To Kill a Sorcerer (25 page)

“Great video,” he said. “I’m tellin’ you, she’s the whole package. Beautiful voice, major can, gorgeous face, packed—”

“I get the picture. I’ve seen her.”

I picked up my Monte Cristo—perfectly deep-fried—and took a big bite. After I swallowed, I turned the conversation back to his grandmother.

“Didn’t your
abuela
ever talk to you about magic?”

“What do you mean?”

“Stop jerking me around,” I said. “Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Your grandmother was not just a counselor.”

He set his burger down.

“All right. Yes, she had a lot of influence in our community, and she believed it had something to do with magic. But she was just a charismatic woman with a lot of common sense. There is no such thing as magic.”

“You could be wrong. You may not remember times when she really did magic, or you did not recognize that she was conjuring at all.”

“Come on, Sebastian, any argument has holes if you use that sort of logic. Besides, I am not basing my opinion only on my
abuela
. I have had ample evidence in my lifetime—or an absence thereof—to convince me that ghosts or astral travel or a dozen other ‘phenomena’ have no basis in physical fact. And the people who say they’ve done these things . . . I just don’t think that’s reliable testimony. They’re the same as alien abduction victims. They can make up anything they like, and there’s no evidence for or against.”

“Are you really going to say none of those people believe they were abducted by aliens?”

He thought about that while munching a couple of fries. “No. I know there are people who really believe it happened. That still doesn’t mean they were abducted.”

This was a subject very like religion. If you have never seen a ghost or a UFO or had an unusual experience, it was hard to take others’ stories about such phenomena seriously.

Until it happened to you.

After what I had been through with Kanga and his spirits, it seemed likely Hamilton was in for a close encounter of his own, something he might not be able to integrate comfortably into his view of reality. Such experiences changed men. It was the old story of the Garden of Eden. Knowledge is a mighty tool, but how it will affect a person is unpredictable.

When the pie plates were empty, I cleaned up, carrying everything into the kitchen. The trash can was in the cabinet underneath the sink. I stuffed the bags and wrappers into it. There was a window just above the dishwasher, framed by blue drapes that were pulled apart, giving a view of the trees in the courtyard.

Pulling a bone out of my pocket, I set it on top of the right drape, balancing it between the fabric and the rod where Hamilton would not notice it.

I needed to plant a charm near the front door, and now was the only time to do it. It would be too difficult when he was walking me out at the end of the night.

He remained in his chair, back to me. I had another bone in my hand already. As I passed the foyer table, I gingerly dropped the bone into the pencil cup, between two pens and a yellow highlighter, coughing at the same time to cover the sound of its landing. Hopefully, he wouldn’t find that one before we took care of Kanga. After the bloody feather in his cup at work, a fetishised bone in his cup at home would probably push him over the edge.

So far, so good. Now for the back of the apartment.

“I need a cigarette,” I said

“You and your damn death sticks. On the balcony.”

I grabbed the pack and lighter out of my jacket, slid the screen door open, and stepped into the cool night air. Hamilton joined me.

“Kanga is one cold mutha to do what he did to Madame Leoni and those other two girls,” he said. He leaned his elbows on the ledge and looked past the dirt access road that separated his building from a housing tract across the street. His scar stood out along his jaw. “And if the Leoni kill was motivated by the fact that she talked to us, we’re personally responsible for her death.”

I lit up and took a long puff. “We are not. There—”

“Save it, Sebastian, I know we’re not responsible for that maniac’s actions. I’m not a fool. You know what I mean.”

Yes, I did. We felt we should be able to prevent these murders from happening because it was our job to do so, even if it was an unrealistic expectation against a man as intelligent and determined as Kanga.

A man’s loud shout came from the apartment next door. A woman’s voice, angry and bitter, followed, then a door slammed. More shouting, muffled now.

“Monica caught Freddie playing with his secretary again. That Freddie. If he would just run his catering business and keep his hands off the help, he’d be a happy, successful guy.”

“What does his secretary look like?”

“Yeah, okay, I’d probably jump her, too.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The yelling had stopped, and now we could hear a woman’s sobs and Freddie’s deep rumble. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was apologizing for something, that much was evident.

“He’s going to kill again tomorrow,” Hamilton said. “He’s already picked her out, and he’s going to take her in broad freakin’ daylight—and we can’t do a thing to stop him.”

“He may not kill again tomorrow,” I said, though I did not believe it. In my heart, I knew Hamilton was right. “We don’t know his pattern.”

“Nice try, Sebastian. He’ll kill. You know it, too.”

I finished my cigarette, dropped it, and ground it out with the toe of my shoe. “Yes, I feel that.”

We looked at each other for a couple of beats.

“Mutha,” he said.

He turned and headed back inside. Before I closed the glass door behind me, I pulled a bone out of my pocket and set it in the corner.

As soon as we sat down, his phone buzzed.

“Hamilton. Yeah? What about it? What? Well, what the hell does that mean? Yeah, send it now. Okay, thanks.”

I looked at him with my eyebrows raised.

“Just got the blood work on the samples we took from Madame Leoni’s place. Our guy thinks there’s something weird about the results. He’s sending me the chart.”

Uh-oh.

While he was accessing the info through his BlackBerry, my phone rang. It was Preston.

“Yes?”

“Just got the blood results from the Leoni crime scene. There were only two types, and one was hers.”

“And the other?”

He hesitated. That was rare for him.

“I’m not sure. The data the police lab sent us don’t make sense. We’ve requested samples for our own analysis, but if it bears out what they have found, we are dealing with a remarkable being.”

“How so?”

“This blood shows no oxidation, and all of the cells resemble advanced stem cells. Based on these results, he would not age, at least not like you and me. And his body’s ability to repair itself and fight off disease must be prodigious. I’ll bet this guy’s never had a cold in his life.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” My heart sank as I realized I was now officially on file.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not putting anything in my official report except the lab’s verified analysis. But if the preliminary data hold up, our guy seems to be made of an exceptionally durable material. It’s possible we’re dealing with a man who has lived for centuries.”

Thursday, December 23, 11:11 p.m.

“Are you saying he’s immortal?”

“I’m not putting that in writing,” he repeated.

“I can believe that. Let me know when we’re done with our analyses.”

Hamilton was still holding his phone up, tapping the display. “Well, I can’t understand this,” he said finally. He tossed the cell on the table, stood up. Apparently forgetting the remote, he walked over to the stereo and jabbed the power button. “Was that Preston?”

“Yes.”

“About the blood?”

“Yes.”

“Did I hear you say immortal?” He started pacing.

“Yes, well . . . he said the blood must come from an unusual person.” I stood. Hamilton’s restlessness transmitted a palpable vibration.

“Yeah, I got that from our guy, but unusual how?”

“It seems at the cellular level, this man may be impervious to certain kinds of aging and tissue damage.”

“What?”

“Preston said the man might be possessed of extreme longevity.”

He did not say anything for several long moments. “An immortal?”

“Nothing is immortal,” I replied. Even our sun would die in another five billion years or so. For creatures like vampires and me,
non-mortal
was more accurate, but the conceit of generations had compelled us to choose a word that meant “to live forever.”

“I won’t quibble over semantics. Are they sure? An immortal, for Christ’s sake?”

“No, they can’t be sure what it means yet. All they know is that the blood is different from a normal person’s.”

He put his hands in his pockets, looked thoughtfully at the carpet. “The question is, is it Kanga’s blood or our unknown shooter?”

Since the question was rhetorical, I was not obliged to lie to him.

“I just can’t figure this scene,” he said. “If the blood belongs to the man with the gun, then what? He fired at Kanga, and Kanga was still able to stab him?”

“It does look like our shooter missed three times.”

“So he shoots at Kanga, misses him, Kanga is able to stab him badly enough to cause the blood pools we found, and both men are able to leave.”

“That explains the evidence, but you’re right, it’s hard to visualize.” Unless you were there. “Maybe Kanga carried the guy out.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To keep his identity secret. Maybe leaving him there would have given us a clue.” He was shaking his head, so I said, “Yeah, it doesn’t sound right.”

“If they were shooting and knifing each other, they must have left individually. And if Kanga was never injured, and he stabbed the shooter, and that’s the blood we found, then maybe our unknown guy would have been able to leave under his own power.”

“That’s true.” And it was exactly what had happened.

“You know,” he said, “if this guy’s body really is impervious to damage, he may have bled all over that room seven hours ago, but be fine now, going about his daily business as if it never happened. Is that what Preston and our lab people are saying?”

“That is what the evidence seems to indicate, yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to be like that?”

“Yes,” I said. “It would be.” The yawning chasm that stood between the rest of humanity and me gaped, and I wondered for the thousandth time what it must be like to be as fragile as a mortal. Aliena had hated her mortality and never regretted that Claudius had taken her. “For a man who does not believe in magic and aliens, you’re accepting this blood analysis very casually. Do you honestly believe we’re dealing with an immortal man?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” He put both hands on top of his head and exhaled explosively. He stretched his arms up and out, and rolled his head around. “This is the damnedest case I’ve ever worked. You with your damn ceremonies and magic, and now this crazy blood. What the hell is going on here?”

“Do you really want to know?”

He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Not your version.” He scratched his head and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

He followed me to the door. As I passed the foyer table, I surreptitiously glanced at the pencil cup. The bone I had placed there was not visible.

“We should have something on Kanga by tomorrow,” he said. “Early. Then we pick him up.”

“Sounds good.” They would not apprehend Kanga, but there was no point in saying so. In fact, depending on what Marcus and Aliena had planned, it was possible I would be visiting Kanga tonight.

Once in the car, I tossed the amulet and leftover bones in Bey’s bag. I had done everything I could do for Hamilton this night. Bey’s charms would protect him.

I phoned Aliena.

“Come to 49,” she said immediately.

“No. Let’s meet somewhere else.”

“Come
on
, Sebastian, at least watch one fight with me,” she said, a pleading note in her voice. It was time to bow to the inevitable. She did love the fights, so as her potential partner, I had better start enjoying them as well.

“Is Marcus with you?”

“Yes.”

That was something. Although Marcus was a rival, I felt safer knowing that both he and Aliena would be sitting with me. No vampire would dare touch me with the two of them as sponsors.

“Where is it?”

The address she gave me was for another abandoned warehouse, this one down by the old Santa Fe train station in south Los Angeles, an area of the city with a strong gang presence. That dampened my enthusiasm further, as it was necessary to drive my car to the club this time. I did not want the Thunder Chicken vandalized or stolen.

After I pulled off the freeway on Alameda and drove through progressively darker, dingier neighborhoods, I finally bumped over two pairs of railroad tracks and saw a warehouse with dim light steady in its high windows. The area was deserted, with one streetlamp in three operating. I pulled up in front of the building and parked as close as possible, next to an ancient fire hydrant.

I stepped out of the car and chirped the alarm. The night had turned cold, with a mild breeze that brought the distant sound of barking dogs. The gravel drive leading to the warehouse crunched under my feet. When I topped a small rise, the throbbing crimson “49” sign appeared over a partially open door.

I was preparing to call Aliena so she could escort me inside when a vampire stepped out of the building. My mind racing, alarm bells clanging, I approached the entrance. Should I continue to call Aliena? Was I about to be attacked? The vampire stepped into the moonlight.

It was the lovely Rachella.

I canceled the call. As we had been introduced, she was bound by etiquette to behave herself.

She fixed her brilliant green eyes on me, smiled, and held out her hand as I came up.

“Good evening, Rachella,” I said, kissing her knuckles lightly, “you look stunning.”

She did. Her auburn was hair piled atop her head. Tiny gold shorts stretched tight across her hips. The matching gold lamé jacket was unbuttoned so low a slight breeze would expose her upper torso completely. Unfortunately, no gust obliged. Spiked gold boots punctuated her shapely legs.