Last Breath (10 page)

If this guy, or gal, was involved with the death magic group or had information about them, I was throwing everything aside to meet up. Magical groups were hard to infiltrate. I’d take anything I could that wouldn’t mean me spending weeks working through networks and nosing around.

I realized I had a bit of a problem once I pulled into Fort McHenry. The park wasn’t exactly the size that would make it meeting-friendly, and my note hadn’t specified exactly where I should be at three o’clock. I’d never been there before, and only vaguely knew the site’s importance in the war of 1812, so I figured I’d start at the beginning—in the Visitor Center.

I was a few minutes early, so I perused the gift shop, giving my donation and receiving a brochure for a self-guided tour that claimed to provide a riveting historical experience of about an hour. Huh. I liked history, although my degree had leaned more toward the European Middle Ages and Renaissance. If there wasn’t a LARP next weekend, I would definitely come back.

“The orientation film is beginning.”

I spun around to see a portly man in a park-service uniform attempting to herd me toward another room with his round arms.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m meeting someone.” I had no idea if I was meeting them here or not, but it was three o’clock and I was keeping my eyes open for… whoever. Would he or she be in a cloak? Have a banner with the symbol on it to help me recognize them? I had no idea.

“Another one won’t start until three thirty, so you best make this one.” The man shooed me again. I moved toward the room just to avoid getting whacked by those thick arms. They were like giant hams, I swear.

“I’ll tell your friend you’re in there.” An arm shot out with surprising speed as I tried to side-step the doorway. “Go on in.”

Far be it for me to get into a brawl with the staff. I edged into the room, taking a seat as close to the door as possible so I could still look out. Thankfully, they left it open as they began the film.

It was hard not to get sucked in. I’d admired the Fort’s layout upon arrival. It was a fascinating defensive structure, positioned perfectly to safeguard the harbor and the city. Just as I was becoming engrossed in the complexities of defending against twenty-five hours of bombardment by British guns and rockets, a man slid through the doorway and sat beside me.

“Shade,” the man muttered.

“Ainsworth,” I muttered back. Was Shade his magical name or his last name? I hoped this was my Deep Throat contact and not just some weirdo commenting on the window treatments.

“The Templar. Most of us wish you’d go back to Virginia, me included, but I want you to know that none of us have any intentions of doing you violence.”

“It’s a free country. I get to live wherever I want to.” That sounded rather churlish, but his statement that a group of mages in Baltimore was aware of my existence as well as his reassurance about my safety threw me.
Someone
must have violent intentions toward me if he felt the need to bring it up.

“I knew it would eventually come to this. You blew the perimeter last night at the Mall,” he continued, his tone somewhat accusatory. “Triggered a domino ward. Be warned that I’m not the only one who knows.”

Knew what? That I was there? “So? The worst I could be accused of is trespassing. You all are facing first-degree murder.”

Shade shifted, sucking in a sharp breath. “We
all
perform death magic, but believe me when I say that the majority of us do not condone human sacrifice or soul magic.”

Soul magic. My blood ran cold at the thought. I’d suspected it when I saw the odd knife mark on the victim’s breast bone, but hadn’t been sure.

“How many do? And is your group willing to turn them in?”

The mage laughed bitterly. “Used to be only one or two would even
think
about using humans to power a spell, but now most of the group is involved. You don’t understand. None of us
want
this. We have to. There’s something… We have to. A few must die for many to live.”

Not that excuse again. How many unwilling victims lost their lives to protect the masses, only to have the masses fall anyway? These things were always temporary and not worth it.

“I don’t care if you all are single-handedly holding back the apocalypse, a woman died. A
real
woman, not some animated character in a video game. Her name was Bethany Scarborough, and she was an insurance adjuster, living happily with her cat in Westminster. She’s dead. And I get the feeling she wasn’t the first. The police are already checking through missing persons’ reports. It’s just a matter of time before they close in on you. Turn in those responsible and there might be an easier sentence for the rest.”

That’s how it worked on television anyway. I was assuming it was the same in real life.

He snorted in the face of my threat. “We’re not sacrificing humans because we get our jollies off on that sort of thing. We
had
to. And when it was clear that wasn’t working, we had to turn to soul magic. And now… I’m not sure anything is going to work.”

There was nothing that could be worth the cost of a human life, or a human soul, and now Shade had just confirmed Janice’s theory that Bethany Scarborough hadn’t been the first. “It’s murder. The cops are involved, and I am, too. You’re going to have to face justice for what you’ve done.”

“I won’t be here. I’m leaving tonight and starting fresh, as far from Baltimore as possible. And I’m not the only one. Do you think we don’t know it’s going to come crashing down now that the police know? And you… A Templar in Baltimore is a serious thorn in our side. It’s all falling apart and once we stop the spells… well, you should probably leave Baltimore, too.”

Golly gee, the drama.

“It’s not just that,” Shade waved a hand. “I was there Friday night. Normally I refuse, but Creek had to take his Mom to the hospital and they needed a thirteenth person.”

“You were there?” It was all I could do to keep my voice hushed. This man sitting next to me had watched a woman being murdered and done nothing to help her. Who
does
that? What kind of monster does that? I ground my teeth, wishing I had the flexibility to yank my sword out and show him exactly how that woman must have felt.

“Yes, I was there,” he shot back. “And something went wrong. The ritual was successful, but something was drawn in and the smudge perimeter barely managed to keep it out. We could feel it, cold and angry as it bashed against the walls. It’s that fucking soul magic, I just know it. We’d only used it once before Friday. I heard the previous week’s ritual went okay, but Friday night’s definitely didn’t.”

I saw red, barely able to process what Shade was saying. Previous week? They were killing a person every week? And they’d
twice
done soul magic—the darkest of all the magical arts.

“That’s why we left everything there,” Shade continued. “Why we didn’t even dismiss the outer circle. Everyone just wanted to get away as fast as they could, and we were all worried that if we opened the circle enough to clean up the body, whatever was out there would get us.”

Cowards. Murderous cowards. “Who’s in charge? Who killed her?”

Shade swallowed audibly. “Breaker. Gryla is our leader, but this was Breaker’s thing. He picks the subjects and organizes the rituals. He’s the one who lets the blood and collects the energy.”

In other words, he’s the one who chooses and kills the sacrifice. I ground my teeth. “Who is Breaker? Tell me and you’ll have a head start out of the city. Keep quiet and I’ll drag you in myself.”

The mage seemed unaffected by my threats. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dead. Breaker’s name is Ronald Stull. The morning after the ritual—the ritual where something tried to get in and tear us apart—he died by a lightning strike in a park. I doubt that’s a coincidence. And that’s one more reason for me to get out of town.”

Oh snap. Seems karma had rebounded hard on Ronald Stull, but not in the form of a weather event. “It wasn’t the lightning that killed him, it was an angel.” I leaned closer to Shade. “Araziel. I’ve got no idea who summoned an angel, or what Ronald did to piss him off, but from what you’re saying Araziel took exception to your ritual Friday night. Run all you want, there’s no escaping an angel if he wants you dead.”

The mage clasped trembling hands together in a futile attempt to still them. “We warded against psychopomps—well, against the avatars anyway. Nothing we could do would completely guard against an angel. Araziel. Shit. Poor Breaker.”

I wasn’t feeling so sorry for the guy. “I need a list of names, Shade.”

He got to his feet in a rush. “No. It’s bad enough that I might have the cops and an angel on my back, I’m not putting myself in a position to be cursed by twenty-four mages. No way.”

I reached out to grab his arm and my hand passed right through him. Illusion. Clever bastard. He turned to me, face pale. It was a good illusion. If I hadn’t just tried to touch him I would swear he stood right in front of me.

“It wasn’t just Breaker,” he said as he edged toward the door. “There’s an outsider, a stranger. He’s at the rituals and is always masked. I got the feeling he and Breaker were close, that this last subject was the stranger’s selection and not Breaker’s.
He’s
the one you want. Everyone else… well, we were just trying to keep the city safe.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the illusion vanished. It was an exercise in futility, but I still ran out into the visitor center, and then to the parking lot to see if I could catch a glimpse of Shade’s physical form. He had to be nearby. Illusions from a great distance were tricky.

Nothing. He was gone and I got the impression that I’d never see him again. That left twenty-four other mages who were guilty of murder by association, regardless of their reasons. Twenty-four mages and one stranger.

T
HANK HEAVEN FOR
miracles. The bone guy must have been particularly intrigued by my case because I had an email from him just as I was running into my apartment.

It was a one word email.
Dog
.

I winced, not liking what that meant. If I found dog bones in all the other makeshift crucibles, then my worst fears would have been realized. If not, if the other quarters held the bones of different animals, then this ritual murder was headed in a completely different direction.

Dog in the north. If there was bird in the east, fish in the west, and a dead scorpion in the south, then the murderer was spelling for control. Usually those rituals were a sort of course correction in the mage’s life, but with death magic involved the spellcaster would be going for a more dramatic effect—control over another, over a group of people, or even over a higher spirit. It would take more than one human sacrifice to gain dominion over a demon, and a heck of a lot more to control an angel. Harnessing the quarters wasn’t the best scenario, but it was hardly the worst. If a mage was casting for control, then they’d be lining up more kills.

But with dog in all four quarters, they’d be doing far worse. Which was why I was praying that the other saucepans held a variety of animal bones.

I found myself with a half-hour before my field trip to Old Mall, so I decided to do some digging. Internet searches for Bethany Scarborough were sadly bland. She was on a few professional network social media sites, listing her resume and work experience. Other than that, nada. I frowned, curious as to why she’d not been on Facebook or other sites. On a whim I looked through Instagram cat pictures, but found nothing beyond the fact that millions of people love posting pictures of their cats on the internet.

Ronald Stull had the internet presence that Bethany lacked. In keeping with his asshole persona, Ronald had been a member of several chat rooms, both advocating
and
railing against gun control. He seemed particularly upset about immigrants and felt the government was spying on him. After reading his posts, I figured he was probably right. Homeland Security watch list or not, there was nothing online to indicate he was a practitioner of death magic. Not surprising. Wiccans and pagans tended to proclaim their religious leanings often and loudly, trying to convince a skeptical public that they only worked magic for good. Ceremonial magicians… not so much. Many of them did keep away from hexes and curses or anything in the gray area that separated black magic from white. Most dipped more than their toes in those waters. Thus most were very careful about who knew what they did on Saturday nights.

Thus why I’d been kicked out of the magical group Haul Du the moment they’d discovered I was a Templar. It had been hard enough to gain entry. I’d been studying magic since I was six, and had needed to walk a fine line between appearing like a thrill-seeker idiot and far too experienced for a layman. After my initiation, I’d been welcomed to the group’s DC location and spent some of the happiest months of my life studying and practicing with those who shared my passion.

Then some jealous asshole got suspicious and figured out who I really was. Racist jerks kicked me out without anything resembling a fair trial. It seems Templars weren’t welcome at Haul Du.

No surprise there. That’s the reason I’d worn wide leather cuffs on both wrists, the right one covering my Templar tattoo. Ever since I’d been kicked out I put away the cuffs. I was a Templar, and if someone had a problem with that, well, too bad.

All that bad blood meant I couldn’t call my former buddies in DC to ask them to weigh in on Araziel or if they knew who beyond Ronald Stull was involved in sacrificial magic.

I’d told the Detective that magical groups were tight. They were. My Haul Du contacts in DC might not have encountered Ronald in person, but they would know who Breaker was if he’d so much as borrowed an occult text from the public library. Luckily there was one other place for me to check. Sage and lemon grass were available at any grocery store, but other magical materials were more difficult to obtain. The internet was usually the go-to source, but only if you were planning ahead for a ritual. There were always those moments when you metaphorically needed to borrow a cup of sugar in the middle of the night, and for that there were magic shops.