Phantasm

by Phaedra Weldon

  “Irin are very rare, ever since the Bulwark—”

  “Even you knew about that?” I interrupted.

  She nodded. “Not until recently. The Society documented it. My uncle was very good at keeping records. But when Irin are born, they burn bright—like fireflies against a dark matte background. Psychics can see them. And you burned brightest. It was reported your father moved you around a lot to try and keep you away from prying eyes. He and Nona wanted to protect you.”

  I set my fork on the table. “Mom knew?”

  “She is Domas’s niece, Zoë. She knew—not in the beginning. And then about eight years later, your light went out.”

  I kept quiet. I could only listen. I was hearing about my past from someone else.

  “What do you mean her light went out?” Joe asked for me.

  Rhonda leaned forward, her arms on the table. “I don’t know. The member doing the surveillance didn’t know either. You moved not long afterward to Atlanta, and the Society couldn’t track you. And then, about six years ago”—she held her hand up to imitate a surprise—“ping. You popped back on the map. Stronger than ever. And that’s when I was dispatched.”

  Six years ago was when I was raped.

  “You okay?” Joe had a hand on my arm.

  I shrugged it off. “I’m fine. Just bad memories.” I looked at Rhonda and grabbed up my sweet tea. “But I had a light before that time?”

  “According to the sensitives employed by the Society. I’ve also discovered something else.”

  I took a couple of quick swallows. Och. Brain freeze.

  “Recently, Francisco Rodriguez had a few spies dispatched around the South, all infiltrating groups, looking for psychic, gifted people. He’s done this before. Once he found them, they disappeared.”

  I stared dumbfounded at her. “What for?”

  “Even after the fire, and your great-uncle’s death, my uncle took control of the Society, and he put a halt to all experiments on humans and their abilities to cross the planes. Rodriguez continued outwardly to support my uncle, but he secretly continued the experiments. Only on unwilling patients.”

  “What a shithead,” Joe said as he sat back in his chair.

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “Because I’m now the head of the Society of Ishmael, and I have access to the records and journals kept by the members through the years. My uncle had spies watching him as well. He made Rodriguez believe they were friends.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she put up a finger. “But, Zoë, what I’m getting at is that Rodriguez also had a spy in the Cruorem. Remember them?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joe moved forward suddenly and reached behind him to pull out his phone. He looked at the screen, got up, and moved out of the room before answering it.

  I looked back at Rhonda. Quick—scratch her eyes out! “So—what connection would he have in the Cruorem? As far as I could tell, none of those wackos really had any power.”

  “They had a powerful Grimoire. Rodriguez wants that book.”

  I pointed to her. “You still have it?”

  She shook her head. “I have a copy of it, locked away in a Veil.”

  “A what?”

  An expression much like one of Mom’s crossed her face, the one Mom had when she’d learned something and was excited to tell me. “Remember how we discovered that the book had some serious spells grandfathered into it? One of them involved the creation of a Veil. It’s like creating a hole in the space around you so you can store stuff in it—and you call it out when you need it.”

  I sat back. “You’ve done it. You’ve finally cracked up.”

  “Oh?” And with that, she lifted her left arm and reached up into the air—and her hand and wrist disappeared! It was as if she’d stuck them into an invisibility coat or something.

  My mouth fell open.

  She then promptly pulled her hand back out, and in it she had a small black book. Rhonda handed it to me.

  I took it. The binding was leather, and it was cold. Like meat-freezer cold. I dropped it on the table and looked at her. “That book taught you how to do that?”

  Her expression went from excited to worried. “Now you know why he can’t ever have the book, even a copy of it.”

  “Where’s the original?” I looked down at the book she’d handed me. I’d seen the original Grimoire—having been with Rhonda and Dags when they’d appropriated it from Maureen’s apartment.

  She hesitated before putting her elbows on the table. “It’s safe.”

  Joe came back into the room. “I’ve got to go—there are gunshots reported at the Center for Puppetry Arts.”

  . . .

  My heart clenched. I looked around the room. “What time is it? What day is it?”

  “It’s Thursday,” Rhonda said. “I can’t wear a watch—”

  “It’s just after eight.” He frowned. “Why?”

  I suddenly remembered that wacky member of the Cruorem, challenging Dags. Setting up a meeting at the Center for Puppetry Arts. For Thursday night!

  That boob had gone there alone!

  I stood. “Rhonda—what was the name of the spy that Rodriguez had in the Cruorem?”

  “Oh, uh, Jack Klinsky. Why?”

  I couldn’t breathe. Oh God no. It’s a trap!

  “Zoë—what is it?” Joe demanded.

  “It’s Dags. He’s there, at the Center. And Jack Klinsky is doing the shooting. At Dags.”

  18

  RAIN continued drizzling as we piled into the Volvo—Elizabeth being the only car big enough to hold all three of us. Joe insisted on driving—in case we got stopped for speeding, and he could show them his badge.

  The Center for Puppetry Arts sits on a prime piece of property off Spring, nestled next to the Breman Jewish Heritage Museum. A cultural landmark, the Center is home to a number of famous puppets—namely Salem, the cat from the long-running TV show Sabrina, the Teenage Witch, and more recently, Jim Henson’s Kermit, Miss Piggy, Dr. Teeth, Bert, and Ernie. The Center was already home to legendary puppets such as the Chamberlain from The Dark Crystal (that thing is huge!). The Jim Henson exhibit had opened up about a month ago, and though I hadn’t gotten to the Center to see it (I loved the Salem exhibit), it was definitely among my Things to Do Before I Die.

  The Center also has three stages and produces puppet shows all year long, with either their own talented puppeteers or other troupes invited from around the nation and even internationally.

  But let me get one thing straight here—I don’t like puppets.

  I don’t like clowns. I think they’re both cousins to the evil ventriloquist doll.

  When Mom and I first moved here, she thought it would be nice to take her daughter to see a show. I think it was a production of Beauty and the Beast. The Center itself is a work of art in its construction. A zigzag walkway brings the patrons up to the second-story entrance under a large awning. The glass doors open into the lobby. To the left is ticketing, and to the right is the puppet store, where patrons can buy all sorts of puppets and accoutrements.

  Just past this is another counter—usually where they serve drinks for adult shows (now those are cool puppet shows). To the left you’ll see the bottom of Pinocchio’s legs—not kidding. They’re huge, sticking through the roof to the floor. Just past the legs is the entrance to one of two museums in the Center.

  This museum is interactive. And my mom had thought—Oh, this could be fun.

  Uh-uh.

  Back then, the first exhibit in the museum was a trip-activated transforming trash can. Now it’s still there, but they’ve changed the lighting somewhat, and it’s no longer tripped by opening and closing the door. When Mom and I walked in, the room was painted to resemble an alley in a city, and I had noticed the beat-up trash can to the left side.

  But once the door closed behind us, the lights went out and the trash can glowed. Some huge Borodin-like piece of music right out of Night on Bald Mountain
started to play, and the thing mutated into a huge, honking, red-and-yellow fiery bird. Later I discovered it was a phoenix.

  Scared the pants off of me.

  Dazed and a little upset, I charged through the door to my right and stopped in the middle of the room. It was floor-to-ceiling puppets—all types of puppets. What I didn’t know was that some of them were triggered to move from pressure plates on the floor. So walking through there, I set them off.

  I did not, and do not, like things moving that are not supposed to move. So the moment the closest one to me—some furry marionette that looked like a rotted ostrich—started moving and talking—I started screaming. I couldn’t find my way out, and I kept stepping on the plates. Puppets waved their hands, laughed, cried out—and I just kept screaming until Mom got into the room and grabbed hold of me.

  Needless to say I didn’t get to see the performance that day.

  As we pulled into the parking lot, there were no police cars yet—which was just so typical of Atlanta. Shots heard right in their backyard. Where were they?

  Mental note: can you pass the creamer?

  Joe killed the Volvo’s lights and the engine, and with the gears in neutral, coasted down into the drive to the right and stopped the car under one of the trees. I could see Dags’s truck—and a black van parked up front. Joe pulled his gun out and held it up, making sure his clip was ready, then pulled back that top part in order to load a bullet into the chamber.

  “Rhonda?” He glanced back at her.

  I turned and to my surprise Rhonda also had a gun. It was much smaller. But that left me without a weapon.

  Wait!

  I reached forward and opened the glove compartment and pulled out the Ghost Zapper. Joe’s eyes widened as he recognized the weapon just visible in the parking lot lights. “Where the hell did you get that?” he hissed.

  “It’s complicated.” I turned it right and left.

  Joe held up his left hand—the one not holding a weapon. “Why don’t you just stay in the car?”

  “No way,” I hissed. “That’s Dags in there getting all shot up—”

  Gunshots rang out again, and we all stopped and stared at the darkened Center.

  “Joe—” Rhonda said from the back.

  “Zoë, you’re worthless right now. If you go in there, I won’t be able to do my job.”

  “What about Rhonda?” I nodded to the back. “What makes Rhonda more qualified than me?”

  “Because I can take care of myself, Zoë,” she said quietly. “I can use magic. And with Klinsky—magic will be our best defense.”

  Joe took the zapper from me and stuffed it back inside the glove compartment. “Just stay—here.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll handcuff you to the steering wheel.”

  I sat back. I believed he would do that too.

  So I sat in a huff with my arms crossed as he and Rhonda got out of the car and did this classic crouch-walk toward the front, but then disappeared down to the right where the bottom entrance was. I saw a flash of sparkly light like Tinkerbell and knew Rhonda had used magic to get in.

  So great. Rhonda not only had Joe, but she was using magic like some movie mage. So when did that happen?

  Either way, I did not want to stay in the car, but I also didn’t want to sneak in, then somehow botch what was happening. But if I was out here when the police finally did decide to show up, then what? Would they arrest me for just sitting in the car?

  Probably. And if Cooper showed up with TC still taking a joyride?

  That did it.

  I grabbed the Ghost Zapper back out of the glove compartment and eased out of the car the way I’d seen those two do. But I didn’t head down to the basement entrance, or the main entrance. Instead, I went around the side and tried the back entrance—the one that faced the street. I figured maybe Dags would get in that way.

  I got to it, looked around, and yanked.

  And nearly pulled my arm off. Locked.

  Damnit.

  I yanked again though not so hard. Still didn’t budge.

  Another gunshot came from inside, and I yelped. Yeah, having a voice isn’t always a great thing. I crouched and moved back around the building in time to see three Fulton County cars come in, blue lights flashing. Shit. Now I was stuck. And if they spotted me outside, I really would get arrested.

  So I did the only thing I could think of—I ran back the other way to get to the basement door. I touched the handle just as the cop cars moved into position. The handle felt warm, and I pulled at it and went in. It was dark—really dark. But I thought I could hear voices ahead of me. I knew there was a performance stage through the double doors to my right—could they be in there?

  I moved up closer to the double doors and pressed my ear to one of them. Yeah . . . I could hear the voices. And from what I could remember about the stages (yes, I did eventually see a show here), this door would open up at the front walkway. Stage immediately on the right, and the tiers of chairs on the left.

  The voices grew louder.

  “. . . supposed to be mine, Dags! You can’t dodge these forever. Does it hurt? You know . . . I made sure these bullets were full of demon bane. You know what that is?”

  I had no idea what that was. But it sounded terrible.

  I figured the guy talking with the nasal voice was this Klinsky guy. But where was Dags? And what did the jerk mean by “Does it hurt?” Had he already hit Dags, and this demon stuff was doing something to him? Where were Maureen and Alice?

  Hell . . . where were Rhonda and Joe?

  I had reached out to grab the door and push it forward—quietly—when someone seized me from behind and slapped a hand over my mouth. I stepped back, bent forward, and hoisted him over my back and then over my head. Stepping back, I aimed the Ghost Zapper at the shadow and was about to yell out at him when Dags’s voice said, “Zoë—it’s me.”

  It was barely a whisper, but I recognized it, and realized I’d just tossed Dags over my head.

  Oh geez. I knelt forward to him, just visible in the light from the EXIT sign. “I am so, so sorry—”

  “It’s . . . okay.” He moved forward on his hands and knees, then stood up slowly. I rose as well and caught sight of his face. His expression was one of pain. That was when I saw the blood on his shoulder, staining his shirt.

  I put my hand out to him. “Darren . . . what happened? Did he shoot you?”

  “No, he missed,” Dags said. “Barely.”

  That’s when I noticed the rip in the fabric. I put my hand out to him, but he pulled away. “Dags—Joe and Rhonda are here. And the police were called. You’ve got to—”

  “This guy’s working for Rodriguez, Zoë,” Dags said in a low voice. “He’s trying to—”

  “Get you so he can use you as a bargaining chip to get the Grimoire from Rhonda.”

  Dags stopped, closed his mouth, frowned, and then narrowed his eyes. “You just put that together . . . like just now?”

  Actually . . . I had. I’d been thinking about everything Rhonda and Joe had told me at the apartment, trying to work out how Rodriguez figured into all of this. He had to have known Mom didn’t have the Grimoire at her shop—and it was only logical to assume that, since Rhonda had taken over as head of the Society, she would take possession of it.

  And I figured that wherever that Grimoire was, it was well protected. And being well protected meant that Rodriguez couldn’t get to it easily. So he would need a bargaining chip. And it was possible that he knew about Rhonda’s affection for Darren McConnell through his spies—but if he’d kept up with her movements recently, he’d know she was dating a cop.

  Unless Rhonda and Joe were keeping the romance a secret; therefore, they had the love nest in Atlantic Station to protect Joe?

  That left Dags vulnerable.

  But—why have Klinsky lure Dags to this location—a public location—and shoot at him? What could killing Dags accomplish?

  “Zoë?”

>   I blinked and looked at him. “Hrm?”

  “You spaced on me.”

  “Sorry. I was trying to figure this out. Rodriguez—”

  The door to my left suddenly opened, shoving me into Dags. The two of us went down, me on him. Dags reacted instantly and moved me to the side, putting his body between me and Klinsky as the nutcase with the really big fucking gun bore down on us. He had the barrel pointed directly at Dags’s chest.

  “Oh, Dags . . . you got a girlfriend? Why don’t I just make this bullet for both of you?”

  “Use the girls!” I screamed out.

  “I can’t,” Dags hissed. “He used demon bane.”

  “That’s right,” Klinsky said. “Once you’re dead—the Grimoire will be mine—asshole.”

  I thought he pulled the trigger when a loud noise made me jump.

  The noise wasn’t the hammer hitting the pin—it was the door behind us slamming open and a figure jumping through, firing away.

  Klinsky jerked three times, staggered backward, then toppled, his own gun skittering on the tiled floor. Dags and I both turned to see the shooter.

  Daniel Frasier.

  He moved to the body, pushed it with his foot, then disappeared through the stage door.

  More uniforms came in, guns drawn, and Dags and I held up our hands just as footsteps on the tiled floor revealed Joe coming down the hall out of the darkness, his gun down, his shield up. “Police—Detective Sergeant Jeremiah Halloran.”

  The officers lowered their guns . . . a little.

  Jeremiah? His name was Jeremiah? Why in the hell did he go by Joe and not Jeremy? That was a question to pose—just not right then.

  Hrm . . . though Jeremy really didn’t suit him. He was more of a Joe kinda guy. Hey, Joe. How’s it hanging, Joe? Wazzup, Joe? Jeremy sounded more like . . . well . . . the boy next door.

  And Joe Halloran was not the boy next door.

  “They’re with me,” Joe said, as he knelt beside the body. He checked the pulse and shook his head. “Who did the shooting?”

  I pointed to the stage. “Daniel.”

  Joe was up and dashing through those same doors in seconds.

  “Zoë?”