Spellbound (13 page)

“Damn. Has he been gone long?”

“Five days.”

“Then he wouldn't be able to help me anyway. Maybe you can.”

A snorted laugh. “Seriously? Um, no. Even if I could—”

“I have information that the Cabal might want. That's why I was calling Sean. Hoping to warn him and check out a rumor.”

I glanced at Adam. He was in the bathroom shaving, having skipped it this morning. The door was open and he could hear my conversation, but he didn't turn. With anyone other than Bryce, I'd have given up after the first rebuff. With Bryce, I had this weird compulsion to keep offering my hand in peace, no matter how many times he spat on it. I guess Adam knew that.

“I'm not Sean,” Bryce said. “I don't offer Cabal secrets in return for your useless scraps, Savannah. Maybe you can take advantage of him, but—”

“Sean never gives me Cabal secrets.” And you know it, because you know Sean. “All I'm asking for is confirmation or denial of a rumor.”

“What's this warning you want to give?”

Again, anyone else and I'd have insisted on quid pro quo. Instead, I told him about the so-called liberation movement.

He snorted. “Seriously? You think we haven't heard that? Where have you been for the past week, Savannah? Partying? A junior security team has been assigned to investigate, but we sure as hell aren't battening down the hatches because a few kids have started shouting ‘Free the Supernaturals.' Please.”

“It's more than that. They've killed—” Now Adam looked up. I chomped my tongue. I hadn't meant to give that away. I was like a little girl, so desperate for her big brother's approval she'll do anything to get it.

“Killed who?” Bryce asked.

“A sorcerer, I think,” I lied. “That's what I heard anyway.”

“More rumors. It's like dealing with children. A bogeyman jumps out and they run screaming to the council. And the council is stupid enough to actually listen and go bogeyman hunting.”

“We're just following up on information we received,” I said. “Including the tip that this movement was trying to recruit near Nast headquarters and the Cabal snatched them up.”

“Is that what you heard?”

“Is it true? If you guys have them and you aren't interested in interrogating them, you could turn them over to the council.”

“Could we? Really?”

“Do you have them?”

“Good-bye, Savannah.”

He hung up. I sat there with the phone to my ear for at least a minute. Then I said to Adam, still shaving, “Next time I start tripping over myself to be nice to Bryce, slap me, okay? Just slap me.”

“You didn't give much away.”

“I wasn't going to get anything either. I know better. Which means I should have done this first.” I called Sean's cell phone back and left a message, explaining the situation and my talk with Bryce, asking him to call when he could.

As I disconnected, someone rapped at the door.

“I paid for another night in case we need it,” Adam said. “That's probably housekeeping.”

I opened the door. There stood a short, gaunt man dressed in clothes covered in a decade of filth.

“Not housekeeping,” I called, then turned to the homeless man. “Look, I'm sure this saves time, knocking on doors instead of sitting on the corner, but you've got to pick a better class of motel. Folks here are as likely to take your money as give you some.”

The man lifted his head. His beard was streaked with dried vomit. There was a dent the size of a golf ball in his temple, and a chunk of skull was missing. Brain matter oozed through.

“It's for you,” I called to Adam.

The dead homeless guy grunted and pushed past me into the room.

“I
t's a zombie,” I said to Adam, now standing in the open bathroom doorway.

“You think?” He turned to the dead guy. “Kimerion, I presume?”

“Yes. Have I interrupted an intimate moment?”

Adam arched an eyebrow, then cast a pointed look at me—fully dressed—then at the bed, still made with our laptops on it.

“Only a passing familiarity with human intimacy, I take it?” Adam said.

“You never know,” I said. “Maybe the people he hangs out with just lie on the bed together and surf porn sites on their laptops. Evolution at its finest.”

“Or its cleanest,” Kimerion said. “Human reproduction is so messy. All those bodily fluids.”

“Speaking of bodily fluids . . .” I pointed to the snail's trail of putrefaction he had left in his wake. “Next time you need a dead body? Shopping is much better at the morgue. Cleaned up, stitched up, and prettied up. You'd look almost human.”

He curled his lip, revealing teeth the color of maggots. Or maybe they were maggots.

“Don't take another step.” I went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, put it on the chair, and motioned for him to sit. As he did, I spritzed him.

“My aftershave?” Adam said.

“It's cheaper than my perfume.” I turned to Kimerion. “So, who stole my thunder?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Then what is this? A social visit?”

He gave me a withering look. “No. I found something else you might consider useful. I realized that may happen as I continue this investigation, and if it does, we may wish to extend our agreement to cover it.”

“So you want to be paid for the leads that don't actually solve the case?” I turned to Adam. “Why don't we do that? If we're investigating, and we find out someone's screwing around or cheating his company, we can sell that information to the highest bidder.”

“We could. If we were demons.”

“Ah, right. There's the rub. Our pesky human consciences.” I glanced back at Kimerion. “We're not bargaining for every useless scrap—”

“Not even if it pertains to a recent case of yours? A certain Volo half-demon's untimely departure from her hell dimension?”

When I blinked, he smiled. “I thought that might change your mind. Did you stop to wonder how Leah O'Donnell escaped? It's not that easily accomplished, as may be evidenced by the fact that your world isn't currently overrun by the spirit of every evildoer in history.”

“Yes, it's harder than escaping from Alcatraz. So I've heard. But it does happen. I've heard that, too.”

“True. But Leah O'Donnell, while possessing a great power and a remarkable amount of animal cunning, lacked the intellect necessary to carry out her plan. So why was she able to escape hell when so many of her betters cannot?”

“You have the answer?”

“No. But when Leah was freed, she tormented a necromancer, who may know more. I can give you the name—”

“Got it.”

Kimerion hesitated.

“Gary Schmidt,” I said.

“Who told you that? Another demon?”

Adam cut in before I could answer. “Not important.”

“So it was another demon.” Kimerion gripped the chair so hard a finger snapped off. “I do not appreciate competing for the attention of mortals, even Asmondai's son.”

“But you would appreciate knowing what Schmidt tells us, right?”

The demi-demon hesitated, then shrugged. “It could help us find out what has become of the witch's powers. So sharing that information would be in your best interests. Otherwise . . .” Another shrug. “It is of no import.”

“No? Then we won't trouble you with it.”

Kimerion grumbled and shifted and tried again to insist he was only doing us a favor, letting us bring him any information we might learn from Schmidt so he could put it into context for us. Finally, he gave up the pretense and spat, “Asmondai wants to know who freed the Volo.”

“Then say so,” Adam said. “Don't set us on this trail pretending you're doing us a favor. Who does Asmondai think freed Leah?”

“I am not privy to my master's thoughts.”

Kimerion was lying, but when I glanced over, Adam only dipped his chin, telling me he knew Kimerion wasn't telling the truth. He circled the question a few times, before Kimerion said, “I can give you more leads. Not answers, but leads.”

“In return for what?”

“A boon. A simple one, which will buy you all the extraneous information uncovered in the course of my investigation.”

“What's the boon? I'll tell you right now, we don't do sacrifices. And if it's sex?” I pointed at the bed. “There's the laptop. Knock yourself out.”

His lip curled again. “I don't concern myself with petty physical pleasures. The boon I ask is far more ephemeral. You know the daughter of Lucifer. I wish an audience with her. A brief audience, arranged at her convenience and with whatever restrictions you deem necessary—blindfolds, bindings, wards.”

Kimerion wouldn't tell us why he wanted to speak to Hope, but Adam probed until it was clear this was a political move. Kimerion wanted to open a dialogue with someone who might prove useful. Adam then hammered out every last detail of the proposed meeting. How long would it last? When would it take place? Could others be present? Did he intend to ask her for something? If so, would he agree that her refusal would mark the immediate end of the discussion?

After a solid twenty minutes of negotiation they came to an agreement. For the information Kimerion had now, Adam would convey the request to Hope. He obviously couldn't agree to a meeting for her. If she refused, Kimerion would stop supplying details.

Adam formalized the deal with a brief ritual. It wasn't necessary. In fact, most demons balk at it, the same way shady business partners will balk at putting a contract in writing. Kimerion didn't complain, just sat there, calmly rotting, until it was finished.

“Okay,” I said. “Now what's this about Leah's escape?”

“She had help,” Kimerion said. “That's clear to anyone with any knowledge of hell dimensions. They cannot escape without outside assistance. I would suggest you ask more questions. How did she get out? More importantly, why would someone help her? No one on our side could have aided her escape. It's not possible.”

“You mean a demon didn't do it. So it was another ghost.”

“I'd look farther up the food chain. Again, that's only speculation. My suggestion is to ask this necromancer, Schmidt, for more.”

That was all Kimerion had. Hardly game-changing information, but it was worth the cost of asking Hope for an audience.

As he shuffled to the door, he stopped and glanced back. “Have you ever had any contact with your mother's sire, witch?”

“Balaam? Um, no. He missed all my birthdays growing up. I'm still pissed.”

“And your mother? Were they close?”

“Is this a trick question? Of course not. Lord demons make most deadbeat dads look like father of the year. They sow their seed and scram. Adam doesn't know Asmondai. Hope doesn't know Lucifer. My mother didn't know Balaam. If you think otherwise, then we'd better shop for a demon helper who's a little more in touch with his world.”

“They have been known to make contact,” he said evenly. “I was merely wondering if Balaam has, with you or with your mother.”

“No.”

He nodded. “Then I will see you in Miami. I trust you'll be there, after you speak to this necromancer? To facilitate my audience with Lucifer's daughter?”

“We'll get there eventually.”

“Sooner rather than later, I'd suggest. If you are involved in this matter, it is the safest place for you.”

He left, and we did too—before housekeeping stopped by and tried to charge us extra to get rid of the stench.

 

 

I called Schmidt again. Still no answer. A quick check on his area code told me it was from a residence in Riverside, California. I researched him, hoping to ping a cell or business number. No luck.

“Do you have a home address?” Adam asked as he drove.

“Yep.”

“Then I guess we're keeping the car for another day. And you get to avoid going to Miami for a little longer.”

 

 

Riverside was just close enough that it wasn't worth the bother of flying. And just far enough that we were exhausted by the time we arrived.

We got to Schmidt's place after eleven, and I couldn't help being reminded of yesterday's late-night visit to Walter Alston. Would we find another dead body here? As we sat in the car, looking at the darkened house, SUV in the drive, it was beginning to look like a definite possibility.

We had every reason to believe Schmidt would welcome our visit, so there was no need for subterfuge. Too bad, because it would have been a hell of a lot easier here than it'd been at Alston's.

I didn't see any signs of external security. No cameras. No dog. Not even a fence around the garden-filled yard.

From my research, I knew the Schmidts didn't have children, which explained the small house. He was an economics instructor at the local community college. His wife was a high school teacher. The SUV was his. An identical model was registered to her, too, and was presumably in the garage. Both Schmidts were in their forties, but only married five years. They volunteered together at a youth group. They vacationed at their time-share in Maui every winter. They took pottery classes at the community center. A very normal, very boring middle-aged couple.

Given the kind of supernaturals Leah hung out with, I'd decided that Schmidt's dull suburban life had to be an excellent front for his darker enterprises. Except that when I searched our files, I found no mention of him. We had Schmidt necromancers in the council records, but as complainants, not troublemakers.