by DAVID B. COE
She seemed to consider this, though I could tell she wasn’t convinced. Not by a long shot. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s assume for a moment that this was magic, that someone put some kind of hex on you.”
“All right.”
“And let’s assume as well that whoever it was really did want you dead. Why are you still alive?”
God, I hated lying to her. But this didn’t seem like the time to introduce the concept of Namid, the magical ghost who only I could see. “The spell failed,” I said instead.
It was circular logic, like saying that I woke up because I stopped sleeping. But Billie was on unfamiliar ground, and she let it go.
“That happens?”
“Of course. That’s why it’s called a craft. It’s not automatic. The effectiveness of any magic is limited by the abilities of the person wielding it.”
We were almost back to the Z-ster. Again I tried to sense the sorcerer, but it seemed that we were still safe. Billie said nothing until we got to the car and I unlocked the door for her—the Z-ster was a vintage car; no automatic locks. I started around to the driver’s side, but Billie caught my arm.
“I’m going to need some time, Fearsson.”
My heart sank. I understood, but I’d hoped that somehow we could get past it. I should have known better.
“I know,” I said, putting on a brave smile. “We’re in no rush here.”
She let me go.
I drove her back to her house and walked her to the door. Neither of us had much to say.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, after we’d stood in awkward silence for a few moments.
I told her the truth. “I feel like I’ve been worked over.”
“You really thought you were going to die?”
“I was pretty sure of it.”
She reached out and rubbed my arm, concern and fear and sadness all mingling on her features, until her face resolved at last into a slight frown. Her hand lingered on my arm, though. “You should get some sleep,” she said after a while.
“I’d like to, but I have someone I have to see.” Checking my watch, I saw that it was already ten-thirty. “Soon.”
“What?” she said. “Who?”
“A guy named Antoine Mirdoux. He called me earlier. Said he needed to talk to me about the case.”
“Is he a magician?”
“Most people call them sorcerers, sometimes mystes. And yes, he is.”
She blinked. “I was kidding.”
“I know you were. But he is.”
She raised her eyebrows and nodded once. “Okay, then. This has been an interesting evening.” She turned and unlocked the door to her house.
I waited until she turned to face me again, and then I leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. “Don’t give up on me yet, okay?”
“Wouldn’t do me a bit of good anyway. You’d just slip me a love potion.”
I grinned, and so did she.
“Would you rather I didn’t call for a while?” I asked.
“I’ll call you,” she said.
“All right. Good night.”
I walked back to the car.
“I really will call,” she said.
I reached the Z-ster and glanced back at her. “Good.”
Namid was sitting in the passenger seat when I got in, but I ignored him until I had pulled away from Billie’s house. No sense in throwing more fuel on the fire by appearing to talk to myself.
“You are all right, Ohanko?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you. You saved my life.”
“I told you the woman was a distraction.”
I cast an angry look his way. “That’s not fair. He would have attacked me whether she’d been there or not. And we both know that I’m nowhere near strong enough to fight him off.”
“You are wrong. You could have warded yourself if you had been prepared. But you tried to ward her as well, and you almost died.”
I couldn’t argue. “You told me that there would be a cost,” I said after several seconds, the memory seeming to come from a great distance. “You were saving me, and I said I didn’t know that you could. And you said, ‘I can’t.’ What did you mean?”
“We runemystes are not supposed to meddle so in the affairs of humans. We are not even supposed to have that ability. I sensed though that I could this time. I do not know what it means. I do know that when I saved your life, I went against the laws of my kind. Already the others know of this, and have called for a conclave to speak of what I have done.”
“Will you be punished?”
“Possibly.”
I wondered how one punished a runemyste. Could they take away his powers? Could they hurt him? I almost asked, but Namid was always tight-lipped about these things. He’d already told me more than I would have expected.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said.
“You must be careful. I will not be able to intervene again. If this runecrafter makes another attempt on your life, you will face him alone.”
“I haven’t sensed him since the club. Did you do something to him?”
“It is enough that I showed myself. My kind are feared by the dark ones. He knows now that you and I are linked, and he will be more careful the next time he assails you. But assail you he will. You are more of a threat to him now. Our bond will give him pause, it may even make him fear you. But ultimately it will make him ever more determined to kill you.”
A joke leaped to mind, but I kept it to myself. Most of the time Namid thought my humor inappropriate, and tonight I was inclined to agree with him.
“I’ll tread like the fox,” I said, trying to smile.
Namid nodded. Then he vanished.
CHAPTER 16
I wanted nothing more than to go home, take a hot shower, and curl up in my bed for a day or two. Even as I began the drive into Mountain View, I considered blowing off my appointment with Antoine. It wasn’t as though he and I had hit it off the day we spoke. Let him handle his own damn problems. That’s what I told myself anyway.
As if in response, I heard again his voice on the phone. He’d been terrified. The guy hated me; he wouldn’t have made the call if he hadn’t been desperate. Besides, I probably wouldn’t get any sleep anyway. I had a feeling that it would be a long time before I could close my eyes without reliving those terrifying moments on the floor of Robo’s.
Driving through this part of Phoenix by day was depressing. It didn’t take a genius to see that hope had abandoned these neighborhoods years ago, leaving a residue of despair and bitterness that seemed to coat the homes and shops, even the streets themselves, like dust from a desert wind storm. But at night, this area, like Maryvale and Estrella Mountain and parts of Cactus Park, became something else entirely. Hopelessness gave way to fear; misery turned to rage. Violence, as Mick Jagger once put it, was just a shot away. Even cops didn’t like to venture here after dark. Kona and I had investigated more murders in south central Phoenix than I cared to count, but I’d never gotten used to it.
Now I was alone, and I didn’t like it at all. I started going over my phone conversation with Antoine in my mind, searching for any indication that this might be a trap. Maybe Billie was right and I was getting paranoid. The first time I met the kid, though, I thought he might be working with the red sorcerer. And here I was, maybe an hour after Red had come within a hair’s breadth of killing me, going to meet Antoine at his home. Either I was too stupid for words, or . . . well, that was the only option coming to mind.
I decided that I would park a short distance from the house, like I had last time, and approach on foot. I didn’t want Antoine trying to kill me again, and the Z-ster didn’t exactly blend in on these streets.
As soon as I turned the corner onto Antoine’s street I knew that I wouldn’t have to creep up on the place after all. I parked in front of the kid’s house and sat there, staring at the ruin, my stomach knotting like wet rope.
I knew without getting out of the car that Antoine
was dead. All of his wardings were gone. I assumed they had been torn to shreds by the pulsing crimson magic that now covered the house. But there wasn’t even a trace of them left. Had he been alive there would have been something. It was one of the fundamental principles of magic: spells died with the sorcerer who crafted them.
That red glow seemed to be a message in and of itself, a marquee of sorts, announcing to all who had the power to see it that there was a new act in town. It clung to the windows. It shone from the twisted hinges and shattered remains of Antoine’s new front door. And it glimmered from within the house as well, flickering like some weird red television screen. Yet, for all the magic I could see, I sensed nothing at all. The red sorcerer had been here—there was no doubt about that—but he wasn’t around now, unless he had managed to mask himself somehow.
To be safe, I pulled my weapon from under the driver’s seat, where I’d hidden it before leaving home, got out of the car, and approached the house. I glanced around, but saw no one. My weapon held ready, I walked up the cracked cement path to the door.
The inside of the house looked no better than the outside. What little furniture had been there was in shambles. The television had been knocked to the floor, the tube smashed and gleaming red with the sorcerer’s power. A table lay in pieces near the kitchen, and two chairs had been overturned.
I found Antoine in the bedroom, and upon seeing him had to fight to keep from being sick. His chest had been blackened; I assumed the red sorcerer had killed him with the same burning magic he had used to cauterize my heart. There wasn’t much left of his face, either. It was hard to tell in the dim light where his blood ended and the gleaming remains of the sorcerer’s magic began.
The bedroom was in far better shape than the living room had been. Forced to guess, I would have said that Red had charged into the house intent on killing Antoine; he cornered the kid in the back of the house, at which point he had no reason to do any more damage. He wanted Antoine, and once the kid was dead, he left.
I made a quick search of the house, hoping to find anything that might link Antoine to Claudia’s death or to the other Blind Angel murders. But Antoine’s home was modest; there were few places to hide anything, and fewer still that remained in one piece. I knew enough about crime scenes to stay clear of Antoine’s body.
I had the scrying stone with me—I had decided before leaving home to pick up Billie that I’d be wise to carry it with me at all times, like a real sorcerer. I tried a seeing spell now, hoping that ’Toine might be able to show me the red sorcerer. At first I used a shirt from the kid’s bedroom to link the magic to him. It worked initially. He was watching TV and rolling a joint. But then there was a noise outside the house that seemed to catch ’Toine’s attention. He stood, and at that point the images stopped. I went back to ’Toine’s body and, feeling like a ghoul, dabbed a bit of his blood on the underside of the stone. Blood should have given me a stronger vision than clothing. But when I tried the spell a second time the same thing happened. Either ’Toine had blacked out, or the red sorcerer had found some way to block my seeing spells. I was betting on the latter.
After I’d convinced myself that there was nothing to be found in the house, I grabbed a paper napkin from the kitchen. Then I went to the phone, took the receiver off the cradle, taking care to keep the napkin between my hand and the plastic, and punched in 911, again using the napkin to avoid leaving any fingerprints.
I heard the emergency operator come on the line, her voice thin as smoke as she asked if anyone was there. I left without responding. They’d dispatch someone to the house soon enough, and I wanted to put some distance between myself and the crime scene before the police arrived. Hibbard was eager for any excuse to mess with me, and a fresh corpse would have been like manna from heaven for him.
I got back in the car and started for home. Three blocks from Antoine’s house, I turned due west, deciding in that moment to check on Orestes. Call it a hunch. Brother Q had sent me to Antoine Mirdoux, and Mirdoux was dead.
Two blocks from Q’s place, I floored the gas. Already I could see the red glow lighting the sky. There was some orange mingled with it, though not much. Orestes was still alive.
I had my Glock in the pocket of my bomber, and as I jumped out of the car and ran toward Q’s door, I pulled it out again.
“Orestes?” I called.
From the outside, the place looked like it had been bombed. His door, like Antoine’s, had been ripped off the hinges and shattered. Windows were broken, and some of the building’s siding was blackened, as was a good portion of the roof.
The inside of Orestes’ store had been trashed. Broken vials of oils and herbs covered the floor, and the place smelled like two armies of conjurers had done battle with nothing but incense and brews. The remnants of Brother Q’s wardings still bordered the cracked windows and the door frame, but they flickered and hung there, weak, dim, limp, like the tatters of old orange curtains in a long-abandoned house. Red magic gleamed everywhere. A trail of it led toward the back of the store. I followed.
The small room behind the cash register was in shambles as well—more broken jars and dark stains on the old wooden floors from spilled oils and ointments, their smell mingled with the heavy stink of smoke. A narrow stairway, lit by red and orange conjuring, led to the second floor. I began to climb, holding my weapon with both hands, the stairs creaking beneath me.
As I neared the top of the stairway, I peered over the edge of the floor into Orestes’ small apartment. And as soon as I did, I felt the pulse of power. It was hot and moving fast and aimed directly at my head. I ducked. It flew over me and slammed into the wall of the stairway, raining burning pieces of wood and charred plaster down on me. I smelled burning hair, and brushed a flaming fragment off my head. Only then, thinking about it, did I realize that the magic I’d seen hurtling toward me had been orange.
“Orestes, you idiot! It’s me, Jay Fearsson!”
“Show yourself then!” Orestes called. “Let Brother Q see!”
He was talking in third person; he couldn’t have been hurt too badly.
“No way! You’ll try to blow my head off again!”
Q didn’t answer, and I started to wonder if he was gearing up for another assailing spell. I pulled my wallet free and flipped it open to my PI license.
“I’m going to hold up my ID, Orestes. Don’t blow my hand off, okay?”
Still no answer. I took a deep breath and lifted my hand.
After several seconds I heard, “Brother J? That really you?”
“It’s me. You all right?”
“Brother Q in a bad way, boy. Nearly got himself blown up today.”
I think it was an attempt at verse, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m coming up, all right?”
“Yeah. All right.”
The apartment was even more of a mess than the store had been. Shards of glasses and old plates covered the floor, crunching like snow under my feet as I crossed to the bed. Q’s pine and cinder block bookshelves had toppled, littering much of the room with old books and crystals. His mattress had been burned black, and was still smoking.
Q sat on the floor on the far side of what remained of his bed frame, his back against the wall. Blood from several deep gashes covered his face, and he had a nasty burn on his left cheek and temple. One of his legs was fractured; a bloodied, jagged end of the bone protruded through his pants leg. From the way he was holding his right arm, I guessed that it was broken, too.
“You don’t look so good, Q.”
There was a large pool of blood around his leg, and a good deal more soaked into his jeans. I knelt down in front of him and studied his eyes. They were glazed over, but it was too dark to see if his pupils were dilated. He might well have been in shock, or at least on his way.
“Where’s your phone?”
“Q ain’t seen it,” he said. His voice sounded strong enough.
“Is there even one up here?” I asked, surveying the damage.
>
“Most of the time.”
I found it under a pile of books. For the second time that night I dialed 911. When the operator came on, I told her to send an ambulance to Orestes’ address.
“It might be a good idea to send the fire department, too,” I added, before hanging up.
Returning to Q, I examined his leg with more care. Because of the compound fracture, I couldn’t apply any pressure to stop the bleeding, at least not without causing him a lot of pain. I tore a strip a cloth from the bed sheets and tied a tourniquet a couple of inches above the break. I didn’t tie it too tight—I didn’t want him to lose the leg any more than I wanted him bleeding to death.
“Why did he attack you, Q?” I asked as I worked.
“It was that badass,” he said. “Remember the one Q told you about?”
“Yeah, I remember. I recognized the color of his magic. But why’d he do it? What’d you do to piss him off?”
“Q still doesn’t know. Q hasn’t even met the man.”
I paused in what I was doing. “You’re telling me that you don’t know this guy at all?”
“Brother Q told you that last time.”
“You ever hear the name Cahors?” I asked him.
“Ca-what?”
“Cahors. It’s French.”
He shook his head. “Never heard it before.”
“Then why would he attack you? Why would the guy come in here, and bust up your place, and leave you half-dead if he doesn’t even know you?”
“Q has no idea. He was just mindin’ his own business and that man came and blowed down Q’s door like the big bad wolf, y’know?”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Brother Q saw his eyes,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s evil in that man.”
“What color were his eyes?” I knew the answer. At this point I was trying to keep him talking.
“They were light. Blue. Gray maybe. They was almost white. Strange, scary, you know?”
“What else? Is he white?”
“Did you ever see a brother with eyes like that?”
