Magic in the Blood (17 page)

“Something like that.”

Okay, so at least I wouldn’t have to Hound any dead bodies. I was happy to leave the corpse sniffing to dimpled-and-bubbly Beatrice.

“And you think there was something magical about the girls’ disappearances?”

“I’ve had a couple Hounds sniff out the sites. It’s possible magic was used to either sedate the girls, harm the girls, or transfer the girls.”

“Possible? Magic is a pretty clear yes/no thing,” I said.

Hounds were experts at seeing, tracing, and smelling the difference between every kind of spell, even when the spells decay into ash. A good Hound could tell you where the spell came from to within a few yards of the caster. An excellent Hound studied signature variables and could tell you exactly who cast the spell by the “handwriting.” I knew there were excellent Hounds who worked for the police, including Pike.

Stotts just shook his head. “We want another opinion.”

“Does this have something to do with Lon Trager?”

He glanced over at me. “So you do keep up with some news.”

“Not really. I ran into Trager on the bus this morning.”

“Is that so?” Stotts looked calm, even his breathing was still normal, but the rest of his body language screamed at me. He was worried.

“He told me he and I could live and let live if I did him a favor. He wants me to bring Martin Pike to him by tomorrow midnight.”

“And you didn’t report it?”

“That’s what I’m doing now.”

He took a breath, let it out. “Do you know why he asked you to find Pike?”

“He hates Pike. Hates me too. Mentioned he’d be willing to kill me. Since he also mentioned that he has men everywhere, I figure he has the resources to find Pike. Pike and I don’t see each other much. So if I had to guess, I’d say Trager really wants both of us in the same room at the same time for some reason.

“You don’t look surprised,” I added. “Did you already know about this?”

“Lon Trager is a person of interest. We keep an eye on him.”

“That wasn’t exactly a yes,” I said.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t. Have you talked to Pike?”

I nodded. “Today. Told him about Trager. He’s willing to cooperate with the police.”

“Interesting,” he said like it really was. “I don’t suppose you might know where we could find him.”

“Pike? He’s helping a friend on the east side of town do some house repair. I don’t know her name, but her son’s name is Anthony Bell.”

Stotts nodded and took a sip of coffee.

“Does the job tonight have something to do with Lon Trager?” I asked again.

“I’m not going to say anything more about it,” he said. “I don’t want to influence your opinion.”

Yeah, that’s usually the way the police played it.

“So,” I said. “I’ve heard people die when they Hound for you. They say you’re cursed.”

Stotts drove for several blocks in silence. He didn’t even reach over to take another drink of his coffee. It started raining, big, intermittent drops. He flicked the windshield wipers on low.

“The cases I deal with always involve magic being used to harm others,” he said. “There are risks when anyone Hounds for me. But I think my . . . reputation has been exaggerated.”

“Sixteen Hounds in six years?”

“People who Hound tend to live short lives. I think it’s from using magic so much and from not buying Proxies for relief from the pain. Most people who Hound use the money for drugs instead. So if you run the facts, you see I only hire experienced Hounds, which puts one mark against them—they’ve been using magic and probably drugs for a long time. And if you run the numbers you see a national average of twice that many Hounds who work for the police dying in that same amount of time.”

“Sounds like you’ve done a lot of thinking about this.”

“It’s clear the odds are against most Hounds who work for me before they begin to work for me.”

“So there is no curse?”

He picked up his coffee without looking at me. “I didn’t say that.” He turned a corner onto the bridge, and the rosary on his mirror swung in silent counterpoint.

“One of them,” Stotts said. “They all disappeared from the same general area—about a four-block radius. There are two places that are still hot. One’s on the street; the other is in a parking garage.”

“Well, at least one’s out of the rain.” I drank my coffee, letting the warmth and caffeine bolster my confidence and clear my mind. I could do this. I could go stand out in the rain with a cursed magic cop, Hound an old hit and not lose control of magic, and keep a lookout for Trager’s thugs. Oh, and Davy.

I’m sure it was all going to go just fine. I mean, nothing weird had happened to me all day, right?

“We’ll go to the parking garage first. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a break in the rain before you Hound the hit on the street.”

The neighborhood shifted from office buildings and fast food joints to tumbling down apartments and warehouses, mostly concrete fitted with the older, heavier iron pipes with almost no glass showing. Crouched beneath a blackened sky in the driving rain, the neighborhood gave off a dark, wary vibe. Here and there a few houses huddled amongst the industrial-looking buildings, less than half the windows lit with yellow light. Even in the rain, people moved on the street, or sat smoking beneath edges of roofs, or leaned under eves. A lot of those people seemed very interested in our car as we cruised by.

“You come out here a lot?” I asked. I didn’t think the northeast had more magic crime than anywhere else in Portland, but I might be wrong.

“Sometimes. I have family here.”

“Family, as in mob connections, or family, as in crazy uncles who drink too much?”

“There’s a difference?” He smiled. “I’m kidding you. I got Latino roots, not Italian.”

I noted that he didn’t really answer my question. “How long have you been a police officer?”

“About ten years now. Specialized in magic crimes and been part of MERC for eight. This is it.” He turned the car into a parking garage that looked like it had been built in the seventies. He did something to the tollbooth with a card, and the bar lifted and let us in.

Lights hung in cages bolted to the concrete beamed ceilings. Every other light had been busted out, creating pools of darkness and not nearly enough light. I was feeling pretty good right now about being in the company of a police officer who knew the neighborhood and carried a gun.

Magic shifted inside of me, stirring, pushing to be released. That headache that had been nothing but a tightness now shot pain along my temples and jaw. Apparently the aspirin had worn off. Great. I rubbed at my temples and wished I’d taken more painkillers before leaving my apartment.

“Here,” Paul said. “She was last seen right here.” He parked the car, the headlights shining on the elevator door.

“She was in the elevator?”

Paul took a drink of his coffee and put it back in the holder. “She was.”

Oh, holy hells. I hated small places. Hated elevators. I think that came through my body language, or maybe the oh-so-subtle look of terror on my face clued him into my phobia.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“No.” My voice was a little too high and that annoyed me to no end. “It’s fine. Fine.”

It would be fine, I told myself. I’d go out, get in that tiny closet of death, Hound the spell in that tiny closet of death, and then I’d get out of that tiny closet of death before anything could happen to me—like maybe death. And, hey, there was a chance I wouldn’t have to go into the elevator. Maybe the spell had been cast on the outside.

After I did this, I was going to lobby for a new law: no spell casting in small places. Ever.

“Let’s do this,” I said, trying to pep talk myself into it.

I took off my gloves because I could learn things by touching the spell, and my gloves would make that impossible.

I opened the door and stepped out into the cold air. The temperature must be near freezing. I could smell the ice in the wind. I took a deep breath and let the cold take the edge off my headache.

Paul shut the door but did not lock it. He left his coffee in the car and unzipped his coat to allow easy access to his gun.

I was beginning to like this man.

“Witnesses say they saw her there.” He pointed to the elevator. “The story breaks up as to whether or not they saw anyone on the elevator when she got in it. No one’s seen her since.”

“How long ago was that?”

I walked over to the elevator with him. It looked like every other parking garage tiny metal coffin of death. An orange number three was painted on it, big enough it would split in half when the door opened. The wall next to it was tagged. Gang symbol, not magic glyph.

“Three days. Do you mind if I record this?” he asked. He had a small tape recorder in his hand.

“That’s fine,” I said.

I heard the recorder click. He said something in it, and then he sort of faded from my awareness. I could feel the lingering weight of the old spell in the air. I whispered a mantra, set a Disbursement. This time I was going for general muscle aches and fever to Proxy my use. I hoped that wouldn’t kick in until I got rid of this headache.

I drew a glyph for Sight, Taste, and Smell and pulled it toward me. I very carefully drew upon a small amount of the magic coursing through me and poured it into the glyphs.

My senses heightened.

The parking garage shifted. Lines of burnt magic, faint and far between, threaded through the air. People rarely cast spells in parking garages. Maybe a Locator so they could find their car or a Shield to keep them dry once they stepped out into the rain, but other than that, a concrete parking garage was just a concrete parking garage. There weren’t even any lead and glass lines to channel magic through here.

Which was why I was so surprised to see the heavy gold knot of burnt magic webbing the door of the elevator. Someone had cast a hell of a spell here.

Paul said it was three days old, yet it still pulsed with the slow throb of magic in rhythm to the city’s heartbeat. That was strange. Unless someone was paying the price to maintain it—to come back and pour more magic into it—it should have burned out by now.

I walked over, not caring that Stotts was taping me, not caring that the spell was centered around an elevator, not caring that a low pastel fog was gathering at the edges of the garage and slowly, slowly lifting.

The spell wasn’t complicated. It was clearly an Illusion glyph, cast to hide actions from another person. Under a strong Illusion spell, a herd of hippos could roll down Main Street and no one would notice.

If I were going to smuggle something or kidnap someone, this is the kind of spell I would use.

I leaned in toward the elevator door and took a deep breath, my mouth open so I could get the smell and taste of the spell on the back of my palate and sinuses at the same time.

It stank of burnt wood and something sweet I couldn’t quite nail. I drew my fingers gently along the thickest line of magic. A snapping tingle resonated up the marks on my arm.

I traced the glyph, memorizing the strokes, the turns, the twists. The signature was familiar. I traced the full glyph and then pressed my mouth against the strongest pulse of the spell, at the spell’s heart, to taste it. Cool metal of the door met my lips.

The flavor of hickory and sweetness bloomed in my mouth and spread out through me like I was drinking it down.

Magic stirred in me, and I wanted more, needed to taste the spell, the magic. I knew I had Hounded this signature before, knew I had been around this caster. There was more to it, more of the spell I needed to unravel, more of the rank sweetness hidden inside the lines of magic. I wanted to taste that, smell it, lick it.

Closer. I needed to be closer.

I pressed the elevator button, impatient and not caring that I’d have to get in the damn thing. The door opened. I took a deep breath.

And nearly gagged. There was Glamour here. A blocking and shielding that burned with anger, with strength.

Someone had hurt that girl. Hurt her and then taken her. I could smell the slippery musk of violence in the lines of the spell.

There was blood here too, but not on the floors, not on the walls. The blood was in the spell. I knew blood magic was usually cast by dipping the tip of a silver or gold needle or knife in the caster’s blood, and often the victim’s blood, and then drawing the glyph in the air with the knife instead of the fingers. Great care had to be taken that the blood didn’t touch any other surface while it was tracing the glyph; otherwise magic would not flow into the spell.

Blood magics hurt. Blood magics scarred. And mixed with drugs, blood magics could be the highest high ever obtained.

Which is why they were illegal except for during certain medical procedures performed by well-trained and well-regulated doctors.

It was very difficult to sniff out and separate the mix of blood cast in this spell. Every person’s blood carried its own unique scent, but the differences were so minute, it would take a better Hound than me to untangle all of them.

I stepped into the elevator, into the tiny space with no air and no room, walls closing down around me, magic clogging my nostrils, burning my throat, hurting my lungs.

Pain. Violence. Glamour. They didn’t see anyone on the elevator with the girl because the attacker had been hiding. In plain sight. But he had been there. He had been right here.

I knelt down, pressed my palm to the floor. She had fallen here. She had been frightened here. Hurt.

This is where the true center of the spell was located. In the faint burnt ash of the caster’s handiwork, I could finally recognize the signature.

A Hound had cast this spell.

A Hound I knew.

Pike.

I didn’t want to believe it. I traced the lines of the spell again. Inhaled again. Hickory, just like Pike; the glyph drawn just like Pike’s signature. And the blood, at least one of the bloods involved, was Pike’s. I was sure of it. He’d been bleeding this morning. I’d had plenty of time to learn the smell of his blood.

Damn.

But the sweetness that lingered in the spell, I had never smelled on Pike. It was the tang of sweet cherries, blood magic. Maybe Pike wasn’t doing house repair. Maybe he’d been bleeding for another reason. Maybe Pike was teaching Anthony, who always smelled like cherries, how to use blood magic.

But why would Pike kidnap the girl?

Maybe he didn’t think he was kidnapping her. He might think he was saving her. Saving her like he couldn’t save his own granddaughter who had been about her age. Saving this girl before Lon Trager could get his hands on her.

Or maybe Trager had already found Pike, cut his wrist, and told Pike this was the favor he owed him. I didn’t like any of those ideas, didn’t want to tell Stotts that my friend might be behind the disappearance of these girls.

My heart thumped against my chest as I looked over my shoulder at Stotts.

A wave of watercolor people gathered behind him. They took one slow step, two, slid past Stotts, slid
through
Stotts, hollow blackness where their eyes should be, mouths open and hungry, hands reaching out for me. For my magic.

“Shit!”

“What?” Stotts said. “Allie? What’s wrong?”

The watercolor people lunged.

They filled the elevator, smelling like fetid death. Cold fingers stabbed me and I yelled at the pain. Fingers pulled magic off my bones like meat from a turkey. They stuffed the magic in their mouths and moaned for more.

I yelled again. Fingers slid into my mouth, sucked at my tongue and inside my cheeks. The taste of raw, rotted meat filled my mouth. I rocked back on my heels, hit my head on the elevator wall. I pushed at them, at their hands, but it was like pushing air. I let go of the glyphs for Sight, Smell, and Taste. I wanted, I needed a spell, another spell. Something to make them go away.

As soon as I let go of magic, the watercolor people were gone.

I breathed in short, shallow gasps. Everywhere they had touched me burned. And they had touched me—all of me—inside and out.

“Allie?” Stotts said from somewhere far away.

I needed air. I needed to be out of this elevator.

I got up to my feet and ran out of the elevator, ran past Stotts, ran across the garage. I heard footsteps behind me, chasing me, but I didn’t stop until I slammed into the concrete railing at the edge of the garage. Air. Space. I was going to puke.

I leaned over the edge.

A fist grabbed the back of my coat and yanked so hard I landed on my ass on the floor. I groaned. Too much. It was too much. I rolled up on my knees, and then I lost everything in my stomach.

“Shit,” Stotts said from close above me but not too close.

I heaved and heaved, trying to get the taste of death out of me, trying to get their rotten touch out of me, trying to forget them reaching inside of me and pulling me apart.

Why didn’t magic ever take away the memories I wanted to lose?

A hand, Stotts’ hand, pressed gently on my back. “Here,” he said.

I swallowed until I was sure nothing more was coming up and sat back. Stotts kept his hand on my back, a comforting weight. He offered me a handkerchief, and I took it, wiped the tears from my eyes, blew my nose, and used the last dry corner of the cloth to wipe my mouth.