Jackson 05 - The Immortals (3 page)

Taylor indulged at last, took her hair down, rubbed her fingers across her scalp, then put her hair back in its bun. It wasn't like she could go back to the Norwoods and say, sorry, I can't talk, my favorite priest isn't here to shelter me from your distress.

Baldwin's cell phone started to ring. He put up an apologetic hand, murmured, “I need to get this,” and disappeared outside.

Taylor watched him go. “Can't blame him. I hate this part, too. All right. Let's do this.”

She reentered the living room with Lincoln, met the pain in their eyes full on. They'd retreated into that helpless state, unbelieving, unresisting, the reality of their son's death still trying to seep into their souls. She didn't have much time—they'd either slip away entirely into a grief so profound nothing would rouse them, or fly off the handle, become belligerent and difficult. Better to keep them focused on the here and now, if at all possible.

“Mr. and Mrs. Norwood, can you tell me more about Xander and Amanda?”

Mr. Norwood shook his head, reiterated his request. “We want to see Xander. It's only right. We deserve a chance to say goodbye to our son.”

Just in case they decided to ignore her, Taylor crossed her arms on her chest and leaned against the doorjamb, effectively blocking their access to the stairs.

“I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that. We have to work on the scene, and I'll be completely honest with you, it's not pretty. You don't want this vision of Xander as the last you'll ever have. You're going to have to trust me. I give you my word that I'll take good care of him.”

Mr. Norwood stared into her eyes for a long moment. She took his gaze, unflinching.
I will treat him with respect. I will see his killer punished.
After a long minute, he dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded. She seized the opportunity to try again.

“It would be a big help if you could answer some questions for me. Can you talk about Xander for a few minutes? Tell me about him? About Amanda?”

Laura Norwood breathed out a ragged sigh, a small smile of remembrance playing on her lips.

“What do you want to know? They were inseparable. Been going together for two years, were probably going to be together forever. You know how there's always that couple, the ones who met early and that was it? That's Xander and Amanda. The big joke was they were going to change their name to Woods, since our last names are so similar. That's what their friends called them, the Woods. Amanda's nickname was Woodie before she met Xander, so her friend's teased her, called her Woodie Woodpecker. Xander and Amanda loved it. She was on the cheerleading squad, and it was just announced that she'd be captain next year. My God, I can't believe this is happening.” Her hands started to shake and her husband took them, held them hard between his palms.

“Now, Laura, that's not the kind of thing the police want to know. They need to know about enemies, and last moves, what kind of drugs and alcohol they were into. They only want to know the bad things. I've seen it all on TV. Just the bad things….” He broke off with a sob.

Taylor put her hand on his arm, spoke gently.

“No, sir. We want to know it all. Everything you tell us is relevant. Everything matters, the good and the bad. The more information we can gather today, the quicker we can catch the person who hurt your son. But if he did have any enemies or problems, we need to know.”

As she said it, she realized she was going to have this conversation with seven families, and the thought nearly made her legs buckle. Who could do such a thing? Who could annihilate seven children?
Focus, Taylor.

She looked around the room. “You know what, why don't we sit down? We'll be more comfortable. And you tell
me anything that comes to mind about your son. It sounds like he had a lot of friends. Was that the case?”

They settled on opposite sides of a walnut coffee table, on facing barn-red twill couches, the perfect conversational grouping in the living room. The Vanderwoods obviously entertained—the whole house was set with various nooks and spots for small gatherings to linger.

Mrs. Norwood wiped her eyes with a ragged tissue. “Of course. Xander was very popular. Captain of the wrestling team, letterman, honor society. Smart, that was our boy. He was accepted early to Vanderbilt, that way he could stay at home his first year until Amanda graduated and joined him. Amanda is…oh, God, was, such a lovely girl. We were proud to have her as a part of our family. Even Xander's sister seemed to like Amanda, and she's not usually fond of her big brother's friends.” As she spoke, her eyes started to shine, the recollection pulling her from her misery. Just as quickly, she collapsed back into tears. Mr. Norwood tried to take over, but his voice was shaking, too.

“Xander was a good boy. Reckless, sometimes, like any boy his age. Had a slew of speeding tickets. He was probably going to lose his license if he didn't buckle down and go through that class you have to take. He loved to drive.”

“Does he have his own car?”

“Yes, a Volvo. We took one look at his driving skills and got him the safest car we could find. Amanda had a Jeep, and I was always worried about him driving it and tipping over.”

The Norwoods shared a private laugh. Taylor was struck by their composure. It was rare for parents to pull themselves together so quickly. The shell had tightened; the cool, calm, rational people were poking through. It was strange—some parents became hysterical and unable to talk, some would sit you down and relay every detail. She never knew what to expect, was happy the Norwoods fell into the latter
category. She needed this information, needed to build a victimology on their son.

“Is that his Volvo parked in the driveway?”

“Yes, it is.”

She nodded at Lincoln, silently indicating that he needed to get Crime Scene on the car. He nodded back. Oh, it was good to have her team together again.

Taylor tried to figure out how to put the next question delicately. “Was it…typical for Xander and Amanda to have private time alone?”

Mrs. Norwood blew her nose, then said, “Are you asking if we knew they were having sex, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She sighed heavily. “Surely you remember what it was like being a teenager in love. We discouraged them, of course, but they were hell-bent. We talked to Xander extensively—he promised that they were being careful. I believe Amanda was taking birth control pills, but you'll have to ask her mother about that. We've called her parents, but they're overseas. It's going to take them a day to get back home. Just terrible for them. At least we're here, can be with Xander's sister through this.”

“Where is your daughter?”

“Susan? She's at home with our housekeeper. Aaron, we really should start getting back there for her.” They started the small shiftings that told Taylor their interview was at an end.

“Before you go, can you tell me anything else about Amanda?”

“Oh, Mandy was…sunny. Beautiful. Smart. She was in honor society too, debate, student council, you name it. Her parents are from a very old Nashville family who wanted her to be as proletariat as possible. They were pushing her toward a life in public service. They could have sent her anywhere, but they both went to public school and wanted her to, as well. That's how many of us feel around here. Really, she and Xander were the perfect couple.”

A perfect couple who'd been targeted by a madman. There was something wicked this way, Taylor was sure of it. No child is perfect, and if Taylor's background could be any sort of guide, it was the ones who seemed rosy on the surface that hid the biggest secrets.

“Was there any drug or alcohol use that you know of?”

“Here we go,” Mr. Norwood muttered.

“I'm sorry, sir. I have to ask.”

“Nothing that was out of the ordinary. Xander was an eighteen-year-old boy. But he's a straight arrow, had to be for the wrestling.”

Mrs. Norwood shook her head. “He's been caught with beer a few times, but nothing more than that. We always grounded him. There were repercussions. But you know how it is. Sometimes it's easier to let them do what they're going to do in a place where you can keep your eye on them.”

That was the trick. Serve your child the liquor at home so you could monitor them. Taylor's family had always allowed alcohol at the table, but if she drank out with friends and got caught, she was grounded. Nothing out of the ordinary there, outside of a few laws or fifty broken.

Taylor nodded. This wasn't her battle right now. “Okay. So school let out at noon today. Did you talk to Xander this afternoon?”

Mrs. Norwood's face fell. “No, I'm afraid we didn't. The last I saw him, he was walking out the door this morning, happy as a lark because it was Halloween. They had a party to go to tonight.”

That got Taylor's attention. “Where was the party supposed to be?”

“At his friend Theo Howell's. Evelyn and Harold are friends of ours. They're actually traveling with Amanda's parents now. But we know them well. We've always trusted Xander to be at their place without supervision.”

Taylor made a note. With any luck, the party was still going on, or at least had a gathering of kids who might have
a better handle on the victims. She couldn't push the thought from her mind that they might be a target too. She couldn't take that chance, but she didn't want to alarm the Norwoods.

“Do you have the address? I'd like to talk to Theo, if I could.”

“Certainly. I have Theo's numbers too, home and cell. I'll get them. They're in my purse.” Mrs. Norwood straightened out of her chair and disappeared, returning a moment later with a handwritten note and more tissues. When she sat, Taylor noticed the woman looked gray. It was time to wrap it up for now. This family needed a chance to grieve, and Taylor was itching to get someone to the party, to get more information from the living. To protect them, if need be. She stood and shook their hands.

“Ma'am, sir, I'm going to leave you now. I need to get back to another scene. If you think of anything that might be relevant, please don't hesitate to call.”

They seemed smaller, less consequential than when she had first walked in. It was always that way—reality set in and sapped their strength, their air, their very being.

Mr. Norwood looked at his wife, pale as a ghost, and said, “Are you sure we can't see him?”

Taylor touched him on the shoulder, light and reassuring.

“I'm sure. It's for the best, believe me. I think you and Mrs. Norwood need to go home to Susan now.”

Defeated, they struggled to their feet, arms wrapped around each other. Holding themselves together. “We'll be at the house if you need anything.”

Taylor was terribly relieved. Sometimes families fought her harder on this, insisted on sticking at the crime scene, even going so far as to sneak into the scene for a last peek. It was never a good idea. At least at the medical examiner's office, the visual identifications were done on a closed loop feed, so parents and loved ones wouldn't be face-to-face with their dead. The little bit of distance sometimes helped.

Sometimes.

Lincoln escorted the Norwoods out the front door. The moment they were out of earshot, she called McKenzie, ordered him over to the Howells' house with four patrols to stand guard. Protection for their case, and the innocent lives, all in one swoop.

She just hoped she wasn't too late.

Samhain
Moonrise

T
hey were four—the points of a compass, the corners of the earth. North, South, East and West. The elements of their worship: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Wraiths dressed in black, scurrying through the graveyard one by one so they weren't seen from the road.

This was a desolate place, far from the safety lights that peppered the modern landscape, astride a pitted country lane. A family cemetery: the husband and wife were buried at the head of the path. The road cut through their progeny, one side of the path for the man's family, the other side for the woman's. It had started as a cow path, centuries before, wormed its way into the earth gradually, until it was a clear demarcation. The people who took the earth felt it was prophetic, a way to walk amongst their dead without trampling on their spirits. They were considerate thinkers, these hardy men and women. The intent to travel, to wander, was stamped on all who sprang from the loins of this family, permanently marked by the meandering path through their consecrated land that allowed travelers to disturb their eternal rest.

Balance was necessary. That's why he'd chosen this cemetery in the first place. He'd spent hours combing the countryside, looking for his sacred place. Once he found it, he claimed it as his own, drew an invisible circle, grounded his body and cast his spell, making a sacrifice to the land—three drops of his blood mixed into the earth beneath the tall, stately oak that bounded the west border of the graveyard. The oak had responded in kind, accepting his offering and allowing a limb to drop at his feet. It was exactly the length of his arm from his elbow to the point of his middle finger, already smooth of bark and leaves, tapered slightly at the end, which created a perfect place for his hand to grasp.

The branch became his wand, and he used his athamé, a two-sided blade with a hilt of the blackest obsidian, to carve his name into the oak in sigil letters—the witches' alphabet—each corresponding to a point on the numerological chart, giving the wand incalculable powers at his hand. The athamé had cost him a year's allowance, the wand cost him blood, but it was well worth it. They were the tools of his religion.

He worshipped alone at the base of the oak, calling on the Goddess to bless him, the God to give him strength. He danced in the moonlight, cast harmless spells against his enemies carefully, followed close to the Wiccan's Rede—First, do no harm. He knew that whatever he cast forth would return to him threefold, so he didn't seek to maim, just annoy. He worshipped with joy, with despair, with love in his heart, with pain in his limbs.

When he felt the space was so completely attuned to his nature that it greeted him when he returned, the oak dropping leaves or bending to the whispering breeze, he brought his friends.

They were four—the corners, the watchers. North, South, East and West. Two boys, two girls. Balance.

The older of the two girls belonged to him, six feet of creamy, milky skin so pale she almost didn't need to use makeup to make herself disappear, with tumbling black
locks that reached nearly to her waist. She was green-eyed, thin as a whippet but with womanly curves in all the right places, and if it weren't against all his beliefs he would worship her as the Goddess. But she was flesh and blood. His flesh and his blood. They shared everything, every fluid, every waking moment. He felt incomplete when she wasn't near, and as such kept her close always.

The boy was his closest friend and his occasional lover. He was handsome, with tousled blond hair and brown eyes, short and stocky and incredibly strong. Their youngest member had dark hair too, uncontrollably curly. She was a good physical match for her mate, small and solid, with thick calves and a cleft chin.

He trusted them with his life.

The four shared blood; through sacrifice, through a common vision, through the Great Act. Sex was their most powerful union, the blessing on their worship. They had been handfast, in the tradition of the Old Ways, declaring themselves for one another. They were looking for a Wiccan high priest who would do the official ceremony, legalizing their marriages in the eyes of the Goddess. They would go as couples, then as a quadrant.

While his magick was powerful, with his corners he could shift the very earth. His corners were his friends and lovers. His coven. They would follow him anywhere, and he would sacrifice himself for them in turn.

So when he told them the nonbelievers must die, they believed. They were The Immortals, and the night was theirs.

They had come tonight, the first night of the new moon, to cast a spell to Azræl, the Angel of Death. The last new moon, they had congregated, taken earth from the graveyard, said their spells and magickally charged it to allow the earth time to open, to allow a rift in the universe to form. Tonight they sought Azræl's blessing; a celebration of their wondrous evening.

Samhain, what the Christians and Jews called Hal
loween, was a sacred night, when the veil between the two worlds was at its thinnest and spirits walked openly between the afterlife and the living. Samhain marked the Wiccan New Year, a sober celebration, a time for reflection. Messages were sent, ancestors honored, blessings bestowed. He had chosen Samhain as the night of the cleansing, the night when they would rid the world of their enemies. If they received the proper blessings tonight, he could put the rest of his plan into action.

It was nearly time. They had a great deal of work to do. He led the four to the oak.

“Who comes to call Azræl?” he cried.

They stepped forward in turn, beginning with the tall girl.

“It is I, Fane. Blessed be.”

“I am Thorn. So mote it be.”

“It is Ember, the bright spark. Blessed be.”

He stood with them, head thrown back to the sky, speaking slowly and carefully. Their names conjured great power—he could already feel the ripples of energy coursing through the air.

“I am Raven, leader of this coven. In the name of the God and the Goddess, so mote it be.”

He struck a match and touched the flame to a stick of jasmine incense, then lit twelve black candles, three for each of them. The clearing began to glow. They'd already set out the stones: a violet amethyst, melanite, dark tiger's eye and a piece of jet. The elestial stone, their record-keeper—a jagged piece of milky quartz—sat on top of the pile. It would be buried near the site after the ceremony, a permanent archaic tie to the earth.

Contact with the netherworld was meant as a silent meditation, but Raven had written a beautiful oral spell in his Book of Shadows, had copied it out neatly three times for his coven. They'd memorized it silently on the way over, each poring through the letters until they'd committed the words to heart.

They shed their clothes, kicked the dark stacks of cloth
well out of the way of the candles so there was no chance of fire. They worshipped skyclad, naked in the cool night air, never feeling a moment's embarrassment. Their bodies were astral temples, and beautiful despite any superficial cultural flaw.

They drew cords from their bags, each nine feet in length, and took up their athamés and wands. They shuffled a bit, from foot to foot, shaking away any last bits of energy that would disrupt their ritual. Focusing.

Raven glanced at his watch, looked to the moon-blank sky. It was time.

They lined up in their corners, facing one another in a circle, silent and serious. The dark was broken only by the shimmering candles that reflected the glow of their pale flesh.

Raven began the ceremony. “We come together in perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be.”

“Perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be,” they repeated after him, speaking in practiced unison. He used his athamé to draw a wide, invisible circle at their feet, chanting, “Cast the circle, draw it right, bring the corners to us tonight.” He walked in a wide arc, sprinkling salt water to create the borders of the circle. Fane followed behind him with the lit incense, sanctifying their footsteps. The circle was where they practiced their magick—inside the consecrated space, their prayers could be heard.

Once the circle was cast, Raven stepped inside, bade his coven to follow suit. When they were secure, he called the corners, using his athamé to trace specific angled pentacles in the air, each slightly different, depending on the corner he was calling.

“All hail to the element of air, Watchtower of the East. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of the air, we summon you to join our circle.” He turned to his right and drew in the air again, forceful slashes, purposeful. Practiced.

“All hail the element of fire, Watchtower of the South.
May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of fire, we summon you to protect our circle.”

He turned again, and again. “All hail to the element of water, Watchtower of the West. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Power of water, we summon you to guard our circle.

“All hail to the element of earth, Watchtower of the North. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of earth, we summon you to provide us guidance and success in our ministrations.”

The calls complete, Raven reached into the bag next to him and sprinkled the magickally charged earth they'd taken at the last new moon around the circle in a slow dribble. This would open the portal between the two worlds while keeping them safely grounded in the now.

“May the Goddess and the God look upon us in favor. All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

The group spoke in turn. “All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

He kissed the blade of his athamé, the others followed suit. Then they took up their cords, intertwining them, feeding them through each other's hands until they were bound together. Raven caught each eye, nodding slightly. It was time to call Azræl. Time for their reward.

They pushed their personal energy into the earth, grounding, then reversed, bringing the earth's power into their bodies. The force of it made them shiver. With their hands facing into the circle, they directed their power to the center and created an invisible cone, then walked widdershins, counter-clockwise, three times, pushing that energy down, toward their goal, ending back in their original spots. There was great danger in casting a widdershins circle, but Raven had assured them that the best, most direct route to Azræl was through a negative portal, downward, not upward to the light. Besides, they were guarded by the four Watchtowers and the God and Goddess. He was confident they were safe.

He reached behind him and withdrew a small finger bone
from his bag. Death liked bones—it was the soul's truest form. Death understood that he was a part of all natural life.

The four of them turned to face the west, and Raven carefully, gently laid the finger bone in the dirt beside their stones. They breathed slowly, modulating their breath to match their partner, calming and balancing their energy. Deeper breaths now, with pauses in between to help them overoxygenate their blood and raise their consciousness. Raven could tell when they were all perfectly attuned, and he began to chant. The others followed a fraction of a second later. Their voices carried through the graveyard.

They repeated the poem three times, building into a tuneless chant.

Then Raven spoke, his arms spread wide, his head thrown back. “Bless us for finding the strength to rid the world of those who hurt us, who deceived and tortured. Fight our oppressors—punish those who are cruel to us. Allow us to know your divinity, to understand your ways, to find a painless path to keep us from shame. Show us the way, oh, Azræl. Night and need give life to your helping fire. Rectify our darkness, spread your wings of shadow through our souls. Watch over our houses, deflect their ire.”

At the end, they repeated their nocturnal God's name
over and over and over, turning in circles, winding themselves around each other, sinuous as snakes, then at the moment they felt the energy peak, consecrated their prayers with the Great Act. Raven and Thorn were so attuned to each other that they were able to climax at the same time. Their energy, like their seed, spilled into the earth, sanctifying their pact. The girls kissed, and the boys. They smeared the fluids along each other's bodies, intricate glowing trails of symbols, then switched partners. The men writhed together while the women brought each other to a wild, breathless climax. They were all so good together, so right. The strongest magick was cast during the Great Act at the moment of shared orgasm.

Panting in the dust, they allowed their minds to come back. They stood, shakily, and unbound their cords. Raven thanked the corners, bid them hail and farewell. He closed the circle, careful to walk deosil, clockwise, to close their downward portal.

There was still energy in the air, crisp and crackling, so Raven told his coven to ground again so it wouldn't drain their essences. Raven shut his eyes and envisioned a long, glowing root leaving his body and securing itself in the land, then let all his extra energy pour down the root. He felt better when he finished, smiled at Fane. They busied themselves with ending their prayers, burying the stone and the finger, blowing out the candles, dressing silently.

A breeze started, getting stronger until their hair was whipping around their faces. Thunder rumbled in the distance, then again, and lightning flashed, suddenly close. The sharp scent of ozone invaded Raven's nose. He smiled.

“I didn't think it was going to rain tonight,” Fane whispered.