Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  “Shouldn’t you . . .”

  “Put him out of his misery?” Bryce laughed as he lathered up. “It don’t work that way, John. He’s stuck for a while. I can’t just release him. They’re going to have to crush him flat or burn him to free his spirit. That’s the nasty part of what I do. You know Dead City?”

  He had never been there, but he’d heard the tales, mostly from Heinrich. “Of course.”

  “You think the Kaiser herded them all into Berlin and put a wall around it just to be mean? Nope. He couldn’t just shut them off.” Bryce dried his hands on a towel. “We better get going. Next person to open that door is going to be in for a nasty surprise. That attendant looks healthy, so he shouldn’t have a heart attack, but he sure is going to earn that bribe money!”

  Browning was exceedingly glad to get back out into the sunlight.

  Browning had dropped Bryce off at the library to do some research before returning to the hotel to prepare a mirror to report their findings to the others. The Lazarus would catch a cab back later. His company would not be missed. Though professional enough, there was always an awkward edge to all interactions with someone of his nature, as if you knew they would be much more comfortable talking to you if you were already dead.

  They had set up shop in one of the less remarkable hotels in Miami to stage out of. The normal crowds of vacationers fleeing the cold had been replaced with newsmen from around the country hoping to interview victims of the carnage. He did not care for the reporters, since they behaved with all the manners of a flock of turkey buzzards. He had been told that in Miami, alligators actually wandered the streets. Perhaps they would do everyone a favor and eat some reporters.

  Since he was thinking about reporters, Browning stopped at a newsstand on the way back to pick up the paper. With all of the recent turmoil, staying caught up on recent events seemed like an important thing to do. One of the headlines immediately caught his eye:

  UBF HEIR FRANCIS STUYVESANT

  IMPLICATED IN ACTIVE PLOT.

  “Oh dear . . .” Browning muttered as he paid for two different papers. He read the first one on the walk back to his car, and the other as soon as he made it back to the hotel. According to the articles, Francis was wanted for questioning, but was missing, and was believed to have fled the country. A retired Marine general had come forward and said that a group of businessmen who purported to represent several wealthy Actives had approached him about leading a fascist coup against the government. The Hearst, owned paper was calling it the Active Plot, while the other seemed to be gravitating toward the title Business Plot, which was not a surprise since Hearst’s low opinion of Magicals was well known.

  He prepared a communication spell. Browning prided himself on always doing meticulous work, and the spell was perfect as usual. While waiting for the response, he pondered their current predicament. All of this recent turmoil had been keeping him from his true passion, inventing. It was like his Cog mechanical genius was tugging at the reins, hoping for a chance to be free. Ideas were everywhere, and some of the Grimnoir’s more recent struggles had brought a few of those ideas to the fore. He promised himself that as soon as this problem was dealt with, it was time to get back to making new weapons. Certainly, even when these nefarious plots were squashed, there was still the matter of this Pathfinder. The creature had made mincemeat of the Chairman’s early group, but the Chairman had not had the greatest engineer of fighting implements of all time on his side . . . Perhaps, if he knew more about how the creature operated, he would be able to build something that might even their odds.

  The spell connected. The first respondent was Jake Sullivan. Browning had not liked the Heavy when they’d first met. Sullivan was a former convict with a reputation for thuggery, but as usual, his old friend Black Jack had been a good judge of character. Sullivan had proven to be a man of integrity, a fearsome fighter, and a remarkably perceptive autodidactic individual. Browning had taken a real liking to him. Plus, it helped that Sullivan had excellent taste in firearms. It had been a pleasure to give him the Grimnoir oath.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sullivan. How goes it?”

  Sullivan had dark circles under his eyes, appearing as if he’d not slept well, if at all. “Busy. I know we were supposed to ask the higher-ups about recruiting first, but we’ve had a couple of folks just kind of show up and volunteer for duty.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “An Iron Guard and an OCI bounty hunter.”

  Browning twitched. The most coherent response he could form was, “I see . . .”

  A smile cracked Sullivan’s unshaven face. “Yeah, I know. I’ll have to catch you up. The Chairman’s boy wants the Pathfinder gone. The OCI one seems to think that Heinrich is still alive and being held under their headquarters.”

  It would be wonderful if one of his men was still alive, but his natural cynicism kept him wary. “Can you trust him?”

  “Her, and I don’t yet, but she sure thinks Heinrich’s a prisoner and they’re going to execute him soon.”

  The Grimnoir were not in the habit of letting their people hang. “If that’s the case, then we need to mount a rescue operation.”

  “Working on it. It could be a trap, but sometimes a trap works both ways.”

  Browning could only nod. When it came to issues of potential violence, he had to bow to Sullivan’s mastery of the subject. “I trust your judgment, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Thanks. And I almost forgot, we kidnapped J. Edgar Hoover yesterday. I think we’re secretly allied with the Bureau of Investigation against the OCI.”

  If it had been anyone other than Sullivan, he would have been certain it was a joke, but the Heavy wasn’t known for telling tales. “You jest.”

  “No, sir. I’m not pulling your leg. Like I said, we’ve been real busy.”

  “Recruiting Iron Guards and Hoover . . . Perhaps I should retract what I said about trusting your judgment.”

  “Hoover I don’t know about. The others seem legit, but I’m keeping an eye on them and Faye both. I don’t want her killing anybody.”

  “Yes, that can be a full-time job . . . How did Faye—”

  “I guess she got bored of driving and Traveled clear from Tennessee in one hop. The others are on the way.”

  Nothing about that girl could really surprise him at this point. “Did you see this morning’s paper yet?” Sullivan shook his head. “It has more bad news. They’ve gone public about Francis and they say that he has fled. I’m trying to contact him now but have not gotten a response. Have you had any word from him?”

  “Not since word came down about Ada. I’ll see what I can find out. I sure hope they didn’t roll him up. Any luck down there?”

  “Possibly.” Browning was hesitant to say how they’d gotten their information and had to choose his words carefully. Since Sullivan’s young lady friend had suffered such a tragic end through Lazarus magic, the Heavy’s feelings about such things were well known. “I believe the spell was bound to the assassin by a Summoned.”

  “That’s impossible. A Summoned couldn’t—no!” Sullivan’s brow furrowed. “Crow.” As usual, the Heavy was remarkably perceptive. “That son of a bitch, excuse my language. It had to be him, unless there’s somebody out there just like him, and that’s one hell of a coincidence.”

  “I am inclined to agree. We are now searching for a Dr. Bradford that may have been Zangara’s confidant. If we can come up with a link between the doctor and the OCI, we may have the evidence we need to clear our names.”

  “Speaking of evidence, I might know where to find some . . .”

  Bell Farm, Virginia

  DESPITE BEING SO TIRED that she could barely keep her eyes open, Faye continued watching the Iron Guard suspiciously. He just sat there, cross-legged, eyes closed, “mediating” he called it, looking innocent as could be . . . But she knew that he was up to no good. Iron Guards were evil, heathen, no-good, rotten, murdering scoundrels, and the only reason she hadn’t killed this one
already was because Mr. Sullivan had made her promise not to.

  After having a long conversation with Mr. Sullivan, the Iron Guard had claimed the barn as his place to sleep. She figured it was so he could have someplace private to do whatever horrible things it was that Iron Guards did when nobody was looking. So Faye had volunteered to spy on the Iron Guard. It wasn’t like she was going to be able to sleep with one of them around anyway. Sullivan had told her that spying was unnecessary and that she should get some rest.

  She’d agreed, but as soon as the bedroom door was closed, she’d gathered up some warm clothing and Traveled outside to keep an eye on the Iron Guard. Of course Faye wasn’t going to go sleep in a comfy bed, all unaware and vulnerable, while evil was lurking around doing who knew what. Not on her watch. So she had followed him, sneaky as possible, just knowing he’d do something awful right quick. However, the Iron Guard had just gone out to the barn, pulled a blanket out of his pack, and gone to sleep on the hard-packed dirt floor. She’d Traveled up to the hay loft and picked a quiet spot to keep watch.

  The most interesting part of the night was discovering that the barn had rats, big black ones, and she’d passed the time by identifying and naming them all. The Iron Guard didn’t so much as roll over or even snore. Spying on him turned out to be completely uninteresting. Killing him in his sleep would have been super easy, if a little unsportsmanlike. It was still really tempting.

  The long night in the drafty old barn gave Faye plenty of time to think. Despite all of the horrible things that were happening around her, her mind kept spinning back to a completely selfish issue. Why was her magic getting stronger again? Months had passed since the Tokugawa and she’d been relatively weak that whole time, with Power like a little stream, but all of a sudden she was doing better, and her Power had grown back into a small river. How come? She didn’t pretend to understand this stuff like some of the other knights. Faye had always been a little different than everyone else, and she had just taken it for granted, but now those differences were really nagging at her.

  The government demon, Crow, had known something. He’d danced around it, trying to get her to come peacefully. It could have been a trick, but she didn’t think so. He knew something about her. How had he said it? “What if I could tell you exactly what you are?” He hadn’t said “who,” he’d said “what,” and Faye didn’t care for that one bit.

  Would she keep on getting stronger like before? And if so, what would happen if she didn’t use it all up in one great big burst like last time? Would it ever stop, or would the Power just keep on giving her more magic? How strong could she get? And if she got strong enough, could she maybe learn how to use other Powers? Could she become as powerful as the Chairman had been?

  All those questions without answers made her head hurt.

  The night was really cold, but she’d borrowed some of Jane’s clothes and dressed extra warm, or so she’d thought. The predawn frost made life miserable, and she found herself wishing that he would hurry up and do something nefarious so she could kill him and then go warm herself by the wood stove. The only hay left in the loft was old, and since the roof leaked, it was moldy and smelly, so she couldn’t even lay in that for extra warmth. Her grey eyes had always been extra good at seeing in the dark, so after she got done counting rats she counted the holes in the roof.

  A few times she let her eyelids droop shut. Just for a second, she’d tell herself, only to realize what she was doing, panic, and then flinch back awake, expecting to see the Iron Guard leering over her, ready to slash her throat. However, each time she found the Iron Guard still sleeping peacefully below. Finally, after several hours of doing the blink-too-long-and-panic routine, she decided to check her head map to see if maybe playing with it for a time would help keep her awake.

  And there was Mr. Sullivan, hidden fifty yards away, wide awake and smoking a cigarette, back against a tree, machine gun resting across his knees, watching the barn intently. He had probably been there all night, unmoving. He had just been trying to be nice when he’d told her to get some sleep. She should have known that of all people he wouldn’t have trusted the Iron Guard either. Faye probably could have Traveled back to the house and gone to bed at that point, but it had now become a matter of pride to see her watch through to the end.

  The next thing she knew she had woken up and it was daylight and somewhere nearby a rooster was crowing. Panicking, she scurried over to the edge of the hayloft, sure to discover that while she’d slept the Iron Guard had murdered everyone.

  Instead of being on a rampage, he was just sitting there on the floor, legs crossed, hands on his knees, back perfectly straight. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Did you sleep well up there, Traveler?”

  He knew? “I’m watching you, Iron Guard.”

  “Do not call me that.” He opened his eyes. “I no longer have the honor of bearing that title.”

  “What are you then?”

  “I do not know. That is why I’m meditating.” And with that he closed his eyes again and ignored her.

  Faye waited for him to do something else. She got bored. “Hey . . . Hey, jerk-face, I’m talking to you.” When he didn’t answer, she found a small scrap of wood and chucked it at him.

  He caught it in one hand without opening his eyes. “Do not call me ‘jerk-face.’”

  “Why not? It fits . . .” He was a Brute. Faye decided that if she was going to pick a fight with him, she really should have struck when he was asleep. “What should I call you then?”

  “My name is Toru.”

  “A likely story.”

  “Then I do not care what you call me.” The Iron Guard got up, dusted off his pants, and folded the blanket. “You are beneath my notice. You are an insignificant bug.”

  “I’ll just stick with jerk-face then.”

  “Very well, bug.” Toru put his things back in his pack. Faye noticed that he was very careful to stow the broken sword pieces. He should be. Even with his Healing kanji, he still had a bandage wrapped around one hand from grabbing the sharp part last night.

  “What’re you keeping that busted thing for?”

  “You would not understand.”

  “I know more about your kind than you think,” Faye snapped.

  Toru removed some wrapped food and closed the pack. “A blade can be reforged. A soul can be cleansed.” He walked out of the barn, chewing on what looked like a ball of white rice.

  Cleansed? Faye could agree with that sentiment in principle. People could make all sorts of things right, but she had a real hard time thinking of murderous Iron Guards as people.

  She found Mr. Garrett in the kitchen, cooking bacon. Faye Traveled in right next to him. “Smells good.”

  Her sudden arrival startled him and he splashed bacon grease on his hand. “Don’t do that!” He stuck his burned finger in his mouth.

  “Well, somebody’s jumpy.”

  “Can you blame me? You about give me a heart attack when you do that.”

  “Grumpy too.”

  “Sleeping with one eye open will do that to you,” he answered as he forked a few cooked pieces onto a waiting plate. “I didn’t know who was going to murder us in our sleep last night first—the Imperium or the OCI. Jake’s lost his mind, joining up with these people.”

  “I haven’t met the other one yet.”

  “Hammer. Don’t trust her, Faye. She’s a manipulator.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “You bet, and that’s why I can tell. Just because you can’t lie to her doesn’t mean she can’t lie to us.”

  Faye snagged a piece of bacon and popped it into her mouth. “Don’t worry, Mr. Garrett. I’m still the most dangerous person here.”

  “That you are. Well, I’ll just have to trust you’ll keep us safe.” He chuckled, so Faye did too. She had always liked Mr. Garrett. He passed her the plate of bacon. “Here’s my protection payment.” Faye was starving. She wasn’t about to turn that down, and immediat
ely started wolfing down the food without even bothering to sit.

  Mr. Sullivan joined them a moment later. He still had his BAR slung over one shoulder. It said a lot about the company that she kept, that his wearing a machine gun at breakfast didn’t even strike her as odd.

  “Sleep well?” he asked with a wink.

  So much for being sneaky. It was like everybody knew she’d slept in the barn. “Oh, my bed was just lovely.”

  Mr. Garrett had boiled up a pot of coffee, and Mr. Sullivan poured himself a cup. He took it black. “I just got some bad news.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Faye asked.

  “’Cause I don’t want you to fly off the handle and do something stupid when I tell you Francis is missing.”

  Faye went numb. The plate shattered on the floor. “We’ve got to do something!”

  “We will.” Mr. Sullivan was mulling over his coffee. “The others will be back soon. Sit tight. I got a plan.”

  John Browning

  Chapter 15

  There will be some innocent victims in this fight against magical Fascists. We are launching a major attack on the enemy; let there be no resentment if we bump someone with an elbow. Better that ten innocent people should suffer than one enemy of the worker get away. When you chop wood, chips fly.

  —Nikolai Yezhov,

  Deputy People’s Commissar for Special Affairs,

  comments related to the resettlement of Actives during

  the “Soviet Planned Population Transfer,” 1930

  OCI Headquarters

  IT WAS LIKE WAKING UP from a two-day bender, only judging from the dungeonlike surroundings illuminated by the single flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling, this certainly wasn’t his old fraternity. Rust-colored water was dripping down the brick walls and the floor was poured concrete covered in half an inch of dust. There was a single door, no windows, and he was alone. The last thing he could remember was being clobbered by Crow. He reached up to put one hand to his throbbing head, but a chain snapped tight against his wrist. “Ugh. Where am I?”