Lies & Omens: A Shadows Inquiries Novel

by Lyn Benedict

  The line hummed between them for a long moment, then Val said, “What do you need?”

  Ten minutes and copious notes later, Sylvie disconnected from Val, feeling better about their strained relationship than she had in ages. Nothing like knowing that your friend—no matter how justifiably pissed off—wasn’t going to leave you high and dry when your life was on the line.

  Sylvie passed one part of the list to Alex, said, “We’re going to need to make a stop for supplies.”

  Alex nodded.

  Behind Sylvie, Lupe stirred and moaned, and Sylvie peered over the seat back. Lupe’s eyelashes fluttered, her hand flailed weakly. Her nails, Sylvie noted, were deep blue-black, another transformation that had failed to erase itself. Sylvie just hoped that the venom hadn’t made the transition back to human along with the claws. Lupe’s temper was far too dangerous.

  “What happened?” Lupe said.

  “Too much to explain. But hey,” Sylvie said dryly, “you made a friend.”

  “I dreamed about a monster,” Lupe whispered. “Her teeth in my throat.”

  “Her heart in your hands,” Sylvie said. “Her name is Erinya. She likes you.”

  “It was real?” Lupe asked. “I dreamed I killed a man.” When Sylvie didn’t deny it, she turned her face away, toward the dark leather seat, hiding from reality, and nothing Sylvie said after that could draw her into speech again.

  Finally, Sylvie just slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Not sleeping. Not yet. But she could rest her eyes.

  Demalion kept the SUV running while Alex grabbed items on Val’s list and on hers, tearing through one magic bodega and one gun shop with an efficiency Sylvie envied.

  Sylvie wanted to go in with Alex, keep an eye on her, make sure she got everything on the list, but she couldn’t leave Lupe unattended. The woman seemed wrung out, unable to move, much less shift shape and rampage some more, but better not to take the chance.

  Alex returned, laden down with bags, and passed Sylvie the Taser. “Here,” she murmured with a sidelong glance at Lupe. “It’s got a charged battery, and the cartridges are loaded.”

  Sylvie folded it against her side like the world’s oddest security blanket and let herself drowse. Soon enough, she smelled the sea, heard the city traffic stop echoing off concrete facades, disappearing out over the waves. She opened her eyes, and they were passing the Seaquarium and the Rosenstiel School, opened her eyes again, and Demalion was pulling up to Val’s driveway gate.

  He stopped the SUV and she slid-tumbled out the side door; she keyed in the passcode Val had given her, and the gate rumbled into motion, pulling back. She put her hand up—wait—and went back for the bag of magical supplies. Nothing too exotic—a white feather, some salt, a few white pebbles polished to a dull gleam, a handful of red chalk. Seemed hard to believe that was all it was going to take to carve a doorway through Val’s wards.

  Val had said that Zoe would be the best to do the spell; that since Zoe had lived there, even briefly, the spellwork would be like turning a key. For anyone else, Val said, it was going to take brute willpower.

  Sylvie felt a little low on brute willpower, but there wasn’t another alternative. She knelt on the smooth black asphalt of the drive, in the shadow of the SUV, and took a deep breath. She wasn’t a witch. She’d used spells once or twice. Always paid for it. Magic made her sick. Part of her Lilith bloodline. The same thing that made her resistant to magic punished her for using it. She expected it would only get worse. Lilith, at the end, hadn’t been able to cast even the simplest of spells.

  She marked four of the pebbles—one for each of them—with a symbol that Val swore meant benign. Sylvie just hoped the stone couldn’t tell the truth. They were a ragtag crew who meant no harm to Val, but she wouldn’t call any of them benign. Even Alex wouldn’t fit that description to a witch’s gaze since she was marked by Eros, the god of Love, and was burdened with an active and malevolent memory curse.

  “Sylvie, do you need help?” Alex asked.

  Sylvie shook her head. “Go back to the SUV. If I can’t shift the spell right, it could get ugly.”

  Alex made a face but did as she was bid.

  Sylvie plunged into spellwork with nausea growing in her chest, her heart throbbing. By the time she rose from her knees—the asphalt swallowing the chalk down, preparing to listen to her commands—the feather weighed her wrist down as if it were made of lead. She raised the feather, raised the wards with it, and nearly collapsed under the weight of something intangible but impossibly heavy. The world seemed to sway around her, as if she were peeling back the sky. The wards lifted, and she jerked a shoulder forward. Demalion, watching for her signal, moved the SUV through the ward. The feather vibrated in Sylvie’s hand, and she hung on to it with nothing but a last burst of determination.

  The moment the SUV was through, she let the feather drop. It burned as it fell, disappeared into ash, and the wards snapped back around them. A witch might have seen something spectacular in it. Sylvie only felt the wrongness of the world being forced away. She stumbled, fell forward, and Demalion caught her.

  “Just a little bit more,” he said.

  Once they were through the perfectly mundane alarm on the door, Sylvie headed for the nearest bedroom on autopilot. She’d been up for sixty-plus hours, fought four pitched battles, and dealt with more chaos than even she could handle. Not to mention being shot and healed.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the ocean, and Sylvie gave the spectacular view a cursory glance, making sure no one was lurking. Then she spilled face-first onto the bed. It felt like heaven.

  She was vaguely aware of Demalion tugging her one way then another, peeling off clothes and shoes, sliding her under sheets, but mostly she was aware of the yawning darkness in her brain. The dreamworld waiting for her. She had a moment to hope that the Mora’s taint hadn’t left a mark; the last thing she wanted was to find her sleep interrupted by nightmares.

  Then she was gone.

  IT WAS TWILIGHT WHEN SHE WOKE, DEMALION A WARM PRESENCE wrapped around her, his arm heavy across her ribs. The waves outside had gone phosphorescent around the edges. Sylvie felt struck stupid and boneless with exhaustion, but the world was making itself known again: Her brain started churning out worry for Zoe, worry about what had been done with Lupe, where Alex was.

  What was coming out of the waves.

  She struggled out of Demalion’s grip—sleeping, the man folded up like origami and took his partners with him—and stepped soft-footedly toward the windows. She expected it to be a hallucination brought on by tiredness and exertion, but the closer she got, the more real it looked. A man—slim-shouldered, dark-haired—rising out of the sea.

  He was too far away to make out any expression, but his impatience seemed to reach out toward her, passing through the air and the glass, beating against her skin. Come out and talk to me. Don’t make me wait.

  A coercion charm of some kind. Sylvie felt it fluttering against her nerves, urging her toward movement. She could push it off, but truth was, she had her own eagerness adding to it. She wanted to know what the hell he was. How he was involved.

  Sylvie reached for her pants, but they smelled so much of blood and char and sweat that she let them fall, too repulsed to worry about modesty. She picked up her gun and went out to meet the intruder in a tank top and her boyshorts. Hell, she had swimsuits that covered a lot less, and at least both the tank and underwear were black.

  She walked down the lawn, the earth warm beneath her feet, the grass cool as it soaked up the evening breezes. Her bare feet were cat-silent as she walked, the faint rustling masked by the sway and rattle of palm fronds. He spotted her coming, raised his head, and scowled, taking in the gun held loosely in her hand.

  She stopped a healthy twenty feet from the shore—no way was she approaching him in his own environment—still within the wards. He waited, scowl darkening, his arms crossed over his chest. She shook her head, snapping his hold on he
r. Not happening. If he wanted to talk, he’d have to come to her.

  He slogged up the sandy shore, and when he was within speaking distance, she asked, “How’d you find me?”

  “I have your sense in my skin,” he said. “I can track you.”

  “Charming,” she said. She remembered that now, the feel of his hand on her skin. His other shape a dolphin … she tried to recall old field trips to Seaquarium, recall old marine biology classes. Dolphins had some type of electrosensing ability, didn’t they?

  “On better days, you’d be surprised how charming I can be,” he said. He smiled, his teeth white and sharp beneath the jut of his nose. A predator’s grin. He lingered at the very edge of the ward, as if he could sense it as easily as she could. Probably easier. He wasn’t human; he lived in the currents of magic.

  “You got a name?” she asked. “Since you managed to cop a feel, I think I deserve a name.” She supposed she should be asking him what he wanted, but she thought, just once, she’d start with the easy stuff.

  He sighed, a strange half-whistled sound, widened his smile. It still looked toothily insincere. “Women. They always want a name.” Something seethed beneath his skin; she thought she recognized it. Anger.

  “So you answer to what? Player?”

  He squinted up at her; apparently his English didn’t go so far as modern dating references. “You don’t need my name. We’re not going to be friends.”

  “Fine by me,” Sylvie said.

  “I want to know what the Mora said. If she told you why she was attacking those humans.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just tell me,” he snapped. “I don’t have time to play games with a trigger-happy human.”

  Sylvie crossed her arms over her chest, tapped her gun meaningfully. “Games, no. Basic courtesy? Never a bad thing.”

  “Courtesy.” He looked back toward the glistening water, the oily snake ripples of slow waves beneath the moonlight. “This whole visit is a courtesy. I could have compelled you.”

  “Could have tried,” Sylvie said. “Look. The Mora didn’t say much. A lot of We were here first, you should remember us, and one small hint that maybe she was sent. She didn’t give me name, rank, and serial number. Too busy trying to kill me by nightmares.”

  “Her words?”

  Sylvie huffed out exasperation. He raked water from his hair with an impatient hand, spat salt water at her feet. The wards hissed and bubbled. The air smelled of fish.

  “I challenged her. Said I knew someone had to be sending them. It’s just not normal behavior for the Magicus Mundi.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not.” Some of the anger drained away. “You’re aware of this?”

  “It was the succubus that convinced me,” Sylvie said. “I know them. They drain their victims over the course of several days. Weeks if they’re feeling sentimental. They don’t pick up automatic weapons and start mowing down government agents. They don’t waste their food.”

  “And mermaids don’t come this far inland, and sand wraiths don’t like lake cities. It’s anomalous. People are paying attention.”

  “No, they’re really not,” Sylvie said. “That’s the other half of the problem.”

  “Not your people,” he said, lips twisting. “Mine. Humans. Think you’re the only ones that matter. We were here from the beginning. We’ve been around since before your kind had language. We are the people. You all are…

  “What?” she challenged. Both irritated and curious. His attitude was regrettable, but she couldn’t help but find him intriguing. She’d never really sat down and had a conversation with a monster before—a few gods, yeah, but a monster? No. She was friends with a werewolf or two, but they considered themselves human, descendants of Lilith and regular wolves. Human, with extras.

  His gaze was flat, black, and unfriendly. “Interlopers. Scavengers. Prey.”

  “Nice,” she said.

  “Are your words for us any better? Monsters? Nightmares? Creatures? Things?” He shook his head—another gesture that was subtly off. His neck didn’t seem to have the flexibility of a human’s. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here. You didn’t learn anything from the Mora. You just killed her. So from now on? Stay out of my business.”

  She felt him pressing his will on her, trying to urge her to do just that. But she was made of sterner stuff, and there was a ward between them as well. She shook it off.

  “What were you going to do? Talk to her while she killed you? One thing I do know about your people … you turn on each other just as easily as you turn on us.”

  He turned, disinterested. A patch of darkness on his neck showed, and Sylvie leaned forward. Was that a hole?

  “Hey,” she said, pushing curiosity aside again. “I have a question.”

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “Don’t make me shoot you in the leg,” Sylvie said. “We’ve been getting along so well. Come on. One question.”

  He paused; his skin twitched and rippled like an animal pestered by an insect. Then he huffed. Water vapor burst out of his neck.

  Hole, she thought. Blowhole. Went with the dolphin shape-shifting. She knew what he was.

  “What?” he said. “Ask me your question.”

  “You think something’s coercing or confusing the monsters who are attacking the ISI.”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “There’s someone modifying human memories also, more confusion and coercion. That your doing?” She couldn’t believe it was Yvette, much as she’d like to. The thing was, the thing Riordan hadn’t mentioned, maybe didn’t know—the memory attacks had been going on for far longer than the ISI attacks. Why would an ISI witch cover up Maudit misbehavior, some of which wasn’t even in the USA? Why would an ISI witch gunning for promotion use a power that was injuring or killing the people she was supposed to protect? It just seemed messy and disorganized. Yvette, by Demalion’s accounts, was neither of those things.

  She was looking for someone else. Maybe the creature in front of her. Even as she asked, she didn’t believe it. His power was small; his field of influence narrow. He’d stood outside the wards and called, and the only one who woke was Sylvie. Because he’d touched her. The memory plague was affecting people citywide simultaneously. She let the accusation stand, though. To see what he would say. The more she kept him talking, the more chance she could figure out his angle.

  “Why would I—”

  “It seems to me that you’ve been sent to stop these attacks. That they’re drawing heat down on your heads. You’re not doing a good job at the main source. Not stopping the monsters. Are you cleaning up after them? You said you’re charming. You’re sure as hell working the compulsion magic. You’re Encantado.”

  Like the fairy-tale creature he was, he shivered all over when she named him. As if she’d diminished him.

  “Your name for my people. Not ours,” he said. “But yes, I am Encantado.”

  “So, are you brainwashing my people, making them forget what your people are doing? I thought it was witchcraft, but I’m willing to adjust my theory.”

  He jerked his head, teeth flashing and clicking.

  Sylvie took a prudent step away. Didn’t look friendly. He pressed back up at the edge of the ward, leaned close. She could smell him—something salty and pungent and something faintly animal beneath the human skin. Legends said that the Encantado seduced women who wandered too close to the riverbanks. Right now, she couldn’t imagine any woman touching him.

  She closed her hand tighter around her gun, thought of Alex and Demalion sleeping back at the house. They seemed very far away at the moment.

  The ward sizzled and sang, clicks and pops that almost sound like dolphin chatter.

  “It’s not our way to hide ourselves,” he said. “That’s yours. Sneaking and prying and stealing away in the dark. Aggressive, greedy, cowardly monkey-things. Someone’s taking your memories? I don’t care. Someone’s taking our lives and
using them as weapons.”

  His face closed off, his mouth snapped shut, his eyes shuttered. She expected him to leave, but instead he let out another huffing breath, and said, “Perhaps we can make a deal.”

  “A deal?” Sylvie said. “Sure you trust a greedy monkey?”

  He parted his teeth at her again; his tongue was white in the darkness.

  “My people are being used. I think by the very people they attack.”

  “The ISI?” Sylvie said. There was another vote for internal strife turning into a massacre.

  “Yes. The better to make themselves a needed force in the world. I can’t be in two places at once,” he said. “I’ve been focusing on stopping the attacks.”

  “Really,” Sylvie said. “Bang-up job. You’re what? Always an hour too late?”

  “It’s my only option,” he said. “Someone’s leashing my people with magic. Leading them around like dogs. That person has to be close by. I’m hunting them. I don’t know who I’m looking for. The ISI would know. You can get inside the ISI and get out again. You can get me that name. I expect it’s one of their own. A secret branch within a secret branch. Your government would love to harness us.”

  “Like a dolphin with a bomb strapped to it.”

  He shot her an ugly glance. “Exactly like that. Except we don’t need any weapon but ourselves.”

  “All right,” Sylvie said. “What do I get if I pass any information on to you?”

  “Stopping the attacks isn’t enough?”

  Sylvie shook off her ingrained urge to bargain, but before she could apologize, he said, “How about an answer to your problem. The Good Sisters.”

  “The what?”

  “Your memory witches. The Society of the Good Sisters. They’re the ones wiping out your memories. Or so the rumors say. More than that, I don’t know. Is that enough for our deal?”

  Sylvie eyed him in the dimness, the sleek inhuman smoothness of him, and tried to figure out his angle. He had one, that was for sure. He had no love for humans, but he might be telling the truth. She had to go after Graves anyway, and if the Encantado was being truthful, if the Good Sisters existed, the ISI would have files on them.