“Pilot believed to have died in the crash, although teams will be sifting through the wreckage –”
“The organization which owned the house has released the names of two of the people killed in the fire –”
Teag motioned for me to turn down the volume. “I found a few leads,” he said, sitting down on the couch. “All the law enforcement agencies are fighting over whose turf this is on,” he said. “FBI, Homeland Security, FAA, State Police and the Charleston Police – they all want a piece of it.”
“And?”
“The Feds know a little more about the helicopter than what’s being said on the news,” Teag replied. “It was stolen yesterday, which means whoever did this had almost twenty-four hours to upfit the copter as a bomb.”
“Do you think someone actually flew it into the house?”
Teag shrugged. “Looks likely, but the Feds aren’t saying much – though there was an extra body near the ’copter wreckage.”
“What about Patsy and Ben and Anna?” I asked. “Any word on how they are?”
Teag nodded. “I hacked into the EMT report. Patsy and Ben were treated for smoke inhalation and Ben had a concussion. Anna was fine.”
“Did they tell anyone they had seen us?”
“Not according to the reports that have been filed so far,” Teag replied. “I’d expect Sorren’s staff to be trained not to volunteer information. Patsy and Ben weren’t really up to doing much talking, and Anna was mostly worried about the other two staff members in the house.”
“Can they trace the property back to Sorren?”
Teag chuckled. “As the original owner back in 1670, but since then, the land has passed through a maze of holding companies and trusts. It would take a team of lawyers a lifetime to unsnarl the ownership – which is what I’m sure Sorren intended.”
“Anything else?” I was feeling the effects of the day and the wine, and I wanted to know whether Sorren was dead or alive.
“Yeah – and it wasn’t what I was looking for,” Teag replied. “The NSA measured two big EMF spikes in the last two weeks near Charleston, and the base EMF frequencies jumped up ten percent above normal after the spikes.”
“The souped-up ghost activity,” I said, meeting his gaze. “And two big spikes could mean magical events that did something to cause that baseline jump.”
Teag nodded. “That was my suspicion, although of course the NSA is more worried about terrorists.”
I didn’t protest as Teag refilled my wine glass. “We’ve got plenty of pieces, but no idea what the puzzle picture looks like. And I think Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Teller and everyone else who has been warning us about a storm coming are right. Something big is building, but what?” And how do we fight it if Sorren is really gone?
Teag was just getting ready to go after supper when I heard a knock at the front door. Most people ring the bell at the door on the side of the piazza, since it’s generally considered that the porch is part of the house itself, so it would be rude to walk in uninvited. Unless you’ve got a good reason not to want to be seen, I thought, jumping up to answer the door with my heart pounding. I stopped long enough to grab Alard’s walking stick and ready the collar on my left wrist, just in case there was trouble. Teag was right behind me, ready for a fight. No one should have been able to get through the wardings, but with everything that had been going on, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Sorren stood on the porch looking as if he had clawed his way out of a grave. His skin was streaked with soot and dirt, and his blond hair was dirty and tangled. Along his arms and on his face I could see newly-healed cuts. His color was normal, suggesting that he had fed, but he looked on the verge of collapse.
“Come in – quickly!” I said, worried about his condition and elated that he had survived. He was limping, which for a vampire could mean anything from broken bones to internal injuries that would kill a mortal. But he was still in one piece, and that was good enough.
“You fed?” Teag asked as Sorren staggered to the couch and sat down. In an emergency, Teag has supplied blood for Sorren to heal.
Sorren nodded. “From the horses,” he said, and managed a scratchy chuckle. “Don’t worry about them – they’re fine. But I needed blood quickly, and they were close by. Healing requires more blood than a normal feeding.”
“You were in the basement when the house exploded?” I asked.
Sorren nodded. “My crypt wasn’t damaged. Unfortunately, the passageways to the surface collapsed. It made leaving very difficult.”
“How did you survive the fire?” Teag asked.
“The crypt was deep enough, and insulated enough, that it kept the flames at bay. The heat, however, nearly got the best of me.” Sorren’s gaze was haunted. “And although I survived, two of my people were not so lucky.” I could hear the sorrow in his voice. “They had been with me for fifty years.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Anna said you were there, when the explosion happened,” Sorren said, raising his gaze to meet mine. “Tell me what you saw.”
Teag and I took turns recounting the helicopter crash and the explosion, as well as the aftermath in the rear yard and our hurried departure. Sorren listened quietly as Teag filled him in on what he had learned online, and I supplied what the news organizations were saying.
“They’re wrong and right at the same time,” Sorren replied, leaning back against the couch as if his strength was nearly spent. “It is a terrorist attack – but a magical one. But it’s not Charleston the bomber is after. It’s me. I’m certain of it now. As certain as I am that somehow, Sariel survived.”
“More attacks?” I asked.
“There have been attacks on three of my other stores, in addition to the Boston incident and the other attacks I told you about,” Sorren replied. “And the bomb at Trifles and Folly. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“We’ve had lots of supernatural stuff try to kill us,” Teag said. “What makes you think it’s different this time?”
Sorren was quiet for a minute, as if he was trying to decide how to answer and how much to tell us. “It started a month ago with threats – emails, letters, packages. Nothing dangerous, but each one a warning that someone was watching me, someone knew how to find me. No hint why or who.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Over the centuries, I’ve made my share of enemies. It’s not a short list, even among the immortals.” Sorren paused. “It’s the Nephilim angle that has me puzzled. Nephilmancy isn’t a common type of magic. The last time I ran into a nephilmancer, it was more than a hundred years ago. Sariel. I killed his son and until now, I was certain that I had destroyed Sariel, too.”
“No other nephilmancers since then?” I asked.
Sorren gave a dispirited shrug. “Not that I’ve heard of, but I’ve been asking all my contacts to see what they can find. A nephilmancer is bad enough, but the vendetta angle… that’s the real puzzle. The only way I can make sense of it is if Sariel is still alive – and wants revenge.” He shook his head. “It would explain the ramped-up ghost activity here in Charleston, if Sariel was calling Reapers to do his bidding.”
“Would being dead stop Sariel?” Teag asked. “It’s not exactly a deal breaker in our business.”
Sorren raised an eyebrow. “His son was completely destroyed. I saw Sariel disappear into a fireball. When the fire was gone, there was no trace of him and no further problems – until now.”
“How about someone who might have a grudge on Sariel’s behalf?” I asked. “Since it’s not just a nephilmancer we’re up against, it’s one who seems to be stalking you in particular.”
“I’ll see what I can find on the Darke Web,” Teag volunteered.
“And I will tap my resources as well,” Sorren said. “Although if Sariel did somehow survive and he’s come back for vengeance, he’s managed to keep a low profile. The Alliance would have noted his return, if he made it public.”
“We might have a thread to start tying things together,” Teag said.
“What do you know about a man named Josiah Winfield?”
“JOSIAH WINFIELD?” SORREN frowned. “I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
“Back up,” Teag said. “Who was Josiah Winfield? Was he with the Alliance?”
Sorren leaned back in his chair and stared off into the distance for a moment. I imagine that after nearly six hundred years, it takes time to remember things. “Josiah Winfield worked with the Alliance on occasion when it suited his purposes, but he wasn’t part of it,” Sorren said quietly. “He was a supernatural bounty hunter.”
Teag raised an eyebrow. “Who pays the bounty?”
“Creatures who have existed for a long time tend to have acquired many enemies,” Sorren replied. “There’s always someone who wants to even a score.”
“I didn’t touch the pistols, but just from running my hand above them, I got an image of a fight that didn’t look like it went well for Josiah,” I said.
Sorren nodded. “He fought a lot of battles, but he died during a duel. That was a loss. Josiah was more principled than many Hunters, the best of a dangerous bunch.”
“Hunter? You mean like Daniel Hunter?” I asked. “And what happened to Winfield?”
Sorren was quiet for a moment, and I had the feeling that his thoughts were far away. “Yes, ‘Hunter’ like Daniel,” he said finally. “It’s a job description, not a surname. As for Josiah Winfield, he was part of a team that went up against… Sariel. The last time Sariel was here in Charleston, bringing Nephilim across to do his dirty work, it was in 1854. The Yellow Fever epidemic. Except it wasn’t just the disease killing people. Sariel summoned Watchers from the other side, and together with the Nephilim, they harvested souls to feed on. Sariel made himself the judge, jury, and executioner.”
“Judge,” I echoed. Teag and Sorren looked at me. “Mr. Thompson keeps talking about a judge. He told me, ‘The Judge comes at midnight’. Daniel also mentioned Watchers and Reapers.”
“Now I’m even more convinced that this whole mess has something to do with Sariel,” Sorren said. “This can’t all be coincidence. But before we do anything else, let me take a look at those pistols.”
We went out to the kitchen, where Teag had left the dueling pistols when we came in from the car.
“The man who brought in the pistols said he believed they still worked, but he hasn’t fired them,” Teag said as Sorren inspected the guns carefully.
“Indeed,” Sorren murmured, and as he handled the pistols, I had the feeling he was looking for something specific.
“You said you didn’t handle the guns, Cassidy, yet you had a mental image of Josiah Winfield in a magical battle?”
I nodded. “Teag supplied the name. I saw the history.”
Sorren set the guns back in their case. “They’re Winfield’s pistols,” he said. “I saw his mark on the grip. Cassidy couldn’t have seen that unless she handled them, and even then, she wouldn’t have known what it meant. They’re the real thing.”
“Since we’re all together, how about if I take a look at the pistols myself?” I said, managing to sound braver than I felt. My visions seem to be getting more detailed, but I still can’t control my reactions as well as I’d like to. Sometimes, if the vision is strong enough, I don’t control it at all.
“Are you up to it?” Teag asked. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
Just then, the timer rang for the lasagna. “How about we do it after dinner?” I said. “That way I’m less likely to get knocked for a loop by the vision.”
Teag and I were both hungry, so dinner did not take long. Afterwards, Teag brought the guns back to the table. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.
I let my hand hover over the box, and got the same ripple of apprehension and danger that I had sensed before. Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let my hand touch the smooth, burled wood of the gunstock.
The world shifted, and I saw Charleston through the eyes of a stranger.
Josiah Winfield stepped off the train and looked around, sizing up this new place. I ignored the looks fellow passengers gave me, worried glances that took in my leather coat and long gun and considered me suspect.
Let them. I was here to do what needed to be done so they could sleep like babies in their beds at night, none the wiser. And if that meant that my dreams would never be peaceful again, so be it. I didn’t particularly like the word ‘assassin’, and I didn’t think it was quite the right term when I wasn’t – usually – killing real people, but it would do. Monster hunter. Demon killer. Supernatural vermin exterminator. Those got to the heart of the matter. Then again, it didn’t really matter what people called me, so long as at the end of the day, I got paid and I was alive to spend the money.
Even if it meant working with unholy creatures like vampires. I knew who my contact was. Blond man. Dutch accent. Vampire. Funny thing, but if I’d had a different sponsor, I might have been gunning for him. On this job, I take his money to kill something even worse. Nothing personal.
The memories blurred into a jumble. I knew time was passing, but the stream of images gave me only an occasional glimpse of what Josiah had seen. The memories became clear again, and I – or rather Josiah – was fighting for his life.
I had the dueling pistols, one in each hand, and they barked as I pulled the triggers. The Nephilim closed in on me, a tall, misshapen creature that only vaguely resembled a man. Raw-limbed and slack jawed, with rage-filled eyes more fitting to a rabid dog than a human being, the thing came at me relentlessly. I had spent my revolver, and the shotgun pushed the monster back, but didn’t kill it, letting it come at me again. I was running out of options, and my comrades were too busy fighting for their lives to bother saving me.
The dueling pistols were a last resort. Normally, a one-shot gun isn’t a good pick for a firefight. But these guns were different. Tonight, I had loaded them with bullets I’d made myself. The bullets were a mixture of silver and lead, blessed by a priest, dipped in holy water and rubbed with salt. I figured that had to sting.
The Nephilim came at me, and I fired both guns at close range, closer than I liked, aiming for the eyes. My other shots had opened gaping wounds, and they would have killed a human. But these things weren’t human, even if their mothers had been. No, they took after their daddies’ side, ugly as sin and mean as a jackal. I’d heard that they could cast an illusion, make themselves handsome enough to bed a woman. Must be true, because no one would let something that ugly near enough to spit on them let alone make a baby.
The bullets hit, tearing into the purpled flesh of the Nephilim, searing skin and muscle as blessed metal met unholy flesh. The thing reared back, roaring in pain, clawing at the holes, and for a moment, I was forgotten. It was the break I needed.
Guns were nice, but I trust in swords. I shoved the pistols back into my belt. They had bought me the time necessary to get in close with my sword while the Nephilim was distracted. The sword was blessed, too, but by powers darker than the padre who had said a prayer over my bullets. I came at the ugly half-demon, a cutlass in one hand and a wicked knife in the other, determined to do justice.
I cast a flicker of illusion to make the monster think I had moved to the left, then I swung hard to the right. In the next breath, I sent a flicker of magic to make the cobblestones slick underfoot, so the creature had to think about staying upright. Then, I struck.
My first hit bit deep into the bone, and the upswing gutted the creature. It got in one good blow with its claws, raking them across my chest. I bit back a scream. But these things don’t die easy, so I kept on swinging. Black blood splashed me, but I kept on hacking. First the forearms, then the neck. Just to be sure, I put the blade deep where the heart should be. Only then did the monster lay still. I stepped back, watching, as the body began to shrivel and fold in on itself until it vanished, pulled clean back to wherever the hell it came from, or maybe to hell itself. Don’t matter much to me, so long as it’
s gone and it don’t come back.
Again the memories shifted and spun. Time passed. This time, when the images cleared, I was staring down the barrel of a gun. There was a reason a certain street in Charleston got the nickname ‘Dueler’s Alley’. Straight and nearly windowless, it was like sighting down a sluice. Charleston is funny about honor. Do what you please in the dark with whomever you will, and that’s all right. Speak the truth about it to someone’s face, and they aim to kill you.
It would have been a shame if I hadn’t engineered the whole damn thing. In the end, it wasn’t a Nephilim that got me. No, an upstart demon-spawn got its fangs into me. Poisoned me real good. Even witches couldn’t save me, and I’d have blacked my soul to beg a cure from them if they’d been able to fix me.
I could feel the poison in me, burning its way through, taking a little bit of me with each day. I didn’t know whether it would kill me or turn me into some new kind of monster, and I didn’t want to find out. I guess I could have put my gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger, but that seemed cowardly. So I did the next best thing and challenged the best duelist in Charleston, a man I was quite sure wouldn’t miss.
Son of a bitch. I’ve spent a lifetime dodging bullets just so that, here at the end, I could stand and take one like a man. I’m not a’feared of dyin’. There are worse things. I’ve seen them. I did not want to be someone else’s monster. So here I stood in the early summer heat, pistol in my hand, waiting for my chosen executioner. May God, if he exists, have mercy on my soul…
Abruptly, I was Cassidy again, gasping for breath and holding onto the table for dear life.
Sorren slid the dueling pistols out of reach and Teag moved a cold glass of iced tea close to me. I took the glass in both hands to keep from spilling it and drank it down.
“That must have been some ride,” Teag observed.
I finished off the iced tea and set the glass aside, still feeling my heart thud in my chest at the remembered fear of a man who had died in a gunfight more than a hundred and fifty years ago.
Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) Page 18
