Halfblood's Hex (Urban Arcanology Book 1)

by S. C. Stokes

  The shockwave rolled through them, blasting them apart and sending Murdoch and me hurtling into the hangar floor.

  My head spun like I'd run headlong into a brick wall. I rested my hands against the ground in an attempt to get up, but my arms failed me. I couldn’t muster the strength to move. My ears were ringing from the explosion and the vibrations pulsed through my skull.

  Murdoch was down, a dozen tiny cuts visible on his arms and face where the shrapnel from the pallet had done a real number on him. I could almost taste the burning odor choking the hangar. As the smoke cleared, half a dozen black armored soldiers emerged out of the fog, weapons raised. Three feet from me lay the duffel containing the mask. I must have dropped it in the blast. I reached for the bag.

  “Don't even think about it!” a voice called, the vowels layered in a Spanish accent. “One more word, one more thought, and you're a dead man.”

  “It seems like you've already made up your mind on that front,” I groaned, staring at the leader.

  I didn’t notice the commando beside me moving until his boot sank into my guts.

  I gasped for air as I curled up into the fetal position. My ribs burned, and a part of me wanted to use the little juice I had left to lash out at the coward.

  The leader loomed over me. It was the same cold unflappable soldier who'd fired the grenade at us. He looked down at me, a day’s growth visible against his olive skin. “Where is the mask?”

  “What mask?” I wheezed, trying to buy time. I had come too far to lose it now.

  “Don't play dumb with us,” the commando replied, his hand resting on the pistol holster on his belt. “We saw the intercepts. You stole it from the Americans, and now we want it back. Give it to me.”

  One of the tactical team spotted the duffel and went for it. My eyes followed him as he moved, and their leader scoffed.

  “In there, is it?” he asked, as the soldier scooped up the duffel and handed it to him.

  The soldier opened the duffel and pulled out the silicon sack containing the mask.

  “I wouldn't if I were you,” I wheezed. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with.”

  The leader stared down at me, his brown eyes boring into mine. “We know more than you would believe, wizard.”

  “Is that right?” I muttered, slowly getting my breath back. “So you know it’s an arcane relic belonging to a long dead witch cult, famous for blood magic and ritual sacrifice. You know all that and you still want it? You’re right—you’re not ignorant, just stupid.”

  The leader nodded once, and the commando beside me kicked me again. The blow caught me in the stomach and pain flooded through me as I fought the urge to retch.

  “Your opinion bears no weight here. The mask belongs to us and when we’re done with it, it will be destroyed along with every trace of you freaks.”

  “Straight to the name-calling, huh?” I let out a pained groan. “The xenophobia, the intolerable ignorance, and the accent. No prizes for guessing who you lot are. You’re the Inquisition.”

  The leader’s mouth creased up a tick into a smirk. “What of it?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I replied. “It’s just we’ve been kicking Spanish arse for four hundred years. I would have thought you would have grown tired of it by now.”

  My ancestor, Francis Drake, had been instrumental in first delaying and then defeating Spain’s invading armada in 1588, one of many victories he would earn over the Spanish fleets. A fact I took great pride in as the commando kicked me in the ribs again. This time I saw it coming and rolled with the blow, my chest still smarting from the previous kicks. It didn’t stop the pain, but it helped.

  Still, being a smart ass had its uses, and buying time was one of them, provided I didn’t agitate them enough to shoot me. Looking up at their leader, I had to admit it was a distinct possibility.

  I needed to keep them talking, so I fought through the pain and continued. “It's just that your Inquisition is so ignorant that you have no idea what would befall you, should you manage to succeed in your lunatic mission to rid the world of magic.”

  “You don't know the first thing about us, wizard,” the leader replied, examining the mask in his hand.

  “I'm sure I could say the same about you,” I groaned. “Wizards don't create magic, we simply channel it. Without us, the world you know would cease to exist.”

  “Lies, lies, lies,” the commando replied. “Another silver-tongued spell caster desperate to avoid his fate.”

  The soldier drew his pistol and leveled it straight at my head.

  I'd had better days, but dying at the hands of some supernatural-hating xenophobe was not how I was going down. I wanted to summon a ward, but that had already failed me once with the missile. I felt like a rusty old car running on fumes.

  By the smile on the commando’s face, he knew it too.

  I wanted to level something offensive at him, wipe that smug grin off his face, but in a race between a bullet and a spell I didn’t fancy my chances. There was also the chance his trigger finger would get itchy, and I'd die with my spell still on my lips.

  The sharp screech of rubber tires against the tarmac in the distance drew my eyes to the hangar door. A handful of vehicles were rolling in fast.

  The column accelerated, the whine of their engines growing louder by the moment. The Inquisition turned to face the new threat.

  Raising their weapons, they fired on the convoy.

  Bullets ricocheted off the advancing vehicles, slamming into the pavement as the armored vehicles shrugged off the rounds.

  There were four SUVs closing quickly. As the vehicles approached, they continued to accelerate. The Inquisition scattered before them as the vehicles hurtled into the hangar.

  The commandos forgot about my existence as the armored SUVs slammed on the brakes. The doors burst open and a dozen men in suits piled out of them, MP5 submachine guns at the ready. The newcomers took cover behind the bullet-proof vehicles and opened fire without mercy. The tactical team were cut down by the disciplined bursts.

  The Spaniard, mask still in hand, made a break for it, running for the back door of the hangar.

  He was almost there when a black shape emerged from behind a stack of nearby pallets. The huge shape moved with a speed that defied belief, bowling the Spaniard over.

  He went flying, knocking both the silicon bag and his pistol out of his hands. The bag skittered across the floor as the Spaniard tucked, rolled, and sprung to his feet with shocking speed. Drawing a knife from his boot, he sized up his target. In front of him stood an adult black bear, six foot tall at the shoulder.

  Dizzy, I realized, and the thought brought a smile to my face. I forced myself to my feet as he advanced on Dizzy.

  Dizzy launched forward, batting the knife aside and slamming into him like, well, a rampaging black bear. The man got air that would have made Jordan proud, before slamming into the hangar floor and bouncing unceremoniously across it.

  The knife skittered across the polished concrete. By the time it came to a skidding halt, I was on my feet. The rear door of the lead vehicle opened and a familiar figure emerged. His shirt was open at the collar and everything about him commanded attention. Frank Caldwell in the flesh. The gunfire ceased.

  “Round them up,” he barked. “Sweep for survivors. No one leaves!”

  His face was flushed with anger and he almost shook with rage as he approached the last of the tactical team. I snatched up the silicon bag, reassuring myself that the mask was still there and in one piece.

  Behind the ruins of the pallet, Murdoch sat up, clutching at his head. “What the hell was that?”

  “They hit us with an RPG, old friend. Had us dead to rights for a moment there, but Dad arrived.”

  Murdoch's eyes roamed the hangar, finding my father. “Atta boy, Frank.”

  I made my way over to where Frank loomed over the last surviving member of the tactical team.

  “I must say, I've never been so glad to see y
ou,” I called to my father.

  Frank simply held out a hand, stopping me in my tracks.

  Bending down, Frank towered over the Spaniard. “What are you doing in my hangar? Torquemada has overstepped his bounds.”

  The Spaniard scoffed. “The Bishop doesn't take orders from your kind.”

  “My kind?” Frank’s voice rose several decibels. “Your little band of zealots are nothing but the latest iteration of a failed genocide. You could no sooner put an end to magic than you could stay the course of the sun in the sky.”

  “The world is changing, wizard, sooner than you would believe,” the man replied, his hand creeping towards his sidearm.

  “You're very brave behind that helmet,” Frank replied.

  With a speed that defied belief, he yanked the man's sidearm out of its holster and slid it away. He tore off the Spaniard’s helmet, revealing an olive-skinned man in his forties. His head was clean-shaven and his brown eyes were full of loathing as they rested on my father.

  “You will pay dearly for your trespass today,” Frank pointed at the commando.

  “God will judge me,” he replied. “I have nothing more for you.”

  Frank placed his finger on the man’s chest. “Careful, you will be seeing him soon. Tell me where the Bishop is.”

  “Never.”

  “We will see,” Frank said. “There was a time your organization convened trials and burned at the stake any they suspected of witchcraft. It was a foolish pursuit that killed scores of innocents and cast the world into darkness. Such barbarity, let me return the favor. Tell me what I want to know, or you will pray for mercy and it will not come.”

  Frank bent down and grabbed the man's leg. “Clearly your master needs a reminder of the order of things.”

  My father began to chant, his voice little more than a whisper. I recognized the words. Our bloodline were wizards with an unusual gift. Transmutation, transforming non-living matter using arcane energy to reshape and reform it. I'd never seen it used on living matter and would not have thought to try.

  The muscles of the Spaniard’s leg began to smoke as Frank channeled arcane energy into his body.

  The man screamed as he tried to break free. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure you serve your purpose,” Frank replied, still grasping the soldier’s leg.

  The transmutation took root and the mercenary's leg began to turn to stone. The magic expanded down through his boot and then began to rise, inching up his shin towards his knee.

  The Spaniard groaned in agony.

  “Can you feel that? It’s your flesh turning to stone,” Frank spoke in measured tones.

  Sweat ran down the mercenary's face as he gripped his thigh. Stone slowly replaced flesh and I could feel the power my father was expending.

  “Diego Torquemada. Tell me where he is, and I will end it. I can take my time here, but your agony will be unbearable.”

  The spell’s progress halted at the man's stomach, his fatigues, his armor, and everything on his person slowly turning to stone.

  “I can keep you like this for days. I imagine the agony will be excruciating. You can end it any time you like.”

  The man groaned.

  “Dad, this is barbaric,” I protested.

  Frank held up his hand to silence me. “You have seen the measure of their resolve, Seth. We must match it.”

  The mercenary groaned as the spell resumed its progress up his body, his vital organs turning to stone as his head lolled to one side.

  Looking at my father, he gasped. “Panama. The Bishop is in Panama.”

  My father nodded. “Very well.”

  Power coursed from my father as the transmutation was completed in a single burst. The now fossilized remnants of the Spaniard stared up at me in frozen terror. The bodies of his team had been piled in a heap by the door.

  Frank rose to his feet and I took a step back. His eyes danced with madness. I wondered how much of the display had been for my benefit and how much had simply been fueled by the voices in his mind. He was deteriorating, that much was plain to see.

  He turned to his bodyguards. “Dispose of the bodies, except this one here. Have it shipped to Spain. Let it be a reminder to the good Bishop of what happens when they set foot in England. Their little crusade has no hold here.”

  The bodyguard nodded. “Yes, sir. It will be done. We’ll meet you back at the manor.”

  Dizzy approached, now in her human form, Murdoch beside her.

  “It's good to see you again, sir,” Murdoch called. “Thanks for the intervention.”

  My father grinned. “I couldn't lose my favorite pilot now. I’m sorry we’re late.”

  I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d heard him apologize to anyone, let alone an employee.

  Murdoch bowed his head. “Things are moving quickly, Frank, too quickly.”

  “There is no rest for the weary,” Frank replied. “The Bishop grows desperate.”

  Lifting up the mask in its bag, I shook it. “That’s because I found it. I have the mask.”

  “Not here,” Frank said, shushing me with a withering glance. “We’ll speak in the car.”

  My shoulders slumped. Frank Caldwell had a talent for making people feel like children. Less than an hour on the ground and I felt like I was a fourteen-year-old being sent to my room again.

  “Dizzy, lovely to see you, but I'm afraid we must be going. Don't worry, a driver will take you home,” Frank said.

  Dizzy opened her mouth to protest, but I shook my head. After seeing him interrogate the mercenary, I figured it was better to placate him by not challenging his authority. There was nothing to be gained by angering him further.

  “Thanks, Mr. Caldwell,” she replied, shooting me a sideways glance.

  Thank you, I mouthed at Dizzy as she followed a pair of bodyguards back to one of the SUVs.

  Frank looked at the Gulfstream, its nose crumpled against the hangar floor, its front landing gear obliterated.

  “I must say, Murdoch, your landings could use some work.”

  “The day I land like that, you can hurl me into the sea yourself. That was these savages,” Murdoch pointed at the bodies. “No respect for Gladys at all.”

  Frank smiled. “Don’t panic, we’ll have her up and running again before you know it. Grab a ride in the lead car and take a load off. Seth and I have some business we need to discuss.”

  Murdoch nodded his understanding and made his way over to the charcoal black SUV.

  I followed my father back to the same SUV he had emerged from. I slid into the back seat. Frank rounded the car and climbed in on the other side. As the door closed and the vehicle rolled forward, he let out a tired sigh.

  “I really wish you would look before you leap,” he said as he turned to me.

  “Spare me the lecture, Dad. I just watched you turn a man into a statue. You're hardly the poster child for well measured actions.”

  He rested his fingertips against his head, propping it up. “I’m not going to keep arguing with you, Seth. If nothing else, I hope today taught you how dangerous these zealots are. Their resources are vast, but it’s their ideology you should be concerned about. They are true believers and nothing is as dangerous as a true believer.”

  I leaned back against the leather seat. The intensity of the assault had taken me by surprise but as my heart began to slow back to its usual beat, I couldn't help but take a victory lap. Opening the drawstring, I gingerly revealed the Death Mask of Brujas de Sangre.

  “Look, damn it. I found it.” I shook the bag for emphasis.

  Frank's eyes settled on the crimson stained wood and his jaw drooped open. He went to speak, but no words came out.

  “The Americans had it. It seems they stole it from the Inquisition and wanted to study it. I may not have known that they were the CIA but I’m kind of glad I didn’t. The mask is the real deal. You can feel it.”

  Frank reached out a hand and rested it on the timb
er mask. He gasped as the power flowed through him.

  Tearing his hand away, his eyes went wide. “I can't believe it.”

  “It's the first piece, Dad. We might actually be able to do something about this curse.”

  Frank leaned heavily on his armrest. “The mask is one thing, Seth, but it is nothing without the temple. It was the ritual’s origin, and Ellawaya left no record of how such rituals were performed. The temple is everything.”

  “But the mask is a start,” I replied. “Without it, we’ll never make it inside.”

  “That it is, but I don’t want to get your hopes up. I’ve searched for years, Seth. I’ve never found any trace of the temple. It might have been destroyed centuries ago.”

  I shook my head. “I refuse to believe that. You heard what the soldier said. The Bishop is in Panama. Why else would he be there? They have to have found the temple.”

  “Possible but unlikely,” Frank said. “Unfortunately, I have no informants in their organization. The Brotherhood have tried and failed many times.”

  “True believers,” I muttered, setting the mask down in my lap.

  “Indeed.” Frank scratched his chin. “If the Brotherhood doesn’t know where the temple is, we are going to need someone who traffics in information. Someone with a global reach. Someone the Inquisition won’t suspect.”

  “Who might that be?” I asked.

  “A criminal,” Frank replied. “Not just any thug though. We’re going to need a connoisseur of crime. We’re going to need the Red Knight.”

  9

  My mind raced. I had expected many things from my father. An introduction to a criminal overlord was not one of them. He’d never been so willing to help. The skeptic in me wondered where the change had come from. What was he up to? Perhaps as his condition worsened, he was becoming more malleable, or perhaps more desperate.

  Either way, I'd take what help I could get. I didn’t have the luxury of options.