by DAVID B. COE
I stood. “Thank you, Miss Castle,” I said in my best Dick Tracy voice. “If you think of anything else, feel free to call me.”
She didn’t say anything. After a few seconds, she nodded.
I stepped away from the table, nodded once to Billie’s friend, and left, hoping to God that I didn’t trip over someone’s bag or try to push the door open when I was supposed to pull it.
See? This is why cops and PIs aren’t romantics. Because we know what the real world is like. And in the real world, these things never work out the way you want them to.
CHAPTER 9
Walking from the coffeehouse back to the Z-ster, I remembered in a rush the weremyste who had been testing my magical defenses as I left Robo’s. I tried to sense him, to open myself to his magic, but I felt nothing. As far as I could tell, I was the only weremyste in the area who wasn’t using blockers. I suppose a sorcerer as powerful as this guy could have hidden himself, but he hadn’t been shy before about letting me know he was nearby. I couldn’t see why he’d start now. Reaching the car, I climbed in, drove one more circle around Robo’s, and headed for home.
My house in Chandler is in a nice family neighborhood near Arrowhead Meadows. It’s not a big place, but it’s more than I need. Two bedrooms, a decent sized kitchen, living room, dining room, two bathrooms. I got a good deal on it and had intended to turn one of the bedrooms into a home office. Then the other office fell into my lap, and I never got around to it.
It was built about twenty years ago, but the previous owners remodeled the place—redid the kitchen and bathrooms, tore out the old carpet and put in oak. Then they got divorced and rather than one of them staying, they sold it and split the money. It’s a good place. Well lit and open. Usually I like it a lot. But this evening, for some reason, it felt big and empty.
Until Namid materialized in the kitchen.
I had just gotten a beer from the refrigerator, though I hadn’t opened it yet.
He took form right in front of me, his waters rough and wind blown.
“I expected you long ago,” he said.
“You my mother now?” I asked with a small laugh.
I started to open the beer, but he shook his head. “Do not drink that now. If you need to drink, have water.”
“Good God, you are my mother.”
“We need to work, and you must be completely clear.”
Strange that my mind should need to be clear and free of alcohol in order to practice magic that was driving me nuts. But he was right. I returned the beer to the refrigerator, poured myself a glass of water, and followed Namid into the living room.
“I felt it again this afternoon. The sense that I was being watched.”
The runemyste turned. “I have no doubt that you were.”
My eyes widened. “Have you learned something about the weremyste who’s following me?”
“No. But it does not surprise me that he tracks you.”
“He? Do you at least know that it’s a man?”
Namid shook his head. “I know nothing, Ohanko. I have told you this already.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Two times now,” he said. “You understand why he does this?”
I nodded. It hadn’t occurred to me until then, but as soon as he asked the question, I knew. “Yes. I warded myself with a deflection spell, in case whoever it is tried to attack me. But nothing happened.”
He said nothing.
“A deflection spell wouldn’t have helped, would it?”
“A deflection spell is easily defeated,” the runemyste said, seeming to choose his words with some care. “A skilled runecrafter would have little trouble overwhelming such a warding.”
“So what should I have done?”
He stepped to the middle of my living room floor and sat, eyeing me like an expectant cat, his head canted to the side. More training.
For once I didn’t argue.
“Do I need my scrying stone?”
“No.” He indicated the floor with an open hand that glowed like starlit waters. “Sit.”
I lowered myself to the floor in front of him.
“Clear yourself,” the runemyste said, once I was settled.
I closed my eyes and summoned the vision of that eagle in the Superstition Wilderness. As I did, everything else melted away. The Blind Angel Killer, Claudia Deegan, Cole Hibbard, Billie Castle, my dad. All of it seemed to dissipate, like a vaporous breath on a cold day. In moments, I was clear, centered.
“Now,” the runemyste said, “defend yourself.”
It was like meeting up with your best friend and having him haul off and punch you right in the mouth, for no reason at all.
One minute I was sitting there, and the next, it felt as though I’d been stung on the legs and arms by twenty hornets.
“Son of a bitch! What was that for?”
“Defend yourself,” he repeated, as calm as you please.
The stinging started again, on my neck and chest this time.
I jumped up, swatting at bugs I couldn’t see. The pain stopped.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, my voice rising.
“I am teaching you to ward yourself.”
“You could at least give me some warning!”
“Will the crafter who tracks you be so courteous?”
That brought me up short. “Of course not,” I said.
“Then why should I?”
There wasn’t a person alive who could make me feel foolish and young the way Namid could. I guess that came with hanging out with a being who was centuries old. “I thought we were going to be training, that’s all. You caught me off guard.”
“You cannot be off guard,” he said. “Ever. Not anymore.”
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“I fear nothing for myself. But I would rather you did not die. I have spent too many days teaching you. It would be a waste.”
“Thanks, Namid. I’m touched.”
“Sit down, Ohanko. Clear yourself, then ward.”
I sat once more, took a moment to clear myself, and then started to recite the deflection spell from earlier in the day, just to see what it could do.
I hadn’t gotten two words out before the stinging began again. Chest, back, legs. God, it hurt!
“Damn!” I said. “You’re not giving me a chance!” I raised a hand before the runemyste could answer. “I know. Neither will the other sorcerer.”
Namid nodded once. “Defend yourself.”
I knew that I should have been able to do what the runemyste was asking of me, that my inability to ward myself was a symptom of my greatest weakness as a weremyste. I still thought of spells as being the same as incantations, as something spoken. The fact is, they don’t have to be. Namid, who was driving me crazy with these damned hornets, had not moved or made a single sound. But this did nothing to weaken his magic.
On the other hand, my need to speak spells was weakening me, leaving me vulnerable to his assault. Of course spells involved words. But spells for an accomplished weremyste could be as immediate and powerful as pure thought. The words of a spell had no inherent power beyond what they meant to the weremyste using them. One sorcerer might use a rhyming scheme, while another might just use three words. I usually used a simple list of the elements of the spell, repeated as often as necessary. I also tried to limit my spells to three elements or, if that was impossible, seven. There was power in certain numbers: three, seven, eleven, and some larger primes.
Mostly though, I tried to fix my mind on the magic I was attempting. Casting, like the simple act of clearing, required focus and concentration. The rest was a matter of style.
My goal in casting spells—Namid’s goal for me—was to get to the point where I could conjure without words, without fear or doubt, without hesitation.
And I wasn’t there yet. Not even close.
Not to make excuses, but it’s hard to focus when you’re being stung by dozens of invisible, magi
c hornets.
I tried to cast the deflection spell again, though I knew it wasn’t the right defense against this attack. It was the warding I knew best, the one I turned to when I didn’t know what else to do, and at that moment, I couldn’t even get it to work. I should have tried a simpler conjuring. There are lots of warding spells. One of them sheathed the body in a sort of magical cocoon; another, which I’d yet to learn, allowed a weremyste to transport himself somewhere else. Ideally I would have liked to try a reflection spell and sick the vicious stinging bastards on Namid. Somehow, though, I knew it wouldn’t work. The problem was, I couldn’t come up with anything that would.
After a few minutes, the stinging stopped and Namid just sat there with his eyes fixed on mine.
“You are not even trying.”
“Yes, I am,” I said, sounding like a bratty little kid. “I’m out of my depth here, Namid. The magic we’ve done before and what you’re asking me to do now. . .” I shook my head. “They’re totally different.”
“They are not different at all. You need to be clear and focus. Otherwise you cannot defend yourself and you will be killed. It is that simple.”
A book flew off one of my shelves and sailed right at my head. I ducked. The book hit the opposite wall and fell to the floor.
“Damn! You’re crazy! You know that?”
“You warded yourself.”
“No, I didn’t. I just ducked.”
“Did the book strike you?”
“No.”
“Then you warded yourself. You did so without craft, but it was a warding nevertheless.”
“What’s your point, ghost?”
His expression didn’t change at all. I needed to find a new way to get him riled.
“That you ducked without a thought. You simply acted. That is how magic should be. You think too much, Ohanko. And at other times you do not think at all. You are a most difficult man.”
I had to grin. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who always shows up uninvited.”
“Clear yourself.”
I did. And this time when the attack came, I resisted the urge to speak the deflection spell. Instead I envisioned his attack bouncing off of me, two dozen watery hornets clattering against the walls. My body, the hornets, the walls. Three elements. I didn’t bother repeating them three times. I inhaled, feeling the magic build within me, and released it.
I wasn’t stung once.
“Better,” he said. “You knew how I would assail, and when. But still, that was better.” He paused. Then, “Defend yourself.”
Fire this time. Aqua green flames licking at my hands and arms. I almost panicked. But instead I managed to turn that fear into craft. Deflection wouldn’t work, so I went with the cocoon. Shielding, it was called. Once more, three elements: my body again, the fire, the cocoon. It worked.
“Good,” the runemyste said, sounding surprised. “Defend yourself.”
A second later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned just enough to see, then froze. Not two feet from where I sat, a snake lay in a tight coil, its head reared back to strike. I didn’t have time to mark what kind it was, or whether it was venomous. This was Namid I was dealing with. I assumed the worst.
This time at least, I had a pain-free second in which to think. Camouflage spell, but with a twist. Snakes hunted by smell, using their tongues to taste the air, and they waited for motion before striking. So I had to make myself invisible and scentless. Pit vipers could also sense temperature, but I didn’t know how to lower my body temperature to match the air in the house.
Camouflage wardings were the most complicated spells I knew, almost as difficult as some of the simpler transformation spells. I visualized myself blending with my surroundings, so that to the snake I would appear in every way to be nothing more or less than empty space. I slowed my breathing, and recited the spell to myself.
The snake. My body. My scent. The air around me. The wall behind me. The picture hanging on that wall. Back to the snake again. After a few moments, the snake’s posture changed. Its tongue flicked out three times, as if it were trying to find me again. I eased my Glock free.
Before I could shoot it, the snake vanished.
“Good, Ohanko. Very good.”
I closed my eyes.
“Clear yourself.”
“Let me rest a minute.”
I thought he would argue, but he nodded and sat there.
“Are there other warding spells you can teach me?” I asked.
“You must master the ones you know.”
“I understand that. I’m asking if there are more.”
“Of course. There are always more.”
I laughed. “Always? You never run out?”
“Never,” he said, without a trace of humor. “If you cannot remember one, you must create one yourself.”
“Wait. You mean I can make up my own spells?”
“You are a runecrafter. How do you think the spells you know came into being?”
I shrugged. “I guess I thought that you made them up, or brought them from the Runeclave, or something like that.”
“Magic is a craft, and though it might not seem so, it is a living craft.” Something resembling a grin crept over the spirit’s face. “Your father created a spell.”
“My father?”
He nodded.
“Teach it to me.”
“I do not know that you are ready for it.”
That stung. “He was that much better than me?”
“He was older when he created this spell. And at that time, yes, he was a far more accomplished crafter than you are now.”
“Teach it to me anyway.”
It was a complicated spell. Impressive, but complicated. My father had found a way to combine two different kinds of transporting spells, one which allowed him to move himself a short distance, and another which in effect transported an object—in this case his weapon—to his hand. The trick, of course, was to carry off the two spells simultaneously, so that he could go from being unarmed and vulnerable to being armed and protected in the blink of an eye.
Try as I might, I couldn’t do it. It was good practice. After several tries, I’d nearly mastered a basic transporting spell. But my pistol always wound up lying on the floor in the spot where I’d been. I gave up on that one for the time being, vowing to practice it on my own later. Namid had other spells to teach me, and for once I was eager to learn. Maybe it was the stark memory of feeling so vulnerable on the street earlier in the day. Maybe it was hearing that my father had been better at this than I was. Whatever the reason, on this night I worked my craft as I never had before.
I was in the middle of trying a new assailing spell when I heard a knock at the door. Namid’s glowing gaze locked on mine.
“Are you expecting someone?” the runemyste asked.
“No.” I glanced at my watch. Almost nine-thirty. We’d been working for close to three hours. Whoever it was knocked again. I stood and started toward the door.
“Careful, Ohanko.”
I glanced at him and nodded. Then I crossed to the door, unlocked it, and prepared to pull it open, all the while reciting a shielding spell in my head.
But when I pulled the door open, I found myself face to face with Billie Castle. Looking past her, I saw that the street and sidewalk were wet. It had rained while I was working with Namid. Seems my dad was right about that wind after all. The sky had cleared and the gibbous moon shone through the Acacia tree growing in my front yard. Even from the doorway, I could feel the moon’s pull, more insistent than last night, hinting at the power to come. Friday night. That’s when the phasing would begin.
Billie opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped herself, seeming to take in my appearance. Only now did I realize that I had sweated through my shirt and that my face was damp. Working spells for hours on end was hard work.
“Good God, Fearsson, what have you been doing?”
“Um . . . Working out.
”
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“Sure.” I opened the screen door and she stepped past me into the house. I glanced at the moon one last time, then closed the door. Billie turned a full circle, surveying the living room, and stared right through Namid, who couldn’t be seen by those not descended from the Runeclave.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you. You want anything? Water? Coffee? Beer? Wine?”
“No, thanks.” She faced me. “You certainly took off in a hurry this afternoon.”
I shrugged, scrutinizing my coffee table as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “I didn’t want to get in the way.”
“Boy, I expected you to be tougher than that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” she said, and now it was her turn to avoid my gaze. “I had the feeling that maybe you were, I don’t know, interested in me. You certainly were flirting and, well, you started to ask me out to dinner, and . . .” She shrugged, her eyes meeting mine again. “And then Joel shows up, and you run away like a frightened little boy.”
“Joel?”
She began to walk a slow circle around the room. “Joel Benfield. He’s one of my contributing writers. He teaches history at the university and writes about environmental issues and Western politics.”
“I’m sure he’s very nice. And I wasn’t frightened, I was just—”
“You assumed that he and I were already involved.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
She stopped right in front of me. I hadn’t noticed before that she smelled faintly of lavender, or that her eyes were actually two shades of green—forest green nearer the center, brightening to emerald around the edges.
“Boy, Fearsson,” she said. “I sure hope you’re better at detective work than you are at figuring me out.”
I grinned. “Fearsson. Is that what you’ve decided to call me?”
“I’m thinking about it. You mind?”
“No,” I said with a small shake of my head. “I like it.”
“So are you going to take me out to dinner tomorrow night?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. Are we still off the record?”
“Until we say otherwise.”
“Then I guess I am.”
