Page 102 of Dead Beat

“They were eliminated.”

“Your brotherhood murdered them,” Turner said, the detective seeking a confession.

“It was necessary,” Huilca admitted. “They were dangerous.”

“But your order allows portal magic,” Darlington said. “You aren’t averse to punching a hole in the universe if you’re in control. You haven’t gone around closing nexuses.”

“We don’t know how.”

Now, that was interesting. It set this priesthood in direct opposition to the Houses of the Veil and to any of the people throughout the world using a nexus to attempt magic. He supposed that was why Reed was permitted, maybe even encouraged to join Lethe, to keep an eye on what the societies were up to.

According to Huilca’s notes, most of the members of his brotherhood held ordinary jobs. They raised families. But the work they did blurred the line between science and the occult—astrology and astronomy, alchemy and chemistry. Alex’s father ran what amounted to a hedge fund for marijuana growers in Oregon, but he had a lucrative side hustle in hallucinogens and herbal cures. He didn’t think Huilca had lied to Alex about how little he engaged with this brotherhood. They were a resource and not much else. The only obligation their members seemed to have was to make sons to perpetuate their magical lines, and marriages were frequently arranged between different families to ensure that—and to prevent the creation of a Wheelwalker.

“They have members in the remnants of the Knights Templar and the Hung Mun,” Darlington said as his eyes scanned the page. “They’re active in the Bohemian League here in the States and supposedly connected to the Nine Unknown Men in India.”

Turner made a disgusted sound. “Is there any country that doesn’t have a bunch of delusional weirdos trying to work magic?”

“If it works, they’re not the delusional ones. And to answer your question, no. We’re everywhere.”

“Yet another reason to stay home.”

“You never struck me as a homebody.” No man with that many tailored suits was spending his nights in sweatpants.

“I like live music and a quality cocktail. I can skip the ancient rites and capering around in cloaks.”

“I like to believe I have never capered.”

“But you would if called upon to do so.”

“I can’t rule it out,” Darlington admitted. He was not going to mention that the Bohemian League regularly held parties that probably involved a great deal of capering in a Northern California redwood grove—beneath the shadow of an enormous concrete owl. He thought again of the night door in Herald Square, emblazoned with an owl and guarded by rows of yet more iron owls. Alex’s mother had only known Luis Huilca by his nickname. A quick search revealed that chushi was the Quechua word for owl.

“What is the significance of the owls?” he asked Huilca. “Why did they arrive with you?”

Alex’s father wriggled in his seat.

“Why owls?” Darlington pushed.

“There are owls on every continent, in every country and city. They wait and watch. They see what we do not. I don’t like this car. I don’t want to be here.”

He was still being honest, but his will was finally beginning to assert itself. Darlington was glad when he saw the signs for the airport ahead.

They parked and escorted Huilca to the security line. That was as far as they could go.

Darlington handed him the bottle of water Dawes had prepared. “Finish it.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

Turner gestured toward one of the signs. “You can’t take it through security.”

Huilca blinked and then drank.

Turner shook his head. “Authority is a hell of a drug, isn’t it?”

Darlington knew it. He had fallen under the spell of magic at Lethe but also the ritual of protocol, his understanding of the rules. They were an essential part of feeling that you belonged to something. But what happened to the rules when someone like Alex showed up?

“Repeat after me,” Darlington said, and then he counted down from thirteen in Greek as Huilca repeated after him, his eyelids drooping like a patient going under before surgery.

When they got to one, his eyes popped open and he gasped as if suddenly awake.