Rowan found himself smiling, his heart leaping as well as turning barrel rolls. Jason never simply offered…this would be perhaps the third time he’d even touched the subject since Pentecost…
The vampire opened the case and removed the violin, then gave Rowan an unreadable look before saying, quietly, “I think after four months a formal introduction is in order.”
He sat back down on the bed, the violin in his lap. “This is the Tempest,” he said. “She’s been with me since the first winter I was turned. Next to Beck she’s my oldest and greatest friend.”
Rowan understood the import of what he was hearing, and very lightly laid a hand on the violin’s body. “I’m honored. I didn’t know she had a name.”
“Oh yes.” Jason’s gaze was on the instrument, his hand stroking the neck. “Her maker was never as famous as some, but he was well known in certain circles. He was both a luthier and a sort of intuitive sorcerer; all of his instruments were built to channel energy.”
“Healing energy like you’ve used on me?”
“Yes…although when I first got her I had no idea I could do that. We knew I could manipulate emotions through music, and the plan was for me to learn to do it actively, but…by the time I was strong enough to learn I had no teacher.” There was a century’s worth of old pain in his voice as he continued. “I lay her aside for a while, and when I picked her back up again I realized I could do more than I thought. I tried not to think about it. It wasn’t something I wanted—it reminded me too much of what I’d lost. But…you seem to have changed all that.”
He smiled at Rowan, who asked, “How?”
“I’ve been working with her more, since Pentecost. I’m old and strong enough now that I know the theory and I’ve basically been teaching myself. I wanted to be able to help you. I just…I think I’ve been afraid to let myself.”
“Because of the memories?”
“Because of what it means.” He shook his head to Rowan’s next question and used his free hand to push the Elf back onto the bed, then rising, lifting violin and bow.
Rowan watched him, entranced, loving in that moment every single thing about him, from the way his brow furrowed as he began to play, to his bare feet on the carpet, to the flat plane of his stomach disappearing into black fabric that tugged just right over his hips. Jason seemed to lift music up out of his body and let it flow down through his arms like water, and almost immediately Rowan fell into the trance with him, following the notes as they cascaded up and down, turning and returning, cyclical like a waltz.
The music began with an almost Middle Eastern feel, twisting around into something vaguely Celtic, then back. It spoke, it sang; of healing, of rest. With each cycle Rowan felt the knot of anger in his chest and the mounting tension in his nerves easing, until he was floating on a current of darkness made up of dreams and sweet memories. Rivulets of warm energy trickled over him and lathed away any chance of pain—even the persistent ache in his wrist, which never completely left him, faded away.
He wasn’t sure when he crossed the line from the land of waking to the drifting sea of sleep, but he slipped from one to the other gratefully, managing to direct one thought first: [I love you…]
And he might have been surprised, had he been conscious, at the whispered reply: [I love you too, amori.]
Part Nine
Sara stared at herself in the locker room mirror for a good five minutes before reality began to set in.
"Fuck me running," she breathed.
"Not bad," she heard from a few feet behind her, and she yelped and spun around to confront SA-7, who was leaning back against the wall watching her, looking politely amused.
Sara looked back at the mirror, then at him. "That's not fair."
"Sorry. You'll just have to get used to it. That, too," he added, inclining his head toward her reflection.
She gulped and turned back, trying again to take it all in. Black cargo pants, a black t-shirt, her own black coat still hanging on a hook on the wall. Her hair pulled back in a neat chignon out of the way. A utility belt just like the one Jason wore, albeit smaller and less laden. In fact they were dressed identically, except that he would momentarily be armed to the teeth. She wouldn't be issued hers for another six months. She also didn't have an Ear yet, but the government edition iPhone they'd given her was plenty high tech for now. She'd spent a whole evening reading the manual.
"I look…" Sara trailed off, and he handed her her coat, which she pulled on slowly, then stood back to get the full effect. "I look…fucking awesome."
He smiled wryly. "If you're done, we do have work to do."
"Oh, yeah, of course. I'm ready, boss."
"This way, then."
He led her into the armory, and walked her through the process of opening his weapons drawer. Now that she'd been training for six months she recognized most of what he carried, although a few of the more specialized pieces still eluded her. "What's that for?" she asked, pointing at a strange gun with a row of six inch long, arrow-like ammunition.
"It's like a miniaturized speargun," he answered, sliding a wicked-looking knife into a sheath concealed in his coat. "Think of it as a cross between a pistol and a crossbow. Those bolts are white ash shafts with frangible metal-plated heads. When they penetrate the sternum, the metal breaks apart leaving only the wood to enter the heart. R&D in Washington first created them, but our department improved the design about five years ago and now they're standard."
She drew her hand back where it had been about to touch one of the bolts. "Why would you need something like that?"
He pushed the drawer shut. "To kill vampires." He beckoned for her to follow, and she barely had time to digest the words before he'd led her into the tunnels beneath the city.
"Now then," he said, "A typical patrol is uneventful and actually pretty boring. As a psychic Agent you may not ever have to do one alone; the SA won't send you out for just anything, especially as long as you're the only one with your particular gifts. Tonight being your first time we'll do a circuit around the downtown area, which is where most of the fun goes down, and a quick trip to the East side to show you some of the most well-known occult hot spots. That is of course provided we aren't called to a crime scene."
Sara, who had been running and working out for months, was still almost panting and half a step behind him even though he was barely even breaking a mosey. "Are you planning to walk this fast all night?"
Jason paused mid-stride and obligingly slowed down. "I'm not used to having anyone tag along. Humans are slow."
"Well, obviously. I'm in fairly decent shape now, you know. You're making me look like a slug."
Another of his measured smiles. "I'm aware of your progress, Trainee Larson. I am your supervisor after all."
Outside was shockingly cold after the controlled temperature of the base, and Sara sucked in an astonished breath when the frigid air hit her. They emerged from what looked like a storm drain back behind a porn store to find Austin's sky wrapped in thick clouds, with the streets nearly empty even an hour after sunset. There was hardly anyone out, and Sara couldn't blame them. It looked like it might start sleeting any moment.
"Jesus Herbert Christ," she muttered. "No wonder these coats are so damned heavy."
"Come on," he said, and she fell into step beside him. The constant motion of her legs kept her from being too horribly cold, but in a few minutes she dug in her coat pocket for the gloves he had insisted she bring. Jason, she noticed, wasn't wearing any, and in fact didn't seem to notice the weather at all.
"Don't you get cold?" she asked. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to talk, but screw it.
He looked down at her and shook his head. "Not in Texas."
"Speaking of which, how exactly did the Texas branch of the SA get the reputation it has? I mean, what the hell is in Texas besides cows and Republicans? I would think New York or California would be a more likely candidate."
"Technology," he replied simply, leadin
g her up along Lamar toward Sixth. "Eighty percent of the technological innovations of the last twenty years have been born here in the Austin branch. That includes the Ears, the Eyes, and most of the newer weapons. Austin has a young and vital spirit, and produces brilliant people like Frog and Patel. Unfortunately that also means it produces brilliant villains. Several of the best known occult drugs were created here."
"Several? There are more besides Pentecost?"
"Many, many more. Most of the action Agents see on patrol involves drug busts—the DEA gets a whiff of something they know is linked to sorcery and they call us in."
She started to ask about the drugs themselves, but he cut her off by holding up his hand in a "wait" gesture, and reached up with the other to tap his Ear. Her mind lurched slightly; he also tapped on her mental ears, pulling her in so she could hear the conversation. Again, she marveled at how talented he was—the only person she'd seen who could outdo him was Rowan.
[SA-7, we have a call in from APD requesting Agency assistance at a murder scene. Can you respond?]
Sara knew that what she was really asking was if Sara could handle it. [Do you have any crime scene images yet?] Jason asked.
[One so far. Sending now.]
She couldn't see what he saw, not without the aid of an Ear, but he frowned, eyes losing focus as his attention turned inward. He examined the picture for a few seconds before nodding and telling Sage, [Send coordinates and inform the detective in charge that we're on our way.]
He started to walk again and she ran to catch up. "I thought you said a typical patrol was boring."
"You're not with a typical Agent."
"Are you sure it's okay for me to go? I mean, is it…"
"You'll be fine. Just stay back out of the way and observe. The scene itself isn't too brutal—part of the reason APD wants our help is that a woman is dead with no visible injuries and their scans haven't been able to detect a cause of death. Overall it's a good starter murder for you."
She blinked at him. "You're kind of messed up, you know."
"Agreed, Trainee Larson, now keep up."
*****
They arrived at the scene ten minutes later, Sara wishing more than anything for her bed and an electric blanket, or at least a chair and a coffee. The location was an empty storefront with cardboard and foil covering all the windows, graffiti on all the outside walls, and the back door propped open with a chunk of limestone.
"Amateur occultists and demon summoners favor places like this," SA-7 commented as she followed him around the building to the door. "They come in, do their workings, then whatever damage they cause can be blamed on vandals. Plus, if you're summoning a demon for nefarious purposes it's best not to let that demon know where you live. They tend not to be the most loyal creatures in the world."
There were several APD officers hovering around the building, who looked up expectantly when they arrived.
"Shadow Agent 7, reporting as requested," Jason said, flashing his badge. "This is Agent Trainee Sara Larson. What can you tell me?"
The man in charge of the investigation, a Detective Lawrence, separated himself from the group and called them over to the door.
"Not much," he said. He was a big, burly man who was a good seven inches taller than Jason, but still was slightly cowed by the vampire's dangerous aura, showing bravado and deference both in turns. "911 got an anonymous call about a break-in. Victim was found in the back, not a scratch on her. A look around the scene suggested this might be your territory."
"Thank you for calling us promptly," Jason replied. "Too much of a delay and we lose valuable evidence that your forensics team would miss."
"Yeah, I know the drill. We'll stay out of the way for now, just holler when you're done with the scene."
Sara followed Jason into the narrow, long room, one that smelled like it had once been an Asian grocery or something similar. Overtop of the competing smells of lemongrass and fish was something Sara recognized quite well: frankincense. That certainly didn't go with the theme.
"All right, Trainee," Jason said, indicating the room with a sweep of his hand, "tell me what you see, without touching anything. Your first impression of the crime."
Sara nodded and let her gaze move through the room, taking in one detail at a time. An altar, set up in the center; a chalk sigil drawn on the floor, about eight feet in diameter, using what looked like Enochian. The altar was a round table, the cheap kind one could buy at any Wal Mart and screw the legs on, then drape a cloth over.
"Okay…" Sara stepped over the chalk to the altar, but only bent over to study it closer. "Your victim, if this is her altar, was not summoning a demon. In fact, if you look at the altar layout and the tools on it—it's a protective spell, and part of a religious ritual. She's a Wiccan, or at least some flavor of NeoPagan. The drawing on the floor is done in chalk and all her tools are portable, so she intended to clean up after herself."
Jason nodded, but didn't give any hint as to his opinions. "Go on."
"Well, she was calling for help. Enochian is supposed to be an angelic language, very high ceremonial, so that means she was desperate enough to get out the big guns, metaphorically speaking. Most Pagans prefer to do their rituals either at home or in the outdoors, which tells me she's hiding from someone or something. She didn't want anyone to know she needed, or wanted, protection. That suggests she's on the run from a group that got into black magic."
"How do you know you're not projecting your own experiences onto her?" Jason asked.
Sara nodded. "I could be. But here—" she pointed at a picture on the altar, "Here is a photograph of five people, with a sixth person's image cut out. That cutting is over here, in a dish of salt surrounded by white candles…a protective matrix. This roll of black ribbon would have been used to bind the other photograph, symbolically binding the group from causing her any harm, and then it looks like she planned to burn the photograph. She was scared of them. Whoever these people are, they're at least partly responsible, I'll bet you money."
Jason came to stand next to her, surveyed the altar and circle wordlessly, then said, "The body is over there. Go look."
Sara swallowed hard, but did as she was told; she could do this, she could. He'd said it wasn't gruesome. Of course, what was gross to a vampire might be a bit different from…
"Oh, God," she whispered.
She couldn't breathe, she could only stare, her heart hammering its way down to her feet.
"We're still working on an ID," Jason said, coming to her side again. "As far as we can tell it was quick—there's no signs of struggle and no discoloration to suggest foul play. Usually in cases of maleficarum the victim panics and tries to fight the hex. Once we know who she is we can run her medicals."
Sara might have nodded, or not, but her attention was on the body. The victim was young, younger than Sara, a white woman with fairly nondescript brown hair. She wore a standard-issue black ritual robe and a black cord tied around her waist, along with a generic silver pentacle pendant. She could have been any Pagan, just an average woman without even so much as a tattoo to set her apart in a crowd. She lay on her back with her hands at her sides, palms up, and her face was peaceful, almost smiling.
“I’m sorry,” Sara told the woman. “Whoever they are, they can’t hurt you now.”
Jason had walked back to the altar, and she saw him kneel before it to examine the photographs; she kept staring at the body for another minute, until something occurred to her.
“She’s on a sleeping bag,” Sara said. “Why would a murderer go to that kind of trouble?”
Jason, to his credit, didn’t pick up the photograph in the dish of salt, but lifted the dish itself—the candles were out so the spell was obviously over, but still, she liked that he respected whatever magic had been here enough not to disturb it…or perhaps he was just trying not to taint the evidence.
“This isn’t the victim,” he told her. “If you look at the group photo, the victim is still in i
t, on the left.”
“So she was trying to protect someone else from the group? But why not herself?”
He set the dish down as something else caught his eye, and reached under the edge of the table, withdrawing a small glass vial. She noticed belatedly that he had on nitrile examination gloves. He removed the cork from the vial and sniffed its contents.
“Tincture of Atropa carasonno, charged under a Dark Moon.” He slipped the vial into a plastic bag with the Agency logo on it. “So she came here, performed a protective ritual for someone, and poisoned herself.”
“I’ve never heard of that plant before—isn’t Atropa in the nightshade family?”
The Agency, Volume II Page 14
