“What sort of physical issues?”
“Hands going numb, headaches, bone pain. Why?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
Another confirmation. The rogue was doing to Matt what he had done to the Colonel. But if the earth sorcerer could control Tanqueray, why couldn’t he do the same to Matt?
Courey was still looking at her suspiciously.
“Just interested,” Erin murmured. “Perhaps it was neurological.”
Grunting, Courey said, “If they ever find his body the autopsy should sort that out.”
“So, they haven’t found him?”
“Not exactly a garden pond they’re looking in.” The anger had boiled down into a gruff impatience. “Have you seen or heard from Hawkins since last night? They haven’t found his, or anyone else’s, body, either. No one saw anyone crawling out of the river, so we’re working on the idea they both drowned.”
Erin hesitated. If she said yes, said Matt wasn’t lying in the mud at the bottom of the river, Courey might drop him as a suspect. However, if she said no, and Courey believed he had drowned with Tanqueray, then he might let his crusade against Matt go. Support his innocence, or leave him to die in Courey’s perceptions?
“Jesus, McRea,” Courey said when she didn’t answer. “It’s not that hard a question.” But in his eyes, she saw he’d got his answer to another question. “Crap. Fine. If they don’t find a body today, or if we don’t get another witness, I’ll be back to bring you in for questioning.”
After he’d gone, stony and doing nothing to hide his disappointment, Erin sat down and breathed deep. Shit. There went her way into the police. And, perhaps, a chance at a real friendship.
Numbly, she pulled up her web browser and went looking for the footage Courey had mentioned. Chewing her bottom lip, she watched clip after clip of hazy video of the fight on the ferry. They all seemed to have been taken from the shore, the ferry passengers too busy running for cover to think about recording anything. Even knowing who both combatants were she couldn’t clearly ID either of them, thankfully.
She was watching a news clip about it when her phone rang.
“Sol Investigations,” she answered absently, watching again as Matt was tackled by three ferry passengers. “Erin McRea speaking.”
“Erin, it’s Roberts. Have you seen the news?”
Sighing, she said, “I’m watching it online now.”
“It was Matt, wasn’t it.” His voice was a bit shaky but there was no doubt in it.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “He’s okay, though.” Sort of. “Kermit hauled him out of the river. Don’t tell anyone, though.”
There was a low, relieved exhalation. “Good. Look, I’ve been trying to call him all day. His phone’s going straight to voice mail. I need to talk to him, immediately. Do you know where he is?”
“Shit. His phone was killed yesterday. He’s not ignoring you. But I don’t know where he is right now. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I got pulled up today by the cops. They’ve been on the lookout for his car, which I’m driving at the moment. I got the third degree on the side of the bloody road. What the hell is going on?”
“It’s too complicated to get into right now.” Erin clicked on the next news report. Behind a grim faced presenter was a picture of Tanqueray, smiling and balancing laughing kids on either shoulder. The headline read ‘Fallen Hero’. “Are you okay for now?”
“Yeah. Just worried about Matt. First the thing in Coorparoo, now the ferry stuff and the cops after him.”
On her screen, the presenter said, “New footage has been found during the investigation into what happened to Henry Tanqueray last night in Brisbane. It captures the moments before both men fell into the river.”
It showed the ferry turning in circles and Matt and Tanqueray facing off on the stern. What everyone was making of Matt’s stance, braced, hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture, slowly being forced back as the Colonel advanced like Marcel Marceau against the wind was anyone’s guess. Then Matt ducked and Tanqueray went overhead, grabbing Matt and taking him with him.
“He’s okay, isn’t he?” Roberts asked.
About to assure him Matt was fine, something caught Erin’s eye in the footage. The person holding the phone shifted and the image moved to look at the people gathered on the dock. A familiar face flashed by the screen.
“He’s fine,” Erin muttered. “I’ll let him know you called.” She hung up on Roberts’ response and dropped the phone. Clicking on the screen, she scrolled the footage back and found that face again.
“Dev.”
He was on the dock, half out of his outer shirt, fixated on the water, expression worried. Had he jumped in after Matt? Had he drowned?
But then another figure appeared, just behind him. Tall, narrow, in loose pants and a hoodie. The shadow of the hood was pointed directly at the weather sorcerer.
“God,” Erin whispered. “He’s got Dev.”
Chapter 42
Dev was scared. It wasn’t anything new to him. He’d been plenty scared before, and, should he survive this, he would be so again in the future. This wasn’t even the worst of the fear he’d experienced. Rather low on the scale, actually.
There had been those months, when he was eight and Lana only three, and they’d been shuttled from home to home while the child services system searched for something to do with them. New faces, new rooms, new bullies every couple of months and the ever present warning that they might be split up. Lana would find a home easily they kept telling him. She was so bright and happy all the time, everyone loved her. He guessed they thought it would make him feel better. Your sister will be fine, they said as if that would sooth a grieving eight year-old’s fears, not realising he was old enough and smart enough to make the logical leap. Lana will be fine, but you won’t. You’re too old, too hostile. You’re the reason not one of those temporary families wanted them for more than a month or two. No one will ever want you.
That was true fear. The knowledge that no one wants you.
It hadn’t come to that, though. Monty had found them, tracked them down and fought for custody and won. Both of them, together, had gone to live with Monty, the man their father had kept talking about but whom they’d never met until then. A good friend to his parents, the best man at their wedding, gone off doing his own thing all the years Dev was growing up and being orphaned. Monty who put up with Dev’s moods and showed no preference for the brilliant girl coming along in her brother’s broody wake. Monty who taught him to ride and hunt and, when he got to that age, sorcery.
Sorcery. His reason for living and his bane. Life and death all in one neat, terrible bundle.
And so far out of reach right now he may as well be a normal old human.
Tied to a chair with mundane plastic restraints, his hands bound tightly so he couldn’t ‘direct’ any of his tricks. Not that he could trigger any of them. The gag took care of most of them. For those few he could trigger silently, his captor had taken care of that as well.
A sorcerous twist of his body’s chemicals, a rush like a heroin high and he was hobbled from tripping any of his neural cascades.
Dev had no idea how much time had passed. His bladder was full and he was close to letting it go, just for the relief. He was thirsty, his mouth as dry as the ranch in summer, but his stomach churned and the mere thought of anything hitting it made him fight against the gag for a frantic couple of minutes, irrational and scared and…
Tired. The initial rush had long since passed, but the effects lingered, leaving his limbs feeling heavy, restrained by more than the ties. He couldn’t really string two thoughts together, but he could remember.
Remember how scared he’d been when Monty explained about sorcery and how it worked and how, as a sorcerer, Dev’s life would be full of magnificent powers and amazing journeys. But short. The curse that came with the gift. It was too big a decision for Dev to make. He was twelve, his body changing in so many confusing ways already
. He couldn’t imagine making it worse. Dying young didn’t bother him. Besides it wasn’t young. Fifty was so far away. Fifty was old. What did scare him was the thought this sorcery would take him away from Lana.
Then Lana had shown the gift, too early, Monty warned, but there was no stopping her. And that had scared Dev, too.
A door opened, closed. Footsteps, soft and hesitant.
Dev’s eyelids fluttered, not yet his to control fully. The earth sorcerer, the rogue, stood before him in the same shapeless clothes he’d worn the day at the storage unit. And yesterday, at Erin’s office.
Slowly, he reached out to Dev, titled his head back. Fingers cold and hard on his skin, the hand strong and firm. One of his eyelids was peeled back. The dark shadow of the hood leaned over him.
He couldn’t focus, couldn’t make out much more than a paler oval in the depths of the hood.
“Too soon,” the rogue said, voice low and strangely sexless. “But you’re close to regaining your wits. Too soon.”
The rogue let his head go and it rocked forward. Dev stared at his knees, trying to work out that voice. It was easy for an earth sorcerer to manipulate their own bodies, including altering appearance and how they sounded. Why this toneless, neutral pitch?
“Why are you here?” the earth sorcerer asked. “The Council hasn’t sent you, so why are you here?”
He shook his head, grunted around the gag.
“Was it you? Did you send Hawkins after Tanqueray? How did you find out about my experiment?”
The rogue walked around him, a graceful prowl, most likely thanks to the upgrades that had seen him outrun a car. When he was behind Dev, he stopped and went silent. In the quiet room, Dev couldn’t even hear him breathe. His back prickled, in all his scars. What was the bastard doing back there?
Hands touched his head, neck, back of his head. “Is it revenge, Devantier? Is that why you’re here? Is this about Lana?”
He jerked at the name. “Fuck you.” But it was mangled by the gag, came out as wordless groans.
“She’s dead. Friedrich’s dead. What more could you do, Devantier?”
Anger burned through some of the fog in his head. How did this sorry prick know so much about him? About Lana? However he knew, he obviously knew enough to have gone after Friedrich, to get the spell. Lana’s spell. The spell Friedrich had tortured out of her, had made her his slave for. Then, when she’d turned on him, had refused to activate the spell for him, he’d killed her and sold the spell on. Like it was nothing, just another business transaction. As if all those days Dev spent in that basement, tormented not just by Elise’s fiery lashes but by her tales of what Friedrich was doing to Lana in his bedroom, meant Goddamn fuck all!
“Go home,” the rogue continued in that flat voice. “There’s nothing for you here, Devantier.”
Dev growled, forcing his way through the lingering effects of the drug. He’d spent years training his mind to work through pain. Too many sorcerers had been killed because a decent blow to the head hobbled their ability to do a trick that might have saved them. That wasn’t going to happen to him. Not when the Goons had knocked him around and not now.
“I would rather not kill you. Right now, the Council has no reason to come after me, but if I kill you, they’ll fall on this dark, ignorant city like an avalanche. I can’t have them here, Devantier. So I want you to go home. Forget this place. Forget everything that ever brought you here.”
“Not likely.” Just more muffled noises. He shook his head, to make his intent clear.
“Then I shall give you incentive. Your friend Hawkins is already taken care of.”
What about Hawkins? Goddamnit! He had to get free. Dev struggled against the ties, feeling the thin plastic cut into his already tender wrists. Pain speared up his arms, but instead of adding to the clouding effect, it cut through it. That familiar tingle, that almost feared sensation of his sorcery waking up, spread across his mind.
“So, that leaves… Erin McRea. I already know where to find her. Sol doesn’t have Aurum’s reach or power. If Erin died, he wouldn’t have the support to come after me.”
Not Erin. No, this prick wouldn’t get anywhere near her. The chair creaked under the strain of his increased thrashing. It was plastic, possibly steel frame. He could work with that.
“You don’t like that thought, do you. You couldn’t save Lana, so you have to save these people instead.”
Dev tossed his head back, eyes closed, breathing deep and fast, almost hyperventilating. The flow of his sorcery was slow, sluggish, but it was there, deadly potential, waiting for a trigger.
Gagged, he couldn’t suck the oxygen from the rogue’s airways. He couldn’t blast him with a hurricane force wind. Couldn’t condense nitrogen in his clothes, on his skin, over his eyes. But if the chair was made of steel, then there was one thing he could do.
He pushed aside all the terrible images the rogue’s words had put in his head. Of Friedrich laughing at him; Lana, beaten and surrendered, standing beside Friedrich; Aurum’s face when he told Dev Lana’s body had been found, burned beyond recognition, identified from dental records. He went further back, to the ranch, when they’d been happy, before sorcery had crashed into their lives. To the day Monty had given Lana her own pony. Seven years old and so bright, so beautiful, riding the pony around the yard. She had laughed and leaned down, wrapping her arms around the animal’s neck.
Dev caught that image and poured detail into it. The way the breeze had caught Lana’s dark hair, had flicked the pony’s mane in her face. A coating of dust on her riding boots, the hole in the knee of her favourite jeans. The Stetson balanced on the back of her head, threatening to fall off with every trot. Sunlight washing the scene in stark colours—the sharp brown of the fence posts; the dusty-red of the bare dirt; the worn green of the stables; the washed-out purple of Lana’s shirt; the rosy glow to her cheeks from excitement and too much time in the sun. He heard again her high, clear laughter, the way she yelled out “Randy! Watch me!” when she urged the pony into a canter.
And the cascade erupted across his tired, wrung out brain.
Pathways sparked and burned. He gave intent to the gathering potential, directed it. Under him, the chair creaked again, then groaned, then in a screech, the suddenly rusted steel gave way.
The chair collapsed. Dev hit the floor hard. Somewhere above him the rogue shouted a harsh denial. On the edges of his awareness he felt the rogue’s power rising.
Dev rolled and scrambled, trailing bits of broken chair. His arms came free of the armrests and he tore the gag away from his mouth.
“Upepo wa dhoruba!”
Undirected wind bellowed through the room. He squinted into the maelstrom of dust, grit and broken chair. The rogue crouched, loose clothes torn this way and that, arms over his head to both stave off an accidental blow and to keep the hood in place.
Battling the remains of the chemical imbalance, Dev’s energy flagged within seconds. The winds died and bits of metal and plastic clacked to the floor. Even before they’d all hit, the rogue was gone, racing from the room by the door behind him.
Extreme tiredness held Dev on the floor. His limbs felt like they weighed a ton, his chest heavy and breathing unnecessarily hard. It might have been minutes he lay there, or hours, but his head felt a little clearer, if no less sore, when he finally tried to move. Slowly, he fumbled at his pockets, looking for his phone. He should get out of here before the rogue came back, or found Erin or Hawkins. Which wouldn’t happen any time soon without help.
Of course, his phone was gone. Probably ditched well away from wherever he was. Still, not the first time he’d been in this sort of bind.
Gathering the dregs of his strength, he said, “Umeme mapigo.”
Chapter 43
The problem with stakeouts was that they suck. They’re boring and annoying and, if you have to do it in the middle of the day, on a suburban street in a very recognisable behemoth, without snacks, it’s all that and more
.
I couldn’t just sit outside Carver’s waiting for him to show up. Not with nosy neighbours and curious cars slowing to get a better look at the Monster Mobile. Most especially not with the world’s unholiest dog—I mean, it looked like it popped right out of William Hurt’s chest, a Shih Tzu-thing that was all black, fur, nose and eyes, so it was just this terrorising streak of darkness, its only distinguishing feature a row of tiny, white teeth jutting out from its lower mandible like the picket fence on Hell—racing around a front yard, yapping frantically for its master. Who was probably Lucifer.
So I had to keep moving. Driving around the block; parking the Tyrannosaurus prado and taking a stroll; climbing a tree a block over and doing the whole cup your hands around your eyes as if you’re holding binoculars thing. None of it was excessively cool, and neither did it net me much in the way of psycho sorcerers. There was no activity around Carver’s house for hours.
Then I felt it.
I was crouched in someone’s shrub, across the road and down a couple of houses, waiting while the postie chugged up and down the street. The prickle of active sorcery crawled across my skin like a dozen pixies wearing electrified footy cleats. It wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past, probably because I was having a lot of trouble feeling anything, but as dull and indistinct as it was, I knew what it meant.
Somehow, Carver had got past me. He was home.
Forgoing stealth, I sprang out of the shrub, startling the Devil Dog into another bout of hysteria. Before it could open a portal to its home dimension, I raced across the road and hurdled the fence into Carver’s yard. Movement down the side of the house caught my eye and I veered that way, skidding around the corner and under the carport.
Just in time to see the rogue sorcerer clear the back fence like a springbok on ’roids. By the time I reached the fence, he was gone. Still, I hauled myself up and—
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