Death Magic wotl-8

by Eileen Wilks

  Fagin beamed proudly at his domain. “I had the wall removed and the shelves added. It started out as a bedroom and dining room, you see. This suits me better.” He lumbered into motion. “I don’t have my entire collection in here, but I think I unpacked Papa Araignée’s journal. It should be in the Vodun section . . . ah, yes. Here it is.” He held out a tattered, leather-bound journal. “You can take it with you, if you like.”

  Cullen’s eyebrows lifted. That was an unusual degree of trust—but then, Fagin wasn’t a practitioner himself. He tucked the slim journal carefully inside his jacket. “Thank you. And the Ars Magicka?”

  “You’re drooling.”

  “Hardly at all,” Cullen said repressively. “I have tremendous self-control.”

  Fagin chuckled. “The original is in my safety-deposit box back in Cambridge. I recently acquired a safety-deposit box here, but I haven’t made the trip to Cambridge to retrieve the items from my Cambridge box. But perhaps my translation will work better for you anyway, since you have some difficulty with medieval German.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone actually twinkle before, but damned if you aren’t doing it. An English translation, I take it?”

  “Of course.” Fagin headed for his desk. “It’s a work in progress, mind, not finished, but I have a decent rough draft you can see. I’ll burn you a disc so—”

  The front window shattered.

  Without blinking or thinking or any of the things there was no time for, Cullen flexed into a deep crouch. A shiny glass shower cascaded into the room. He sprang. A second projectile followed the first as he slammed into Fagin, grabbing him and twisting so momentum would spin them sideways as they fell—the desk, the desk, it will shield us—

  The ground reached up and smacked them as the air ignited in a wall of stink, heat, and flame.

  TWENTY

  THE woman’s gray hair frizzed around her face in an untidy halo. Her eyes were small and suspicious, her skin as scuffed and worn as an old suitcase. She smelled of baby powder, sweat, and the chicken concoction she shoveled into a small, pursed mouth with all the dainty greed of a cat enjoying a dish of tuna. Her hands were small and immaculately clean, even under the nails he suspected she trimmed with her teeth. They looked chapped.

  She did not smell of alcohol, unlike the man on Rule’s right. He gave off fumes that should have robbed everyone in a nine-yard radius of their appetites. “But you do know Birdie, I think,” Rule said. He didn’t say the woman’s name because he didn’t know it. She wouldn’t give it to him.

  “Everyone knows Birdie,” she said without looking up. “I ain’t seen him lately, but that don’t mean he ain’t around.”

  “How long do you think it’s been since you saw him?”

  “Well, now let’s see.” She stopped eating and mimed patting her pockets. “Sumbitch. I think I done lost my PDA, where I jots down all that important shit.”

  Rule wasn’t sure why he didn’t give up and move on to someone else. She didn’t want to talk to him, and he couldn’t make her. But she was enjoying giving him a hard time. Why not let her have a few more minutes of it? “It’s hard to know who to trust, isn’t it?”

  She snorted. “That’s easy. Don’t trust nobody. Do I know you from someplace?”

  “I’ve been on TV now and then. I’m the Lu Nuncio of my clan.”

  “Of your . . . shit, you’re that prince guy. The werewolf.” Her eyes narrowed even more and she pointed at him with her fork. “You’re a ce-le-britty.” The last two syllables sounded more like “bratty.”

  Rule grinned. He was beginning to like her. “Of sorts, yes.”

  “How come you’re here without the cameras? Ever’ time you goddamn ce-le-britties come around to feed the homeless, there’s a camera someplace. Marianne says it’s good publicity. Brings in donations. I say it’s a pain in the ass.”

  “But I’m not here to feed the homeless. I’m looking for Birdie.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “True. Is there anyone else who’s usually here who you haven’t seen lately?”

  “Tom Cruise. That man plumb loves the chicken and noodles. Can’t figure why he ain’t been around lately.”

  “Perhaps he’s on a diet. Us celebrities have to watch our waistlines.”

  “Ha!” In high good humor, she slapped the table. “P’raps he is. Watchin’ your waistline, are you? Why you wanna know all this, anyway?”

  He glanced across the noisy room. It wasn’t as crowded now. The line of people to be fed was gone; there was a shorter line now leading to the trash cans. Patrons were encouraged to scrape their cafeteria-style trays before turning them in.

  Lily was talking to a tall man in a spattered white apron—one of the servers. She had instructed Rule firmly not to divulge why they were here. Some of these people were not screwed down tight, and all lived a precarious existence. It would not be helpful to tell them that someone might be snatching homeless people and killing them to power their magic. “I’m not supposed to tell you,” he said at last.

  Her mouth twisted in scorn. “But I’m supposed to tell you stuff?”

  “I can’t think why you would,” he admitted. “I may not be here for a photo op, but I do want something from you. Why should you care what I want?”

  She stuck a forkful of chicken-whatever in her mouth and chewed in silence for a moment. “She’s a cop. That woman you came with.”

  “Yes. Federal, not local.”

  “Why’s she want Birdie?”

  “She thinks someone may have harmed him.”

  “You ’spect me to believe some big-shot federal cop cares what happens to Birdie?”

  “She cares.” Rule looked at the nameless woman who smelled of baby powder, whom life had taught a great deal about survival and very little about trust. “You have no reason to believe that, but it’s the truest thing I know. She cares what happened to Birdie.”

  “Hmph.” The sound was scornful, but after another bite the woman put her fork down. “You wait here. I’m gonna turn in my plate, then maybe I’ll tell you.” She heaved herself to her feet.

  Rule waited. Why not? While she was gone the pungent man on his right got up. The two who’d sat across from him had already left. By the time the woman who wouldn’t share her name returned, they were alone at that end of the table.

  “Better get up. They don’t mind if’n we talk awhile, but they don’t want us camping out once we’re done eating.”

  He pushed back the folding chair and stood.

  She was shorter than he’d realized and wide in the hips, wide through the shoulders, with heavy breasts restrained by a dark green tee. The flannel shirt she wore over that was thick, frayed at the cuffs, with the buttons on the right—a man’s shirt. Her jeans might have been meant for a man as well. They were cuffed up several times at the ankles and none too clean. She had dainty feet tucked into tattered athletic shoes smaller than the ones Rule had recently bought his ten-year-old son.

  Was there any way he could get her new shoes and a dozen pairs of socks? The homeless had to take care of their feet, he knew. One of the hardest parts of living on the street was finding a way to wash clothes, but socks could be washed in the sink at a public restroom. Maybe some lotion for the hands she kept so scrupulously clean? A nail clipper—no, a small pair of scissors would be better, useful for more tasks. Or even a Swiss Army knife.

  She tipped her head back and fixed him with a belligerent look. “I’ll tell you. You won’t b’lieve me, but I’ll tell you what happened to Birdie. Them aliens took him.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Don’t believe me, do you? Think I’m a crazy old bat.”

  “I think you saw something. Did you see the aliens take Birdie?”

  “Hell, no. But I seen ’em take poor Meggie, and now Birdie’s missing, so I knows what happened to Birdie.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Meggie, she allus tries for a spot at the shelter, but she drinks too
much to know what time it is, so she gets there late a lot. They was full up by the time she showed up that night, so she comes around whinin’ at me about how I could let her stay at my place just this once. She allus says that—‘just this once.’ I likes my privacy, see? I don’t share my place with no one. I don’t like anyone knowin’ where it is, but Meggie . . . well, I made a mistake with her one time when it was real cold an’ let her stay with me. But it weren’t cold that night, and she smelled pretty damn ripe, so I tells her to move on.” She scowled. “Wasn’t like I knew what would happen, was it?”

  “Of course not. And you’re entitled to your privacy.”

  “I am.” She said that forcefully. “So I tells her to move on, an’ after a while she does. Now, my place . . .” She slid him a suspicious look. “I ain’t telling you where it is, but it’s close to the street, so I heard it when she starts talking to someone. I wanted to know who that was, ’cause Meggie’s too scared to speak to a shadow if’n she don’t know ’em. ’Specially a male shadow. So I’m thinkin’ it’s someone I know, and I don’t want her telling anyone where my place is, so I went to see.”

  “You saw her taken?”

  “Big old black car. Not a flying saucer, nothin’ like that. They was in a big old black car, real nice. And Meggie . . . she just stood there.” For a moment the woman stared into space, her face slack, her eyes holding a touch of real horror. “She weren’t right. I saw her face, and she weren’t right. They used their mind powers on her, I guess. That one of ’em who’d got out of the car took her arm and told her to come along, and she did. She just did what he said.” She shuddered. “That’s how I knew they was aliens. Meggie wouldn’t never get in a car with someone that way. ’Specially not a man.”

  “They didn’t look like aliens, then?”

  “Only saw that one. The other was driving the car, or mebbe there was a bunch of ’em in the car. I couldn’t see. But that one, he looked just like anyone.”

  “He was disguised.”

  “That’s right!” His suggestion unlocked a fierce series of nods. “That’s absodamnlutely right! I figure they can be anyone, those aliens. But you’re a werewolf. They can’t turn themselves into werewolves.”

  “I don’t think so, no. This one you saw . . . was he fat or skinny or in between?”

  “Kinda skinny, I guess. Dressed nice, but not fancy. Not in a suit or anything.” She squinted, thinking. “Not jeans, though. Businessman pants.”

  “Dark skin? Pale?”

  “Oh, he was white.”

  Further questions revealed that the alien who snatched Meggie was neither “real old or real young.” His hair had been dark and short, and he hadn’t worn glasses or facial hair. He’d been a lot taller than “poor Meggie,” but Meggie was such a teeny dab of a thing, that wasn’t saying much. Mebbe six foot?

  The alien abduction had happened about three weeks ago, and she hadn’t seen Meggie since. She didn’t know what time the men in the black car showed up, but it had been full dark for “a couple–three hours.” She had no idea what the make or model of the car was. She wouldn’t tell Rule where it had happened. She refused to talk to Lily—“Mebbe you ain’t an alien, but how do I know about her?”—and she still wouldn’t tell him her name. When he asked again, she stepped back. “I got somewhere to be.”

  “All right. I’d like to pay you for your time.”

  “Yeah? Well, I charges a hundred an hour.”

  His lips tugged up. “I believe we spoke less than an hour.” He moved so his body blocked them from any prying eyes before slipping his wallet from his pocket. Some of those here wouldn’t hesitate to mug an old woman. He took out three twenties—and his card. One of the ones with his cell number. “Will you call me if you see them again?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “I’m glad you’re cautious. Don’t tell anyone else about these men. Who, ah, only look like men. You don’t want them to know you’ve seen them.”

  She stuck the bills in her jeans pocket and gave him a sly smile. “Seen who?”

  He could probably find out what name she went by, he thought as he angled across the room toward Lily, who’d finished with the servers and was talking to a shriveled little man in an incredibly bright blue sweater. Someone here probably knew that much. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. She liked her privacy, and who was he to take that away?

  Lily might not see it that way. Probably wouldn’t. If . . .

  His phone rattled through a drumroll. That was Cullen. About time. He wanted his car back. Rule unhitched the phone from his belt. “Yes?”

  Cullen’s voice was breathy, strained, and urgent. “Get here quick. 1125 West Brewster. I’m hurt. So’s Fagin.”

  LILY never understood why they weren’t stopped on that mad ride. They damn sure should have been. Rule’s reflexes meant he could drive faster than a human without increasing the risk, but there were limits.

  There’d been a bomb. A firebomb, according to Cullen—not much bang, lots of heat. He’d refused to stay on the phone for more than a moment, and hadn’t answered when Rule tried to call him back. “He needs his Lu Nuncio,” Rule had said as the car skidded around a corner.

  “He told you that?”

  “Not in words, but I could hear it.”

  If Cullen needed his Lu Nuncio, it meant he was hurt enough to threaten his control—bad for him and for anyone who tried to help him. Cullen had superb control, better than most lupi, control forged in the dreadful furnace of living so long as a lone wolf.

  So Rule hurried. Halfway there Lily got a call from Cynna, who’d received a text from Cullen telling her not to worry, that he wasn’t hurt bad. Somehow it didn’t have that effect, especially because he didn’t answer her, either, so Lily spent the next few careening turns telling Cynna they didn’t know anything yet. Her lips as well as her knuckles were white by the time they screeched to a halt a block away from 1125 West Brewster.

  In spite of Rule’s heavy foot, the emergency responders had been closer and arrived first. At least most of them did. A second ambulance wailed to a stop as Rule slammed his door shut.

  They set off at a quick lope—her, Rule, and Scott. Most of these homes were two stories. Lily scanned rooflines. If someone wanted to pick her or Rule off, there were plenty of spots to shoot from. By the time they reached the tangle of cop cars blocking the street, her heart was pounding as if she’d run a mile.

  She couldn’t see the house from here. A pumper truck blocked her view. No smoke, though. Surely that was good.

  Lily flashed her shield at one of the patrol officers. “They’re with me,” she told him when he frowned at Rule and Scott. “They’re needed. Where’s the—no, I see him. Captain!” she called, hurrying forward.

  She’d taken a guess about the rank. From the rear, she could only see that one firefighter’s helmet was black, which meant an officer. When he turned, she saw she’d guessed right. His helmet bore a captain’s bugles.

  He was a blunt-featured man, Hispanic, midway between her height and Rule’s. Probably midway between their ages, too. And scowling. “What the hell do—wait a minute,” he said as his gaze shifted up and to Lily’s right. “You’re Rule Turner. Are you Rule Turner?”

  “I am.”

  “He’s asking for you, and by God, you’d better tell him to quit with his tricks and let us get some water on the building. Come on.” He turned and marched for the pumper truck’s high snub nose.

  Lily and Rule exchanged one quick, startled glance and hurried to catch up. “Captain,” Rule said, “are you talking about Cullen Seabourne? He won’t let your men put out the fire?”

  “Says he got rid of the fire himself and we should go away. He put the other victim on the porch. On the damn porch, like we were FedEx picking up a package. He did let the EMTs approach to take care of the man, but—”

  “The other victim?” Lily said quickly. “Dr. Xavier Fagin? Is he—”

  “In pain,” said a weak but familiar voice o
n the other side of the pumper. “A great deal of pain, but that’s”—this was interrupted by a long, wheezy breath—“encouraging, since it means the nerve endings weren’t destroyed. I—no, no, I don’t want that. I want drugs. Strong drugs.”

  A stiff female voice said, “They can give you some at the ER, sir, but you need oxygen now.”

  Lily rounded the nose of the pumper truck and saw Fagin. He was sitting up, leaning against his own front door and coughing as he swatted at the EMT who was trying to pull the oxygen mask back up. The other EMT was positioning a gurney.

  She saw Cullen, too. On the roof.

  The front of Fagin’s house was a mess, but it wasn’t in pieces. The porch was blackened. The bay window was broken, but the ones on the other side of the door were intact. The roof looked sound, too—which was just as well, because that’s where Cullen sat, his feet dangling over the edge. His jeans were burned partway up the calves. His lower calves and feet were black and oozy. He sat there and swayed as if there were a high wind.

  A pair of firefighters stood on this side of the pumper truck aiming their own scowls at the wobbly man on the roof. It looked as if they’d started uncoiling a hose, but hadn’t gotten far.

  Lily exchanged a quick glance with Rule. “I’ll take Fagin.”

  “I’ll take Cullen. Scott, call Cynna. Keep her updated.”

  They split up—Scott staying behind, Rule stopping short of the porch, and Lily hurrying up the porch steps.

  “Lily.” Fagin’s smile was a shaky facsimile of his usual beaming welcome. “My feet are a mess, but . . .” Another short coughing fit. “My new best friend kept it from being worse. He threw me to the floor behind my desk and covered my body with his own. But my feet are broadcasting enough pain for two of me.”

  “Then let them put that mask on and take you to the ER,” she said firmly.

  “I don’t need—”

  “If it gets you to those painkillers quicker, why are you arguing?”