by DAVID B. COE
The nurse still eyed the instrumentation by her bed, which monitored her blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and a host of other things I didn’t pretend to understand. She didn’t seem too alarmed by anything she saw, but after a time she told me, “She needs some quiet time. I don’t want her getting too tired.”
“I understand. I have . . . a few places I have to go.”
“We’ll take good care of her. Oh, and Mister Castle, don’t worry if her bed is empty when you get back here. We need to test her lung capacity, and also do some further scans: neurological—we want to see how she’s doing with the concussion.”
“Of course.” To Billie I said, “I have to leave for a little while. I have things to do. As soon as they let me come back, I will. All right?”
“I’ll be here.”
I smiled, stood.
“Fearsson?”
“Yeah.”
She made a little motion with her hand, beckoning to me. I bent closer to her.
“Did she just call you Mister Castle?” she asked, her voice as soft as a spring breeze.
I nodded, my cheeks burning. “Yeah. That’s a long story.”
“Okay. Then tell me this: How is it possible that you’re not hurt at all?”
I looked her in the eye, not wanting to scare her, but also unwilling to lie to her. I’d had to keep things from her early on—stuff about magic and the phasings and Namid—and that had almost ended our relationship before it got started.
“You already know the answer,” I whispered.
“Magic?”
“Magic.”
“But—”
“That’s all I know right now. But I’m going to find out. I promise.” I kissed an unbandaged spot on her forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”
CHAPTER 12
I swept out of the ICU and took the stairs down to the ground floor, unwilling to wait for an elevator. Billie’s questions had set my thoughts churning again. I still had questions of my own, of course, but I wasn’t thinking about them now. I was unhurt because someone had decided to protect me. Billie was lying in a hospital bed looking like she had been run over by a truck because that same someone wanted to send me a message. My dad was suffering in ways he never had before, and though I couldn’t prove it yet, and didn’t understand what was being done to him, I no longer had any doubt that he was a victim in all of this, too.
Some goddamned sorcerer was screwing with me and the people I loved. I was scared and pissed off, and I’d had enough.
Nothing else could explain the decision I made in that moment. Because it was pretty stupid.
I drove back into North Scottsdale, to Ocotillo Winds Estates. When the guy at the guardhouse asked me who I was and who I was there to see, I told him. He called ahead to the mansion and after a brief delay raised the barrier that blocked the gate and waved me through. I hadn’t been paying as much attention as I should have to the route we followed the previous night, but after taking a few wrong turns, I made it to Amaya’s place.
The guys with the MP5s were waiting for me, their expressions far less welcoming than they had been when I showed up with Luis, Paco, and Rolon. They surrounded the Z-ster, weapons held ready, faces like stone.
“Get out,” one of them said. “And keep your hands where we can see them.”
I unlatched the door, pushed it open with my foot, and climbed out, my hands raised.
“I have a Glock in the shoulder holster under my left arm,” I said.
“What else?”
“That’s it.”
The man gestured in my direction with his head. “Revísen le.” Search him.
One of his friends strode toward me, grabbed me by the arm, spun me around, and shoved me against my car. Pressing the muzzle of his submachine gun against the back of my neck, he pulled the Glock from my holster and frisked me. He was thorough and none too gentle; it was probably a good thing I hadn’t lied about having a second weapon. When he was finished, he gave me one last shove and backed away.
“Turn around,” the other man said.
When I faced him again, he pointed toward the front door of the mansion. Two more guards waited for me there, both of them also holding MP5s. I almost asked if they’d bought the family pack, but decided I’d be better off keeping my mouth shut.
“Go on. Jacinto is waiting for you.”
“Thanks.”
I walked to the door, my hands lowered but plainly visible. The guards let me pass, saying not a word, but eyeing me in a way that made the back of my head itch. I could almost feel the sight beams tickling my scalp.
Amaya was in the living room, sitting in one of those plush chairs, one arm resting casually over the back of it, the other hand holding a tumbler filled with ice and what might have been tequila.
“Hello, Jay.”
I glanced around the room. It was empty except for Amaya and me. It really did seem that he had been expecting me, even before the call from the guardhouse.
“I saw you on television today. Tough words. I guess you’re going into battle with me after all, eh?”
“What happened today? What was that?”
His eyebrows went up, an expression of innocence I wasn’t sure I trusted. “You were there, not me. Why don’t you tell me what you think it was?”
“It was magic.”
“The media is calling it a bombing, though they don’t seem to know what kind of bomb could do that kind of damage without burning the place to the ground.”
“It was a spell, and it came with a warning.”
He sat forward, interested now. “Someone spoke to you.”
“Yeah. A woman. She said not to push too hard, whatever that means.”
“Fascinating. I suppose it means you’re already making progress.”
“Maybe. But a friend of mine is in the hospital, and I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“I told you last night—”
“You told me shit last night! You gave me Regina Witcombe, but I’ve since learned that I could have gotten her name from any number of people.”
“And yet you didn’t,” Amaya said, ice in his tone. “You knew nothing about her except that she was rich. So don’t tell me that I gave you nothing.”
“How do I know it’s not you?” I said. Probably not the smartest road to go down, but I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. “You send me out to find dark sorcerers, talking like you’re trying to make the world safe for the rest of us. But how do I know this isn’t anything more than a turf war, an attempt by one dark myste to get the jump on another?”
He glared back at me, his eyes as black and hard as obsidian. “Did you see the magic?”
“What?”
“On the restaurant. Did you see it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It was—”
A blow to the gut doubled me over, stole my breath. I almost retched. Amaya hadn’t moved.
Before I could straighten up, something hit me again. The jaw this time. It felt like a cross between a fist and a cinder block. I was catapulted backward, my feet might even have left the floor. I landed hard on my back, the breath pounded out of my lungs.
Amaya sipped his drink, still comfortably ensconced in his chair.
“There’s magic on your shirt where I hit you,” he said. “Also on your face. What color is it?”
I raised a hand to the side of my face, dabbed at the corner of my mouth. My hand came away bloody. The residue of his spell shone on my stomach. It was dark purple, the color of desert mountains at dusk, and it was as opaque and glossy as wet paint.
“What color?” Amaya asked again, his voice like a hammer.
“Purple,” I said.
“And what color did you see at the restaurant?”
“Green. I owe you an apology.”
“You certainly do.”
I climbed to my feet, crossed to the bar and filled a glass with ice and water. Then I walked to the chair next to his and dropped myself into it. �
��The magic on the restaurant was transparent as well; it was like looking through the glass of a wine bottle. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No,” Amaya said. “You’re sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”
“Pretty sure. I saw the same thing at the airport, on James Howell and on the cockpit panels.”
He glared. “So, you lied to me yesterday.”
I said nothing, but stared back at him.
He flashed a grin, though it faded as quickly as it appeared. “The same myste who struck at the airport issued this warning to you.”
“Apparently.”
“Very interesting indeed.”
“I need more information, Mister Amaya. You said last night that the dark mystes were capable of doing some terrible things. I’d like to know what you meant.”
Amaya regarded me for another moment before getting up and walking to the bar. He unstoppered a glass decanter and poured himself more tequila. “Some things are not mine to tell,” he said. “But I can give you another name.” He smiled back at me over this shoulder. “Someone a bit more accessible than Regina Witcombe.”
I pulled out my pad and pen, drawing another grin.
“You know, they have devices now, things that you can use for taking notes, taking pictures, even making phone calls.”
“Well, maybe after you’ve paid me for this job, I’ll be able to afford one.”
“His name is Gary Hacker. He lives outside the city, on a small plot of land on the outskirts of Buckeye.” He gave me the address. “He won’t want to speak with you. Tell him I sent you.”
“What should I talk to him about?”
“Like I said, it’s not my story to tell. But he’s a were, and I think you’ll find what he has to say pretty illuminating.”
“All right.”
“Don’t take a lot of time with this. You’ve only got two more days until the phasing starts.”
“Do you really think I need you to tell me that?”
A small laugh escaped him. “Probably not.”
I drank the rest of my water and stood. “Thank you for the name.” I patted my gut. “And for the lesson in magic.”
“Your friend, is she all right?”
“How’d you know it was a she?”
Amaya grinned. “I saw you on the news, remember? You were angry, ready to take on an entire army of weremystes. And I saw as well the way you came charging in here, despite my guards, despite my reputation. We do those things for the ones we love, and I happen to know you are in love with the blogger Billie Castle.”
I didn’t like that he knew her name, that he had found it so easy to learn so much about me, but I probably shouldn’t have been surprised.
“She’s alive,” I said. “But she’s not in great shape.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. I know what it’s like to have your enemies strike at loved ones.”
Pain lurked behind the words; I wondered what had been done to him. “Thank you,” I said, unnerved by the sympathy I felt.
I walked toward his front door, curious about this new name he had given me and belatedly aware of how lucky I was to be leaving his home alive.
It seemed he was thinking along the same lines. “Jay.”
I halted, faced him.
“I don’t care who’s in the hospital or how many times you’ve been blown up. Don’t ever come to me in anger again.”
Another warning. This one I was likely to heed. I nodded and let myself out of the house.
I returned to the hospital and managed to get in to see Billie for a few minutes. She looked better than she had; she had more color in her cheeks, and she admitted to me that she had eaten a bit.
She begged me to bring her something from Solana’s, until I reminded her that it had been destroyed by the explosion.
“Then anyplace. I want fajitas, Fearsson, not braised beef tips.” She made a face, and I laughed.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I also want to know why all the nurses keep referring to you as my husband.”
I winced, rubbed the back of my neck. “It was the only way I could get in to see you. They don’t allow just anyone in this part of the hospital, and I wasn’t willing to wait until they moved you. So . . .” I shrugged.
“So you claimed you were my husband?”
“Yeah. I don’t know your Social Security number, by the way. That really is information you should share with the man you marry.”
Her laughter was like the sweetest music.
“I think Kona would say that you’re a piece of work.”
I nodded. “Yeah, she would.”
Before we could say much more, her nurse—a different one—shooed me away, telling me I was welcome to come back in the morning during regular visiting hours.
I would have liked more time with Billie, but at least I knew that her condition was improving and that she was being taken care of, even if it was by Nurse Ratched.
I went by Nathan Felder’s house, where I picked up my check, and then made my way home. I only stayed long enough to grab a change of clothes before driving out to my dad’s. I would have to make the trip back into town first thing the following morning to keep my appointment with Patty Hesslan, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for too long.
When I got to Wofford, he was out in his chair, sitting in the dark, wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before and smelling a bit ripe. I saw no evidence that he had eaten anything.
I fixed him a bowl of cereal, filled a glass with ice water, and sat with him as he ate and drank, listening to him rant about the burning and the pain and how he didn’t matter. He mentioned my mom again, and told them to stay the hell away from “the boy.” I smiled at this; I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that I found it amusing in any way. Far from it. But I was touched that in the deepest throes of his madness or his suffering—whatever this was—he took it upon himself to protect me.
The rest of it sounded like so much nonsense, of course. It was the same stuff I’d heard the day before, and two days before that. He was flinching again, but the food and water seemed to help, and I took some comfort in the fact that he appeared to be no worse than he’d been yesterday.
I didn’t like to overuse his sleeping medication—the doctors had warned me that, given his history as an alcoholic, he could develop an addiction to the pills. But he wasn’t going to sleep in this state without some help.
Once the pill took effect, I put him to bed. I showered and shaved, lingering in front of the mirror to scrutinize the deepening bruise along my jaw, the purple under my skin blending into the fading purple glow of Amaya’s spell. At last, exhausted, I settled down on the floor of my dad’s room, as I had the previous night. Weary as I was, though, I lay awake for a long time, reliving the explosion at Solana’s and thinking about the spell I’d felt prickling my skin. There had been two spells, of course, one working at cross-purposes to the other. The first blew up the restaurant; the second protected me from injury, despite the potency of that first casting. I couldn’t imagine the power and skill necessary to weave two such spells together, although I thought it possible that Etienne de Cahors might have pulled it off, had he still been alive.
Which begged the question: Had the spells been cast by one myste or two, or even several? If both spells had come from the same “person”—and I used the term loosely—I might well have been dealing with a being who had more in common with Namid than with me. If they had come from two or more sorcerers, I was facing some sort of conspiracy. Lying in the dark, listening to my father’s snoring, I wasn’t sure which possibility frightened me more.
I slept later than I had intended, and woke to find my dad stirring as well. He sat up in bed, pushed both hands through his white hair. At the sight of me on his floor, he frowned.
“You’re here.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone all night.”
“I’m alone every night.”
&nbs
p; I shrugged, peered up at the sky through the window. It was another clear, sunny day in the desert; it was going to be hot as hell. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”
I chanced a glance in his direction and saw him nod.
“You stayed the night before, too, didn’t you?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. I don’t expect it’ll last, but right now I’m okay.” He narrowed his eyes at my jaw. “You don’t look so good.”
I raised a hand to the bruise. It was tender, a little swollen. “I’m all right.”
“I should see the other guy, right?”
“Actually I never touched the other guy. I deserved this—needed to learn a lesson.”
“Okay.”
I got up, gathered the blanket and pillow. “I’m sorry to run, but I need to go see Billie, and then I have a meeting.”
Dad’s face brightened. “How is Billie? When are you going to bring her out here again?”
I didn’t want to burden him with bad news, but Billie was something of a local celebrity, and if he switched on the TV he would hear about the explosion and her injuries. “She’s not so good,” I said, and proceeded to tell him about the attack on the restaurant as I put the bedding away and got dressed.
“So the rest of the world thinks it was a bomb, but you know it was magic,” he said when I was done.
“Well, that’s . . . yeah. Billie knows the truth.”
“And your partner from the force? The black woman?”
“Kona. She doesn’t know yet.”
“Right, Kona. You need to tell her. They’re looking for a bombing suspect.”
He was right. “I’ll call her,” I said. “But right now I have to—”
“Go.” He waved a hand toward the trailer door. “Get out, vamoose, skedaddle.”
I grinned, and so did he. It was nice to have a conversation with him, rather than just listen to one of his incoherent monologues.
