Fantastic Hope

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “And if you know it’s in there?” he asked.

  “Then a life is at stake and we break down the door and save that life.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Zerbrowski said.

  Almost any other metaphysical ability I had was something I had to coax, or call, or raise inside me, but not my necromancy. It was always there just below the surface, eager and waiting for me to drop my guard so it could spill out of me and into the nearest dead body. I put my fingers against the cool brick of the building the way I sometimes touch the dirt over a grave.

  I hesitated for a second because if it had been a grave, I would have sent my power searching through the dirt for the body I wanted to raise, and then I would have called it to me. I didn’t want to do that, did I? Was there enough left of Warrington to come to my call? Was there enough of my magic left on the bones to call it to me? If we wanted to make an arrest, we needed to catch him red-handed. If we wanted to come back with a warrant and execute him, same thing, but was that really my goal? No, my goal was to save Justine Henderson’s life so she could see her little boy grow up, so her parents could have holidays with their child and grandchild. I didn’t give a shit about legalities; in that moment I just wanted to save a life.

  At first it was just my hands against the cooler roughness of the bricks, and then distantly I felt an echo or a taste of familiar power, my power. I closed my eyes and trusted that the two men with me would keep me safe from any physical danger while I gave myself to my magic and let it lead me through the brick and the wood and the paint and the tingling of the electricity in the walls, and until I could hear a voice in my head that was thinking one word over and over like a heartbeat: Justine, Justine, Justine.

  Thomas Warrington had died not only in love with her but bound to her with a version of ardeur-induced true love. I didn’t know what the other magic user had done to make Thomas aware enough to think of her, or powerful enough to reach out and start leaching energy from her, but as I heard her name breathed through my mind, constant as a pulse, I knew that was what was happening. The practitioner that had done the spell didn’t give a rat’s ass about Justine—he just wanted a powerful relic like the bones of a flesh-eating, very alive zombie. I wondered if the bones had stopped working as well for him once Thomas started longing for his ladylove.

  Let’s go find out. And I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud until Zerbrowski replied, “Go where and find out what?”

  * * *

  —

  Our buyer was named Robbie Curtis. When I’d asked Harold if Robbie was short for Robert, he didn’t know. Robbie lived on the third floor, not even a creepy basement or a scary attic, but just an ordinary floor. Nicky broke the door to pieces for us. He and I had our rifles snug to our shoulders, looking for danger. Zerbrowski had his handgun up and ready, too. We all knew the drill and, pointing safely away from each other, we searched the dingy living room for someone who wasn’t us, but it was empty of everything except sagging furniture and a rug that was so threadbare I thought it was part of the floor, until it moved under my boots.

  There were two doors at the back of the room. Nicky pushed through the one to the right, putting the door flush against the wall so nothing could hide behind it. A small kitchen looked white and tired in the light from the single window. It was cleaner than the living room, neat and tidy, all the dishes put away. I went to the last door, and before I even touched it, I felt the thrum and pull of that longing: Justine, Justine, Justine, Justine.

  I motioned, letting them know it was behind door number two. Nicky held up a finger and then pointed it at the door. He could either hear or smell one person in the room. I motioned and mouthed the words one inside.

  Zerbrowski nodded that he’d understood.

  We were all already standing to one side of the door just in case our bad guy had a gun to go with his creepy magic. It was just standard not to stand in front of a door when you didn’t know what was on the other side. Until it was time to kick it in, and then you sort of had to stand in the danger zone of the door, which was why SWAT and other special teams had heavy shields and body armor. Of course, they were only human, and Nicky wasn’t. There was a time in my life where I might have argued about which of us got to kick the door in, but it was just good physical math to let him do it. Zerbrowski and I came at his side, sliding around the door to either wall like there was enough of us to cut the pie. Nicky did follow along the wall behind me like I’d learned in SWAT and he’d learned somewhere less formal. That left Zerbrowski on his side of the room alone, but the room wasn’t that big, so we could still cover each other and the room.

  Only when we were in place and could keep each other as safe as possible did I let myself really look at the room. I mean, I’d seen that there was a small bed in one corner against a heavily draped window. There were two more windows in the far wall, but they’d been covered with plywood and then painted black so that the entire far wall was black. Between the boarded-up windows were the top and lower half of a skull nailed in place, or maybe screwed in place; it was hard to tell from here. The skull and jawbone seemed to be trapped in a nightmarish scream. Part of a left arm and then the pelvic bone were all pinned in place like some evil butterfly on display. The sound of Justine in my head was so loud I wasn’t sure I would hear anything else in the room.

  There were symbols painted around the bones that I didn’t recognize, but then I didn’t do this kind of necromancy, the kind that used the dead to power your magic instead of using your magic to empower the dead. It was almost the polar opposite of what I did. The symbols went all the way to the floor on either side of a small altar that was directly below the bones.

  “Where is he?” Zerbrowski asked.

  It took me a second to understand he meant the person that Nicky had sensed in the room. The bones were so loud, the magic so overwhelming, that I’d forgotten that there might be a living danger in the room. It was too careless for words; I knew better than to let my power deafen me to other safety concerns. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought, until I realized that I was saying it to the same beat as Justine, Justine, Justine.

  I closed up my power like folding it back into a tight fist that I wouldn’t let go of again. When I did that, I could hear other things, feel other things besides horror at the fact that Thomas Warrington was somehow still attached to his bones, still aware of himself enough to reach out to the woman he loved. He was gaining power as he drained her life away, not what he meant to do, but when you’re just a few bones nailed to a wall for a black magic ceremony, you probably don’t think too clearly.

  Nicky and Zerbrowski were already moving toward the bed in the far corner. I caught up with them and was blissfully alone with my thoughts instead of with Thomas’s one thought. Zerbrowski and I trained our guns on the bed, while Nicky took a one-handed grip on the footboard and lifted, his gun still in his other hand as if the bed weren’t heavy at all.

  I stared down the barrel of my rifle at a short, dark man who looked up at us with wide eyes. Robbie Curtis looked terribly ordinary and harmless huddled there. I didn’t have to be a wereanimal to smell the fear on him, but just because someone’s afraid doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. Cornered animals fight harder. He had his hand wrapped around a small bag tied around his neck like a necklace. He pointed his other hand at me like it was a blade. I felt something go out from his hand to me, but it split around my psychic shielding like water around a boulder.

  Zerbrowski yelled, “Put it down!”

  I wasn’t sure what he was telling him to put down, the bag, his hand, what? The man sent energy at me again, but I was a boulder and his power could not move me, or crack me, or do shit to me. I stopped looking down the barrel of my gun at him and let the AR-15 hang from its tactical sling while I reached down and grabbed the arm he was pointing at me and jerked him to his feet.

  “Anita, be careful,” Zerbrowski
said.

  He was right, but I was too angry to care. I hadn’t let my temper get the better of me at a crime scene in years, but fuck it. He pointed his finger at me and again there was that push of power rushing around my shielding. “What is that supposed to be doing to me? Huh? What the fuck is that supposed to do? Hurt me? What?”

  He did it one more time, but this time he pointed at Zerbrowski. I heard him make a noise, not a scream, but not a good sound. I fought the urge to look behind me at him, but I had to make sure Curtis didn’t hurt anyone else; secure the weapon, then tend the wounded, otherwise you get more wounded. I grabbed the man’s pointing finger with my free hand and broke it. He screamed, knees going weak so that he helped me take him to the ground. I kicked his legs out from under him and put him on his stomach on the floor. Nicky started to help me, but I said, “I’ve got it, help Zerbrowski.”

  Nicky didn’t argue, he just left my side, and I knew he’d do what I told him to do. I didn’t dare glance over but concentrated on putting the man’s hands behind his back and getting the handcuffs out of their holder. I killed more people than I arrested, so handcuffs weren’t my best thing when someone was wiggling on the floor. I had to secure the prisoner, had to make him safe so he couldn’t hurt anyone else. If I’d done that first thing instead of being an arrogant, angry shit, Zerbrowski would never have been hurt.

  “He’s alive,” Nicky said from behind me.

  The man who was struggling with my knee in his back said, “You’re hurting me!”

  “Good,” I said and finished getting the handcuffs around his thin wrists. The cuffs were designed to withstand the strength of a shapeshifter. A human, even one that could cast spells, wasn’t getting out unless he could unlock them with magic. Shit, I didn’t know if that was even possible. I couldn’t do it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. “You shoot magic at us with the broken finger, I’ll break it again. If you use magic on us at all, I’ll start with your fingers and keep going until you can’t cast spells anymore. Are we clear on what will happen if you use any more magic?”

  “You’re a cop, you can’t do shit like that.”

  I put my face down so he could see me. “I’m a marshal with the Preternatural Division, you’re casting death magic, I can do a hell of a lot worse than break your bones.”

  “Jesus, no, please, don’t kill me.”

  Funny how they always get religious when they think they’re going to die. I was half lying to him. If I’d had a warrant of execution for him in my pocket, then I could have done whatever I wanted to him, but we hadn’t waited for the warrant, so I had to play by cop rules, not executioner rules. Handcuffs in place, bad guy subdued, I let myself glance behind at Zerbrowski. He was sitting up and leaning against Nicky, but his eyes were open and he had his gun in his hand pointed in a safe direction.

  “The magic worked on him. Why didn’t it work on you?” Curtis asked in a voice that was thick with pain.

  “What should have worked? What were you trying to do to me, asshole?”

  “Drain you a little, that’s all. I wasn’t using the full spell. I wasn’t trying to kill any of you.”

  I had a moment to realize that he’d done the equivalent of trying to wound us instead of killing us, and if he’d been aiming to kill, then I’d have had to explain it to Katie and the kids.

  “Anita,” Zerbrowski said, “I’m okay. Chill, okay?” He meant don’t hurt him any more, but didn’t want to say it out loud in front of the prisoner in case we needed to threaten him with violence to get information. I didn’t feel bad about the finger. If he was green enough or weak enough to need to point to work magic, then he deserved what he got. And I was pissed at myself for not realizing that I wasn’t the only target in the room. I’d been so busy being immune to the magic and angry that it was my own magic being shoved at me that I hadn’t thought it through. It was a rookie mistake, one that could have cost Zerbrowski everything.

  I ground my knee harder, one hand staying on him so I could feel if he moved. I did not want my carelessness to hurt anyone else today. I glanced back. Zerbrowski was on his knees, but he looked steadier. His gun was still out, but I was blocking any shot he had at the bad guy. Nicky was still trying to help him up, and Zerbrowski pushed him away. “Go help her with the perp.”

  I realized that Nicky couldn’t stop helping Zerbrowski until I told him to stop. My metaphysical ties to Nicky have some weird consequences, like if I give him a direct order, he must obey it. “Nicky, it’s okay.”

  Nicky stopped fussing with Zerbrowski and came to kneel by me.

  “Hold him while I pat him down,” Nicky said, and just like that I felt foolish again. I’d been so busy concentrating on the magic that it hadn’t occurred to me to search him for a gun or knife. I helped Nicky pat down his back and then I rolled him over on his broken finger, which made him complain—okay, he screamed—but we searched him for weapons anyway. There wasn’t anything to find, but I hadn’t known that when I jerked him up off the floor the first time. How could I have been so careless?

  “He’s clean,” Nicky said.

  “No, he’s not,” Zerbrowski said. “The bag around his neck isn’t harmless.”

  “You’re right,” I said and reached for the bag. He tried to fight us off, handcuffed, broken finger and all. I finally had to cut the leather thong that held it around his neck, and only Nicky’s hand on his head kept him from cutting himself on my knife.

  Nicky kept his hand on Curtis so he couldn’t get up while I opened the bag on the floor near the bed. The bag held a small bone, some herbs, some grayish powder, and a small stone. I looked at the bone for a long time and then finally at him. “It’s a bone from the skeleton on the wall.” I said it like I was sure.

  “I bought the bones through legitimate sources.” Talking from the floor handcuffed with Nicky almost sitting on him, he still managed to sound like he meant it.

  “Your legitimate source gave you up,” I said.

  “You’re lying.”

  “How else did we find you?”

  Curtis looked uncertain then.

  “Did you actually try and use some sort of necromancy or death magic on me? Was that all the finger pointing and clutching your juju bag?”

  “You broke my fucking finger!”

  “You’re lucky that’s all I broke.”

  “This is police brutality.”

  “Remember I’m not regular police, Curtis.”

  “I didn’t see a marshal’s badge, I think you’re lying. I think you’re just regular cops, so it’s police brutality. I’ll press charges.”

  “Oh no, breaking your finger wasn’t brutal, you haven’t seen brutal yet.”

  “Is that a threat?” he asked indignantly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  My simply agreeing threw him, so he didn’t know what to say. I got my badge off my belt and held it down so he could see that it was a U.S. Marshals badge with the banner across it that read Preternatural Division. His eyes widened, his breathing got faster.

  “See, preternatural marshal, which means I do not have to play by regular cop rules.”

  Zerbrowski spoke from closer to the skeleton on the wall. I was just happy he was feeling well enough to stand and move around. “Have him take down the spell or whatever it is.”

  “Take it down,” I said as I put my badge back on my belt. It was harder putting it back than taking it off with the body armor on.

  But Curtis shook his head. “I will not dismantle it for you, and I warn you if you touch it without my help, you could be seriously hurt or killed.”

  “Fuck this,” I said. I left Nicky to guard Curtis and went to the wall with its mystic symbols and bones.

  Zerbrowski asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Take it down.”

  “Shouldn’t you wait for one of the police wit
ches to look at it first? Some of this stuff can be pretty nasty.”

  I looked at the wall with something other than my eyes, some people would call it the third eye, and whenever I looked at the symbols, they had a faint glow, which meant active magic. I didn’t recognize the symbols, though, so I had no way of knowing what they meant. I didn’t do a lot of magic symbols, because mine was more innate psychic ability than outside magic. There was some weight and power to the altar, too, but more of the ordinary energy that any physical item can gain if it’s used in regular magical practices. It was when I looked at the bones on the wall that it flared brightest. They had power. They glowed with a gold fire that nothing else in the room could match. Jesus.

  “You’re using the bones as a sort of magical battery. That’s why you have part of it in that bag that was around your neck and why you held it so tight. The magic you tried to use against me is mostly from the bones.”

  “I am a sorcerer.”

  “Most sorcerers get their magic from somewhere outside themselves—demon, genie, elemental, but it’s always an outside power source.”

  “You have to have willpower to control them, that is the true power,” Curtis said. He tried to sound smug, but he was still lying on the floor, so it lost some of its smugness, but he still sounded pleased with himself. I didn’t want him pleased with himself.

  “If I told you that your spell here was draining the life out of a young woman, would you give a damn?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I bet you can’t even hear what the bones are saying, can you?”

  He frowned and looked puzzled. “They can’t talk. They’re objects of power, not alive.”

  “Just because you can’t hear it doesn’t mean it’s not saying something.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I know you don’t.” I prayed for guidance and got that little warm push that I sometimes got when a prayer gets a thumbs-up. That was good enough for me. I started to ask for a hammer and then realized that it wasn’t nails or screws, at least not through the bone. He had little racks that the bones were sitting on, with clamps holding them in place.