Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles Book 2)

by Rob Blackwell

  “I know that they’re here,” Kieran said. “I need to know who they are.”

  “I…” Carol stopped. She saw it in his eyes. “Why? You already know who they are.”

  Kieran looked surprised, even pained. She thought he was going to deny it, but he didn’t.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I wanted to see if you did. And you do, don’t you? You’ve talked with them? How much did you tell them?”

  Carol thought of Kate Tassel. Not her real name, she knew. In truth, she was Kate Blakely. But the fake name suited her better, especially now. Carol had lied to Kate last year. Not at first. At first, it had just been a Tarot card reading. But when she saw the word “Sanheim” written on the card, she had known. She could have told Kate everything: what she would face, how to beat it, and what price she would pay. Instead, she had done nothing. No, that wasn’t right. She had lied. She had told her she knew nothing about the matter.

  It was a kindness. If she had told Kate her destiny, she would not have believed or accepted it. She might have run from Quinn and that would have been disastrous for them both. You can’t fight fate. Carol understood that the second she saw Kieran at her door.

  She also knew what she must do now.

  “Will you work for me?” Kieran asked.

  “No,” she said, and looked at Kieran’s eyes. Did she see a flicker of disappointment there? Did he, somewhere, still care for her?

  He calmly picked up the knife from the table.

  “Did you give them any warning we were coming?” he asked.

  “No,” she said truthfully enough. She hadn’t given them a warning—yet. She only hoped and prayed the letter would reach the right hands now. There was no guarantee, of course. But destiny is a funny thing. It may be working against her now, but she thought it might help Quinn and Kate when it mattered most.

  Kieran stood up. He held the knife out.

  “Any chance I can change your mind?” he asked. “They may not have to die, you know? There are always other… possibilities.”

  Carol heard the protest in her heart, begging her to change her mind. She could live! She could be free!

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t trust you.”

  “I’m hurt, Carol,” Kieran said. “I really am. You know me. You think I would be doing this if I didn’t have an agenda?”

  “What’s your agenda, then?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t say,” he said. “I’d like to, but there’s too much at stake here.”

  “So trust apparently only works one way?”

  “Just help me, Carol,” he said. “I’ll protect you from them and you can talk to the new Prince for me. I could use someone they trust.”

  Carol considered it again, but knew what her decision would be.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I have no doubt their best interests aren’t part of your plan,” she replied. “I won’t help you kill them or, worse, corrupt them.”

  “They have no chance anyway, Carol,” Kieran said. He took another step toward her. “They never did.”

  “You don’t know them,” Carol said, and smiled. “I do.”

  Kieran nodded and moved. It was so quick she never tensed up. He was across the room, she saw a flash of silver and then he stepped back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and for a moment she wondered why. Then she felt the blood flowing down her chest. She moved her hand to the cut at her throat. Kieran turned away from her and focused on the row of books on her shelf. She watched him pull something from his jacket pocket and place it there. Then he silently strode from the room.

  Carol didn’t have time to question it. She fell to her knees and felt her life leaving her. As she slumped to the ground, she watched the blood pooling on the carpet.

  Her last thought was bitterly ironic.

  I should have seen it coming.

  Chapter 5

  “I’ve found it, Grace. It’s right where you said it would be. I don’t understand it, of course. You know me—reading books was never my strong suit. Maybe someone could make a movie of it. But I will learn more, I promise you. I have a feeling this book is the key to everything. I love you.”

  —Letter from C.K. Collins to Grace Willoughby

  August 3, 1972

  Quinn carefully stepped around the blood on the floor.

  The office looked the same as he remembered it—which was strange, as he had never been here before. The odd thing about being linked so intimately to another person was having access to their memories. He remembered everything about Kate’s meeting with Madame Zora last year, even though he was miles away and totally oblivious at the time.

  As unusual as it was, he had to acknowledge it was useful. Because of her memories, he had a sense of what the office was supposed to look like. Whoever had attacked her appeared to have been wildly angry—the office was a mess. The kewpie dolls were back on the shelves, but were out of order, as if someone had hastily tried to put them back up. On the carpet were dozens of beads, presumably from the bead curtain that was supposed to hang in the entranceway.

  Quinn ignored the cops still milling around the scene and tried to piece together what had happened. Why would someone kill Madame Zora? There were only a few possibilities and the usual ones didn’t fit. A psychic wasn’t someone you would target for a robbery, and Quinn couldn’t tell that any money had been taken. Her office was also sufficiently out of the way that it was highly unlikely that somehow Zora had been caught up in a random act of violence. Whoever had done this had come here with a purpose. But whether that was to kill her, he wasn’t sure.

  Did someone have a grudge against Madame Zora? It was only a guess, but Quinn could imagine some people might feel ripped off if whatever Zora predicted didn’t pan out. Still, was that worth killing over?

  Given the mess in the office, however, he wondered if it was a spontaneous move. In his head, he imagined a man hearing something he didn’t like, flying into a rage, destroying the room and then turning on Zora herself. It would explain the general mess.

  Something about that theory didn’t feel right to Quinn, however. The bloodstain on the carpet flowed out from a single location, suggesting that whoever killed Zora had done so cleanly, maybe even quickly. Would someone in a rage do that? Wouldn’t he be more likely to beat her to death or…

  “You know, just because you can cross a police line doesn’t mean you should, O’Brion,” a voice behind Quinn said. “You’re interfering with a crime scene.”

  “Well, Stu, talk to Redacker,” Quinn replied evenly and turned around. “He’s the one who said you guys had finished your sweep.”

  Stu grunted in return. Quinn gave him an innocent look and tried not to let his distaste show on his face. Stu was obnoxious, dictatorial and deeply stupid—a combination which also made him extremely dangerous. He was the kind of person who joined the police force not to help others, but to try to control them. Unfortunately, he had risen far in the ranks of the Leesburg police, now serving as one of Sheriff Brown’s top deputies.

  “I’ll have to talk to him about that,” Stu said. “This is police business. We don’t need you to play detective.”

  “I’m not playing detective, Stu,” Quinn replied. “I’m doing my job as the crime reporter. Why do we have to go through this exercise every time?”

  “Because I don’t like you,” Stu said.

  “Thanks for the news flash,” Quinn said. “I used my journalistic skills to infer as much. I think it was last week when you called me a ‘hack,’ ‘piece of shit,’ and ‘lying scum’ that gave me the first clue.”

  “You’re just going to make up another story,” Stu said, ignoring the sarcasm. “You want to blame this on some fictional phantom as well? Maybe you haven’t scared all the little old ladies in this town yet.”

  “This again?” Quinn replied. “Really?”

  “We still get calls, O’Brion,” he said. “‘Help me, I just saw a man riding on a horse.’ Do you k
now how many people ride horses in this county, Quinn? We get calls all the time.”

  Quinn didn’t mention that Redacker and Brown had cooperated for that story—something Stu either didn’t know or care about. Instead, Quinn just shrugged as if he couldn’t care less, which he supposed he couldn’t.

  “There’s no point in you being here,” Stu said. “We’ve got this wrapped up already.”

  Quinn didn’t bother to pull out his notebook. If he had, Stu would have stopped talking. As things were, however, sometimes letting someone gloat was the best way to get information.

  “How so?” Quinn asked, trying to sound disinterested.

  “Her final customer of the day? Let’s just say he was only too happy to tell us what a fraud she was and how she was ripping the entire town off,” Stu said. “When we mentioned she was dead, he actually responded, ‘Good.’ It was like he had no idea we would even consider him a suspect. Some people are really dumb.”

  Yes, they really are, Kate’s voice came in Quinn’s head.

  Quinn felt surprised, then sheer joy. He had to resist jumping up and down in the room. They had known their powers were going to come back soon, but they had no idea when. Suddenly, he had a direct line of communication to his best friend again.

  You heard this? Quinn asked.

  Started when you began checking out the scene, but when I tried to talk to you, you didn’t hear, Kate replied.

  Welcome back to my head, he said.

  Absolute relief flooded through him—through them both. In the back of his mind, he had worried for months that last year had been a fluke or some kind of weird dream. Yet now she was in his head again. It felt amazing and completely normal. The idea of being alone with his thoughts now felt alien.

  With effort, Quinn focused again on what Stu was talking about.

  “So you arrested the guy?” he asked, trying to appear nonchalant. Stu appeared to have no idea he was handing Quinn actual information about the story.

  “What do you think?” Stu replied. “Of course we did. And the guy actually seemed surprised, too. Did he really believe he could kill a woman in cold blood and not get caught?”

  “Why would he ever think that?” Quinn replied and it was to his credit that he kept the obvious sarcasm out of his voice.

  You thinking what I’m thinking? Kate asked.

  The guy didn’t do it? Quinn replied.

  Exactly, she said.

  “Anyway, the case is solved already,” Stu said.

  “You found the murder weapon?” Quinn asked.

  “Huh?” Stu replied.

  “The murder weapon?”

  “Oh, the guy was a gun nut,” Stu said, but he looked flustered. “He has dozens of weapons.”

  “You do know this couldn’t possibly be caused by a gunshot, right?” Quinn said, pointing to the bloodstain on the floor. “The pool of blood on the carpet, nothing splattered on the walls, no traces of gunpowder, etc. If she had been shot, the entire scene would look different.”

  Stu looked momentarily horrified but quickly recovered.

  “I know all that,” Stu said. “I was just saying that…”

  For once, Quinn decided to be charitable.

  “He’s a gun nut so he’s probably into knives as well?”

  “Right,” Stu said, and he actually looked relieved to be offered an explanation. “Totally.”

  “Gotcha,” Quinn said.

  Stu’s radio squawked. He started to answer it but looked at Quinn suspiciously and then moved out of the room.

  Whoever did this knew Madame Zora, Kate thought in his head.

  Why do you say that? Quinn replied.

  Just a hunch. Let’s assume for a moment the mess of the kewpie dolls did come from the guy the police have in custody. That means whoever killed her showed up, didn’t stay long, and completed his or her mission rather quickly. That’s someone with a strong motive.

  Like what? he thought back.

  Not sure, she said. From what I could tell, Zora was the real deal. An actual psychic.

  Like you, Quinn thought.

  I guess, but we don’t know what I am, remember? I could read Kyle’s mind, but I’m still not sure I can read anyone else’s.

  Can you try it now? Quinn asked.

  There was a long pause.

  Nothing, she said.

  Maybe our powers come back gradually? Quinn said.

  Let’s worry about it later.

  So the real question is why someone wants to kill a psychic, Quinn thought.

  Take another spin around the room, she replied.

  Quinn again carefully stepped around the bloodstains and tried to focus on the details of the room. As Kate had noted two years ago, the office itself had a clinical feel, as if Zora wanted it to seem more like a medical office than a psychic parlor. The sole exception was Zora’s room, which seemed more in character. The kewpie dolls were on a shelf in the back. Quinn looked through them, trying to see if anything unusual jumped out at him. They were old dolls—with oddly large heads. It looked like the kind of thing you won at a carnival. Aside from being incredibly creepy, however, he didn’t see any clues.

  Madame Zora’s table was decorated with various trinkets: several crystals, a pack of Tarot cards and some wooden carvings of several animals.

  Spirit guides, Kate said in his head.

  Did she really believe in that stuff? Quinn asked.

  Asks the person communicating telepathically with his girlfriend, Kate said.

  Good point, he replied.

  Satisfied there was nothing of interest on the desk, Quinn looked around the room to see if there was anything else he missed. Aside from a bookcase in the corner, though, he had already looked through everything. He walked over to the books and quickly browsed them. They were exactly what you would expect a psychic to have on hand: “The Healing Crystals,” “Finding Your Inner Aura,” “What Happens After Death,” etc.

  Look on the far left, Kate said.

  At the end of the bookshelf was a single, slim hardbound volume. It was sticking out slightly, as if someone had just put it back. It had no title but Quinn felt strangely drawn to it. He pulled it off the shelf and examined it. The book looked old. The leather was stiff and cracked and the writing on the front was worn and faded. Quinn could just make out what it said: “The Collected Writings of Robert Crowley.”

  He felt rather than heard Kate’s surprise.

  Crowley, she said.

  Another Prince of Sanheim, Quinn replied. Like us.

  Last year, neither Quinn nor Kate had ever heard of Robert Crowley. In most history books, he appeared only as a minor, mediocre poet of the 19th century. But in some circles, Crowley had quite a following—not for his poetry, but his claims of supernatural powers around Halloween. His death was now an urban legend. He had invited over 50 men and women to a castle in Scotland on Halloween night in 1873, only for them all to disappear. No trace of him or his followers, save one, was ever found.

  Since he and Kate had became the Prince of Sanheim, Quinn had made an exhaustive study of Crowley’s life and works. He knew every book and journal and had pored over all of them—most rather futilely—searching for more information. What he now held in his hands, however, was totally new.

  She lied to me, Kate thought. She said she didn’t know anything about the Prince of Sanheim.

  She could have bought this book after our article ran a few months ago, Quinn said.

  Even he didn’t believe that. Quinn had searched high and low for anything on Crowley, so how would Zora have happened to find a rare volume?

  Open it, Kate said.

  Quinn obediently flipped open the book. It wasn’t typed—it was handwritten. It also looked old and faded.

  This is amazing, Quinn said. Is this Crowley’s handwriting? This must be incredibly valuable.

  How does she have it?

  Quinn considered for a moment. Something tugged at his memory about the way the book was on
the shelf, but he couldn’t think of what was bothering him.

  Is it possible she knew about Crowley but not the Prince of Sanheim? Quinn asked.

  No, Kate said emphatically. Why else would she have this book? Not for the poetry.

  Quinn flipped through the pages carefully. The script was barely legible. But unlike every other volume they had, this wasn’t poetry. Instead, it seemed to be a journal of some sort—written by Crowley himself.

  Why wouldn’t she give this to us? Kate thought. Why would she hide this? She could have helped us.

  Quinn heard a noise outside and wondered if Stu was coming back. Acting quickly, he placed the book behind his reporter’s notebook and hoped no one would notice it.

  I should get out of here, he said.

  He was almost out the door when he heard a noise behind him. He turned and looked around the room, took in the bookshelf, the row of kewpie dolls and the bloodstains on the floor. Nothing had changed.

  That’s when he noticed the envelope on the ground.

  Where did that come from?

  He looked up and saw that it must have fallen from near the kewpie dolls. A shiver ran up his spine. He looked around the room again.

  Anyone else creeped out by this?

  Pick up the envelope, Kate said.

  Not so long ago, Quinn would have dismissed the very idea of ghosts, but now…

  He picked up the envelope. On the front of it was written, in Zora’s flowing script, a name: Trina.

  He opened the letter with a sense of foreboding and deep dread. Zora had known Kate—whose childhood nickname was Trina—would find the letter. And he would bet anything that Zora also knew she wouldn’t be around when Kate discovered it.

  She knew she was going to die, Quinn thought.

  Inside the envelope was a small note. It wasn’t long and looked like it had been written in a hurry. He hoped it would have some clues as to how she was mixed up in all this, what she knew about the Prince of Sanheim.

  Instead, it was just two sentences.

  “They are coming for you. You are the last.”