Authors: David B. Coe
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Urban, #Paranormal
Spell Blind (12 page)
“May I join you?”
She glanced at me, did a double-take. “Mister Fearsson!” Her expression turned guarded; I think she expected me to yell at her, or maybe throw a punch.
“I read your article.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“No. I . . . had a meeting nearby and I saw you come in. I thought I’d say hello.”
“What kind of a meeting?”
A reporter to the core.
“The kind that I’m not going to tell you about.” I reached for the chair opposite hers, and raised an eyebrow. “May I?”
She started to say something; I expect she was going to tell me she was working and didn’t want to be disturbed. But then she smiled. “Sure,” she said, setting her computer aside. “Be my guest.”
“Thank you.” I sat and sipped my coffee. It was pretty good, almost as good as my own.
“How’s your investigation going?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you about that, either.”
“So you’re going to sit there and drink your coffee and not say a word?”
“No,” I said. “I was thinking that we could talk about something other than Claudia Deegan and the Blind Angel murders.”
She shook her head. “Bull. You’re just like me. You don’t want to make small talk. You don’t want to chat with me about the weather or this coffee or the Diamondbacks—”
“You’re a baseball fan?”
“My dad wanted a boy, remember? My point is, you miss being a cop. You’re back working on a case that I’ll bet you’ve been thinking about constantly for a year and a half. You’re as absorbed in your work as I am in mine.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” she said, her green eyes dancing. “You
want
to talk about Claudia Deegan and the other murders.”
“I do?” I asked, laughing.
“Yup. So why don’t you tell me about your meeting and what you’ve learned, instead of playing these games.”
I leaned forward. She did, too, eager, eyes fixed on mine.
“No,” I whispered, and sat back.
Her expression soured. “What is it you’re hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything. That’s the problem I have with reporters. You assume that I have to be hiding something simply because I don’t want to share the details of my investigation with your readers. Isn’t it possible that I have other reasons for keeping these things to myself? Did it ever occur to you that I could actually compromise the investigation by revealing too much?”
She shook her head, a smirk on her face. “That’s an old excuse, Mister Fearsson. Politicians and bureaucrats have been hiding behind that one for a long time. ‘We’re keeping the truth from you,’” she said, in a deep mocking voice, “‘but it’s for your own good.’”
“It’s not an excuse.” I leaned in again. “What if the Blind Angel Killer reads newspapers and blogs?” I asked, my voice low. “I don’t know if he does, but it’s possible, right? I don’t want to tip him off. I certainly don’t want to give him any hints about who I’m talking to, for their sake and mine, too.”
“What about the rest of us?” She gestured toward the front window of the shop. “People out there are terrified of this guy. Don’t they have a right to know how this investigation is going, and how soon they can expect you to catch him?”
“I guess you and I have different priorities. I think it’s more important that people be safe than informed.”
She gaped at me, wide-eyed and clearly disgusted. “You truly think that’s the choice?”
“Yes, I do.”
Her laugh was harsh and abrupt. “Well, good for you, Mister Fearsson! You’ve stumbled across the same excuse for suppressing the media that Hitler and Stalin used! Maybe you’d feel safer living in North Korea!”
People were watching us, some craning their necks to get a better view, which was good, because this wouldn’t have been as much fun without an audience. “I didn’t say anything about suppressing the media,” I told her, keeping my voice low. “I was just pointing out that sometimes giving people too much information can do more harm than good.”
“Well,” she said. “I don’t believe that.”
I took a breath. Too late, I realized that coming into the coffeeshop had been a bad idea. Mental note to self: next time your instincts tell you to stay away from a woman, do that.
“Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you, Miss Castle. I guess I should be on my way.”
“Yes, you should,” she said, already turning back to her computer. “I have work to do.”
Right. I stood and picked up my coffee, having every intention of walking away. But I didn’t.
“You know what?” I said. “I don’t want to go.”
She blinked. “You don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” I sat down again. “I’d rather stay and fight with you.”
She considered me for several seconds, wondering, no doubt, if I was nuts. Then she burst out laughing.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “I guess it is.”
Her laughter faded until she was just looking at me, a quizzical smile on her lips. “Justis is a very odd name for a private detective.”
“What would be a normal name for one?”
“I don’t know. Joe. Dave. Bob. Dick.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“As in ‘Tracy,’” she said grinning. “You know what I mean. Justis sounds so . . . formal.” She shook her head. “That’s not the right word. I guess I’m saying that you don’t seem like a ‘Justis’ to me.”
“That’s why I go by Jay.”
She squinted. After a while she shook her head. “I’m not sure Jay works, either.”
“So you’re going to keep calling me Mister Fearsson?”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
I watched her for a minute, until at last she dropped her gaze, her cheeks coloring. “What?” she said.
“I was thinking that Billie suits you well.”
She had gone shy, but a smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you.”
I glanced around. “This is a pretty upscale coffeeshop. I didn’t think bloggers made any money.”
“Sure we do. I sell ads on my site. For a lot. I probably make more than you do.”
“Everybody makes more money than I do.”
She laughed.
“Did you always want to be a reporter?”
Another laugh escaped her, this one self-conscious and breathless, but her eyes met mine again. “Not always, no. You don’t meet too many kids who want to grow up to be journalists. But once I started college I knew.”
“What did you want to be before then?”
“A ballerina. A movie star. An airplane pilot.” She shrugged. “Little girl stuff.”
“Except the airplane pilot.”
She grinned, nodded. “Right. I wanted to . . . to go places. Travel.”
“Where was home?”
Her smile turned brittle. “Home? Connecticut.”
Two words, but I sensed that there were layers upon layers to her story. I could tell from the tone of her voice and the pain lurking in her eyes. And I found that I wanted to know all of it. Every detail.
“Well you managed to get pretty far away at least.”
“Pretty far,” she repeated. “How about you? Did you always want to be a private eye?”
The way she said “private eye” made it sound far more exciting and exotic than it was.
I grinned and shook my head. “I wanted to be a cop.”
“Of course. Sorry. I forgot.”
“It’s all right. We’re off the record, right?”
She gaze remained locked on mine and her smile warmed once more. She reached up and closed her computer. “We’re off the record.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Leaving the force must have been hard.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“I did. What would you say?”
I hesitated, wondering how much to tell her.
“We agreed that we’re off the record,” she said. “I’d never lie about that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask you questions, does it?”
“No,” I said. “Leaving the force almost killed me. I was a cop for six years, eight months.” I tried to keep my smile from turning bitter, but I’m not sure I succeeded. “I can give you the weeks and days if you want them. It’s lousy work most of the time. You keep bad hours, you get paid next to nothing, and you see things that . . .” I shook my head. “That no one should have to see.” I shrugged again. “And I loved every minute of it.”
“Why?” she asked, making no effort to hide her bewilderment.
“Because I was helping people. Because when Kona and I were working a case, it was like we were solving a puzzle, putting each piece where it belonged, watching as a picture emerged. I liked that.”
“Still, the bad stuff: doesn’t it get to you after a while?”
“It’s part of the job. You live with it.” I sipped my coffee. “Besides, every job has it’s share of crap to deal with. Being a reporter—a journalist,” I corrected, using her word. “It can’t be all flowers and sunshine, right?”
“Oh, it’s not. Especially running my own site. It took ages to establish an audience, to get my writers, to get enough advertisers that I could make some money. It was easy to forget that I was a reporter.”
“And now you get to interview guys like Randolph Deegan.”
She smiled. “Deegan was nothing. I’ve interviewed the president.”
I couldn’t help but be impressed. “Really?”
“Really. The president,” she said, counting on her fingers. “The prime minister of Great Britain, the prime minister of Israel, the chancellor of Germany, the Russian president. There are others who I’m forgetting. I know I’ve interviewed at least eight heads of state.”
“So was I your toughest interview?”
“You wish!”
She had a great smile and a better laugh, and I was content to spend the next hour just talking to her, listening as she described her work. I had to admit that it was far more interesting than I’d expected. Partly—mostly—because of the way she lit up as she spoke. It was her passion, and as she explained all of what she did—the interviews and the writing, the management of her site and its reporters—I began to understand how she could be so jazzed about what I’d always dismissed as nothing more than “the news.” She and her reporters were doing investigative work, too; they were detectives like I was. When she’d finished, I said this, and she seemed to like the idea of it. A lot.
“Do you really believe that?” she asked.
“I do. See that?” I said. “I bet you didn’t think we’d have this much in common.”
She eyed me, still smiling. “No, I didn’t.”
Cops don’t tend to be romantics. We see too much crap on the job—too many killings, too much abuse, too many kids whose lives have been ruined by violence or drugs or sex. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for dreams of romance. This isn’t to say that cops don’t fall in love and get married and all the rest. Of course we do. But Hollywood romance? No. I might not have been a cop anymore, but the job had left its mark on me. Add in that I was the son of a crazy old weremyste and was on my way to becoming one myself, that I’d lost my mom way too early, and that I’d been forced to quit the one job I’d ever loved doing, and I was about the least romantic person I knew.
But in that moment, sitting across from Billie Castle, watching her watch me, I would have done it all to win her over: the flowers, the candlelit dinners. Hell, I would have taken her dancing, if that’s what it took. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been with someone. I don’t mean for a night. That was easy enough to find, if you knew where to look. I’m talking about something serious, something that makes you think about the future.
How weird is that? Twenty-four hours ago I thought she was the most annoying person I’d ever met. An hour ago we were fighting. And here I was getting way ahead of myself. Thinking about it, I realized it wasn’t weird so much as stupid. But that didn’t stop me from opening my mouth again.
I glanced at my watch. Five thirty. “I know it’s a little early,” I said. “But would you like to get some dinner?”
She opened her mouth to reply, her forehead wrinkling a little, and I knew before she said a word that she was going to turn me down.
But at that moment I heard a voice—a man’s voice, of course—call out, “Billie!”
She peered past me, I turned.
He was tall, handsome in a nerdy sort of way. Straight, fine brown hair, parted on the side, dark-rimmed glasses that resembled hers so much it was a little scary. Blue eyes, square chin, blah, blah, blah. He was your basic nightmare in a tweed jacket and jeans. Forced to guess, I would have said that he was a professor at the university. My first thought—after who the hell is this?—was that he had to be every bit as smart as she was, which meant he was way smarter than me. I. Whatever.
I turned back to Billie, and was glad to see that she appeared mortified.
“I’m sorry,” Professor Stud said. “Am I interrupting?” He had stopped a few feet from the table and was eyeing me with a kind of proprietary concern. It’s times like these when I find it dangerous to carry a weapon. The temptation to use it is too strong. But I was good.
I could tell that Billie was gearing up for introductions, and I wanted no part of that. I’m sure her friend was a great guy; intelligent, friendly, articulate. I didn’t want to know about it. I didn’t want to know his name. I didn’t want to find out that he had a solid handshake and a winning smile. In this case, ignorance really was bliss.
When faced with an untenable situation, beat a quick and graceful retreat.
I stood. “Thank you, Miss Castle,” I said in my best Dick Tracy voice. “If you think of anything else, feel free to call me.”
She didn’t say anything. After a few seconds, she nodded.
I stepped away from the table, nodded once to Billie’s friend, and left, hoping to God that I didn’t trip over someone’s bag or try to push the door open when I was supposed to pull it.
See? This is why cops and PIs aren’t romantics. Because we know what the real world is like. And in the real world, these things never work out the way you want them to.
CHAPTER 9
Walking from the coffeehouse back to the Z-ster, I remembered in a rush the weremyste who had been testing my magical defenses as I left Robo’s. I tried to sense him, to open myself to his magic, but I felt nothing. As far as I could tell, I was the only weremyste in the area who wasn’t using blockers. I suppose a sorcerer as powerful as this guy could have hidden himself, but he hadn’t been shy before about letting me know he was nearby. I couldn’t see why he’d start now. Reaching the car, I climbed in, drove one more circle around Robo’s, and headed for home.
My house in Chandler is in a nice family neighborhood near Arrowhead Meadows. It’s not a big place, but it’s more than I need. Two bedrooms, a decent sized kitchen, living room, dining room, two bathrooms. I got a good deal on it and had intended to turn one of the bedrooms into a home office. Then the other office fell into my lap, and I never got around to it.
It was built about twenty years ago, but the previous owners remodeled the place—redid the kitchen and bathrooms, tore out the old carpet and put in oak. Then they got divorced and rather than one of them staying, they sold it and split the money. It’s a good place. Well lit and open. Usually I like it a lot. But this evening, for some reason, it felt big and empty.
Until Namid materialized in the kitchen.
I had just gotten a beer from the refrigerator, though I hadn’t opened it yet.
He took form right in front of me, his waters rough and wind blown.
“I expected you long ago,” he said.
“You my mother now?” I asked with a small laugh.
I started to open the beer, but he shook his head. “Do not drink that now. If you need to drink, have water.”
“Good God, you are my mother.”
“We need to work, and you must be completely clear.”
Strange that my mind should need to be clear and free of alcohol in order to practice magic that was driving me nuts. But he was right. I returned the beer to the refrigerator, poured myself a glass of water, and followed Namid into the living room.
“I felt it again this afternoon. The sense that I was being watched.”
The runemyste turned. “I have no doubt that you were.”
My eyes widened. “Have you learned something about the weremyste who’s following me?”
“No. But it does not surprise me that he tracks you.”
“He? Do you at least know that it’s a man?”
Namid shook his head. “I know nothing, Ohanko. I have told you this already.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Two times now,” he said. “You understand why he does this?”
I nodded. It hadn’t occurred to me until then, but as soon as he asked the question, I knew. “Yes. I warded myself with a deflection spell, in case whoever it is tried to attack me. But nothing happened.”
He said nothing.
“A deflection spell wouldn’t have helped, would it?”
“A deflection spell is easily defeated,” the runemyste said, seeming to choose his words with some care. “A skilled runecrafter would have little trouble overwhelming such a warding.”
“So what should I have done?”
He stepped to the middle of my living room floor and sat, eyeing me like an expectant cat, his head canted to the side. More training.
For once I didn’t argue.
“Do I need my scrying stone?”
“No.” He indicated the floor with an open hand that glowed like starlit waters. “Sit.”
I lowered myself to the floor in front of him.
“Clear yourself,” the runemyste said, once I was settled.
I closed my eyes and summoned the vision of that eagle in the Superstition Wilderness. As I did, everything else melted away. The Blind Angel Killer, Claudia Deegan, Cole Hibbard, Billie Castle, my dad. All of it seemed to dissipate, like a vaporous breath on a cold day. In moments, I was clear, centered.
“Now,” the runemyste said, “defend yourself.”
It was like meeting up with your best friend and having him haul off and punch you right in the mouth, for no reason at all.
One minute I was sitting there, and the next, it felt as though I’d been stung on the legs and arms by twenty hornets.
“Son of a bitch! What was that for?”
“Defend yourself,” he repeated, as calm as you please.
The stinging started again, on my neck and chest this time.
I jumped up, swatting at bugs I couldn’t see. The pain stopped.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, my voice rising.
“I am teaching you to ward yourself.”
“You could at least give me some warning!”
“Will the crafter who tracks you be so courteous?”
That brought me up short. “Of course not,” I said.
“Then why should I?”
There wasn’t a person alive who could make me feel foolish and young the way Namid could. I guess that came with hanging out with a being who was centuries old. “I thought we were going to be training, that’s all. You caught me off guard.”
“You cannot be off guard,” he said. “Ever. Not anymore.”
“You’re scared, aren’t you?”
“I fear nothing for myself. But I would rather you did not die. I have spent too many days teaching you. It would be a waste.”
“Thanks, Namid. I’m touched.”
“Sit down, Ohanko. Clear yourself, then ward.”
I sat once more, took a moment to clear myself, and then started to recite the deflection spell from earlier in the day, just to see what it could do.
I hadn’t gotten two words out before the stinging began again. Chest, back, legs. God, it hurt!
“Damn!” I said. “You’re not giving me a chance!” I raised a hand before the runemyste could answer. “I know. Neither will the other sorcerer.”
Namid nodded once. “Defend yourself.”
I knew that I should have been able to do what the runemyste was asking of me, that my inability to ward myself was a symptom of my greatest weakness as a weremyste. I still thought of spells as being the same as incantations, as something spoken. The fact is, they don’t have to be. Namid, who was driving me crazy with these damned hornets, had not moved or made a single sound. But this did nothing to weaken his magic.
On the other hand, my need to speak spells was weakening me, leaving me vulnerable to his assault. Of course spells involved words. But spells for an accomplished weremyste could be as immediate and powerful as pure thought. The words of a spell had no inherent power beyond what they meant to the weremyste using them. One sorcerer might use a rhyming scheme, while another might just use three words. I usually used a simple list of the elements of the spell, repeated as often as necessary. I also tried to limit my spells to three elements or, if that was impossible, seven. There was power in certain numbers: three, seven, eleven, and some larger primes.
Mostly though, I tried to fix my mind on the magic I was attempting. Casting, like the simple act of clearing, required focus and concentration. The rest was a matter of style.
My goal in casting spells—Namid’s goal for me—was to get to the point where I could conjure without words, without fear or doubt, without hesitation.
And I wasn’t there yet. Not even close.
Not to make excuses, but it’s hard to focus when you’re being stung by dozens of invisible, magic hornets.
I tried to cast the deflection spell again, though I knew it wasn’t the right defense against this attack. It was the warding I knew best, the one I turned to when I didn’t know what else to do, and at that moment, I couldn’t even get it to work. I should have tried a simpler conjuring. There are lots of warding spells. One of them sheathed the body in a sort of magical cocoon; another, which I’d yet to learn, allowed a weremyste to transport himself somewhere else. Ideally I would have liked to try a reflection spell and sick the vicious stinging bastards on Namid. Somehow, though, I knew it wouldn’t work. The problem was, I couldn’t come up with anything that would.
After a few minutes, the stinging stopped and Namid just sat there with his eyes fixed on mine.
“You are not even trying.”
“Yes, I am,” I said, sounding like a bratty little kid. “I’m out of my depth here, Namid. The magic we’ve done before and what you’re asking me to do now. . .” I shook my head. “They’re totally different.”
“They are not different at all. You need to be clear and focus. Otherwise you cannot defend yourself and you will be killed. It is that simple.”
A book flew off one of my shelves and sailed right at my head. I ducked. The book hit the opposite wall and fell to the floor.
“Damn! You’re crazy! You know that?”
“You warded yourself.”
“No, I didn’t. I just ducked.”
“Did the book strike you?”
“No.”
“Then you warded yourself. You did so without craft, but it was a warding nevertheless.”
“What’s your point, ghost?”
His expression didn’t change at all. I needed to find a new way to get him riled.
“That you ducked without a thought. You simply acted. That is how magic should be. You think too much, Ohanko. And at other times you do not think at all. You are a most difficult man.”
I had to grin. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who always shows up uninvited.”
“Clear yourself.”
I did. And this time when the attack came, I resisted the urge to speak the deflection spell. Instead I envisioned his attack bouncing off of me, two dozen watery hornets clattering against the walls. My body, the hornets, the walls. Three elements. I didn’t bother repeating them three times. I inhaled, feeling the magic build within me, and released it.
I wasn’t stung once.
“Better,” he said. “You knew how I would assail, and when. But still, that was better.” He paused. Then, “Defend yourself.”
Fire this time. Aqua green flames licking at my hands and arms. I almost panicked. But instead I managed to turn that fear into craft. Deflection wouldn’t work, so I went with the cocoon. Shielding, it was called. Once more, three elements: my body again, the fire, the cocoon. It worked.
“Good,” the runemyste said, sounding surprised. “Defend yourself.”
A second later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned just enough to see, then froze. Not two feet from where I sat, a snake lay in a tight coil, its head reared back to strike. I didn’t have time to mark what kind it was, or whether it was venomous. This was Namid I was dealing with. I assumed the worst.
This time at least, I had a pain-free second in which to think. Camouflage spell, but with a twist. Snakes hunted by smell, using their tongues to taste the air, and they waited for motion before striking. So I had to make myself invisible and scentless. Pit vipers could also sense temperature, but I didn’t know how to lower my body temperature to match the air in the house.
Camouflage wardings were the most complicated spells I knew, almost as difficult as some of the simpler transformation spells. I visualized myself blending with my surroundings, so that to the snake I would appear in every way to be nothing more or less than empty space. I slowed my breathing, and recited the spell to myself.
The snake. My body. My scent. The air around me. The wall behind me. The picture hanging on that wall. Back to the snake again. After a few moments, the snake’s posture changed. Its tongue flicked out three times, as if it were trying to find me again. I eased my Glock free.
Before I could shoot it, the snake vanished.
“Good, Ohanko. Very good.”
I closed my eyes.
“Clear yourself.”
“Let me rest a minute.”
I thought he would argue, but he nodded and sat there.
“Are there other warding spells you can teach me?” I asked.
“You must master the ones you know.”
“I understand that. I’m asking if there are more.”
“Of course. There are always more.”
I laughed. “Always? You never run out?”
“Never,” he said, without a trace of humor. “If you cannot remember one, you must create one yourself.”
“Wait. You mean I can make up my own spells?”
“You are a runecrafter. How do you think the spells you know came into being?”
I shrugged. “I guess I thought that you made them up, or brought them from the Runeclave, or something like that.”
“Magic is a craft, and though it might not seem so, it is a living craft.” Something resembling a grin crept over the spirit’s face. “Your father created a spell.”
“My father?”
He nodded.
“Teach it to me.”
“I do not know that you are ready for it.”
That stung. “He was that much better than me?”
“He was older when he created this spell. And at that time, yes, he was a far more accomplished crafter than you are now.”
“Teach it to me anyway.”
It was a complicated spell. Impressive, but complicated. My father had found a way to combine two different kinds of transporting spells, one which allowed him to move himself a short distance, and another which in effect transported an object—in this case his weapon—to his hand. The trick, of course, was to carry off the two spells simultaneously, so that he could go from being unarmed and vulnerable to being armed and protected in the blink of an eye.
Try as I might, I couldn’t do it. It was good practice. After several tries, I’d nearly mastered a basic transporting spell. But my pistol always wound up lying on the floor in the spot where I’d been. I gave up on that one for the time being, vowing to practice it on my own later. Namid had other spells to teach me, and for once I was eager to learn. Maybe it was the stark memory of feeling so vulnerable on the street earlier in the day. Maybe it was hearing that my father had been better at this than I was. Whatever the reason, on this night I worked my craft as I never had before.
I was in the middle of trying a new assailing spell when I heard a knock at the door. Namid’s glowing gaze locked on mine.
“Are you expecting someone?” the runemyste asked.
“No.” I glanced at my watch. Almost nine-thirty. We’d been working for close to three hours. Whoever it was knocked again. I stood and started toward the door.
“Careful, Ohanko.”
I glanced at him and nodded. Then I crossed to the door, unlocked it, and prepared to pull it open, all the while reciting a shielding spell in my head.
