Chasing Magic (37 page)

His eyes found hers; she didn’t think she’d ever seen fear in them before but it was there then, it was, and something inside her screamed before she could get her throat to make a sound.

He dropped the spell bag— It was a spell bag, the thing in the closet, that’s what it was, fuck! At least he had the presence of mind to do that. Dropped it and stumbled away from the closet, his face ashy-pale.

She grabbed him and half-pushed, half-carried him to the chair at the desk, her muscles straining under his weight. He was fine, she knew; he was recovering his strength even as they moved, his color coming back, his eyes focusing again. But …

That wasn’t supposed to happen. The sigil she’d designed with Elder Griffin had held. It had been tested under the strongest circumstances—at least the strongest ones she could imagine—and it had held.

So what the fuck was the spell in that bag, that it had done whatever the hell it had done?

“I’m right,” he said, pushing her away even as he sat heavily on the slick leather seat. “Right up, Chessie, aye?”

But he wouldn’t meet her eyes, and color crept up his throat, up his cheeks, past the thick sideburns reaching halfway down his jaw.

“What—” She looked down at the bag on the floor. What the fuck was in that thing, what had it done? “Are you sure, are you okay?”

He nodded.

The worst thing she could do was press the point. His humiliation clawed at her in the tiny space; she could feel how much he wanted her to ignore it and forget it. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t because it was her fault, because what Elder Griffin had told her about him dying echoed in her head like a fucking record that wouldn’t stop skipping, and none of that would be happening if it weren’t for her. She’d done this to him. She’d done this. No matter what magic had just occurred, this was her fault.

She’d loved him, and she hadn’t been able to let him go, and that had destroyed him.

But she also needed to know what was happening, what had happened. “What—”

“Felt like … the lights started goin brighter, if you dig. Like doin speed or aught like it.”

Okay. Okay, what did that mean? “That didn’t happen before, right? When Lex’s guy threw the speed at you, when you touched the bags. It didn’t affect you like that.”

He shook his head. His color had returned, she could see; he looked as if nothing had happened at all. So whatever it was, it only happened while he was actually touching the spell. Just like the passing out had only happened when he touched whatever magic he happened to be touching, and then only if it was dark magic.

But he had Elder Griffin’s sigil on him, and that had kept him from passing out. He hadn’t passed out, which meant his soul hadn’t left his body.

The relief of that thought lasted about half a second. “You felt like you were getting stronger or something, was it like that?”

He shrugged.

“So—” She turned to the spell, still on the floor where he’d dropped it, and reached into her bag for her pick case. Time to cut the thing open, see if maybe something in there would explain it.

Terrible sat beside her—not beside her, exactly, a bit off to the side—and watched as she rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans to no avail before forcing them into a new pair of latex gloves.

Powder. Speed? Powdered ectoplasm? She wasn’t sure. Maybe if she could get a better look … “Can you turn the lights out?”

When darkness enveloped the room, it became clear that more than one type of powder was in the bag. Well, there were various other items she’d inspect in a minute, of course, lumps of dust-covered darkness ominous in their anonymity. But for the moment her focus was on the powder and on the fact that some of it glowed with ectoplasm and some didn’t.

Next step. Yes, focus on steps, on the fact that she knew how to analyze a spell. That way she wouldn’t focus on the panic threatening to rise from her stomach into her chest and head and make her freak out. Focus on the steps so she wouldn’t focus on the sick waves of magic pulsing from the spell, so she wouldn’t focus on the equal sickness of the mind behind it.

Her flashlight sat in her bag, right where it should be; she tugged it out and switched it on. Indirect light might show her some details, and she could examine everything more closely that way, too.

“Look. It’s not all the same color.”

He shifted at her side, leaning over—not too close,
she noticed, which was good, because she didn’t want to have to tell him to be careful.

She gestured with a gloved finger. “See? This is ectoplasm, I guess—it’s mixed with it, at least. That’s why it’s got a bluish cast to it. But this … this is almost green. Right?”

“Aye.”

Her first instinct was to scoop some of it up into one of the inert plastic tubs she kept in her bag, but what was the point? By the time the Church could do an analysis—if she could even get them to do one, which she doubted—it would probably be too late, since she didn’t think her chances of surviving the night were very good.

Oops, there she was, thinking about it.

She pinched some of the greenish powder in her fingers. Soft, like talc or something. Not mixed with speed, then. This was a substance of its own, on its own.

Terrible grabbed her arm as she started to bring her hand to her face. “What you doin?”

“I’m just—I need to see if it has a smell or something. It’s really soft and it doesn’t clump. So not only does that mean it’s not mixed with speed, it means it’s probably organic, if you know what I mean? It’s not a chemical powder. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that color before.”

He pulled his hand away. The flashlight cast his face in faint yellow, highlighting the unhappiness of his expression. “Ain’t in there for fun, though, aye? Ain’t aught you should be breathin in.”

“It’s fine.”

He had a point, though. So instead of bringing it close to her face, she touched it with her bare hand.

That sucked. A jolt of fiery energy, dark and angry, raced up her arm; her fingers went numb. That was some heavy shit.

Terrible obviously noticed—how could he not, when she flinched and made some sort of sound, she wasn’t sure what? “You right? What’s on there?”

“I—I’m fine, yeah.” Fine except for the numbness creeping up her arm. What the hell was that shit?

She wiped her fingers on the carpet to get the powder off her skin. “It’s really strong, whatever it is. It has its own power, I mean, not from the spell, although the spell might be making it stronger.”

“You got what it is?”

“No.” She shook her head, rubbed her fingers together in an effort to get feeling back. And to stall. She hated admitting to him that she didn’t know something. “No, it’s not something I’ve ever worked with, at least I don’t think so.”

“Thought there weren’t aught you ain’t worked with.”

It had been at least five minutes since she’d kissed him, hadn’t it? So that was as good a time as any. For a second the horrible magic in the room and the creepy tingling in her fingers disappeared, replaced by something else, something good, something that made her smile. Like a counterspell, like stronger magic that chased the weaker stuff away. The best kind of magic, the kind she’d do anything to keep. “No, we learn about dark magics and everything, but some of that’s pretty rare. The Church absorbed a lot of it and—oh shit. That’s it.”

“What?”

“That’s—right. Here, hold the light, okay?”

She shoved it into his hand without waiting for an answer and started pawing through the mess on the floor, rubbing the lumps clean on the rug so she could see what they were.

A shriveled chicken claw wrapped in cloth, soaked in dried blood to harden it. A ball of white wax stuffed with fingernail clippings and shreds of snakeskin. A short thick braid of hair, made from smaller braids, all
different kinds of hairs, and stiffened with what she thought was the liquid equivalent of the greenish powder. A bent nail. Knotted threads.

“Serious shit, aye?”

“Yeah.” She poked the braid with her bare finger to make sure. More aching numbness. “Yeah, this is … It’s a blocking spell. Like an immunity spell, if that makes any sense? If you’re holding it, then even if you have the speed in your system, even if you have a walnut, you won’t feel the command. You won’t feel the magic.”

“Why? Why he needin something protect him, why he ain’t just leave the speed alone, dig?”

“Don’t know, really.” There had to be something else. One other piece. “Maybe he likes doing speed. Maybe it’s not supposed to just protect against the walnut spells but against any spell. Maybe it adds power to him somehow; that’s possible.”

She started sifting through the mess again with her gloved hand. Where was it, it had to be there … Yes!

A single hair, tied in knots. It vibrated at her through the latex covering her skin; her entire body felt it. It was nauseating. “And this is his.”

Terrible leaned over to inspect the hair, which practically glowed in the flashlight’s beam. “You do aught to he from it?”

“No, it’s already been used in a spell.” And she didn’t want to, anyway. Didn’t want to think what might happen if the Church found out about it, what something like that might do to her. She’d already thought of how some magic stained people, how it could change their energy. She didn’t want that to happen to her.

Changing energy, like how she’d changed Terrible’s, and how Elder Griffin had found out about it …

Sitting there staring at the foul mess of evil on the carpet suddenly didn’t appeal anymore. Her skin crawled. She wanted to get out of there. Immediately. Didn’t
want to look at it anymore, didn’t want to think about it anymore.

She had no choice on the latter, but she did on the former. She scooped up the spell ingredients as best as she could with her gloved hand, shoving them back into the spell bag. Might as well get one of those inert plastic containers anyway, and put everything into there. She might need it later; in fact, she would totally need it later.

She’d need some of that speed, too, if the awful dark suspicion blooming in her chest was right, and she was pretty sure it was.

She’d have to find the master bag and destroy it if they wanted to set any of those people free. She’d have to find the
sorcerer
, because he probably had the master bag.

And now she knew how to do it.

“Hey,” she said, closing the lid of the tub and trying—probably failing—to sound cheerful. “At least we know where they’re operating from, and we know who’s in charge. That’s something, right?”

“Aye.” He sounded as if he wanted to say something more. Thankfully he didn’t. “How you figure we get outta here?”

Right. All those people on the other side of the door, and no way she could overpower them a second time; she felt half empty inside, like a burned husk. “Maybe there’s another entrance or something, a secret way out?”

“Givin me a wonder, though. How them make it past em all, dig? Razor an whoany he got workin for him. Ain’t can have em de-magicked or aught like that afore he come in every time, aye?”

“Maybe the spell isn’t about him. Or maybe they aren’t on alert when—”

“Naw, naw. Don’t see them havin time to call an
get the spell goin, dig, afore we got us on the boat. So ain’t can be they s’posed to go after us for specific, aye? Thinkin them on the ready all the time, an Razor got some way he moves around that ain’t disturb em or go near em.”

She hadn’t even thought of that.

But if that was the case—and she imagined it was, that he was right—she might have some idea how Razor did it.

She pulled the tub back out of her bag, shuddering at touching it even through the inert plastic. So gross, so foul, to use people like that, to enslave them like that.

Enslave them with a master spell that was around somewhere, connecting them to it, and she had a good idea how to find the sorcerer but she didn’t know how much good it would do her. Yeah, her Church ID could get them back to Blake’s house or the sorcerer’s, maybe scare them a little, but she didn’t have any authority to make an arrest and she sure as hell couldn’t call the Squad and ask them to do it. They wouldn’t believe her.

Even if she gave them the bag they wouldn’t believe her, because it wasn’t connected to Blake directly. The bag was connected to the sorcerer. To the walnuts, to the speed. Shit! “That’s how they found them. The people in Bump’s houses. Damn, that’s how they traced them. They found them through the spell, they …”

She trailed off. He was not going to want to hear what she was thinking, not at all.

Terrible must have seen something on her face even in the darkness, or felt something in the quality of her silence, because he touched her shoulder. “What plans you makin?”

“What? Oh, no, just thinking about how I can use this to find the master bag, is all, and—”

“Chess.” His fingers tightened. “What you planning?”

Damn him. Why did he have to know her so well?
“Um, I might be able to use the walnuts, or this, to trace back the magic and find him, but … to do it by using only the bag will take a while. Would take a while.”

She licked her lips, tried to make her voice sound as steady and confident as possible. “But if I can connect with the spell, be part of it, and push it—”

“No.”

“It’s the only way I can—”

“Shit.”

He stood up; his face was turned away from her. “Know what thought you got, aye. An don’t— How the fuck I’m supposed to let you—”

“You don’t.” She stood up, too, and grabbed his arm with her bare hand. “You don’t
let
me. This is the only way for me to find the bag and beat him. You know that. You know it could be anywhere, it could be on the ship, it could be in any room in any building—hell, it could be in a fucking helicopter for all we know. We don’t have time to hunt it down like that. But if I can be part of his spell, I can turn his magic back onto him, I can—”

“End up like Samms,” he finished. He still didn’t turn around. “End up like any of em.”

“That’s not going to happen,” she said—“she lied” would be more accurate, because she was pretty sure it was a total fucking lie.