Doom Sayer

by Clara Coulson

  She leans an inch closer to him, and he flinches back. “There’s only one possible winner here,” she says, “and it’s not you.”

  Amy whips around and marches back down the steps, without a hint of fear that one of the practitioners will attack her. And they don’t either. They watch her go with growing horror etched into their faces, all except Erica, who looks more impressed than anything else.

  Ella opens her mouth to scold Amy for such threatening behavior—throwing that kind of threat at a noncriminal is worth an official reprimand—but Riker drops a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head. There will be time for a talk later. For now, we have work to do. More work than we should have, since the ICM is unwilling to help us.

  Somewhere in that building are a dozen plus rogues, behind bars, ready for us to interrogate, but Delos is intent to keep the walls between us and them. Because he doesn’t like us. Because he doesn’t trust us. Because he thinks he’s better than us, and we’re intruding on his space, on practitioner space. A smattering of petty quibbles. That’s all it takes for these people to deny us vital resources, even in the face of a devastating crisis.

  Amy’s words might have been nasty, but I understand the sentiment.

  Motherfuckers, every single one who supports Delos’ decisions, I think as Riker signals for us to head back to the SUV. Every single one except Erica. If only we could return her memories…

  But we can’t. Cooper, who religiously wears the watch containing Erica’s incriminating memories, has reminded me a hundred times in the last month alone that we can’t give them back until we’re sure Erica’s in a position to avoid Delos’ dangerous magic, which can rip a mind apart and rebuild it to suit his needs. With ease.

  That’s what Delos was known for back in his days as the High Court’s “fixer.” He didn’t fix problems. He fixed people. People who were out of line. People who needed to be a little “different” in order for them to be of use to the ICM.

  We might need Erica’s help, her expertise with spellwork, but we can’t return her memories until we have no other choice. One wrong move, and she ends up a mind-wiped blank slate, a puppet for Delos to dangle on strings and use as he pleases.

  I can’t let that happen to her. Not after everything she’s done, every risk she’s taken, to save our asses over the past year. Erica is the last resort now, not the first.

  Without looking back, I slip inside the SUV again, and pointedly stare at anything beyond the window that isn’t Erica Milburn.

  A minute later, we’re back on the road. A waste of a trip. A waste of our time. A waste of what precious hours all the infected have left.

  Yeah, I understand Amy’s feelings perfectly.

  Chapter Seven

  “That was totally inappropriate, Amy,” Ella says from the driver’s seat, peering through the rearview mirror. “You could’ve started a fight in the middle of the street.”

  “And then we would’ve had probable cause to enter the building uninvited,” Amy retorts.

  “Enough,” Riker says, smacking the dashboard. “We don’t have time for bickering. We can save that for the debrief when this chaos is over, assuming we don’t die before then.”

  Amy shrugs and leans her head against the window. “Whatever, boss.”

  “What’s next on the agenda?” Desmond, eyes closed, sits between Amy and me, his forehead wrinkled like he’s trying to solve a complex equation. “If the ICM is truly pulling back—which is irritating, certainly, but also means they’ll be out of our way for the duration of this situation—then who do we turn to for assistance? Our minor practitioners are either sick or desperately trying to avoid becoming so, and even if they weren’t, none of them have the firepower to hand-wave the curse away. It was created by an ICM-level practitioner. That’s who we need to combat it. Unless there’s another way.”

  My phone buzzes on my belt, and I pull my distant gaze from the window as I pluck it off the clip to find Cooper calling. “Hey, Coop,” I answer, “you all right?”

  “Define ‘all right,’” he says. “I’m not sick, of course. I don’t have an ounce of magic in my entire body, so I’m the last person the curse would infect. But I am stuck in the Archives, all by myself, until the guys in hazmat gear finish checking all the basement levels for sick people and corralling all the at-risk agents to the designated safe zones. Anyone who remains in a safe zone for an hour without showing symptoms will get booted out the door with orders to go home and stay isolated until further notice.”

  He huffs. “After all the at-risk agents are gone, then and only then will the rest of us be allowed to walk the halls freely. I mean, sure, that restrictive a system will keep things in order, but my god, I’m insanely hungry right now, thanks to our failed trip to Kelly’s, and since all current casework is suspended until the building is cleared, I have nothing to do except tinker with my latest iPhone app ideas.”

  “Sorry to say, Cooper,” I reply, “but I think this is going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “I know. And I don’t mean to sound callous about this, but I just feel so useless.” Something squeaks, and I imagine him leaning back in his desk chair. “Navarro is constantly on the com feed with updates. We have thirty-seven agents sick now, and two are on the brink of death. The infirmary staff has been decimated, and those who are still well can’t get close to the sick for fear of infection. The anti-curse charms on the hazmat gear appear to slow transmission, but it’s not foolproof. One of our R&D guys caught the curse even while fully suited. At best, the strongest magic our people can muster is nothing more than a stopgap measure. We need higher-level practitioners working this.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re not going to get that help.” I clench the fabric of my pants, remembering the smug expressions of those practitioners on the steps. “Delos wouldn’t even let us in the door. He’s ordering all ICM members to hole up in their homes, and he’s continuing to deny us access to the suspected rogues he’s keeping confined at his headquarters. The nerve of this bastard is…I can’t even think of an adequate word.”

  Cooper sucks in a sharp, offended breath. “You know, I’m not a huge believer in karma, but I’m pretty sure Delos is going to get his someday. Rejecting cooperation with DSI in a time of crisis that could rack up a devastating death toll? That’s not going to fly with the federal government. There’s bound to be an inquiry, and…” A muffled voice sounds off in the background, and I hear Cooper’s chair roll closer to the source. Must be a com speaker. “Hold on, Cal. Navarro is asking about you guys. I think he’s talking to Captain Sing.”

  “Tell him you’re on the phone with us now.”

  “One sec.” He passes my message on, and then has a brief conversation with someone. “Okay, so, Navarro is basically throwing in the towel. He says there’s nothing else he can do. He’s tried everything he knows, in medical science and medical magic, and none of it has had a significant effect on slowing the progression of the curse post-infection. He’s officially suspending all work by his practitioner staff, including himself, because the practitioners who’ve become infected have demonstrated signs of aggression based on their magic levels—the stronger they are, the angrier they become and the more they lash out. The situation in the infirmary is getting too dangerous for anyone with the slightest hint of magic. He’s turned all operations over to Dr. Greta Miller.”

  “Damn.” I relay Cooper’s message to my team, then hit the speakerphone button. “Anything else? You’re on speaker now.”

  “Yeah, one more important thing. Navarro says he thinks the only way we’re going to be able to beat this curse is if we can engineer a counter-curse. To do so, we’ll need the exact methodology that went into crafting the curse: research materials, incantation development, and the like. According to Navarro, any practitioner worth their salt would’ve kept detailed notes on the creation process for a curse as dangerous as this one. If we can find those materials, he should be able to use them to at least neutr
alize the curse. If we’re lucky, maybe reverse its effects.”

  “What do you mean ‘reverse its effects’?” Riker asks. “Will the infected not just heal if the curse is lifted?”

  “Navarro doesn’t think so,” Cooper answers morosely. “This curse, it basically drains the life out of you. It attaches to your magic, spreads through that magic until it reaches your soul, and then, well, eats the energy in your soul—your literal life force—causing your soul to detach from your body. That’s why people like Regent, who have very little magic, fade so fast, whereas stronger practitioners take longer to fall.”

  “The wizard who blew up the deli died before Regent though, didn’t he?” Amy says.

  “Yes,” Desmond answers, “but he wasn’t receiving medical attention, and…”

  “He used up a lot of his power,” I finish. “That’s what the aggression element is for. It drives stronger practitioners into expending the bulk of their power, so there’s less for the curse to burrow through before it reaches their souls.”

  “That’s insidious,” Ella spits.

  “The mark of a true terrorist.” Riker taps the top of his cane. “I don’t know how we’re going to do it, but we have to identify the creator, fast, and either steal their notes, or…”

  “Beat the tar out of them until they spill their secrets?” Amy says.

  “If it comes to that”—Riker drops his head against the seat cushion—“I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Amy lightly punches the back of his seat. “I won’t let you down, boss.”

  Cooper sighs over the line. “So, where are you guys now, if not at Delos’ office?”

  “Heading to our office,” Ella says over her shoulder. “We’re going to meet up with Naomi’s team and discuss—”

  Riker’s phone buzzes to life, and he grabs it from the console between the front seats and glances at the screen. “It’s Delarosa.” He answers and greets the other captain, declining to put the call on speakerphone. Delarosa’s muted voice rapidly relays information, and Riker straightens up in his seat, a frown digging deep into his cheeks, as the bad news concludes with a string of curses on the other end of the line, followed by what sounds like an apology. All Riker says is, “You have nothing to apologize for. We’ll be there in ten.”

  He ends the call and says to Ella, “Change of plans. Head to Conway, a block south of Thirteen. We just lost three members of an auxiliary team in a practitioner attack.”

  “Shit, Cooper, I got to go,” I mutter into my phone.

  “I heard,” he replies, frustration and sadness in his voice. “See you later.”

  “Stay safe, okay?”

  “That’s my line, Cal.” He snorts and then hangs up.

  “Another curse victim, Captain?” Desmond asks as Ella makes a hard right, veering us off our path back to the office and toward the easternmost section of downtown Aurora.

  “Actually, no.” Riker spins his phone around in his hand. “The auxiliary team dispatched to Lisa Bower’s townhouse to search for other potential victims came across a witch living two houses down. They decided to inform her of the danger, par the course, but it turns out she was already aware of the ‘situation,’ courtesy, I imagine, of Delos’ information network. When the agents learned this, not knowing what we now know about Delos’ foresight, they pressed the woman for more information. She thought they were trying to pin the curse attack on her and ‘defended herself’ against the ‘brutish DSI agents’ trying to assault an ‘innocent woman.’”

  “Fuck!” Amy beats her fist against the window. “Tell me Delarosa’s got her.”

  “They’re working on it,” Riker says. “She’s hiding in her warded townhouse. They’ll probably have her by the time we arrive, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Plus, the cops are bound to show up, in excess,” Ella adds, jerking the wheel to the left in a turn that runs us through a red. “Informing them about the ‘contagion’ has almost certainly left them paranoid. They’ll throw way more boots on the ground than they need to every time they get a significant call.”

  Desmond hums. “That may actually help us in this case though. Practitioners flaunt their magic around us because the ICM gives them leeway to do so, since DSI agents are all in the know. But they are expressly forbidden from revealing themselves to the regular police. If Delarosa doesn’t secure the witch before the cops show up, their presence will practically necessitate her surrender.”

  “What do you know,” Amy scoffs, “the PD’s good for something after all.”

  Nine minutes and some change after Delarosa’s call, we arrive at the given address on Conway Street. Two black SUVs are parked in front of a narrow brick townhouse, one in a street-side parking space, the other at an angle that suggests it quickly pulled up to the curb. The front door of the townhouse is hanging open, the wood splintered in the center, blasted open by a force wave. On the small stoop before the door lie three motionless figures in black, a growing pool of blood beneath them spreading across the bricks and cascading over the edge of the top step.

  The witch struck fast and hard. Those poor agents.

  As we climb out of our vehicle, Riker dispenses orders. “Desmond, Amy, Cal, secure a one-block perimeter. Head off any civilians who try to enter the neighborhood and inform any cops who arrive that we’re in the process of arresting a murderer who falls under our jurisdiction.”

  The three of us mumble our ascent and spread out across the block as Ella and Riker head toward the townhouse to check on Delarosa’s team and the remaining auxiliary agents. I jog by the front stoop, now a murder scene, as I head south to the end of the townhouse row, to the intersection with Thirteenth, and try to ignore the crimson spattered across the exterior wall. The bushes below the stoop are also painted red.

  That’s four agents we’ve lost so far today.

  We didn’t have very many to start with.

  As I near the end of the block, I peek over my shoulder to watch Ella and Riker carefully navigate around the fallen agents and enter the building, guns drawn and rings charged. There’s no commotion inside, so either the witch is holed up somewhere, portending a near-future showdown with the agents trawling her house, or Delarosa’s people have already made the arrest and are about to drag her out from wherever she retreated to. Personally, I hope there’s a staircase involved in her walk of shame. The least she deserves is a few tender bruises before we throw her in the dungeon.

  I swear, these practitioners sometimes, they—

  A hand shoots out from an alley between the last townhouse on the block and an older duplex, grabs me by the collar, and roughly yanks me into the shadows. Before I can scream, a second hand clamps over my mouth, and I’m thrust back into the rough brick exterior of the townhouse, the impact jarring the breath from my lungs. For I second, I stare uncomprehending at the man in front of me, a wide-brimmed hat tipped sharply downward covering most of his face. And then he looks up. To reveal his amber eyes.

  Lucian Ardelean.

  “Long time no see, kid.” He smirks. “Try not to shriek like a banshee when I remove my hand, okay?”

  I give him a flat stare.

  He chuckles and drops his hand to join the other one at my coat, where he pretends to tug the wrinkles from the fabric. “Been looking for you all day, you know? You never stop moving.”

  “You could’ve just called.” The urge to punch a few ounces of handsome off his self-assured face bubbles up in my chest like heartburn, but I don’t act on it. As much as I hate the asshole vampire who killed Mac and left me traumatized three years ago, he’s a valuable source of information I can’t afford to lose. When he chooses to share that information, of course. “What do you want?”

  “Straight to the point. I like that.” He leans against the opposite wall. “I’m about to take a trip out of town, and I wanted to drop you a few warnings first. First and foremost, the ICM has instructed its practitioners to leave Aurora, not stay in their houses an
d wait out this curse, as you were told back at Delos’ joint. And two, even if the National Guard shows up in the next ten minutes, they won’t be able to stop the practitioners’ flight, thanks to these lovely spells called veils, with which you are familiar.”

  “Wait, how do you know all of—?”

  “I have a lot of sources in interesting places, but that’s beside the point.”

  My skin crawls at the thought of any infected practitioners passing the city limits. If the curse escapes from Aurora, countless people could die. “Why would Delos give an order like that? It makes no strategic sense.”

  “Makes perfect sense, if he’s operating under the assumption the vampires are to blame for the curse.” Lucian crosses his arms. “Which is, of course, untrue. I might not be a hack practitioner, but I could never construct a curse as sophisticated as that nightmare creeping through the city. And neither could anyone else on my team. And as of right now, there are no Knights in Aurora.”

  “Your team?”

  He clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Yes, my team. I finally got a team, after the MG killed my original one before we even got off the ground.”

  I want to question him further on that point, but I don’t have the time. “But Delos thinks the Black Knights are responsible for the attack?”

  “I’m assuming his contacts in the High Court fed him the idea.” He takes off his hat and wipes away a microscopic speck of dust. “We had an incident in the Czech Republic about two months ago, definitely committed by the Knights, with a similar MO. We tried to keep it hush-hush, but we did inform our ‘allies’ in the Court, even though we know they have leaks, because our cooperation has been strained since the Wellington business. My guess is these Methuselah pricks are trying to capitalize on known Knight tactics in order to cause more unrest among the practitioner community in the States.”