His Father's Eyes - eARC (14 page)

Weres like Hacker and Bear had been made into servants of the dark sorcerers who changed them; wereslaves, in a manner of speaking. Being a were still carried a stigma, in some ways even more so than being a weremyste. At least we kept our human form. Our phasings were misunderstood, as was the more permanent psychological damage they caused. But some people valued the spells we could cast, and few ever questioned our humanity.

Weres, however, had been portrayed in movies and on television as monsters, and from all that I had heard—I’d never seen it for myself—their transformation to and from animal form could be terrifying for the uninitiated. Others in Hacker’s position had no recourse. Hacker could talk to Amaya, though clearly Jacinto had not been able to do much for him. But others like him would be reluctant to admit to anyone what they were, much less that they had been stripped of their freedom in this way. And having no magic of their own, they couldn’t fight back, not against a sorcerer.

But their plight also begged a question that chilled me to my core: If this could be done to weres, could it also be done to weremystes? Could a myste who was powerful enough cast a similar spell on me, so that he or she could induce in me at will the insanity and enhanced power of the phasings? Sure, I had access to spells, too. I could defend myself. To a point. But what if the myste in question was more skilled than I was, more powerful? Could I be used as a magical slave as well? Could my dad? Could a myste, or a cabal of them, create an entire army of ensorcelled magical warriors, beyond reason, wielding spells too powerful for those not in the midst of a magically induced phasing to withstand?

The attack on Solana’s had convinced me that Amaya’s talk of a magical war had some basis in fact. But until now, I hadn’t understood fully how dangerous such a conflict might be.

Hacker had pulled his shirt back down and was watching me, wary, perhaps wondering if he had told me too much.

“You promised you wouldn’t tell no one about me.”

“I remember,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that. The man who did this to you, have you seen him since?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Like I said before, I don’t remember everythin’ from when I’m turned. But I remember him. Not every time, but enough that I know he’s still out there, still controllin’ me.”

I wanted to ask him for a description of the man, though I was pretty sure he’d tell me the myste had dark eyes, a trim beard, and a thatch of straight dark hair. Dimples.

But I didn’t get the chance to ask.

Hacker’s eyes went wide. “Aw, shit!”

“What is it?” I asked.

Even as the words crossed my lips, I felt it. Magic, as gentle as an exhaled breath, but unmistakable.

“Get out!” Hacker said. “Now!”

I had no intention of leaving. Instead I tried a warding, something big enough to protect both of us. The touch of the spell had reminded me of a soft breeze, and so I envisioned a glass dome dropping over the single-wide. The dome, the spell, the mobile home.

The flow of power didn’t slacken in the least. Either my spell didn’t work, or the other runecrafter was too powerful for me to oppose. Guess which one I was betting on.

I cast again: less ambitious this time. A sheath of power around the two of us. Nothing.

Hacker bellowed, his face contorted. He dropped to the floor, landing on all fours. An instant later, he reared back on his knees and tore off his T-shirt. Another roar of agony was ripped from his throat, and he collapsed back down onto his elbows.

The skin on his back rippled. He was hairy to begin with and as I watched, the hair thickened, lightened in color. He cried out, more wail than roar this time. I heard bone snap. His fists clenched and his limbs bent at odd angles. My stomach gave a queasy lurch.

In a distant corner of my mind I thought that for all the nonsense that comes out of Hollywood, this—the turning of a were—they had about right. The mangling of the body, the rapid sprouting of hair, brightening of the eyes, and above all, the agony the transformation induced.

It took less than a minute for Hacker to shift into his coyote; I had no doubt it had seemed far longer to him. He was a good deal bigger than most coyotes I’d seen in the wild. It seemed to me that he resembled a dire wolf more than he did a coyote. But that could have been a function of proximity and closed space.

The animal shook itself loose of Hacker’s jeans and then rounded on me, ears flattened, lips drawn back in a fierce snarl. His human teeth might have been a wreck, but the coyote’s were just fine, thank you very much: white as bone, and sharp enough to make me back away. He padded closer, stalking me, yellow eyes locked on mine.

I reached for my Glock, but then thought better of it. I didn’t want to hurt Hacker any more than I had to. I had a feeling that his runecrafting masters would have been happy to see me kill him; it didn’t escape my notice that he hadn’t shifted until my questions began to touch on those who controlled him. So if they wanted him dead, I’d do what I could to keep him alive.

But that didn’t include allowing him to snack on me.

He growled, deep in his chest, his hackles standing on end. And then he leaped at me, teeth snapping. I lashed out, trying to bat him aside with my forearm. In theory it should have worked, but theory doesn’t amount to much while fighting a wild dog in a single-wide.

His jaws clamped down on my arm, vise-strong. If I hadn’t been wearing my bomber, he would have ripped through my flesh. As it was, his canines punctured the leather and stabbed into my skin.

I gritted my teeth against the pain. But while he had hold of my arm, I threw a punch, hitting him hard on the snout.

The coyote let go of me, backed away, snarling again, teeth still bared.

Before he could charge me a second time, I began to recite a spell in my mind. The coyote, me, and a stone wall between us. Simple, and effective. I hoped.

I watched the animal, waiting for the right moment, not wanting to cast too soon and thus tip off its masters, who, I assumed, were watching our fight somehow.

The coyote launched himself at me. And I released the spell.

He went for my neck. But before he reached me, he collided with something solid and completely invisible. The coyote dropped to the floor at my feet, dazed.

Before he could attack again, I tried to think of some other spell I could cast, one that would keep him from attacking again without hurting him. I considered using a transporting spell, a casting that would put him elsewhere, out of harm’s way and far from me. Most transporting spells were complicated craftings, requiring many elements and some forethought. I wasn’t sure I had time for either. More to the point, I didn’t know where to send the creature. I couldn’t send him very far; I didn’t know how. And if I put him somewhere else in the mobile home—say, in another room that happened to have a window—he could escape and hurt himself or others. I wanted him incapacitated, and perfectly safe.

The coyote growled again and got to its feet. I took another step back, and met a wall.

I thought once more of the spell I’d cast when training with Namid, of the imaginary hammer I’d used to shatter his binding. Again I was thinking too literally, not allowing my crafting to do all that it was capable of doing. Three elements: the coyote, the floor of the living room, and leather straps holding the animal down. I recited the elements in my head three times as quickly as I could, and let go of the spell just as the coyote sprang for me.

Magic charged the air in the room, and Hacker in his coyote form gave a fearsome yowl: rage, confusion, terror. But the were didn’t leap at me; he didn’t seem to be able to move at all.

I eased away from him, my heart racing, my hands shaking. The coyote snarled and bared his teeth, his feral gaze following my every move. But he remained where he was. I backed away and made a quick search of the single-wide. It didn’t take me long to find exactly what I was looking for: The bathroom had a small vent high on the back wall, but no window.

I returned to the living room, walking slowly. The were eyed me and growled, but my casting held. He didn’t move. I removed my bomber, and, still moving with the stealth of a hunter, I approached the creature. His growls grew more urgent, and he scrabbled at the carpeting with his back claws, trying to break free of the bonds I’d conjured, tearing the fabric. Reaching him, I threw my jacket over the coyote’s head and upper body. He yowled. I didn’t give him time to do more.

Gathering the jacket tightly around him, I lifted him. His back paws scraped my chest and arms, peeling away my skin. I hissed through my teeth, but held tight and strode back to the bathroom. There I managed to pull away my jacket and toss the coyote into the plastic, faux-tile bathtub, all in one less-than-smooth motion. The coyote clawed at the tub, desperate to gain purchase. I jumped back into the corridor and yanked the door shut as the animal made a dash for freedom. He crashed into the door and then threw himself at it again and again, shaking the entire single-wide. I held fast to the doorknob, unsure of whether the coyote could find a way to pull it open, unwilling to risk letting go, and without a clue as to what I should do next.

CHAPTER 14

The coyote’s snarls and the snapping of his teeth reached me clearly in the hallway, reminding me—as if I could have forgotten—how flimsy the bathroom door was. The single-wide quaked with the were’s panicked attempts to escape his prison. I hoped he would exhaust himself before he broke a bone or gave himself a concussion.

I pulled out my wallet and managed to extract Jacinto Amaya’s business card while maintaining my grip on the doorknob. I retrieved my flip phone from my jacket pocket and dialed the number he had scrawled on the back of the card.

He picked up after two rings.

“Amaya. Who’s this?”

“It’s Jay Fearsson. Your friend attacked me, and now I have him trapped in his bathroom.”

“Fearsson? What the hell are you talking about? What friend?”

“Gary Hacker.”

“Hacker attacked you? Is he all right? Did you hurt him?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, my voice rising.

“Did you hurt him?” Amaya asked again. Even through the thin connection, I could hear the steel in his tone.

“I made every effort not to.”

“What happened? What did you say to him?”

“Nothing! We were talking about what had been done to him, and I asked about the man who’s been controlling his changes. And at that point we both felt a pulse of magic. Next thing I know, he shifts and attacks me.”

“He shifted? So he attacked you in his animal form?”

“That’s right.”

“Damn.” I heard Amaya exhale, though the sound was nearly drowned out by the snarls and thrashing coming from the bathroom. “Where are you?”

“We’re in Hacker’s single-wide; I have him locked in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom!” Amaya repeated, sounding angry.

“It’s the one room in his place without a window,” I said.

Amaya was silent for so long, I began to wonder if the call had been dropped. But then he said, “Yes, I understand. Thank you, Jay.”

“I don’t know what to do with him,” I said. “He’s trying to get out, and I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself. I’m also afraid that if I leave, he’ll find a way out of the single-wide. There’s no telling what kind of trouble he could get into.”

“Someone cast a spell to make him turn,” Amaya said, still catching up with the conversation. “How did that person know what you and Hacker were talking about?”

“That’s an excellent question. I have no idea. But he did. Or she. Maybe it was the same woman who spoke to me before Solana’s blew up. Listen, Mister Amaya, I can’t stay here all day waiting for Hacker to pass out or shift back to his human form. I don’t know what to do.”

“What makes you think that I have answers for you?”

“He’s your friend. I could have shot him, or used an attack spell on him. I didn’t. But you set up this meeting, and it’s gone to hell. And you hired me to do a lot more than pet-sitting.”

Another pause, and then, “I’ll send a man.”

“Thank you.” I started to close my phone, but heard him say, “Jay.”

“I’m here.”

“They wouldn’t have been watching Hacker. They control him. They don’t see him as a threat.”

A cold feeling crept down my spine, like a bead of sweat. “Which means they’re watching me.”

“Night and day, I’d assume.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I ended the call and leaned against the wall, which shuddered every time the coyote threw himself against the door. The impacts were slowing; Hacker was wearing himself out. I figured that right around the time Amaya’s man arrived, I wouldn’t need him anymore.

As I waited, I considered what my next move might be. I needed to speak with Namid; with all that had happened in the past two days, I was more alarmed than ever by his failure to materialize the last time I called for him. Had he refused to answer my summons because he knew that others would overhear our conversation? Had something happened to him, making it impossible for him to communicate with me? Days ago, the very idea would have seemed impossible; not anymore.

I also needed to get back to my dad. He was under attack, like I was. But why?

I could hear him in my head.
I don’t matter
, he had said, so many times that the words lost their meaning. But not to him.
The boy is not for you
, he had said as well.

Did he know I was in danger before I did?

Sooner than I would have expected, I heard a car pull up outside. Of course, a few minutes before, the noise from within the bathroom had stopped. The coyote was probably sleeping soundly, harmless as a puppy.

The door to the single-wide opened, and Rolon stepped inside. He carried an oversized handgun; I didn’t recognize the model. After surveying the living room, he peered down the hallway and spotted me.

“
Amigo
,” he said.

“Hey, Rolon.” I nodded toward the weapon he carried. “You do understand that Jacinto wants this guy protected, not shot, right?”

“It’s a tranquilizer. One shot, and Hacker will be out for hours.”

I frowned. “Is that safe?”

“It is if he’s still a doggie. If he’s human again, I shouldn’t need it, right?”

It made sense.

I pushed away from the wall and walked out into the living room. “I think he’s out already,” I said. “But just in case, keep that thing handy.”

He grinned.

I crossed to the door, and as I pulled it open, Rolon said, “Jacinto sent a message.”

I exhaled, turned. No doubt I’d broken some unspoken rule by calling his cell. “Yeah?”

“He says, ‘When the time comes to fight, don’t go in alone. Call and you’ll have backup.’”

Better than what I was expecting. I nodded once. “Tell him, thanks.”

I left the single-wide, climbed back into the Z-ster, which was oven hot, and drove out of Buckeye, intending to make my way to Wofford. There was no direct route to my dad’s from Hacker’s place, and the closer I got to Phoenix, the worse the traffic would be. So I took the scenic route, hoping it would prove quicker. I wound up on a lonely stretch of road known as the Sun Valley Parkway, which cuts northward through the desert from I-10 a couple of miles west of Buckeye, before heading east back toward the city on the north side of the regional park. In another ten or fifteen miles it would intersect with the Phoenix-Wickenburg Highway, which I could take to my dad’s trailer. The parkway was popular with bikers of all stripes—cyclists as well as motorcycle enthusiasts—and it was one of the prettier stretches of road in the Phoenix area.

Huge saguaro cacti stood like sentinels beside clusters of palo verdes and catclaw acacias, desert creosote and brittlebush, barrel cactus and several species of chollas. Beyond the cacti and shrubs, the White Tank Mountains rose from the desert plain, their peaks and ridges like the cutting edge of a bread knife. Ravens soared overhead, black as coal against the azure sky, and a hawk circled in the distance, nearer to the mountains.

I had passed a couple of guys on fancy road bikes in the first mile or two outside of Buckeye, but after that I had the highway to myself, and once more I thought about the attack at Solana’s, what was being done to my dad, and, now, my encounter with Hacker. It all came back to Flight 595. I was sure of it. But why, and how?

Maybe ten miles out from Buckeye, a car appeared in my rearview mirror, coming up on me fast. It was a silver sedan, not a make or model I recognized. And I knew every make and model there was.

The windshield glass was tinted top to bottom, which was illegal in this state. Then again, there was no plate on the front of the car, so I didn’t know where it was from. All I knew was I couldn’t see the driver at all, and that made me nervous.

I floored the gas and the Z-ster leaped forward. Still, the silver sedan continued to gain on me.

And then the magic hit.

Dark mystes, I’d learned when battling Cahors, liked to go for the heart. That’s what this one did. It felt as though someone had reached a taloned hand into my chest, taken hold of my heart, and squeezed with all his might. This was what it must have been like to have a heart attack. I clutched at my chest and eased off the gas. My car shimmied, slowed, and drifted off the road, through the shoulder, and into the sand and rock and dry brush that lined the highway.

The sedan slowed as well, pulling onto the shoulder and halting.

I wasn’t going to sit there and let them finish me. Despite the agony in my chest, I stepped on the gas again. The wheels spun, spitting up rocks and sand before finally gaining traction and fishtailing out of the desert back on to the road, a cloud of red dust in my wake.

The sedan glided after me, and whoever was gripping my heart seemed to give a good hard twist. I gasped, afraid I was on the verge of blacking out.

Namid had once told me how to block attacks like these. I grunted a warding spell. The pain, my heart, and a sheath of magic around it.

The crafting hadn’t worked very well when I tried it against Cahors, but I’d gotten stronger, more skilled. As soon as I released the magic, the pain in my chest vanished. And before the bastard could attack me again, I cast a second spell, encasing the car in magical armor.

The moment I released the magic, the sedan sped up, until its front end was right on my bumper. Literally.

I’d had enough of him, too. I slowed, forcing him to do the same, and then I punched it. That sedan, whatever kind it might have been, was more than a match for the Z-ster, but I did manage to put a few yards between us. And then I cast a third time.

As simple as you please: the road, his tire, a nail.

I heard the blow-out, watched in my rearview mirror as the sedan swerved and slowed. The driver managed to stop without flipping over or going off the road, but by then I was doing one hundred and ten, with no intention of slowing down.

I chanced a grin, knowing that this one time, I’d gotten the better of these dark sorcerers who had been screwing around with me for the past several days.

“That was well done, Ohanko.”

I practically jumped out of my skin. The Z-ster veered dangerously, and I slowed down.

“Damnit, Namid! You can’t surprise me like that when I’m driving!”

“I am sorry. Should I leave you?”

“No! Where have you been? I tried to speak with you, and you didn’t answer, not even to tell me that you don’t like being summoned.”

“I do not.”

“I know.”

“When was this?”

I hesitated. “Yesterday afternoon.” Had it only been yesterday?

“Why did you summon me?”

“Because Billie and I were nearly blown up by a magical bomb.”

I chanced a peek his way and found him staring back at me, his waters placid, his eyes as bright as searchlights.

“All right, she was nearly blown up. It seems I wasn’t in any danger at all. Not then, at least.”

“You are now.”

“So I’ve gathered. What is this about, Namid?”

“What do you think it is about?”

If I’d thought it would do any good at all, I would have pulled out my Glock and shot him. I hated it—
hated
it—when he answered my questions with questions. He reminded me of a teacher I’d had in high school, the most annoying geometry teacher on the planet, who had responded exactly the same way to all of our questions. I couldn’t stand the guy. Learned a helluva lot of geometry, though.

“I think I’m caught up in a magical war between dark sorcerers and whatever you’d call people like us.”

“I am a runemyste,” Namid said in a voice like a hard rain. “And you are a runecrafter. Or a weremyste, if you prefer. It is these others who should bear names of a different sort.”

I glanced his way. “So you admit that there are others.”

The myste frowned. “Would it not be foolish of me to do otherwise? I have said many times, have I not, that my kind guard against the use of dark magic in your world.”

“Yes, you’ve said that, but . . .” I shook my head, the frustration of the past few days spilling over. “But you say it in a way that makes it sound like dark magic is a random occurrence, that you’re here to guard against men like Cahors, who present a threat that’s real, but isolated.”

“And so I am.”

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“I do not understand what you are asking.”

I couldn’t tell if the myste was being purposefully obtuse, or if this was simply the hazard of communicating with a centuries-old being who saw the world in a fundamentally different way. On most occasions, this would have been when I threw up my hands and surrendered. Not today.

“I’m asking why you’ve concealed from me the fact that your war with dark weremystes is ongoing. I’m asking why you’ve effectively lied to me for more than seven years.”

“I do not believe I have,” he said, his waters riffling as from a scything wind.

“There’s a war going on.”

I looked at him again, though I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road for too long. I could imagine dark sorcerers coming after me in a whole fleet of those sleek silver sedans.

“Yes,” he said after a long pause.

“And it didn’t occur to you to mention this to me until now?”

“It occurred to me many times. I did not believe you were ready to know the entirety of this truth.”

“I’m not a kid, Namid. I know I’m not as skilled as you’d like me to be, and I know that I disappoint you more often than not. But I took down Cahors, and that should have earned me some modicum of consideration, of respect.”

“You have my respect, Ohanko, and have for longer than you know. Why would I expend so much time on your training if I did not respect your crafting and your mind?”

This was without a doubt the kindest thing he had ever said to me, and yet it served only to make me more angry.

“You’ve got a pretty twisted way of showing respect.”

“I am sorry you feel that way.”

We fell into a lengthy silence, until at last I said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Bloody hell, ghost! Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

“I still am not certain you are ready to hear all of it.”

“I don’t give a god-damn! Somebody’s trying to kill me. Someone came within a hair’s breadth of killing Billie. Someone is tormenting my dad. And that doesn’t even begin to get at the stuff I’ve been hired to find out. Whether you think I’m ready or not, I’m in it now. And I want to understand it—the risks and the stakes.”