"We insisted you all be present today," Don continued, "in hopes that this will provide the boost we need to successfully cast this spell. All of us here, our combined life energy in this place, where the power has been harvested many times and where vestiges of that supreme power may still remain."
Don lied with the fervor of a true believer-convinced that what they were doing was right and, more than right, to his benefit. That's what set him apart from the others and what had made her choose him years ago as her confidante. Well, her confidante in most things…
Here, in this room, they'd killed six children, slitting their throats as they slept, drugged, on this floor. Here they'd watched a young man burn to death, the spell making him too weak to do more than mewl and rasp, his screams pouring from his eyes instead. Here they'd stabbed Murray in the back, watched their longtime fellow and, yes, friend, slide to the floor, his lifeblood trickling down the drain.
And here, in this same place, they would now be reminded of what they were striving for. Here they would witness a breakthrough into the world of power they dreamed of. Or so Don hoped. She could see the anxiety in his eyes, the sweat beading on his bald pate.
She smiled reassuringly. She didn't tell him all her secrets.
"I'll need a volunteer to test this on," she said. "Brian? Would you be so kind?"
"Depends on what you're going to do."
A whoosh of laughter from the group, more tension relief than real amusement.
"It might hurt, but not too much." She smiled. "I hope."
More laughter. Brian took up the position she indicated, in the middle of the floor, standing over the drawn symbols.
"I ask you all to be patient with me," she said. "I'm sure this will take a few casts."
She adjusted the cue card on the floor. She'd memorized the spell, but there was some reassurance in having the words close by. Sometimes even she needed reassurance.
She took a moment to mentally prepare. Getting "into the zone" as her personal trainer would say. Then she reached into the open jar, took out a generous pinch of ash and laid it on her palm. She closed her eyes, sinking deeper into that zone. Around her, no one even shifted position, however uncomfortable the cold concrete beneath them. Silence and concentration were paramount.
When she opened her eyes, she saw only the mound of ash on her palm, all her attention on that focal point. One deep breath in. She let it out slowly, the human remains fluttering from her hand. Still exhaling, she began the incantation.
With the last words, she flung her hand toward Brian. The unexpected movement startled him and his mouth opened to say something. Then he jolted sideways, knocked off balance, almost tumbling to the floor. As he recovered, she cast again, faster now. And this time, the moment she flung out her hand, he jerked, as if struck by something. His eyes went wide, then closed as he slid to the floor.
Around her, everyone had gone as still as Brian. Finally, Don found his voice.
"He-he's just unconscious. It-it worked."
She tried to look surprised, as if it hadn't worked for her when she'd tested it on derelicts, no one the wiser when they slumped to the ground, presumably passing out drunk.
Don remembered his lines. "Our first truly defensive spell. Imagine how it could be used. No more fear of muggings or carjacking or home invasions. One spell, and your attacker falls to the ground, unconscious." He cleared his throat, then gestured at Brian's still form. "This is what we've been working toward. Magic truly worth the price."
She looked around the circle and knew, finally, that they were one again.
DEATH BODIES
ONCE STAN WAS GONE-Eve and I made sure of it-we left too. Interrogating Stan had only confirmed what we'd already suspected, but I suppose that was progress. Botnick had been killed, not by the Disciples of Asmodai or random customers, but by members of the group we were seeking. And they had magic.
While Eve stood guard outside, Hope, Jeremy and I looked around the store and made sure there was no trace of our visit-far more important now that it was the site of a murder, not just a break-and-enter.
"Thanks for coming by," I said to Eve as we headed back to the car. "Your timing was perfect."
"Actually, I arrived a few minutes before that, but thought I'd give you a chance to handle it on your own. I liked 'loitering at the scene of an unauthorized occult gathering.' Had him going for a minute. Trouble is, when you try to bluff, you tip your hand. We'll have to work on that."
EVE ACCOMPANIED us back to Hope's apartment, arguing her case for drawing out our prey instead of tracking it down. After her help, I couldn't refuse to listen and she knew it, making herself almost as much of a nuisance as Stan.
As we walked from the parking lot to Hope's place, the debate slid into a two-way discussion between Eve and Jeremy, with me there to "interpret." Hope stayed out of it from the beginning-being her first prolonged ghost encounter, she probably found it unnerving.
"Fine, you're right," Eve said to Jeremy. "Minimal press exposure, to protect everyone involved and keep things from getting out of hand."
As I relayed her message, I dropped change into a street musician's guitar case.
"I hope you're paying him for music lessons," Eve said. "Or, better yet, to stop playing."
I shook my head and glanced at Jeremy, but he was busy scanning the street. I thought he was thinking until I saw his nostrils flare.
"Jeremy?" I said.
He inhaled again. Then a nod.
"What do you smell?" I asked.
He shook his head.
BY THE time we reached the apartment, we'd made a decision. If we didn't find anything in our search of Botnick's house, we'd take that next step tonight. We'd try to find a body in the garden… but not using necromancy.
BOTNICK LIVED in an old two-story working-class house in a working-class neighborhood. His was little more than a cereal box-long, rectangular and very narrow. Hardly the Gothic mansion one expected of a sex cult leader.
The interior was generic. Off-white walls throughout. Interior decoration by IKEA. Functional, contemporary furniture, all matched sets. Even the art on the walls looked like it came from the Scandinavian company. Maybe Botnick had gone through the IKEA catalog, found a sample page for each room and ordered everything off it.
After we knew the layout of the house, we split up. Hope would randomly scout for vibes. Jeremy would take the office. I'd look for secret areas-locked closets, trap doors and the like-the sort of hidey-holes Botnick seemed to like.
The only Gothic thing about the place was the ghosts. Three of them. That was a lot for one place. Botnick seemed to attract them. Not surprising. People pursue magical answers to their problems even after death. While humans try to find a back door into the afterlife-to gain the knowledge of the ages by communicating with the dead-ghosts are busy trying to find a back door out, to leave eternity and exchange the divine for the profane. The "grass is always greener" syndrome.
Now this trio of ghosts, who'd been hoping this cut-rate occultist would show them the path, had hit the jackpot. There was a necromancer in the house.
At first they only whispered among themselves. To nonsupernat-ural ghosts, necromancers are the stuff of legend. Like spotting Elvis in the afterlife. Everyone says he's there, they know how to recognize him if they see him, and some have even met him. Most, though, will go through eternity and never encounter the man. So it was with necromancers. These ghosts recognized my "glow," but wanted to be sure they weren't mistaken. So they followed me.
The apparent leader was a woman in pioneer gear: a shabby dress with a yoke and apron. I guessed she was at least sixty-with iron gray hair and sunken, leathery cheeks-but on second glance, I wondered whether she was really any older than me. The second ghost was a young woman in a high-collared Victorian dress, her hair pulled so tight it acted like a face-lift. The third was a man in modern working clothes. Big and shambling, he lagged behind the women like a faithful dog.