“How’d he manage that?” I said. “Or she.”
“Magic,” Karl said. “Dude had a witch cast a spell that let him keep functioning during the daytime. He still had to stay out of the sun, though – that didn’t change.”
“What kind of magic are we talking about here?” McGuire said. “White or black?”
“White, definitely,” Karl said. “All legal and aboveboard. I doubt they’d be writing about it in Supe magazine otherwise. It’s illegal to advocate the practice of black magic, boss – you know that, same as I do.”
“So this vampire that got the spell cast on him – he doesn’t have to rest during the day anymore?” I said.
“Nah, the spell’s not that good,” Karl said. “It only worked for one day, and the witch who did it had to spend a lot of time in preparation. I guess she did it as kind of an experiment in thaumaturgy. It’s not a consumer magic item yet – not by a long shot. Maybe it never will be.”
“But it worked at least once,” I said. “That’s what’s important.”
McGuire asked Karl, “Far as you know, did the vampire who did this suffer any ill effects?”
“The article didn’t mention any,” Karl said. “Except that the guy was really wiped out by the end of the next night, same as you might be after pulling an all-nighter.” He gave us a pointy grin. “Guess you could say he was dead tired.”
I sat there rubbing the bridge of my nose for a little while, then said, “I figure there’s a couple of things we need to do pronto.”
“I assume one of them involves getting a copy of that article Karl’s been talking about,” McGuire said.
“You assume right.” I turned to Karl. “Have you still got your copy of the magazine at home?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I don’t usually keep stuff like that around once I’ve read it. But Supe’s got an online edition that I can access cause I’m a subscriber. They should have all the back issues in there.”
“Good,” I said. “How about you track down the article and print off three copies – one for me to read and one for the boss.”
“What’re you gonna do with the third one?” he asked me.
“Take it with me when I go downstairs to see Rachel.”
Rachel Proctor leaned back in her creaky desk chair and shook her lead slowly. “I’ve never heard of anything like that being done before, Stan,” she said. “I’m not even sure it can be done.”
“Then take a look at this,” I said, and handed her the article that Karl had downloaded from Supe magazine. She put on her glasses and read it slowly, her concentration so intense that I could almost feel it. I sat there in front of her desk, tried not to fidget, and kept my mouth shut. That’s something I should try more often – keeping my mouth shut, I mean.
Finally Rachel looked up and tossed the article onto her desk.
“Sounds interesting in principle,” she said, “but it’s kind of short on specifics. Supe is usually a decent enough source for news, but it’s no academic journal. It’s hard to know how much of this story is accurate.”
“There’s academic journals for magic?” I said. I’d never thought about it, but I guess it made sense. They’ve got professional publications for every other field. Christine had once showed me an article that had appeared in the online edition of something called Vampirology. The title was “Free Choice vs Influence: Ethical Issues in Recreational Exsanguination.” Or something like that.
“Sure,” Rachel said. “The Quarterly Journal of Thaumaturgy is one of the big ones. Then there’s Critical Studies in Sorcery, the Annals of the American Academy of Witchcraft, and a whole bunch of others.”
“OK,” I said. “I guess I can see how an issue of Supe doesn’t belong in with that crowd.”
“On the other hand,” Rachel said, “it so happens I’ve heard of the witch who carried out this experiment. Annabelle Araguin has made quite a name for herself in thaumaturgical research circles over the last few years. So it’s possible that this article is actually on the level.”
“How fast can you find out? Like I said, we haven’t got a lot of time.”
Rachel shrugged. “I can send her an email right away. But how fast she responds is up to her.”
“You know this Annabelle …?”
“Araguin. Yes, slightly. We’ve met at conventions a few times.”
I used to smile at the idea of witches attending conventions, until Rachel set me straight. All fields have their own professional meetings, she’d explained, and witches were nothing if not professional. I knew that much – you’ve got to be licensed to practice magic, and that license is a lot harder to get than the kind that lets you drive a car.
“Have you got her email address?” I asked.
“No, but I should be able to find it online easily enough. I’m sure she’s got a website. Most practicing witches have one.”
“Of course they do,” I said. “How soon can you track her down?”
“As soon as you get out of here and let me start looking.”
I stood up. “I’m practically gone already,” I said, and headed for the door.
Our shift ended about ninety minutes later, and I checked in with Rachel before leaving.
“No joy yet,” she told me. “I got Annabelle’s email address without too much trouble, and sent her a message. She hasn’t replied, but it is pretty damn late for people who don’t keep the kind of hours that you and I do.”
“How about a phone call?” I asked.
“I’m working that angle, too. Her number’s unlisted, which isn’t surprising. But I’ve sent out some more emails to people who might know her, asking for the phone number. No responses yet, but, again…”
I nodded. “Most people are still in bed. Well, I’m heading home, but if anything develops, don’t hesitate to call – no matter what time it is.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
I went home, spoke with Christine briefly, then went to bed and slept for eight hours straight. Normally, that’s a good thing – but this time, it meant that Rachel didn’t have any news worth reporting.
When I got to work, there was no message from Rachel waiting for me. I was about to go down to her office when McGuire sent Karl and me out on a call. There’d been a near-riot at Eric’s, one of the local dance clubs, the night before.. Word was, every male patron in the place had tried to rush the stage during the final number, performed by a local band called the Banshees. After a certain amount of head-scratching, management had finally decided that a supernatural influence had been at work, and called the Occult Crimes Unit.
The band members weren’t really banshees, of course. Those Irish spirits are harbingers of death, and nothing else. Their singing, although beautiful enough to break your heart, isn’t something anybody looks forward to hearing. Besides, it hasn’t got much of a backbeat.
As soon as I learned that only the male patrons had been involved in the disturbance, I thought I knew what we were dealing with. Karl and I had a conversation with the band members in the club’s dingy dressing room before they went onstage, and it didn’t take long to find out that I’d been right.
The Banshees’ bass player was a crew-cut blonde who called herself Scar, but whose real name, I finally got her to admit, was Meredith Schwartz. She didn’t usually sing, I learned, but last night they’d let her take lead vocal on the final song of their set.
I turned to Meredith. “You’re a Siren, right?”
She locked eyes with me for a couple of seconds, then looked away. “Ain’t no law against it,” she muttered. She wore a sleeveless black top, and I saw that her upper right arm bore a large heart tattoo – not the valentine kind, but an anatomically correct human heart, valves and all.
“Of course not,” I said. “There’s no law against being anything. It’s the stuff you do that can get you in a shitload of trouble.”