by Lisa Shearin
I seriously doubted either one. Vladimir Cervenka was playing a dangerous game right now, especially if Ambrus Báthory found out he’d been talking to us. Though Vlad seemed like the type who had successfully taken care of himself for a long time.
“What would anyone gain by kidnapping Bela?” I asked.
“Ambrus had tapped Bela to be his heir. There is much jealousy in the old man’s inner circle, and throughout the family. Bela is not popular.”
Rake had told me as much before the party Friday night. I’d just put Bela in the same category as many young, rich, and power-hungry men—mortal or immortal. Such men made enemies almost as quickly as they accumulated wealth. However, when the only way to get rid of them was a stake through the heart and decapitation, impatience and frustration was bound to build up.
“Has there been any communication from the kidnappers?” Ian asked. “Ransom demands?”
Vlad shook his head. “And I don’t think there will be. Even if there was, Ambrus would not pay. He is not exactly grieving for the loss of his nephew.”
Now I really was confused. “But you said he’d made Bela his heir.”
“Only to keep his most dangerous enemy closest of all. Bela wants—or wanted, if his head has now parted ways with his shoulders—his uncle out of the way. Permanently. You must understand that Ambrus Báthory comes from the Old World, and sees no need to change for modern times. Nor does he believe the time has come for him to step down in favor of Bela. The young one has long been a fang at the old man’s throat. I’m surprised he has not killed Bela himself.”
“So why would anyone kidnap Bela?” I asked.
“He knows things. Things the old man wanted to keep secret.”
“Like what Ambrus keeps in his safe deposit boxes?” Ian asked.
“When you are constantly surrounded by your enemies, it would be best to keep the possessions you value the most away from you. This way you would only need to protect yourself. Whatever it was young Bela had discovered, last night the old man swore to snap Bela’s head from his body if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut.”
“Okay, on Friday night, Bela Báthory was taken from his yacht by a team of swamp creature commandos,” I said. “During the early hours of Monday morning, Ambrus’s safe deposit boxes at the Gotham Bank & Trust were robbed by ghouls. The kidnap/robbery angle doesn’t sound like a coincidence. As to the kidnappers and the robbers, I can’t imagine what swamp creature commandos have in common with ghoul bank robbers.” I opted to leave out that said robbers were led by an ancient being obsessed with having my partner for its next meal.
Vlad shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m merely a paid attack dog, but Ambrus trusts me—to a point. I will test where that point is and try to dig something up for you.”
11
MOREAU had been true to his word. By the time we got back to headquarters, he had the photos of the Prime Bank crime scene in our e-mail inboxes. Ian had Kenji Hayashi’s enhanced image of the spearhead on his screen. He was leaning back in his desk chair, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed in intense concentration.
I pushed my feet on the floor to roll my chair over next to his.
“Recognize it?” I asked.
“No . . . and yes.”
“Uh, care to clarify that, partner?”
“I’ve never seen this spearhead before, but he left it for me, I’m sure of it.”
I was pretty convinced of that myself.
Ian slouched down farther in his chair, scowling. “But yet, it’s familiar somehow.”
“Could you have seen it in a book somewhere? Or was it used in a murder you investigated?”
“No and no. If I’d seen it in a book, it would have been here. The researchers don’t have any record of such a weapon in any book in SPI’s library.”
“How about a date when it was made? With all that Celtic-looking scrollwork, it looks old, and is that real gold?” I didn’t want to call a spearhead sticking out of a dead man’s chest beautiful, but this weapon was. The detailing was incredible.
“Dr. Van Daal managed to get it for us, at least long enough to run some tests. It’s up in the lab now. It appears to be bronze decorated with gold, of Irish make, and dated from approximately 200 B.C.”
“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word. I leaned back in my chair in a mirror image of my partner. He seemed to think this was a good angle at which to receive enlightenment, so I’d try the same. Or at least, we could be utterly baffled together. I believed in supporting my partner in all things.
“Well,” I said after nearly a minute of silence. “You are Irish; at least your ancestors were. Other than that . . . I got nothing.”
Ian pushed back his chair and stood.
“Where you going?”
“To the lab to see that thing up close and personal.”
I followed.
• • •
SPI’s labs were equipped to handle, contain, and analyze virtually anything.
When you could be asked to determine the acid content of Brazilian basilisk spit, the ratio of magic to mortal poison in the ink of a late-Renaissance grimoire, or something as simple as determining the gold content in a 200 B.C. Celtic spearhead, our white-lab-coated folks were ready for it.
SPI’s labs were separated by a hallway on the third level of the headquarters complex. One lab dealt with organic materials, the other with inorganic. Though in our line of work, those lines got blurred, a lot. Large, long windows allowed an unobstructed view into both labs from the hallway. I didn’t know what the windows were made of but it sure as heck wasn’t glass. It was rare that an experiment or subject being analyzed got out of control, but those windows had to ensure that what happened in the lab stayed in the lab. The clear view was so when anything did go wrong, and if a tech couldn’t reach an alarm, there’d be witnesses to call for reinforcements. That was mostly an issue in the organic lab, but not always. SPI was a very interesting workplace.
Things were relatively quiet today, and I didn’t think the presence of an itty-bitty spearhead would change that, regardless of how old it was, or who had last used it—and what it had been used for. At least I hoped not.
Ian and I weren’t the first to visit the lab looking for more information on the spearhead.
Alain Moreau was already there, intently studying the spearhead. It was lying on a square piece of white cloth that bore a disturbing resemblance to a formal dinner napkin.
At least someone had cleaned the dead bank guard’s blood off of the blade. The NYPD’s lab must have gotten all the evidence they could from the blood, or more to the point, what might have been underneath it that could help determine the identities of those who had handled it, or where the spearhead had come from or had last been stored.
Standing next to Moreau was Dr. Noel Tierney. Him being here wasn’t a surprise, but he wasn’t acting in his primary job as SPI’s chief psychologist. Dr. Tierney was here because of one of his secondary gifts.
When you fought creatures most people not only didn’t believe in, but thought you were nuts if you saw, mental gymnastics were often called for to keep your mental health on an even keel. Dr. Tierney looked like a lot of the guys I’d seen in photos of my mom’s college days in the 1970s, where she’d done just as much protesting as studying. At least that’s the way it appeared from her photo albums and newspaper clippings. Most college kids were proud of the first “A” they got in their hardest class. Mom was most proud of the first time she ever got arrested. Now she was the mayor of our hometown—re-elected three times—and her sister was the chief of police.
Go figure.
Noel Tierney had multiple psychology and psychology-related degrees from the best schools. His work clothes were khakis, crisply pressed button-downs, and God help us all, bow ties. He had a themed collection. It was a bright, summer day, so today�
��s tie had tiny daisies on it. One of his most memorable was his Thanksgiving tie, yellow and spotted with itty-bitty cooked turkeys. But other than the ties, Tierney wore doctor clothes at their most proper. However, I’d seen him several times on days off, and he’d been in jeans, environmental T-shirt du jour, round sunglasses, and Birkenstocks. So regardless of what he wore in the office, that was what I saw when I looked at him—a walking flower-child cliché.
I knew he wasn’t in the lab because the spearhead had been emotionally traumatized by being driven into a dead man’s chest.
Dr. Noel Tierney was a psychologist and a psychometric. He would know the entire history of that spearhead simply by touching it. By the looks of him right now, not only did he not want to touch it, he didn’t want to be in the same room with it. That meant it was a seriously nasty knife. He was also an artist, and occasionally could get clear enough images from an object or a person to be able to draw what he’d seen. That’d come in handy on more than one occasion.
Tierney glanced up when Ian and I came in and gave us a nod and as much of a smile as he could, given what he was standing over.
He knew us and we knew him. Vivienne Sagadraco believed in her agents being sound in mind and body. To that end, after the conclusion of particularly bad cases, each agent was required to have at least one session with Dr. Tierney to work out any trauma they may have experienced as a result. It also gave Tierney a psychological baseline on every agent should any big issues come up. He knew all of our strengths and weaknesses. In an organization whose employees hunted monsters, his appointment calendar stayed full.
Dr. Tierney gave a resigned sigh. “I can feel the static from here. I believe I’ll need a chair for this one.”
One of the lab techs rushed to comply, rolling a desk chair over to him.
Yep, he knew this was one nasty blade. It must have been giving off evil vibes with a capital “E.”
He sat, and a gloved Dr. Clare Cheban, SPI’s lab director, put the spearhead—with its dinner napkin—on a metal tray and held it out to Tierney.
The psychometrist gave her a half smile. “Don’t take the tray away, Clare. I have a feeling I’ll want to get rid of it quickly.”
Tierney picked up the spearhead with his bare hand, careful to keep it directly over the tray, wrapped his fingers around the spearhead’s base, and closed his eyes.
Everyone in the room waited in complete silence.
Within seconds, Tierney dropped the spearhead to the tray with a clank and kicked back with his feet to propel his chair as far away from it as possible. The back of the chair slammed into a lab table. Tierney didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes were open, but he was still seeing what touching the spearhead had shown him. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaned over with elbows on knees, and did some deep breathing, smooth exhaling. When he sat up, he was definitely seeing us, but he looked really confused.
Moreau was the first to speak. “Dr. Tierney?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Give me a minute.”
More silence.
“First,” Tierney began, “I would say that it’s definitely old, at least as old as the tests showed, possibly older.”
“What makes you think it could be older?” Dr. Cheban asked.
“This wasn’t forged by humans. It just appears that way.”
Cheban blinked. “And you can tell this how?”
“The hands I sense making and then wielding this weapon don’t belong to any human.”
No, that wasn’t in the least bit creepy. I resisted the urge to back up a step.
“This individual is something more, much more.”
“We just passed creepy, and went straight into spooky,” I muttered.
Tierney nodded. “I agree completely, Mac.”
“What has it been used for?” Ian asked tightly.
“War and killing, both with great enthusiasm.” He paused. “I said ‘enthusiasm,’ didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
Tierney’s full attention was now on Ian, intent attention.
“I didn’t get that from the spearhead . . . I knew it by looking at you, just now.”
Suddenly I wasn’t the only one who wanted to leave the room. My partner looked like he wanted nothing more than to be right behind me.
As far as I knew, Ian, Moreau, and I were the only ones in this room who knew about Ian’s connection to the St. Michael’s medal. Like me, Moreau had to suspect that whatever message the ghoul was trying to send with the spearhead, it’d been intended for Ian. I flicked my eyes to Moreau, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
That meant Tierney knew that all by his lonesome. Like I said, spooky. But sometimes, especially around here, spooky turned out to be a good thing. Maybe Tierney could find out what Ian didn’t know.
I cleared my throat in Ian’s general direction.
Ian was intent on Alain Moreau. “Sir, may I pick up the spearhead?”
Huh?
“I believe the ghoul left it for me, and while I’ve never seen it before, it’s familiar—if that makes any sense.”
Tierney chuckled. “This is SPI, Ian. Nothing makes sense here. Is there any history of psychometry in your family?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” My partner attempted a little smile. “We’re plain, vanilla humans.”
“You stopped being plain the day you signed on the dotted line to work here.” Then Tierney glanced at Moreau.
“If it’s something you feel you need to do,” Moreau told Ian.
I drew breath to tell Ian that he might want to sit down, but my partner was too quick.
He picked up the spearhead.
And it glowed as bright as a tiny sun.
12
THAT was unexpected.
Ian dropped that spearhead on its tray even faster than Tierney had. And when he did, the spearhead stopped glowing.
I stood perfectly still. “Has anything like that ever happened before?”
Ian likewise wasn’t moving. “No.”
“Interesting.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” I glanced around at SPI’s lab-coated brain trust, some of whom had quickly donned protective eyewear against the glow, all of whom looked way too excited by what had just happened. “Any theories or explanations?”
“None,” Dr. Cheban said. “Agent Byrne, could you—”
“No.”
“But if we could just get a measurement of any electromagnetic—”
“Why?”
Dr. Cheban hesitated, probably thinking “because it would be cool” wouldn’t be a very scientific response. “Are you experiencing any reaction to the contact?”
“None.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
Dr. Cheban turned to Moreau. “Sir, could you arrange for us to keep the spearhead for a while longer?”
Moreau already had his phone out and was texting. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Ian now had the same thousand-yard stare as Tierney.
I moved closer. “Ian?”
No response.
I reached out to touch his arm. A faint zap, like static electricity, ran through my hand. My partner was definitely paler than it was good for him to be. I held on to Ian with one hand and pulled over a chair with the other.
“Ian, you need to sit down. Now.”
He sat without protest, which made me even more concerned.
“I’m fine,” he told me.
Someone, probably Moreau with his text, had called Mike Stephens, SPI’s chief medical doctor. The lab techs stood aside as Dr. Stephens came in, bent over, and did that obnoxious thing with a penlight to Ian’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” Ian repeated, with more emphasis.
Dr. Stephens put away th
e penlight, but he wasn’t giving up. He squatted down next to Ian’s chair. “Agent Byrne, I want you to come down the hall for an examin—”
Ian sighed and half rolled his eyes. He put his hands on the arms of the office chair and pushed himself to his feet. “Okay, I’ll come and get checked out, though there’s nothing . . .”
He took one step and went as white as a sheet.
Dr. Stephens grabbed Ian’s arm and missed. He missed, because my partner was already falling backward. I did what any good partner would do—I let Ian squash me flat when he fainted.
• • •
Ten minutes later, the only thing wrong with my partner was an acute case of embarrassment.
“So you passed out,” I said for what felt like the umpteenth time. I was careful not to use the “f” word. For some reason, men had a problem being told they’d fainted. Passed out was better. Knocked out was best. It meant you’d probably been engaged in a manly activity like fighting or football when you’d gotten your bell rung.
We were in the same room in SPI’s infirmary where I’d spent the night after going one round too many with a squid demon in a parking garage.
Exciting times, and it hadn’t even been the weekend.
“Are you all right?” Ian asked, also for what seemed like the umpteenth time.
“I’m. Fine. Nothing got broken or even bent.” Though I was going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow from where my hip had slammed into a desk, but unless I up and decided to come to work tomorrow without pants, no one would see it.
Ian was in a bed, hooked up to a whole mess of machines, most of which I had no clue what they did. My partner glared at the various tubes and wires that ran from him to the machines.
“Hey, at least Dr. Stephens only took your shirt. You could have woken up in one of those gowns that lets your ass hang out.”
Ian grunted.
Actually, that’d been my doing. Dr. Stephens had been ready to have Ian stripped. I intervened, asking whether it was really necessary, and couldn’t he hook up all his gadgets and leave Ian with a shred of dignity—and at least his pants. Dr. Stephens relented, even though he didn’t like what some of the machines were telling him; actually it was more like he didn’t understand what they were telling him. He insisted they weren’t malfunctioning, which added one more worry to my quickly growing stack.
