“Then…they did,” Rawlins replied simply. “As instructed, they stabbed themselves in the heart.”
His description was a pale shadow of the reality—sixteen men, in perfect sync, plunging knives into their chests. Sixteen simultaneous eruptions of blood. Sixteen bodies collapsing to the tile floor, with sixteen growing crimson pools filling the underground air with the metallic odor of their exsanguination. Cries of pain and rasping final breaths echoed through the marble chamber but soon gave way to eerie silence.
Those details were seared into his brain. Along with the even more troubling image that followed: Ellsbeth’s face as she witnessed the result of her words. Gripped with horror at what she had done. Traumatized by the violence she had just wrought…yet her expression did not betray a shred of regret.
It was the third time in as many days that Rawlins was recounting the events that took place in the Banestooth basement, this time for a pair of police officers: a detective named Marcos, as well as the chief of the Newlyn Police Department, Tanya Blakely, a petite, fiery woman in her mid-forties with short black hair.
“So if I understand correctly,” Officer Marcos said, “they did exactly as they were told, because they were…what? Brainwashed?”
“The best way to describe the effect is a state of intensesuggestibility,” Rawlins explained. “It renders the subject incapable of resisting any instruction given by the person who cast the ritual.”
“And that person was…?”
“Maxwell,” Rawlins said, repeating his well-rehearsed lie. “Maxwell Keene performed the ritual before he entered the house—so it affected all of the Banestooth members. But it didn’t affect me or Ellsbeth, since we weren’t there yet.”
The police nodded, and Officer Marcos wrote something illegible on a notepad. This was the story Rawlins had been telling for three days now, the one he had quickly gotten Ellsbeth on board with, that they had both agreed to stick to. The one that would, if it worked, keep her out of prison.
Chief Blakely leaned back and folded her arms, looking thoughtful. “So Maxwell kidnapped Ellsbeth in order to bring her to Banestooth and get the club to do the fortune ritual…”
“Fortunatis Favori,” Rawlins provided.
“Right. But then they refused to do it…So he did thisothermagic to take control and kill them all. As some sort of revenge.” Rawlins nodded in confirmation, and the chief pursed her lips. “Okay, here’s the thing that bothers me. If Max could control people, and he was trying to get them to do thisotherritual…why didn’t he just make them dothat?”
“He tried,” Rawlins said. “But theFortunatisritual requires intense mental focus. Once the Banestooth members were under the influence of obscuration, they were like automata. Following his commands, but unable to enact a sophisticated piece of magic.”
Chief Blakely and Officer Marcos shared a look, but Rawlins couldn’t tell if it was genuine skepticism or merely bafflement at the complexity of arcane mechanicals. He knew this part of the story was a bit flimsy, and he hoped that Ellsbeth, in her telling of events, was vamping through it in a way similar enough to him.
Blakely shrugged imperceptibly, and Officer Marcos moved on, consulting his notes. “So after Max made all these people kill themselves, he fled on foot?”
Rawlins nodded. “He demanded my car keys, and my wallet, and just…took off.” This was Rawlins’s other significant omission.
After the twitching of the bodies of the Banestooth members hadfinally stopped, Rawlins had seen his son backing away from the corpses, moving toward the stairs, preparing to flee.
“Wait,” Rawlins had said. Max had frozen in place, his face betraying abject terror at the prospect of going back to prison, and Rawlins had gone to his son and handed over his car keys and wallet, and given him rapid, breathless instructions: to take the car, pull out money from an ATM, quickly get as far from Newlyn as he possibly could, lay low, and disguise himself with apersonaritual until he could get across a border and flee the country. Rawlins did not say,I’m sorry.OrI wish I could do more.Or evengoodbye.He said none of many things he needed to say to get to something remotely resembling closure, though that was most likely the last time he would ever see his son.
“It’s interesting that Max didn’t attackyou,” Officer Marcos said. “He had just murdered sixteen people, and he leaves two surviving witnesses?”
“We posed no threat to him,” Rawlins said. “And it would’ve been a very different sort of violence. Picking up a knife and stabbing someone is a world apart from killing with words.” Again, the police officers exchanged a look, apparently seeing some validity to this point, and Rawlins added, “Besides—I believe that Max still has a certain affection for me. Even if I did interrupt his plan, he knows that I supported his release from prison.”
“Bet you’re not feeling so great about that now,” Blakely said dryly.
“Of course.” In truth, the guilt Rawlins felt at helping secure Max’s release was complicated. He had drastically miscalculated the boy’s anger and the danger it posed, and Ellsbeth had nearly paid an unthinkable price for his error. But Rawlins was unable to imaginenottaking the action he did, given the harm he had caused to Max’s life.
As for the results…Well, it was hard to call sixteen dead agoodoutcome, but he could think of few people more deserving of death. Without his intervention, it was unlikely that Ellsbeth ever would have revealed Banestooth’s century of crimes; her evidence had all been circumstantial, and the club was well connected and deep-pocketed enough to fight a lengthy legal battle and keep their secrets hidden. But now the police were combing through the secret ritual chamber and years of records; the club’s culpability in the murder of two dozen young women would be impossible to hide.
“Did you try to detain Max at all?” Officer Marcos asked.
Rawlins shook his head. “He was armed with a knife, and had just killed sixteen men. I was terrified and in shock. I handed over my car keys, and as soon as he was gone, I called the police.”
Chief Blakely tapped a pen on the table as she studied him. “You were once Maxwell Keene’s adviser, right? I’m no expert on arcane mechanicals, but as I understand it, the ritual Max performed…that was highly advanced, highlyillegalmagic. Where do you suppose he learned that?”
Rawlins was prepared for this; he knew there was no way to fully protect Ellsbeth’s innocence without compromising his own. “You mean…Did I point him in the direction of certain books that I shouldn’t have? Did I answer his questions, without considering the danger he might pose?” He let out a theatrical sigh. “I did. If you think that’s a crime, go ahead and charge me. It wouldn’t be as bad as the guilt I have to live with.”
Blakely continued to eye Rawlins suspiciously. “Just keep in mind, Professor…Wewillcatch him. Whatever story he has to tell, we’re going to hear it soon enough. So if there’s anything you want to add…” She opened her hands, inviting him to goon.
“I think I’ve told you all of it.” Rawlins was acutely aware that Max might be caught; his son was a fugitive now, the target of a massive manhunt, with no friends and little money. But he was also very smart, very resourceful, and very motivated.
“Thank you for your time, Professor,” Blakely said, as it became clear the interrogation would not yield any further information. “We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”
