Spellcasters (20 page)

“Not you, too,” Savannah said. “Oh, God. I’m surrounded.”

I waved her to silence and we headed for the back door.

I won’t give a play-by-play of what happened next. Between the two of us, Cortez and I managed to undo all of Sandford’s spells, unlocking the jammed doors and disengaging the trip-wire illusions.

As for Cary and the other walking dead, they simply stopped walking. By the time everyone escaped and the authorities got inside, the necromancer’s incantation had worn off. Or so Cortez explained. As I’ve said, I know nothing about raising the dead. Any necromancer can do it, but I’ve never met one who dared. The necromancers I know use their power only for communicating with spirits. Returning a soul to a dead body is against every moral code in the supernatural world.

In the chaos outside the funeral home, it took me twenty minutes to find a police officer, who insisted I follow him to the station and give my statement.

Of course, the police thought I’d played a role in what happened. Yet they didn’t know
what
had happened. Sure, they heard the stories, witness after witness babbling about dead people walking and talking. But when the police had finally entered the building, they found only corpses strewn across the floor. Horrifying, yes, but hardly proof of the unthinkable.

When I told my story, I repeated only those portions I deemed believable. I’d been lured to the memorial service and tricked into entering the crowded hallway of mourners. Then the lights had gone out. Someone had shoved me into the visitation room and bolted the door. I’d heard people screaming, but could see very little in the near-dark. Soon I found my way into a back passage and escaped.

I did admit that, while escaping, I encountered a frightening image blocking the hall, but I’d passed through it without incident and figured it must have been some kind of hologram. Finally, themselves dazed with disbelief and information-overload, the police had to let me go. My story made sense and it checked out against that of the witnesses—barring the fact that I hadn’t seen the dead rise. With no small reluctance, they released me.

W
e’d taken my car to the police station, Cortez leaving his motorcycle at the funeral parlor. By the time we exited the station, it was nearly five o’clock and Savannah reminded me that she hadn’t yet had lunch. Since Cortez still owed me an explanation, we decided to pick up something to eat at a drive-through on the highway and find a quiet place to talk.

We stopped at the first fast-food restaurant we hit. The plan was to go through the drive-through, but then Savannah announced she needed to use the bathroom, and I had to agree I could use one as well, so we went inside. As we walked in, a few people turned to look. I tried to tell myself it was simply the idle curiosity of bored diners, but then one woman leaned over and whispered something to her companions and they all turned to stare. No, not stare. Glare.

“If you’ll give me your order, I’ll get it while you use the ladies’ room,” Cortez murmured.

“Thanks.”

We told him what we wanted and I gave him some money, then we slipped off to the bathroom.

When we came out, Cortez was waiting by the condiment stand, take-out bags in hand.

“I should do the same before we leave,” Cortez said, glancing toward the bathrooms. “Shall I walk you to the car first?”

“We’re fine.”

I took the bags and shepherded Savannah out. A few glares flew our way, but no one said anything. A few minutes later, Cortez joined us in the car.

“Took out your contacts?” Savannah said as he climbed in. “How come?”

“They’re well suited for wearing under a helmet but, for all other situations, I prefer glasses.”

“Weird.”

“Thank you.”

I sneaked a fry from the bag while they were still warm. “Speaking of helmets, what’s with the motorcycle? You had a rental car this morning.”

“And I still do, back at my motel. After our … altercation this morning, I thought it best to undertake discreet surveillance, should my assistance be required. In my experience, a motorcycle is much more conducive to surveillance work. It operates very well in alleyways and other places where one couldn’t hope to fit a car. As well, the full helmet provides an excuse for shielding one’s face. Usually, it’s less conspicuous, though I realize now that may not be the case in East Falls.”

“Motorcycle population: zero. Until today.”

“Quite right. After this, I shall park the bike and rely on the rental car.”

I pulled into a deserted picnic area just off the highway. As I locked the car, Cortez said a few words to Savannah. She nodded, took her take-out bag, and headed to a picnic table on the far side of the lot. Cortez led me to one closer to the car.

“What’d you say to her?” I asked.

“Simply that it might be easier for you and me to speak privately.”

“And how many bribery bucks had to go along with that suggestion?”

“None.”

I looked over at Savannah unpacking her bag. She saw me watching, smiled, and finger-waved, then sat down to eat.

I turned to Cortez. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Savannah?”

He shook his head and settled on the bench. “Savannah is a very perceptive young woman. She understands the importance of enlisting aid in this situation. She’s willing to give me a second chance, but she realizes it may not be as easy for me to persuade you to do the same.”

He unfolded his burger and tore open a ketchup package.

“So that brings us to the first part of my last question,” I said. “Who are you?”

“I told you that I am in no way associated with the Nast Cabal, nor do I work for any Cabal. That is entirely accurate. However, I may have intentionally fostered the misconception that I am not associated with any Cabal.”

I nibbled the end of a fry while I untangled that last sentence.

“So you
are
‘associated’ with a Cabal,” I said. “Like what, a contract employee?”

“No, I work for myself, as I said.” Cortez folded the half-empty ketchup package and laid it aside. “At the Coven meeting, an older woman mentioned a Benicio Cortez.”

“Ah, a relative, I presume?”

“My father.”

“Let me guess … your father works for a Cabal.”

“It would be more accurate to say a Cabal works for him. My father is CEO of the Cortez Cabal.”

I coughed, nearly sputtering up a half-eaten fry. “Your family runs a Cabal?”

Cortez nodded.

“Is it … big?”

“The Cortez Cabal is the most powerful in the world.”

“I thought you said the Nast Cabal was the biggest.”

“It is. My father’s is the most powerful. I say that as a matter of record, not out of any pride in the fact. I play no role in my father’s organization.”

“You just told me yesterday that Cabals are family-based, led by a sorcerer and his sons.”

“In practice, that’s true. The son of a Cabal head is introduced to the organization at birth and, in virtually every instance, that is where he remains. However, while a son may grow up in the Cabal, he is still required to undergo formal initiation on his eighteenth birthday. Since Cabal membership is, theoretically, voluntary, it is possible for a son to refuse initiation, as I did.”

“So you just said, ‘Sorry, Dad, don’t want to be part of the family business’?”

“Well …” He adjusted his glasses. “Technically, of course, since I failed to accept the initiation, I’m not a member of the Cabal. Nor do I consider myself one. Yet, because, as I said, such a thing is extremely rare, I find myself in a position where most people still consider me part of my father’s organization. It is generally accepted that this rebellion is a temporary situation, a perception which my father, unfortunately, shares and promotes, meaning I am accorded the privileges and protections such a position would provide.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This position provides me with some stature in the Cabal world and, though I’m loath to take advantage of that association, in some cases it is beneficial, allowing me to initiate activities the Cabals would not permit, were I not who I am.”

“Uh-huh.” A headache was forming behind my eyes.

“I’ve decided that the best use of my position, a position I neither want nor encourage, is to use it to counteract some of my race’s worst abuses of power. Clearly, taking a young witch away from the Coven and placing her into the hands of a Cabal is such an abuse. Upon learning of Kristof Nast’s initiative, I followed Leah and Gabriel and waited for an opportune time to introduce my services.”

“Uh-huh. Let me get this straight. Having abandoned the family fortunes, you now use your power to help supernaturals. Like the Caped Crusader … in permanent Clark Kent disguise.”

I would have sworn he smiled. His lips twitched, at least. “The Caped Crusader is Batman, whose alter ego would be Bruce Wayne. Clark Kent is Superman. Neither analogy, I’m afraid, is quite accurate. I lack the tormented brooding sexiness of the Dark Knight and, sadly, I’ve not yet learned to fly, though I did manage to sail a few yards when Leah threw me this afternoon.”

I couldn’t resist a small laugh. “Okay, but seriously. You know how this whole ‘Rebel with a Cause’ routine sounds?”

“Unlikely, I know.”

“Try crazy. Insane. Preposterous.”

“I haven’t heard those particular adjectives before, doubtless only because no one dares say them to my face.” He pushed aside his untouched burger. “Before you dismiss my story completely, please speak to Robert Vasic. I am confident that he will have sources who can vouch for my sincerity.”

“I hope so.”

“I can help you, Paige. I know the Cabals, know them more intimately than anyone you could hope—or would want—to meet. I can operate within that world with little fear of reprisals. As Savannah saw today, the Nasts don’t dare touch me. That can be very useful.”

“But why? Why go through all this to save a stranger?”

He glanced over at Savannah. “Preposterous, as you said. I can’t imagine anyone doing such a thing.”

I tore a crispy fry tip off, stared at it, then tossed it onto the grass. A crow tottered over for a closer look, then fixed me with a cold, black eye, as if to ask whether it was safe to eat.

“You still lied,” I said. “About Leah.”

“Yes, and, as you’ve said, I’m very good at it. For a Cortez, it’s a skill we learn as other boys are learning to swing a baseball bat. For me, lying is a survival reflex. Placed in a situation where truth-telling may be risky, I often lie before I even make a conscious decision to do so. All I can say
in my defense now is that I will make every effort not to do so again.”

“You do, and that’s it. I’ve got serious trust issues with this arrangement already, aligning myself with a sorcerer.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

“And I am going to speak to Robert first. I need to do that, for my own peace of mind.”

“Again, understandable. You expect him back soon, I hope.”

“He’s probably already called the house, trying to find me.”

“Good. Then I will accompany you home, you can go in and return his call, then we’ll come up with a plan of action.”

“What about your bike?”

“I’ll retrieve it later. Right now, getting this situation straightened out is my first priority.”

A
s I rounded the second-last corner to my street, Cortez turned sideways in his seat, so he could see both me and Savannah.

“Now, as I said, it is possible that some members of the media may have established themselves in the vicinity. You must be prepared. Perhaps we should go over the plan again. The most important thing to remember is—”

“No comment, no comment, no comment,” I said, with Savannah chiming in.

“You’re quick studies.”

“Keep the script simple and even us witches can learn it.”

“I’m very impressed. Now, when we get out of the car, stick close to me—”

Savannah leaned over the seat. “And you’ll protect us with lightning bolts and hail and hellfire.”

“I cannot protect you at all if Paige hits the brake and you go flying through the windshield. Put on your seat belt, Savannah.”

“It is on.”

“Then tighten it.”

She slipped back into her seat. “God, you’re as bad as Paige.”

“As I was saying,” Cortez said. “Our primary objective is to—Oh.”

With that one word, my breath caught. A simple word, not even a word really, a mere sound, an exclamation of surprise. But for Cortez to
be
surprised, worse yet, for him to stop in the middle of explaining one of his grand plans to make such an exclamation—well, it boded no good.

I’d just rounded the corner onto my street. A quarter-mile ahead was my house. Or so I assumed. I couldn’t be sure because both sides of the street were lined with cars, trucks, and vans, crammed into every available space, some even double-parked. As for my house, I couldn’t see it, not because of the cars, but because of the crowd of people spilling over the lawn, onto the sidewalk and across the road.