Spellbound (8 page)

“Do you remember Wanda Mayo?” I asked. “A witch friend of my mom's?”

“Witch acquaintance,” Holly said. “Your mother didn't have friends.”

“You were her friend.”

“Perhaps.” Her cheeks flushed faintly, like she hoped that was true, but hadn't dared presume. But Holly had been as close to a “friend” as my mom got. As a child I'd met very few of my mother's associates. She kept that part of her life private to protect me. Every time we passed through Vegas, though, we'd stop in to visit Holly. When she'd reached out a couple of years ago, I'd been genuinely happy to hear from her.

“And Wanda was your friend,” I said. “When she died, you sent a message to the council, saying you thought she'd been killed by a witch-hunter.”

Holly's blue eyes snapped at the memory. The council had been polite, but they'd refused to investigate. That's when Paige's mother had been in charge.

The council record of Wanda's death was barely a paragraph long, noting the date, the complainant, the nature of the complaint, and the grounds for refusal, namely that witch-hunters didn't exist.

Now I got the full story.

Wanda had been living in Tucson. She was a dark witch who'd dabbled in the black market. The kind of supernatural that the council wouldn't harass, but wouldn't be particularly sorry to hear had passed.

In the week before she died, Wanda complained to Holly that she was being followed. No proof. Just a feeling. Then Holly came home to a message on her answering machine from Wanda, who said she'd finally caught a glimpse of her stalker. It was a girl, barely out of her teens. Wanda snapped a picture and faxed it to Holly, to pass around her network, see if anyone recognized the girl.

Holly called back to discuss it with Wanda. No reply. When Wanda didn't return messages for two days, Holly sent her
ayumi
to Tucson, where he discovered Wanda dead in her bathtub, the victim of an apparent slip and fall.

“Which was ridiculous,” Holly said. “She had osteoarthritis. Bending her knees for a bath was torture. She'd had a fancy separate shower installed.”

“I don't suppose you still have the photo she faxed you?” Adam said.

She did.

If the mousy girl in the photo wasn't related to my witch-hunter, I'd . . . well, I'd say I'd give up my spells, but it was a little late for that.

The original picture quality wasn't great—technology has come a long way in fifteen years—but it was decent enough for me to scan onto my laptop. As we drove the rental car to Arizona, I fussed with the photo, making it sharper, then sent it to our phones.

“It's getting too late to make any headway in Phoenix,” Adam said. “I say we swing over to New Mexico instead and pay Walter Alston a visit tonight.”

I looked over at him. He changed lanes to pass a truck, his gaze fixed on the highway.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged. “We need to check out this ‘Free the Supernaturals' movement, and we're in the area already . . .”

“Which is not why we're going.”

He drove another mile in silence, then said, “I want to find out what happened to your powers, Savannah. It's not my top priority right now but . . .”

He glanced over, then away, shrugging again.

But it's yours. That was the part he didn't say.

I knew his top priority was keeping me safe. There was a weird sort of comfort in that.

“Think you can drive for a while?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“I could use a break. Let's grab some burgers, then you can drive to Albuquerque if you're up to it.”

 

 

I pulled off the interstate in Albuquerque and followed the GPS directions to Walter Alston's address. I'd bought a navigation app for Adam's iPhone last Christmas, after we'd had one too many arguments over directions. Now we could argue with the GPS instead.

“So are you going to call your dad and tell him we're visiting his archenemy?” I grinned over at Adam. “Sorry, that just sounds hilarious. I really can't imagine your dad having an archenemy.”

“He doesn't. Any rivalry exists purely in Walter's head, which is how these things usually go. The student rebels. Makes bad choices. The teacher is disappointed. That's it. Just disappointed.”

“So, now that you don't need to be circumspect in front of Holly, how nasty is this guy?”

“He can summon just about any demon you care to deal with. And for the right price, he will.”

That was what made Walter Alston a bad guy, not the ability to summon, but the willingness to do it for a price. When supernaturals want to bargain with demons, they pick foot soldiers. That's not because they can't summon the officers and generals, but because with every step up the demon hierarchy, you increase your risk of ending up flayed or filleted. Powerful demons became powerful for a reason. They're smart—smarter than mortals, meaning they'll find a way out of any bargain. And, being powerful, they'll kick your ass faster and harder than their underlings. So the rule of thumb is to always summon the lowest demon who can do the job.

You only summon a high-ranking demon when you want something big, something that isn't going to win you Citizen of the Year. Which made me wonder what exactly these “activists” had wanted from Walter Alston . . . and how I was going to persuade him to tell me when I didn't have my spells.

 

 

One look at Walter Alston's house confirmed that he didn't help supernaturals as a public service. It was on the city's outskirts, in an oasis of money where residents cultivated lush lawns and gardens, thumbing their nose at Mother Nature.

Alston didn't follow the pack, which I suspected was more a matter of obstinacy than humility. He embraced the desert, leaving his property looking like an angry red scar slicing through his neighbors' manicured perfection. They'd retaliated by erecting ten-foot solid fences against him.

“I'm liking the fences,” Adam said as we idled a few doors down. “Should make it easy to pay Walter a surprise visit.”

“Are you sure that's such a good idea?” I said. “If you called, he'd probably be curious enough to agree to meet you.”

“Right. Skip the break-in. Make an appointment first.” He laughed. Then he realized I wasn't laughing and peered at me in the darkened car. “You're serious?”

“Did you forget I don't have my powers? No unlock spells. No blur spells. No cover spells. No defense spells.”

“So? His half-demon power is vision. Mid-grade power. He's got nothing against my fire. All we need to do is get in the door. I can do that without an unlock spell.”

“Would you go in if you were alone?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Then that'll be our criteria from now on. If you'd do it alone, we'll go for it, because with me out of commission, you are alone.”

“You're not—” He stopped himself. “All right. Park down the road and let's move.”

 

 

Not being a spellcaster, Alston was stuck using human security methods. Strategically placed floodlights and cameras, a gated drive, and a dog kennel beside the house suggested he took his privacy seriously. Like door locks, though, they worked best to deter a casual thief, who'd take one look and choose the place next door instead. For someone determined to get in, they posed only inconvenient obstacles.

We breached the gate by sneaking into his less security-conscious neighbor's yard and scaling the fence. That took care of the floodlights and cameras, too—those concentrated on the front, and left gaps elsewhere.

There was no sign of the dog—either the kennel was for show or the pooch was more of a pet, taken inside for the night.

I wished I had my sensing spell, though. Kept wishing it until I tripped over a stone and started wishing instead that I had my light ball. A flashlight—like the one in Adam's hand—would work, too.

We reached one of the side windows. Adam pulled an alarm sensor from his kit.

“It's armed,” he said. “You want to handle this?”

“Go ahead.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You don't need spells to disarm it.”

“I'm good.”

His lips compressed and he slapped his tool kit into my hand.

“Disarm the damned window, Savannah.”

“Hey!”

“Don't
hey
me,” he said, his whisper harsh. “Remember when you broke your foot riding? Laid on the couch for a week, sulking and making everyone run around for you?”

“Don't talk to me like I'm fifteen, Adam.”

“I'm not. When you were fifteen, I let you lie on the couch until you got bored. But you're not fifteen anymore, and you're no more disabled now than you were then.”

I scowled.

“Don't scowl at me either,” he said. “You've had your sulking time. Either you get back on the damned horse or I take you someplace safe and chase down leads on my own, because if you're not helping, you're dead weight.”

I wanted to smack him with an energy bolt. Or at least scream and stamp my feet. Yes, I wasn't feeling very mature right now. Wasn't acting very mature either.

So I disarmed the window. Then I cut out the pane of glass and checked inside for a motion detector. Nothing. I crawled through. Adam followed.

We crouched on the floor, looking and listening. When all stayed quiet, Adam whispered, “Head upstairs. You lead. I'll cover.”

In the entry hall, I noticed a glimmer of silver. A dog's leash hung by the front door. I pointed it out to Adam. He cocked his head, listening for a dog, but the house stayed still.

That's when I noticed the deadbolt on the front door. Adam did, too, and let out a quiet curse.

The bolt was unlocked. Beside the door, a security panel flashed. A row of red lights, and one green. Adam shone the flashlight on it.

“Front door's disarmed,” he whispered.

Down the hall from us, a door was partly open. I could see papers scattered in the room beyond it.

I started toward it, moving slowly along the hardwood floor, Adam at my back. As I neared the door, I tucked myself against the wall, then sidled along until I could peer through the doorway. Inside was an office. A man sat at a chair, his back to us as he gazed out the window.

I motioned to Adam. He took over, creeping into the office, up behind the man, then—

“Shit,” he whispered.

He grasped the man's shoulder, spinning the chair around, then falling back with a shocked grunt.

The man was tied hand and foot to the chair. His legs were bent wrong, kneecaps bashed in. His eyes were empty, bloody holes. Dried blood covered his hands and chin. His teeth and fingertips sat in a line on the edge of the desk. Adam looked at those and rubbed his mouth, gaze darting to the doorway, as if wondering where the bathroom was, should he need it. After a couple of deep breaths, he turned his back on the desk.

He glanced at me. Had it been Paige or Lucas, I'd have feigned a look of horror. With Adam, that wasn't necessary. He just checked, making sure I was okay, but knowing I would be, and not thinking any less of me for it.

What did I feel when I looked on this mutilated, tortured body? Disgust. Whoever did this had enjoyed inflicting pain way too much—if you didn't get what you wanted after half as much effort, then there was nothing to get.

Why didn't I feel more? I can't say it was my upbringing. My mom certainly never let me see anything like this.

I know that if this man had been a friend, I'd have seethed with grief and rage, and vowed to avenge him. As it was . . . well, I didn't know the guy, and though I was pretty sure he hadn't done anything to deserve such an awful death, it wasn't really my call.

“Do you know if that's . . . ?” I began.

“It's Walter Alston.”

I looked around the office. Papers littered the floor. Books had been yanked from shelves and tossed aside. Cables on the desk led to nothing.

“Searched his files. Rifled his books. Stole his laptop. This was someone nasty. Which, given the guy's clientele, probably doesn't narrow it down.”

“It doesn't.” Adam knelt beside a pile of papers and thumbed through them. “If he was as careful as Holly said, we aren't going to find clues about those two activists or what they wanted. And this”—he waved at Alston's corpse—“isn't our business. But now that we've been here, we can't just leave him sitting there.”

In other words, we had to dispose of the body. Since this was almost certainly a supernatural crime, as tempting as it was to walk away, we couldn't.