morgue. This will have to do for now.
“Hopefully the body will tell us what we need,” Annie said.
“You need help?”
“You can’t come with me. I’ll let Spencer know. Besides, you have your own stack you need to get through.” She nodded toward the pile of folders teetering on the chair.
“Yeah. These missing persons. One minute they were there, the next nowhere to be found. All of the families are convinced it was foul play. And the magical trace is just so weird. We’re trying to figure out what spells were used.”
“When did they all go missing?”
“That’s the thing. They all disappeared within the last two weeks. The magic found at each house is the same, but none of us can trace it or know what it does.”
“Well, with all the departments working on it, I’m sure you’ll find something soon.” Supportive and concerned, Annie reached across the desk. Her lips met Cham’s halfway. She didn’t care that they were at work.
The moment was broken by the ringing of Cham’s phone. He glanced at the screen and sighed. “It’s Mom,” he said and answered. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, dear. I haven’t seen you in weeks. Are you and Annie free for dinner tonight?” Annie could hear Cham’s mother’s voice through the phone.
“We can’t. I’m up to my neck in missing persons, and Annie’s going to the morgue, dealing with a John Doe,” Cham said.
“Why isn’t the VAU going in? It’s their job.” Marina Chamsky argued.
“Mom. Not tonight. This weekend. I promise,” he said with a sigh.
“You say that all the time. You and Annie and your crazy schedules. All I do is worry about the two of you, running off being unsafe,” his mom said, her voice rising to a bellow.
“Mom. These are routine cases. We’re fine. I promise.” Cham tried to offer her reassuring words.
“I love you and Annie. I just want you safe. Call me this weekend, and we’ll work something out.”
“Love you too, Mom. I gotta run,” he said before hanging up. “Every time,” Cham complained to Annie, shaking his head.
“You’ve been a wizard guard for five years. Why does she still harp on you about that choice? It’s kinda getting old.” Annie rolled her eyes.
“She still blames you—or, well, your dad for thinking I was blindly influenced by you.”
“Because you don’t have a brain in your head.” Annie reached over the desk and kissed him, her hands roaming to the curls on his neck. “And she still wants to see me?” Annie asked as she pulled away.
“Her head spun 360 degrees. She was so happy when we started dating. I think she worries, is all,” Cham reassured Annie.
“Go to dinner. I’ll see you when I get back,” Annie offered.
He kissed her instead. “Not a chance,” Cham replied.
Chapter 3
Gladden Worchester paced his black marke
t tent with long, hurried strides. While he pondered his options, his thin fingers, roughed with age and life, absently stroked the bald spot on the left side of his head where the long, purple scar still felt tender, even after a decade. Remembering the banshee attack usually excited him; today it irritated him as he recalled his past failures and poor decisions, one of which he needed to tend to immediately.
After crossing the tent in three strides, he swiveled on his left foot and traversed to the other side, but the marching did little to ease his unrest. He did what he did best and punched at the canvas walls of his tent with consecutive strikes. The stiff fabric flapped wildly, kicking up the dirt floor.
While Gladden released pent-up energy, three elves huddled in the corner whimpering, fearful they’d be Gladden’s next target. They watched in horror as their compatriot, a messenger elf by the name of Sacha, lay curled into a ball on the floor with a split lip and missing tooth.
Gladden continued to trace the scar along the side of the head; it was a distraction as he searched for an easy solution to the problem at hand. Every thought that passed through his head led in one direction.
“Fetch me the djinn!” Gladden ordered. It’s time to take care of this problem now!
“Ma—ma—aster Gladden.” The squeaky, stuttering voice belonged to Bitherby, an elf of some distinction, at least amongst the other lower creatures that worked in the market. He bowed low, so low that his flat, wide nose nearly touched the dirt floor. Gladden glared at the elf, who was all of four feet high. Bitherby’s oversized brown pants and green shirt quivered against his shaking frame.
“Now!” Gladden roared. The elf scurried and slipped in the dirt before pushing through the tent flap, which fluttered wildly after him.
Gladden stepped over Sacha, who was still shuddering on the dirt floor, and yanked a chair out, taking a seat at his makeshift desk to resume his examination of the ugly artifact resting on the battered wood. Though he had no knowledge of such objects or their value, Gladden stared at the amulet: a necklace containing a large red ruby that he knew to be called the Blood of Branwen.
The previous owner, a blind old hag with cracked and spotted skin, had assured him that the stone stopped the aging process of whomever wore the amulet. She swore on the ratty old grimoire on his desk that the necklace had been ripped from her neck, causing her to age rapidly. With Gladden’s very limited knowledge, he had overpaid for what he now believed was a worthless piece of junk.
He grimaced and stared at the cracked and dirty rock, which was surrounded by hundreds of grayish diamonds that hung from a thick silver chain. The chain swayed as he examined the intricate setting. Under the intense light from the desk lamp, it sparkled across the tent.
Gladden had heard the jeers and the hushed tones as the black market merchants discussed the useless purchase of the Blood of Branwen. It angered him so much that he had on several occasions felt the desire to inflict harm on them. It took all that he had not to do so. It would be bad business.
How did this keep that bitch from aging?
The hag had claimed it was created for some duchess who wore it for three hundred years before it was ripped from her neck. Once it was removed, she dried up until all that was left was a pile of ash where she stood.
So why was the hag still alive to sell it to me?
“Damn her!”
He regretted the decision to purchase the necklace and decided it was time to deal with the woman who sold him the piece of shit.
Several groans rumbled across the room.
“Shut up!” Gladden barked. He glared at the three elves still huddled in the corner. They refused to assist their friend, afraid of the same fate. Instead, they cried softly as Gladden returned to the necklace.
Every magical wish granted came with a backfire, a price to pay for the wish fulfillment. This necklace, as long as you wore it around your neck, kept you from aging. Your payment: your soul.
If it works!
Gladden was not known for his business acumen, but he knew this latest mistake would cost him. Everything was slipping away. In anger, he hurled the heavy necklace across the tent. It crashed into the canvas and slid to the floor; the large ruby shattered into dust.
The tent flap flew open, and the djinn who not too long ago had introduced himself to Gladden as Ezekiel strode inside.
“You rang,” the djinn sneered, pulling his already taut skin farther around his bony face.
Ezekiel’s eyes skimmed the room. He scowled at the elves in the corner and clipped Sacha, who was still lying near death on the floor. The elf groaned as Ezekiel’s tall, skeletal frame lowered into a metal chair that squeaked and teetered with his size.
Gladden’s stomach lurched at the sight of this demon. He thoroughly regretted the day this foul creature had come to him.
“The nonmagical police were here.” Gladden’s lips pursed as if he had eaten something sour.
“In the market?” Ezekiel winked and smirked, exposing yellow teeth.
He thinks this is funny!
“No, you asshole. Your wizard was killed outside the portal.”
The djinn grimaced, leaned back into the metal chair, and crossed long, wiry arms against his chest. “That’s unfortunate. I really need that ring.” He thought for a moment before his ugly smile returned to his gray, sickly face. “Whoever killed him must have my ring.” Ezekiel got up and paced the tent. This time he sidestepped Sacha.
“This is all your fault!” Gladden shouted. The three elves in the corner finally took flight; the tent flaps quivered after them.
The djinn stopped mid stride and changed direction. Towering over Gladden by a foot, he bent over until their faces were an inch apart. Ezekiel’s breath was the stench of death and could knock a grown man to the floor.
“My fault? I don’t see how that is the case. You summoned me. You chanted the spell. Remember that wish you made to control the black market? You incompetent nitwit. As I see it, you have the market under your control. You have what you wished for,” Ezekiel hissed through a wild, unnerving smile.
“You… you sent that… that man after the ring. It’s your fault for bringing the nonmagical police here!”
Ezekiel slammed his fist into the wooden desk top, which shook and teetered before sliding to the floor. He flared his nostrils, and his eyes furrowed, pulling on already extended skin. In a hushed, hard whisper, the djinn jeered, “I suggest you do something to keep the police from finding the portal. It will be bad for all of us if you don’t.”
“You have been nothing but trouble since you arrived. Leave. You have until midnight. Take whatever is yours and find someone else to twist.” Gladden huffed and puffed as he sucked in air.
“I think not, Gladden. You summoned me. Asked me for a little favor. Do you remember that?”
Gladden’s eyes grew wide. He feared the djinn with every ounce of his being. “Ye—yes,” he stammered.
“You can’t default on this deal. Handle the police.” Ezekiel marched from the tent.
Chapter 4
“Damn nonmagicals… morgue… cause more problems,” Gibbs said when Annie asked him to join her at the Cook County Morgue. Though John Gibbs was an amazing wizard guard, he disliked most things nonmagical, including nonmagicals themselves.
“Nah. Take Spencer,” he said after she laid out the plan.
Ignoring his halfhearted attempt to decline the request, Annie said, “I can’t. It’s Spencer’s kid’s birthday tonight.”
Gibbs shook his head. “Girl, two calls from that FBI man. Ignore him.” He grumbled under his breath one more time, then finally said, “Time?”
“Midnight. See, was that so hard?” she asked. He griped yet again and headed back to his cubicle.
Annie had known Gibbs her whole life. He had worked with her father. Whenever she needed him, no matter the impulse, Gibbs wouldn’t deny her request.
However, he wasn’t her assigned Wizard Guard partner. That was Spencer Ray, whom she
’d been working with since her relationship with Cham changed and they became a couple eight months ago. Couples working together was against company policy, so they had sorted through their cases and switched partners.
Annie didn’t blame Spencer for turning her down for this mission; she’d have hated for him to miss his kid’s birthday because of a whim sent to her by Jack Ramsey.
Though I know it’s our case.
Under normal circumstances, the VAU handled magical deaths that found their way to the morgues, but because Jack had called Annie, the case was still unofficial. It was her responsibility to verify the death before sending in the VAU.
As she packed the case folder into her field pack, Spencer stopped by her cubicle and stuck his head inside. “Keep me posted,” he said.
“I will. Wish Riley a happy birthday for me!” She waved as he headed out to the pizza and video game birthday party.
The phone rang as Annie was ready to leave.
Last call and I’m done.
“Hey Bucky,” she said, noticing the caller ID. Anxious to leave, she switched her weight from foot to foot.
“Sorry, Annie. No luck on the exact design, though Mrs. Cuttlebrink also believes it’s Middle Eastern. I’ll send what we have to the Middle East Wizard Guard and see if they recognize it and our victim.”
“Yeah. I agree, that’s a good place to start,” Annie said.
“Okay. Just sent. I’ll text when I hear something.”
“Thanks, Bucky.” As she hung up, Cham entered the cubicle and placed a picnic basket on her desk. “Hey what are you doing here?” she asked him.
“It’s dinner. No closer to finding who John Doe is?” Cham emptied the contents: sandwiches, chips, drinks.
“Nope. Bucky’s sending it to the Middle Eastern Wizard Guard, thinking that’s what the brooch was. What did you bring? I was coming home.”
“Yeah, and you’ll worry about the morgue until you leave. Sit.” Cham placed a small cheese-and-cracker tray, sandwiches, and a bowl of fruit on top of the desk and lit a candle with a wave of his palm across the wick. The warm glow was lost in the bright artificial lights.
Wizard Hall Chronicles Box Set Page 37
