We make quick work of the room, casing the place from top to bottom. Desmond puts me on picture duty, and I snap shots of every item in the room that could possibly be relevant in any context whatsoever. But besides some reno equipment, paint and the like, there’s not much here that could have been used to commit a violent crime. When I finish photographing the entire room three times over, I join Amy and Desmond by the body.
Amy, who’s produced a pair of latex gloves, is going through the woman’s pockets. “No ID here. Maybe she was homeless after all?”
“With those clothes?” Desmond pulls up the tag on her coat. “These are brand name. And fairly new. Unless she got these from a particularly nice charity, I don’t think she was aching for money.”
“What about the Satanic symbols?” I ask, nodding to the chalk-drawn marks partially hidden under the body.
“Can’t tell,” Amy replies. “They’ve been smudged beyond comprehension, probably by her body falling. They’re definitely drawn in a circle, but it doesn’t look like a summoning to me. And most practitioners don’t use chalk for summonings anyway. Too easy to distort. You mess up a summoning circle, and the next thing you know, you’re Eververse monster food.”
Desmond wiggles his eyebrows. “We know that from experience.”
I crouch down beside him and murmur, “I bet.”
“Hey, Amy,” Desmond chuckles out, “you remember that time in Fresno, when—?”
“Wait,” I say, cutting him off. “What’s that?”
There’s something peeking out from under the woman’s left leg. I drop to my knees, bend closer, ignoring the cloying smell of perfume, and nudge the wrinkled denim of her jeans away from the small object. I recognize what it is at first glance, but it takes me a second to think of the word. It’s a… “A cog.”
“Like a cog in the machine?” Amy asks. She leans over the body to take a look herself and plucks the little gold cog from the floor with a latex-covered hand. “Huh, you’re right. Wonder what this is from?”
Desmond examines it. “Maybe she had an old-fashioned watch, and someone took it? She came here with someone else, itching to do some witchcraft from a book she found at the library, only for something to go horribly, horribly wrong. An attempted sexual assault, perhaps. Or even just an argument that ended in tragedy.”
Amy considers these possibilities. “Sounds plausible to me. There might not be any supernatural elements here at all. Fake magic. A couple of idiots. Maybe some drugs involved—hell, maybe she overdosed on something, and her buddy or buddies panicked, took her ID and stuff, and ran off. There’s nothing here to say a monster attacked them, much less—”
A wave of dizziness hits me like a freight train, and I tumble backward onto my ass.
“Calvin?” Desmond reaches for me. “Are you all right?”
“Damn.” I smack my hands over my eyes and groan as the feeling comes over me. “Déjà vu.”
“Ah, here we go again,” Amy says. “Remember what Navarro told you. Just let it happen. Go with the flow.”
“But not too with the flow,” Desmond warns. “I don’t want to have to carry you out of here. Like that time at the marina.”
Their words go in one ear and out the other. It’s not that I don’t want to hear them but more that I’m so frustrated at my situation, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the frothing anger in my gut. Anger at myself for letting this happen. Anger at the world for my piss-poor luck. And anger at the Etruscan Psychopomp who did this to me in the first place.
See, you remember that time when Vanth almost executed me in the underworld? Well, it turns out that when a Psychopomp beheads you, your entire life adheres to that old “flashes before your eyes” cliché. But, in my particular case of decapitation, there was a slight screw-up. Namely, that my head stayed attached to my shoulders. So, instead of seeing my life as I lived it, I saw my life as I lived it plus what I haven’t yet lived. My past and my future. All of it. At once. Forced into my brain like a giant, tense rubber-band ball.
And funny thing about the human brain: it doesn’t like ten fucking million memories being shoved into it at once. So, for lack of a better term, according to the esteemed Dr. Navarro, I now have a “glitch” in my brain that gives me really uncomfortable déjà vu whenever I stumble into situations that “strike a particular chord” inside that massive, inaccessible memory ball sitting in the back of my head.
But that’s not all, folks!
Oh, no. It gets better.
If I try too hard to mentally “follow” the déjà vu toward the actual memory—that is, if I try to see my future—I faint. On the other hand, if I completely reject the memory, try to block out the sensation altogether, I vomit. Two equally awesome choices, I know.
Navarro told me if I could straddle the balance point, then maybe I could actually get something useful out of this “ability.” A sixth sense for when something important is about to happen, or an indication that I’ve stumbled upon a vital clue. But so far, it hasn’t told me anything that another member of my highly skilled team couldn’t have figured out through usual crime scene investigation tactics. Some kind of superpower, huh?
Clearly, I need to get a T-shirt that reads, “I went to the Eververse and all I got was this stupid déjà vu.” Because that just about sums up my lot in life.
Now, sitting on the floor of this cheaply renovated office, I suck in deep breaths and try to ignore the nagging sense that I have seen all this before. But it’s persistent this time. (On some occasions, it lasts for mere seconds. On others, for almost a full minute.) I swallow hard and say, “I’m going to walk it off in the hall, if you two don’t mind.”
Desmond pats me gently on the shoulder. “Go on, Calvin. We’ve got this. And if you feel too bad for too long, feel free to go back to the SUV.”
“Sorry…”
“Don’t say that.” Amy shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. The Eververse fucks people up, plain and simple. You’ll get over this, or used to it, eventually. It’s only been a few weeks. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” She turns her head to the side and murmurs, “Else you’ll end up like the captain.”
Desmond throws her a disapproving glare but says nothing.
I stand, swallowing hard to force down the rising bile in my throat. Then I head for the door we came through a few minutes ago. My boots thud dully against the plain carpet as I move, steps heavy like I have weights strapped to my legs. My shoulders sag a bit despite my best efforts, and I know that Amy and Desmond pick up on it—that damn shame I can’t quite shake. And they pity me.
Logically, I know that there’s nothing I can do to…
I catch it too late.
A tenth of a second too late:
The reason why I’m having the déjà vu that only pops up in important situations.
From outside the office, we couldn’t see it. The smudges of white chalk against the equally white doorframe, nearly invisible in the fluorescent lighting. But my brain, aware of my future, even though it’s loath to admit it, knew that when I turned around and walked toward the door, I would notice the markings on the frame. Intact unlike the circle on the floor. A completed spell, not yet active, ready and waiting for a trigger. What practitioners call a ward.
Because I’m distracted by shame instead of paying attention to my sixth sense, I don’t see the ward…
…until the instant after I trip it.
All the residual energy inside the room is sucked into the far wall in a microsecond. The wall ripples—hot—and flames burst forth from the paint.
Amy and Desmond leap back from the wall, shuffling on their heels toward the doorway. But like me, they can’t help but watch, transfixed, as an enormous dragon, made entirely of fire, clambers out of the wall and into the office room, setting ablaze everything in its path. It roars the way that forest fires roar, a guttural, deafening moan on the horizon, drawing ever closer. And as it pulls its tail from the wall, crawling through the room t
oward us, slowly, like a predator, we can do nothing but stand there, horrified, while the dead woman’s body is swallowed by the flickering flames.
The dragon, fully formed and free, sets its sights on us.
I swear to god it grins.
“Aw, shit…” Amy mumbles.
And then Desmond shouts, “Run!”
We do.
Out the door and into the hall, feet pounding across the tiles, the fire dragon burning straight through the wall behind us. Amy, small and spry, takes the lead, arcing sharply left at the end of the hall. Desmond nearly runs into a water fountain, too heavy for such quick turns, and I’m still so unbalanced from the now fading déjà vu that I almost slide right off my feet. My palm smacks the floor to stop me from falling, and I haul myself forward again just as the dragon eats through the last bit of plaster in its way and lopes after me.
The dragon follows our every twist and turn, setting alight everything it touches. Black smoke billows out in all directions, casting a thick haze over the hallway. The nearest stairs are still two intersections away, and even if we make it there, the dragon can probably burn through the ceiling before we have a chance to reach the exit—
“There!” Amy shouts.
I glance to where she’s pointing.
The wide window at the end of the hall, overlooking the scenic pond.
We’re only two stories up. We can survive that fall.
Desmond, with his fully charged beggar rings, points his right fist at the window and yells, “Shoot!” A wave of force blasts out of the corresponding ring and collides with the window. The pane shatters outward in a million glittering shards, into the sunny day. And we follow.
We leap out the window at full speed, one after the other, and tumble into the pond below. I hit the surface like I crash through a plywood board, bruising every limb. The sheer temperature against my skin is a brutal punch, knocking half the air out of my lungs in large bubbles that float up and away. The water instantly soaks my heavy uniform, dragging me down faster and faster.
I finally stop sinking somewhere near the bottom of the pond and right myself, treading in place. When I dare to open my eyes and peer up at the building through the water, I see the fire dragon, a rippling blur of orange and yellow, has reached the window and stopped. It’s gazing down at the pond, searching for us.
Someone tugs my arm. I glance left, spying Amy next to me. She gestures for me to follow her. We kick off together, swimming away from the building. Through the murk, I spot Desmond several feet ahead, already nearing the opposite side of the pond. By the time all three of us reach the edge, my lungs are burning, out of fuel, but I hold my head under the surface until my feet hit shallow mud. Then I break for air, turning mid-stroke to see how close the dragon is.
Strangely, I find it’s not following us at all, even though it’s clearly glaring at me from the second-story window. It’s trapped in the building, I suddenly realize. The ward’s function doesn’t extend beyond the structure. We were safe as soon as we crossed the window’s threshold.
I haul my waterlogged body out of the pond behind Desmond and Amy, who are both sputtering and shivering. This time, I shiver right along with them—growing up in Michigan only goes so far when it comes to fighting hypothermia.
We loiter on the edge of the pond for seven minutes, huddled close together, watching to see what the fire dragon ward does next, if anything.
Finally, accepting it’s failed to catch us, the dragon turns around and retreats back into the building. A cloud of smoke spills out the window in its wake.
I run a hand through my drenched hair and say, “Well, that could have gone worse…”
The building explodes.
Six stories of glass blast out into the air. Half the floors collapse at once, a domino effect. The roof blows right off the top in a thousand flaming chunks. A lobby filled with cheap reno décor is crushed by tons of falling steel, charred wood, and various pieces of broken office equipment. And somewhere, in a nearby parking lot, a middle-aged man wails in dismay.
“…Never mind.”
Four Weeks Later
Chapter One
A wizard, a werewolf, and a watchmaker walk into a bar—and don’t come out alive.
Forty-eight minutes before I find out the reality behind that very off-color joke, I find myself parked in Erica Milburn’s bed. Head half hidden by the pillow to pretend that morning hasn’t come. Body wrapped neck to toe in the comforter to ward off the midwinter chill. Eyes screwed shut to prevent the sunlight beaming through the window from searing my corneas.
The one thing I can’t block out, however, is the alarm clock. The deafening alarm clock that Erica stuck to the ceiling (with magic) in order to make my lazy ass get up this morning.
Groaning, hands over my ears, I roll over and peek at the opposite side of the bed. Empty. Which isn’t unusual. Erica gets inventory orders in at all times of day for her occult shop—some crap about certain ingredients degrading at “special hours.” And on top of that, she gets called in by the Aurora branch of the ICM every now and then for various reasons. Subcommittees for local events. Small missions to outlying towns. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Point is, I’m not offended she walked out on me after sex. I’m a big boy. I can handle adult situations.
What pisses me off is that Erica apparently thinks I can’t handle them, so she magically glued an alarm clock to the ceiling to ensure I wasn’t late to work.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
I sit up straight, ears now ringing, reach for the nightstand, grab the first solid object I come into contact with—a ceramic mug—and throw it as hard as I can at the stupid clock. Dead-on impact. The alarm clock pops off the ceiling and flies back into the open closet, while the mug breaks into three pieces and clatters to the carpet next to the bed. For a second, the alarm clock keeps ringing, but the sound warbles, and after a few seconds, the thing finally dies.
Couldn’t have happened to a better clock.
Enjoy the cemetery that is Erica’s closet, you piece of shit.
Head tossed back, a sigh in my throat, I rub my face with my sweaty palms and yawn away the last remnants of whatever dream I was having. I can’t recall it now—it faded seconds after I woke—but my general sweatiness indicates it was a nightmare. Probably about Charun’s big blue ugly mug, coming after me again. That or another recurrence of my favorite flashback: Mac’s death by vampire. Whatever it was, it’s over now, so I peel the sheets off my skin like weak tape, slide out of Erica’s bed, and head for the bathroom I’ve become well acquainted with over the past two months.
In case you’re wondering, I do pick up the pieces of the mug. I set them on the side table in the hallway for Erica to fix when she gets home. She’s got a spell or a charm for pretty much everything. I’m sure ceramic repair is in her repertoire somewhere.
If not, I can always go pick up a new mug at Walmart.
After a quick, hot shower that eases my muscles into the start of what I’m sure will be another exciting day at the Department of Supernatural Investigations, I towel off and shave the faint shadow from my cheeks and chin. Then I head back to the bedroom to pull on the uniform I left balled up in a duffle bag in the corner. Finally, as presentable as I can possibly be on a Monday morning, I skulk my way to Erica’s kitchen to see if she was nice enough to leave me some breakfast. (She usually doesn’t. Because apparently I’m too childish to wake up on time, but more than mature enough to handle cooking with a gas range. Yeah. Okay.)
To my surprise, I do indeed find some leftover bacon and eggs in the still-warm oven. I snatch the plate from the oven rack with a fraying potholder, pour myself some quality OJ, and plop down at my usual seat at Erica’s modest dining room table. And by modest, I mean it seats ten, because why the hell wouldn’t you want a banquet-sized solid oak dining table when you’re living it up in the bachelorette life?
Erica’s aging iPad is sitting upright next to a centerpiece in fr
ont of me, the screen black. As I’m munching on my bacon, I tap the home button to wake it up—I usually peruse the news sites real quick in the mornings—but after I swipe to unlock, I find that Erica left her email open. Which is…odd. I pause for a second, half a strip of bacon sticking out between my lips, and mull over what, for most people, would be a minor mistake. Too many morning tasks, not enough sleep to get them all done in a timely, accurate fashion. Normal. No big deal.
But Erica Milburn’s not most people. She’s a high-level witch, and she’s as meticulous and calculating as they come. Something I’ve learned all too well since we started sleeping together. No better lesson than getting zapped in the ass by a protective ward when you accidentally lean against a window. No better lesson, and no worse electrical burn.
I shove the rest of the bacon in my mouth and consider for a moment.
To invade her privacy, or not to invade her privacy?
I really hate being “that guy,” the one who keeps tabs on his significant other’s communications and generally acts likes a creepy stalker. But then, Erica and I have both agreed that we are not significant others (we are, in fact, fuck buddies), and we’ve being poking and prodding at each other’s boundaries on a daily basis for the last eight weeks. If she was really concerned about me glimpsing her emails, she would have warded the iPad against my tender ass too. So…what the hell?
Leaning in, I scan the subject lines of the messages in her inbox. Coupons for Kohl’s. Shipping confirmations for two Amazon orders. A special invitation from Yale for an upcoming alumni event. A few online payment notifications. And…a single email marked EMERGENCY! READ IMMEDIATELY, sent by Allen Marcus, the head of the Aurora branch of the International Council of Magic. And Erica’s immediate superior in the local hierarchy of magic practitioners.
Funnily enough, that particular email is the only one Erica clicked on this morning.
Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2) Page 2
