Stevens held up his arm as we entered. “Ramirez and I are still working out the meaning behind the glyphs,” he said. “We think that they’re designed to block the room from magickal observation, but we can’t be sure.”
Mac glanced around, “they are strange,” he noted.
“You can feel the energy from out in the hall,” Ramirez said. “We’re concerned that they might be a trap. Maybe some sort of ward that’s activated when the door shuts. We can’t be sure, but my guess is that there’s another sigil on the back.”
“There is, and you’re correct. But they’re more specific than just keeping magickal sight out,” I said. “They’re designed to keep out the forces of death.”
Three heads turned to stare at me, but I didn’t answer directly. “Mac, show them the tarot card.”
Mac pulled it from his pocket and handed it over. Stevens winced as if it zapped him and gave it to Ramirez who examined it closely. “It’s beautiful work,” he said, “but what does this have to do with the room?”
“Mac found the card hidden behind the source of the dread,” I said. “My guess is that this room and the card are connected to whoever hit this location.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not going into the details in a tainted area,” I replied, “but look at this room. Look at the chair. This wasn’t set up as a hide. It was set up for an interrogation.”
“What are you saying, Thorn?”
“Look, not here. We need to speak in a park or wooded area where I can control the circle.” Before anyone could object, I quickly added, “Witchcraft resonates differently than sorcery. If I construct the circle, I guarantee that none of the players can eavesdrop. I know who left this card and I might know why, but we can’t talk here.”
Chapter 22
Atlanta, Tuesday 1130
Sweetwater Creek State Park
We gathered around an old picnic table beneath a Live Oak that had witnessed its share of secrets, our quest for seclusion in Atlanta abandoned. The parks we’d found within the city limits were either under the suspicious eye of watchful parents or the domain of gangbangers and unsavory trysts. Outside of the city however, the Sweetwater Creek State Park provided a perfect combination of screening trees and undisturbed locations.
I tested the circle again to verify its integrity and then slapped the death card down onto the table. “Thank you for holding your questions,” I said, “this is the reason we’re here.”
We saw it back in the warehouse already,” Stevens said. “It’s the death card. Spooky, but why should we care?”
“What do you know about the Houses Major?” I asked.
Understanding bloomed across Stevens face as he rapidly started putting the pieces together. “Is that a calling card?” he asked. “Holy shit it is, but whose?”
“House Sinister,” I said, “but—
Everyone started talking at once. Everyone had an opinion about what the card might mean. Everyone knew the same stories, rumors, and innuendos. In the Gifted community, everyone had a cousin or a friend of a friend of a friend who was somehow connected to one of the Houses. And yet, though everyone knew, no one knew a thing. That was one of the most surprising and frightening things about the Houses Major, no one truly knew anything about them. Except me, of course, I knew something, not much, but more than most and I couldn’t squeeze a word in edgewise.
It took a brief comment from Nunez to silence them all. He’d been studying me throughout the drive, trying to puzzle out what was bothering me. That was the thing about Nunez, he was so quiet that you often forgot he was there or you made the mistake of thinking his silence covered a lack of intellect, when the exact opposite was true. Nunez was quiet because it was his way. He thought deeply and didn’t offer his opinion until he knew he had something relevant to say.
He was a ninja, a sniper in word and deed. “You’re afraid it was Thomas,” he said. It was all he had to say. Ramirez got it first and growled deep back in his throat while Stevens and Mac were still trying to puzzle out the meaning behind Nunez’s words.
“Listen to me,” I said trying to regain control. “My friend—
“Friend,” Mac interrupted. “You have a friend in one of the most dangerous families of dark sorcerers in the country? No wonder Manx was after you.”
“Manx doesn’t know about him,” I snapped. “No one knows about him, except for Nunez and Ramirez and now you two. And yes, he’s a friend from way back. He found me after I jumped the wire and I rode with his crew for almost two years. Thomas is the reason I made it to New York in the first place.”
“You two knew about this?” Mac stammered; confused and infuriated at the same time. “This is beyond a security breach. It violates national security—
“Now you’re sounding like that asshole Manx,” Ramirez snapped.
“It’s not like that,” Nunez added. “It’s complicated . . .”
“Last year,” I said, “Mac you were hospitalized. Stevens you were on an extended assignment. Ramirez, Nunez and I were all that was left when the Quarternary broke out. Without Thomas’s help we never would have defeated them. We’d be dead and you’d be fighting World War III.”
“I’ve read the reports,” Mac argued, “Thomas Sinistra isn’t mentioned once anywhere.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Ramirez replied. “Mac you know us. You know we don’t traffic with the dark, but you hear one whisper about that House and you’re squaring the crosshairs. How would it go down if the pencil pushers and bureaucrats got a hold of that info? We kept his name off the reports as much for our protection as his.”
“Thomas has been at war with House Sinister for as long as I’ve known him,” I added. “I don’t know all the particulars, but—
“But you’re afraid he’s involved all the same,” Stevens said.
I tapped my finger on the tarot card. “There are three branches in the Sinistra family,” I explained. “Each uses a different color in their coat of arms, Thomas’s is green. He left this, I’m sure of it. It’s a message . . .”
My words trailed off as soon as the idea struck me. The card was a message, I was sure of it, but how could he possibly know it would get to me? I hadn’t lied when I’d said that Thomas wasn’t part of House Sinister, but he was a Sinistra and they were all extremely talented sorcerers.
Before anyone could object, I pulled my combat knife and sank the blade deep into the fleshy part of my left thumb and dug. If my suspicions were correct it wasn’t the blood that would be important, it was the pain. Ramirez grabbed my wrist before I could position it over the card.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“Just watch,” I said. “If this card was only a message to Ortiz’s people, he wouldn’t have left this particular one, it’s too valuable. You can’t think along a straight path where Thomas is concerned, there’s more than one meaning in everything he does. If I’m right he left this card for me.”
“And if you’re wrong you’ve provided a link between yourself and whoever is behind this,” Ramirez hissed.
“Please,” I pleaded, “I’ve got nothing left. At least this way we’ll know for sure.”
Ramirez held my hand steady for a few moments more, his eyes searching mine. I don’t know what he saw there, maybe my fear of being cast out of the unit, maybe something more. I don’t know. Eventually he relented and removed his hand while I held mine over the card.
I left fall three drops of blood and then quickly bound the wound. At first nothing happened and for a wild second, I thought I’d misread the clues. If this hadn’t been Thomas’s work, but another member of his family or an outsider then retaliation would be swift and merciless. But somewhere deep down I knew I was right.
After a moment my blood began to smoke and boil upon the card before sinking through the surface. Around me I felt the others tense, if I were wrong this would be the moment that the strike would come. The only question was from
which direction.
When the last of my blood had been absorbed the armored figure on the card turned and looked about, as if scanning the countryside for unwelcome eyes. Apparently satisfied, the painted figure turned and looked up in our direction before carefully dismounting. I swear I could hear tinny clinks as his armor flexed while he moved.
It was a strange thing to witness and even more difficult to describe, but as the tiny knight dismounted the painted card twisted from the two dimensional into the three. I can’t begin to elaborate upon the complexities of the spell that enabled that transformation. It should have been an impossible thing and if I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I’d doubt the telling. But by the time the knight left his horse and stretched the miles from his joints, what had once been merely a painted landscape was transformed into a portal into another world.
The knight adjusted himself and set his tiny sword secure against his hip before beginning his ascent. From my perspective he slowly grew larger, but from where Ramirez sat, he could see the winding stairs the knight climbed. Two, four, ten heartbeats later he stepped from the card and strode upon it, a six-inch figure expertly rendered in charcoal grays.
No one spoke as he slowly surveyed his altered landscape, peering upward at each of us until he settled upon me and then he bowed. I would have chuckled, he looked more like a wind-up toy than a true knight, but there was a scent of brimstone about him suggesting he was more than merely a painting come to life.
“My Lord Witch,” he said in a booming voice that belied his miniature size, “the prince requests that you and your companions refrain from further inquiry. This is an internal matter and not one of your concern.”
“Prince,” Mac snorted, “just who the Hell does he think he is?”
I quickly waved Mac to silence. I had no doubt that the charcoal knight would report back everything he saw and heard, but more than that I wondered about the exact meaning behind his words. Did Thomas’s assuming the title of prince signal that he had made peace with his uncles and rejoined the family or was it just an affectation of a medieval herald? He had referred to me as Lord Witch after all.
Turning back to the knight I shook my head. “Please inform your prince that we regret that we cannot comply. Instead we request a meeting to discuss issues of mutual concern.”
“Very well,” he said and snapped the visor closed on his helmet before setting back down the painted stairs. Seconds later he reappeared beside his horse, mounted and rode off beyond the edge of the card. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but that wasn’t it.
Around me I felt the unit tense. We’d been told to leave things alone and refused. If Thomas were indeed working for House Sinister this is when he’d strike. The open portal would be an easy conduit to use for an attack. A spell would flow right down it, gathering strength like a river rushing down a mountainside.
The longer we waited, the more concerned I became. I stared at the card while the rest of my unit prepared for the worst. Stevens and Mac readied defensive spells while Ramirez slapped his .45 onto the tabletop. I wasn’t sure what good his desert eagle would do against whatever Thomas might throw against us, but you never knew. It paid to be ready for anything.
Seconds became minutes and then stretched further. Doubts crept in as my nerves frayed. The man who’d helped us a year ago wasn’t the same man that saved me on the road. He’d grown harder, colder and more calculating in the years between. Even then he’d walked a fine line between dark and light, was I truly sure he hadn’t stepped over that line since?
The truth was that I wasn’t sure. I was gambling on the ghost of a man I thought I knew, but in Thomas’s world deception was the norm. Friends were your greatest liability. No one’s ever betrayed by an enemy, he’d told me long ago. It’s your friends that stab you in the back.
I stood up; ready to close the conduit, but I was already too late. “Something’s coming,” Nunez whispered and as soon as he spoke, I knew he was right. I felt it, like a sigh on the wind or the change of pressure before a storm rolls in. Something was coming and fast.
There was a sound, far off, like the clash of steel against steel and then a whinny and distant shouting. I moved about the table peering down at the card, trying to gain a better perspective, but I could see nothing beyond the painted scene. Beyond its edges the tarot boiled away into a cloud of shifting colors too dense to pierce.
As I watched a dark smear grew behind the rainbow fog. Seconds later a shape coalesced, resolving from a dark slash into a hard charging horse and rider. I quickly moved back to my original position at the head of the table while the knight threw himself from his horse and raced back up the stairs.
This time he appeared winded as he stepped from the card, his armor battered and torn in places. Glancing about he turned and strode to the edge facing me and quickly bowed. “The prince will grant you an audience tonight at the Rookery. Safe passage is granted for you and your men.”
His message delivered, the knight turned to leave, but I stopped him before he stepped upon the stairs. “What time are we expected?”
The battered knight turned back, a slight grin flickering across his face. “Why, the witching hour, my lord.”
Of course.
Chapter 23
Atlanta, Tuesday Afternoon
Sweetwater Creek State Park
Mac was on me as soon as the conduit closed. I didn’t have time to banish the circle. I didn’t have time to think. One ham-sized fist grabbed me by the collar while the other lifted me off my seat and threw me to the ground. Stunned, I threw up my hands, but Mac batted them away.
“Spill it!” he yelled. “Tell us everything you know or by God you’ll wish I’d left you for the OSS.”
Ramirez stood, but a white-hot glare from Mac sent him scurrying back to his seat. “I’m done playing nice boys,” Mac growled. “In case you weren’t paying attention we’ve got blood-magick infused drugs hitting the streets, Hell’s handmaiden trying to take a bite out of our ass, and the OSS threatening to gobble up whatever’s left. And if that’s not bad enough the Captain’s been taken or worse and now Thorn’s walked us straight into a meeting with the black hats and I ain’t doing it blind.”
I tried to squirm out from under Mac while he was distracted, but I should have known better. Even with his attention focused on the table, he had me pinned. My attempts to pull away only annoyed him further.
He leaned in until his face was squarely in front of mine. “You tell us everything now. Everything you know or suspect about Thomas Sinistra and his Hell-spawned family. No more secrets. No more lies. You choose right now whether you’re Company or just another scumbag friend of the dark.”
I looked away from Mac and over toward the table. No one met my eyes. That hurt worse than Mac’s pounding. Worse than having my home coven scrawl ‘Warlock’ across my name. Maybe Mac was right and my loyalties were divided. Shit. There was no more room to run, no more places to hide.
I stopped struggling and gently pushed Mac’s arm off me, sat up and told them a story. “Ramirez and Nunez know part of this,” I started, “but no one knows it all.”
#
I was sixteen when I jumped the wire. What were you doing when you were sixteen? Dreaming about a car and your freedom? Trying to talk a cheerleader out of her pants? I was running through a forest wearing a homespun coat, my pockets stuffed with venison jerky.
Most witches are caught within a couple of days. Some make it a few weeks before the Hunters find them. Before me, a witch named Quorto led the OSS on a chase across three states for nearly two months before they gunned him down crossing the border. I lasted six hundred and forty-two days. As far as I know that’s a record. It put me on the Most Wanted list, not for anything I’d done, but because I’d embarrassed them.
You want to know why Manx hates me so deeply it’s because of that number. Six hundred and forty-two, not the three agents that died, that’s the public excuse. It’s because a dumb-shit kid with
no knowledge of the world outside the wire beat him for six hundred and forty-two days.
But I didn’t do it without help. Thomas and his crew are the reason I lasted so long. I found him or he found me, depending upon how you look at it, nearly a month after I escaped from the camp. Every witch heads north when they run. It’s what the Hunters expect, so I went east.
I figured if I could make it to Denver I could disappear. That’s how stupid I was back then. I had no idea that I’d stand out in torn homespun, no clue that I wouldn’t fit in. Before I ran, I’d never seen factory clothes, except for the uniforms the guards wore. I’d never seen a television or heard a telephone ring. All I knew about the world were the stories the grandfathers told and they were two generations out of date.
I hadn’t eaten in three days and the only water I drank was runoff from a drying creek. I was irresistibly drawn to the smell of their campfire. It meant food and drink and I desperately needed both, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew better than to walk straight in. I circled the camp slowly, quietly, moving through the forest the way my father taught me when we’d venture out to hunt deer.
Two things stood out immediately. One: they weren’t ordinary campers. They weren’t Hunters either. In my experience government agents were all pressed from the same mold, they had crew cuts and dark glasses. Agents wore a haughty authority like a shield protecting them from the little people. These men were grizzled and haggard, wore jeans and leather jackets stitched with a wolf and snake design across their backs. Back then I had no idea who Loki’s Sons were; they looked more like a Viking raiding party transported across the centuries than any outsiders I’d seen before.
The second thing that stood out was the boy that walked among them. He wasn’t much older than me, just a couple of years, but the men around him treated him with respect. He moved about the edge of the campsite and placed wards. I could feel the magick buzzing in the background as he worked his way through each glyph. I was fascinated. I’d heard that there were others out there that could use magick, but I’d never experienced it for myself. I had no idea how radically different things worked outside of a coven effort.
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