To Kill a Sorcerer
Read To Kill a Sorcerer Online
Authors: Greg Mongrain
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
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For Lauren and Kristi
Prologue
Monday, December 20, 3:45 p.m.
Sherri set down her calculus book and rose from the couch, heading for the foyer to see who had rung the doorbell. She looked through the small window, her hand resting on the knob. A tall black man stood on the porch, wearing a suit and tie and holding a big sample case.
Oh, no, not a salesman
, she thought. He had a nice face, so she would give him a couple of seconds, then politely tell him she didn’t want what he had for sale. She had to get back to studying for tomorrow’s test.
She pulled the door open, a smile on her face. “Yes?”
He smiled back at her. “I am here to prepare you for the afterlife,” he said. He raised his hand and sprayed something in her face.
Startled, she leaned back, inhaled the mist, and lost control of her body.
The man lunged into the foyer and grabbed her by the front of her tank top. A ripping sound followed, but the fabric held, and the man eased her to the tile floor. He turned and shut the door with his elbow. While he looked through the small window, he pulled a pair of clear examination gloves out of his jacket pocket and put them on. Exhaling explosively, he twisted the lock on the knob, turned, and knelt next to her, pressing his fingers against her neck.
He looked into her eyes. “Good,” he said. “Very good.”
He picked her up gently and carried her back to the living room, setting her on the sofa on her side, her back against the cushions. He carefully turned her head so she could see everything he did.
Stunned by the speed of events, Sherri watched the man with fascination. As her situation became clearer, fascination gave way to fear, fear to terror. Lying helpless, she could only watch this stranger do to her whatever he liked.
Retrieving his case, he set it on the carpet in front of the coffee table, unclasped the top, and began unpacking. First was a large, clear bundle that made a heavy crinkling sound as he set it on the floor behind him. Next came an ornate chalice covered with hieroglyphs, followed by a small plate upon which he placed an incense cone. Pulling a matchbook from the case, he struck a match against the side, and lit the little pyramid, holding the flame against it until a spiral of smoke rose steadily. The air smelled of phosphorus, then the strong perfume of incense.
After returning the matchbook to his case, he tossed the burned match in, too. Then he reached inside and pulled out a shining item.
Now he stared at her, a smile curving his lips, and held up his hand so she could see what lay on his palm. The knife had a long, curved blade and a hilt covered with strange symbols.
Her crystal-blue eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, Sherri silently screamed for her mommy and daddy to come home. She felt tears rolling across her cheeks, her senses so exquisite she could hear the drops land on the soft fabric of the couch. Her terrified mind gibbered and moaned, knowing she would not take tomorrow’s math test after all, feeling more lost and alone than she ever had.
The intruder dropped the knife and looked up. Delving into his case once more, he took out a length of white rope with a noose on one end and stood. Reaching up, he unhooked one of the potted plants hanging from the exposed beam, set it on the coffee table, then looped the rope through the empty hook, allowing the pre-tied opening to hang about two meters from the carpet. He pulled, lifting himself off the ground. When he alighted, he gave a nod.
After securing the rope, he wrestled Sherri off the couch, holding her upside down. She felt her ankles snared by the rope, followed by sharp, cutting pain when the man released her and her ankles took her full weight. She swayed forward and back until he steadied her. He used the blade to cut away her top and bra.
He set the chalice, incense, and knife on the carpet beneath her hanging arms. He picked up the crinkling package and began unfolding it. Clear plastic overalls took shape. The man stepped into them and zipped them up to his neck. Crackling like a wood bonfire, he knelt in front of her.
Pulling a clear plastic shaker from the case, he popped off the top. As he tipped it over the chalice, his hand shook, spilling some of the contents on the carpet. Once he had emptied it, he capped it and tossed it back into the bag.
“Now we begin the mystical ceremony whereby I take your soul and make it my slave.” He leaned down so he could look into her eyes. Tears streamed off her forehead, mixed with mucus from her nose. “The path to true salvation is a painful road spread out over a person’s lifetime. But for a chosen few, this journey is compressed into moments. That is the road you must travel now, Sherri. Do you think you can feel the pain? Believe me when I tell you that you’ve never experienced pain like what I’m going to cause you now.”
Through the sharp cries echoing in her head, Sherri understood the purpose of the plastic suit. It was to protect him from her blood. Her cries turned to shrieks, pleading with God to send her parents home, knowing he wouldn’t, knowing what her parents would see when they finally came through the front door.
“Let’s begin.”
Her eyes great orbs of terror, Sherri watched the man pick up the dagger and the cup. He straightened, pressed the chalice between her bare breasts, and raised the knife.
Tuesday, December 21, 8:38 p.m.
Languishing in traffic on the 101 freeway near Laurel Canyon Boulevard, I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and wondered if I would ever crack the six-mile-per-hour mark again.
Three hours earlier, I had heard the following news story:
“Police still have no suspects in yesterday’s brutal slaying of a seventeen-year-old girl in Sherman Oaks. The bizarre killing has sent a shockwave of fear through the community, prompting many residents to keep firearms close at hand. Van Nuys Chief of Detectives Sonja Reyes asks that anyone with information relating to this crime call the LAPD hotline or this station.”
Chief Reyes had taken my private call.
“No, Montero,” she said. “I can’t let you in on this one.”
She knew better than that. Still, she tried to stall. “I’ve put Hamilton and Gonzales on it.”
“Good. It will be a pleasure to work with them again.”
“They won’t like it.”
I waited. Silence can be an effective communication technique.
“Okay, if you want in, I can’t stop it,” she said. “But this is as high-profile as it gets. Don’t make us look bad in front of the press or any of the social media networks.”
“If I make a mistake, Chief, I’ll take myself out of the mix. You have my word.”
Silence.
“So . . . do you know where Hamilton and Gonzales are now?” I asked.
“The coroner’s, last I heard. They’ll be at the mayor’s Christmas party in about three hours, from nine to ten thirty.”
“The mayor’s party? At the Houdini mansion?”
“That’s right. He wants to be seen with the two lead investigators on such a sensational case. I assume you received an invitation?”
She knew I had. She also knew I rarely attended publicity events. And I was particularly keen to miss this one.
“If you want to talk to my detectives, do it then. I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t want you directly involved in the investigation until tomorrow morning. Leave my men alone after you talk to them tonight. I’ll have the case file e-mailed to you and Preston immediately.”
“One Adam twelve,” I responded.
She disconnected. Efficient management was one of Reyes’s strong suits.
And that was my reason for being jammed in gridlock on a Tuesday night, headed for the second most haunted building in the Los Angeles area.
Tuesday, December 21, 9:12 p.m.
In 1699, Chinese Emperor K’ang-hsi commanded my attendance at his forty-fifth birthday celebration. After becoming inebriated on cherry wine, he had pressed me to marry his youngest daughter. A double widower, I had politely refused, though talking my way out of the imperial request had required all the diplomatic delicacy I possessed.
No amount of savoir faire would work with Detectives Hamilton and Gonzales tonight.
I pulled up in front of the valet stand. The kid in the black pants and white shirt who opened my door probably did not shave yet.
“Sorry,” I told him, “but I want someone older.”
“I can park it,” he said, eyeballing the Maserati’s glowing interior.
I stepped past him, buttoning my jacket, two hundred-dollar bills in my hand. I held them out to the young lady standing behind the podium.
“I’d like you to park it . . . uh, personally.”
Methuselah never stated he saw doubles of the people he knew during his 969-year life—probably because there weren’t many human beings around in his time. In my seven-plus centuries, I have seen doppelgangers who were such exact duplicates of people I had known, I wondered if they truly were reincarnations.
But never once did any of them look upon me with recognition, though I stared at each of them meaningfully. I even approached one woman. We spent a wonderful evening together, but I determined without doubt she was not a reborn version of the same girl I had known four centuries earlier.
The woman in front of me presented a perfect example. Brown hair and green eyes, with a tall, hourglass figure, she looked like the living replica of Marguerite, my younger sister, gone now these six hundred years.
Memories cascaded. Smells, laughter, the faces of my childhood family—sleeping on a straw-covered floor with Margie, our baby brother James wedged between us.
The lovely valet looked me over slowly with a small smile. “No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s not nearly enough,” she said, gesturing at the bills in my hand.
Dazed, I pulled out another three hundreds.
She shook her head and ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. She wore her hair piled atop her head and black-framed glasses sat on her delicately shaped nose. White teeth shone behind glossy, dark-pink lipstick. She looked like a librarian who preferred the erotic version of
Sleeping Beauty
to D. H. Lawrence’s
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
.
