by Skye Knizley
Sandoval roused himself and focused his grey eyes on Levac. “Mason.”
“Thought so.”
He found Sable outside. She was leaned up against an old tree, a cigarette in her hand. She blew the smoke out through her nose and arched an eyebrow.
“Anything?”
Levac held up the file he’d been carrying. “Just his old case file. He made a copy of the full thing before they edited it for public consumption.”
“Oh, nice!” Sable said. “What did he say?”
Levac waved smoke out of his face. “There was some kind of satanic ritual in the room where they found Saylor’s body. He also said that he thought Saylor had no soul.”
Sable tossed her cigarette in the general direction of an ash can. “Figuratively or literally?”
“Literally. He said Saylor’s skin was ice cold and his eyes were all white. Does that mean anything to you?” Levac asked.
Sable shook her head and turned toward the parked Jaguar. “Nope. But I bet I know someone who can help.”
Levac paused and stubbed out her cigarette. “Who?”
Sable turned. “Are you always this Dudley Do-Right?”
Levac smiled. “Raven threatened to pop my head off for littering. You don’t forget things like that. You were saying?”
Sable made a disgusted face. “Raven is a piece of work. Like one person not littering is going to clean up this shitty world. Anyway, we can go see Marie. She might have some ideas.”
She climbed into the Jaguar where Levac joined her, the file in his lap. “It is still early, I doubt Marie is up yet.”
Sable started the car and slid her glasses on. “Then we wake her. It’s a Federal thing.”
The drive to Old Town was one of the most painful of Levac’s life. He learned that Sable had very different musical taste than Raven and she liked to sing 90s pop at the top of her lungs. Badly. When she parked in the lot outside the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the district she was belting out an old Britney Spears song so loud he thought his eardrums were going to burst. When the song ended and she climbed out of the car, Levac led the way through the arch and into the old street beyond. Old Town was a recreation of the old Victorian heart of the city that dated back to the 1800s, though the storefronts, restaurants and clubs had all been given a gothic bent during the remodel of thirty years ago. Gargoyles, black paint and gothic arches were prevalent. At this hour, it was quiet, save for old MacLeod yelling about something from his bar, Isle of Night. At this distance it was almost impossible to tell what he was saying, his Scottish burr was too thick, but whatever it was, he wasn’t happy. There was also activity outside the Night Shift, Francois Du Guerre’s nightclub. The vampire should have been resting and the club closed, but a limousine was parked outside nonetheless. Levac’s curiosity was piqued, but nothing more. He disliked Du Guerre as much as Raven did, if not more, but whatever was going on didn’t appear to be a police matter.
Marie’s Curiosities sat in the middle of the street, a small Victorian storefront with several windows displaying such items as human skulls, dribbly candles and potion remedies. Sable knocked on the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges and stood, one heel rocking back and forth.
“Relax, Sable,” Levac said. “Investigations take time, this isn’t going to be solved this afternoon.”
Sable nodded. “I am used to seek and destroy. Find it and kill it before it kills someone else. All this asking questions stuff is getting on my nerves.”
Levac pursed his lips. “How do you find them without asking questions?”
“The target has usually been located before I am assigned. I presume someone else from Section Thirteen does that part,” Sable replied.
“Well then, this is good practice. Sometimes shooting first isn’t the best solution.”
The door opened a moment later to Marie dressed in a bright-orange nightgown with her black dreadlocks pulled into a scarf on top of her head.
“Ravenel! It is good to see you!” she said.
She hugged Sable into her ample bosom and paused. A shadow crossed her face and she pushed Sable back.
“Sable Branwen… you look just like your sister,” she said.
Levac noted the hard edge to her voice.
Sable took off her glasses. “That’s what the word “twins” usually means, houngan.”
Marie rolled her eyes and smiled at Levac. “Rupert, dear man, where have you and Sloan been hiding?”
Levac smiled. “Sloan and the job have been keeping me busy. She just started in the ER at Mercy and things are just crazy. I’m hoping to take her to Isle for drinks later this week.”
Marie stepped aside. “Come in, do! Have you set a date?”
Levac let Sable enter then followed. “Not yet. Sloan wants Raven to be there, so we are waiting to find out how things are going to work out with her and…you know.”
The inside of the store never seemed to change. To the right was a single long counter with rows of homeopathic remedies, jars of dried herbs and flowers, and the odd bubbling things in bottles, skulls, candles and gris-gris bags waiting to be purchased. To the left was a wider selection of spell components, clothing, spell books and knick-knacks of the sort that tourists liked to purchase, take home and forget. Marie stepped behind the counter and set about making tea.
“I understand. How is Mason? Is he ready to apologize, yet?”
“Dad is fine, he’s in a healing coma. Can we skip the pleasantries? We have a case to work,” Sable said.
Marie set three cups of tea on the counter. “No, we cannot. I have not seen Rupert in some time and I would like to catch up. You will be patient, child.”
“The next person who says that is going to get shot in the face,” Sable growled.
Levac picked up his tea and sipped the aromatic brew. “How are things with the store?”
“Decent, business is slow this time of year, but will pick up after the holiday,” Marie said.
She offered Sable a cup of tea. “And you, Sable Branwen?”
Sable ignored the tea. “I’m bored and I wish my sister would stop being a wimp so I can go back to hunting. Happy?”
Marie set the tea back down. “Still an impatient child. Your sister is not a wimp, Sable Branwen. She has faced alone those things you take an entire team to confront. You were not there when Mason died. I was. I saw the pain she went through—”
“I felt it,” Sable grated.
Levac felt his eyes widen. “You what?”
Sable looked at him. “I felt her pain when Dad died. That’s how I found out I had a sister. Dad came to me about a month later and officially spilled the beans, but I already knew. My sister has been a wimp her whole life.”
Levac sighed. “I’m sorry you had to experience that, but I also remember her beating you in a fair fight.”
“She got lucky. Can we finish this up? We have a case to work.”
Marie set her cup down. “You will listen to me, child. I do not know you well, but I know your sister as if she were my very own. Her emotions and compassion do not make her weak, they make her who she is. Perhaps you should spend more time finding yours instead of attacking hers.”
Sable folded her arms. “Are you going to help us or spend the day defending my sister?”
Marie sighed and shook her head. “I will not help you, Sable Branwen. But I will help Rupert. What is it you need?”
“We’re investigating a case from 1939. The detective on duty said there was some ritual left at the scene and the victim’s soul was missing. Do you have any suggestions as to what we might be looking for?” Levac asked.
Marie frowned and began rummaging beneath the counter. “There are many so-called Satanic rituals, most are nothing more than fairytales. But one or two are the real thing. I know of one that expends a human soul.�
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She pulled out an old book and placed it on the counter and began to thumb through it.
“What’s that?” Sable asked.
“The Book of Nine Gates,” Marie replied absently.
The book was old and bound in leather whose origin was questionable at best. There was no title, just an inlaid inverted pentagram painted with gold leaf atop a demonic face.
She found the page she was looking for and turned the book around. The page depicted an elaborate ritual complete with human sacrifice, flickering candles, ram’s skulls and inverted pentagrams.
“Is this the ritual?”
Levac pulled one of the drawings out of his pocket and smoothed it on the counter. Sandoval’s sketch was very similar, with the only difference being the position of Saylor’s body.
“They are close. What is this ritual supposed to do?” Levac asked.
Marie shrugged. “Rupert, Satanic rituals rarely come with exact results and the ones that work do not do what it says on the package. This ritual supposedly opens one of the nine gates to hell. What it really does I cannot say.”
“Great. Either we have no clue what it does or someone opened a Hellgate,” Sable groused.
Levac flipped a few pages through the book. The paper felt cold to the touch and made his skin crawl. “I don’t think it opened a Hellgate.”
“Why not?” Sable asked.
“We haven’t been up to our asses in demons for the last seventy years.”
Sable snorted. “Good point, someone would have noticed even in this city. Marie, could just anyone have done this ritual?”
“No. There are only a few copies of this book still around, the Church had them all burned during the inquisition, along with the author. I daresay there are only two or three in the city,” Marie said.
Levac sucked air through his teeth. “So we are looking for someone who owns or owned a copy of this book seventy years ago. Needle, meet haystack.”
“What are the odds the guy is even still alive?” Sable asked.
Marie closed the book and put it back beneath the counter. “Oh, if they have a copy of this, the odds are good.”
“Why?” Levac asked.
Marie met his eyes. “This book is very old, very powerful, Rupert. Only a handful of people know it exists, fewer still are able to keep it. If someone were able to cast the ritual, then they still have it.”
Sable leaned on the counter. “That begs the question, houngan. Why do you have it?”
“Bocor, Sable Branwen,” Marie said.
Sable blinked. “What?”
Marie looked at her. “I am a bocor, not a houngan. And I have the book because I know its evil and can keep it contained as almost no one else can.”
CHAPTER SIX
Elizabeth, New Jersey: Abandoned WWII Airfield: 4:00 p.m.
The flight from Seattle to New Jersey had been almost five hours of impatient torture. Raven had spent it pouring over everything she could find on the Crescent Star. The old news reports had been almost useless, the ship had left New York amidst much celebration and fanfare and crossed the Atlantic without incident. It had then spent two weeks in London before departing for New York again. Radio contact had been lost on the first evening, but no search was mounted as several vessels reported seeing her underway with no outward signs of distress. She vanished sometime on the third day and a search was mounted on the sixth; nothing was found.
The official reports, kept under lock and key since 1972, contradicted the news. According to Her Majesty’s Coast Guard, radio reports were received a full twelve hours after Crescent Star vanished. Most of the messages were garbled and the ones that had been transcribed made no mention of any disaster. The ship reported engine difficulties that had been repaired, minor issues with crew and some unruly passengers, but nothing that would indicate that anything had gone horribly wrong. Not until the last message, which was simply “God, Forgive Me.” Experts insisted the voice was not Captain DaSilva, but the second officer, Scout Reynolds. Reynolds had been one of the first women in a command decision aboard a ship of the Star’s size.
Raven now stood on the tarmac of an abandoned airfield just outside Elizabeth, New Jersey. Snow was piled against the chain-link fence that surrounded the field and the runway was surprisingly clean and well-cared for, thanks to Du Guerre’s operation. Raven had changed clothes during the trip and now wore durable black leather pants tucked into knee boots matched with a silk tank top and leather jacket. Du Guerre’s idea of rescue attire. She hadn’t been thrilled with it, but the gear the pilot had offered had more than made up for the leather. A katana made of Damascus steel, a selection of Thad’s ammunition, a Saiga-12 shotgun and everything from rock salt to silver buckshot loads. She’d also been given an assortment of explosives, almost enough to orbit Sly Stallone. Where Du Guerre had obtained C-4 on such short notice Raven didn’t care to speculate on. She hefted the gear bag and walked toward the hangar, where a limousine and several aircraft waited. As she neared them, Francois Du Guerre stepped out of the building dressed in clothes similar to Raven’s, though he had matched leather pants with a blousy white shirt and the red-lined longcoat he wore on special occasions. His Katana was hung across one shoulder and he sported a large revolver in a holster on his left thigh, as if he thought he was going with Raven.
He offered Raven a half-bow. “Good evening, Ravenel. I hope you found the equipment to your liking. More is waiting aboard the Osprey. If you will join me?”
“You aren’t going. Just get me on the helicopter and get out of the way,” Raven said.
Francois sighed. “Ravenel, your familiar is in trouble, Rupert and Sable are on assignment in Chicago and your father is in a Boston hospital. You need help and I am available. We also have much to discuss.”
Raven glared at him. “You’re not going.”
Du Guerre folded his arms. “If I am not going, you are not going.”
Raven’s mouth fell open. “You would do that? Leave Aspen to die because you want to talk?”
“Your familiar is not my concern. You are. If you want my help, I’m going with you.”
Raven closed her eyes and swallowed her monster. She wanted to tear his throat out, to bathe her hands in his blood, but she wasn’t going to. He was a bastard and she needed him. She hefted her gear and started past him.
“If you fall behind, don’t expect me to come looking.”
Du Guerre took her elbow. “Understood. The Osprey is this way.”
Raven followed him across the wind-swept tarmac to an open, well-lit hangar that looked like something out of World War II, which it probably was. An aircraft that looked like a transport plane mated with a helicopter was outside, one engine idling. A pilot saluted Du Guerre from the cockpit window and he nodded back. He stopped next to a narrow set of stairs that led to the side door of the aircraft.
“This thing is going to get us onto the ship?” Raven asked.
“This is an Osprey, capable of both traditional flight as well as vertical take-off and land. She is faster than traditional rotorcraft and can wait on station to pick us up. She takes a steady vampire hand to operate correctly, but she will get the job done,” Du Guerre said.
Raven looked at the aircraft and then back at him. Du Guerre smiled. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No.”
Raven climbed the steps into the cabin, which was more luxurious than she had expected. Six captain’s chairs were arranged four to a side with tables between, the walls were paneled in thick white leather and the floor was plush with blood red carpeting. Two vampires waited inside; she recognized neither of them, though both bowed to her.
“Fürstin Ravenel, welcome aboard,” the female intoned. She had long black hair and Asian features mated with porcelain skin and black eyes. Her red cheongsam dress was so tight every move had to be done with exaggerat
ed care.
Raven nodded in response and moved toward the rear of the aircraft where a wide door led to the cargo area that also contained a loading ramp. Rappelling lines were already coiled on the floor, ready for use.
Du Guerre stepped aboard behind her and both vampires said, “welcome, master,” in a sort of singsong that made Raven’s fists itch. He stepped close and put his hand on her shoulder. “We will rappel down once we are there. If you would care to tell the pilot where we are going?”
Raven shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me, Francois.”
She brushed past him and strode to the cockpit, which was open. Sterling and another vampire were at the controls. She handed them a slip of paper with the ship’s approximate coordinates then turned back. Du Guerre was stowing his gear while the two attendants set out glasses of chilled Claret and a selection of cheese. Raven dropped into one of the deep captain’s chairs and buckled the seatbelt across her hips. Du Guerre sat opposite and sipped from one of the chilled glasses.
“There was a time, Ravenel, when you desired my touch,” he said.
“That was before I knew you’d crawled out of the sewer,” Raven replied.
Du Guerre shook his head. “Will you never forgive me?”
“Will you ever drop dead?”
Raven looked away, then looked back, her eyes hot with anger. “How much of that was real and how much was your magik?”
Du Guerre sipped the thick Claret before responding. “I will admit, I used my abilities on you. Your talents lie toward the physical; mine are more subtle. I needed you to trust me.”
The female vampire offered Raven a glass of Claret; Raven ignored her until she set the glass down and walked back to her station.
“Why did you need me to trust you? Why not just kidnap me and hand me over?” Raven asked.
“I never intended to hand you to Strohm,” Du Guerre said.
Raven arched an eyebrow. “Oh no? It wasn’t part of your plan to hurt me and sell me to the highest bidder?”
“No!”
