Low Midnight (Kitty Norville Book 13)

by Carrie Vaughn

  I have spells, Amelia said. Charms. They won’t turn you invisible, but they’ll turn attention from you. They’ll quiet your steps. Protect you from magical shields—

  He sensed that she was disturbed by some of what he was collecting. They weren’t magical, which meant she didn’t know what to do with them.

  “No. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way. My old-fashioned, not yours.”

  Oh, dear.

  He got some sense of satisfaction when a tidbit came up on the regional news—he hadn’t expected it to rate major coverage, so he was happy to see anything about it at all. The headline read: “Two Area Men Arrested, Arsenal Confiscated.” Nolan and Eddie were being held in the county jail pending a hearing in federal court, likely on charges of misuse of federal land and illegal weapons possession. Nothing serious, but it would definitely keep the pair out of everyone’s hair for a while. Eddie couldn’t even do anything about it while he was in jail—without his animal skins, he was powerless.

  This also meant they hadn’t had anything to do with Kuzniak’s death, confirming Cormac’s suspicion.

  He headed back to Layne’s compound. Felt good, doing this on his own terms. Doing something decisive.

  Well after dark, still a mile away from the compound, he left the road, gathered up a choice selection of equipment, and took a path through the woods, stepping carefully, using his small flashlight to watch the undergrowth for obstacles. When he reached Layne’s compound, he took care to carefully push down the barbed wire with gloved hands, so he could cross the fence. Hidden in the trees, he watched the house for whatever guard or patrol Layne had set up, if any.

  For the most part, the place was still. No movement at the barn or the surrounding acreage. A couple of lights on in the house, but again no movement. A few of Layne’s crew must have been staying here, based on the cars in the drive. He decided Mollie probably wasn’t here—he hadn’t seen her last time. He had to assume there was some kind of alarm system—regular, not magical. He wondered if it just covered the house, or the driveway as well. Layne didn’t have an active guard, nobody walking patrol or anything. Even after Kuzniak getting killed, the remote location must have made Layne feel safe. Any of Kuzniak’s protection spells would have died with him. Physical charms he might have placed might still be working.

  He needed a distraction to get the guys out of the house. A big one. Without using any magic. He was leery enough of starting something that would rage out of control in these dry forests that he wanted to avoid setting the trees on fire. But one of the cars, out on the open gravel driveway? Yeah, that would work. He picked the one farthest away from both the edge of the woods and the house.

  Straightforward. Inelegant.

  Described him pretty well, he thought.

  He’d already duct-taped the bottle of lighter fluid to the half-full gas can, then taped a road flare to both of them. Redneck detonator. Keeping low to the ground, he crept out to the driveway, slid the bundle under the SUV parked at the end of the row of cars, and lit the flare. Then he got the hell away, heading to the back side of the barn for shelter while keeping an eye on the house’s front door.

  Red sparks from the flare lit up the undercarriage in a weird glow, like the car was about to take off on a rocket engine. There was a hiss right before an air-breaking whump thundered, causing him instinctively to duck and turn away. He looked back up in time to see a wall of flame pour upward from the undercarriage, roaring as it engulfed the vehicle. A wave of heat washed past him, a hundred feet away. The SUV was on fire, crackling loud enough to fill the homestead.

  As he hoped would happen, four or five guys poured out of the front of the house, shouting. Layne was there, staying back on the porch, hands to his head, shouting furious, panicked instructions. A couple of guys carrying semiautomatic pistols fanned out into the woods. Almost like they’d expected an attack. A couple of others went for the outdoor spigot and garden hoses to take care of the fire. No call to the fire department, Cormac was pretty sure, just like there’d been no call to the cops. He didn’t want to draw any official attention to himself.

  Cormac only had a few minutes to do this. Carefully and methodically, because rushing wouldn’t do a bit of good, he went to the back of the house, trotted up the steps to a back porch and rickety door, which he opened slowly, waiting for hinges to squeak. He stepped inside, slowly closed the door behind him, without a sound. Layne most likely took Kuzniak’s book to the house and set it down somewhere. Hell, the guy might even be reading it, to try to pick up where Kuzniak left off.

  The inside was exactly what he’d expect from a bunch of bachelor types sharing a house. The place had an unwashed, dirty laundry odor to it. The door opened into a mudroom and kitchen. Beyond the kitchen doorway was a living room containing a worn sofa, armchairs, and a big LCD TV that was no doubt the most expensive, well-kept thing in the house. The kitchen smelled of burned coffee, but the rest of the place seemed to have been cleaned recently—the floor and surfaces weren’t as grimy as he expected, even if dirty dishes filled the sink. He studied all the surfaces, imagining what Layne would have done when he came in, the first place he might have gone, where he’d have been likely to set the book. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go looking upstairs for it.

  He went down a hall along a threadbare runner on a hardwood floor, passed by the staircase—and found it there, lying on the sixth or so stair up, along with wallets and car keys and all the other detritus guys pulled out of their pockets when they came home. Exactly where Layne must have set it after walking in, because the sucker didn’t know what he had, just wanted to keep it out of Cormac’s hands. Fair enough. Cormac grabbed it—and paused when a creaking sounded on the stairs above him. He didn’t give himself time to process the sound and what it meant, just slipped the book in his pocket and headed to the back door so he could get out of there before anyone had a chance to catch him.

  The footsteps pounded down the stairs, chasing after him. Whoever it was had seen him, and he wasn’t going to make it to the back door before they overtook him. He ducked into the kitchen to hide behind the wall, and waited.

  The steps continued through the entrance way, and Cormac prepared to tackle whoever came into view. Legs braced, fists up.

  It was Mollie.

  The first thing he noticed, she had a semiautomatic in her hand, down by her leg, finger resting on the trigger guard. She was in a blue T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, her hair tied up with an elastic, makeup washed from her face. Her eyes widened when she spotted him, and he put his finger to his lips, a request for quiet. They stood like that a moment, and part of him figured he should maybe just knock her over and run like hell. But he didn’t. He put his hands up, tried to project calm.

  He hoped that wasn’t her car he just blew up.

  A whump and a whoosh blew from outside the front of the house, the fire spreading. Guys shouting for water, a fire extinguisher. Cormac had lingered here too long, and any second now someone was going to come in looking for that extinguisher. Mollie still didn’t say anything. Didn’t draw on him, either.

  Gently, he put a hand on her shoulder, urged her aside so he could slip past her and through the doorway. Her expression turned quizzical, but he wasn’t going to give himself away any more than he already had by answering her look. He nodded a thanks, backed away, and strode out the back door.

  He kept expecting her to come after him, to yell at him to stop, for shots from her gun to ring out. None of that happened.

  You are very lucky, Amelia thought at him as he continued down to the back of the property to slip over the barbed wire before Layne and his gang noticed.

  Yeah, he figured he was.

  * * *

  AFTER A quick but careful trek through the woods, he returned to the Jeep and drove about thirty miles or so before stopping in a turnoff and taking a look at the notebook he’d gone through all that trouble for. Worst case, it would be in code, like Amy Scanlon’s, and th
e wild goose chase would start all over again.

  His luck was holding—the book wasn’t in code.

  The guy had sloppy handwriting and used a lot of abbreviations that needed interpreting, but once he got used to it he could read it okay. Not that any of it made much sense. There were recipes, diagrams, instructions, observations written in the form of experiments, like he was a chemist trying to come up with just the right formula. Mostly, Cormac let the contents flow through him, to Amelia.

  He was a great experimenter, wasn’t he? Amelia observed. Definitely more of an alchemical magician than a folklorist or ceremonial ritualist, like Amy was. Definitely spent much time working on protection magic—I imagine that would be the most easily commodified skill to have if he was approaching people like Anderson Layne for work.

  Cormac sat back and let her read whatever she wanted, flipping back and forth, studying certain passages and referencing them with others. She kept up a running commentary, as if she were reading over his shoulder.

  “So it was worth it?” he asked finally. “Burning up Layne’s place to get this was worth it?”

  I don’t imagine you burned his entire place. That fire would die down soon enough, I think. But yes, I do believe it was very much worth it. This is fascinating.

  “Then is it okay if we maybe hold off on the book club and get back home?” He turned the engine back on to encourage her.

  Helpfully, she retreated from the fore and let him return the book to his pocket. They only had one set of eyes between them and couldn’t read and drive at the same time.

  They were back on the freeway when Amelia said, Do you think Layne will attempt some kind of retribution for the attack?

  His original intent was that Layne wouldn’t have any idea who’d done it and would even blame Nolan or some other faction. He didn’t much care what war those guys got into. But Mollie—maybe she’d stay quiet. He didn’t have any idea what their relationship was, if she was part of his operation, or if she just happened to be at the house at exactly the wrong time.

  If she told Layne he’d broken into the house, he’d deal with it. But the worst case—she’d call the cops on him.

  She wouldn’t. Layne wouldn’t let her. That would attract too much attention.

  He really should have asked for her phone number back at the bar.

  Chapter 19

  AT THE apartment, Amelia referenced the books she had on hand, a small library she’d accumulated since they left prison and her own book of shadows that she was reconstructing from memory and recording in a hardcover-sized sketchbook. The handwriting varied between Cormac’s crooked, unpracticed scrawl and a precise nineteenth-century cursive that he’d have expected to see on an old manuscript. They were both writing this book. It would confuse the hell out of anyone who tried to read it later.

  It felt like homework to Cormac—he’d barely finished high school, mostly because Ben hauled him through their senior year by force of will. But Amelia was very excited by the whole thing.

  Most of this I’ve seen before in one form or another, she announced in summary. He seems to come from a Teutonic magical tradition, though he’s cribbed quite a lot from the English—John Dee, Francis Bacon—as well. Some from the Malleus Maleficarum, and not the useful bits, alas. He’s had teachers but doesn’t name them, which makes a true tradition hard to identify. The second half of the thing is the most interesting. Do you know what I think? He flipped through pages, reviewing some sections, looking at the book as a whole rather than in parts. I think he may have copied much of this from the elder Kuzniak. I wonder if that’s what put him on the path of learning about magic in the first place—finding his ancestor’s magical history and wanting to know more.

  “So this is the jackpot—this ought to tell us how the first Kuzniak killed Crane.”

  I’m not sure, she murmured with a distracted air.

  Cormac’s eyes needed a break, even if Amelia didn’t. He got a beer from the fridge and sat back to think.

  I don’t need to think, I need to read.

  “Well, I need to think.”

  She kept talking, thinking out loud. If she’d had a body, she’d be pacing back and forth in front of him, her long skirt brushing the floor, her hands gesturing absently. He could almost see it. If they went to his imaginary meadow, he would.

  There are several items I’ve not encountered before. The alchemical spell meant to draw gold out of the earth—the stories were right about that, the first Kuzniak did seem to be pursuing some kind of magical gold mining, though I can’t say we’ve seen any evidence that such a method would actually work. It’s the old alchemist riddle, turning lead into gold. Such a nice idea, but can you imagine? It would hardly be worth it because if you could transform base metal into gold, even with a great deal of difficulty, you’d risk debasing the value of gold to such an extent the process wouldn’t be worthwhile after all—you’d transform lead into gold and in so doing make gold just as valueless as lead.

  “You’re rambling,” Cormac stated.

  Ah yes. Anyhow, I’d be curious to review his findings and perhaps experiment, see if such a thing could be accomplished.

  Now that would be interesting. They wouldn’t have to produce enough to debase gold. Just enough to keep from having to find another job, right?

  I’ve just had a thought—what if this is really the magic Judi and Frida are looking for, and they’re not interested at all in how Kuzniak killed Crane?

  And the two old ladies weren’t about to try to go after Kuzniak and Layne and that pack of thugs. But Cormac shows up on their doorstep, and suddenly they have a way in. “And they’d trust that we would just hand something like that over?”

  Perhaps not. Oh, and look at this—he mentions another curious item—an amulet with protective properties. Something he must have inherited from his great-grandfather, along with scraps of other magical knowledge. It’s noteworthy because he says he isn’t sure how it works. Obviously I can’t tell anything about it because it isn’t here. He must have stored it somewhere else. We should have examined him more thoroughly—

  “Rifled through the pockets of a dead man, you mean?”

  That’s putting it rather crudely.

  “It’s all odds and ends. I thought we were trying to solve a hundred-year-old murder.”

  Well, now we’re also trying to mine for gold—

  His phone rang from inside the pocket of his jacket where he’d left it. Setting the beer aside, hauling himself to where he’d hung the jacket over a chair, he retrieved the phone, checked caller ID—Anderson Layne. He supposed that was only a matter of time.

  You probably shouldn’t answer—

  He clicked the answer button. “Yeah?”

  “You must think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?” The guy was trying hard to sound casual, amused, but the edge to his voice revealed anger. Maybe even fear. So Mollie told Layne. Cormac couldn’t get too upset at her—she didn’t owe him anything. Or maybe Layne just figured it out.

  “Kuzniak’s protection spells didn’t outlast him, did they?” he replied conversationally.

  “I’m starting to think you’re the one who killed Kuzniak, if you wanted his book that bad.”

  That didn’t make any sense. “You want to know who killed him, look at your own gang. You’re the ones messing with all this magic without knowing what the hell you’re doing. What did Kuzniak tell you, that he knew how to suck gold out of those rocks? You think just because vampires are real, something like that’ll work?”

  The pause lasted long enough Cormac wondered what kind of nerve he hit with that one. What was it statistics said, most murders were committed by someone the victim knew? Crimes of passion? Maybe Kuzniak had been killed by his own magic backfiring.…

  Intriguing, Amelia observed. But not so simple. Why would such a thing happen? How?

  Layne was feigning calm. “Why don’t we talk about this, Bennett? Come back down, we’ll have a civilized conv
ersation.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Then I’ll meet you somewhere. Pick a spot. Anywhere.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Bennett, just a minute now, don’t think you can just walk away—”

  He hung up and tossed the phone on the nightstand.

  Amelia waited a long time before asking, Should we be worried?

  Oh, probably, he thought. Not that he was going to lose sleep over it. “Let’s find out if Kuzniak really knew how to dig for gold.”

  * * *

  FIRST, THEY needed to find a spot that was likely to have gold. Fortunately, a number of gold mines, both defunct and still operating, were within reasonable distance. Cormac picked a spot near Cripple Creek, which had been an active gold mining area for over a century, and wasn’t in such a remote mountain location that he’d have trouble getting there in the middle of winter.

  Kuzniak wasn’t polite enough to provide a finished, fully working spell in his book. Magicians rarely did—they wrote in code, like Amy Scanlon did; they left bits out so the book would be useless without them, leaving others to piece the clues together. And maybe blow themselves up in the process. This meant Amelia had to reconstruct his research, adding her own knowledge to come up with something that seemed reasonable. As reasonable as any of this was. The elements of the spell she constructed didn’t surprise Cormac—the major elements of most European-derived magic tended to be the same; the details changed depending on what you were trying to do. They’d done this enough over the last couple of years, it was familiar. He could even work some of these spells himself, without her help. He’d rather not, though. Magic still felt like cheating.

  She wanted to work the spell at midnight, of course. Gathering the right materials took a few days. He would never get used to walking into the fancy cooking stores for the various hard-to-get herbs she needed. Made him feel like a buffalo in a church. Finding unscented candles was another challenge he never thought he’d have to face. Colors were fine, colors could be useful as elements in various spells. But since meeting Amelia, he’d spent way too much time standing in front of walls of candles labeled with names like “Cranberry Spice” and “Warm Honey.” Christian bookstores and other religious supply shops became their go-to spots to find simple, unadorned, non-scented votive candles. Another deep irony, he observed. If only those kind, wide-eyed women at the cash registers knew what those candles were being used for.