To Kill a Sorcerer (29 page)

“I saw you switch bowls, Sebastian.” Marguerite’s voice was part accusing, part scolding. James tittered, and she pinched him hard enough to make him squeak. “Shh!” she hissed at him.

“So what if I did?” I said. “You sneaked some for yourself while you and Mama cooked.”

“I did not.”

“Did, too.”

“Did not.” James giggled, and Marguerite pinched him again.

“Ow, stop it, Margie.”

“It’s okay, Margie,” I said, teasing her. “We understand. You’re bigger than us. You need a lot of food.”

James snorted and then whispered loudly as Marguerite slid her hand toward him, “Don’t pinch me again!”

“Then stop being a nuisance!” She turned to me. “You hardly ate anything today. Or yesterday. Papa just teases you, but he’s right. You eat as if it’s an obligation. As if you don’t really need it.”

“Yeah,” James chimed in, his voice heavy with sleep, “you gave me almost your whole stew.” He yawned. “Didn’t you want it?”

“Maybe I’m getting sick,” I told them.

“You always say that.” Marguerite’s voice rang with impatience. “And then you eat less, because you say you are sick. But you don’t ever look sick or seem sick. The dinner Mother and I made tonight was one of our best ever, and you hardly touched it.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” James agreed softly. He was only moments from sleep. “Everybody’s hungry. Papa said so. Everybody needs to eat.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Am I strong?” His eyes were closed now, but his lips curved in a smile.

“Strong as an ox,” he whispered.

“Am I smart?”

“Smart as an owl.” This last sentence was so low we could hardly hear him. In moments, he began snoring softly. I gazed at his sweet face, knowing he felt a kind of safety and love here in this house, sleeping between his older brother and sister, that many of the people at the festival today had never known in their lives.

Marguerite continued to stare at me, her face questioning. She was not finished. I pushed my usual routine.

“Time to go to sleep, Margie.” She didn’t reply, but after a moment, she lay on her back. The straw rustled as we both settled down. The sun had gone now.

“Do you know, Sebastian?” she asked me. “Do you know what makes you different?”

“I’m not different,” I said. “I just don’t need as much food as everyone else, that’s all.”

“You’re different.”

We lay in silence for a while as James snored. She finally spoke again in a drowsy voice.

“I have dreams about you sometimes.” From her tone, I knew she was not talking about the dreams she had shared with James and me in the past. “In them, you’re like an avenging angel, with terrible power. Nothing can hurt you.”

I waited, holding my breath.

“I always feel safe with you in these dreams. But I’m scared of you, too.”

“Don’t say that.” I shifted uncomfortably. “They’re just dreams.” It was too dark to see her now.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you ever afraid of me when you’re awake?”

“No.”

“And in your dream you are because dreams aren’t real. Remember when James had the dream that you were his mother? It did not seem strange to him in his dream. Funny things like that happen in my dreams all the time.”

“I know. Mine, too.”

I sighed. “But . . .”

“But there is something different about you no matter how much you try to deny it.” She fell quiet then. Her breathing became deep and even until it vibrated with the unmistakable rhythm of slumber.

The sounds of the night filtered through the walls. An untoward protectiveness for my family filled me. Lying on my back, with my hands behind my head, listening to Marguerite and James sleeping by my side, I felt peaceful, as if I were exactly where the universe wanted me to be.

My father and I were working the west fields the next day when we heard the throbbing of approaching hooves and saw horses racing down the village road, clouds of dust following them.

“Who is it, Sebastian?” My father was shading his eyes against the sun.

“Two knights, Papa, including the one we drank with yesterday. Guthbert.”

“Come with me.”

He began walking quickly to the house. I almost had to run to keep up with him. We stepped over the low stone wall he and I had built two years ago and crossed the yard, passing under the apple tree.

Mother and Marguerite were scattering feed to the chickens at the side of the house, and James fooled around on the grass.

Guthbert and the other knight turned down the dirt path to our farm.

“Leave the talking to me,” my father said. He slowly walked forward, deliberately putting himself between the visitors and our family. I came up and stood next to him. He laid his arm across my chest and gently pushed me back two paces.

The men rode up quickly, reining in their horses at the last moment. Both knights were big and looked battle-hardened with cold eyes, wearing swords and light armor. Truncheons were fixed in their saddles.

“So, Montero,” the lead knight began, looking down on us from his mount. He was clearly senior to Guthbert. “I trust we find you and your lovely family in good health?”

“Yes, sire,” my father said, bowing slightly. “Thank you for inquiring.”

“I understand your daughter had trouble with a vagabond yesterday.”

I looked at Guthbert. He smiled smugly, puffy-eyed, his complexion waxen.

“He was a boy, sire,” my father said, surprised. “He caused us no harm.”

“That is not for you to decide. You should have filed a report with the man-at-arms,” he said, nodding toward Guthbert, who swelled, sitting up straighter. “We need to maintain civil obedience.”

“Yes, sire.”

Something was wrong. This knight would not concern himself with the incident yesterday between the young man and Marguerite. I looked at him closely. He was an older man, with a thin face and a bent nose. He was not as heavily armored as Guthbert, and his clothes were richer.

The two of them dismounted, their weapons and armor clanking. The older knight took the trunch off his saddle and hooked it onto his belt.

“My name is Edward,” he said. “One of Earl William’s lieutenants. Let us go inside for something to drink, and the young lady can give her report now.”

From the strong smell of them and the slightly glassy look in their eyes, it was obvious they had both been drinking heavily. They stared past us, at my mother and Marguerite. I turned.

Marguerite leaned over, facing away. Her tunic had tightened, molding to her hips and thighs. My face grew hot as I turned to look at the two knights. A queer anger began building inside me.

“Yes, of course,” my father said slowly. “This way, please.” He turned and began to lead them into the house.

Lightning. Sharp and dazzling. Smell of ozone. Falling. No. Flying. Without willing it, my
ti bon ange
sailed through the ether. Blink. Not my own eyes. Blink again and—

She was inside, and she was alone. Everyone had left an hour earlier. My digital watch read ten fifty-one.

I rang the doorbell and took a casual look around. This was a quiet, tree-lined street. Mottled sunlight fell on the lawn, filtered through fall-colored leaves. There were no neighbors outside that I could see.

I turned back and waited, my right hand relaxed in the pocket of my jacket, the atomizer like a small gas grenade in my palm. In my left hand I held the case containing the tools I would need for the next fifty minutes.

The front door had a small window, and now I could see movement behind it as young Amanda came to answer. I had found her two nights ago with my spirit body, homing in on the purity of her Virginal Aura, which shone like a beacon in the night to my hungry eyes.

She opened the door without looking through the window, as if she knew Destiny waited on the other side.

“Yes?” She wore white tennis shorts that were cuffed on the bottom and a pink, short-sleeved blouse. Her feet were wonderfully bare, and her skin shone with vitality.

“I am here to prepare you for the afterlife,” I said. In that same moment I raised my right hand and sprayed the atomizer in her face. She inhaled reflexively, shocked as the others had been, taking the full dose. I stepped quickly over the threshold as her body went limp and got my right arm under her before she fell.

I struggled around, setting the case down, a sharp pain piercing my back. After lowering the girl to the floor, I shut the door and with a shaking hand set the dead bolt. This was always the worst part, getting in safely and taking my victim quietly. I looked through the small window, my breath coming in shallow gasps. There was no one.

I slid the aspirator into my pocket. The paralyzing spray was a recipe from a text over a thousand years old. I wiped my hands on my pants to dry the palms. Yes, all the formulas finally worked perfectly, since I had fulfilled my side of the magical bargain. Now that I possessed the young woman staring up at me, the power of a Thief of Souls lay within my grasp.

Hoisting Amanda in my arms, I carried her into the living room and laid her on the couch, carefully turning her head so she could see my preparations.

Retrieving my case, I set it on the coffee table in front of her. My breath came normally now. Looking at her lying helplessly on the tan leather couch, tall and lovely in her shorts and tiny top, my confidence returned, and my heart began pounding, this time with excitement.

“The path to true salvation is a painful road,” I said to her. Her sky-blue eyes were wide as she looked at me. “This is a road of agony most people spread out over a lifetime. But for a select few, a
chosen
few, this journey is compressed into moments. You must travel it now, Amanda, and you must endure the pain of a lifetime all at once, to give me the power I desire.”

I opened my bag and pulled a thin cord and a pair of pliers out of it. A dining room chair served as a step so I could screw a heavy hook into one of the ceiling beams. I knotted the white rope and looped it over the hook, let a short length hang down, and tied a knot at the end, leaving a wide opening.

When I returned to the living room, Amanda watched me. Had she figured out who I was yet? Tears spilled off her cheek, and her eyes were wide with terror. Yes, she knew who I was and what I had done.

And most importantly, what I was about to do.

I knelt at the table in front of her. Reaching into my case, I pulled out the goblet, set it on a doily, and placed a small shaker next to it with the combination of spices for the ceremonial chalice. Thinking about drinking her blood sent a powerful bolt of excitement through me.

A thin line of mucus began to stream out of Amanda’s nose. She looked as if she had regressed to five years old. I wondered what thoughts filled through her terrified mind.

The five black candles gleamed under the rope. After lighting each one carefully, I retrieved a cone of incense and a holder, set them on the table, and lit the tip. Amanda stared as I shook out the match.

“And now we begin the mystical process whereby I take your soul as my own, and you give me the power to rule over men.”

I wrestled her off the couch, wrapping my arms around her hips with her feet above my shoulders. My knees bumped her forehead as I carried her into the center of the candles and looped the rope around her ankles, pulling on my pre-tied noose to draw it tight.

The sight of Amanda hanging from the ceiling, utterly defenseless, a living sacrificial doll with which I could do anything, filled me with a sense of invincibility. The prize, so long sought, was nearly mine.

The long dagger sat on the carpet inside the rough circle of candles. I poured a measured amount of spices into the bottom of the goblet. My hand did not shake, as it had at the first two murders, and I did not spill anything.

The cup shone in the circle of candles.

Out of my case I took a clear plastic jumpsuit and donned it carefully, zipping it to the throat.

The suit made a crinkling sound as I knelt in front of Amanda. I grabbed the front of her shirt and ripped it open. It slid down her limp arms, and I tossed it aside. Brandishing the ceremonial knife, I sliced off her bra.

I leaned down so I could look into her eyes. Tears and snot dripped off her forehead.

“You understand what I am going to do now, don’t you, Amanda? Can you feel the pain? Believe me, you cannot. When I rip your body open, it will be worse than anything you could ever imagine. Your mind will lose its identity in a storm of searing agony, and then you will be cleansed. Do not despair. Your pain and horror will give me the power I desire.” I patted her cheek. “And you, my dear, will know dumb obedience as my slave.”

Her eyes widened until I thought they would fall out of their sockets.

I thoughtfully picked up the cup . . .

( . . . again he gave you thanks and praise, gave the cup to his disciples, and said, “Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the cup of my blood . . .”)

. . . pressed it against her throat, raised the knife . . .

Lightning. Crash of thunder. I am deaf. Holding my hands over my ears. Eyes shut tight. Another crash.

Gasping and trembling, I shook awake, fell off the couch and banged my head against the coffee table. Blood flowed. Ignoring it, I grabbed my phone and speed-dialed Hamilton.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“He’s killing again,” I said. “This moment.”

“What? Are you okay? You sound funny.”

I cleared my throat, stood shakily. “I think I just saw the next murder. He’s killing her right now.”

There was a pause.

“What do you mean, you saw it?”

His tone convinced me that calling him had been a mistake.

“Nothing,” I said. “Bad dream.”

I sank to the couch, tossed my phone on the table. What had my vision been? It had not been a dream or a memory of a past event. The experience had possessed the immediacy of the present.

He was cutting her open even now, drinking her blood and eating her heart. I could feel it.

And I had no idea where he was or how to stop him.