Death Magic wotl-8

by Eileen Wilks

  Drummond’s gaze switched from Mullins to Lily and back again. His face didn’t give away a thing, no sign at all that he’d caved. But he started talking.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  IN the flat, grassy plains of northeastern Colorado, the sky was barely tinged with pink in the east. Three modest late-model cars pulled off onto the shoulder of State Highway 14 between Raymer and Stoneham, about twenty-five miles south of the Nebraska border.

  Headlights shut off. Doors opened. Seven women stepped out into the darkness. Seven small globes of light sprang into being, holding back some of that dark.

  The women looked nothing alike; in age they ranged from early thirties to over eighty, and they were as varied in build, hair, and coloring as they were in age. They weren’t quite as dissimilar in dress. All wore jackets, and three had hats. October mornings are chilly in the Colorado plains. Six of the seven wore jeans. One wore a beautifully embroidered dashiki and an elaborately wound headscarf with her jeans. The seventh wore a battered leather aviator’s jacket over an eye-searing muumuu with enormous fuchsia flowers on a green and turquoise background.

  They gathered and talked for a few minutes, sounding variously calm, keyed up, worried, or pragmatic. The one in the dashiki didn’t speak. Now and then a fifty-ish woman with a dramatic silver streak in her black hair would take the silent woman’s hand, smiling and nodding at her, then would relate something to the others as if the silent woman had spoken.

  The one in the muumuu was the oldest and heaviest of them. She seemed to be in charge. Her eyes were as milky white as her hair. “Enough chitchat. They’ll be here when they get here,” she told the others. “We’d best be where we need to be when they arrive. Come on.”

  “You know where to head, then?” asked a tall, husky woman with milk-chocolate skin and a thick southern drawl. “I can’t see a thing.”

  The oldest of them chuckled. “Dark, light, it’s all the same to me. The feel of the place is clear enough—thick metal doors over a big hollow tube going straight down. Susan, you might take my arm. I won’t be paying attention to what’s up close, so I could trip over a twig and embarrass myself.”

  A mild-looking woman in her early thirties took the old woman’s arm, and all seven set off into the grass, the little lights bobbing along with them . . . headed directly for the underground missile silo.

  “Oh,” said the one in the muumuu. “Here’s Sam now.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  PAUL Chittenden was Friar’s East Coast lieutenant, but he wouldn’t be taking the stage at the rally. He kept a low profile. Humans First’s official organizer for the D.C. rally was Kim Evans, a tall, nervous powerhouse of a woman who liked cameras just fine and had a problem distinguishing between fact and fiction.

  Rule had met her recently at a D.C. party, the sort of event he used to attend more often. The sort of event Lily hated, which was why he accepted far fewer invitations than he used to. But he’d heard Kim Evans would be at this one, and he’d been determined to meet her and size her up.

  It had been worth the effort. In five minutes’ conversation, Evans lied three times—twice about things she’d said that were on record, available to see and hear at various news sites. The third lie was her insistence that Rule himself had just said something he hadn’t. She’d lied passionately and sincerely, and when called on it, brushed it off with “don’t be ridiculous.”

  Evans’s fierce insistence that the truth was whatever she said it was created its own odd sort of charisma. Heaven knew the press found her fascinating. There were television cameras set up on stage—those operated by the Jumbotron people, yes, but also from various news outlets.

  Rule stood beside Cullen at the north side of the crowd, where it thinned slightly, way back from the stage. They’d been unable to get closer without forcing a path. Rule had been ready to do just that when Abel found them. Abel had decided to pay a visit to the people hosting the event. He could badge his way in, he said.

  The crowds had swallowed them up ten minutes ago. Rule was getting increasingly nervous. Abel hadn’t called. The brownies were either late or they couldn’t get through the mob, and the show was starting. A swell of music announced Kim Evans as she mounted the steps. Evans had a racehorse’s elegance—thin and quick and nervous. She was immaculately turned out in a bright pink suit and three-inch heels; she’d worn her blond hair loose, and the wind whipped it around her narrow face. The crowd went crazy cheering.

  Rule’s phone sounded. It was Lily. His heart pounded in a mix of relief and anxiety—relief because he’d hear her voice. Anxiety because she wasn’t here. “Yes?” he said, then, blocking his other ear: “Say again. There’s too many people screaming and clapping. I couldn’t hear.”

  Even with his hearing, even with his other ear stopped up, he missed a few words when she repeated her message: “... going to be kinda busy here, but you need to know. Pass the word. They . . . making lupus dopplegängers. Wolf form. A whole lot of them. Must have used Brian’s tissue. Turning them loose on . . . here and . . . buquerque and . . . iego and New York.”

  THE plan was simple enough. Let the bad guys get all their unconscious victims loaded up—then stop them, take their wheels, and show up in their place at the rally.

  Having all the bad guys outside was obviously best. Having all the victims in one place and secured inside the truck made it harder for the bad guys to use them as hostages. The tricky part was that she was trusting Drummond. Sort of.

  Lily was going with her gut—and maybe with Mullins’s gut, too. Drummond’s sense of right and wrong might be twisted as hell, but it was strong. Strong enough for him to sacrifice his career and his bloody stupid war against the Gifted to keep a bunch of homeless people from being sacrificed. In his screwed-up head, everything he’d done was supposed to protect people. Lily and Ruben, the lupi, the Gifted in general—they weren’t really people to him. But he couldn’t let “innocents”—people without Gifts or the knack of turning furry—be killed.

  She wouldn’t turn her back on him, but she’d use him. He had an advantage she couldn’t overlook. He’d supplied the thugs in the first place.

  Or rather, he’d arranged things. Dennis Parrott hadn’t known how to go about hiring muscle who wouldn’t object to wet work. Drummond might claim he didn’t know about the death magic, but he’d known his compadres were planning murder. Like most cops, he knew people on the other side of the law. He’d set up a meet between Parrott and Randy “Big Thumbs” Ballister. “Big Thumbs” got his name from saying he’d “squish that prick like a bug,” accompanied by a motion with his thumb. Word was, he did a lot of squishing.

  Most of the operation would be carried out by the lupi. If everything went right, Lily wouldn’t even be needed. That grated on her. She didn’t like sending others into danger while she stood around giving orders, but she wasn’t going to risk lives just to soothe her ego. Lupi could do things she couldn’t.

  So Lily squatted across the street from the Webster house, tucked behind a hugely overgrown juniper. The world was growing lighter, though still wrapped in shades of gray; she could see clearly enough. The catering truck was parked in the cracked driveway, its open rear facing the house. Its driver had just climbed back behind the wheel and rolled the windows down so he could enjoy a smoke.

  He was a bit of a wild card; surrounded by metal, he’d be hard to take, and there was no cover to reach him unseen. They were hoping Big Thumbs’s men were scared enough of him to obey, no matter what. If not . . . that’s why Lily had picked this spot. It was the only place with cover that gave a good view of the man.

  Two men emerged from the front door, a long, blanket-wrapped bundle carried between them. Another man—Big Thumbs himself—stood by, watching.

  If the count was right, that was the next-to-last hostage. And here came two more men with another bundle. Where the hell was . . .

  She sighed with relief as a white Ford that any self-respecting criminal would make fo
r a cop car pulled up, blocking the catering truck. Drummond climbed out, slammed his door.

  The first two men hastily heaved their bundle into the truck and hurried to back up their boss. They didn’t bother with subtle. Both drew their weapons.

  Lily could hear Big Thumbs clearly. “What the hell you doing here?”

  “Parrott thinks I’m his goddamn messenger boy, that’s what. He says he left something behind last time. Fancy card case, metal—might make it through the fire when you torch the place, and it’s got his initials on it, so he wants you to find it.”

  “Why the hell didn’t he call me?”

  “He doesn’t have a throwaway with him, asshole. He’s not making calls to you on his regular phone.”

  Big Thumbs thought that over, then grunted. “I hate working with damn amateurs. He pays good, but he’s a pain in the ass. Where is his goddamned card case supposed to be?”

  “Wherever he’s been holding those ceremonies. He said you’d know what he meant.”

  “Okay, but if we run late, he’d better not bitch about it.” Big Thumbs nodded at the last two men, who’d deposited their burden in the back of the truck and slammed the doors. “Look for the man’s fancy card case. Should be out back.”

  There was a brand-new, eight-foot wooden fence closing off the backyard. It stood out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. According to Shannon, the backyard was where the worst stink of death magic came from.

  That’s also where Scott and Chris were waiting. Those two men wouldn’t be coming back.

  Big Thumbs waited impatiently for a full forty-five seconds. “Hell with this shit. No point in the delivery running late. You two, get aboard.” He looked at Drummond. “Move your damn car.”

  Why did the bad guys never read the script? Time for Plan B: shock and awe. Lily pulled a small metal whistle from her pocket.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Drummond said with equal impatience. “I don’t need to be seen standing around shooting the shit with you. I’m going to look for that damn case myself.” He started for the house.

  Shit. Drummond had gone off-script, too.

  Big Thumbs grabbed his arm. “Did you hear what I said? Move your damn car.”

  Lily put the whistle to her mouth and blew once, twice, three times. And heard nothing, because it was a dog whistle.

  Drummond jerked his arm away—or tried to. Big Thumbs was a big man, and he had a tight grip. “Listen, you jerkwad, you’d better—”

  Two enormous wolves streaked around from each side of the house, running flat out.

  One of the men shrieked like a girl and fired wildly. The other stared in frozen horror for a second—which is way too long when lupi are moving at top speed.

  The next bit, at least, went smooth as silk.

  The wolves took down the two gunmen like clockwork—two great leaps, two downed men with snarling wolves pinning them. Mullins fired from a window inside the house—an attention-getting shot, aimed high. “Freeze, assholes! This is the FBI!” And Drummond—who was supposed to have moved away from Big Thumbs so he couldn’t be taken hostage—seized the man’s arm, twisted, and landed him on the ground. He drew his gun and stuck it in the man’s face. “Tell the driver to climb out. Do it now. I’m in a real bad mood.”

  Lily drew a shaky breath. Adrenaline had her on hyperdrive. She eased out from behind her juniper.

  The driver shot Drummond. He fell on top of Big Thumbs.

  Lily stopped, braced her right hand with her left in the approved stance, took a full second to aim, and fired twice.

  The driver jolted as the bullet smashed into his face. Lily felt that moment viscerally—no emotion, just the fact of it, her bullet smashing into his brain and ending him.

  The door of the house shot open and Mullins raced out, with Chris and Scott right behind him.

  Big Thumbs shoved Drummond’s body away and snatched the .357 that had fallen from Drummond’s hand when he was shot. Lily didn’t have a clear shot, dammit—one of the wolves partly blocked her, but she saw Big Thumbs take aim at Mullins. She started running, knowing she’d be too late.

  Drummond shoved himself up with one arm and rolled back on top of Big Thumbs.

  The gun went off.

  Scott got there first. Before Lily finished running across the street, he’d kicked Big Thumbs in the head—he wouldn’t be moving again soon and maybe not ever—and gently rolled Drummond onto his back. Blood drenched Drummond’s white shirt and trickled from his mouth. His eyes were open and staring. “No heartbeat,” Scott said tersely.

  “The driver,” Lily flung at Chris as she skidded to a stop. “Check him. If he’s dead or incapacitated, get that truck open and start getting those people out of there. Shannon! Mark! Change back and get those two goons restrained, then help Chris.”

  “Al.” Mullins went to his knees beside his friend. “Al, oh, shit. Al.”

  Something white and filmy began condensing over Drummond’s body.

  ON a grassy plain of northeastern Colorado, six women stood in a circle near a fence enclosing a place bare of grass, where a set of steel doors were set into the ground. They chanted in a language so old no record remained of it. The seventh woman—the dark-skinned one in the beautiful dashiki—sat apart, eyes closed, quietly doing nothing at all that anyone could see ... but whatever eyes the U.S. government kept on this site normally, today they wouldn’t work.

  Overhead, four dragons flew . . . and joined their voices with the women’s.

  Slowly, almost silently, the steel doors began to move.

  * * *

  RULE had not been able to come up with any clever plans for dealing with “a whole lot” of lupi dopplegängers, other than what he’d already put in place. He’d warned Isen, Benedict, and Manuel, who didn’t have any suggestions, either—but at least they, too, were in their appointed places. Waiting, as he was.

  Rule’s primary target was the amulet or artifact or whatever was used to create and control the dopplegängers. Preventing general carnage was a major secondary goal, but they had to find and obtain the artifact, then destroy it. Which was why he had two men whose sole job was protecting Cullen . . . the only person on the planet known to be able to call and control mage fire.

  The control part was important. Rumors in the magical community said Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was innocent—the Great Chicago Fire had been cause by a Fire Gifted who managed the calling part, but flunked on control.

  Rule had opted to split his men. Fourteen were with him and Cullen. Nine were with José about halfway down the length of the crowd at its fringes, ready to move where they were needed. And one was on the roof of the Smithsonian Castle, keeping an eye on the whole spread of people.

  Rule and his squad had made themselves unpopular by shoving their way close to the stage. The men were bunched up tightly around him and Cullen, both because of the press of people and because their bodies should keep others from seeing his too-familiar face. That was also why they hadn’t pushed to the very front, where crowd control barriers and three men in security guard uniforms kept everyone back from the stage. He didn’t want Parrott to see him.

  Interesting that the event’s organizers didn’t want anyone within fifteen feet of the stage . . . that tall, enclosed stage with room beneath it for an entire coven.

  Lily was on her way here. He’d spoken to her, knew her plans, could feel her moving closer. It was nothing short of delusional to feel such relief that she would be with him soon. How could he keep her safe in the midst of the kind of chaos likely to ensue? Especially when she’d be doing her damnedest to be right in the middle of that chaos. But the closer she got, the more he settled. Steadied.

  Sometimes he didn’t make sense at all.

  He hadn’t heard from Abel and couldn’t reach him by phone. Maybe Abel had found out what was under that stage. Maybe that hadn’t worked out well.

  Rule’s phone was in his pocket, but he was wearing a headset that should stay on throu
gh even vigorous activity. He spoke into it now. “Does she have any control over the elemental at all?”

  “Not much, she says, though it promises it will protect her. Uh . . . she says it’s pretty excited.”

  An enormous, excited earth elemental was not good news. But at least Deborah’s guards had found her and were jogging along beside her now at the far west end of the Mall as she and the elemental headed this way. Deborah’s phone wasn’t working, which was why Rule was talking to Matt instead of Deborah.

  She was on a bicycle. A bloody bicycle in D.C. traffic! She’d found it in the shed behind Fagin’s house and had ridden over eight miles to get here. She couldn’t track the elemental in a car, she’d told Matt, so wasn’t it lucky Fagin had an old bike?

  Rule was certain Ruben wouldn’t consider that good luck, any more than he did. “Keep me posted if anything changes,” he told Matt and reached up to disconnect. He glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes. Maybe less.

  The minister of a Maryland megachurch finally reached the “amen” in a lengthy but surprisingly inoffensive opening prayer. Rule had no problem with people asking to be protected from the forces of darkness—he only hoped some Power was listening and would give him a hand with the protecting. The minister went back to his chair on the right side of the stage. Four people—two men and two women—sat in those chairs, waiting their turn.

  Kim Evans was one of them. She returned to the podium, where she proceeded to whip up the crowd about the great evil in their midst, focusing on their recent martyr: Senator Bob Bixton.

  “—and a man who was supposed to protect us all, a man sworn to the service of this country—a Gifted man who ran the very Unit designed to deal with magical crimes in this country—walked into Senator Bixton’s home and stabbed him. Why? Do we even have to ask?”