Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Sorren slashed at the leeches with his swords, sending bloody geysers into the air as he cut them in half. The leeches writhed and wriggled, blood spurting everywhere, until they rolled into the depths of the filthy, stinking water to be consumed by their fellow monsters.

  I promised myself time to throw up if we survived the encounter.

  Caliel let out a yelp, and scrambled back as a leech thrashed toward him, intent on the fresh, hot blood it sensed. Sorren grappled with one of the leeches that had managed to get a grip on his leg, and I watched, sickened, as he yanked it free, its maw red with blood.

  “Get up the stairs!” I yelled. “I’ll blast them once we’re clear.”

  No one needed to be told twice. We all scrambled up the metal stairs, and I turned and loosed a blast of cold magical force from my athame. The brilliant white light hit the writhing leeches, hurling them free of the steps, throwing them back into the fetid water and tearing some of them into little bits for good measure. Their bloody remnants served to distract the rest of the monsters from following us, as they fought over the spoils.

  I was shaking as we reached the relative safety of the second floor. “Keep moving,” Sorren urged. “I think we’ve gotten the wrong kind of attention.”

  We had awakened the spirits tied to this place. Whatever bound their restless shades to this godforsaken ruin had shaken them from their restless sleep, and now they were looking to take their annoyance out on those who had interrupted their eternal slumber.

  The night outside was still and hot. Yet here in the power plant, it had grown so cold I expected to see my breath. Shadows and half-seen images darted around the edges of my sight, and the sense of being watched was oppressive and overwhelming. I glimpsed faces in the shadows, human forms and glowing orbs.

  “Run!” Caliel shouted. I smelled a whiff of pipe smoke and heard a dog bark angrily at the pursuing spirits, suggesting that Caliel had persuaded Papa Legba’s spirit to buy us time to escape.

  We took the steps two at a time back to the main floor, and Sorren dropped back, swords in both hands, ready to fight. Teag and I were in front as we sprinted for the doorway with Caliel close behind. We were running flat out, anxious to be out of that cursed place. Sorren came last, though with his vampire speed he could have easily lapped us all.

  We cleared the doorway to the outside and slammed the heavy metal door into place. Caliel used a flicker of magic to turn the deadbolt, although whether or not the things that pursued us would be slowed by something as mundane as steel was debatable.

  Three out of five of the Watchers were already here. Two more, and all hell would break loose, “On the bright side,” Sorren said, “I’ve finally gotten through to the Briggs Society. Archie’s been around a time or two. He’ll have some ideas on this. Be ready to go at seven tomorrow night. The Briggs doesn’t wait for anyone.”

  WE STOOD OUTSIDE a two-story brick building on the edge of the old part of town at seven o’clock the next night. An engraved bronze plaque by the door read, ‘Briggs Society. Explorers welcome. Ring bell’.

  A day had passed since our adventure at the power plant, and I had barely regained my wits and nerve. But with Charleston on the brink of a supernatural apocalypse, none of us had time for a mental health day. So here Teag and I were with Sorren, on the front steps of a building I had often passed but never noticed, as an obnoxiously loud doorbell summoned attention from within.

  “You really think this friend of yours can help?” I asked.

  Sorren shrugged. “It won’t hurt to ask. Archie’s one of the few people who’s likely to realize something bad is going on.” The brick Georgian building looked staid for such things, but Sorren had taught me how much could hide behind a well-heeled facade.

  Before I could ask any more questions, a man in an honest-to-goodness butler’s uniform came to the door. He looked like something out of Hollywood central casting, tall and lean, complete with a hang-dog expression.

  “Password, please?” he asked in a cultured baritone.

  “Hurly-burly,” Sorren replied without batting an eye. The butler nodded and stood aside.

  “Welcome, Mister Sorren.” He looked Teag and me over. “Guests? I wasn’t told.”

  “Cairo Protocol, Higgins,” Sorren replied without a pause. “Colonel Donnelly will understand.”

  “Very well, sir. Right this way, sir.”

  I felt as if I had stepped into the Victorian era. Everywhere I looked, the rooms were filled with treasures and mementos from around the world and from every culture and time period. African and Pacific Islander masks vied with Ming vases, Chinese statues, Japanese kimonos, and Samurai armor. In the center of the foyer, where most establishments would have put a nice table with a huge floral arrangement sat a taxidermied Percheron horse wearing full steel barding.

  The foyer was a rotunda with an overhead dome ringed with windows that, while dark now, probably set the room in a bright glow during the day. Portraits hung on the walls dating back hundreds of years. I wondered if Sorren was a founding member, and if so, how he kept his true nature a secret. Then I took a second look at the paintings. I recognized some of the names. John Cabot, the explorer. Henry Hudson and George Bass, also explorers, along with Gaspar Corte-Real, and Sir John Franklin. Every one of them known for being daring explorers – and for disappearing without a trace.

  Teag looked fascinated as we followed Higgins down a hallway. More portraits lined the walls; bronze castings, marble busts, and ornate Indian statues were showcased in nooks every few feet. I was certain that the Killim carpet beneath our feet was original and priceless. Although many of the doors we passed were closed, those that were not exposed equally well-appointed rooms filled with furnishings I recognized as antique and expensive. I was sure that I had glimpsed a couple of paintings thought to have been lost or destroyed in wars long past, and I longed to find out what the numerous glass display cases contained. The one case I was close enough to peer inside held a very old, leather-bound book with the title My Story written by Virginia Dare. My eyes widened, but there was no time to ask questions to investigate. Even at a distance, curiosity warred with prudence, since my Gift warned me that many, if not most, of the objects carried supernatural power.

  That’s when the name ‘Briggs’ connected for me. Benjamin Briggs had been the captain of the Mary Celeste, which was found floating and deserted in 1872, and no trace of Briggs, his family or the rest of the crew has ever been found. If there’s anyone who knows anything about people who vanish into thin air, it seems like we’ve come to the right place.

  “This whole place is filled with Spookies and Sparklers,” Teag whispered. I wondered now how many of the items Sorren had ‘disposed’ of for us had found a permanent home here, and what made this fine old building a suitable containment area.

  “In here, sir.” Higgins opened a door and stepped to one side. Sorren murmured his thanks and strode into the room, and with a glance and a shrug, Teag and I followed.

  “Sorren, my good fellow. What brings you out tonight – with guests, no less?” The speaker was a florid-faced man who looked to be in his late sixties. Tall and raw-boned, everything from his elocution to his bespoke suit was utterly upper-crust. He stood in a well-appointed parlor. Dark wainscoting and hunter green paint gave the room a decidedly masculine feel, while the sculpted plaster ceiling, crystal chandelier, and antique Aubusson carpets softened the overall impression of the room. I was not surprised to find more exquisite paintings adorning the walls, along with a tapestry I judged to be several centuries old and likely Belgian in origin.

  “May I present Colonel Archibald Donnelly,” Sorren said, and our host inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Colonel, this is Cassidy Kincaide and Teag Logan, my assistants.”

  The Colonel nodded, and gestured toward a small seating area near the fireplace fitted with antique Delft tiles. “I don’t have anything on hand for you, Sorren, sorry to say, but can I offer either of you two a bourbo
n?”

  Teag and I declined. Colonel Donnelly poured a drink for himself and sat down in a brocade wing chair. “Haven’t seen you around the Club in quite a while, Sorren. A few of the members have asked about you. Heard about the fire. Damned shame. Into a bit of trouble, I presume?” The Colonel lifted a shaggy eyebrow, and his blue eyes were clear and bright, with more than a hint of mischief. I was willing to bet he had been a hell-raiser in his younger days.

  “You’ve felt the disturbances?” Sorren asked.

  Colonel Donnelly snorted. “Hell’s bells, man. Of course I felt them! Wouldn’t be worth my salt as a necromancer if I hadn’t. Question is: what are you going to do about it?”

  “Josiah Winfield’s ghost is back. So is Daniel Hunter. Someone is bringing Nephilim across, and several Watchers have already crossed over,” Sorren said. “At least a half a dozen people have vanished. Trouble’s brewing, and whoever is behind this is either nursing an old grudge or trying to get me out of the way. Maybe Sariel, back from the grave. We’re going to need high-powered help, Archie. That’s why I came to you.”

  So many of the objects in the room carried such strong magic that it was difficult to keep my mind on the conversation. The parlor was filled with Victorian clutter: a terrarium full of mandrake, botanical drawings of flora and fauna I was pretty sure didn’t exist in the natural world, and a suit of armor that looked more like a space suit for a creature with decidedly non-human appendages.

  If I concentrated, I could hear many of the items whispering to me, making me all kinds of promises if I would free them, trying to seduce me with flattery and visions. I folded my hands in my lap, determined not to touch anything. Teag’s attention seemed to be riveted on the tapestry, and when I looked at the large, intricately woven picture, I realized that it was chock full of magical sigils and symbols. It fairly glowed with power, and I couldn’t begin to imagine how it might look to Teag’s Weaver magic.

  “Talk to me about Reapers and Watchers, Archie,” Sorren said. “Half a dozen or so men started down stairways and never reached the bottom. All had questionable backgrounds, but no convictions. No blood, no bodies. Just vanished.”

  Archibald Donnelly nodded. “Sounds like Watchers, all right. They feed on the people they judge, and a powerful sorcerer like Sariel could use them to reflect power back to him. As for Reapers, they’re minor demons, harder to catch than they are to destroy. Slippery devils. But someone has to call them from the Lower Realms, and frighten them into following the rules.” He sighed. “Otherwise, they’d just be snatching folks left and right. That alone tells you we’re going against someone with real power.”

  Donnelly shook his head. “’Course, the Reapers don’t realize that they’re just the cows being fattened for slaughter. Kind of like supernatural batteries. They store blood power for the sorcerer to use for his big event.” He paused. “The Watchers are senior Nephilim, and they help the sorcerer do whatever he means to do.”

  “So the sorcerer needs the Watchers to call down a Harrowing,” Sorren said. “Familiar territory, Archie. Remember?”

  Donnelly nodded. “Aye. And I thought we eliminated the most likely suspect a long time ago.”

  Sorren leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with his hand in a very mortal gesture. “So did I. I’m certain that Sariel’s son Samuel was completely destroyed. And until now, I would have bet my life that Sariel was permanently gone, too.” He shook his head. “But everything points to Sariel. I just don’t know how he managed to survive.”

  “We’ve seen supernatural spikes all over North America increase in the last month,” Donnelly said. “You know the kind of chaos that’s been going on. It’s not like the Family to be so blatant. More like some kind of supernatural terrorism.”

  I glanced toward Sorren. “You said that some of your properties and stores were attacked. Were there attacks on any of the Alliance’s operations that aren’t primarily connected to you?” I wracked my memory for strange things in the news lately. Sad to say, since TV and internet news collect stories from all around the world and feature the worst in the headlines, every week is full of horrors.

  “There’s always violence in the world somewhere, and it’s not always due to the supernatural,” Sorren replied. “But lately, the Alliance and its allies have seen a sharp uptick in weird attacks that seem to have a common magical thread.”

  “That serial killer in New England,” Donnelly said. “Witnesses describe a ‘movie star handsome’ stranger who was last seen with the victim and then vanishes without a trace.”

  “The shooter in that big workplace killing,” Sorren added. “Was a woman – odd in itself, since men are more likely to commit that type of crime. But what’s really worrisome is that the shooter’s co-workers described her as being in a new romantic relationship with a tall, dark and handsome stranger and how dramatically she changed after she started dating him.” He paused. “And of course, there’s no trace of the boyfriend or that he ever existed.”

  “There have been a dozen smaller killing sprees that fit the pattern,” Donnelly added. “The killers have all been women or gay men, all the model of good citizens, caring friends, well-behaved neighbors, hard-working employees and diligent family members. Then out of the blue one day, the killer wakes up and slaughters their nearest and dearest – family, neighbors, co-workers, pets, friends – and commits suicide. In every case, the killer had a notably good looking new lover for a few weeks before the murders, and that lover disappears without a trace after the deaths.”

  “Nephilim,” I murmured. As if the dating scene wasn’t scary enough.

  “Clearly,” Donnelly replied. “The question is: why?”

  “To keep us distracted,” Sorren replied. “I’ve been running around trying to keep my people safe, and I can’t be everywhere at once. The Alliance is stretched thin responding to all these recent dark magic incidents, thinking they’re unrelated.”

  “Which they appear to be,” Donnelly added, “if you’re looking for a relationship among the victims or the mortal killers. But the real connection –”

  “Is the vanishing boyfriends,” Teag said. “The Nephilim. And I bet the police figure the killers just murdered them and the bodies haven’t turned up yet.”

  Sorren nodded. “Add to that the stairway disappearances, and both the police and the Alliance are so busy with the distraction, the real predator slips in unnoticed.”

  “When you looked into the stairway disappearances, did you look beyond Charleston?” I asked Teag. That’s when I realized why he had been staring at the tapestry on the wall. It was the full panel of the ‘Mystic Capture of the Unicorn’, the seventh of the famous Unicorn Tapestries. No museum in the world had had more than tatters of the Mystic Capture since the 1700s, but here it was in its full glory. Not only was the panel priceless, it was one of the lost treasures of the art world. And it was staring me in the face. Apparently the Briggs Society specialized in vanished artwork as well as missing explorers.

  Teag brought his attention back to the discussion. “I saw that there had been some in other cities, but don’t forget – the stairway people might have just been reported as missing persons, without a mention about the steps. That would make it almost impossible to see the pattern, and I wasn’t really looking outside of Charleston.”

  “People vanish every day,” Donnelly replied. “Most do so on purpose, to escape bad debts and awful love affairs. Some fall prey to criminals or bad fortune. But others disappear because of magic – either their own or someone else’s.”

  “Sariel brought down his ‘judgment’ on Charleston the last time because he thought it was a ‘wicked’ city,” Sorren said. “He called it a ‘Harrowing’—a rather Old Testament-sounding phrase for mass murder. What if Sariel meant to come back and cause a Harrowing here in Charleston because he knows it’s particularly meaningful to me?” Sorren said. “And what if he brought his Nephilim through early to cause just the
kind of distraction we’ve seen, so that neither I nor the Alliance would be prepared to fight him here?”

  Donnelly sipped his bourbon. “You’ve got some big ‘ifs’ to that theory, but given what we’ve got to work with, it makes more sense than anything else we’ve come up with.”

  “It would explain how three Watchers got through without us realizing it,” Sorren said. “Even Daniel Hunter is coming in late to the game. There was just too much magical ‘noise’ going on to notice.”

  Donnelly nodded. “Makes sense. Distracts everyone, plenty of blood for the Reapers and Nephilim to feed on, causes you heartache, and sets you – and Charleston – up for a big fall.”

  A question had been nagging me. “None of these missing staircase people ended up here by chance, did they?” I asked. “Since disappearing without a trace seems to be a common theme among the members I’ve seen pictured.”

  Donnelly chuckled. “No, I can assure you, none of those stairway people ended up here. As for vanishing, it’s something we know more than a little about here at the Briggs. Since explorers by definition go into the unknown, they sometimes find themselves beset by dark or unstable magic.” He shrugged. “Some of our members blundered into old ruins or tombs that were set with powerful curses. Others tinkered with objects or knowledge they didn’t fully understand. Some just managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when a powerful magic user was doing a major working.”

  “So your society commemorates those explorers who’ve gone missing?” I asked.

  Donnelly chuckled and glanced at Sorren, whose lips quirked upward, just a bit. “Not completely, Miss Kincaide. It’s true we remember them. We also use magic to find them – or to discover what happened to them if they’re beyond finding. And if they’ve been transported somewhere – or ‘somewhen’ – outside normal time and space, we give them a place to come home to, where people will actually believe their mad tales.”