Spellbound (37 page)

“It was the angel. It talked to me. It knew me. It made me strong. There were no helpers, only the angel.”

Bryce lifted the head again, but before he could smack it against the table, Browning held up one hand. “You heard the report from Oklahoma.”

“The bastard that killed George . . .” Bryce muttered.

“The most clever Summoned I’ve ever met was as intelligent as a good hunting dog.” Browning gestured at the complicated spell. “That is the work of a talented wizard.”

“When did you get the spell?” Bryce shouted.

“When? Time means nothing here . . .”
Bryce whacked the head against the table again.
“Day before. Day before killing time.”

It was unknown how quickly Crow could travel in his demonic form, but he had been in Florida the same day in order to assault Francis at the police station. He very well could have been here the entire time. “Things are beginning to fall into place.”

“We’re treading on dangerous ground here . . .” Bryce said slowly. “You know what this means?”

“It means we’re in greater danger than expected. Another question, Mr. Zangara. Before your death, did you ever speak with a man named Crow, or did you ever speak with any government entity, especially the Office of the Coordinator of Information— OCI—or with anyone else about your desire to murder the president?”

“No Crow. No office of things. No government run by filthy capitalists . . . Spoke to only one man.”

“Tell me about the man you spoke to.”

“The capitalist pigs had me arrested once. I lost my job because I was sick. I was mad. I threatened some of the capitalists. Said I would kill them. They said I was crazy. Wanted to lock me in crazy house. Doctor interviewed me. He knew about magic. I liked him. Told him truth. He told the capitalist judges I was not crazy. I was not danger to society.”
It took Browning a moment to realize that the horrible grinding noise was the severed head laughing.
“I told him everything. Friend agreed with me. He was good friend.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

“Doctor Bradford. Not kind of doctor that could fix my guts. Kind that fixed heads. Kind of doctor for crazy people. He was expert on crazy people with magic. Good thing I’m not crazy.”
The head laughed again, and Browning had to resist the urge to draw his .45 and end its wretched existence.

“Name ringing any bells?”

“I’ve not heard of the man. If that’s his real name, we should be able to discover something about him. Do you have anything to ask?”

“Got anything else you want to get off your chest?” Bryce asked the head, then he laughed when he realized he’d made a joke. “Heh . . . chest. I kill me sometimes. How about it, Giuseppe? I’m tempted to sneak your head out of here and keep you on my trophy wall. Thick skull like you, you could be up there screaming for years.” Browning sincerely hoped that Bryce did not have such a wall, but it was difficult to tell with a Lazarus, even one that was supposedly trying to only use their Power for good. “Either that or you’re about the right size for a football. . . . Help me out and I’ll let you get back to the big sleep.”

“The angel will stop you. The angel is too strong for you.”

Bryce put the head down on the table. “Eh, he’s done.”

“Do not hurt my angel!”
Zangara begged. Bryce shoved the tray back into the wall, and closed the door behind it. Zangara’s wails could be heard coming from inside. Bryce simply walked over to the sink and began washing his hands.

“Shouldn’t you . . .”

“Put him out of his misery?” Bryce laughed as he lathered up. “It don’t work that way, John. He’s stuck for a while. I can’t just release him. They’re going to have to crush him flat or burn him to free his spirit. That’s the nasty part of what I do. You know Dead City?”

He had never been there, but he’d heard the tales, mostly from Heinrich. “Of course.”

“You think the Kaiser herded them all into Berlin and put a wall around it just to be mean? Nope. He couldn’t just shut them off.” Bryce dried his hands on a towel. “We better get going. Next person to open that door is going to be in for a
nasty
surprise. That attendant looks healthy, so he shouldn’t have a heart attack, but he sure is going to earn that bribe money!”

Browning was exceedingly glad to get back out into the sunlight.

Browning had dropped Bryce off at the library to do some research before returning to the hotel to prepare a mirror to report their findings to the others. The Lazarus would catch a cab back later. His company would not be missed. Though professional enough, there was always an awkward edge to all interactions with someone of his nature, as if you knew they would be much more comfortable talking to you if you were already dead.

They had set up shop in one of the less remarkable hotels in Miami to stage out of. The normal crowds of vacationers fleeing the cold had been replaced with newsmen from around the country hoping to interview victims of the carnage. He did not care for the reporters, since they behaved with all the manners of a flock of turkey buzzards. He had been told that in Miami, alligators actually wandered the streets. Perhaps they would do everyone a favor and eat some reporters.

Since he was thinking about reporters, Browning stopped at a newsstand on the way back to pick up the paper. With all of the recent turmoil, staying caught up on recent events seemed like an important thing to do. One of the headlines immediately caught his eye:

UBF HEIR FRANCIS STUYVESANT

IMPLICATED IN ACTIVE PLOT.

“Oh dear . . .” Browning muttered as he paid for two different papers. He read the first one on the walk back to his car, and the other as soon as he made it back to the hotel. According to the articles, Francis was wanted for questioning, but was missing, and was believed to have fled the country. A retired Marine general had come forward and said that a group of businessmen who purported to represent several wealthy Actives had approached him about leading a fascist coup against the government. The Hearst, owned paper was calling it the Active Plot, while the other seemed to be gravitating toward the title Business Plot, which was not a surprise since Hearst’s low opinion of Magicals was well known.

He prepared a communication spell. Browning prided himself on always doing meticulous work, and the spell was perfect as usual. While waiting for the response, he pondered their current predicament. All of this recent turmoil had been keeping him from his true passion, inventing. It was like his Cog mechanical genius was tugging at the reins, hoping for a chance to be free. Ideas were everywhere, and some of the Grimnoir’s more recent struggles had brought a few of those ideas to the fore. He promised himself that as soon as this problem was dealt with, it was time to get back to making new weapons. Certainly, even when these nefarious plots were squashed, there was still the matter of this Pathfinder. The creature had made mincemeat of the Chairman’s early group, but the Chairman had not had the greatest engineer of fighting implements of all time on his side . . . Perhaps, if he knew more about how the creature operated, he would be able to build something that might even their odds.

The spell connected. The first respondent was Jake Sullivan. Browning had not liked the Heavy when they’d first met. Sullivan was a former convict with a reputation for thuggery, but as usual, his old friend Black Jack had been a good judge of character. Sullivan had proven to be a man of integrity, a fearsome fighter, and a remarkably perceptive autodidactic individual. Browning had taken a real liking to him. Plus, it helped that Sullivan had excellent taste in firearms. It had been a pleasure to give him the Grimnoir oath.

“Good morning, Mr. Sullivan. How goes it?”

Sullivan had dark circles under his eyes, appearing as if he’d not slept well, if at all. “Busy. I know we were supposed to ask the higher-ups about recruiting first, but we’ve had a couple of folks just kind of show up and volunteer for duty.”

“Really? Who?”

“An Iron Guard and an OCI bounty hunter.”

Browning twitched. The most coherent response he could form was, “I see . . .”

A smile cracked Sullivan’s unshaven face. “Yeah, I know. I’ll have to catch you up. The Chairman’s boy wants the Pathfinder gone. The OCI one seems to think that Heinrich is still alive and being held under their headquarters.”

It would be wonderful if one of his men was still alive, but his natural cynicism kept him wary. “Can you trust him?”

“Her, and I don’t yet, but she sure thinks Heinrich’s a prisoner and they’re going to execute him soon.”

The Grimnoir were not in the habit of letting their people hang. “If that’s the case, then we need to mount a rescue operation.”

“Working on it. It could be a trap, but sometimes a trap works both ways.”

Browning could only nod. When it came to issues of potential violence, he had to bow to Sullivan’s mastery of the subject. “I trust your judgment, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Thanks. And I almost forgot, we kidnapped J. Edgar Hoover yesterday. I think we’re secretly allied with the Bureau of Investigation against the OCI.”

If it had been anyone other than Sullivan, he would have been certain it was a joke, but the Heavy wasn’t known for telling tales. “You jest.”

“No, sir. I’m not pulling your leg. Like I said, we’ve been real busy.”

“Recruiting Iron Guards
and
Hoover . . . Perhaps I should retract what I said about trusting your judgment.”

“Hoover I don’t know about. The others seem legit, but I’m keeping an eye on them and Faye both. I don’t want her killing anybody.”

“Yes, that can be a full-time job . . . How did Faye—”

“I guess she got bored of driving and Traveled clear from Tennessee in one hop. The others are on the way.”

Nothing about that girl could really surprise him at this point. “Did you see this morning’s paper yet?” Sullivan shook his head. “It has more bad news. They’ve gone public about Francis and they say that he has fled. I’m trying to contact him now but have not gotten a response. Have you had any word from him?”

“Not since word came down about Ada. I’ll see what I can find out. I sure hope they didn’t roll him up. Any luck down there?”

“Possibly.” Browning was hesitant to say how they’d gotten their information and had to choose his words carefully. Since Sullivan’s young lady friend had suffered such a tragic end through Lazarus magic, the Heavy’s feelings about such things were well known. “I believe the spell was bound to the assassin by a Summoned.”

“That’s impossible. A Summoned couldn’t—no!” Sullivan’s brow furrowed. “
Crow
.” As usual, the Heavy was remarkably perceptive. “That son of a bitch, excuse my language. It had to be him, unless there’s somebody out there just like him, and that’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“I am inclined to agree. We are now searching for a Dr. Bradford that may have been Zangara’s confidant. If we can come up with a link between the doctor and the OCI, we may have the evidence we need to clear our names.”

“Speaking of evidence, I might know where to find some . . .”

Bell Farm, Virginia

DESPITE BEING SO TIRED
that she could barely keep her eyes open, Faye continued watching the Iron Guard suspiciously. He just sat there, cross-legged, eyes closed, “mediating”
he called it, looking innocent as could be . . . But she knew that he was up to no good. Iron Guards were evil, heathen, no-good, rotten, murdering scoundrels, and the only reason she hadn’t killed this one already was because Mr. Sullivan had made her promise not to.

After having a long conversation with Mr. Sullivan, the Iron Guard had claimed the barn as his place to sleep. She figured it was so he could have someplace private to do whatever horrible things it was that Iron Guards did when nobody was looking. So Faye had volunteered to spy on the Iron Guard. It wasn’t like she was going to be able to sleep with one of
them
around anyway. Sullivan had told her that spying was unnecessary and that she should get some rest.

She’d agreed, but as soon as the bedroom door was closed, she’d gathered up some warm clothing and Traveled outside to keep an eye on the Iron Guard. Of course Faye wasn’t going to go sleep in a comfy bed, all unaware and vulnerable, while evil was lurking around doing who knew what. Not on her watch. So she had followed him, sneaky as possible, just knowing he’d do something awful right quick. However, the Iron Guard had just gone out to the barn, pulled a blanket out of his pack, and gone to sleep on the hard-packed dirt floor. She’d Traveled up to the hay loft and picked a quiet spot to keep watch.

The most interesting part of the night was discovering that the barn had rats, big black ones, and she’d passed the time by identifying and naming them all. The Iron Guard didn’t so much as roll over or even snore. Spying on him turned out to be completely uninteresting. Killing him in his sleep would have been super easy, if a little unsportsmanlike. It was still really tempting.

The long night in the drafty old barn gave Faye plenty of time to think. Despite all of the horrible things that were happening around her, her mind kept spinning back to a completely selfish issue.
Why was her magic getting stronger again?
Months had passed since the
Tokugawa
and she’d been relatively weak that whole time, with Power like a little stream, but all of a sudden she was doing better, and her Power had grown back into a small river.
How come?
She didn’t pretend to understand this stuff like some of the other knights. Faye had always been a little different than everyone else, and she had just taken it for granted, but now those differences were really nagging at her.

The government demon, Crow, had known something. He’d danced around it, trying to get her to come peacefully. It could have been a trick, but she didn’t think so. He knew something about her. How had he said it? “What if I could tell you exactly what you are?” He hadn’t said “who,” he’d said “what,” and Faye didn’t care for that one bit.