The anzu followed him patiently. Twice it rushed at him, snatching blindly with its talons, but he ducked out of the way in time, and thereafter it just kept following.
“Your flesh will tire,” it said in its harsh voice. “I feel the sea around us. You cannot flee forever. I can follow until you beg me to cut out your heart.”
Sam almost stumbled as he passed from pavement to muddy dead grass, and then he was among the trees and shrubs of the wilderness preserve. That was when he realized the flaw in his plan. Here in the dark woods he was almost as blind as the anzu, and the leaf litter under his bare feet made it impossible to take a step without giving away his position.
It sprang at him again out of the darkness, and he felt the tips of those claws snag his goat’s-wool robe. If they had not been supernaturally sharp, the monster would have had him. But they sliced through the coarse fabric and Sam ducked behind a birch tree, keeping the trunk between him and the anzu.
Sam could see where the anzu blocked the distant lights of the heliport or Flatbush Avenue, and the anzu could sense his presence magically. Both could hear each other move. They spent long periods waiting, listening, straining to locate each other. In the distance he heard sirens. Lots of sirens.
At first the demon tried more sudden springs, but branches and bushes got in its way. Sam attempted to sneak away, but just moving a foot made enough racket in the dead leaves for the anzu to hear and lunge at him.
He could see more police vehicles out on the runway, and bobbing flashlights. It wouldn’t be long before they started searching the woods. They’d either shoot Sam by accident, or get shredded by the anzu—or possibly both. He didn’t want any more cops to get killed by the demon.
The throb of a helicopter engine approached, and suddenly the woods were lit up by a bright searchlight beam. The noise and wind as it passed over gave Sam the chance: He sprinted away from the anzu, then froze against a tree as the chopper circled around. Again he waited until the light passed, then darted away, heading north.
Sam emerged from the trees on the east-west runway, just across from where he had done the ritual in the first place. A police car was parked about fifty yards away. One of the officers spotted him and shouted, but Sam ignored him and sprinted across the runway to the trees on the far side, where he hoped his clothes and gear were still stashed. He heard another shout and a gunshot, but his guardian hafaza spirit kept the bullet from touching Sam.
He got onto the hiking trail and found the site where he’d summoned the anzu. Just then he heard another shot behind him, then a whole fusillade of shots, and guessed that the anzu was still following him. Sam pulled on his pants and shoved his scraped and bruised feet into his shoes.
Now what? The rental car was too far away. He could run for the avenue, maybe magically talk some passing driver into giving him a lift—and leave a dozen Park Service and NYPD cops to the anzu. No, that wouldn’t do. He’d have to try to bind it.
Sam turned and jogged back to the edge of the runway. The Anzu stood in the middle of the pavement, not far away. The police were off to the left, advancing with weapons ready. When the anzu charged toward Sam they opened fire again, but the demon ignored them.
Sam used his pocket knife to slash his left forearm. It was a Tuesday—Mars’s day—so Sam tried banishing the anzu in the name of Nergal, whose planet was also Mars. The blood was a nice symbolic boost, and this time Sam was determined to either send the creature back to the netherworld or let it kill him.
A strong wind came up as Sam began the banishing formula. He shook the bloody knife at the approaching anzu, and concentrated his will. “By Nergal and Nabu and Marduk, I banish you!” he shouted in Sumerian.
Maybe it was the blood, maybe his desperation, but this time the anzu did hesitate—but only for a second. Then it gave a derisive screech and came on. “You have no power over me, liar!”
Sam readied the pocket knife, his only weapon. The wind had died away, and he couldn’t see the police. It was just him, and the demon.
And then a swarm of what looked like fireflies swirled about the anzu. Wherever one of them touched it, the demon’s flesh burst into flame. It screamed in rage and pain, swatting at the burning, darting motes even as the flame consumed it. In seconds the anzu was a mass of hot white fire, which abruptly cooled and died away leaving only a trace of sooty smoke.
Beyond the smoke, Sam could see a solitary human figure walking briskly toward him. A familiar figure in an expensive suit.
“Busiest night of the fucking year and you had to pull some stupid shit like this? Get your stuff and get out of here. I’ll handle the subs. Go on!” said Moreno.
Sam didn’t wait. He limped to the nearest gate and let himself out. He walked up Flatbush Avenue to a restaurant, called a cab, and rode back to the Bronx trembling with relief and fatigue.
Chapter 18
“I don’t understand what went wrong,” Sam told Lucas. The two of them stood on the deck of a sailing yacht anchored off Governor’s Island, watching the New Year’s Eve fireworks. The wind was chilly but the view was worth it.
“Doubtless the unknown being who traded you the working was a fraud. He—it—got a very useful origami golem to study, while you got nothing but a farrago of Enochian gibberish.”
“Maybe. Except…it seemed to be working, right up to when I tried to bind it by my name.”
“I consider that unwise under any circumstances. One never knows who might be listening. And if by some mischance the subject of the binding escapes from your control, it now knows your name and can use it or bargain with another magician.”
The thought made Sam shiver, worse than the cold night wind. Had he given the anzu power over him? Did it still even exist?
“Thing is, it said I was lying when I said my name. And that gnome I tried to control last summer did the same thing.”
“You may have misunderstood what was said,” said Lucas.
“No, what if they were right? What if my name isn’t my name after all? I was adopted, remember? Maybe my birth mother named me but nobody ever recorded it. That’s what Moreno says happened with him.”
“It would be useful if true—but very dangerous to test. And remember, even if your old name has no magical power, it would still create grave practical problems for you if someone were to learn it. For now I think you should assume something was wrong with the working—and avoid all name bindings from now on.”
They watched some red and green bursts over the Battery. Guests circulated around them, a mix of tweedy-looking academics, sleek business types, earnest bureaucrats, and a scattering of inhumanly beautiful young men and women. Most were subur acquaintances of Lucas’s, bundled up against the weather and enjoying hot brandy and mulled wine. The good-looking ones underdressed for the weather were watery spirits, bound to serve until sunrise.
“Moreno says that next Yuletide I’m going to be the one sitting up on top of the Chase Bank building with a sylph ready for rapid deployment in case someone screws up a working. He wants to spend that week someplace warm, with nothing to do but sleep.”
“With luck you may wield the Mitum yourself by then. How goes your little conspiracy with Taika?”
Sam glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but Lucas didn’t seem concerned about that. Nevertheless he leaned close. “We’ve been keeping an eye on…the target. It’s not easy.” Sam had managed one brief reconnaissance of North Brother Island with a drone, but after that he had lost two in a row to freak wind gusts—suggesting the presence of guardian sylphs.
“He is notoriously protective of his privacy.”
“But he’s running that body-piracy operation. He needs a steady supply of new victims. How does he find them if he never leaves his island?”
“Evidently they come to him. Which in turn suggests he has agents to do his recruiting,” said Lucas. “What is Taika’s part in all this?”
“She’s the magical heavyweight. Once we figure out a way
to hit him, she’ll give me the weapon.”
“I almost feel left out. Excellent,” said Lucas. “Charles does have allies—and of course Taika does, too. With any luck this will set off a useful series of retaliatory attacks.”
* * *
Six weeks later, Sam was ready for action. He felt proud of himself for planning well in advance. Back in December he’d made a reservation for two at a grand old-school steakhouse near Herald Square for dinner on Valentine’s Day. He’d even confirmed it at the beginning of February. So on a snowy Sunday when all the drugstores were decorated with red mylar hearts—and doing a brisk trade in last-minute boxes of chocolate—Sam got dressed up in one of his new three-piece suits and went to pick Ash up for their date.
He was surprised at how nervous he felt. It was like he was taking her to the prom or something. It was absurd, of course—they’d been going out for months, they’d been sleeping together. Hell, he even had a key to her apartment. But this occasion had the air of formalizing something. They weren’t just going out; they were a couple. There had been no question of who either of them would spend Valentine’s Day with.
Because of the nasty weather, Sam allowed himself plenty of extra time for the cab ride to Ash’s place in Alphabet City, which meant that when he got to her building he was a good twenty minutes early. He paid the cabbie and went in without phoning.
The key she had given him worked. He was about to announce himself but instead decided on a little mischief. He slipped silently into the living room and found a seat on the couch, ostentatiously reading a copy of an Italian architecture magazine.
Perhaps he’d been a little too stealthy, since Ash passed through the room twice before actually noticing him with a gasp of surprise. “How long have you been here?”
“Since Friday. Are you ready?”
“Did they teach you to be so sneaky in spy school? I just need to do one more thing.”
He summoned another cab and they rode across town. She told him about a new project her group was trying to land. “Remember that Peruvian fusion place in Chinatown? Last year the top of the building got damaged by lightning. It’s got new owners, and they want to rebuild the penthouse as a boutique hotel. What are you laughing about?”
“Nothing—just, you know, Chinatown used to be a ghetto.”
“Same’s true for my neighborhood. The whole island, really. It’s a problem. So many people who work here can’t afford Manhattan rents.”
“It’s so popular nobody goes there anymore,” he quoted. With the conversation safely steered to one of Ash’s favorite topics, he could relax for the rest of the ride.
The restaurant had lots of dark wood, linen tablecloths and napkins as thick as some blankets Sam had owned, and deep leather chairs like something from a boardroom. The hors-d’oeuvres were clever, the steaks were butter tender, and the wine was astonishing. The two of them ate, and talked, and laughed…
And Sam became aware that there was a spirit in the restaurant. A minor one, likely a bound ghost or a minor demon. It circled the dining room, as if on patrol. When Sam glanced at it, he could tell it was also aware of him. It looped around their table, then headed across the room to where four men were dining together.
One of them looked directly at Sam, and after a moment gave him a polite nod with just a hint of a smile. Sam nodded back.
Inside he was near panic. The table he and Ash were sitting at was reserved by Samuel Arquero. If that unknown Apkal decided to check up on him by getting information from the restaurant, he’d get Sam’s real identity. He was blown!
“Something the matter?” asked Ash.
“No, no. Sorry, I got distracted. What about parking?” Always a safe question when talking to an architect.
“What?”
“That place you were talking about. Where do they put the cars?”
“They didn’t have cars in Tenochtitlan, Sam. But they still had to manage traffic.”
“I meant, if you had something like that now, you’d need parking.” He risked a sidelong glance at the other Apkal. Not someone he recognized, which meant he hadn’t been at Sam’s initiation. From out of town, perhaps? Maybe the Washington Circle?
“I guess,” said Ash. “I’m not one of these ‘Let’s abolish the internal-combustion engine’ urbanists, but sometimes I do wish we didn’t have to devote so much space to the damned things. Wouldn’t it be great to just, I don’t know, shrink your car by magic and put it in your pocket?”
“Magic can’t do that,” he said without thinking. What he was thinking was What to do, what to do?
“I bet Dumbledore could do it.”
“Yes, but he’s fictional.” It came down to two options: do nothing and hope this unfamiliar Apkal simply forgot about seeing him—or do something now to eliminate this potential threat. Murder him, in other words.
“Sam? You keep spacing out. Are you okay?”
“Maybe I need to pace myself with the wine. How’s your chop?” Inside he was planning how to do it. Slip a steak knife into his pocket, follow the man to the restroom, quick slash across the throat from behind, then call forth a fire elemental to torch the restaurant and destroy anything which could link him to the scene…
“Come on, tell me what you’re thinking about.”
He looked at her, and the utter absurdity of the whole situation struck him. He began to laugh. He knew exactly what he had to do. “Nope. It was something stupid.” He held her hand. “I want to make this the best Valentine’s Day ever. We can do anything. Anything you want. Anything you can imagine.”
“Anything I can imagine? Okay…Hamilton tickets for tonight.”
“Done,” he said. “Let me make one phone call.”
He spent five minutes out on the sidewalk, and made two phone calls: one to Lucas, and one to the personal assistant to the mayor’s chief of staff, whose name Lucas provided after some mild arm-twisting. The fact that Lucas was apparently spending Valentine’s Day alone made Sam feel a mix of smugness and pity.
That done, he went back inside and finished dinner. When the waiter brought snifters of brandy after dessert, Sam waited until Ash closed her eyes in enjoyment. Then he glanced over at the unknown Apkal and raised his glass in a little mock toast.
They saw the show, they had drinks at the NoMad Hotel, they went dancing at a club in Harlem so hip it didn’t have a name, and not long before dawn they stumbled back into Ash’s apartment, undressing each other on the way from the door to the bedroom.
At noon the next day Sam slipped out to get breakfast, and sat on Ash’s bed to eat bagels and smoked whitefish salad together. When they were all done, he kissed her one last time.
“Now I have to ruin everything,” he told her. “Remember that job I can’t talk about? I have to go out of the country, and I’m not going to be able to stay in touch with anyone here.”
She smiled a little regretfully. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to propose or dump me after last night.”
“I wanted to show you a good time. Did you have fun?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was great.”
He put his hand into his jacket pocket and touched his finger to the sharp tip of the arrowhead there. He knew her full name. It would be simple to make her forget him. A little of his blood would seal the deal.
But instead he took out the key she had given him, and left the arrowhead where it was.
“Here’s your key,” he said. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“When will you come back?”
“It’s going to be at least twelve months. Probably longer.”
“I’ll miss you,” she said, and hugged him.
“Don’t. Remember what we’ve had together. This may happen again, so don’t wait for me like some sea-captain’s widow in the old days. Get on with your life.”
They held each other for many minutes, and then he left.
She, at least, would be safe.
* * *
Early i
n the morning two days later Sam stood at the window of his crummy apartment, looking out at the street below. Despite the radiator hissing and burbling right next to the window, he could see ice crystals at the edges of the glass, on the inside. He tried, and failed, to make himself want to go out. The desire to go to the gym and hit the bag felt much less powerful than the desire to go back to bed under a pile of blankets.
Just then one of his phones buzzed. He had started keeping them tagged, with a coded list of who knew about which number pasted to the back. The buzzing phone was the one he used with Sylvia and Moreno.
“Hey,” said Moreno’s voice when Sam answered. “You free?”
“I guess so. There is this blizzard going on.”
“You got spells for that, right?”
“I don’t care about getting snow on my head, it’s the stuff I have to wade through on the sidewalks and the traffic I mind.”
“Don’t be a pussy. I’m stuck over in Jersey and I need you to take care of something ASAP.”
“Sure,” said Sam. “What’s the problem?” The notion that Moreno relied upon him was very flattering, and he wanted to live up to it.
Moreno gave him an address on the Upper West Side, just off Central Park. “Kid got killed, the cops are on their way right now. I think that’s one of ours. Can you get there and fix things up?”
“Absolutely,” said Sam, and ended the call. He dressed quickly, called forth an airy spirit to make his words more convincing, and took along his luck charm.
He emerged from the subway at 103rd Street, a lone arrival pushing upstream against the flow of morning commuters. With heavy snow falling, more people than usual were taking the subway. Sam slogged west toward Riverside Drive and found the building, a nice old Art Deco tower. An ambulance and two police cars with lights flashing were already double-parked in front of the side entrance.
The Initiate Page 20
