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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 carjac
kings 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 nonsupernatural 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.
They "tested" me, trying to determine whether I could see or hear them, and I willfully failed every time. Got away with it until I was checking an interior wall that seemed larger than normal--perhaps hiding some secret compartment. I tapped along it, listening for a change in tone, intent on my task--
