Blood Magic

by T. G. Ayer

  "Why do you need to go to a necromancer?" Natasha's face darkened as she spoke.

  I sighed, knowing she wouldn't agree easily. "My current case is a little girl. She's been taken by demons." The thought of Samantha alone and scared in that metal room somewhere in Dastra made my heart clench. The tightness and pain was sufficient reminder of the urgency.

  Natasha shook her head, her eyes almost accusing. "But you usually come to me if you need help on your cases."

  "This one's different," I said, taking a deep breath. "She's being warded with blood magic."

  The white witch paled, giving her hair a run for its money. "You do realize this is serious stuff, don't you?"

  I nodded. Natasha was always warning me about my cases, especially when it meant I traveled to other planes, and fought demons hand-to-hand. And here I had a problem unequivocally different and incomparably more dangerous than any I faced before. "Yeah, I know. But I need to find a way to get past the ward or I lose the girl."

  Natasha nodded, the movement slow and unconscious as she considered my words. She knew enough about me to understand how important it was to me not to lose an innocent. She schooled her features and asked, "Was there a spell?"

  "A pentagram written with blood, bones and fire inside it." I shuddered thinking about those bones and when I met Natasha's eyes I saw she knew what they may be. "And some writing I didn't understand."

  "Okay, that does sound like some serious dark magic." She rose and walked around to the window. I knew how she felt. The thought of Samantha stuck in that prison for even another day made me uneasy, restless. "Unfortunately, and as much as I hate to say it, the necromancer is your best bet for a spell to break the circle. Who are you going to see?"

  "Nathaniel." The name echoed around the room like a death knell.

  Natasha hissed. "He's a right bastard, that one. Evil to the core. You need to be really careful when you see him." She shook her head, her eyes darkening with worry. "I really wish you had an alternative. I'd rather you stayed as far away from Nathaniel as much as possible."

  "I know. Me too." I leaned my head against the back of the sofa, sinking deeper into the cushions, the weight of the witch’s concern heavy on my mind. I'd known it was a bad idea to see him but her fear made me worry more. Then I sighed. "But I don't have a choice. So how can you help me?"

  She turned to look at me, a look of determination hardening her features. "We need to keep you safe. Make sure he can't spell you in any way."

  Magic was the least of my problems when it came to the necromancer. "And when he asks for payment?" I raised an eyebrow.

  "What do you have to pay him with?" She asked the question merely as a formality. I could see it in her eyes.

  "What will he want?"

  "Blood or a life sacrifice," she said dryly. I'd known the answer. Shouldn't have bothered to ask.

  "I damned well hope he just wants the blood." I got to my feet as well, the thought of meeting Nathaniel turning my stomach.

  "We just have to hope." She smiled, more a grimace than anything. Nothing to smile about. "Right, I'd better get you sorted then. You'll want a protection spell for your body and mind. And I might be able to fix you something to avoid the whole bloodletting thing."

  "Really?" I was very curious. I knew what I was asking for would cost me but if I could avoid giving the sorcerer my blood, I'd be very relieved.

  Natasha nodded. "Come, let's get started." She headed out of the room without looking back. I followed, my mind whirling with worry and a touch of fear. I'd never had to break a blood curse before. The witch led me into the next room, which appeared far more modern than one would expect. White wallpaper with a pale gold leaf imprint, an oak desk fronted by a pair of white single sofas. She waved her hand at the seats and said, "Sit, I won't be long."

  She left the room and I heard her in the kitchen, glasses tinkling, fridge opening and closing. Five minutes later she breezed into the room holding a tray. Three large glasses of lemonade sat on the silver plate and I glanced up at her. She just handed me a glass, placing one on the desk. Then she left the room with the third. Curious, I went to the door and watched her as she headed to the front door and out to Drake. The hum of voices filtered toward me and I returned to my seat to sip the ice cold drink, all the while smiling to myself. Drake would be totally flummoxed. I bet he wouldn't have expected hospitality while banished to the front porch.

  Then Natasha breezed into the room, dusting her hands together as if thoroughly pleased with herself. She seated herself behind her desk and sat there a moment, framed by white and gold striped curtains and a large picture window at her back. She took a long swig of her drink before heading to a set of drawers against the wall.

  I didn't understand too much of what she did but I watched anyway. She withdrew a white marble bowl and a long purple amethyst and placed it in the center of the desk. Then she fetched a large glass pitcher of water from a table by the window. This she poured into the bowl until the water reached the brim. Then she rummaged in one of her drawers and withdrew a small brown bag, which she untied, revealing soft brown sand. She set it beside the bowl and headed to the left hand wall, which was covered in floor to ceiling oak shelving. She reached for a small iron brazier, merely a metal box with four iron legs. This she placed on the table, arranging each of the items in a triangle with the iron stand closest to her and the purple stone right in the middle.

  I shifted, restless. I'd been to see Natasha before and knew well enough it wouldn't be a five minute job, but I did hope she wouldn't take too long. Poor Drake was staked out on the porch. After the lemonade I couldn't be certain that he'd be getting angrier by the minute. I hoped he was relaxed and waiting patiently. Anyone would prefer a calm Drake to a tetchy one. The witch fiddled in her desk drawer again and retrieved a pile of twigs tied together in a small bundle, and a long thin fire lighter.

  She placed the wood in the metal brazier and said, "Right. I want you to come closer. Wash your hands in the water." I returned my glass to the desk and headed around to stand beside her. I followed her instruction obediently, then dried my hands on the soft red towel she gave me. "Now, take the bag and put a handful of soil at the point of the triangle." She indicated one point. I completed the task and dusted the sand off my fingers. Then she passed me the firelighter and I flicked the switch a few times until I got a strong flame. It took a while for the twigs to catch alight but I eventually got a good little fire going. I stepped back and glanced at Natasha. She nodded more to herself than anything and I handed the lighter back to her, heading back to my seat while Natasha hovered over the desk.

  Smoke rose from the brazier and hung about like a murky cloud at the ceiling. I blinked, my eyes beginning to sting but Natasha made no move to open the windows. Instead she stood before the arrangement and raised her hands first to the ceiling, then to her breast, then to the desk. She spoke softly, a chant I didn't understand. Nor did I expect to.

  What I did understand was the essence of the spell. She'd taken a piece of me for each item. Earth, Air, Fire and Water. The four elements of life and of magic. Now she stood, calling the elements to her, creating the fabric of the spell from nature itself.

  My nose twitched, the smoke teasing my nostrils. I held my breath and crossed my fingers, hoping I wouldn't sneeze. Tears pooled at my lids, the haze growing thicker within the room. Natasha seemed unaffected. I blinked again and stiffened, my eyes focusing on the white witch and the air around her. How had I not seen it before? She'd drawn a circle of protection around her, similar to the one currently shielding my house - an almost invisible bubble of magic.

  Power burgeoned within the bubble and I could feel the pressure of it from where I sat, pressing against me like a living thing. Just because she was a white witch didn't mean she wasn't powerful. I watched her mouth move, her words distorted as she stood, her arms raised, encased in the protection of magic. Her chants grew louder, more intense, and my body tightened in response
as I watched and waited.

  The pressure grew and my ears began to pop. Natasha's brow gleamed with perspiration as she concentrated. Then, just as suddenly, the pressure eased and Natasha relaxed. She picked up the stone and dipped it into the water. Then she took a pinch of the soil, drew a line down the center of the little crystal, and placed it in the fire. The flames danced and spat and with a sudden whoosh of air, the fire went out. Natasha reached for the cloth I'd wiped my hands on, using it to grab hold of the hot stone from inside the brazier. She began to wipe it clean as she walked to the shelves, opening a small box. She removed a little metal contraption attached to a silver chain, more a piece of coiled metal designed to hold the stone. She fiddled with it, slipping the stone inside. The witch came toward me and I got to my feet and waited, unmoving as she hung the chain around my neck.

  "Keep it on you at all times. It will protect you against most spells."

  "Most?" I frowned, not liking the sound of that.

  She nodded. "There are some spells that this protection will fail against. Like anything that uses your own blood, for example." Natasha raised an eyebrow and I nodded. Then she moved back to her desk. "There is one more thing, of course. Nathaniel will ask for blood. If he asks for a life, then leave. He will call you back because blood, any human blood, is precious to him. It strengthens his magical power and his spells. And since you are a mage, he will be all the more keen for a drop of your blood." She sat heavily onto her chair, and from the creases on her forehead and the bow of her shoulders, I knew she was worried. "The best way to trick him is to not use magic."

  I frowned. That was new. "No magic?"

  "Yes." She opened the drawer in front of her and withdrew a long object wrapped in leather and twisted it to reveal the hollow handle. "This is a trick knife. The kind used by fake magicians. See how the inside of it is hollow? With a little pressure, the point of the knife opens to allow the blood to leak out. It will look like you are cutting yourself." Natasha handed the knife over to me. After a quick inspection I gave it back. "So. Whose blood are we using?"

  Natasha laughed, the tension in her face easing a little. "Don't worry. I am not donating. We will use blood from my milking cow."

  I raised my eyebrows but didn't question her. She knew what she was doing. I hoped.

  ***

  Chapter 13

  The precinct hummed with low voices and the tapping of keyboards as Saleem watched Fulbright make his way to his desk, coffee cup in one hand and a file in the other. Chances were that file was filled with notes on Mel Morgan. Fulbright's face was pinched and red, skin sagging and dark under his eyes. He reached his desk opposite Saleem's, tugged the gaudy orange tie from his neck and unbuttoned his collar. It did nothing to improve the thick lines of his neck. The detective grunted, then took a swig from his cup. He drew the back of his hand across his mouth, slapped the file on the desk and proceeded to rifle through his IN tray with his unoccupied hand. Most of the papers were tossed aside. Then he returned his attention to the file. In all that time, he hadn't looked at Saleem once.

  "Rough night?" Saleem asked, trying to keep the scorn out of his voice. He disliked the odious man but he wouldn't let him know it.

  "Yeah." Fulbright's gaze remained on his file.

  Sure, his rough night was all in his head. As far as Saleem had seen, the tracker hadn't left her house all night. Last night he'd staked out the stakeout, especially curious as to why the detective had told him the watch was canceled. From his position around the corner from Ms. Morgan's house, Saleem had kept an eye on the detective through the night. Nothing had happened which would frustrate Fulbright no end. And seems his decision to keep a closer eye on the cop had been the right one. Fulbright kept too many things too close to his chest. Saleem decided to encourage a better answer. He leaned forward and asked, "Anything happen?"

  Fulbright looked up and studied him for a moment, his expression cold and impersonal. Then he replied. "Yeah, I've got a few things to investigate before I'm sure. I'll let you know." He returned his gaze to the file.

  Bastard.

  Saleem ground his jaw as he stared at the top of Fulbright's head. The man rubbed him the wrong way and that was dangerous. Magic pulsed through Saleem's veins but he tamped it down. He was here to watch the man, not incinerate his ass.

  The phone rang, pulling Saleem safely back to reality. Fulbright glanced up at him, giving the phone a pointed look. Saleem gritted his teeth and picked up the receiver.

  It turned out to be a call from missing persons. A teenage boy was missing. At last a chance to watch Fulbright in action. He took a few notes and when he put the phone down, the older man looked at him, his gaze hard and expectant. "It's a new missing person's report."

  "Where?" Fulbright sat up straight, raising his eyebrows at Saleem, urging him to answer quickly.

  "Manchester Heights. Seventeen year old male. Name's Ethan Reed."

  "How long?"

  "Since this morning. Could be last night. Parents haven't seen him since he went to bed last night."

  Fulbright was already rising, chugging down the last of his now cold coffee. He flung the cup at the wastepaper basket, not caring that it fell short and rolled into the aisle. He grabbed his file and headed out of the office, swiftly avoiding the still rolling cup. Saleem remained close on his heels. When he jumped into the car beside Fulbright, the detective gave him a sour glare. But he said nothing, clearly resigned to his new partner. He shifted into gear and sped off down the street. Saleem was silent as they wove through the city, soon passing through residential areas that got poorer the further they went. He wasn't in the mood to talk to Fulbright. What he really wanted to do was punch the man in the face.

  They arrived at the house - an old weatherboard building with peeling paint and an unkempt front yard. A police cruiser sat outside, lights flashing, while an officer spoke to a man at the front door. The cop glanced over his shoulder as they approached, and Saleem hid a smile at the pained expression on his face the moment his gaze fell on Fulbright. The detective seemed oblivious as he marched up the cracked sidewalk and headed for the door. Saleem winced, hoping Fulbright wouldn't come on too strong. The man at the door, most likely the father, looked upset enough.

  Saleem hurried after Fulbright, greeting the other policeman with a nod as he passed him on his way to his vehicle. Saleem approached the entrance to the house and introduced himself just as the detective stopped speaking. Fulbright gave him a narrow stare, as if he'd hoped Saleem had conveniently disappeared.

  If only he knew.

  "Come in, detectives." Reed waved them inside and Saleem watched Fulbright's spine stiffen at the assumption that Saleem was also a detective. But he didn't bother to correct the man.

  A woman entered the lounge, curly red hair mussed, eyes red. Lines tracked her wan face deeply and her grey complexion spoke of hours of worry and inconsolable tears. She stared at them, her expression almost indifferent. As if some part of her had already given up.

  On a hunch Saleem studied the house for magic or charms but came up empty. He wanted to ask to see the boy's room but hesitated, preferring not to piss Fulbright off any more than necessary.

  "Please sit," the father said. When Fulbright sat, the man held his hand out. "I'm Robert Reed, this is my wife Betty." The detective flushed as he rose to take the man's hand, giving it a perfunctory shake. He nodded at the wife and resumed his seat, fishing his notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Saleem shook hands with both parents and remained standing.

  Fulbright went over the time they last saw their son, what his mood was, if he had any problems at school – all the usual questions. Listening with half an ear, Saleem drifted toward the inner hallway which he assumed led to the boy's room. Three doors led off the passage and all were open, allowing weak light to shine on the worn and threadbare carpeting. Once he got the lay of the place, Saleem went to the front door, glancing back at Fulbright, who looked up at him, dislike clear on his face.
Saleem headed for the car and got in, shutting the door hard enough for the detective to hear the sound from inside.

  Then, with a glance up at the house to make sure nobody was watching, Saleem simply disappeared in a flash of amber embers. And appeared again at the furthest end of the passage within the Reed home. Fortunately, the boy's room was immediately to his left and he stepped inside, moving with extra care, afraid of making any loose floorboards creak. Inside the room, he kept one ear out on the drone of Fulbright's voice and the short, sharp answers of the Reeds. They'd taken an instant dislike to the detective. Must be his interrogatory demeanor.

  The boy's room screamed 'boy.' Dark blue curtains, a rickety bookshelf stacked with comics. A football lay in a corner, an old computer sat at the desk beside the window. The bed was unmade, the sheets thrown off as if he'd risen in a hurry. The window sash was raised, the curtain shifting in the breeze. Saleem wanted to rule out anything paranormal from this possible abduction. He couldn't sense any spells here either. And if there had been a paranormal presence like demons or wraiths their scents would certainly have faded over the last few hours. They really should have been on the scene this morning.

  There was nothing in the room. Nothing to indicate anything unusual or abnormal had happened. Nothing to indicate anything paranormal either. Saleem was disappointed to leave without any clues, but from the rising voices in the sitting room, it seemed Fulbright was ending his interview. And any detective worth his salt would head down for a thorough inspection of the boy's room so Saleem needed to get the hell out of there.

  Just as he was about to transport himself back to the car, his eye caught something strange on the windowsill. He grabbed his phone and stepped closer, then snapped a couple of pictures and disappeared in a flash of orange sparks just as the parents entered the room with Fulbright close on their heels.

  Saleem reappeared in the interior of the car, his phone in hand. He stared immediately at the screen. The image chilled his blood. Although the windowsill had appeared clean, Saleem was blessed with a secondary sight courtesy of his demon blood. And Dark Sight allowed him to see the demonic sigil drawn on the sill. Saleem felt his gut clench. There was more to these kidnappings than met the eye. He held in his hand proof demons were involved in this particular boy's abduction, but what about all the other missing persons Fulbright was investigating. Were they demonic as well? And what, if anything, did Mel Morgan know about it?