Night's Black Agents (Paxton Locke Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  Eliot bared his teeth in a savage grin. Good times.

  He reached out with hands that had grown broad and thick with muscle during his sprint across the gap and took hold of the top of the fence surrounding the backyard. Even in the dim light, the pair of familiars stood out in sharp focus, as yet unaware of the threat bearing down on them. Their attention was directed inside of the house.

  He vaulted over the fence with an exultant roar and landed lightly between the other two monsters.

  Despite the red creeping in around the edges of his vision, he saw them just fine.

  Helen

  Phoenix, Arizona—Saturday night

  “…this isn’t a library!”

  She clenched her fists and resisted the urge to scream in rage. The tracking spell must have fixated on Paxton’s location at the time she’d cast it. Her son wasn’t the sort to cower while others stood up for him. If he was here, he’d be smarting off at the door himself.

  Helen took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. If he wasn’t here, that didn’t mean the grimoire wasn’t. She doubted that he’d haul the unwieldy thing around with him, but there was only one way to find out, wasn’t there?

  “Giselle,” she spat. “Balefyr the door. We’ll see how much attitude they give me under the push.”

  The girl stood and blinked at her, reluctant to move. “But you said they probably had guns.”

  “That’s what the shield charms are for, you stupid cow!”

  The girl cringed back, and for the first time, Helen got the sense that the other girl was actually intimidated by her. It was a step forward from the aloof, too-cool-for-this attitude she’d held the entire time, but if that was what it took to push her buttons, she’d use it. Giselle swallowed and gave her a tight, nervous nod.

  And then all the windows in the Suburban parked in the driveway exploded.

  She flinched away without looking, then stared.

  Black and green ichor spilled down the paint from the newly-forged valley in the vehicle’s roof. Helen didn’t know which one of the familiars it was—seriously, they needed to invest in nametags—but it was down.

  Roxanne screamed. “What the hell is that?”

  Helen followed her pointed finger and winced. A second familiar traced a ballistic arc through the sky and finally slapped to the pavement with a liquid splashing noise that turned her stomach. She opened her mouth to order the girls to back off, but the clatter of breaking roof tiles drew her eyes back to the house.

  Shadow cloaked the hulking figure crouching at the peak of the roof, but as it crept hand-over-hand in their direction, the illumination of the streetlights revealed it in full.

  It looked like a man, for the most part—albeit muscular, broad-shouldered and wasp-waisted. Thick curls of hair traced the back of its broad hands and along its forearms and biceps. The face was brutish, ugly, the forehead ridge thick with bone over eyes that glowed with an eerie green light.

  The Edimmu had only just begun her eldritch education before their separation, but she knew the nature of this beast. It was the forefather of a pair of legends, a cursed thing binding a predator spirit to a human being. The Italians who first encountered it called it mannaro lupo, the man-wolf, though this looked more like the eponymous Mr. Hyde—the Fredric March version, in particular—to her eyes. She didn’t know if anyone involved in the production had been read-in on the supernatural, but the resemblance was uncanny.

  “What the fuck is that?” Kelsey blurted.

  Helen opened her mouth to explain, then decided there was no time for a dissertation. She settled for, “It’s a werewolf! Kill it!”

  Jade green eyes snapped over and focused on her. If anything, the thing’s menacing smile widened. It collected itself, then launched into the air with hands spread wide to seize her.

  Oh, shit.

  Roxanne, sweet Roxanne, saved her life.

  The stream of balefyr that erupted from the girl’s palm was so white-hot it seared an afterimage of purple spots in Helen’s vision. The blast intercepted the beast in mid-jump, pushing it away from the yard and out toward the street. It slammed into the back corner of the RV and tumbled into the road. The thing lay still, a shattered ruin trailing streams of smoke as bits of it smoldered.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to will her trip-hammering heart into something resembling a normal rhythm. “Good job, Roxy. Marvelous.”

  The girl dimpled, but Kelsey wheeled around and blurted, “Where the hell did they get a werewolf, Helen?”

  “It’s Division M, sweetie. So we’ve got to hurry. You and Giselle burn the body to ash—they’re supposed to regenerate. Roxanne and I will see if the book is here.”

  The two girls looked reluctant, and Helen snapped, “Take the rest of the familiars with you and get it done. Now!”

  The girls hurried away, and she reached out and gripped Roxanne by the shoulder. “Shield out. Let’s be quick about it.”

  The front door cracked open as she led her protege along the front walk. She met the detective’s eyes through the gap and smirked. He began to pull back to close the door, but she raised her voice and pushed. “Hold on. You’ve got to open up for me.”

  There was a moment of hesitation before he closed the door. She heard the rattle of the security chain, and the rest of the occupants of the house started to scream as Detective Sikora threw the door wide open.

  Eliot

  Phoenix, Arizona—Saturday night

  The elation of the change was gone, replaced by a soul-searing agony so great that he wasn’t quite sure how he remained conscious.

  Eliot struggled to prop himself up on one elbow before he realized that his arm was far too badly broken for him to do such a thing. He raised his head and strained to look down at himself. He clenched his jaw to hold in the scream that move prompted. Taking in the scorch marks on his torso and the sight of his own spilled guts, he realized that the faint stench of cooked meat was coming from him.

  “Pull yourself together,” he muttered under his breath. If he could stay alive for the next hour or so, he’d be right as rain. The soft scrape of approaching footsteps told him that was unlikely.

  Two figures loomed overhead—a tall blonde and a petite brunette. They’re kids, he marveled. A great wave of pity coursed through him, and he relaxed, letting his head rest on the pavement. “Finish it,” he said tiredly.

  Renewed agony burst into life as the tall blonde brought the tip of her shoe down on his left forearm and ground the broken ends of his radius and ulna into the pavement. The brunette tittered with laughter.

  “Watch his guts, Gis. They’re crawling back into his stomach. Unreal!”

  The blonde—Gis?—cocked her head to one side, then knelt down beside him. She cupped a hand in front of his eyes, rolling a golf ball-sized blob of liquid fire around in her palm. “How’d it happen?”

  “How did what happen?”

  She slapped him across the cheek with her other hand. “You know what I mean.”

  He thought he heard the roar of an engine in the distance. Come on, Georgie. “Chicago Outfit brought in a Sicilian heavy-hitter. Ran into him in a speakeasy. Tried to take him down and he laid some heavy mojo on me. And here we are.”

  The little one narrowed her eyes. “Chicago Outfit? Speakeasy? How old are you, wolf-man?”

  The engine grew louder. Eliot grinned. “Hundred and fifteen. Here comes the cavalry, kids.”

  He craned his neck in time to see George take the U-Haul around the corner. Engineering must have souped the truck up something fierce because it almost went up on two wheels as he made the turn.

  Eliot had expected the witches to scatter, but to his surprise, they stood their ground. The girls glanced at each other, seemed to share something unspoken, and snapped their hands out toward the truck. The sudden flare of fire and light forced him to close his eyes, but the screaming sound of metal drove him to open them and crane his head around.

 
The U-Haul lay on its driver’s side. The front end burned, trailing smoke into the air. He winced and tried to remember how full the gas tanks had been. Would direct flame even set them off? The pain of his shattered body had begun to fade, but his thinking was still murky.

  “Time to quit screwing around,” the brunette said. “Burn him so we can get the hell out of here.”

  They lowered their hands to point palms at his chest, but the scraping sound of metal on metal brought their attention back to the wreckage of the truck.

  “Oh, now you done pissed him off, kids.” Eliot tried to keep the grin off of his face and failed. “Georgie Porgie, puddin’ pie. Smashed a witch and made her cry.”

  The blonde’s brow wrinkled in confusion, but before she could say anything, the wreckage of the U-Haul lurched as weight shifted inside. The shiny aluminum of the truck’s roof distorted, bent, and finally ripped open as something olive-drab and massive pushed its way out.

  The machine was humanoid, save for the fact that the glowing ‘eyes’ of its head were smashed down along the top of the barrel-shaped chest. Broad, cross-shaped feet slammed into the pavement as George piloted it out of the wreckage of the U-Haul. Light flared through the paint, outlining the tight tracing of Celtic runes that lined the extremities and torso of the massive suit of armor. Servomotors and titanium were easy enough to assemble. Powering such a creation for more than a few moments required something a bit more exotic.

  Static crackled as amplifiers activated. “Hands in the air, Eastwick.” Solenoids clicked, and gun barrels deployed from hidden compartments in the big machine’s—Beatrice, George liked to call it—forearms.

  The petite brunette started to raise her hands, but the blonde whipped a line of fire at Beatrice with a snarl of defiance. Six inches from the suit’s hull, the line halted. The runes in that area flared, and the fire fizzled out.

  Gunfire thundered, and Eliot turned his head away in time to keep the resultant shower of viscera from going into his face. When he turned back, the blonde was gone, and the blood-soaked brunette still had her hands up, a look of shock on her face.

  “Back away from the other Agent! Hands behind—” George’s amplified voice cut off with a grunt, and this time when Eliot turned to look, a quartet of familiars had Beatrice covered with a wave of corrupted flesh. They couldn’t beat their way in, but with a whine of straining servos, the big machine toppled to the ground.

  Cassie

  Phoenix, Arizona—Saturday night

  Kent pulled the door open, his entire body moving in fits and starts. She added her own voice to the chorus of denials, but none of it mattered. Sikora stepped aside, and Helen Locke swept inside of the house.

  The Kimber clattered to the floor even as her finger kept squeezing an imaginary trigger. She hadn’t even heard the command to drop it, but her body had obeyed the push, nonetheless. She stole a glance around the living room and realized they’d all disarmed themselves at Helen’s words.

  Cassie steeled herself to grab something else, but Paxton’s mom anticipated other sorts of resistance and commented, “Nobody move.”

  On the bright side, the order didn’t seem to keep her from breathing, but the muscles of her arms and legs refused to obey. Helen regarded the room, and a sardonic smile broke across her face when she saw Cassie.

  The witch stepped up and patted her on the cheek. “Cassandra Hatcher, imagine that. It’s been years, darling. I suppose my son recruited you on his misguided quest?”

  Not moving didn’t apply to talking it seemed. “You could say that.”

  Helen laughed and moved away. A younger woman, plump with red hair edged inside and looked around the room. When she saw that the occupants had disarmed, she relaxed.

  “Meet Roxanne, folks.” Helen tapped her fingers on her chin and whirled to stare Kent in the eye. “Detective, where’s my book?”

  Kent’s face twisted in fury even as he said, “In my gun safe.”

  “Not quite so specific, please.”

  “First bedroom on the left down the hall. The safe is in the closet.”

  “Combination?”

  “Twelve. Thirty-nine. Nineteen.”

  Helen clapped her hands. “Excellent! Keep an eye on things, Roxanne, I’ll be right back.” She swept past the group. Outside, an amplified voice shouted, and amazingly loud gunfire rang out, but Cassie couldn’t even flinch. She stared daggers at the redheaded witch, but the girl didn’t even seem to notice. She—Roxanne—was too busy staring out the front door to notice.

  We’ve had the book for all this time, and I spent it doing what? She closed her eyes. What magic you got to fight this, girl? Helen’s command to not move didn’t extend to gritting her teeth in irritation, either. She told the little voice in the back of her head where it could go sit and tried objective truth on for size. As far as last-ditch efforts went, it was a Hail Mary, but she had to do something.

  “I can move,” she muttered under her breath. Roxanne looked back, then, but she must not have heard because she dismissed Cassie and went back to looking outside. From out in the street, there came a massive crash of metal. What the hell is going on, out there?

  As Helen walked back into the room, bearing the grimoire, Cassie’s heart sank—not only from the fact that she’d gotten what she’d come for so easily, but that her own counter-move had been worthless. She was as frozen as she’d been beforehand.

  “Let’s go, Roxanne,” Helen purred. She stroked the cover of the grimoire. “Everything we want is right in here.”

  Cassie didn’t know why she spoke, but something moved her to. “That’s a lie.”

  Helen frowned, but the other witch turned and looked at Cassie again with her head cocked to one side. “What do you mean?”

  “The spell she promised you, it’s not in the grimoire. Division M has it. They took it when she was in jail.” Cassie took a quick glance at Helen and tried to hold back a hysterical laugh as truth poured into her like water. The other woman’s face was turning red with rage. Despite her own fear, she kept talking. The sense that she wasn’t in full control of her faculties was almost as terrifying as the fact that she was pissing off someone who could quite literally tell her to drop dead. “They’ve been trying to destroy it, actually. It’s called a Bathory spell. She’s been using you, Roxanne. All of you.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Her son has been trying to teach me magic. The first spell I learned reveals objective truth. I tried to use it to break out of the push.”

  The redhead turned on Helen, grabbing her by the blouse. “Is she telling the truth? Have you been lying to me?”

  “Get your hands off of me.”

  “Answer me!”

  “Of course, I have. What do you think magic is, you idiot? It’s the exercise of power over others. You were a means to an end.”

  Roxanne released her grip on Helen’s shirt, then with a scream tried to bring her hands up to her neck, fingers curled into claws. “Bitch!”

  “No,” Helen said, mildly, but Cassie felt the undercurrent of the push running through the words, like a vibration deep below her feet. “Whatever you’re wanting to do to me, do it to yourself.”

  The younger witch’s scream cut off as she wrapped her hands around her own throat and began to squeeze. If someone had asked Cassie if it were possible to strangle yourself earlier in the day, she’d have expressed her doubt. As she watched, the redheaded witch squeezed her own neck until she collapsed to the floor. Dead or unconscious, she couldn’t tell. Either way, Roxanne was out of the equation.

  Helen came closer to Cassie and studied her in a new light. “What else did he teach you?”

  “That’s it.” She tried to hold it back, but the push wouldn’t allow it. “We tried a few other times, but the grimoire isn’t exactly cooperative.”

  Pax’s mother threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, it’s like anything else, dear. You need to know the right questions to ask.” She considered Cass
ie for a long moment, then nodded to herself. “There’s more to it than signing on to his crusade, isn’t there? You’re together.” Cassie felt heat rise in her cheeks, but there was no push behind the question, so she was able to remain silent. Not that it mattered—the answer was obvious. Helen favored her with a Cheshire cat smile. “You’re coming with me. No speaking to anyone other than me, and no screaming for help.”

  “No!” Kent roared, and Helen jabbed a finger in his direction.

  “I only need one witness to pass along a message to Paxton. Don’t make me eliminate the redundancies.” She paused, awaiting concurrence, then concluded. “Randolph Forest. The Ides of March. Tell my son if he ever wants to see his cute little blonde girlfriend again that he needs to be there.”

  “He’ll be there,” Father Rosado said, quietly. “And every resource we can bring to bear will be right there with him.”

  She laughed mockingly. “I’m counting on it. Come along, Cassie. The rest of you hold still for another five minutes.”

  Cassie had time for one final, terrified look into the eyes of her friends before her feet betrayed her and carried her outside after the witch.

  CHAPTER 27

  Helen

  Phoenix, Arizona—Saturday night

  She was halfway to the RV when one of the familiars hit it with such force that the shattered body punched through the rear window, rocking the entire vehicle back and forth on its suspension.

  Helen stopped cold on the sidewalk, staring at the wrecked motor home. The impact had crumpled the back of the vehicle like a beer can, and though the familiar hadn’t punched through the front, she could imagine the destruction inside. “Right,” she said to herself. “Plan B.”

  Out on the street, a metallic, humanoid figure stomped her way, leaving three other familiars squirming on the ground.

  A voice boomed from the massive machine. “Hands in the air!”

  “Now this,” Helen observed, “is an interesting application of technology and magic, Cassie. It’s a bit of a copy job—the Nazi Occult Science Division came up with something similar, back in the day. Smaller, but similar. I’m guessing that’s where our friendly government men in black came up with the idea but cheating on your homework is the wrong way to go about things.” She raised her hands and called out, “Fascinating machine, Agent. But you’ve got some issues with your rune inscription.” She twisted her hands and muttered under her breath. The lines of glowing symbols tracing the machine’s arms and legs flashed brighter, then, all at once, went out. The suit lifted one leg, hesitated, then toppled to the ground. A muffled voice shouted something from inside. Helen turned and shrugged at Cassie. “It’s tempting to go without backups. I imagine they saved quite a bit of weight by not using batteries.” She thumped her finger on the girl’s forehead. “But you’ve got to use your head! If you’re going to tap for primary power, make sure your off switch isn’t hanging out there for everyone to see.”