by S. C. Stokes
There was a laugh. “Fair enough, but can you blame me? She was impossibly flexible, and besides, that was as much Dizzy’s fault as it was mine.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked, my eyes tracking the movements of the museum’s security personnel.
“Snitches get stitches, Neil!” Dizzy warned.
“Dizzy bet me a hundred bucks that I would strike out at the party.”
“You little tattletale,” Dizzy said. “I can’t believe you sold me out.”
“So you were egging him on?” I said, the truth finally emerging.
“Relax, Seth, Neil’s been in such a slump lately, I thought it would motivate him to break his little drought.”
“Slump? Me? Never!” Neil replied.
“Oh, I think we both know better,” Dizzy said. “You keep fishing in the wrong pond, mate. You remember that cute little barista from the Starbucks on 9th? Tifanee, wasn’t it? With two e’s?”
“Yeah, what about her?” Neil asked, his voice guarded.
“I’m taking her to Avant Garden on Thursday. So, I’m afraid she’s on Team Dizzy. Sorry to disappoint you.” Dizzy’s voice carried an air of giddy satisfaction that she made no effort to hide.
“You sneaky little minx,” Neil sighed. “That British accent, it’s not even fair.”
“If you two are quite finished.” I interrupted, “would you mind robbing my dear wife-to-be so we can get out of here before she finishes her lunch?”
“Husband of the year, right here, folks,” Neil replied. “I’m on my way.”
“Shake a leg. She’s in the gray coat, black jeans, and boots. She’s heading out the front door now. The pass is with her credentials, clipped to her jacket.”
I was wracked with guilt as I briefed the man that was about to rob my fiancée, but I had little choice. Lara had smuggled me into her office late one night, and I knew that her credentials were the only way in. Whoever the patron of the museum was, they had deep pockets. The upstairs security doors had been imbued to repel magic. Wizard or not, I was not getting through them without Lara’s pass, and what I needed was stashed somewhere inside.
Moments later, Neil appeared in the doorway of the museum. In one hand he held a leather briefcase, in the other Lara’s security credentials. He strode over to me looking pleased with himself.
“Like stealing candy from a baby.”
“Until she catches you,” I replied. “And in a fight, my money is on her.”
Neil handed me the security pass and I slipped it into the pocket of my slacks.
“And the other matter?” I prompted.
Neil held up the leather briefcase. “Those were a little harder to come by. I would love to know what you need them for.”
I took the briefcase. “Everything in its time, Neil. You've done well, but you ought to head home and lay low. Things are about to heat up in here.”
“So we’re even, then,” Neil replied.
“Not even close,” I said with a chuckle. “Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you out of holding? There aren't many people willing to brave the governor’s wrath. That early release cost me something from my private collection.”
Neil shrugged. “What's a priceless relic among friends?”
I cracked a grin. “You know, the governor wanted to get the death penalty reinstated for you, and I’m beginning to wish he’d succeeded.”
“You wound me.” Neil feigned being stabbed in the chest. “If it's all the same to you, I might stick around and watch the fireworks. Dizzy is an agent of chaos.”
“It’s your funeral,” I replied. “Try to keep yourself out of a cell. Not sure I can pull off that particular trick twice.”
From within his pocket, Neil produced a silver dollar and rolled it through his fingers. “You won’t need to, not today. I can feel it.”
Neil’s lucky dollar. If he was to be believed, it was the first dollar he’d ever earned. And while Neil being truthful was about as likely as him having worked a day in his life, it was the one possession he seemed to cherish. It was never far from his hand.
Clutching the coin, he nodded toward the stairs. “How are you planning to get past the guards?”
I followed Neil’s gaze to the pair of armed security hovering at the top of the stairs.
“Dizzy is going to provide a little diversion. If you’re going to stick around, feel free to fan the flames when the time is right.”
“Roger that, boss. See you on the other side,” Neil said before he wandered off.
Strolling through the West Wing, I hovered by an exhibit of 16th century doubloons. The coins had been likely looted from Central America during the height of the colonial era. The pieces were worth a small fortune, but it was the sign above them that had caught my interest. ‘Treasures of the Americas’ announced a large three by five feet banner bearing a majestic photograph of a wooden mask. The timber was a rich crimson hue that stood out against the backdrop of Spanish gold.
The Máscara de la Muerte, or Mask of Death. This was the first time in centuries it had seen the light of day. Exhibited here among these minor trinkets and misidentified nonsense, it was out of place. The mask was a relic of true power, or at least it would be for those who understood its unique purpose. It had once belonged to the high priestess of the Brujas de Sangre, the infamous Blood Witches coven that had once ruled Central America. Its history was interwoven with my own and I knew what Lara did not: the mask was the key to entering their lost temple.
Unfortunately, the sands of time had erased most evidence of the Brujas de Sangre, including the location of their ancient temple. I had been hunting for it since the day my father told me the truth about our family. That temple was where my family’s curse had begun, and while my ancestor had narrowly escaped with his life, the head priestess had ensured he would pay the ultimate price for his sacrilege. A curse wrought in blood on both him and his posterity.
Blood magic was not for the faint hearted. Frowned on by the civilized magical community, modern wizards knew precious little of how it worked, and even less about how its effects might be undone. When the Brujas de Sangre vanished, their knowledge was lost with them. Our only hope lay in finding their temple and unearthing its forgotten knowledge.
My family had sought for the temple since my forebear had escaped Central America. Hunted by witches and harried by the Spanish, he’d beat a hasty retreat to England only to find that his newfound wealth came at a terrible cost.
It seemed the mask itself was to be the centerpiece of museum’s new exhibit. Lara would be devastated at its loss. I felt a pang of guilt at the pain I would cause her. I didn’t want to, but I had no other choice. The mask was a genuine relic and further evidence that the arcane was buried just beneath the veneer of the world as she knew it. It was also the key to curing my curse, and the only chance I had found of us having a real life together.
A child’s laugh pulled my focus from the exhibit. A young boy sat in his pram, reaching for the shiny doubloons. His fingers touched the glass and he giggled again. His mother smiled at his childish wonder.
The sight of the young family pricked my heart. It was everything I wanted, and everything I could not have. Without the mask, and the temple of Brujas de Sangre, the future I dreamed of with Lara was nothing but a dream with an expiry date. To bring a child into the world under the pall of the curse was an act of selfishness I couldn’t countenance. I would never do that to my child. Turning, I left the mother and her son, more than a little envious of the joy they shared.
I just had to hope that what I was about to do could be forgiven. My heart ached at the thought of losing Lara. Was this really the only course of action? Or was I making the same hasty mistakes I’d made in Rome? Fear clutched at my heart as the painful memory surfaced. Time hadn’t done anything to dim the pain I’d felt in the catacombs that day.
Taking a deep breath, I forced the memory back into the darkest abyss of my mind and looked up
at the poster of the mask.
Focus. You can’t change the past, but you can do something about your future.
“Dizzy? Are you ready?” I whispered.
“Ready as I'll ever be,” Dizzy replied in the comm.
“Where are you?” I asked, winding my way back toward the central exhibit.
“Killing time here in the blind spot by the entrance to the West Wing. It wouldn't do to have the cameras spot my change, now would it?”
“Not at all,” I said. “They would just as soon stick you in a cage with all their other curiosities.”
“I’d like to see them try.”
Dizzy was a shifter mage, able to change her form at will. It was a skill her family had relied on for centuries. The Alasa family heralded from Nigeria, where they had served as guardians. Loosely translated, Alasa meant shield, which was the Alasan birthright. Shifter mages safeguarded what was left of their native land, hunting would-be poachers and preserving the beautiful wilderness that was rapidly being overrun by game hunters and profiteering corporations. Then at Dizzy's birth, her parents had uprooted and moved to London for reasons that had never been explained.
Separated from her homeland, and her family’s duty, Dizzy had thrown herself behind an assortment of animal-rights movements. She was the kind of individual most governments would term an agitator, though she would dearly prefer the term activist.
Entering the main hall, I spotted Dizzy standing in the archway between halls. The power building around her was palpable, and for a moment I wondered if I should have been more specific than simply asking for a distraction.
The thought brought a smile to my face. It didn’t matter. Dizzy would do as she pleased. She was a free spirit, but she’d never let me down.
Dizzy's magic allowed her to readily shift into the form of any creature she had encountered. Unlike a lycanthrope whose violent and barely controlled transformation occurred at a genetic level, shifter mages channeled arcane energy to reshape their form and along with any objects they were holding, like her bow.
Shifter mages were rare, and Dizzy was one of only a few I'd ever met, but even by our teacher’s standards she was gifted. It was to be expected. It was as if the Alasa bloodline had been predestined for their role as guardians.
Dizzy shot me a wink, and a golden flare radiated through the chamber.
There was a chorus of gasps, and I shielded my eyes against the light. Patrons scattered in panic, blindly trying to get their bearings.
It was time to move. I wove my way across the hall, avoiding the crowd as my vision returned. When the light faded, Dizzy was gone, replaced by a magnificent lioness. As the other patrons recovered their senses, Dizzy let out a billowing roar that shook the exhibition hall. Glass cases rattled in their frames, and a man standing beside Dizzy leapt so high he almost achieved orbit.
The poor chap was going to need a change of pants.
The mother from the doubloon exhibit screamed as she pushed her pram toward the exit. Her son laughed, delighted by the animal’s sudden appearance, seemly oblivious to the threat such a predator posed.
Dizzy loped through the exhibition hall before launching herself at a glass case containing a set of medieval armor. She bowled over the glass tower, sending the steel clattering across the floor.
“Lion!” a voice hollered. Neil. “Run for your life.”
He suppressed a smile as he leaned against a wall in the central exhibit.
“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” I whispered into the comms.
“You have to live a little, while you still can,” Neil replied, his eyes following Dizzy’s rampage through the museum.
The crowd fought to push through the exits as Dizzy let out another museum-shaking roar to hasten their retreat.
Even though my brain knew I was in no danger at all, the hairs on my neck stood on end as my body weighed its primitive fight or flight reflexes.
Overhead, an alarm spooled up and patrons skirted the room, trying to reach the exit, without attracting the attention of the lioness stalking the hall. With a bounding leap, Dizzy landed atop the central exhibit, shattering the glass case before the table collapsed under her weight. The exhibit crumbled, sending pieces to the four corners of the room.
Bending down, I scooped up a china plate that had rolled to a stop at my feet. In spite of its unceremonious journey across the exhibit, the piece was pristine. There wasn’t a blemish to mar its perfect surface,
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that down,” a voice shouted. I turned to find one of the security guards standing behind me, his hand stretched out to receive the plate.
“By all means, I simply didn't want anyone to tread on it.” I held out the plate as Dizzy turned toward us.
Ignoring me, the guard drew his pistol and took aim at the lioness bearing down on him.
Raising the plate, I swung it with a forehand that would have made Roger Federer proud. The china connected with the security guard’s jaw and the man dropped like a sack of potatoes. The second guard was already legging it for the exit and Dizzy nodded as she loped after him, ensuring he would not be around to disturb my adventure on the second floor.
Lifting the plate, I was surprised to find it still intact.
“Unbreakable indeed,” I muttered as I examined the fine piece. “I didn’t come for you, my friend, but this is what we call a bonus.”
Sitting the briefcase on what was left of the table, I slid the plate inside. Closing the case, I made my way to the stairs.
Several staffers from the upstairs office raced for the front door. If any of them had a question as to where I was going, they kept it to themselves as they fled the building.
Reaching the top of the staircase, I found the hall clear. Black and gray carpet tiles lined a corridor with offices that ran along both sides. From my previous visit, I knew my destination was at the end of the hall. I tilted my head down to avoid the camera and picked up my pace.
At the end of the hall, a pair of steel doors greeted me with a placard that read ‘Office of the Curator’. On the wall beside them was a miniature steel scanner the size of my fist. If the mask was anywhere, it would be here. Lara would be spending every minute she could studying the mask. I drew out Lara’s security pass from my pocket.
I clutched the pass. There would be no turning back now. If I used the pass, the theft would be tracked back to her. Lara would bear the blame, even though she wasn't directly involved. I’d dealt with enough antiques to know, even if she was cleared of all involvement in the heist, it could damage her career. The loss of such a relic would be a cloud that would follow her forever.
Part of me, the better part of me, wanted to turn back. Hurting Lara was the last thing I ever wanted. It felt like a cruel trick of fate that had brought the mask here. I needed the mask and there was no way Lara was going to let me borrow it, so I had no other choice. Asking would have only raised questions I wasn’t allowed to answer.
Letting out a long breath, I raised the security pass and swiped it. The doors clicked as the locking mechanism released.
“Sorry, Lara, I'll make it right, I swear.”
I’d chosen my words carefully. For a wizard, oaths and promises had power. I had no intention of neglecting mine.
The doors swung inward, revealing Lara’s office. The chamber had an expensive teak desk that occupied one end of the room. I remembered it well. One of my fondest memories had been made on that desk. Thoughts of that night came flooding back into my mind, and the scent of her lavender perfume that hovered in the air was not helping at all.
Reluctantly shooing the pleasant thoughts from my mind, I surveyed the office. A series of filing cabinets ran along the wall behind the desk. The tops of the cabinets had a series of replicas atop them, including a Trojan horse. The tale of Troy was one of Lara’s favorite tales.
The office also had a pair of tables, with cupboards built in underneath. Both were strewn with textbooks and
dissertations. We had talked away many nights studying ancient cultures and theorizing how magic had influenced their existence. I’d been careful to couch my knowledge as hypothesis as I hadn’t had the courage to tell her the truth about my wizarding heritage. I began to straighten the texts, purely on impulse, and caught myself. There simply wasn’t time.
I tore my eyes off the clutter and settled on Lara’s desk. It was piled high with manila folders but there was no sign of the mask.
I opened the top drawer. Finding nothing but a handful of stationery, I slammed it shut and moved on to the second. Inside it there were several files but nothing else. Shutting the drawer, I leaned on the table and caught my breath.
“It has to be here,” I told myself, looking down at the stack of folders on the table.
One carried a familiar seal—that of the US government.
“Why, hello there,” I muttered as I pulled the stack of folders toward me, straightening them so that they formed a neat pile. Underneath the seal was the designation ‘Section 9’ over which the word classified had been stamped. In the bottom right-hand corner was a second logo, a compass on a shield, with an eagle head above it.
I knew that logo. Everyone knew that logo.
It belonged to the CIA.
As I searched the table, there were more than a dozen of them with titles including The Brujas de Sangre, The Inquisition, and Magic in the Central Americas.
Lifting the folder for the Blood Witches Coven, I flipped it open to find a picture of the mask and a report. The header of the report caught my eye: Central intelligence Agency Section 9 Classified Briefing 38462 Máscara de la Muerte.
As I started to read, the distinct metallic click of a gun being cocked drew my attention back from the case file.
“What do we have here?”
2
The question caused my heart to relocate involuntarily to my throat, but it was the painfully distinct shick of the pistol’s slide loading a round that made my blood run cold. The offices should have been empty. Dizzy's rampage downstairs had triggered the museum’s evacuation protocols. While no museum had a safety plan for a rampaging lioness, whatever procedures they did have shouldn’t have involved charging back into the offices.
