Demon Master (Demonsense series Book 2) (10 page)

Leander looked up from the picture at Scanlon with real surprise. “Your grandson, sir?”

“So I am told by Ms. Gambrini. She provided me with this information in an attempt to give some recompense for doing away with the previous Clan Chief. As I was not that sad to see him go, I accepted her information as payment on the debt. In any case, it appears my son discovered that a woman he’d had a liaison with some years ago gave birth to a son without his knowledge. The woman apparently told him of the child’s existence shortly before she died of an overdose. She’d given the child up for adoption.
 
A friend of both Thorvaldson and Jenkins adopted him, a man named Kevin Whitman. He’s in your packet as well, along with his husband, Steve Vilchek. My son made the impulsive decision to essentially kidnap the child. He was killed when Thorvaldson and Jenkins came to retrieve the boy. I don’t, of course, know for certain that the child is my grandson.” Scanlon paused for some more juice, draining the glass this time. “I’m afraid Jim didn’t stop to consider that he should seek DNA evidence before taking such a drastic step.”

“Are you, ah, wanting DNA evidence on the boy?” Leander asked delicately.

“I am,” Scanlon replied firmly. “It isn’t my intention to take the boy from his adoptive parents, not at this stage anyway, even if the evidence is positive. He’s quite young, and I’m sure such a sudden loss in his life at this point would do a great deal of harm. I’m afraid that given the circumstances, I’ll just have to be patient. If he is my grandson, I’ll approach him when he’s older.”

Leander felt a flicker of respect for the guy. This was one who thought things through. Leander had seen some real thugs in the Keltoi, full of entitlement and the magical mojo to back it up. They tended to go far, fast, then crash and burn. Scanlon was cannier than that. He’d managed being a Demon Master without showing demon burn into his fifties, which was uncommon with that gift. And he’d apparently worked his way up to the top spot in his region without having to kill his predecessor. Crazy, demon burned Franchesca had done that for him.
 

“In addition to the DNA evidence, I would like, if possible, to know more of the circumstances of my son’s death. Ms. Gambrini was engaged in battle at the time, and the sole surviving Keltoi, Warren Justice, was unconscious for most of it. I would also like to be certain it was really this Bree Jenkins who did it, and not Thorvaldson. I got the distinct impression Franchesca might be protecting him. It’s clear to me she has something of an obsession with the man.”

Leander nodded. “I’ve heard that much from Marton, though none of the details.
 
All I know is that they used to be an item.”

“Regardless, I would like to be certain who is responsible for Jim’s death before I take action.” Scanlon’s jaw went tight, and his eyes flickered to the left. Ah yes, there it was. A little break in the performance. Scanlon wasn’t all cold and rational. He had some of that good old Keltoi thirst for revenge in him. Leander didn’t approve or disapprove. It was all the same to him. He riffled through the rest of the photos in the packet, briefly scanned the dossiers on each. “And the rest of these people?”

“They’re friends of Thorvaldson and Jenkins. Whitman and his husband I’ve already mentioned. The picture with two people is a married couple, Bruce and Sophie McClain. The African-American man is Dion Evans, member of the Seattle Powered Council. The Latin American man is Javier Ortiz, a high power Keeper. He seems to be less in the inner circle, but he’s been seen with the group on several occasions.” Scanlon waited while Leander took a few more moments to read bits and pieces of the information on the papers.
 

Leander made a satisfied sound when he got to the one on Bruce McClain. “This is it, this is where I start,” he said with confidence. “This guy owns a bookstore. And I,” he said with a little flourish of the paper in his hand, “am an avid reader.”

“In more ways than one,” Scanlon remarked. “And I have to say, your reputation does not lie. You are extraordinarily difficult to read, both on energy and tells. I’m told it’s not a spell.”

Leander smiled a little fiercely. “No, it’s all me. I guess I was just born that way.”

“It’s one hell of a convenient talent. I can see why information gathering work is such a natural for you.”

Leander’s ego stirred. He knew he was good at spook work for more reasons than that, but it was a waste of time to belabor the point. “How is it best for me to contact you, sir, when I have something?”

“There is no pressing hurry on this, so I prefer in person reports. If you can get confirmation of who was responsible for my son’s death, do you have the ability to take them out?”

Leander hesitated before answering. Assassination was not his favorite work.
 
He’d only done it a couple of times, and it had disturbed him. He had enough Reader empathy that it wasn’t easy for him to kill when it wasn’t self defense. On the other hand, he was being entrusted with a very difficult task, outside of his own clan, and that was the way to gain wider recognition, and ultimately, better pay. “If it’s the woman, it should be easy enough,” he finally answered. “If it’s Thorvaldson, I'll likely need help.”

“In either case, do inform me first,” Scanlon said. “I’ll decide at that point whether or not to proceed immediately. I can imagine some scenarios where it would be better to let the responsible person live for awhile, so I don’t want you acting independently on this.”

 
Leander politely agreed to Scanlon’s instructions, and was soon making his respectful farewells. He found his own way back to the front door, where the butler was lurking to let him out, no doubt to be certain he didn’t stick around and try to steal the silver.
 

He climbed into his car feeling a certain satisfaction. He’d tested himself against a world class Reader, and the man had ended up not disliking him. Given the things Leander had been deliberately thinking, that was quite an accomplishment. And he was interested in the job. That was a good thing, because as a general rule, he didn’t like to do more than two or three jobs a year. But this one had promise. He relished the idea of getting the better of such an insanely over-powered Keeper like Thorvaldson. And if he was lucky, the girlfriend would be a good enough Reader to offer him a challenge. He had little doubt he would find a way to infiltrate the group of friends, especially since Scanlon wasn’t in a big hurry. Still, he bet himself he could get the first in by the second meeting.

Leander went home to his rented loft in Pioneer Square to have lunch and change for his planned trip to McClain’s bookstore. He settled on an older pair of jeans, a lavender dress shirt with French cuffs, topped with a vintage black velveteen jacket. He pulled the cuffs of the shirt out to drip out over his hands, admired the affect in the full length mirror in his bedroom, then sat on the bed to pull on a pair of short black leather boots that showed some wear.
 
He checked himself in the mirror once more, considering his look and how it might play with Bruce McClain. Hard to tell a lot from a picture, but given the beard and the Mexican blanket-looking hoodie, Leander was betting the man was the granola hippie type. With that in mind, he rummaged in the inlaid wood box in his dresser and came up with a pewter ankh symbol on a leather cord and fastened it around his neck. There, perfect. Iconoclastic, interesting without looking too fashion conscious. He gathered his wallet and keys, checked his laptop on the way out to confirm the address and directions, and made his way out of his building to the parking garage down the street where he kept his car.
 

He attracted a following of pigeons on the way. He was fond of pigeons, of their subtle iridescent markings, their ridiculous head bobble as they strutted on the grey pavement of the downtown neighborhood. He gave a subtle wave of his hand to send them flying when they gathered too densely around him. He seemed to be particularly attractive to this kind of bird, and it made him stand out too much to have them so obviously following him.
 

The drive to the neighborhood housing McClain’s bookstore, the Raven’s Nest, was a pleasant one. Leander took the old Highway 99 past the downtown waterfront and across the Aurora Bridge, from which span he could see both of the mountain ranges that cradled Seattle between them. The Olympics were half shrouded in clouds, but the Cascades were mostly in the clear, showing a nice white dusting of snow along their tops. He continued on past Green Lake and exited shortly thereafter, making his way to the top of a hill crowned by his destination, Greenwood Avenue. He finally located the bookstore, tucked in between a women’s clothing boutique and a game store.
 

It was a small storefront, but the store extended quite a ways back. There were wood floors and wood bookcases, both tall ones running floor to ceiling along the walls, and half sized ones breaking up the space and defining the store into subject sections.
 
What wall space could be seen was a light, sunny yellow. Leander could see steps in the back of the store leading up to what appeared to be a children’s section, complete with floor pillows and a few toys scattered around. With a name like ‘Raven’s Nest,’ he’d been expecting something more along the lines of a dusty, grungy used bookstore, but the place was well lit and inviting. He was careful not to look too obviously to see who was manning the cash register. He meandered over to the fiction section and allowed himself a more careful glance. He was in luck. That was definitely Bruce McClain. He was a big man, burly and bearded, with slightly wavy, shoulder length brown hair tending toward auburn, parted down the middle with no attempt at styling. He was wearing a black and red plaid shirt over a black t-shirt, and was perched on a tall, high backed stool, reading. There was a white cockatiel with a yellow crest perched on his shoulder and once Leander saw the bird, he knew this was going to be easy.
 

He considered the books on display, trying to decide which would be the best conversation starter. He browsed for some time, watching a couple of customers come and go. He finally settled on ‘The Yiddish Policeman’s Union’ and took it up to the check out counter, waiting for a moment when he was the only one in the store.
 

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” McClain asked with a friendly rumble, as Leander set the book on the counter.

“It’s more fair to say I found something I wasn’t looking for, and that’s more fun, don’t you think?” Leander replied with a smile. “I couldn’t resist this title. Have you read it?”

McClain glanced down to check out the book, then smiled in return. “Oh yeah. I read that when it first came out. I’m a Chabon fan. I’d have to say that’s my favorite of his books.”

“Better than Kavalier and Clay? That won the Pulitzer, didn’t it?”

McClain settled back more comfortably on his stool. “It did, and I thought it was brilliant. But I liked this one better. It’s incredibly original. You don’t see a lot of mainstream authors take on the alternative history idea.”
“Yeah, I got that from the book jacket. What a wacky idea, Jews relocated en masse to Alaska after World War II.”

“What’s amazing is that Roosevelt apparently actually did propose that,” McClain replied.

Leander leaned an elbow on the counter and shifted his weight casually onto one leg. “No way! That’s fascinating!”

McClain nodded. “Yeah, it’s kind of wild. Chabon does an incredible job of world building on it. You absolutely believe in an Alaskan Jewish settlement by the time he’s done with you.”

“I think I read somewhere that Chabon was venturing into genre fiction with this one,” Leander offered. McClain’s expression was bright, his posture relaxed, and, thank God, no new customers came into the store to interrupt the flow of their conversation.
They went on for some time about the Chabon book, segued into a couple of others, and were soon comparing favorites. Leander was playing a character closer to his own than most on this one. He was soon genuinely enjoying himself, which was the best possible outcome. He could see McClain warming to him as they were able to confirm some shared tastes. And Leander got the distinct impression that McClain started to try to read him about midway through the conversation. It was Leander’s guess that McClain was looking to see if Leander was powered. That much even a low level Reader could tell. In fact, low power Readers often didn’t pick up on the fact that Leander was unusually difficult to read. They didn’t expect to be able to read tells, or to have much facility with distinguishing powered energy or talents in any detail.
 

Leander clearly saw the moment when McClain confirmed to himself that Leander was powered. His gaze sharpened, and there was a sense that he had a more personal interest in the conversation. At first there was a hint of evaluation to it, with McClain probably trying to get a feel for whether Leander was dark powered. Since that was one aspect even high power Readers could get wrong, Leander wasn’t concerned, and he was quickly distracted anyway as McClain’s bird chose that moment to take to the air and land on Leander’s head.

“Lulu, get back here! Sorry about that,” McClain apologized. He was about to raise a hand to call the bird back, but Leander stopped him.

 
“It’s okay, I love birds.” He put a hand up to his head, and focusing his talent, nudged the bird slightly on the energetic level. The bird stepped obediently on to his hand and he brought her around, up close to his face. “Hello lovey! My, aren’t you a pretty girl,” he murmured. The cockatiel leaned over to nibble at his lips. He put up a finger and lightly petted the bird on the cheek, along the round orange patch situated on the white feathers there. The bird rolled her head flirtatiously and chirped at him.
 

“So, you, ah, have a bit of a feel for birds,” McClain said with a meaningful look.
 

“You could say I have a talent for it,” Leander said.

McClain gave a decisive nod. “Bird Master?”