Spell Blind

by DAVID B. COE

  He was about six-four and he had the build of a professional wrestler. His head was shaved and he wore a black Robo’s t-shirt that must have been three sizes too small. He had on one of those small headsets that allowed him to communicate with the rest of security.

  “Sorry, buddy,” he said, blocking the stairs. “No access beyond here.”

  “I need to speak with Mister Moore,” I said. I pulled out my wallet and showed him my license. “I’m a PI and I’ve been asked by the Deegans to learn what I can about Claudia Deegan’s murder. I’m here as Randy’s guest tonight. He told me that Moore would see me.”

  His entire bearing changed, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that I might have a legitimate reason for going up those steps. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Jay Fearsson.”

  “Fearsson,” he repeated. “Wait here.” He turned and went up to the office.

  It occurred to me that Randy might have forgotten to mention my name to Moore, but after only a few seconds the bouncer opened the office door again and waved me upstairs.

  Moore was at his desk and speaking on the phone when I entered the room, but he hung up a moment later and stood to greet me.

  “Mister Fearsson,” he said, holding out a hand. He was about my height and weight, with brown curls and a receding hairline. His skin was rough and pockmarked; I guessed that he’d had bad acne as a kid.

  I shook his hand and tipped my head toward the window, which offered a clear view of Robo’s stage. “Those guys are great.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying the show,” Moore said. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk, and both of us sat. “Randy said you wanted to talk to me about Mike Gann.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He also said that you’re a private investigator, not a cop. I’m a little uncomfortable talking to you about a former employee. Especially since I’ve already told the police everything I know about him.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I used to be on the force, and I know how they work. I expect my questions will be a bit different from the ones they asked you.”

  He frowned at that.

  I pulled out my pad and pencil. “Did you ever see Mike do magic?”

  Moore laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  His smile faded. “He always talked about stuff like that. To me, to Doug Bass, to the musicians. He wasn’t shy about it, but all of us thought he was crazy.”

  Doug Bass didn’t, but I kept that to myself.

  “You never saw him do anything that you couldn’t explain? Nothing that seemed . . . magical?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Was he a good worker?”

  “He was all right. I probably wouldn’t have fired him if Randy hadn’t insisted. Truth is, I didn’t want to do it. But when I mentioned that Electric Daiquiri was going to be playing here, Mike got real weird about it. After that, I understood what Randy was so worried about, you know? So I let him go.”

  “Did he ever work on nights when the moon was full?”

  He frowned again. “You’re right, Mister Fearsson: your questions aren’t at all like the ones the police asked me.” He sat back, eyeing me for a few seconds. “No, he didn’t work full moons. It was a pain in the ass if you want to know. If Doug hadn’t volunteered to cover for him whenever the moon was full, it would have caused me real problems. As it was, I didn’t pay him for those nights. But I assumed it was part of the whole magic thing, one more delusion. You think there was something to it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Did he miss other nights? Quarter moons, maybe?”

  Moore shook his head. “No. Just the full ones. If he’d missed more than that I definitely would have canned him sooner.”

  I jotted down a few notes. The fact that Gann had worked on the nights of quarter moons could help prove that he hadn’t killed the other Blind Angel victims. Kona and I would have to match murder dates to the club’s payroll records, but it might be the evidence we needed to save Gann’s neck.

  The piped-in music stopped and a cheer went up from the crowd on the dance floor.

  “I think that’s my cue to leave you alone,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Moore stood too, and I shook his hand.

  “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I crossed to the door.

  “Do you think Mike really could do magic?” Moore asked before I could pull it open. “Real magic?”

  “I don’t know, Mister Moore. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Claudia Deegan.”

  He nodded, though he looked troubled. I let myself out of his office, descended the stairs, and waded through the crowd toward the bar.

  I found Billie there, speaking with four or five college kids. As soon as she spotted me, she waved and started pushing through the throng to get to me. She glanced behind her once or twice, seeming to make certain that she wasn’t followed. The kids waved to her, and eyed me with obvious interest.

  “Fans?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes again. “I was hoping to avoid them and instead it was like I stumbled into a nest of sorority kids.” She handed me a bottle of beer. “Here. It might be a bit warm by now.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking it from her and sipping some. It wasn’t too bad.

  “How did the work go?”

  I shrugged. “Not bad, I guess. I learned a couple of things that might be helpful.”

  At least I thought I had. I found myself wondering if I should have asked more of the club’s manager. Only now, working this case alone, did I realize how much I had come to depend on my give-and-take with Kona when doing police work. We used to challenge each other, offer competing theories and then dissect them until we had figured out what happened. Working alone was like sitting solo on a seesaw. I wasn’t sure I was asking the right questions or following the right leads.

  “You okay?”

  I smiled at her, and while I was frustrated by these doubts, the smile was sincere. “I’m fine.”

  Electric Daiquiri began their second set, and Billie and I made our way back onto the dance floor. We hadn’t been dancing long, though, when I felt him again. The red sorcerer. He was close, and he was intent on me.

  The panic I’d felt earlier, when he made me turn the Glock on myself, flooded into me again; I felt the blood drain from my face. I stopped dancing, cleared myself, and began to chant wardings in my mind.

  “Fearsson?”

  It wasn’t going to be enough. Whatever I came up with wouldn’t keep him from killing me, and Billie, too. I grabbed her hand and pulled her off the dance floor. We were nearer to the back of the club, so I made for the exit I’d used to find the janitor the last time I’d been here.

  “What are you doing?” she called to me.

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember when I told you I was followed? Well, he’s here again.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I scanned the club, trying to spot anyone who shimmered with enough power to make me feel this way. No one did.

  “Pretty sure.”

  We were almost through the crowd when I felt the heat of his magic hit me.

  “Oh, shit,” I had time to mutter.

  “Fearsson?”

  I could hear Billie’s concern, but it was all I could do to ward myself and try to save her. I couldn’t risk saying a thing for fear of distracting myself. There were people all around me, so reflection and deflection spells were out of the question. I tried to shield the two of us with a conjuring that would absorb his magic, so that no one else would get hurt, but while I knew in theory what to do, the spell was beyond me.

  An instant later, I was in agony. It felt like someone had thrust a flaming torch into my chest, as if this bastard sorcerer was trying to burn my heart right out of my body. This was what Shari Bettancourt fe
lt, I told myself. And then the pain obliterated every other thought in my head. I doubled over, clutching both hands over my chest, folding in on myself. Somehow I sensed that I was on the floor, writhing, my teeth clenched, my eyes squeezed shut. I tried again to ward myself, but I could barely remember who I was, much less whatever conjuring I’d been trying a moment before. I heard Billie screaming my name, but I couldn’t tell if she was doing so out of fear for me, or because she was being tortured, too. Not that I could have done a damn thing about it.

  He had me. Three times. Power in numbers. I was going to die on this rank floor, with strains of Latin fusion blaring in the background, with people dancing and getting drunk all around me.

  I tried to fight him, but I had no weapons, and he’d already carved through the shield I’d tried to summon. Magic may be an act of will, but it’s also an expression of power and knowledge, and I didn’t have enough of either. I wasn’t even close. And I was growing weaker by the second. I could feel the life seeping out of me. I could hear my heartbeat slowing, I was aware of the blood laboring to flow through my body. I thought I heard laughter again.

  And then I heard a voice.

  “Ohanko.”

  It was as soothing as the laughter had been harsh, as welcome as rain on a parched landscape.

  “Namid?” I croaked.

  “Be still,” he said. I could feel cool water coursing into my chest, dousing the fire that had raged there seconds before.

  “I didn’t know you could do this,” I whispered.

  “I cannot. There will be a cost. Now, please, be still.”

  I lay there on the floor, savoring whatever it was the runemyste was doing to me, amazed that I was I alive, grateful for the ability to inhale and exhale without pain. After a time, I opened my eyes and saw that Billie was kneeling beside me, her face as white as bone and her lips pressed thin.

  “Thank God,” she said. She ran a rigid hand through her hair. “Stay still. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

  “She is right,” Namid said. “Do not try to move yet.”

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” I said, the words coming out as a rasp.

  Billie frowned. “The hell you don’t.”

  The music hadn’t stopped, but there were quite a few people standing around, staring at me.

  “Hurry up, Namid,” I whispered.

  “What?” Billie said.

  The runemyste rumbled like surging flood waters. “You must rest.”

  “Not here, though.”

  “What are you saying, Fearsson?”

  After a few moments more, the flow of soothing waters over my heart ceased. As soon as it did, I felt the pain return, or at least a shadow of it. I could only assume that my chest would be sore for a while.

  I sat up, which made my head spin. But I met and held Billie’s gaze. “I’m all right.”

  “No, you’re not. What was that? What happened?”

  “I’ll try to explain it to you,” I told her. “But not here.”

  I thought she’d argue, but after gazing at me for a few seconds, she nodded once. She still looked pale and scared, but I could tell that she hadn’t gone to pieces. She was too strong for that. She stood, helped me to my feet. It hurt to move at all, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near here when the ambulance arrived.

  Billie started toward the back door again, and I followed, my steps stiff, like those of an old man.

  One of the college kids stared at me. “Dude, you okay?”

  I laid a hand on his shoulder as I walked past him. “Yeah, thanks.”

  The air in the alley behind Robo’s felt cool, and I leaned against the cinder block wall for a moment, taking deep breaths.

  “What happened to you, Fearsson?” Billie demanded again.

  I straightened and started walking. “Not here,” I said.

  She didn’t move. “Yes, here.”

  I walked back to her. “I’ll try to explain this to you. I swear it. But we’re still not safe. I want to get as far—”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to tell me that what happened to you in there was . . . was done to you?”

  “I guess that sounds pretty strange, doesn’t it?”

  Billie nodded, her mouth a dark gash on her ashen face. “Paranoid, even.”

  I sighed. “I’m not nuts.” Not yet, at least.

  “I didn’t say you were,” she said. I could tell she was trying to keep her tone gentle. “I’m trying to understand.”

  I didn’t want to have this conversation now. I was spent and sore, and even if I had been ready to tell Billie everything, I wasn’t certain that she was ready to hear it. I’d only had to explain all of this once before, to Kona, years ago. And that had been right after we solved the warehouse robbery cases and collared Orestes. She would have been willing to believe pretty much anything at that point.

  Other than Kona, I’d never had to tell anyone about all of it—Namid, the craft, the phasings. My father already understood, and my mother would have as well, having lived with my father. There were a few street sorcerers, like Orestes, who knew, but again, they hadn’t needed an explanation. Billie wouldn’t understand much of this at first. She might not even believe me; some people didn’t believe magic was real.

  By the same token, she deserved some explanation for what she’d seen in the club. And before long I wanted to tell her everything.

  “Fearsson?”

  But not tonight.

  “Can we walk while I try to explain?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. We started down the alley. I tried to sense the sorcerer, but he wasn’t around. Maybe Namid had driven him off before doing whatever he’d done to ease my pain.

  “Do you believe in the occult?”

  “The occult? You mean witchcraft? Voodoo? Stuff like that?”

  “Yeah, basically.”

  “I’ve heard people talk about it. I guess you could say that I’m a skeptic.”

  “I figured you’d say that.”

  She stopped walking. “You’re telling me that was voodoo?” she said, gesturing over her shoulder at the club. “Come on, Fearsson. You can do better than that.”

  I stopped as well, and turned to face her. I didn’t have the energy for this. “Not voodoo precisely,” I said. “But that’s kind of what we’re talking about.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  She was frowning now. I thought she even seemed a little bit afraid of me.

  “I could lie to you. I could tell you that my father had a heart attack when he was in his thirties, and now it’s my turn. But I don’t want to do that.”

  She started walking again. When she reached me, I fell in step beside her.

  “Voodoo,” she muttered again.

  “It’s not voodoo,” I said. “Stop saying it like that. Voodoo is a religion. Some of its practitioners dabble in the craft, but for the most part voodoo is a word that people use to describe things they don’t fully understand.”

  “The craft?” she said. “Wasn’t that a movie?”

  I shrugged. “It might have been.”

  “You said when we got to the club that your work tonight could be dangerous, and that you thought you’d been followed before. Did you know something like this would happen?”

  I almost said, Yes, but I hoped I could ward myself. But I stopped myself in time. “I was afraid it might,” I told her. “I didn’t know how bad it would be.”

  She eyed me. “How bad was it?”

  I stared at the street in front of me. “It was pretty bad.”

  “You’re closing down on me again, Fearsson. How bad was it?”

  I took a breath and looked at her. “I’m not entirely sure why I’m still alive.”

  For a long time she didn’t say anything. Finally, she nodded, and faced forward again. “That’s how it seemed.”

  I could tell she still didn’t know what to make of all this, or whether she should even belie
ve me. But she hadn’t dumped me yet, so I figured I was doing all right.

  “I bet dates with Joel aren’t this exciting,” I said, chancing a joke.

  She wasn’t in the mood for that yet.

  “Why would someone who . . . who does . . . ?”

  “Magic?” I offered.

  “All right. Why would they be after you?”

  I didn’t answer; I could see that she was working it out herself.

  “Unless magic had something to do with what happened to Claudia, and with the murders of all those kids.” Her eyes went so wide it might have been funny under different circumstances. “Did it?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  She shook her head. I could see her racing to catch up with each new implication. “But you understood what was happening. You anticipated it. So this isn’t new for you. Somehow you’re used to this.”

  “There’s more magic in the world than you might think. More than most people know.”

  “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

  “Why?” I asked. “You know that there are sorcerers in the world. Is it really that much of a surprise that some of them are here in Phoenix? Just because most of us don’t see magic in our everyday lives, that doesn’t mean that it’s not out there.”

  “Don’t get all philosophical on me. That’s a different conversation.”

  “I’m not sure it is. Ask yourself why you’re having so much trouble believing all of this. Is it because you think I’m lying to you?”

  “No.”

  “Is it because you think I’m crazy?”

  “I’m still working that one out.”

  I laughed. She didn’t.

  “I’m not crazy,” I said again. How many times did a person have to say that before it stopped being true? “I know crazy. My dad is . . . I believe the clinical explanation is that he has psychotic episodes.”

  “You told me that you’ve had psychological problems before. And now you’re saying that you have a history of mental illness in your family?”

  I could tell I was starting to lose her.

  “His problems were a lot like mine,” I said. “And the delusions he has started much later in life.”

  “He has delusions?”

  Good move, Fearsson. “Sometimes. But that’s not what happened to me tonight. He’s never imagined pain like that. I promise you.”