Authors: David B. Coe
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Urban, #Paranormal
Spell Blind (18 page)
Shari was slow to answer, and I began to wonder if I’d scared her too much. But then the door opened a crack and she peered out at me over the chain.
“Yes? What—” Her mouth fell open. “You,” she whispered. “How did you—?”
“I followed you.”
“You had no right!”
I showed her my license. “My name is Jay Fearsson, Ms. Bettancourt. I’m a private investigator. I’m doing some work on the Blind Angel killings. I need to ask you some questions.”
She shook her head. Opening the door a bit more, she looked past me into the street, her eyes wide and fearful. “You have to leave. Now, before he sees you.”
“You mean the man who gave you that necklace? The one who used his magic on it?”
Her eyes snapped to me and she opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You have to leave,” she said again, and started to close the door.
“I’ll tell the police to speak with you,” I said, blurting it out.
She’d nearly gotten the door shut, but now she opened it again, appearing even more frightened than she had before. “You can’t!”
“I will. I have to. We have to stop him.”
The woman laughed, sounding half-nuts, as if her phasing had already begun.
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” she said. “You can’t stop him anymore than you can stop the moon from rising.”
“He’s a powerful weremyste, I know. But . . .”
I broke off. She was laughing again, though there were tears in her eyes.
“You’re an idiot. Get out of here before you get me killed. Please!”
“Who is he? What’s his name? You have to tell me something! Anything!”
She shook her head, scanning the street again.
“He’ll kill again, Shari. You know he will. But we can stop him.”
“No, you can’t!” she said, her tone fierce. “No one can! He’s much, much more than you think he is.”
“What do you mean? Tell me about the magic he used on your necklace.”
Her hand strayed to her chest, where the pendant lay beneath her dress. Then she gripped the door again. “You have to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “You know what this man’s done. You know how many people he’s killed. You have to help me stop him.”
She hesitated, and I wondered if maybe I had gotten through to her.
“I will,” she said. “Really. But not now, not here. You have to go. Please.” This last she whispered. There were tears on her face.
I didn’t want to. Kona and I had been after the Blind Angel Killer for three years, and here at least was someone who knew him, who could describe him, tell me his name. She might even have known where he lived. He’d done more than give her a pendant. I was sure of it. That stone still glowed with his magic, which meant that he had done something to it recently. Red’s magic faded too fast for that glow to be from an old spell. Was he communicating with her in some way? Was she helping him? If I could convince her to let me into the house for a moment, I was confident that I could get something of value out of her.
“Just a few questions,” I said, pleading with her. “Tell me his name. His address if you know it.”
“I can’t.” She started to push the door closed. Then she stopped, her face contorting.
“Oh, my God! He’s here! You fool! You let him follow you!”
I started to tell her that I hadn’t been followed, but in that instant I felt him, too. The air around us seemed to come alive with magic; it felt charged, the way it does in a desert lightning storm.
She backed away from the door without closing it.
“No!” she said.
I felt his power, but it wasn’t directed at me, as it had been outside Robo’s or Robby’s house or Antoine’s.
“Let me in!” I shouted. “I can protect you if you let me in!”
“No!” she said again, but it wasn’t directed at me. She said a name—it sounded like Cower, but that wasn’t quite it. “Please, no!”
A moment later she screamed, clutching at the pendant or at her chest. She dropped to the floor, her body convulsing, her head jerking from side to side.
“Ms. Bettancourt! Shari! Let me in!”
She screamed again, the sound strangled this time. I considered kicking the door in, but thought better of it. I didn’t think I could get to her fast enough to ward her from whatever magic he was using. Instead, I pulled my weapon and whirled, searching the street. I was frantic; he had to be close.
And this time I saw him.
He stood at the corner on the far side of the street and he bore little resemblance to the bald man I’d seen in my scrying stone the day before while standing on the spot where Claudia Deegan died. He had long white-blond hair and a thick beard, and he was dressed in tattered jeans, a t-shirt, and an old army coat. But as soon as I spotted him, I knew it was the same guy. He shimmered and wavered like a mirage on a desert highway.
He must have seen the recognition in my eyes, because an instant later I felt his magic turn itself on me. I tried a warding spell, but knew that it would fail. Desperate, acting more on instinct than on rational thought, I raised my Glock and fired.
My aim was true. I’m sure of it. In all my years as a cop, and even in my academy days, I’d been great with a pistol. But somehow I missed this time. Instead of hitting him square in the chest, the bullet struck the street sign above him and to the left. A deflection spell, probably. If he’d used reflection magic instead, I’d have killed myself.
He glared at me, pale eyes blazing like stars in a night sky. Then he turned and ran. I spared only an instant for Shari, who I could see through the narrow gap in her doorway. She lay crumpled on the floor, as still as death, her hands folded over her chest.
There was nothing more I could do for her. I whirled and ran after her killer.
CHAPTER 14
Shooting at him had been stupid—useless as well as dangerous. On the other hand, it had made the sorcerer run, and might well have saved my life, at least for the moment. The rest was all nuisance. Someone was going to call the police, and I’d have to explain why I’d discharged my weapon, and what role I’d played in Shari’s death. Given the chance I would have called 911 for her, of course, but I would have done so anonymously. No chance of that now.
But those were matters for later. In that instant I was interested only in the blond-haired, bald man who had killed her.
He’s much, much more than you think he is . . .
What had she meant by that?
I knew he was a more powerful weremyste than I was. He might have been the strongest sorcerer I’d ever encountered. And I guessed he was strong physically, too. He appeared to be at least half a foot taller than me. He had the build of an athlete, and I couldn’t help remembering how far into South Mountain Park he’d carried Claudia. I also couldn’t deny that he was pulling away from me as we ran, much the way Antoine had the other day.
But I had a feeling that Shari had meant more than all of that.
It occurred to me that given the ease with which he’d tested my defenses those three times, chasing after him might not have been the best idea.
Even as I formed the thought, he stopped and turned to face me. I slowed, then halted, too, holding my weapon loosely at my side. I had a feeling that shooting at him again would be pointless, that he would be able to save himself with magic. The same magic he could use to attack me.
Defend yourself!
It was as if Namid was right beside me, shouting warnings. I sheathed myself in a shielding spell, the same protective cocoon I’d used against against Namid’s magical fire. At the same time, I raised my pistol again.
The sorcerer laughed.
The touch of his magic was about as light as one of those lead aprons the dentist gives you for x-rays. It draped over my mind, pressing down on me. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs. I stood on the sidewalk, my weapon still aimed at the man, and I couldn’t even bring myself to pull the trigger.
“You should have left it alone,” he said. He didn’t shout or call back to me. He spoke the words, and I heard them as I would if he had been standing beside me, whispering in my ear. He had an accent of some sort, but at that moment I couldn’t place it. “You should have stayed away.”
My shooting hand started to turn. I fought to keep the Glock trained on him, but I might as well have tried to make the sun move west to east. I had no control over my own body. In a tiny corner of my mind I wondered what spell he was using on me; it was beyond any magic I knew. Panicking, I tried everything I could think of to throw him off. I recited wardings in my mind. I threw assailing spells at him. I even attempted my father’s transporting spell. Nothing worked. The weapon was turned toward me now. I opened my mouth and stuck the muzzle in, tasting the tang of metal and the bitter residue of gunpowder. I wanted to gag, but I couldn’t even do that much.
I felt my trigger finger twitch, and I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face.
I heard Namid’s voice again.
Defend yourself!
Yes. I refused to die here, killed by my own pistol. I had thrown every spell I knew at the guy, but maybe that was my mistake.
Three elements: the sidewalk, his feet, and a great big crack in the cement. I knew I couldn’t hurt him, but I didn’t need to. I only needed to knock him off balance for a second.
And I did. I opened my eyes in time to see him stumble, then right himself.
His magic wavered for an instant, long enough that I managed to pull the weapon from my mouth, nearly retching. I pointed the Glock at him again, though my hand was unsteady and my legs felt like they were about to give way.
“Hey! What the hell are you doin’?”
The voice came from the house to the right of me. I glanced that way, but wasn’t willing to take my eyes off the sorcerer for long. I saw anger flash across the killer’s face, and then I saw him laugh again.
He ran, vanishing around a corner. I couldn’t tell if he’d gone past the point where I could see him, or had used a spell to make himself disappear. To be honest, I didn’t care. I sank to my knees, my chest heaving.
“Hey, mister? You all right?”
I looked over at the man who’d saved my life. He was wearing old cutoff-jean shorts and a sleeveless undershirt. His hair was black, but he had a grizzled beard.
“You shouldn’t play with your gun like that,” he said, frowning at me. “Scared me half to death.”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice ragged. “Sorry.”
“Who was that guy, anyway?” he asked, standing on tiptoes and craning to peer down the street after the sorcerer. “The one you were talking to.”
“I don’t know.” I forced myself back to my feet, though my legs still felt rubbery. “You need to call 911,” I told him. “Something’s happened to Ms. Bettancourt.”
“Shari?” the man said, concern in his voice, his brow knitting.
“Yes.”
“Did he do it? That guy?”
“Call 911. Please.”
He stared at me a moment longer. Then he hurried back inside.
I walked—staggered really—back to Shari’s house, sat down on her front steps and placed my Glock on the top step next to me. If the sorcerer had come back, I’m not sure I would have had the strength even to lift the pistol, but having it near at hand made me feel better.
A squad car arrived a few minutes later, stopping first in front of the neighbor’s house and then pulling up to Shari’s place. I didn’t move.
Two uniformed guys got out of the car, one Latino, one white, both of them young and burly. The Latino cop spotted my Glock first and reached for his weapon.
“Hands up!” he said, leveling his weapon at me.
I raised my hands and stared back at him as he and his partner—now with his pistol out, too—hurried up the path. The Latino cop kicked the Glock beyond my reach.
“He’s all right!” the neighbor called, running up the street toward the house. “He didn’t do anything! It was the other guy.”
“Who are you?” the Latino cop asked, his weapon still aimed at me. The badge he wore identified him as Roberto Torres.
“My name’s Jay Fearsson,” I said, my voice even. “I’m a PI. I used to be on the force.”
“The Glock’s yours?”
I nodded. “I fired it once at the man who killed Shari Bettancourt. I hit that street sign over there.” I pointed with my chin, keeping my hands as they were.
“You hit a street sign?” the other cop asked.
I wasn’t about to explain that the guy I’d been aiming at used a deflection spell to steer my bullet away. I nodded, and tried to ignore their shared grins and raised eyebrows. But while they both had me pegged as a lousy shot, they also seemed convinced that I wasn’t a threat. Both men holstered their pistols.
Torres stepped past me to the doorway.
The white cop—Allen Marra, according to his badge—said, “I’ll need to see your license, Mister . . .”
“Fearsson.” I pulled out my wallet and handed it to him.
I heard his partner rattling the door.
“This is chained,” he said. “How’d he kill her?”
“I don’t know. You need to call Kona Shaw in Homicide. She knows me, and she knows what I’m working on.”
“Do you know the guy’s name?” Torres asked, ignoring what I’d said.
“I heard her call him ‘Cower,’ or something like that.”
“And why are you here? Did you have a relationship with the victim?”
“No.” I said. “I met her this morning at a . . . a farmer’s market. I talked to her for a while there, and then followed her back here to ask her a few more questions. While I was talking to her, the other guy showed up.”
“And he killed her.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you saw?” Torres asked, speaking past me to Shari’s neighbor.
“I didn’t see any of that,” the man said. “I saw this guy and the other one. This guy was chasing him, and then he stopped. They both did. And then this guy puts his gun in his mouth, and then pulls it out again, and that’s when I yelled at them. The other guy ran away.” He hesitated. Then, “Is Shari really dead?”
Marra still held my wallet, and now he frowned at the man. “Fearsson put his weapon in the other guy’s mouth?”
“No. He put it in his own mouth.”
Marra grimaced. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I said, sighing the words.
Torres descended the steps and planted himself right in front of me. “Give it a try,” he said.
“The other guy made me do it. I couldn’t help myself.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Please, call Kona Shaw. She’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“First you explain this.”
“The guy’s a myste. A sorcerer. He used some kind of mojo on me.”
Torres raised an eyebrow, drawing a roll of the eyes from his partner. I figured I was about thirty seconds away from an all-expenses-paid trip to the psych ward.
“Please call Kona,” I said. “You have a dead woman in there. I’ve told you that I didn’t kill her, and that’s been corroborated by another witness. The rest I’ll explain to the homicide detectives.”
“We can run you in anyway,” Torres said.
“Yeah, you can. But you’d be wasting your time.” I took a breath. “I’m working on behalf of the Deegan family, and so my investigation is connected to the Blind Angel killings. I worked the case when I was still on the job, and now I’m working it again. Kona was my partner. The guy I was after—the guy who killed this woman—I’m pretty sure he’s the Blind Angel Killer.”
“The Blind Angel Killer is already in custody.”
“Gann’s not your man,” I said.
“Holy shit,” the neighbor said in a hushed voice. “That was the Blind Angel Killer?”
“I swear to God, Fearsson,” Torres said, wagging his finger in my face. “If you’re bullshitting me, I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
“I’m not. Call Kona.”
Torres considered me, the muscles in his jaw bunching. After a moment he nodded to Marra, who hurried to the squad car.
“Holy shit,” I heard the neighbor whisper again.
It took Kona and Kevin, her partner, some time to get there, and then they spent several minutes speaking in low voices with Torres and Marra. The forensics team had arrived in the interim and after cutting through Shari’s chain lock, had entered the house. I moved off the stairs to a shady corner of her yard. Kona and Kevin joined me there now, both of them grim-faced.
Kevin was younger than Kona and me, and had only been in Homicide for three or four years. He’d shaved his head since the last time I saw him; it looked good on him. He was a handsome African-American man, with dark eyes, a lean build, and an easy smile. I’d tried to be as nice to him as I could since meeting him about a year ago, but both of us remained wary of each other. I think he felt that I was critiquing him all the time, measuring his performance as a cop against my own. I wasn’t. I just found it hard to think of Kona working with anyone other than me.
“You all right?” Kona asked me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure this was our guy?”
My eyes flicked toward Kevin. He didn’t know I was a weremyste.
“Pretty sure,” I said.
“There isn’t a mark on the woman,” Kevin said. “No sign that anyone broke in. Is it possible she died of . . . of something natural?”
“I don’t think so,” I told him.
“Kevin,” Kona said, “why don’t you go see what they’re doing in there. Make sure they’re not messing with my crime scene. I’ll be in soon.”
Kevin eyed us both. It wasn’t the first time one of us had contrived to speak in private with the other while he was around. “Yeah, all right,” he said, his voice flat. “Catch you later, Jay.”
“See you, Kevin.”
Kona and I watched him walk away.
“You’re going to have to tell him eventually,” I said.
“I keep hoping you two will become friends so that you can tell him yourself.” Her eyes raked over me. “You look like hell.”
“I thought I was dead. This guy’s stronger than any weremyste I’ve ever seen. He made me . . .” I broke off shaking my head.
“So it is our guy.”
I managed a smile, but it was fleeting. “It better be. If there are two sorcerers walking around with this kind of power, we’re in trouble.”
“And the pistol in the mouth thing?”
I shook my head again. “Don’t ask.” Taking a long breath, I said, “He killed her, Kona. I saw him do it, although I can’t tell you how it happened. She said his name—Cower, I think it was. She knew he was there. She felt him. And then she was dead.”
“She was a weremyste, too?”
I nodded. “I saw her at the Moon Market this morning. She had on a necklace that was glowing with his magic. That’s how I knew to follow her.” I followed a passing car with my gaze, my mouth twitching. “I guess I got her killed.”
“We’re going to need a statement,” she said. “You know that.”
“You’ll have to take it. This guy’s magic is unlike anything we’ve gone up against before. No one else will believe me.”
“Who says I do?” She smiled to soften it.
“You’re going to get a description from the neighbor,” I told her, as we started to walk back toward the house. “It’ll be nothing at all like what I told you yesterday.”
“He was disguised?”
“I think he’s a chameleon. He can look like anything and anyone he wants.”
“I’m starting not to like this guy, Justis.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
Between waiting for Kona to finish her work at the Bettancourt house, and going back to 620 to give her my statement, most of my afternoon was gone. The only thing that could have made my day worse would have been running into Cole Hibbard before I managed to get out of the building.
So, of course, that was exactly what happened.
When old Cole found out I’d been at the scene of a murder, he practically wet himself. When Kona told him that I’d only been a witness, he started trying to find ways to charge me with the killing anyway. I left as soon as I could, and was seething the whole way home, not only for myself, but also for my father.