Spell Blind

by DAVID B. COE

  “Who is he?”

  “No one knows. He’s got no name. Nobody ever sees him, or at least they don’t talk about it if they do. He comes and goes and no one knows where he lives or where he’s come from.” He leaned forward. “Some are sayin’ he comes from Hell itself,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “How long have you been hearing about this guy?”

  “Not long. Can’t say for certain. But not long.”

  “Why does he kill? What’s he getting from these kids?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “Come on! You’ve got to be able to tell me something about this guy, other than the fact that he’s a badass weremyste.”

  “He ain’t like other weremystes. He’s more than strong, you understand? He’s different.”

  I felt cold suddenly and had to keep myself from shuddering. “Different how?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer.

  He shrugged. “Q don’t know. He’s just different. His magic’s stronger than it should be. Some people are sayin’ that the moons don’t bother him, though I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Yeah, all right,” I said. I believed Q was trying to help me, and would have, had he known enough. “Who else can I talk to about this guy?”

  “No one other than Q is gonna talk to you about him. They’re all too scared.”

  “Leave that to me. Give me a name. Someone’s had dealings with him, right?”

  He hesitated. “Some say he’s done business with an enchanter near here.” Orestes said the word “enchanter” as if it were something dirty. To those skilled in the use of magic, enchanters were weremyste wannabes, people who dabbled in conjuring but had learned little craft. He might as well have called the guy a fraud. “A boy named Antoine Mirdoux. Another brother from Haiti.”

  “Mirdoux,” I repeated. “Sounds familiar.”

  “He’s been around a little while, but he’s just a kid. Calls himself ’Toine. Thinks he’s goin’ to be somethin’ big, you know what Q’s sayin’? Thinks he’s goin’ to be the next Brother Q.” He shook his head. “But the boy ain’t got the chops.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Like I said, it’s not far. He has a place just off of Thomas; I think it’s on 18th. It’s white, but it needs paint. There’s —” He stopped and waved his hand, in the general direction. “You’ll see the wardings on it. Pale green; very weak.”

  I handed him the two twenties. “Thanks.”

  “Did you mean what you said before? Is this hell sorcerer really targetin’ you?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, wishing I’d kept that bit of information to myself. “Yeah,” I said. “At least I think it was him. It felt like someone was about to use assailing magic against me. I warded myself both times, but no attack ever came.”

  “Both times,” Orestes said. “It’s happened twice?”

  I nodded. He grimaced.

  “Have you considered whether you might be better off leavin’ him be?” he asked.

  I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I reached for the door. “Thanks again.”

  “Brother Q has one favor that he’d ask of you . . .”

  This one I’d heard before; his standard parting line. “Please don’t tell a soul that you heard it from Q,” we said together.

  “You got it,” I told him. “Stay safe.”

  “You, too. Keep your head down.”

  Right. I got back in the car and drove east on Thomas and then turned onto 18th. Antoine Mirdoux lived in Mountain View’s 733 beat, another garden spot. To a civilian—one crazy enough to be walking these streets—there wasn’t a whole lot of difference among the beats in this part of town. A person could drive from one to the next without knowing it. But to the cops working the neighborhoods, each beat had a personality, a flavor. I’m sure the 733 was like that, a place that cops came to know and even like, in a perverse sort of way. To me though, these were just streets and ramshackle houses, places where a dark sorcerer could be waiting, watching for me. The area around Orestes’ place I knew; I’d been there enough times before to make even those rough streets feel familiar. But as I drove the Z-ster up and down 18th, looking for a house that glowed with pale green magic, I felt like a soldier entering an urban war zone for the first time. These streets were alien to me, and I could almost feel the danger crawling up my arms and legs, making me shiver. As I drifted past, kids and old people stared at me, grim and hostile. They knew I didn’t belong there; they might even have sensed an ill omen in my coming. I kept my speed the same, trying not to make eye contact as I searched for Antoine’s house.

  I spotted it about a block short. Like Orestes’ house, it was dripping with magic—between Orestes and Antoine, I was beginning to feel like I should go home and put a few spells on my place. It seemed there were some heavy clouds looming on the magical horizon.

  I couldn’t tell for certain in the daylight, but Antoine’s magic did appear to be a very pale green, about the same color you might see on a traffic light. At least I knew that he wasn’t our killer.

  I drove past the house and parked two doors down, not wanting to spook him. I tucked my weapon into my shoulder holster, walked to the door, and knocked.

  No answer. I raised my hand to knock again, and as I did, several things happened at once.

  I felt a pulse of magic aimed at me through the door—an assailing spell—and without even thinking, I warded myself. When in doubt, go back to what you know best. I used a deflection spell.

  I didn’t know what ’Toine had in mind for me when I redirected his assault at the first thing I thought of: his door, to be precise. But given the way the door exploded inward, I guessed that he wanted me blown up. The wood shattered with a sound like thunder from a too-close lighting strike and fragments of the door and flecks of old white paint flew through the house like flakes in a snow globe.

  My initial thought was that Orestes had sold the kid short, making him sound like some kind of hack conjurer. He wasn’t a master yet—if he had been, I’d have been killed by the explosion—but he was better than Orestes had made him sound. I should have recognized Brother Q’s attitude for what it was: professional jealousy. ’Toine was every bit the sorcerer Orestes had been the first time I busted him. Give the kid a few years, and he’d be a force in this town.

  In the next instant I realized that I’d heard another sound after the door vaporized. A second door had opened on the far side of the house and a moment later a screen door had slammed shut. I sprinted through the house and out the back in time to see a young black man disappear around a corner. It was Robby-freaking-Sommer all over again. And my leg still hurt.

  But ’Toine had tried to kill me, and I was pissed. It was amazing what a bit of anger could do to strengthen a person’s magic. Turning that same corner, I saw Mirdoux running away from me, and I tried the most basic assailing spell I could think of, something so simple that he never would have expected it, something so harmless that if he reflected it back at me, it wouldn’t do any damage.

  Three elements. My hand, his foot, his momentum. As I’ve said, the words don’t matter; it’s all visualization.

  ’Toine went down in a heap, the way he would have if I’d been close enough to grab his foot in the middle of his stride.

  I ran toward him, warding myself as I did. I almost pulled out my Glock, but then I thought better of it. I didn’t want him panicking, and I didn’t want to give him another target for his magic.

  As I got near him, I slowed to a walk. He had sat up, and was glaring at me. I expected him to cast a spell my way at any moment.

  “Don’t even think about it, Antoine,” I said, still easing toward him. “I’m a better conjurer than you are.”

  “The hell you are, man!”

  “Have you seen your door lately?”

  He said nothing, but if he’d been able to turn that glower into magic, I’d have been little more than ash.

>   Antoine couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, and he was surprisingly clean-cut for a kid who’d tried to splatter me all over his front steps. His hair was short and neatly cut, his face was square, his skin smooth. It was hard to tell with him on the ground, but I don’t think he would have stood much more than five-six or five-seven. He was broad in the shoulders and lean, and he wore a diamond stud in his left ear.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked. ’Toine may have been from Haiti, but he had no accent, and I had the feeling that he could have spoken like a news anchor if he’d chosen to.

  “You’re trying to kill me, and you don’t even know?”

  “I know you don’t belong ’round here. I know you got no business knockin’ on my door.”

  “So you’d have tried to blow me up even if I’d been selling Bibles?”

  “You don’t look like no Bible salesman.”

  “No? What do I look like?”

  “A cop.”

  I guess it never really goes away. It’s not like I could argue with the kid. “It would have been pretty stupid to blow up a cop.”

  “Man, what are you talkin’ about with that blowin’ up shit? I didn’t try to blow up nobody.”

  “No? Then what was that spell you threw at me through what used to be your door?”

  “Nothin’ you ever heard of, man.” He grinned. “It’s one of my own. It would have felt like somebody shattered a beer bottle on your head. Would have put you out cold.” The smile vanished. “Instead, you gotta go and destroy my house.”

  Either he was lying or I was far more powerful than I’d ever thought and had unwittingly found some way to amplify his assailing spell. Guess which one I was betting on.

  “I’m not a cop, Antoine,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.” I pulled out my wallet and showed him my PI’s license. “My name is Jay Fearsson. I’m doing some work on the Blind Angel murders.”

  He stared past me. “Never heard of them.”

  “No? Maybe you heard that Claudia Deegan was killed.”

  “Never heard of her, neither.”

  Well, now I had to reconsider, because ’Toine was about the worst liar I’d ever met. What the hell had happened to his door?

  “You know what? I think you’re full of shit. I think you ran away from me because you’re into something that you can’t handle and you’re scared out of your mind.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  “Claudia Deegan was killed with magic.”

  “Bad luck.”

  “Every Blind Angel victim was killed with magic.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “I used to be a cop. And I’m a weremyste, too. Remember? I saw the magic on them.”

  “Then you know it’s not mine, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I know that it belongs to someone with real power.”

  “Fuck you, man!”

  “The magic that killed those kids was red. Deep red, almost the color of blood. And the magic on Claudia Deegan had faded nearly to nothing in the span of about two days. There can’t be more than five people in the entire country with power like that.”

  He refused again to meet my gaze. But he was clenching his jaw, and I had the sense that he was considering another assailing spell.

  “Like I said, man, if you cast, then you know what my stuff is like. It ain’t red, and it don’t disappear after no two days. So you know it wasn’t me.”

  “Maybe, but I think you know who this sorcerer is.”

  “You think wrong, then, cop.”

  I squatted down and got right in his face, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Like I said, little man, I’m not a cop anymore. But I’ve still got friends on the force. And who do you think they turn to when they’re working cases that involve magic?” I tapped my chest. “Me. All I have to do is give the word and they’ll be all over you. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in jail, wishing you were a good enough conjurer to get yourself out, and wondering why you were so stupid as to piss me off.”

  He was working up to another attack. I could see it in his eyes; I could hear it in the rasp of his breathing. I pushed hard enough, and I got exactly what I expected. For all his talent and potential, ’Toine was still just a kid, playing with toys he didn’t quite understand.

  The spell he threw at me was similar to the one Robby Sommer had used against me—a basic fire spell. Rudimentary stuff. But he was angry enough that this time he might have been trying to kill me, and so I went with deflection rather than reflection. I didn’t want to hurt him. But he needed to know that he didn’t want to be screwing around with me. I aimed the bounce at the wall directly behind him, so that ’Toine’s own fire flew past the side of his head, missing him by maybe an inch and blackening the wall with the sound of sizzling fat.

  “Shit!” he spat, ducking away.

  “Next time, I won’t miss,” I told him. “Tell me who this guy is, or I’ll bring the cops down on you. I’m a PI; I just want to get paid. And all the cops care about is clearing the case. None of us gives a crap if you go down for it. Hell, if I tell them that it’s your color on Claudia Deegan, they’re not going to know any different.” I shrugged. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve got nothing against you. I’d rather see this other guy off the streets. And I bet you wouldn’t mind using a bit less mojo around the house.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man,” he said. “I don’t know any red magic sorcerer.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Who sent you here, anyway? Somebody got it in for me?”

  “Who is he, Antoine? Why is everybody so afraid of this guy?”

  For a second I thought he’d spill it all. He was scared, terrified even. I glimpsed it in his eyes—I’d seen that fear before, in little kids who were being abused by their parents. Terror, helplessness, the memory of pain, the desperate desire to end the abuse, but all of it overmastered by the belief that no one could end the cycle and the certainty that if he tried, if he dared tell a soul, he’d be punished even more severely than before. ’Toine felt trapped, and he had no faith that I could set him free.

  At last he fixed his eyes on the street. It was almost like he expected to see the sorcerer strolling past. “I don’t know nothin’,” he muttered again. “Whoever told you I did was bullshittin’ you.”

  He was lying. But again, as with Robby, I couldn’t do anything about it.

  I stood. “Fine.” I fished out my business card, and tossed one down to him. It was a waste of time and paper, but what the hell. “If you reconsider, give me a call.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, right, man. I’ll be callin’ you.”

  I started to walk away.

  “We can chat, man,” he called after me. “Like we’re old friends, you know?” He laughed again.

  I made my way to the Z-ster, Antoine’s laughter still ringing in my ears. I had been preparing myself all day, planning what I’d do if I felt the Blind Angel Killer’s power again. But like an idiot, I allowed the kid to throw me off balance.

  And so, when the red sorcerer suddenly had me in his sights again, I was utterly unprepared. I tried to ward myself, knowing as I did that anything I came up with he could defeat, knowing as well what he was trying to do with these teasing encounters. But I made the effort anyway.

  The feeling was much more vivid this time. I knew he was close. Too close. I turned a quick circle, but I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to find him. The hairs on my neck and arms stood on end and my skin grew cold, as if I was in shadow and the rest of the city was in brilliant sunlight. If he had wanted to kill me in that moment, he could have, though I would have put up a fight.

  But he was toying with me. For a split second, I thought I could hear laughter. Not ’Toine’s, though I heard that, too. This was deeper, more menacing, more elusive. I turned again, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. But it was everywhere. Around me, above me, below me.
It was in my freaking head.

  You’re mine now, I thought I heard someone say.

  And then it was gone. The laughter ceased, the sun shone on my face and arms, a warm wind touched my skin.

  Three times. Once outside of Robby Sommer’s place, once outside of Robo’s in Tempe, and now here, in front of Antoine Mirdoux’s house. Was there a connection there, something linking the three of them to one another and to this sorcerer with the blood-red magic? Or was it mere chance, the random choices of this bastard who was hunting me?

  I should have been concentrating on those questions, trying to figure out what Robby, Robo’s, and Antoine had in common with the Blind Angel victims.

  But all I could think was that he’d done this to me three times now. He’d touched my mind with his magic; he’d tested my defenses and seen how I would respond to an attack, how I would ward myself.

  Three times.

  There’s power in numbers. He knew me now. I was his. And the next time, if he chose to attack, there would be precious little I could do about it.

  CHAPTER 12

  I drove back to Chandler, my heart pounding out a salsa beat, and my hands sweating so much the steering wheel grew slick and I had to wipe my palms on my jeans every few seconds. I spent more time glancing up at my rearview mirror than I did looking ahead. I don’t know what I was watching for—maybe some red glowing car, driven by the bald guy I’d seen in my stone. Every time a car drew too close to my rear bumper I started to hyperventilate.

  By the time I reached my office, I’d stopped shaking, for the most part. But I was still jumpy; walking from my car to the office, I must have glanced back over my shoulder a dozen times. I hated this. I’m not one to go through life scared; I’d spent too long on the job for that. But this sorcerer had gotten into my head.

  More than anything else, I was mad at myself for letting him get the better of me. I knew full well that I couldn’t stay locked up in my house or office and still do my job.