Fire Raiser (38 page)

“Also more than just a pretty face,” Evan murmured. “So this Saksonov shows up regularly, huh? Definitely we ask Nicky and Alec if they’ve ever heard of him.”

“But how does he connect with the fires?” Jamey asked plaintively.

“He doesn’t.” Cam glanced over as he sat back down. “He connects with the magic.”

“Not my bailiwick. Can we get back to the churches, please? What about the Methodists?”

“ The only fire that wasn’t started by magic.” Holly leaned back and pulled up one knee, resting her chin on it in a posture of convoluted gracelessness. “Who would benefit from it?”

“Weiss.” Jamey didn’t look up from his coffee. “It had been a while since the last fire. Another arson kept the churches nervous and gave them something else to spend their money on instead of supporting organizations that go after people like him.”

“Or he was just having himself some fun,” Evan said.

“Why didn’t he pick a Baptist church?” Holly asked. “Most of the others were. And they were the ones spearheading the anti-trafficking campaign.”

Cam could answer that one. “Because another Baptist church might have set you to thinking that very thing.”

With a frustrated sigh, Jamey said, “Am I allowed to be glad Weiss is dead? Prosecuting this would have been a nightmare.”

“You might be able to snare a couple of his security people,” Holly comforted. “Though I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Me, neither. Is anybody but me wondering why there was a fire at the Lutheran church?”

Cam chewed his cheek for a minute, caught himself at it, and said, “Being a good German, Weiss was Lutheran?”

Holly folded the other knee and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Perhaps he considered his project an act of faith.”

“So did the SS, when they fathered Aryan babies,” Cam said. “Except that those women volunteered. Their sacred duty as Aryan Maidens. Weiss wanted—what, a Witchly aristocracy?”

“Thaumatocracy,” Jamey said. “A Master Race of Magic.”

The loathing in his voice made Cam’s throat clench. Pushing away from the desk, he made for the door, and the stairs, and his old room at the end of the upper hall. But Holly and Evan had turned it into a second library, and there was no bed to fall across, no Star of Bethlehem quilt sewn by his great-great-great-grandmother, its colors as bright and its stitches as taut as the day it was finished because he’d spelled it himself with his newfound magic—

He stood there in the unfamiliar room, trying to swallow the nausea of disorientation. If the very notion of magic hadn’t made him sick right now, he would have fled to the attic and tripped the latch to hide himself away on the secret stairs until he stopped shaking.

No, it wasn’t what he was that did this to him. It was the certainty that Jamey was now seeing him and his kin at their worst, the things that had sent generations past running for the leg irons and the hanging ropes and the fire and the black-cowled brothers of the Holy Inquisition. They used to drape a veil over the crucifix in the torture chambers so that Christ wouldn’t see what was being done in His name.

Could they hang him twice? Burn him in fires twice as hot? He had lived and worked in countries where a sword ended the lives of men like him who got caught.

Cam turned numbly to the window, the view outside the only familiar thing left. He knew, on a commonsense level, that discovery of his special talents as a Witch had coincided with discovery of his sexuality. Alec and Nicholas found joy in their gifts and in loving each other. Why couldn’t he do the same? They didn’t live their lives afraid of who and what they were.

He’d white-knuckled his way through life thus far, hoping nobody would notice—or at least that nobody would ever find definitive proof—that he wasn’t normal. He
wasn’t
normal, not by the standards of any society in the world—

All at once he was surrounded by Jamey—sturdy bones and strong muscles, an encompassing warmth pressing against his back, the scent of coffee and oranges and skin washed clean by rain. Cam’s flinch made Jamey’s arms tighten in warning.

“Hush. It’s all right.”

He shook his head, mute.

“It will be if you let it.” Jamey clung tighter still, and whispered against Cam’s nape, “Hush, love.”

He turned, his body sluggish. A tiny smile trembled at one corner of Jamey’s mouth. And then they were kissing each other just exactly as if they really did know what they were doing.

LUNCH. NAP TIME—FOR EVERYONE. Holly made the upstairs rounds, Brigand pacing regally beside her. Alec and Nicky in the Wisteria Room, snoring a soft counterpoint concert. Cam and Jamey in the General’s Tent, wrapped in a blanket and each other, shoes neatly on the floor side-by-side. She smiled and went down the hall to the twins’ room. Before she could push the door open, Evan called softly, “In here.”

A few minutes later she was snug in flannel pajamas and eiderdown, gazing at her husband across the sleeping tangle of their children and a big white cat. Evan reached over and brushed a stray lock of hair from Holly’s neck.

“I can’t help worrying about what’s going to happen to that little girl.”

She searched his eyes, asking carefully, “Do you mean you want to adopt her?”

“No. I’m sure it would be the compassionate and politically correct thing to do, but our own two are enough to handle.”

“She should be raised by a Witch.”

“There must be at least one in this county who’d be thrilled to have her. We can keep an eye on her, of course.” He turned his gaze to the sleeping twins. “God, they’re incredible, aren’t they? I wouldn’t want them to stay like this forever, because I can’t wait to see how they grow up. But sometimes it sure would be nice. . . .”

“I know. The older they get, the less we can protect them. Do you think Alec and Nicky can stop worrying about them like old maiden uncles? Danger gone, and all that?”

“They won’t believe it until they bring out the shiny rocks and tea leaves again—or get good and drunk.” He smiled. “Or both.”

She stroked Bella’s russet hair. “Did you mean that about me writing a new book? You’ve never seen me in that state.”

“Worse than when you were pregnant?”

“You’ll have to let me know.”

Leaning over for a quick kiss, he said, “I know you go places when you’re working. Just always come back to us, okay?”

She propped herself on an elbow. “What brought that on?”

“Not sure,” he admitted. “Maybe Erika’s little neuroses.”

Holly groaned softly. “I swear I’m gonna have Lulah fix it so we never have to see either of them again.”

“Well . . . I kind of told Troy that if he ever needs a place to stay or somebody to talk to . . .”

“Oh, that’s all right. It’s not his fault his mother’s a psychopath.”

“On several levels. How do people live like that? Or maybe it should be, how do people like that
live
?”

“I don’t think they do,” she mused. Then, watching his eyes, she said suddenly, “I love you.”

“You’d be crazy not to.”

“You egotistical bastard—!”

“Ah!” he grinned, pointing at their sleeping children. “Five bucks. Pay up!”

JAMEY HAD FORGOTTEN how lightly Cam was made, the elegant way his bones fit together, the strength of muscle curving around them. In truth, he rather missed the old Cam: a little soft around the edges, without this lean, tense abruptness. But when blue eyes blinked open, in the instant before full wakefulness Jamey saw again the young man he’d known twelve years ago. And he laughed, because as Cam realized who he was with, he looked as if he’d been simultaneously whacked over the head, drugged to the eyeballs, and informed that he’d been elected God.

“What’s so damned funny?”

Jamey rolled over and wriggled himself atop Cam, who grunted but made no other protest. “Want more?”

“After twelve years, what’s a few more hours?”

“Torture. Misery. Suffering. Anguish.”

Wrapping him tight, Cam laughed quietly. “Enough already, Thesaurus Boy.”

“We ought to wash before dinner. Want to join me?”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be conducive to restraint.”

“Wait’ll you see my tub at home. I want to do it there, and on the rug in front of the fireplace, and definitely on the back porch at midnight under the stars, and—”

“Do any of these scenarios involve a bed?”

“
This
one would,” he grumbled. “We’ll probably be too tired tonight, anyway. And tomorrow there’ll be more work than I care to consider. I’ll be lucky if it’s only a fourteen-hour day.”

“What do you care, as long as you get lucky when you come home?”

“Will I?”

Cam only smiled.

After a few moments’ careful consideration, Jamey asked, “Are you hinting about spells and things? I mean, I always figured that being with you wouldn’t be like being with anybody else—not that there
is
anybody else. I mean, I haven’t been a monk, but—”

“I’ve always hated the ‘share the sexual history’ portion of the proceedings.” Cam sighed. “How about this: we both get tested, and—”

“—and we both admit there was never anybody else who was even half as important? And never could be?”

“Never,” he answered quietly. Then, shifting a little, he said, “I didn’t want to have this conversation yet, but I think we have to. There’s a lot to consider.”

“You think if we’re together, I’ll get crucified at the polls in November.”

“Do you want to stay Pocahontas County D.A. forever?”

“What you mean is, am I still aiming to be the poster boy for gay politicians?” Jamey slid to Cam’s side and gathered a pillow to wrap his arms around. “There are gay people all over government—you know there are, you’ve worked in Washington. With each generation that pretends to be straight, or keeps its mouth shut and hopes nobody notices, the bigotry and fear just get perpetuated. And the lies. I don’t want to live like that.”

“Okay.”

“You’d like to be invisible. That’s not possible. I want my life, Cam—our life. You’re the only one I ever wanted to live it with.”

“Okay.”

“So you’re just going to have to get used to being—wait a minute.” He scrambled the blanket in his haste to sit up and look Cam in the eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Took you long enough.”

“What did you
say
?”

“
Okay
is usually considered a term of agreement. Assent. Concurrence. It means
yes
. I can say it in seven or eight other languages if you want—”

“If you’re joking, Cam, then so help me—”

“I’m not. I’m really not.” Long fingers slid through Jamey’s hair. “It’s not gonna be easy. But it’ll be worth it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

They might have stayed like that forever but for Holly’s breezy entrance without so much as a tap on the door. “High tea is being served in the drawing room. And before you ask, Peaches, all I did was slice the chocolate cake and boil the water. That much I can do without anyone’s risking ptomaine.” Walking further into the room, she regarded them with an indulgent smile. “You two are just too cute for words.”

“We know,” Jamey said.

“Do you? Come stand over here.” She went to the walnut-framed cheval glass in the corner. “Take a look.”

Jamey saw it at once. He’d seen it in Holly’s and Evan’s eyes sometimes when they glanced at each other: pride in being loved by this amazing person. It was in his own eyes now.

Holly stood behind them. “Charisma quotient, the element of sheer adorableness—” When Cam grimaced, she smacked him on the ass. “Whether they realize it or not, when people look at you they’ll see that you’re for real. That you aren’t a couple of sex fiends who spend all their private time going at it like rabbits on Viagra.”

“Elegant phrasing,” Jamey noted.

“Thankyou for that mental image,” Cam seconded. When she slapped him again, he jumped. “How come I get hit and he doesn’t?”

“I like him better than I like you. Also, he’s prettier. My point is that people are going to see something that isn’t a threat, or indecent, or anything other than two people who were lucky enough to find each other, even if they were abysmally stupid about it for twelve long years.”

“Shut up, Freckles.”

“What he just said,” Jamey added. His turn to be slapped; he yelped.

“I’m trying to get it through to you that the Bible-thumping homo-phobes never vote for liberal Democrats anyway, so they were a write-off from the start. Plenty of people will just shrug, as long as you don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses.”

“But there
will
be people who—”

“Cam.” She smiled. “They’ll remember you as a boy, and your parents, and our family. They’ll hear about what you’ve been doing out in the world. They already know what a great job Jamey is doing here, how hard he’s worked, what he believes in. In fact, I suspect a lot of folks will end up being secretly proud of themselves that they had the insight to look beyond the stereotypes and be nonchalant about the whole thing.” She stepped away from them and turned for the door. “Hurry up, or I won’t save any chocolate cake for either of you.”

“Aw, Mom!” Cam whined, effortlessly accessing his inner five-year-old.

“Be nice,” she advised, “or I’ll glue all the keys on your concert grand.”

“Concert grand?” Jamey blinked. “Where am I gonna put a concert grand piano in my house?”

“Improvise,” she told him. “You want him, you get the piano. You’ll get used to it.”

“Why do people keep saying that?”

Twenty-three

“WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT that poor girl,” Holly said, settling into an affectionate old armchair with a third cup of tea. “We’ve been tap dancing like maniacs all day, trying to avoid the subject. My question is, do you want to get there by roundabout means, or do we confront it headlong?”

“There are one or two points I’d like cleared up first, if I may,” Nicky offered. “I spoke with Dr. Cutter earlier. The other girls and the two boys were retrieved from Westmoreland and brought to his office around noon for checkups—he’s furious, by the way, that Weiss is dead, because he wants to kill the man himself.”

“ ‘Something lingering, with boiling oil in it, I fancy,’ ” Jamey murmured.

Nicky went on, “Those children are terrified of everything and everybody, and a couple of them were begging to be sent back to Westmoreland so their families wouldn’t be harmed. The girls in particular—” He lifted his teacup, looked into it, set it down. “Forgive me, Holly, but might I have something a little stronger?”

She went to the sideboard and poured him a stiff Glenfiddich. When he’d knocked back a large swallow he nodded thanks and continued.

“They thought Dr. Cutter was going to do what Weiss had done.” He gulped Scotch again. “Evidently when Weiss didn’t succeed, they were put to work. Cutter learned this from a girl named Hadwisa—once he got a sedative in her after she had hysterics at the sight of his exam room. My guess is that there are at least a few others on the staff who will tell the same story.”

“What about the two girls from the attic?” Evan asked. “Marika and Agatha?”

“Agrafyna,” Nick corrected. “Dr. Cutter will give them pregnancy tests. If positive, it will be up to them whether or not to carry to term.”

Cam watched Holly repress a shiver—visible only in the swift, fleeting tremor of her hands as she poured herself more tea. Her voice was soft and steady as she said, “The trafficker’s goal is to dehumanize. How in the world did that girl retain enough independent will to take her revenge?”

“Did it look like revenge to you?” Evan asked. “Seemed more like justice to me. She took his life because he took hers.”

She mulled this over, and at length gave a slight shrug. Cam shared her doubts; Evan’s was an odd attitude for a law enforcement officer who’d witnessed what was essentially a murder. But what Holly said was, “I think she might have meant that her life didn’t exist anymore. That
she
didn’t really exist anymore.”

“I think we need to return to what Weiss evidently wanted to do,” Jamey said. “What would have happened had he succeeded?”

“I’ve thought about this before,” Evan said, producing startled glances from everyone but his wife. “Back when Alec figured out what Holly is, the technology didn’t exist. They didn’t have to worry about it. By the time I met her, artificial insemination,
in vitro,
all of it was pretty routine. Eggs, sperm, syringes—how long would it take to harvest her into thousands of petri dishes? Thousands of potential Spellbinders.” He met her gaze. “If we’d had trouble getting pregnant, if we’d had to go to a fertility specialist, even if surrogacy had been the last resort—there’s no way I would’ve agreed to it. There’d be too big a chance that somebody who knows what you are would find out and steal you. The only woman who’ll ever give birth to your children is you.”

Cam was baffled by the fierceness of Evan’s determination to protect her; Holly had never seemed to need protecting from anything or anyone. Then he glanced at Jamey, and understood. It wasn’t possessiveness, or the egocentric imperative that
nobody threatens what’s mine
. It was simply that Evan loved her, and he trusted no one else to keep her safe. If that was even more egotistical, then so be it.

“This baby, this little girl,” Evan was saying, “in a lot of ways she’s that nightmare come true. She was stolen. She’d grow up thinking what Weiss told her to. Indoctrinated. Warped the way he was warped. This ‘thaumatocracy’ Jamey talked about—it would’ve been the whole meaning of her life.”

“She would have had no more choice than her mother did,” Alec agreed.

Nicky finished off his Scotch. “The girl had no idea what she was, of course. Any magic she worked was instinct. Which is the most dangerous magic there is.”

“She got loose from all of us,” Cam reminded them. “Even my knots. If her child is half that powerful—”

Jamey drew a breath, then sat back on the couch and shook his head as if reprimanding himself. Cam touched his arm. “Say what you were going to say.”

“I’m not sure it’s relevant.”

Holly snorted. “You’ve spent almost a year listening to us chase off on tangents. In this house, ‘relevant’ is so scarce it qualifies as a trace element.”

He smiled, and for an instant breathing was something Cam had to think about. Holly caught his eye and winked. It made him want to throttle her—or buy her a brand new BMW. Maybe both.

“Well, it’s just this.” Any hint of apology for his presumption had left Jamey’s voice. “Power’s a very personal thing. Political, financial, what’s commonly termed ‘moral authority’—basically it’s the ability to impose your will on someone else, be it a single person or an entire nation.”

“Or a courtroom,” said Evan. “I’ve seen you in action.”

“That’s a kind of power, too, and I enjoy it.” Not looking at Cam, he added, “I’m doing what I was trained and educated to do, guided by ethics and what I believe to be right. What you people have, this is new to me in theory, but . . .” He paused, not looking at any of them. “Weiss had no magic of his own, beyond an ability to sense it in others. He had nothing of the kind of power that seemed to mean everything to him. Is there anybody here who believes he wasn’t acting on someone else’s behalf?”

Cam leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “All right, Counselor, build your case.”

Jamey got to his feet, smoothly graceful, and for all that he was wearing jeans and one of Evan’s work shirts he gave the impression of having just buttoned the jacket of an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. “Bernhardt Weiss was an individual with a single goal. His pursuit of this goal was relentless. In psychological terms, he was a man obsessed. He purchased human beings. He regarded them as commodities. They were bodies to be bought and sold. To be used. He did not have
contempt
for human lives. He did in fact
value
them as one would a piece of machinery, a plot of land. Rented to others for use, or planted and reaped as a crop—this is how Bernhardt Weiss regarded the people he bought. And he made a profit. Almost all of it was monetary. One thing was not. When he wanted to escape Westmoreland, the one thing he demanded was that newborn child. Other than Weiss himself, to whom would that child be so valuable?”

“He wasn’t normal.” Nicky set down his glass. “I don’t mean that he was crazy—he obviously was, as you pointed out. Obsessed. I mean that by Witchly standards, he wasn’t
normal
.”

“Neither am I,” Holly murmured.

Evan pointed a long finger at her. “Don’t start.” When she opened her mouth to say something more, he added, “I mean it. Don’t you start with me.”

Jamey cleared his throat. “Holly, as I understand it, or as I think I’m beginning to understand it, your gift is simply different from everyone else’s. Not lesser, or weaker—from what I saw, it may be more important than theirs. I mean, they can work magic, but they need you to really make it stick. That’s right, isn’t it, Cam?” Not waiting for an answer, he gave a sudden smile. “And who would have believed yesterday at this time that I’d be discussing what’s usual and unusual among Witches? But it seems to me that the point here is that within his own milieu—within his own family, from what Nick said—he’d be the odd one out. Holly mentioned a psychological factor in this project of his. Some people feel estranged because of what they are, but Weiss felt that way because of what he was not. This child’s mother was a Witch, and the pregnancy came to term in a county rife with Witches—for whatever reasons of bloodline or environment—so chances were pretty good that this little girl
would
be a Witch. He’d raise her, control her, teach her what to think. She’d be his entrée to power.”

“A commodity,” Cam murmured. “Possession of which would establish him with the hierarchy of—of whatever. Nicky? Alec? Any ideas?”

Before either could answer, Holly sat up straight and said, “Valentin Maximovich Saksonov.”

Alec responded almost immediately, “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.”

“Oh, no,” she warned. “I was so clever in figuring out when he was here—don’t you dare tell me you don’t recognize the name!”

“When
was
he here?”

“Every Quarter Sabbat since October 2004! Come on, Uncle Nicky, you must have heard of him—”

He was shaking his head. “Sorry. I like your theory, though. Other Witches in the area would be busy with their own observances, safe within their Circles. Anything he did would go unnoticed.”

“None of the other names Evan gave us look familiar,” Alec said. “But we have a few contacts we haven’t talked to in a while.”

“Well, talk to them soon.” Holly slumped back in her chair, disappointed and annoyed. “Please,” she added, belatedly recalling her manners.

Cam had kept his gaze on his plate this whole time, fingers picking at crumbs of chocolate cake. The instant Nicky put on a baffled expression, Cam had known that lies would be told. And as he listened, chasing bits of frosting around his plate, the echoing syllables of the name finally registered. But he said nothing; Alec and Nicky might be able to lie to Holly, but he’d never managed it.

Jamey had stepped into the conversational breach. “The immediate question is, what do we do with this baby? I’m assuming no one here is willing to hand her over to Social Services. Not a child you know to be—”

“Mommy!” screamed Bella from the front hall.

“No!” yelled Kirby. “
My
blocks!”

“—a Witch,” Jamey finished.

Holly muttered, “Sharing time appears to be over,” and went to mediate.

Lulah, conspicuously silent up until now, went around the room with teapot and cake plate. “You know anybody who works in Congress?” she asked Cam.

“I still have a few contacts.”

“Reverend Deutschman’s volunteers will need legal help and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they put together a delegation and headed for Washington soon.”

“I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow morning.” Lounging back on the couch, Cam spread his arms across its back and closed his eyes. “I’m not old enough yet to feel this tired at four in the afternoon.”

“It’s got nothing to do with age,” Nicky told him. “This was the first Grandmastering you’ve ever done. Of course you’re exhausted.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Jamey asked.

Cam missed entirely their next exchange, for Jamey settled himself against his side, tugging an arm down to rest across his shoulders. Instinct screamed at him to move, escape, deny, laugh it off. But every muscle turned to mist with the gentle flow of warmth from the body pressed close to his. When Jamey’s arm slid around his waist, he told himself that this “together” thing would take some getting used to.

He decided he could deal with it.

“KIRBY,” HOLLY SAID PATIENTLY, “the yellow ones are yours and the green ones are Bella’s. It’s not cheating to take your own blocks.”

“I want a wall,” he insisted. “She broke my wall.”

“He broke my wall, too!”

Regarding her daughter critically, Holly said at last, “My munchkin, you mustn’t make up stories unless you’ve been paid to do so. I think what we need here is more blocks. Anybody who wants more can come with me upstairs to get them.”

A few minutes later they were back downstairs and she was doling out red blocks, hiding a grin as each child counted carefully. Brilliant though her offspring were, Kirby got lost after seven; Bella made it to nine before going back to three. How “mubberteen” made it into the mix was a mystery akin to why Kirby called butterflies “nannybows” and Bella got “moosebubbles” when she was chilly.

At length the walls were back under construction. Holly sat in the dining room doorway and watched, thinking about what Evan had said. Until that moment she’d considered only what it might have been like to be forced to carry a child that wasn’t even one’s own; she tried to imagine how she would feel if her child was growing inside another woman’s body.

The deeply personal revulsion of Holly Lachlan demanded abandonment of that line of thinking. The professional instincts of H. Elizabeth McClure felt another part of the book slide into place. Oh, Evan was going to have a wonderful year or so while she wrote this one. . . .

“I have milk and I have crackers,” Lulah announced from the kitchen door. “I also have string cheese, and if you want any you’d better hurry before Brigand jumps up on the counter and eats it all.”

The half-finished walls were summarily abandoned. Chairs were climbed onto, cups were claimed, and cheese was doled out in scrupulously even portions. When the kids were busy munching, Holly took her aunt aside.

“I need to know something. Poppy’s car was found right around where my parents were killed. Was the location a coincidence?”

“No, honey. I doubt it very much. Jesse went down to take a look for himself. . . .” Lulah’s sharp blue eyes glazed over, and a muscle clenched in her jaw. “There’d been magic done, and more magic that made a Witch helpless to use magic.” She pulled in a long breath. “We thought it might’ve been something like that. Thomas and Marget were too good and too well-trained not to defend themselves. And Jesse found no sign of their magic at all.”

“Just the magic that killed them.” Suddenly she noticed what her aunt was wearing: black trousers, black sweater, and an Hermès scarf Holly had brought her from Paris long ago.

“Yes,” Lulah said in response to her look. “You’d all better go get changed. Bill Cutter is at my place with the baby. And the body. We’ll be burying that poor girl before sundown.”

IT WAS A LONG, silent walk to the burying ground.

The coffin had been contributed by Louvena’s nephew, Leander—who, in addition to his other woodworking skills, constructed caskets for those Witches who wished interment rather than immolation. The customary pine had archaic associations with immortality. The shavings and sawdust of other woods were placed in an old iron cauldron. Ash for enchantment, for the passage between inner and outer worlds, for rebirth. Hazel, the tree of wisdom and wishes. Willow for Witchcrafting. Yew for death, apple for immortality, rowan, the tree of vision and healing, and holly to ease the passage of death. Finally, birch and elder, the trees that stood on either side of the one Nameless Day in the ancient Irish calendar. That day represented the link between life and death.