by Martha Carr
His voice was deep and soothing, reaching her like an echo inside of her head. She saw images of the different stores, at first like snapshots in her mind.
“Think about slapping the cuffs on someone. That always helps you focus.” Hagan’s voice came through like a sharp, tinny song, but he was right. The feeling she got when she finally put all the pieces together and knew she had the right person.
“The gun,” she whispered, pushing the magic out from her.
Correk watched the symbols on her, reading them. “That’s right, you’re very close.”
“You can read those? I’ll be damned.” Hagan was bent over at the waist, his hands on his hips, squinting at the symbols. “No, nothing. Don’t get a thing.”
Correk did his best to ignore Hagan and focused on Leira. “What do you see?”
The snapshots started to come faster, pulling her along until a stream of images flashed in her mind. “Lake Anna. The bottom of Lake Anna toward the interstate on the south side of the lake.” Her eyes popped open and the symbols started to fade. “I did it! Lake Anna! For a bunch of magical beings they’re as dumb as a bag of rocks. Old school throw the gun in a lake.” She began to realize what she had done. She was a magical creature.
“The good news is we don’t need a warrant to search a lake. The bad news is we need a damn good reason to use the resources.”
Leira felt the energy subside, clearing her head. “What about Pink Harry?”
“You mean get him to lie for us and call in a tip?” Hagan made a face but the idea seemed to grow on him. “That could work. I have to tell you, Berens, you mix in this magical stuff and it gets harder to know the rules, exactly.”
“I have a better idea,” said Correk. “It involves magical suggestion, so the person believes the story they’re telling. We can charm this Pink Harry. It’ll make him sound more believable.”
“Not that I’m against this,” said Hagan, “but how is this not a lie, too?”
“Do it,” Leira decided. “We can figure out magical ethics later. We’re not creating the evidence, Hagan. We’re using the tools at our disposal to find the evidence.”
“Good enough for me, I guess. Okay, big guy, do your thing.”
“It’s already done,” said Correk, looking smug.
“That is not a good look on you,” Leira said.
“What just happened?” Hagan blinked, looking around with his hands held out like he expected something to jump out at him.
“You two should go. Pink Harry is about to call in a tip.”
“Yeah, good idea, right,” said a flustered Hagan. “Like we’re in a sci-fi cop movie. The older guy always lives till the end right?”
“You really already pulled that off?” whispered Leira. Correk smiled and did a good imitation of Hagan’s magic hands.
“No, but it was fun watching his face. But by the time you get to the precinct, Pink Harry will have said enough to convince your captain it’s worth his while.” Correk winked. “Fun with humans.”
“Hey,” she said, swatting him on the chest with the back of her hand, “I’m partially human. Man, that’s still weird to say out loud.”
“You’ll get used to it, now go!”
***
It didn’t take long for the divers to find the gun. Pink Harry’s information was remarkably accurate. The gun was in the exact spot Leira had seen. There were no fingerprints on the outside of the gun but one of the bullets in the chamber had enough of a partial to give up a name.
They found the three men holed up in an apartment complex off St. Edwards Drive. They looked confused when the police came barreling through the door, heavily armed, wearing vests. Leira made a point to stay in the background while the lead detectives from robbery read them their rights. She had pointed out to Hagan that it was their case anyway, and besides, no one needed angry magical felons recognizing Leira’s newly discovered status.
That didn’t stop tongues from wagging in the precinct, though. Some of the other detectives took note of how two big cases, both with almost no leads, suddenly broke wide open and were solved in no time at all.
“Ignore them,” Hagan said. “Jealous of age and beauty. My beauty, your age.”
Leira smiled but she was growing wary. “We need to be more careful. At least make it look more difficult or someone will start to ask questions we can’t answer. For all we know, there are other magical beings nearby.”
“You mean in here?” Hagan’s eyebrows shot up as he looked around the room suspiciously.
“I don’t think you’re going to see anything, Hagan. I just mean, this could go south on us, quickly.”
“At least the Captain is happy. Look at him.”
Captain Napora was standing behind his desk on the phone, smiling from ear to ear, talking away.
“That’s good, I suppose, but it just makes the bitches among us even more aware of our every move.”
“Well,” said Hagan, getting up and putting on his coat, “I’m going home to Rose. My corner in the world of sanity. Especially these days. Thank whatever there is that Rose is predictable, even if that means yelling at me for something at least once a week.”
“Completely deserved.”
“Completely,” said Hagan, scooping up his keys. “Frankly, she keeps me alive. Don’t stay too much longer. There’ll be another case before we know it and a new set of problems. Enjoy whatever time we’ve got right now. At least go hang out with those people you call neighbors.” Hagan laughed. “Only you could have mobile neighbors who don’t live near you so much as drink near you. Ah, the dead fish look I have come to love. Don’t ever change that.”
“Enough. Go home. I’m leaving right behind you.” Before something else goes wrong and so I can finally corner Correk on how to get my mother home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The ground shook slightly and everyone walking along Michigan Avenue looked up from their phones, mildly surprised, looking back down again to check on Facebook for reports of an earthquake. But a plume of smoke rising from the Pumping Station struck a note of fear. The tourists in particular started walking quickly in the other direction while some turned and held up their phones to record the event. A few turned around to make sure and get a selfie with the smoke in the background, making their best duck faces and holding up the peace sign.
The media descended after the first explosion, bringing their satellite trucks close before the police could arrive to push them back. It helped that it was all happening so close to their studios.
Still, there were others who kept one eye on the old stone building that looked more like a castle but kept on moving down the street anyway, determined not to have their day interrupted. Most of them were locals and native Chicagoans weren’t easily shaken, and some of them had roots that wove their way back to Oriceran. They had seen stranger things in Chi-town under a full moon. Among that crowd there was a general consensus that this too would pass.
Not everyone took it so calmly.
It was Chicago and normally any spate of violence might have taken some time for anyone to notice, but this was the Magnificent Mile, the heart of the Gold Coast. People were up in arms from the first billow of ash, calling their aldermen, demanding they do something. The mayor was informed and there was a brief mention of marshaling the forces.
But then, just like that, there was an explanation. An old gas pipe under the pumping station on Michigan Avenue had exploded. An accident. A fluke. No injuries. The news coverage quickly melted away and regular programming resumed. There were a few grumblings and tweets about how these sorts of things aren’t supposed to happen, and what if someone was hurt. Stores reopened and in the nearby Water Tower, wine was being offered to any shoppers shaken by the interruption to their day.
The Order of the Silver Griffin was using their extensive network of connections to change the story.
They had a guy.
Members of the Order stepped out onto the street and like a
chorus of band leaders held up their wands, almost as one and chanted, “Never was, never will be.” The humans on the street froze for a minute or two and when they came to, shook their heads, tried to remember what they were doing, why was their phone in their hand, and let it go. Back to their day.
Other members sat in front of their computer screens, sending out a virus that sought out coverage of the explosion or posts in social media, eating the pixels like a magical Pac-Man and replacing them with cat videos.
Witches and wizards who were going about their day, sitting in meetings, picking up kids, looking at apples in Trader Joe’s suddenly felt their phones buzzing and twitching with an emergency chirp, a chime too pleasant for anyone outside of the Order to take notice.
A wizard at the gym looked up at another wizard running on the treadmill and gave him a nod. Both of their phones were jumping and chirping.
The worst was happening. The vault was under attack. The text was short and simple and was prepared years ago, ready to go if it ever became necessary.
Report at once to your primary battle station. Stop the offenders. Defend by any means necessary. Use lethal force as required.
They both got up as if they were finished working out, even smiling and waving as they left.
“Best of everything,” said the taller of the two as they met at the door.
“All the best in the world,” said the other, as they parted ways to go to their stations. It was an old saying from Oriceran used when preparing to go to war, not heard much in hundreds of years on Oriceran but whispered on many a battlefield on Earth.
At ground level, everything appeared quiet. Beneath the streets, the fighting raged on as the Order of the Silver Griffins fought against the onslaught of magical beings trying to get to the safe.
The rebirth of Rhazdon’s cult. His followers had come for the necklace.
Two witches from the Order stood at the top of the stairs, their wands drawn, determined looks on their faces. They both looked more like mothers getting ready to pick up their kids from school than combat veterans. But they were trained by the Order to fight till the end to keep the vault from all comers. They weren’t backing down.
Behind them the stairs were partially destroyed, rubble everywhere with dust floating up and clinging to everything. An injured wizard lay on the first landing, pressing on his broken leg with one hand while still managing to hold out his wand with the other. His casual corporate attire was singed in places with a long, ragged tear in the slacks where he took a direct hit from a half human, half dwarf male.
The spell sent out a cloud of glittering black dust that coalesced into an arrow, aimed straight at the wizard, vanishing after it hit its mark. Old magic, forbidden for eons. The wound was already festering and bubbling.
The witches at the top of the stairs looked ashen. They knew they were outnumbered but stood firm, wands at the ready.
A female half Wood Elf produced green sprouts from her hands that quickly grew into thorny vines, wrapping around the closest witch’s ankles, rapidly spreading up her legs, pricking her skin. The other witch swirled her wand, yelling, “Expedia,” turning the vine to rot. The witch in front held her ground, ignoring the stinging pain and focused, sending blinding sparks from her wand, hitting the elf square in the chest knocking the Rhazdon follower out cold as her head connected with the far wall making a satisfying thud.
An older couple walking by darted inside, pulling out their wands. A witch and wizard who had joined Rhazdon’s cult and were being called in as reinforcements. The witches in the Order looked momentarily surprised but they immediately recovered and aimed a spray of gold sparks at the couple.
“Betrayer of your own kind!” shouted the witch whose legs were covered in a rash from the poisonous vine.
The Rhazdon wizard held out his wand, sending a silver shower while a black cloud swirled around his wand. A sure sign of dark magic and a poisoned heart. His companion joined in, sending out more sparks that pushed back against the Order’s stream of magic fire.
The streams met, curling around each other, pushing back and forth as both sides held their positions. The injured wizard from below crawled up the steps, dragging his leg, his face caught in a grimace, his teeth clenched. He got close enough to aim and whispered, “Tabula rasa.”
A pulse of magic sought out the couple, wrapping around their heads, searching for any recent memories, erasing them for all time. They dropped their wands, the silver streams of magic faded and the gold hit them, knocking them back. Both of them sat down hard, looking around, confused.
The witch closest to the wizard turned around, surprised. “That’s forbidden. Always!”
“By any means necessary,” he grunted, resting his head on the step.
“That is a line we don’t cross!”
The other witch snapped at her, “And then they take whatever they want from the vault! Hundreds of dangerous artifacts and relics! And chaos reigns on this world! He was right! We defend the vault!”
There was no time to say anything further. They could see a double-decker bus stopping at the corner and a stream of people getting off. They looked like tourists, smiling and chatting with each other. But the two witches knew they were a wall of intruders about to invade their sanctuary. They were going to be overrun.
The witch hurriedly spoke into the device on her shoulder, a walkie talkie that was infused with a charm. “We can’t hold them much longer. Stand ready below. It was a privilege to serve.”
But just as they breached the door, auxiliary members of the Order came from stores, the nearby subway stop, and from the beach a few blocks away. They poured into the Pumping Station from the opposite door, pulling out their wands, already firing at the onslaught coming from the other direction.
The spells on the doors made them impenetrable and no sound or light escaped the room. The humans passing by had no idea what raged on just yards from them. Some looked with curiosity at the number of tourists suddenly interested in the building, wondering if a play was about to start, but kept moving on to their destinations.
The waves of energy crossed each other in lines that made a checkerboard of light, starting small magical fires that would burn until someone deliberately put them out.
There were casualties on both sides. The Order used hidden charms in the walls to climb as if they were weightless, shooting down from above. More members of the Order flooded up the stairs from the vault, aiming low, knocking the cultists over like bowling pins.
In the middle of the chaos, no one noticed the young witch whisper a glamour spell, cloaking herself. She slipped up the stairs from the vault and moved along the wall, avoiding the fighting and reached an exit door in the back. She ran for the red line subway stop two blocks west, taking the stairs down two at a time, not making eye contact with anyone. More members of the Order flowed up the stairs. The glamour spell held, they ignored her.
Most of them knew who she was and would have wondered why she was leaving. On a more normal day they would have even noticed the telltale trail of magic that would have given away her cloaking spell. But today was no ordinary day. The wizard that brushed up against her outside on the sidewalk thought he saw a young college student intent on her phone. He didn’t give it a second thought as he hurried on to his destination.
When she got to the concrete platform below it was mostly empty, just a few people waiting for the next train. At the far end there was an old man sitting on a bench who looked like he might be homeless. Most people were avoiding him, standing at the other end. The girl walked as quickly as she could without drawing attention. He looked up at her as she drew closer, giving her a quick shake of his head.
She stopped where she was in front of a nearby bench and sat down, trying not to cry. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the velvet box she had taken from the vault and slid it under the bench when no one was looking in her direction. She knew she was betraying the Order she had sworn an oath to, just li
ke her mother and grandmother before her. But it was this or let them breach the vault. Much worse things could happen. At least that’s what she told herself as she got up and headed back to the stairs.
The old man grunted as he stood up and smacked his lips, picking his nose. People moved further away from him, turning their backs. No one wanted to see what he might do next. He sat down on the bench and pulled out the case, opening it to make sure. Inside was a heavy gold necklace with a diamond-shaped jewel hanging from the end.
Rhazdon’s new followers had their prize.
He held open his worn puffy coat, releasing a nauseating wave of old sweat and bile that could be smelled yards away from him. He chuckled to himself, knowing no one would want anything to do with him.
“Retreat,” he whispered, his eyes glowing for a moment as he held a clear fireball inside of his jacket, breathing the word into it. It looked like a bubble as it floated up the stairs to the surface. Once it was clear of the subway it rose higher, taking off like a shot toward the Pumping Station, sliding through a door.
The old man’s voice blared out over the crowd. His whisper had become a shout. “Retreat!”
All of the Rhazdon cult members looked up, still brandishing their wands but they stepped back. No one tried to make any further progress toward the stairs and the vault.
“This can’t be good,” said a witch. “Why are they giving up?”
As the cult got outside they folded up their wands, putting them back into their pockets. Those with older models made out of wood slid them into purses or inner pockets specially made for a long wand. Most went back to the double decker bus, chatting away about the Chicago scenery, as if it was just another day.
“It’s gone! The necklace is gone!” A young wizard tore up the stairs, stepping over fallen comrades, searching the faces around him for someone to tell him what he should do next. Two older witches barreled down the stairs past the young wizard and into the vault. They ran down the aisles to the left, looking up till they hit the R’s.
