Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  Crow realized that he’d forgotten something. “One second.” He walked over to the still robot and inspected the Cog craftsmanship. “Impressive. This thing tore my men to pieces.” He put one finger in the dents where the pistol bullets had bounced off. “Your clients called it a robot. What’s that mean?”

  “Czech word for serf. One of their Cogs invented the first one awhile back. EGE improved on the design. Nobody is better at sticking spells on stuff than these boys. They bring bad things to life.”

  “I thought Edison didn’t believe in building offensive weapons.”

  “Not since that debacle with the Navy ship that got all those sailors fused into the deck a few years back.” Hammer shook her head. “He wouldn’t do it, but Mr. Edison’s body wasn’t even cold before they’d figured out how to arm these. Each one has a 30-caliber machine gun, but they can take flamethrowers, antitank guns, you name it.”

  “Does it think for itself?”

  “I think they can only follow orders.”

  “Huh . . . I like that. They pretty tough?”

  “Very tough. This is the five series. The six just entered production. It’s even better. Like a security guard that never sleeps or a soldier that never gets scared. Army procurement wants some if they can get the funding.” Crow seemed deep in thought. it?”

  “Yeah. I’m done with you. You’re going to want to get a move on before Sullivan gets too far away.”

  “Head starts don’t matter with me.”

  “Good. Do me a favor and send in one of those eggheads on the way out. I’ve got a few questions.”

  Hammer was obviously relieved to be away from him. A minute later one of the EGE scientists came in, nervous. Crow tended to have that effect on most people.

  “You needed help, sir?”

  Crow pointed at the robot. “Are these expensive?”

  “I’m no salesman, but I believe so. They’re somewhere around seventy thousand dollars each. The machining is very precise.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Crow thought about it for a moment. That was an obscene amount of money, but OCI was about to have an even more obscene budget. “Does EGE offer a bulk discount?”

  “I would have to ask.”

  “Hell with it. I’ll take a dozen.”

  Chapter 6

  After we lost the vote, they told us to go home, but most of us stayed. Summer got hotter. Tempers got shorter. So they sicced the Army on us. MacArthur was in front, chest full of ribbons, thumping a riding crop on his leg and giving orders like we was the Hun. Some of us met them on the way, waving white shirts like flags over our heads, begging for an hour to get the women and children out of the camp. The hotheads and the communists began throwing rocks and bottles so the Army threw gas bombs back. My head got split open with a club. I wanted to cut them so bad, just let my bones grow into claws and rip them to bits, like I was back in the war, but I didn’t. My brother’s boy turned blue and died the next morning from the gas. Nothing I could do. He was just too little . . . Folks wonder why we stayed. We were hungry and broke. Of course we stayed. We had nowhere else to go.

  —Higby Yates,

  Former member of the 1st Volunteer Active Brigade

  and Bonus Marcher, 1933

  Washington D.C.

  THEIR CHOSEN MEETING PLACE had not been picked by chance, but rather because it seemed appropriate. The authorities hadn’t even bothered to clean up the mess left over from last summer. The shacks and tents had been burned, but the remains still sat there in their orderly rows, tattered or rusting, while the sun went down over the Anacostia Flats. It was a place where trust had been betrayed.

  As someone who understood what it felt like to get stabbed in the back, he had wanted to see the place for himself. Jake Sullivan sat on the grass and savored a smoke while he waited for the others to arrive.

  Lance Talon got there next, sort of. A mangy stray dog came trotting up to Sullivan like it owned the place. That was his first clue. Normally a cur like that would have skulked around in the shadows until it decided it was worth the risk to try and mooch food. The dog was brown except for where it was pink and it smelled like it had been rolling on something dead.

  “Evening, Lance,” Sullivan said.

  “Hey, Jake,” the dog answered with a deep voice. A dripping tongue hung out, but the dog’s mouth didn’t move as Lance spoke through the animal. “I’m on my way up the road. Figured I’d sniff around first.”

  “How can you smell anything over that stink?” Sullivan pinched his nose. “Would you back up already? I’m dying here.”

  “Smells like perfume and roses to me right now.” The dog trotted a few feet downwind. “Better?”

  “Much. Why the mutt?”

  “I’m guessing you haven’t read the evening paper yet.” The dog cocked its head at him and whined. “I was making sure this place wasn’t swarming with coppers first.”

  “Haven’t seen the paper in days.”

  “I’ve got one with me. You’re famous. Or is it infamous? Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dillinger.”

  “That bad?”

  “You think I’m exaggerating . . . Hang on a second.”

  The dog’s manner suddenly changed. It blinked stupidly, as if trying to figure out how it had woken up here. The last thing it remembered was whatever wonderful dead thing it had been playing with before Lance had taken over its brain. The mutt saw Sullivan, yipped in surprise, and took off into the ruins at a dead run.

  A Ford box truck came to stop nearby and shut off its engine. Sullivan tossed the butt in the grass and stood. Lance Talon limped up, his cowboy boots crunching on the gravel. They shook hands, both of them knowing better by now than to try to out-squeeze the other guy.

  Though short, Lance was a tough fellow with a lumberjack’s beard and the shoulders to match. More comfortable in the outdoors than in the fake trappings of civilized society, the Beastie had adventured his way around the dark corners of the world, hunting exotic animals until the Grimnoir had put his skills to use hunting Imperium instead. “Nice view.” Lance glanced at the Capitol in the distance. The dome could be seen over the trees. “Formidable, even if it’s packed with liars and thieves.” He handed Sullivan a folded Washington Herald.

  “What page?”

  “Buddy, you’re the headline.”

  DANGEROUS ACTIVE MURDERS FEDERAL OFFICERS

  The next line was even worse.

  JAKE “HEAVY” SULLIVAN:

  Possible Conspirator in Magical Assassination Plot?

  The picture was his convict shot from Rockville—the one that made his eyes look small, black, and dead. These people certainly moved fast.

  Lance tried and failed to peer over Sullivan’s shoulder while he read the lies. Jake was nearly a foot taller, and it didn’t help that Lance had taken on a sort of permanent bad-posture stoop because one of his legs was shorter than the other. A particularly nasty demon had taken a chunk out of him and there hadn’t been a Healer around. “I heard talk you’re going to be declared public enemy number one. I saw that movie. James Cagney is too pretty to play the likes of you.”

  Sullivan crumpled the newspaper in disgust and threw it on the ground. “Damn Hearst and his excuse for journalism. Whatever happened to reporters checking facts themselves? That man will print anything that makes an Active look like an animal.”

  “Us being animals seems to be the popular sentiment over there today, too.” Lance nodded at the capitol. “The president is going to live, thank God, but all Actives are footing the bill. Dark times are coming, Jake.”

  “Well, let’s go risk our lives finding this Pathfinder to protect all these ignorant bastards so they can sit around and bitch about our kind. You know this very spot should’ve been blown up by the Geo-Tel . . . what, twice now?”

  “Last year and ’08. Feeling bitter?”

  Sullivan didn’t respond for a long time as he surveyed the wreckage of the camp. “I’m not going back to Rockville. I’m done
breaking rocks. I’m not going back in a cage. I’ll die first.”

  “I’m rather disinclined toward tight spaces myself.” Lance chuckled as he took a flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and took a swig. “Ahh . . . That’s good stuff. Well, you could always put out to sea. Pirate Bob said you’d make a fine executive officer.”

  “Maybe I should. There’s no law out there except for what a man makes himself.” Sullivan took the offered flask and took a long pull of bootleg booze. It burned going down. He coughed. “You find that in a bathtub?”

  “Turpentine gives it that special something.”

  He took another drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and passed the noxious swill back over. “What do you think I should do?”

  “I don’t rightly know that myself.” Lance was one that understood sacrifice. He had been a self-made man, successful and respected, and he’d given that up to protect Magicals. He’d lost his entire family in the secret war against the Imperium, yet here he was, still fighting, and he would probably keep on fighting until the day he died. “Nobody would blame you if you took off. Not with that kind of heat on your neck.”

  Quitting was not a concept Sullivan was familiar with. “You know what this place is?”

  Lance surveyed the ruins. “I took a look around through the eyes of that poor hungry beast. Tent stakes rusting away in the dirt, shacks in a nice grid all laid out with streets, latrines dug. Feels like a military camp.”

  “Sort of. Ten thousand men dragged their families here because they tried to collect early on what was promised them. A buck and a quarter for each day served in the war. They were out of work and stupid enough to think that they could get what was theirs before the notes came due. Should’ve known better.”

  “Ahh. The Bonus Army.”

  Sullivan’s eyes wandered over the flats where a shanty town had been destroyed. A handful of the people here had been survivors of the 1st Volunteer Active Brigade, just like him. “An army.” He snorted. “They were just desperate folks looking for help from a nation that didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Congress said no. When the crowd didn’t leave, the real Army forced them out with tear gas and tanks, then put the whole damn thing to the torch . . . People got hurt. Kids died.”

  “Sad day, that.”

  Sullivan kicked at a rock. “They should’ve left peacefully when they lost the vote.”

  “Would you have?”

  They both knew Lance already had the answer to that. When a man like Sullivan set a course, it was seen through to the end. “They weren’t expecting to be treated like that. I know what they were thinking, the marchers that is. After what they went through in the war, they figured it meant something.”

  “I was in the war. AEF,” Lance said. “Dan was too. We were staff officers, though. That’s how we met Pershing. I heard it was much worse for you 1st Volunteer boys.”

  Sullivan took the flask back and drank some more. It wasn’t as awful this pass. “I can’t speak for the others, but the 1st . . . We got gassed, burned, bombed, fought demons, undead . . . Jesus, wave after wave of the undead. Slept in the mud, lived in the mud, killed in the mud, froze and died in the mud. Then we had the biggest battle in history, Active on Active, gun, knife, and tooth. Fire in the fucking sky and rivers of blood hip deep for days. We killed a million Germans and scorched Berlin off the map with a Peace Ray. All that for a buck twenty-five a day. We were a hell of a deal.”

  Lanced helped him keep watch on the Flats as the sun fled. “You know, Jake, I do believe that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in one sitting. Melancholy renders you downright talkative.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “I’m Irish.”

  Headlights illuminated them and a horn buzzed. Dan Garrett had arrived.

  “Well, I got a truck bed full of goodies. What do you say we go kidnap an Iron Guard and make a little mayhem?” Lance thumped him on the back. “That ought to cheer you up.”

  Sullivan took one last look at the remains. They had come looking for a fair shake and had got burned out for their troubles. Life was never fair. Only suckers bought that line. “Maybe you’re right about going out to sea, joining Southunder’s crew. I can make a new life, quit living under somebody else’s boot. Fight the good fight as a free man.”

  “Sounds mighty tempting when you put it like that.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do . . . after we save these ungrateful fucks again.”

  Dan met them with a firm handshake. Their Mouth didn’t look like much, late thirties, soft around the middle, losing his hair, and wearing thick glasses. In his case, looks really were deceiving because Dan Garrett was one dangerous operator. His magic lay in his voice.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Dan greeted them.

  The Mouths liked to call it Influence. The antimagic groups liked to call it mind control. Whatever it was, Sullivan was glad to have Dan on his team.

  “How you feeling?” Lance asked.

  “I’m fine.” His dark expression gave evidence that he was anything but fine. That raised an interesting question: when a Mouth lied to himself, did he believe it? “Heinrich died fighting. That’s how he would have wanted it.”

  “He wouldn’t have had it any other way. Where’s Jane?” Sullivan asked.

  “She’s fixing up the local safe house. It’s been empty for a long time.”

  Lance and Sullivan exchanged a glance. It went unsaid, but they’d both been hoping for her to tag along. A Healer was a mighty valuable person to have around when you take on an Iron Guard. “She okay?”

  “You mean, is she still having nightmares from being kidnapped by Madi?” Dan shook his head. “My wife is far braver than folks give her credit for. No. She wanted to come. I didn’t want her to.”

  “What?” Lance sputtered. “One of us catches a Jap sword and we’re gonna be wishing she was here.”

  “I told her not to come. I lost her once. I didn’t want to risk it. Something else maybe, but not when Iron Guards are involved. I put my foot down. I talked her out of coming.”

  “You talked, or you talked?”

  That must have stung. “Go to hell, Lance. She’s my wife. My decision was made. Briefly anyway. Then she told me to take a hike. She’s going to meet us on the way. The woman’s stubborn.”

  Lance grinned. “Looks like you married up in more ways than one.”

  “Yeah, I know. She’s got more guts than I do. Still, I don’t want her anywhere near an Iron Guard again, but she’ll be tailing close in case one of us gets hurt.” Dan pulled a folded paper out of his coat and passed it to Sullivan. “See if you recognize this.”

  He held the page up to catch the last bit of sun. The drawing was in charcoal. It was a complex spell, far beyond anything he’d been able to pull off. Sullivan was one of the only men alive who had seen the Power as it really was, a living creature shaped from alien geometries, and because of that he recognized a few of the spell’s segments, the biological design of the Healer, the interlocking triangles of nuclear forces, even a touch of the hexagram shape of gravity, but as a whole its purposes were a mystery. “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Is it Japanese?” Dan asked.

  “Their kanji system is different. Sort of pretty. It’s got style. This is . . . I don’t know. Where’d you get it?”

  “Somebody Browning knows. Turns out we’ve got a knight on the government payroll. He arranged a drop. I just picked this up from under a mailbox off Pennsylvania Avenue. This is what the assassin had etched on him.”

  “Bullshit.” Sullivan couldn’t imagine binding this to a human being without killing them. Even the few little spells he’d etched on himself had taken him to death’s door, and he’d done that in secret to keep the others from worrying. His older brother had been one of the strongest men alive, able to wear thirteen Imperium kanji, but none of them had been this big. It would take a monster to survive this binding. “Was the killer Jack Johnson?”

  “Radio
called him a sickly little man.”

  “A Grimnoir ring and this thing.” Lance whistled as he took the paper. He was one of the more talented knights when it came to spellbinding. “Something’s fishy. If that’s Imperium, and I can’t think of anybody else good enough to pull this off, they’ve got some new toys to play with.”

  “Russian maybe?”

  “Naw. Stalin’s wizards are crude. Whoever designed this was an artist.”

  “Closest thing I’ve seen to this style was Indian writing. The British brought a few units of them over to fight in the war with us,” Sullivan said. “Lance, would you hijack a bird and make sure Dan wasn’t tailed.”

  “Good idea.” There wasn’t any flash or big show of Power when Lance did his thing. It was only as if he was distracted, like his mind was on something else, which in this case it was. “Got a pigeon. Gimme a minute . . . Looks clear to me.”

  “So I got a message to deliver. You got any ideas?” Sullivan said.

  “Send them a polite letter? Jane’s got nice calligraphy.” replied Dan.

  “I have to do this in person. I’ve got to convince them.” Sullivan replied.

  “The ambassador has a compound out in Virginia a ways. There are some mighty big guns in my truck,” Lance said.

  “I’ve been doing some poking around, trying to learn about their security and I’ve got an idea.” Dan Garrett shoved his glasses back up his nose. “This may sound a little, well . . . Hear me out first. I think we should walk right in the front door.”

  Fairfax County, Virginia

  DAN GARRETT’S PLAN WAS BRAZEN. They’d gone over it in detail and it still struck Sullivan as a fool’s move. Yet, it also made a certain kind of sense. Stealth was out of the question. Maybe if they’d had a Traveler or a Fade, they could have snuck in, but Faye wasn’t available for a few days and Heinrich was dead. He didn’t know how much time they had, but waiting around for help seemed like a bad idea.