Spell Blind

by DAVID B. COE

  The other catch was that the spell only worked if Claudia had been in this place, alive. I couldn’t do a seeing spell for Claudia from my house, because she’d never been there, and standing here in South Mountain Park, I couldn’t scry what Claudia had seen, say, at her parents’ home. Seeing spells were specific to a given place.

  I knew that Claudia had been here, on this trail. I didn’t know for certain if she’d been alive at the time, or if the weremyste had killed her before bringing her here. All the forensics from the other killings pointed to her being alive up until the moment that the sick bastard burned the eyes out of her skull. But I couldn’t be sure until I tried the spell.

  Holding the scrying stone in my hand, with the strand of her hair coiled beneath it, I cleared myself and summoned a vision of what she had seen. Three elements to the spell: Claudia, this place, and my stone. As simple as a spell could be.

  The blue and white lines in my piece of agate faded, so all that remained was a reflection of the blue sky and dark leaves above me. And then the image darkened. At first I thought that I’d wasted my time, that she was already dead. I saw nothing in the stone, heard nothing in my head. Or did I?

  There was sound. Shallow breathing and a low whimpering noise that made my stomach clench itself into a fist. And something else: footsteps on a hard trail of rock and sand. Shading the stone with my free hand, I realized there was an image on the surface, too, though it was murky. I could make out the ground below me as it would appear at night, illuminated by the weak light of a quarter moon.

  My pulse quickened. Claudia had been here, alive and with her sight intact.

  I moved into the shade of the palo verdes, still staring hard at the vision I’d summoned to my scrying stone. I couldn’t make out much. It seemed he was carrying her over his shoulder, and that she was only semiconscious. She continued to whimper as he walked; her vision remained dim, muted, maybe because of the drugs in her body.

  After several minutes of this, the footsteps stopped. An instant later, the vision in my stone heaved and spun. I heard the sharp crunch of stone, a hard grunt, and then a low moan of pain. The trail had vanished, swallowed by darkness. But after a few seconds, Claudia’s eyes fluttered open again, and I saw starlight. I saw the moon, glowing high overhead.

  And I saw him—the Blind Angel Killer—looming over her, blocking out the stars while the moon kept his face in shadow. I leaned closer to the stone, desperate for any details I could make out—his face, his hair, his body-type. He seemed tall, although that could have been Claudia’s perspective. His hair, if he had any at all, was short; a buzz-cut, maybe. But even with the agate only inches from my nose, I couldn’t make out his features.

  He reached toward her face, his hand dark against the night sky, long-fingered, graceful. And I gasped at the sight. I knew that hand, those elegant fingers. I’d seen them in my office mirror a few days before, gliding over a burning glow, chasing wisps of gray smoke. My scrying.

  In my mind I heard Claudia scream. My stone flared crimson—the color of fresh blood, so bright I had to turn away. And when I squinted down at my scrying stone again, it was just a piece of sea-green agate with twisting bands of blue and white.

  “Damnit!”

  I tried to summon the image again, and failed. I pulled out a second strand of Claudia’s hair and spoke the spell aloud. But the stone remained as it was. I closed my eyes, cleared myself, repeated the spell. Nothing. I didn’t know if seeing spells couldn’t be repeated, or if I was too appalled by what I’d seen to cast the spell a second time. I closed my eyes once more, this time attempting to commit to memory what I’d been able to make out of Claudia’s killer. He was lanky. His head appeared shaven. And his hands . . . I would never forget those. I knew, though, that this wasn’t much to go on. His most distinctive characteristic was the color of his magic, and I had a feeling that if I saw one of his spells coming at me, it would be too late for me to do much of anything to stop him.

  I surveyed the crime scene for another moment, searching for anything that Kona might have missed, or any stray signs of magic. Nothing caught my eye. Feeling weary and frustrated, I turned around and began the long walk back to the Z-ster.

  This was one of those times when I would have been willing to ignore my aversion to cell-phones. I needed to talk to Kona, but I had no signal out on the trail. I walked fast, and was sweating like a marathoner by the time I reached the parking lot. But here I had three bars on my phone. I dialed Kona’s number.

  “Homicide, Shaw.”

  “Hey, partner.”

  “Justis, I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

  “I—”

  “Have you got anything for me? Hibbard and Deegan have managed to get Gann’s arraignment moved up. He’ll be in court tomorrow. The way things are moving, they’ll have him tried and convicted by the end of the week.”

  “I saw him.”

  That stopped her. “Saw who?” she asked, although I could tell that she already knew.

  “Our guy. I used a kind of scrying magic—a seeing spell.”

  “You’re losing me, Justis.”

  I grinned. All those years ago, Kona had struggled to adjust to the fact that I was a weremyste. Acceptance had come harder for her than it would have for most people. She could be stubborn, and as a detective she had been trained to trust in logic, to believe only what her eyes could see. So placing faith in my abilities had been a stretch for her. That she had done so at all spoke to the depth of our friendship. But in all the years we’d known each other, she had never gotten used to hearing me talk about magic and spells. It confused her, butted up against that rational training. Sometimes I talked about this stuff just to bug her. This time I’d been too excited to remember.

  “I went out to South Mountain Park,” I told her. “And I used that stone I carry to see what Claudia saw in her last moments.” I skipped the part about the hair; she didn’t want to hear those details, and I would have felt like a ghoul telling her that I’d taken hairs from Claudia’s brush.

  “You can do that?”

  “I learned this magic in the past few months. Otherwise I would have done it long ago.”

  “And you saw him?”

  “It was dark; I only saw him in silhouette. He’s tall, lean. I think he might be bald, and . . . and he has long thin hands.” I hesitated. “I know that’s not much.”

  “No,” she said. “But it’s something. Would you recognize him if you saw him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d know the color of his magic, and I’d know his hands.”

  “What’s all this about his hands?”

  “I scried them once before. They made an impression. I’m not sure why.” I took a breath, knowing what I had to say, knowing that it wouldn’t do Kona any good. “Gann’s not our guy. I’m sure of it now. For all intents and purposes, I saw the person who killed her.”

  “Yeah,” she said, the word coming out as a sigh. “I hear you. But how do we prove it to Hibbard?”

  “We catch the right guy, and we hope that Gann manages to get himself a decent lawyer.”

  “Right. Where are you going next?”

  “Q’s place. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  We hung up and I pulled out my weapon to make sure that it was fully loaded. I didn’t know if bullets would work against this weremyste or not, but I’d seen him now; he felt more real to me than he ever had before. And I’m not above admitting that I was scared of the guy.

  CHAPTER 11

  South central Phoenix, from the 91 area of the Cactus Park precinct, through the Maryvale precinct, and into Estrella Mountain includes some of the toughest beats any cop in the city has to face. This part of Phoenix comprises maybe fifteen percent of the total area of the city and is home to a similarly small percentage of the population. But its beats account for more than a third of the violent crimes committed here. Maryvale itself is tiny when compared to other precincts, but in any given year,
it sees more assaults and murders than some precincts many times its size. Parts of Estrella Mountain are even worse.

  I was never good at math, and I’m no expert on crime numbers, not like some of the men and women in statistics, who can quote figures and percentages off the tops of their heads. But I understand stats well enough to know that when one small area of a city sees the lion’s share of its murders and aggravated assaults, that area has a problem.

  I wouldn’t want to single out the worst of Maryvale’s beats—they are all bad—but I was headed to the 813, which was about as ugly as it got. Rundown houses broiling in the sun, storefronts that looked like they hadn’t seen business in years until you realized that they were still open, streets strewn with shattered beer bottles, kids’ playgrounds turned into havens for junkies and hangouts for gangs. I’d been down here plenty of times while I was still on the job, but I rarely drove these streets by choice.

  I was hoping that Orestes Quinley would be able to tell me enough about the Blind Angel Killer to make the trip worth my while.

  In the last few years, after his many brushes with the law, Brother Q had made some effort to join legitimate society. He’d opened a place on Thomas Street called Brother Q’s Shop of the Occult. Not exactly a name that rolled off the tongue, but I’m not convinced that he expected the business to appeal to a large clientele. He sold stuff that any small-time sorcerer might need: used books on magic, Wicca, and shamanism; many of the same powders, herbs, and oils he’d once been accused of stealing; and various stones, jewelry, and other items that might be used for conjuring. His was the only shop in Phoenix where a person could find Tuberose and Styrax oils. His prices were outrageous, and in all my visits to his place, I had never seen another person shopping there. But Orestes didn’t seem to mind. He had his store, he lived in the apartment above it, and he was content to sit outside in his old wooden rocking chair, smoking contraband clove cigarettes and watching the world go by.

  That’s what he was doing when I pulled up to his place in the Z-ster. Even in the brilliance of the Arizona sun, Orestes’ storefront glimmered faintly with the light of his magic. This was not the flat yellow gleaming of his early conjurings. It was more a golden orange, the color of the sun as it sits balanced on the desert horizon. Orestes had grown more powerful and more skilled since our first encounter. And if I could see the magic on his place now, it must have glowed like a bonfire at night. He had enough wardings in place to hold off a horde of weremystes. I had a feeling he was worried about one in particular.

  Apart from developing a bit of a gut, Orestes hadn’t changed much over the years. He claimed to have been born in Haiti, and he spoke with a heavy West Indian accent. He wore his hair in thick braids, and he often had on a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses, the lenses of which were far too small to serve any practical purpose. Today he was dressed in old khaki shorts, a pair of beat-up sandals, and a Coca Cola shirt that had been tie-dyed so many years ago that the colors had all faded to various shades of gray.

  “Justis Fearsson,” he said, as I got out of the car. “Come a-callin’ over Brother Q’s way. To what does Q owe the pleasure on this fine, sunny day?”

  Two things to know about Orestes. First, he was one of these people who referred to himself in the third person. Drove me up a wall. Second, on occasion, for no apparent reason, he liked to speak in verse. I used to find this annoying, too. In recent years I’d decided that it was funny, in a really weird sort of way. Still, despite his quirks, Q wasn’t a flake and I didn’t think he had started losing his mind yet, although Kona would have argued the point. He was smart enough to have survived on these streets for years, and in all the time I had been coming to him for information he had almost never steered me wrong. But he’d developed this persona, and while it might once have been a put-on, at this point I wasn’t sure he could have set aside the rhymes and the way he spoke even if he’d wanted to.

  “Hi there, Orestes,” I said. I walked to where he was sitting and patted his shoulder. “You staying out of trouble?”

  “Always, Brother. Always.”

  I smiled. “Right.”

  He pulled a folding chair out from behind his own and handed it to me. I unfolded it and sat.

  “You here to buy or to talk?”

  “Talk.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then Brother Q don’t have to get up. Heat like this make a brother wilt. Seems they had no AC when this place was built.”

  “The rhymes need a little work.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. You try it sometime. Ain’t as easy as it sounds.”

  “You know why I’m here?”

  “Brother Q can guess. There’s only one thing people in this town are talkin’ about these days. Brother Q ain’t never seen weremystes so scared. But why would the Deegan girl bring you to Brother Q? You know that Q wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with a killin’.”

  “True, but I also know that you keep your ear to the street. If there was something going on that you didn’t like—maybe a sorcerer gathering more power than anyone ought to have—you’d tell me about it. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Brother Q keeps an eye out,” he admitted, avoiding my gaze. “Purely out of curiosity.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I understand. You remember me coming around to ask you about the Blind Angel case when I was still a cop?”

  “Of course. Brother Q remembers everythin’.”

  “Then you also remember what you told me.”

  “Q told you the truth,” he said pointedly, facing me at last. “Q told you that he didn’t know anythin’ about the killin’s, which was true.”

  “At the time, you mean.”

  “Right. At the—” He clamped his mouth shut.

  “What do you know now, Q?”

  He stared out at the street, his eyes tracking a low-riding roadster with a group of Latino kids in it. He still had his lips pressed thin, and I could tell that he was angry; angry with me for tricking him, and angry with himself for letting me. Luis was right, though: Q knew something.

  “Thirty-one kids now,” I said, my voice low. “Those are the ones we know about. And you can be sure that Claudia Deegan won’t be the last. If you know something you’ve got to tell me.”

  “Brother Q knows nothin’ for certain,” he muttered.

  “But you have an idea of who’s doing this, don’t you?”

  He peered at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Who are you askin’ for, Brother J? Yourself or the cops?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “What matters and what doesn’t depends on where you stand. Brother Q might feel different with some green in his hand.”

  I had to laugh. “That was pretty good.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out two twenties. It was more than I usually gave to any informant, including Orestes. But after three years, we were getting close. I felt it in my blood, in my bones. And I was still shaken by what I’d seen in my scrying stone on the trail. The money was the least of my worries. I held the bills up, but I didn’t hand them to him. Not yet.

  “You’re hungry today, aren’t you, Brother J?”

  “I need a name.”

  “Brother Q doesn’t have a name to give.”

  I lowered my hand. “Then what do you have?”

  “What do you know about this sorcerer you’re after?”

  “Not a lot. I know the color of his magic. I know that he’s taken an interest in me and my case. I know that he carried Claudia Deegan out into South Mountain Park and killed her there.”

  “How you know that?”

  “I scried it,” I told him. “A seeing spell.”

  “Good for you!” he said, sounding like he meant it. “A seein’ spell. That’s high magic.” He glanced up at the sky. “But you’re right: you don’t know much.”

  The last thing I needed was Q telling me how much I did and didn’t know. I examined his shop again, noting the orange light that danced along the roof line and around the windows and d
oors. “What are you so afraid of?”

  He twisted around in his chair. “What do you mean? Brother Q ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

  “No? Then why all the warding spells? Your place is glowing like the magical equivalent of Fort Knox.”

  “There’s a lot of crime on these streets. You know that.” He forced a smile. “Things aren’t as safe around here since you left the force.” He wasn’t very convincing.

  “What’s going on, Q?”

  The smile faded. He regarded me for a minute. Then he motioned with his head toward the shop, stood up, and walked inside.

  I followed.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  The shop was lit by a single light bulb in an old fixture, and it smelled of incense smoke and oils. I recognized the frankincense as soon as we got inside, but it was mingled with something harsher, more bitter.

  “Is that petitgrain?” I asked.

  “Very good, Brother J. You’re learnin’ well.”

  Petitgrain and frankincense. Among herbalists, both were thought to be powerful guardians against dark magic. Orestes could deny it all he liked, but he was scared.

  “What’s all this about, Orestes? Frankincense, petitgrain, all those wardings; it’s like you’re preparing for a war.”

  “A man can’t be too careful.”

  “Why not? What’s out there?”

  He shook his head. “Brother Q doesn’t know.”

  “Damnit! I don’t have time for this. Some sorcerer is out there stalking me, making me look over my shoulder every two seconds!”

  “Brother Q is tellin’ the truth. Q swears it. He hears whispers, wind in the trees, nothin’ more.”

  “What kind of whispers?”

  He licked his lips, glanced around the shop. “There’s a new player in town. A real badass. You know what Brother Q is sayin’?”

  “But if he’s new—”

  “Brother Q doesn’t believe he’s new. It’s the same guy you’ve been after for three years. But he’s gettin’ stronger. That Q does believe.” He shook his head. “People are scared, J. People are real scared.”