Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles, Book Two) (29 page)

She got out of the car and followed Quinn over to several signs. She read the first out loud: “Balls Bluff National Battlefield.”

“There was a battle near Leesburg?” she asked.

She knew there had been plenty of Civil War skirmishes throughout Loudoun County. But she hadn’t known there was one here.

“A small one,” Quinn said. “And look at the date.”

Kate read the sign.

“October 21, 1861,” she said. “Today.”

“Why did you want to come here?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just felt something when we drove nearby. I can’t explain it.”

She tried to share her feelings with him, but it was almost no use. She just felt drawn there for some reason.

“You want to walk on?” he asked.

They hiked up an old section of road that was closed to cars toward the national cemetery.

“What’s the history here?” she asked.

“Not much to it,” Quinn said. “It was the early days of the war. The Confederates had just won the first battle of Bull Run. Some Union scouts in Maryland thought they saw a massive Confederate encampment around these parts. When the Union sent a force in, they discovered it was actually just a row of trees. While the North was still figuring out what to do—should it withdraw or attack Leesburg—some Confederates discovered them and began firing.”

“The whole thing was an accident?” she asked.

“A very bloody one,” Quinn said.

Most of the area was forested, but near the cemetery was a wide open field, evidently there to give a sense of what the battlefield had looked like. The terrain was uneven, and Kate and Quinn walked uphill to look at some old cannons.

“The whole thing snowballed,” he continued. “Both sides kept reinforcing their own.”

“Who won?” she asked.

“The South,” Quinn replied. “The Union commander was a senator and not very experienced. He positioned his troops badly—had them trapped between the bluff and Confederates shooting at them from higher ground. When the Union retreated, they tried to get across the Potomac River.”

He led her past the cemetery, which was surrounded by a low brick wall. Kate looked inside. She saw a flag and a small circle of graves surrounding it.

“Not that many graves here,” she said. “Did many people die?”

“Hundreds,” Quinn replied. “But very few were buried here.”

They kept walking up a small path to the top of a tall hill. Below Kate the ground dropped off—like a small cliff. Looking down, she could see the river.

“Most of them never made it back across the Potomac,” Quinn said. “The Confederates kept firing and the boats capsized. It took days to find all the dead.”

Kate shivered as she looked down at the river. She could almost see them struggling to swim ashore, the river turning red with blood. She closed her eyes. Why was she here? What strange instinct led her to this place on the anniversary of the battle?

“I belong with the dead,” she said.

Quinn looked at her and a strange premonition passed over him. He put his arms around her.

“God, I hate it when you say that,” he said.

She struggled to clear her mind, but she could still hear the sounds of the battle. She heard a cannon fire, the blast as it shook the earth, and then shouting. A hail of bullets seemed to come through the trees.

“Why is it that men always seem to glorify these battles?” she said to try and push the sights and sounds from her mind.

“When did I do that?” he responded.

“It’s not you, it’s the entire South,” she said. “All the towns around here still hang on to this conflict like it just happened. It’s almost wistful—as if they wish they had won.”

“Maybe some people do, but I don’t think that’s the issue for most,” Quinn replied. “You’re forgetting the enormous cost of the war. More soldiers died in the Civil War than all other American wars combined. People don’t recover from that kind of devastation easily, least of all the towns where the war was fought. Most of the soldiers who died were farmers and young kids—people who had little to do with the larger issues at stake. They were simply fighting for their homes.

“It would be better if people didn’t romanticize the Civil War for lots of reasons, or gloss over the moral abomination of slavery. But I understand why the towns around here still talk about the war. It’s not just people who have a past that haunts them—places do too.”

*****

October 23, 2007

Quinn sat at his desk trying to concentrate on work.

Their boss hadn’t talked to him or Kate since the night he came over. Quinn almost expected the police to show up and haul them both away—whether to a jail cell or a padded room, he had no idea.

Although he had put up something quickly for the website last week, Quinn had taken his time writing the full-length story on Summer yesterday. The police had declared her death an accident, the result of a random encounter with a wild animal. Sheriff Brown knew better, of course, but he was keen to avoid the panic that would result if another death were attributed to the Prince of Sanheim.

The national media, who had been obsessed with Lord Halloween, and the FBI, which had almost defiantly stayed out of the action last time, were sniffing around now about yet another killer on the loose. To date, Brown had managed to insist the situation was under control. The only death that was attributable to the Prince of Sanheim was Robertson, and it wasn’t quite enough for either CNN or the FBI to be involved. Mandaville’s death was carefully swept under the carpet, and for once, Quinn had every intention of going along with the cover-up. He knew too much about what was really happening to try to report on it.

In the meantime, Quinn sat at his desk with his stomach roiling, feeling like something was twisting in his gut.

What would happen if Sawyer made good on his threat to attack Leesburg? Would Quinn be able to stop him? And if he couldn’t, how many people would die? All those deaths would be on Quinn’s conscience. Lord Halloween had targeted Leesburg long before he knew Quinn. Sawyer was only here because Quinn and Kate were—and would attack the town because they had refused to step aside.

A shadow fell over his desk and Quinn looked up. Gerri, the front-desk receptionist, stood there.

“A gentleman popped in to give you this,” she said brightly. “Are you okay, honey?”

Her terms of endearment always sounded so sweet and innocent.

“I’m fine, Gerri,” Quinn replied. “Thanks.”

She handed Quinn a small envelope, the kind of card you attach to a Christmas present, and then walked away.

The front of the card was not addressed. Quinn turned it over and looked at it, but it had no distinguishing features—it was white and nondescript. Yet he had a feeling of dread as he opened it. He took out the card, also plain and white, and opened it up.

“Ashburn,” it said. “Tonight.”

*****

Quinn walked over to Kate’s desk, where she quickly finished her phone call. He handed her the card.

“So it’s starting,” she said.

I’m going to see if I can find out more from Gerri
, Kate thought.
I want to know who gave her the card.

Quinn nodded and she walked to the front of the paper. At least that was something, Quinn thought. Whether it was the ice cream or the Civil War battlefield, Kate finally seemed to have snapped out of her funk.

Kate came back and gestured to the kitchen. They walked over to make tea. They could have used their mental connection, of course, but they tried not to do so for long conversations in public. It had a way of drawing even more attention to them.

“Guy came in wearing a hoodie and glasses,” Kate said. “But judging from Gerri’s description of his general height and build, I’d say it was Kieran.”

“Which leaves us with two possibilities,” Quinn said. “He is legitimately warning us…”

“Or he’s leading us astray,” Kate finished. “It’s a distraction and Sawyer will attack somewhere else.”

Quinn thought for a moment.

“I’m inclined to believe him,” he said finally. “We know someone was trying to give us clues about the Prince of Sanheim—the graffiti on the wall.”

“And the hoodie and glasses get-up also describes who those two kids met,” Kate replied. “So you think Kieran’s actually on our side?”

“It’s possible,” Quinn said. “But why would he warn us? Why help us decode the book?”

“Sawyer seems to have a thing for mind games,” Kate replied. “This could just be one of them. Make us trust Kieran, then have him betray us.”

Quinn grabbed a chair nearby and sat down. He was looking at Kate, but his stare was far away.

“It kind of fits though, doesn’t it?” he asked. “All the other
moidin
seem to be just sheep. They worship Sawyer. They are attuned to his every emotion. Kieran, on the other hand, is clearly Sawyer’s right hand man, but doesn’t appear to like him very much. Or at least is pretending not to. In the car, he seemed to be baiting Elyssa.”

“So who is he?” Kate asked. “And why would he be helping us now?”

“There’s one other thing,” Quinn said. “I wonder if he was the one who left the book in Zora’s room.”

“For us? How would he even know we would find it?” Kate asked.

“No idea,” he said. “But when Sawyer asked how we found the book, Kieran looked distinctly nervous.”

“Does that also mean he killed her, or was at least there when she died?” Kate asked.

“I thought that too. He could have killed her. We know nothing about him. We know almost nothing about any of them.”

He swore under his breath.

“We’re going to get our asses kicked,” he said finally.

“Way to think positive, Quinn,” Kate said. “I’m sure that’s what Washington said when he crossed the Delaware.”

“I’m trying to be realistic,” Quinn said. “Let’s assume this tip-off is real. What then?”

“We go to Ashburn to fight him,” she replied.

“Them, not him,” Quinn responded. “It’ll be him and Elyssa at least. Exactly what the
moidin
do I have no idea, but there are easily three dozen of them.”

“I’m not worried about them.”

“You should be,” Quinn said. “They won’t be standing around cheerleading.”

Quinn had a sudden ridiculous image of a squad of Sawyer’s
moidin
doing exactly that. One of them was yelling, “Give me an S. Give me an A.”

He looked at Kate.

“Did you put that image in there?” he asked and pointed to his head.

She smiled. “What’s that spell? Sawyer!”

“Very cute,” he responded, “but I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said. “They really don’t matter. Cut off the head and the beast dies. No matter what, we go for Sawyer. The rest are a distraction.”

“Risky,” Quinn said.

“So was facing the Headless Horseman by yourself,” she responded. “You did great.”

“If by ‘great’ you mean I barely survived.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Besides, what choice do we have? Unless you want to start campaigning around the office for a few followers of our own. I’m sure Helen would join right up.”

“Fine, I’m game,” Quinn said. “But what about you? Three days ago I was almost worried you were going to jump off a bridge.”

Kate sighed.

“I’m still nervous,” she said. “But it’s time to move past this. We’ll find a nearby cemetery and plant ourselves there. I’m hoping that maybe I can…”

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice behind them said.

Kate and Quinn turned to find Tim standing behind them.

“Could I see you in my office?” he asked.

Quinn shrugged and the two of them followed Tim back. When they entered, he shut the door.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“You want my story idea list?” Quinn asked. “Or did you mean something else?”

“You know damn well what I meant,” he replied. “Whenever I see the two of you huddling, I get anxious. Very anxious. Something’s up.”

Quinn reached into his pocket and handed Tim the card. He read it impassively before looking up.

“What’s happening tonight?”

“We don’t know,” Quinn said, “but it’s not good. The people who killed Summer are planning something.”

“Have you warned the police?” Tim asked.

“I’m not sure you get it,” Kate responded. “The police won’t be able to stop this.”

“Stop what, exactly?” Tim asked.

“We don’t know,” Quinn said.

“No offense, but you seem to say that a lot,” Tim said. “Lives are at stake and you don’t want to at least warn people?”

“We can stop it,” Kate said.

“Really? You sure about that?”

“No,” Quinn said.

“There seems to be a difference of opinion,” Tim said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn replied. “What would you tell the police? That you heard a crazy person might be attacking Ashburn tonight?”