Incarnate (A Spellmason Chronicle)

by Anton Strout

  “Very well,” I said. “But where do we start?”

  “I think I can send you off with a two-for-one,” Warren said with a smile. “If the Butcher is seeking out the medallion, he’s going to look where I’d look next.”

  “Which is where?” I asked.

  “Our family crypt,” Warren said.

  “Please tell me you have one in your basement,” I said.

  Warren cocked his head at me. “Excuse me?”

  “My family’s ancestral home has one in the lower levels of the building,” I said. “I figured you might have the same.”

  “That’s morbid,” Warren said with a look of distaste. “You people are creepy.”

  “Says the guy wearing twenty rings,” I fired back.

  Warren held his hands up, examining with a look of pride, my barb being lost on him completely.

  “Where is this crypt, then?” Caleb asked.

  “There is a secret cemetery in this city,” he said. “One where most of our kind are buried.”

  “That’s what I was worried about,” Caleb said. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “But you’ve never been?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I’m not really one for planning out my future,” he said. “And picking a place to be buried wasn’t really top of my list. I always figured I’d end up in some magical potter’s field somewhere. I know where this place is, though. Roughly.”

  I turned my attention back to Warren. “Why send us to check your family crypt? Couldn’t you do that yourself instead of sending us in there like grave robbers?”

  Warren shook his head. “Normally, yes,” he said. “In fact, I already tried to do just that, but there’s one problem.”

  “You mean other than the Butcher wanting to kill you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I would have gone to the crypt myself,” he said, “but it appears to have gone . . . missing.”

  “Your family’s crypt?” Caleb asked.

  “Not just it,” he said, and looked almost embarrassed by the admission. “The cemetery itself. I can’t seem to find my way to it any longer. I searched the path for it, but to no avail.”

  I sighed. “Of course not,” I said. “Why should anything ever go easy for us?”

  “Leave it to me,” Caleb said. “I’ll find the place, don’t worry. Now, what was this you mentioned about a twofer . . . ?”

  Warren nodded. “If you do indeed find the cemetery, not only will you find my family crypt there, but it is also the final resting place of the Butcher. I am not sure of the way of gargoyles, but if it is like other transformative arcana, he’ll want to have secured his mortal remains so none can act upon them. You’ll find either them or evidence of their removal. Either way, it is a starting point for tracking him down.”

  “Fine,” I said. “We’ll check on this crypt of yours for the medallion, providing Caleb actually finds it for me, and I’ll see what I can do about this gargoyle Butcher of yours. But I have two conditions.”

  Warren leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Name them.”

  “First,” I said. “I’m sick of Manhattan’s magical denizens trying to hunt me down. I need that to stop. In fact, I could use their help. It would benefit us all if they could help get the city’s gargoyle population under control. “

  Warren shook his head. “I have little control over how the various covens of New York conduct themselves,” he said.

  I leaned over him. “This is a nonnegotiable point,” I said. “Put your best foot forward with them. I’ll deal with the ones who can’t be persuaded by you, but I have a feeling you’ll be very convincing.”

  Warren thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Agreed. I will speak with the powers that be. There is a Convocation with all the boroughs on the schedule. Perhaps I can arrange something. And?”

  “For my second request,” I said. “The Cagliostro Medallion. If I find it, it’s mine.”

  Warren shook his head “You cannot ask for such a thing,” he said.

  I turned away from him, heading back to the stairs leading down into the town house, not even waiting for Caleb to follow.

  “I wasn’t asking,” I said, and walked down the stairs back toward the mural of the fornicating unicorns. “That’s the price you pay for getting to live.”

  Thirteen

  Alexandra

  “I remember when we used to come to Central Park because we were skipping school,” Rory said as we wandered down one of its winding, sunlit dirt pathways. “I’m not so much a fan of coming here as grave robbers.”

  The sun shone down through the trees, creating gorgeous shafts of light all around us. It seemed strange to even be talking grave robbing during daylight hours, but clearly it was still enough to give Rory a look of unease.

  “We’re not robbing graves,” I said, loud enough for even Marshall and Caleb to hear from where they walked up ahead of us. “We’re ensuring a good relationship with the magical community.”

  “Yes,” Rory said. “By robbing a grave.”

  “We’re doing a favor,” I offered. “Or would you prefer this Warren guy and the rest of the witches and warlocks to keep hunting us? At least he wanted a favor. The others of his kind just want us turned into mice or something for unleashing this gargoyle terror on the city.”

  Marshall turned back to us. “I’m with Rory on this one,” he said. “Not too sure how I feel about defiling a crypt.”

  I stopped for a second and sighed. “We’ve got permission from the family,” I said, “from the O’Sheas. We recover this item for them, we check out the Butcher’s burial site, and we’re good. We’ll do as little defiling as possible.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Rory said.

  “You do that,” I replied.

  The two of us caught up with Caleb, who was stopped in the middle of the path, consulting a hand-drawn map. I hadn’t seen another person on our trails for at least half an hour, and in the middle of New York City, that kind of lonely isolation felt all kinds of creepy.

  “I thought you said you knew where this place is,” I said.

  “I do,” Caleb said. “This might sound strange, but I just don’t think it wants to be found right now.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “How does that work?”

  “Let me ask you this,” he said, looking up from his map at me. “How many times have you opened a newspaper or turned on the television and heard about a cemetery for paranormals having been discovered in Manhattan?”

  “Zero . . . ?” I asked after taking a moment to wonder whether it was a trick question.

  “Correct. It’s a secret cemetery, and not by chance. Whoever chose to put it here meant for it to stay hidden from the hundreds of thousands of tourists who hit New York City.”

  “So it’s like my family’s building on Gramercy,” I said. “Alexander warded it centuries ago so people wouldn’t take notice of it, especially those seeking out the secrets of the Spellmasons.”

  “Exactly,” Caleb said, then looked down at the map. “Thing is, I thought we would have come across it by now.”

  Marshall shook his head.

  “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere,” he said. “I’m pretty sure we’ve passed that lamppost with that Grateful Dead cover-band poster on it at least six times.”

  “Dammit,” Caleb said. He folded the map shut and slid it into his jacket.

  “So let’s make a new path,” Rory said, pulling the tube off her back to assemble her pole arm.

  “I like your thinking,” I said. “Have at it.”

  “Ladies,” Marshall added, holding up a finger. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  Rory paused with the pole arm over her head. “No?”

  “Don’t you remember what happened to the orcs in Fango
rn?” he said.

  Rory and I both shrugged in confusion.

  “What the hell is Fangorn?” I asked. “You forget I’m not fluent in geek.”

  He sighed. “In Lord of the Rings. Saruman the White and his orcs destroyed parts of Fangorn Forest to fuel his war efforts. Eventually the living trees there rose up and fought back.”

  “That’s great and all,” Rory said. “But this is Central Park, not Middle Earth.” She swung with a great downward slash into the tall, thick bushes on one side of the path. It sliced through the branches with ease but all around us the rest of the natural growth sprung to sudden life. Vines and brush snaked out onto the pathway from every direction, coming toward our group.

  “I told you!” Marshall said, backing away from the flurry of activity as fast as he could.

  “What do you know!” Caleb said, digging into the inside of his coat. “The game store owner was right!”

  “I hate being right,” Marshall said in retreat.

  Caleb pulled several vials free from the lining of his coat. He gave a quick study of their labels and then smashed one of them on the ground at his feet. Several of the rapidly approaching vines burst into flame. Some withered or were consumed immediately by flame, but the thicker, older branches kept coming and wrapped around his legs.

  “That could have gone better,” Caleb said, coughing through the smoke rising up as his pants caught on fire.

  Marshall’s hands flew into the satchel he wore and he produced several vials of his own. He poured two small silver ones into a larger plastic one, shook it, and opened the end of it in Caleb’s direction. Its contents exploded out of the end and onto the vines wrapped around his legs. What looked like wet sand—and far more than the vial could ever have contained—rained down around Caleb’s feet and legs, killing the flames.

  Being on a dirt path did little to help me as far as my powers were concerned, but I reached my will out to whatever stone I could find nearby. Rocks, pebbles, and chunks of stone flew up out of the woods all around me, and I aimed them at any vine or branch that made a move toward me. Concentrating my will more on the larger pieces I had summoned, I brought them down over and over again, mashing the broken vines and twisted branches into the path, the fight reluctantly going out of them.

  My plan was working, but there was just too much violent, enchanted greenery coming for us. For each one I dispensed with, three others seemed to snake out of the wilderness to replace them.

  “A little help here,” Rory’s voice croaked out from off to my left.

  I looked over. Since she was the one who had actually dealt the blow, the plant life seemed to have gone for her with a greater vigor than the rest of us. She was covered in vines, her arms and legs splayed out in the air about a foot off the pathway.

  “Jesus,” Marshall said, already running for her. “She looks like Swamp Thing.”

  I ran to her as well. Vines snaked around her hand that held the pole arm, but I reached for the connection where the bladed section met with the shaft and twisted the pieces apart, freeing the sharp piece of it. I held it like a giant kitchen knife and began cutting away at the vines entangling my best friend. Marshall grabbed the writhing pieces that fell free and poured a thick, black liquid on the severed ends, which caused them to wither away completely.

  The whole process was hard going, especially since I couldn’t hack or slack Rory’s way to freedom. I couldn’t risk cutting her that way, but I needed her free of this mass because I could already hear the rustle of more branches coming out of the bushes all around us.

  Caleb joined Marshall in handling the ones I was tossing free of Rory, and a minute later I had cut enough away that Rory was able to lower herself and get her feet back on the ground. Immediately, she was back in action, but was coughing up a storm. Her nails tore into a vine wrapped around her throat. It wriggled like it was in pain as her fingers sunk into it, but she was relentless and wild-eyed now behind her glasses.

  With a Hulk-like rage, she pulled it free and took in a huge gasping breath.

  “Thanks,” she said when she had caught her breath. She staggered weakly on her feet, but managed to tap the end of her pole arm on the ground and reach out her hand to me for the bladed section.

  I shook my head, keeping the blade poised for the next vine that snaked near me.

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “What?” she asked, still wobbling. “You’re kidding, right? I just got caught off guard, that’s all. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “This isn’t just about you,” I said. “We don’t know what we’re up against and I’m not about to put all of us at risk in the face of that.” I pointed off to the rustling in a nearby clump of bushes. “There’s already more on their way. We need a plan. We need more information.”

  “I know a guy,” Caleb said as he danced in great twists and turns to avoid several attempts by the vines to ensnare him.

  “Of course you do,” Rory shot back, lashing out at one of the bushes with what remained of her pole arm, essentially a staff then. The shaft caught in the bushes, and despite Rory’s grip on it, it came free and disappeared into the greenery.

  “I see your point,” she said, staring down into her empty hands. Her knees buckled as the fatigue of the fight caught up with her, but I ran in close and caught her before she could fall.

  “I will not be undone by shrubbery,” Marshall added, emptying vials of his own as fast as he could, the greenery far too plentiful and overwhelming for him to contend with. “I’ll never hear the end of it if this gets out to my gaming crowd.”

  I slid Rory’s arm over my shoulder and dragged her farther from the center of the commotion back along the path away from the action.

  “Let’s live to fight another day,” I called out.

  Another wave of greenery shot out of the tree line at Marshall and Caleb, but the two alchemists were ready this time. They threw down their combined vials a safe distance from their bodies and ran back up the path after us. I didn’t wait to see what effect their concoctions had on the living plant life, all too busy making sure our escape up the pathway was clear, but the hissing and popping rising up behind me seemed a good indicator that their attack had been effective.

  “This guy of yours better own a Weedwacker,” I said, giving Caleb a weak smile.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he said, grabbing Rory’s other arm to help move her along more quickly, “but I think he’ll prove helpful.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said. “At this point I’ll settle for a guy with a gas can and a book of matches. Smokey the Bear be damned!”

  As the four of us hightailed it back up the path, I shook my head and sighed. First the attempted retreat at the armory, and now this one. I hated that this was becoming a more and more unsettling trend.

  Fourteen

  Stanis

  Waiting was something that a grotesque knew how to do, and nowhere did my demonic form look more natural than in the aptly named Hell’s Kitchen, where I sat perched for hours atop an apartment building. Years of vigilance watching over the Belarus family had taught me a near-infinite patience, but with the uprising of these hostile grotesques causing unrest within my people and with Alexandra, I found waiting for anything or anyone unbearable.

  When the familiar red hair of my target came into sight headed for the entrance of the building below, I stood, stretched my wings to their fullest, and stepped off the ledge.

  Detective Chloe Rowland was almost to the doors of her building when I landed in front of her, the walkway beneath my feet cracking on the impact. She dodged to her right, a gun appearing as if out of nowhere in her hands. By the time she caught my eye, her face was full of uncertainty, the gun remaining leveled at my chest.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “Do we?” she asked, the gun un
wavering.

  “Yes.” I looked down at the weapon. “There is no need for that. Alexandra sent me.”

  The detective lowered her weapon, then slid it inside the coat she was wearing.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s hard to tell your kind apart. You’re all carved by Alexander Belarus, so it’s not all that surprising.”

  “We need to talk,” I repeated.

  The detective looked past me into the building, then back down the sidewalk where there were more people approaching from off in the distance.

  “Now? Here?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And no.”

  “Make up your mind,” she said, but before she could go any further, I reached out, secured her under her arms, and shot straight up into the night sky.

  The detective’s eyes went wide and white, her mouth falling open. Before any sound could escape it, I came up over the edge of her building, bringing her down on its roof. I released her and she stumbled back from me until she could once again find her words.

  “Next time ask before you do something like that,” she said, smoothing down her coat. “I almost lost my dinner.”

  I folded my wings in close to my body, knowing just how uneasy they made most humans when they were flourished open.

  “Although we met the other night, I do not believe we were formally introduced,” I said. “I am Stanis Ruthenia, and I humbly come before you as a representative of our kind.”

  “You mean to help Detective Maron and I with our gargoyle problem,” she said.

  I gave a single nod. “That is what Alexandra Belarus asked of me, yes,” I said. “I would do anything to see her happy.”

  “Touching, really,” the detective said, then sighed. “But listen up—your kind are my problem. So what exactly do you plan to do about that?”