Magick Rising (4 page)

yellow tape that flapped maniacally in the wind. Once again, they would find

nothing of import. He’d had decades of experience evading human

detection.

Azrael grumbled discontentedly at his feet.
You risked discovery by the

reporter.

“I knew she would be too slow to see anything.”

But she was close. She heard.

“She heard what I allowed to be heard, that’s all.”

I advise caution.

“With caution, I’ll never accomplish the goal you set me.”

Without it, you most certainly shall not. You recall the consequences if you fail?

“By my soul, I cannot forget. I’m weary of the burden.” And of the

solitude. Once he’d been a congenial man surrounded by friends. Now . . .

Hadrian hunched deeper into his black coat and returned to his

observation of the police investigation. And the exotic-looking reporter

with the crusader’s heart.

GARM LOOMED OVER Miko, trying as usual to intimidate. And as usual,

failing miserably. “You’re on scene in nothing flat. You ramp up the

headlines, and you never see anything. And you want me to believe you saw

nothing again.”

A fat snowflake smacked Miko in the eye. A bad day, now worse. Any

mention of Hadrian Hawken would sound like she was trying to throw

suspicion on someone else just to get out of Garm’s crosshairs. “I told you

no.”

She pulled her
kanzashi
out of her hair, letting the braid drop over one

shoulder. They seemed to buzz in her hand as they had done a lot recently,

and she thrust them into her bag.

“We’re done, Detective.” Ignoring Garm’s objections, she stomped

away from the crime scene where Kelly loaded victim number ten into the

coroner’s van. Another deformed, old homeless man. And not a glimpse of

Mr. GQ. She corrected herself: Hadrian Hawken. No one could have killed

and disappeared that fast. Could they?

Early winter dark enveloped the riverbank outside the glare of the

police lights. The river was developing the slushy appearance that indicated

the temperature was far below freezing. She’d lost feeling in her fingers and

toes hours ago, and her nose was getting close.

She’d keep her suspicions to herself about Hawken. After all, she didn’t

have proof he was the Butcher. Her conscience twinged until she

remembered Garm, apparently impervious to the cold, had intentionally

kept her standing in that wind and snow. Trying to shake her. Treating her

almost like a suspect.

She told her conscience to back off. She’d turn over all her notes, all her

video when—and only when—she was sure Hawken was guilty.

Until then, she’d continue investigating. Fast. The time between

murders was shrinking.

MIKO FLIPPED ON her fireplace and booted up her computer.

Questions careened around her brain: Who was Hadrian Hawken? Surely

his proximity to the latest murder was no coincidence. Why was he even in

town? Colorado Springs was a far cry from Glastonbury.

She poured a glass of merlot and plopped into her chair. A smart

woman with a little knowledge and the right software could track down the

dirt on anyone. All it took was time.

Time she didn’t have. The intervals between kills was decreasing, and

still no Butcher in custody. Next time the victim could be Nic or one of the

guys she knew at the homeless encampment. Although
anyone
being

murdered wasn’t acceptable.

So get a move on, Jones
. She started her search locally. Nothing found, but

not unexpected. She expanded it to include the entire U.S. Still nothing. No

one by that name. No one by any variation of that name.

“Glastonbury,” she said, slugging down some wine. Her search

widened to Britain where centuries of baptismal and other records had been

uploaded, then worldwide. And eventually beyond his name.

She even repeated her previous searches for murders with similarities to

the Skid Row Butcher’s. As before, she unearthed a slew of incidents

extending across the planet and decades back. Centuries if you gave

credence to folklore. Nothing helpful when dealing with a murderer in the

here and now.

Night had begun to give way to dawn, and the wine bottle had been

empty for hours before she was at a standstill.

Hadrian Hawken did not exist. Anywhere. Or anywhere in a language

written in English characters. Although for what it was worth, she’d learned

during her search that, depending on the language, Hadrian meant anything

from soldier to butcher. He didn’t act like a soldier, and she wasn’t

convinced, from one sighting and one chance encounter, that he was

capable of butchering someone either.

Wrapping her uncle’s
yukata
tighter around her, Miko idly made her way

to the front window. She leaned her forehead against the cool pane and

pondered her next move.

She could turn over all her evidence—scant though it was—to the

police and give up the investigation. Her skin crawled at the thought. Uncle

Sinichi could have been one of those John Does. Here or in some other city.

Whether a John Doe was her uncle or not, each one deserved justice. Could

she really trust Garm and his prejudices to work this case with everything

else—those higher “priority” cases—on his plate?

No. No way would she give up. She’d find the truth. Whatever and

whoever it was.

MIKO WAITED UNTIL the sun was well up and the day beginning to

warm before she drove downtown to pick up bribes for Bert, her best

source within the homeless community. Chocolate chunk cookies with

macadamia nuts from Mrs. Fields’ and extra-hot cocoa with two packets of

sugar and whipped cream from Pikes Perk would provide his sugar rush.

The back of her Jeep was already loaded with supplies for the rest of his little

clan who called the area between the river and St. Michael’s home.

As she trudged down the incline toward the camp, ragged men emerged

silently from the trees and brush. A year ago she would’ve turned tail. Today

she smiled at each one as they took the sacks with coffee and donuts. Every

man could count on getting his fair share of the loot in this camp. It was a

peaceful group who took care of their own.

An army vet who hadn’t volunteered his name or anything else since

she’d been visiting approached quietly, and she handed him the Jeep’s key.

“Take a couple buddies to help. I brought water and box lunches.”

The tang of unwashed old man heralded Bert’s arrival. “Still ain’t said a

dang word.”

“Well, we know he can hear, and he doesn’t have an obvious physical

reason not to talk.” Miko studied the guy dressed in desert camo as he

plodded toward her car. Probably less than ten years older than her. About

her uncle’s age. Could Nic’s PTSD have escalated to this degree? Was that

why he went away without telling anyone?

She sighed. Nothing she could do about that right now, but she could

maybe get some answers from Bert. His eyes lit up like a child’s on

Christmas morning when she handed him the cocoa and cookies. Turning

his back on the camp, he shoved the cookies into an inside pocket. Some

guys hoarded cigarettes or alcohol from the group. Bert’s stash consisted of

Mrs. Fields’ cookies.

“I made this for you.” He held out an origami figure crafted from a

dollar bill. Pulling its tail, he shook his head. “Wings don’t work right

though.”

As she always did, Miko took it from him with a delicate touch and

bowed as she would to her great-grandmother. “
Arigatou gozaimasu
.”

A blush stole up his neck into his grizzled cheeks. “Just folded paper.”

“A work of art,” she corrected, securing it in her bag. Neither one of

them mentioned the twenty one-dollar bills tucked in with the cookies.

Still blushing, the old man plunged his nose into the whipped cream as

he chugged down half his cocoa. When he paused for air, the white goo on

the tip of his nose forced Miko to hide a smile as she settled down to

business.

“Is everyone still being careful?”

Bert lifted his head after another gulp. “Hell, yeah. Come nighttime,

we’re all here. No strangers allowed.”

“Are there strangers along the river?”

“There’s always strangers.” His gaze clouded. “Some are mean. Just

puredee mean.”

She probed further, asking for descriptions or memorable details. Even

though the Butcher’s victims had clear and unmistakable deformities, Bert

denied he or his group had seen anyone remarkable.

“Even if you haven’t seen anything dangerous or suspicious, I wish

you’d go to the shelter.”

“No-no-no-no-no.” Bert snagged a breath. “No walls. No-no-no—”

Miko laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Bert. No one will make

you go. Not if you don’t want to go. No shelters. No walls. You can stay

here with your friends.”

The corded artery in his neck pulsed wildly, but he drew in a steadying

breath. “Stay here?”

“You and your friends can stay here. Together. No worries, right?”

The fear receded from his eyes. He sipped his drink before answering.

“No worries.”

She nodded reassurance but still scanned the area for danger zones,

approaches, areas for retreat, safe places. Nic’s martial arts training had

practical application. Her gaze traveled to the church’s bell tower that rose

above the trees. “You head to St. Mike’s if anything happens. Father Dan

will help you.”

“Prissy old fart.”

She chuckled. “He
is
proud of that head of silver hair, isn’t he?” She

squeezed Bert’s shoulder. “But he’s a
good
prissy old fart. So you go there and

ask for help if you need it. Okay?”

Bert handed her the empty cup. “Okay.”

She had to be satisfied with that. After a quick peck on his scratchy

cheek, she returned to her Jeep.

Taking the river bridge a half mile downstream, Miko saw a group of

homeless folks she didn’t know huddled around a garbage can with roiling

flames rising from its center. Without more food to distribute and with

Bert’s remark about mean strangers, she continued past.

Behind her, the flames soared into the gloomy sky as one man chanted

an ancient summons.

THE WIND HAD finally calmed down, and the temperature plummeted.

Each sound was as crisp and brittle as ghost ice, but odors froze in place, too

heavy to be carried on the thin, dry air.

Hadrian stood sentry beneath the tree opposite Miko Jones’ apartment.

He wouldn’t be able to scent his prey tonight. However, any movement

across the winter-dead grass would crackle like fire.

Miko had retired for the night a couple hours before. Only dying

firelight flickered through her bay window. The street was quiet. Too quiet.

No foxes or other night-hunting animals stirred. Something they feared was

coming.

He rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger and scanned the shadows

on either side of Miko’s building.

The sound of feathers swooshed overhead. As that ended, grass

crunched in the side yard across the street. He’d been correct. His enemies

were going to target the young reporter whose investigation threatened to

reveal them prematurely.

The creature rounded the house and paused to study the window above

him. Hadrian’s breath hissed out. The thing was naked with a massive, erect

penis bobbing as it moved.

Incubus.

So the plan was to rape her first, torturing her with nocturnal visits by

the sex demon. If she didn’t die from the incubus’ attentions, Hadrian was

certain another, more lethal, demon would follow.

Timing his movements with those of the incubus, Hadrian crept from

shadow to shadow until he stood mere inches behind the beast. Conscious

of Miko asleep only a few feet away, he waited to draw his weapons until

ready to strike.

The dagger and sword cast a glow over the scene, alerting the incubus.

Too late. The sword cleaved its head from its body. The monster head

appeared to be drowning in its own blood spewing from its mouth. The

body crumpled but made a crude attempt at fighting.

Hadrian wasted no time in driving his dagger into the abomination’s

crasboethiad
, silencing the hellfire’s soul forever. He couldn’t leave the body as

a warning to other demons. That would draw more attention to Miko Jones,

who would probably be the one to find it.

So he dragged it into the shadows and hacked it into pieces that fit

down the sewer drains while Azrael disposed of its foul energies. Once

done, no trace remained of Incubus, Azrael, or Hawken.

The young crusading reporter would be safe for tonight. Hadrian

understood her drive to help innocent victims. It was unfortunate that she

had no way of knowing when those victims were anything
but
innocent.