An uncomfortable silence fills the room for a minute.
Riker sighs and rubs his temples. The motion highlights the dark bags under his eyes, the deepening wrinkles at their corners, the bleary irritation on his lids. Not for the first time, I almost wish the commissioner had forced Riker on extended leave. He should be on a beach in Hawaii, relaxing between physical therapy sessions, not in the middle of a murder investigation. Stubborn old ass.
After a whispered swear, the captain says, “So it’s likely we do, in fact, have a case of naïve kids dabbling in the wrong sort of magic.”
“That’s one dimension of the case, I believe.” I pick up the remaining half of my jam-slathered bagel and rip it to pieces. “But not the whole story. Can’t be. Given the complexity of Charun’s summoning, there must be an experienced sorcerer involved in the equation somewhere. Minor practitioners or not, ignorant kids couldn’t have created that circle.
“As such, I have three theories. One, the totally ignorant kids managed to summon the fire spirit, who then used Ally Johnston’s body to summon Charun. Two, a not-so-ignorant minor practitioner tricked the other kids into helping him summon the fire spirit, who then used Ally Johnston’s body to summon Charun. Or, three, an experienced sorcerer either summoned both the fire spirit and Charun, or summoned the fire spirit and used it to help him summon Charun. But where the other kids fit into that scenario, I don’t know.”
I direct my gaze to Allen Marcus and Erica. “Regardless of what exactly happened, though, there is no way the ignorant kids themselves summoned Charun. Right?”
Marcus steps away from the wall, toward the table, and strokes his beard. “Correct, Detective. I’d say the summoner of Charun, if indeed human, had twenty years of circle crafting experience, minimum. Summoning is a particularly difficult magical specialty, and there are few masters who teach it, since Eververse summoning is largely restricted by the Council. I’ve already put a call in to Council headquarters, asking if they have information on a potential sorcerer in the Aurora area, but I haven’t received a response yet. If and when I do, I’ll pass the information along to you all.”
Riker looks thoughtful for a moment, then points at Sheehan. “You have the full roster for that meet-up group, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” she says. “I have my team building profiles for all the members as we speak.”
“Good.” He picks up a pen and begins to twirl it around in his fingers. “I’m wondering if, perhaps, a sorcerer infiltrated the group under the guise of playing a mentor-type role for these young magic enthusiasts.”
“To what end?” Delarosa frowns. “Using them to collect magic texts? Doing his research for him?”
Erica, who hasn’t said a word since she entered the room, steps up beside Marcus. “Or as added power sources. Group magic is stronger than individual magic. Even non-practitioners can be used to power spells, and if some of the group members were, in fact, naïve minor practitioners, they could have been manipulated into helping the sorcerer perform some dark magic. Being oblivious, they wouldn’t have known any better.”
Riker slams the pen on the tabletop. “You’re telling me that there may be a powerful sorcerer taking advantage of some stupid kids to power his murder magic? And the result thus far has been the deaths of three of them?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m afraid.” Marcus shrugs. “The young and foolish have always been the favored prey of sorcerers.”
“So, how do we approach this?” Delarosa asks. “Bring all the group members in for questioning?”
Ella, taking another bite of her bagel, huffs. “More like bring them in for protective custody. They could all be targets for our ugly friend, Charun, or for the fire spirit. Hell, for all we know, the spirit’s already forced its way into another poor kid.”
“Actually, I have another recommendation.” I raise my hand toward Sheehan, and she passes me yet another piece of paper. “It turns out the group is having another meeting, at 11:00 PM tonight. An emergency meeting, according to the latest forum posts, though I can’t imagine what emergency they’re referring to.” I fake a cough.
“I think we should put protective details—covert details—on all the group members for the rest of the day, and then raid the group tonight, during the meeting, after we learn what they’ve gotten themselves into. If we watch them for a little while, we might figure out who the ringleader is and what kind of magic they’ve been dabbling in lately.”
Riker stares at me, brows furrowed, for a moment, and defers to Ella. “What do you think? Is it wise to let them roam around town with Charun on their tails?”
Ella finishes her bagel and licks her fingers clean. “Well, Captain, I’m not sure it would be wiser to bring them in now, seeing how that spirit burned its way out of here yesterday. If the spirit’s already taken another member as its host, we could have a repeat escape, potentially with more casualties. Even if they’re all possession-free, it’s likely they’ll clamp up, close ranks, refuse to admit any guilt. Since we don’t yet know what exactly has been going on during their meetings, we don’t have enough leverage to threaten the truth out of them. I think Cal’s plan is workable, sir.”
“P-Plus,” Cooper throws in, shifting in his seat so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t fall out of it, “there’s strength in numbers. After what happened in the Memorial Garden, I think it would be a good idea to go at the group with a big, concentrated attack. We don’t want any more of our agents getting hurt, due to a lack of backup. In my opinion anyway.” He looks at everything in the room but me, yet somehow manages to direct every other eye in the room at my left arm, now free of its sling but still bandaged all the way down to my hand.
Riker’s eyebrows arch at Cooper’s atypical boldness, and then he raises his hands in assent. “All right. Does a raid sound feasible to everyone else?”
Delarosa replies, “Yes, sir. My team is ready, and I think Ramirez is free tonight as well. We can bring his team in for additional support.”
“What about you two?” Riker casts a glance over his shoulder, at Marcus and Erica.
Marcus bows his head and says, “We can work with that plan, Captain. I’ll draft a few more local Council members in, and we’ll act as reinforcements. If you need us, we’ll be there. If not, we’ll stand by. You can count on us to act if any dark magic threatens the city or our people.”
“I guess that settles it.” Riker pushes his chair back and grabs his nearby cane. “Let’s scare the shit out of some college kids.”
Chapter Sixteen
The exploding boathouse is situated at the north end of Lake Contessa, a man-made body of water on the edge of Holden Park, Aurora’s large, central green space. To be clear, the old wooden building, filled with boats and oars, isn’t called the “exploding boathouse” by the good people of Aurora, and nowhere on the building permit does it mention the structure is highly combustible. But since the boathouse does, in fact, explode during our raid on the occult group, I’m going to call it the exploding boathouse. For accuracy, if nothing else.
About fifteen minutes before the exploding boathouse gets its new name, I’m crouched in a line of coarse bushes sixty feet or so away from the building’s front entrance. The night air is cool, crisp, and a quiet breeze rustles the browning autumn foliage still clinging to scraggly branches. Through my leafy cover, I spy the calm lake, gentle waves lapping the sandy shore. At this hour, this time of year, there are no boaters or swimmers in the water, and tonight, with ill weather in the forecast, not a soul has dared to take a moonlight stroll.
To my right, a young woman named Harmony Burgess is perched in the high branches of a nearly bare tree, a sniper rifle in her hands, scope held to her eye. Harmony was in my academy class and assigned to Ramirez’s mid-level team after graduation. She was, by leaps and bounds, the best marksman in our group, and she dominated long-range weapons practice with a level of grace and ease that sent her classmates running for their lives. Or, at le
ast, for their asses. Harmony had this fun habit of aiming for people’s derrieres.
(And sure, the academy practice rifles shoot fake bullets, but rubber or real, getting shot in the ass hurts like a bitch. I know this for a fact because Harmony shot me twice.)
To my left, lying in a shallow ditch, is another famous warrior woman, Naomi Sing. She’s been at DSI almost as long as Ella, but whereas Ella is known for hand-to-hand combat, Naomi is often called the Master of Blades. Knives. Swords. Machetes. You name it. If it’s metal and has a sharp edge, Naomi Sing can kill you with it. She’s reportedly beheaded vampires, gutted werewolves, and severed the limbs of numerous nasty Eververse creatures in her tenure at DSI. You don’t mess with Naomi Sing if you want to keep all your parts attached.
So, as the minutes tick down to the hour of the raid, I feel quite safe where I’m crouched, between two women who could kick my ass any day of the week.
Also feel a little inadequate. Not going to lie.
At least my new rings came in. I shift my weight from one leg to the other, trying not to jostle the leaves, and check each of my beggar rings to ensure they’re in place. The new ring set arrived in my cubbyhole less than five minutes before the raid party left—any later, and I’d have been left in the dust, back at base, for being too ill equipped for the mission. I clench my fists until I can feel the outline of each ring through my gloves, and I swear to myself that I will not break them again. If I do, I can look forward to Riker beating me senseless with his cane, and—
“Contact!” a harsh voice whispers through my earpiece—Delarosa, who’s in the underbrush on the opposite side of the lake—and I snap my attention back to the boathouse. Peering through the leaves, I scan the shoreline, linger on the paths that lead from the park to the beach. For the first half a minute or so, my eyes catch no movement, but when my gaze tracks east, toward one of the park’s main exits, I spy a dozen human shadows stealing through the night.
They approach at a slow, cautious pace in loose lines, two people side by side, like they have some kind of buddy system in place. From my hiding spot, I can’t make out their identities; they’re too far away, and the blue-washed exterior lights on the boathouse aren’t bright enough to illuminate their facial features. Instead, I count the obscured forms, two by two, and match up the final number, sixteen, with the roster count Sheehan put together. The entire group—the entire remaining group—is here.
The three dead members will not be with them tonight, which I’m sure they already know.
Unhindered, they climb the steps up to the boathouse, boots pounding on the old, rotting wood, and one of the kids at the lead unlocks the boathouse door with a key she must have stolen during her daytime shift at the boathouse. That would be Betty Smith, junior at Waverly College, who Sheehan identified as one of the probable ringleaders during her forum analysis. Smith was the one who organized the first meet-up, securing the “secret” boathouse location by abusing her part-time job. The other potential leader is a Green Lake senior, Jack Brendon, whose posts on the forum indicate he’s the “recruiter” for the group, convincing doe-eyed underclassmen that witchcraft is fun…until, you know, somebody dies.
After the door is unlocked, Smith holds it open, while the man who must be Brendon leads the rest of the group inside. A few interior lights switch on, revealing the long, narrow room within, lined with recreational equipment that you can rent for absurd, marked-up prices. The lights also serve to highlight the faces of the foolish college kids, and I compare all of them with the photos Sheehan procured for us earlier this evening. Viewing the students through the dirty panes of the boathouse windows, they look every bit as gullible and reckless as they did in their social media pics.
Gullible and reckless and terrified.
Ramirez’s voice comes over the com system: “Switching on the mics now. Everybody be quiet.” He and Riker are sitting in operations command, a black van parked on a nearby street, along with some analysts and techs, monitoring the illegal spying equipment we installed in the boathouse an hour ago. A few seconds after he speaks, voices that don’t belong to any DSI agents flood my earpiece. The scared college kids are talking a mile a minute, stumbling over each other’s words, mixing pleas with cries of confusion and grief.
I focus on the window that gives me the broadest view of the room so I can match the voices to the bodies.
Smith, slamming the door shut behind her, is the voice that takes control of the room. “Everybody shut the hell up!” she shrieks, so loud the mics stab my ear with an unhealthy dose of feedback. I pluck my com out for a second, gritting my teeth, and hold it away from my face until the screeching fades. By the time I stick the piece back in my ear, Smith has lowered her voice and continued on. “—calm down. If we want to get a handle on this situation, we need to stop panicking and work together to figure out a solution.”
A young black man with a shaved head steps toward her, fists raised in a mildly threatening manner. “This isn’t a science project, Betty. A team effort doesn’t equal an A-plus. Two people are dead—maybe three, with Johnston turned puppet on us—and judging by what Veronica saw in the Memorial Garden yesterday, that number is set to quintuple by the end of the week.”
“That thing is going to kill us, Betty,” says a pale girl with long, blond hair. Veronica. Wrapped in a too-thin jacket, she walks up beside the black man and crosses her arms. “You didn’t see what that monster did to Alicia. You didn’t see, but I did. All the blood. All the bone. All the brain.” She grips her sleeves, knuckles white. “We’re fucked, okay? We’re all fucked. It’s going to hunt us down, one at a time, until it finds what it’s looking for—and it might not even stop then. For all we know, it’s out to kill the entire group regardless.”
A petite girl with pink streaks in her hair emerges from the corner she was brooding in and points an accusatory finger at Brendon, who’s sitting on the checkout counter. “This is your fault, you stupid bastard. You come up in here, telling us your ‘foolproof plan’ to get rich quick, and look where we end up. Your contact hasn’t been in contact since the heist, and now we have the monster from the abyss after our asses. So I’m pinning this on you.” Her finger moves toward Smith. “Not that I’m absolving you of guilt. You backed him. You reassured us. You’re just as much to blame as he is.”
Half the heads in the room nod in agreement, while the other half wear expressions of uncertainty. Some are ready to sacrifice the blamed to Charun, while others are horrified at the prospect of losing what poor leadership Smith and Brendon have to offer. Petite girl tugs on her stringy locks, curls unraveled in the damp night air, and stomps one leather boot on a creaky floorboard. “You two better figure out a way to get us clear of this mess. If anybody else dies, I’ll kill you and hand deliver your cooling corpses to that big ugly beast.”
Brendon, the only person in the room who seems nonchalant about the looming crisis, scoffs and slips off the countertop, strolling toward petite girl. “You are going to kill me? By yourself, sweetheart?”
The black man slips in front of Brendon, blocking his access to petite girl. “She’s not alone, jackass. And I wouldn’t mind strangling you myself. Especially if you think you can throw off responsibility for what happened to Jason and Alicia.” He takes one, menacing step closer to Brendon. “Not to mention Johnston. You wrapped all your sweet words around that poor girl, drew her in here, all naïve, thinking she was in for a big adventure. Her first damn meet-up, and you let her get possessed. You—”
Brendon cuts in with, “Hey, I apologized for that one. I admit it: I should have anticipated they’d send a spirit after us on our way out of the Underworld. Totally my fault. I thought our escape would be quick enough, and it wasn’t.” He claps his hands together. “But what’s done is done. Can’t go back now.”
The black man growls. “I should wring your neck just for that.”
Brendon backs away from the man, not in the style of a retreat, but as if he’s a grand s
tage magician about to reveal his next trick. He raises one hand, an empty hand, throws up a grin skewed wicked by the dirt-streaked pane of glass I’m looking through, and replies, “Oh, I’d love to see you try.”
That’s when his hand catches fire. Elbow to fingertips. Red-hot flames lick up his shirtsleeve, eating the fabric away. At the sight of the fire, the whole room recoils, terrified students stumbling over each other in a half-frenzied flight for the door. But while they were all paying attention to the smug boy now on fire, Smith snuck around behind them to block their only exit. She leans against the door, wears a pensive face, yet seems wholly unfazed by the sight of her ally burning to a crisp…
Or not. The fire skims along Brendon’s skin but doesn’t appear to deal any damage. Under the glove of flame, his flesh is left untouched.
I’ll be damned. He’s a practitioner. And one who’s had a fair amount of instruction.
Brendon glances from scared face to scared face, basking in the eerie glow of his hand on fire, and bursts out laughing. When he finally calms down enough to speak, he says, between amused chuckles, “You dipshits aren’t going to do anything to me, except listen and obey. My contact sent me a message about an hour ago, with a handoff location for our precious treasure. Betty and I are going to meet him at that location, give him the goods, get our money, and then come back here to distribute the money in our agreed-upon shares. After that, we’re all going to skip town, filthy rich, as planned, and let the damn Crows deal with our little monster problem. That’s what they’re for, after all.”
Oh, yeah. That’s what we’re for. Cleaning up messes made by arrogant douche canoes.
City of Crows Books 1-3 Box Set Page 11
