Spellcasters (47 page)

He had the best damned job a cop could want. Head of the finest investigative unit in the country, with the kind of resources and funding his old buddies in the FBI could only dream about. And he didn’t just get to solve crimes, he got to plan them. When the Cortezes needed to get rid of someone, they came to Dennis and, together with his team, he’d devise the perfect crime, one that would stump the authorities. That was the best part of his job. What he was doing tonight was the worst. Two in one week. Dennis told himself it was a coincidence, random attacks unconnected to the Cabal itself. The alternative … well, no one wanted to consider the alternative.

The SUV stopped.

“Over there,” the driver said, pointing. “To the left, behind those trees.”

Dennis swung open his door and stepped out. He rolled the kinks from his shoulders as he surveyed the site. There was nothing to see. No crime-scene tape, no television crews, not even an ambulance. The Cabal EMTs had been and gone, arriving silently in an unmarked minivan, then speeding back into the night, headed for the airport, where they’d load their passenger on the same jet that had brought Dennis and Simon to Atlanta.

Over by a stand of trees, a flashlight signaled with an on-off flicker. “Malone,” Dennis called. “Miami SD.”

The light went on and a heavyset blond man stepped out. New guy, recently come over from the St. Cloud Cabal. Jim? John?

Greetings were a brief exchange of hellos. They only had a few hours until daybreak, and a lot of work to do before then. Both Jim and the driver who’d brought them from the airport were trained to assist Dennis and Simon, but it would still take every minute of those remaining hours to process the scene.

Simon moved up behind Dennis, camera in one hand, light source in the other. He handed the light source to the driver—Kyle, wasn’t it?—and pointed out where he wanted Kyle to aim it. Then he started snapping pictures. It took a moment for Dennis to see what Simon was photographing. That was one advantage to having shaman crime techs—lead them to a scene and they instinctively picked up the vibes of violence and knew where to start working.

Following the angle of Simon’s camera lens, Dennis looked up to see a rope dangling from an overhead limb, the end hacked off. Another length
lay on the ground, where the EMTs had removed it from the girl’s throat.

“It took me a while to find her,” Jim said. “If I’d been just a few minutes faster …”

“She’s alive,” Dennis said. “If you hadn’t been that fast, she wouldn’t be.”

His cell phone vibrated. He took it from his pocket. A text message.

“Have you updated Mr. Cortez?” he asked Jim. “He hasn’t received a site report yet.”

From Jim’s expression, Dennis knew he hadn’t sent one. With the St. Cloud Cabal you probably didn’t phone anyone in the family at three
A.M
. unless the Tokyo stock market had just crashed. Not so when you worked for the Cortezes.

“You’ve filled out a preliminary report sheet, right?” Dennis said.

Jim nodded and fumbled to pull his modified PalmPilot from his jacket.

“Well, send it to Mr. Cortez immediately. He’s waiting to notify Dana’s father and he can’t do that until he knows the details.”

“Mr …? Which Mr. Cortez?”

“Benicio,” Simon murmured as he continued snapping pictures. “You need to send it to Benicio.”

“Oh? Uh, right.”

As Jim transmitted the report, Simon moved back to photograph the rope on the ground. Blood streaked the underside of the coil and Dennis flinched, imagining his granddaughter lying there. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Cabal children. You worked for a Cabal, your kids were protected.

“Randy’s girl, wasn’t it?” Simon said softly behind him. “The older one?”

Dennis could barely picture Randy MacArthur, let alone know how many kids he had. Simon was almost certainly right, though. Lead the man once around a corporate picnic, and the next day he’d be sure to ask Joe Blow in Accounting whether his son’s cold was improving.

“What is her father?” Jim asked.

“Half-demon,” Simon said. “An Exaudio, I believe.”

Both Jim and Dennis nodded. They were half-demon, as were most of the Cabal’s policing force, and they knew what this meant. Dana would have inherited none of her father’s powers.

“Poor kid never had a chance,” Dennis said.

“Actually, I believe she
is
a supernatural,” Simon said. “If I’m not mistaken, her mother is a witch, so she would be one as well.”

Dennis shook his head. “Like I said, poor kid never had a chance.”

I
sat in a hotel room, across from two thirty-something witches in business suits, listening as they said all the right things. All the polite things. How they’d heard such wonderful accounts of my mother. How horrified they’d been to learn of her murder. How delighted they were to see that I was doing well despite my break with the Coven.

All this they said, smiling with just the right mixture of sadness, commiseration, and support. Wendy Aiken did most of the talking. While she did, her younger sister Julie’s eyes darted to where Savannah, my thirteen-year-old ward, perched on the bed. I caught the looks Julie shot her, distaste mingled with fear. A black witch’s daughter, in their hotel room.

As Wendy’s lips moved in rehearsed platitudes, her gaze slipped past me to the clock. I knew then that I would fail … again. But I gave my spiel anyway. I told them my vision of a new Coven for the technological age, linked by sisterhood instead of proximity, each witch living where she chooses, but with a full Coven support system only a phone call or e-mail away.

When I finished, the sisters looked at each another.

I continued, “As I mentioned, there’s also the grimoires. Tertiary-level spells, lost for generations. I have them and I want to share them, to return witches to their former glory.”

To me, these books were my trump card. Even if you didn’t give a damn about sisterhood or support, surely you’d want this power. What witch wouldn’t? Yet, as I looked at Wendy and Julie, I saw my words wash right over them, as if I was offering a free set of steak knives with the purchase of a complete living-room suite.

“You’re a very compelling saleswoman,” Wendy said with a smile.

“But …” Savannah muttered from the bed.

“But we must admit, we have a problem with the … present company you keep.”

Julie’s gaze slid toward Savannah. I tensed, ready to leap to her defense.

“That Cortez boy,” Wendy said. “Well, young man, I should say. Yes, I know he’s not involved with his family’s Cabal, but we all know how things like that turn out. Youthful rebellion is all very well, but it doesn’t pay the bills. And I hear he’s not very successful in that regard.”

“Lucas—”

“He’s still young, I know, and he does a lot of pro bono work. That’s very noble, Paige. I can see how a young woman would find it romantic—”

“But,” Julie cut in, “like Wendy says, it doesn’t pay the bills. And he
is
a Cortez.”

Wendy nodded. “Yes, he is a Cortez.”

“Hey,” Savannah said, standing. “I have a question.” She stepped toward the sisters. Julie shrank back. “When’s the last time you saved a witch from being murdered by Cabal goons? Lucas did that just last month.”

“Savannah …” I said.

She stepped closer to the two women. “What about defending a shaman set up by a Cabal? That’s what Lucas is doing now. Oh, and Paige does charity work, too. In fact, she’s doing it right now, offering two-faced bitches like you a spot in her Coven.”

“Savannah!”

“I’ll be in the hall,” she said. “Something in here stinks.”

She wheeled and marched out of the hotel room.

“My God,” Wendy said. “She is her mother’s daughter.”

“And thank God for that,” I said, and left.

As I drove out of the city core, Savannah broke the silence.

“I heard what you said. It was a good comeback.”

The words “even if you didn’t mean it” hung between us. I nodded and busied myself scanning traffic. I was still working on understanding Savannah’s mother, Eve. It wasn’t easy. My whole being rebelled at the thought of empathizing with a dark witch. But, even if I could never think of Eve as someone I could admire, I’d come to accept that she’d been a good mother. The proof of that was beside me. A thoroughly evil woman couldn’t have produced a daughter like Savannah.

“You know I was right,” she said. “About them. They’re just like the Coven. You deserve—”

“Don’t,” I said quietly. “Please.”

She looked at me. I could feel her gaze, but didn’t turn. After a moment, she shifted to stare out the window.

I was in a funk, as my mother would have said. Feeling sorry for myself and knowing there was no good reason for it. I should be happy—ecstatic even. Sure my life had taken a nasty turn four months ago—if one can call “the end of life as I knew it” a nasty turn—but I’d survived. I was young. I was healthy. I was in love. Damn it, I should be happy. And when I wasn’t, that only added guilt to my blues, and left me berating myself for acting like a spoiled, selfish brat.

I was bored. The website design work that had once fired a passion in me now piled up on the desk—drudgery I had to complete if anyone in our house intended to eat. Did I say house? I meant apartment. Four months ago, my house near Boston had burned to cinders, along with everything I owned. I was now the proud renter of a lousy two-bedroom apartment in a lousier neighborhood in Portland, Oregon. Yes, I could afford better, but I hated digging into the insurance money, terrified I’d wake up one day with nothing in the bank and be forced to spend eternity living beneath a deaf old woman who watched blaring talk shows eighteen hours a day.

For the first two months, I’d been fine. Lucas, Savannah, and I had spent the summer traveling. But then September came and Savannah had to go to school. So we set up house—apartment—in Portland, and carried on. Or, I should say, Savannah and Lucas carried on. They’d both lived nomadic lives before, so this was nothing new. Not so for me. I’d been born near Boston, grown up there, and never left—not even for school. Yet in my fight to protect Savannah last spring, my house hadn’t been the only thing to burn. My entire life had gone up in smoke—my business, my private life, my reputation—all had been dragged through the tabloid cesspool, and I’d been forced to relocate clear across the country, someplace where no one had heard of Paige Winterbourne. The scandal had fizzled out quickly enough, but I couldn’t go back. The Coven had exiled me, which meant I was forbidden to live within the state boundaries. Still, I hadn’t given up. I’d sucked in my grief, dried my tears, and marched back into the fight. My Coven didn’t want me? Fine, I’d start my own. In the last eight weeks I’d met with nine witches. Each one said all the right things, then turned me down flat. With each rejection, the abyss widened.

We went out for dinner, followed by an early movie. My way of apologizing to Savannah for inflicting another witch-recruitment session on her.

Back at the apartment, I hustled Savannah off to bed, then zoomed into my room just as the clock radio flipped to 10:59. I grabbed the cordless phone, jumped onto the bed, and watched the clock. Two seconds after it hit 11:00, the phone rang.

“Two seconds late,” I said.

“Never. Your clock must be running fast.”

I smiled and settled back onto the bed. Lucas was in Chicago, defending a shaman who’d been set up by the St. Cloud Cabal to take the fall for a corporate espionage scheme gone awry.

I asked Lucas how the case was going, and he filled me in. Then he asked how my afternoon had gone, specifically my meeting with the witches. For a second, I almost wished I had one of those boyfriends who didn’t know or care about my life outside his sphere of influence. Lucas probably noted all my appointments in his DayTimer, so he’d never do something as inconsiderate as fail to ask about them afterward.

“Shot down,” I said.

A moment of silence. “I’m sorry.”

“No big—”

“Yes, it is. I know it is. However, I’m equally certain that, given the right circumstances and timing, you’ll eventually find yourself in a position where the number of witches clamoring to join your Coven will far exceed your requirements.”

“In other words, give it time and I’ll need to beat ’em off with a stick?”

A soft chuckle floated down the line. “I get even less coherent after a day in court, don’t I?”

“If you didn’t talk like that once in a while, I’d miss it. Kind of like I’m missing you. Got an ETA for me yet?”

“Three days at most. It’s hardly a murder trial.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, another case was brought to my attention today. A half-demon killed in Nevada, apparently mistaken for another who was under Cabal warrant for execution.”

“Whoops.”

“Exactly. The Boyd Cabal isn’t admitting its mistake, let alone conducting a proper investigation and procedural review. I thought perhaps you might be able to assist me. That is, if you aren’t busy—”