Magick Rising (6 page)

them. She skirted wide around an empty alleyway and continued down the

street toward the first door.

Suddenly, she was jerked around and pushed up against a brick wall.

She stared up into the glittering darkness of Hawken’s eyes as his hands

tightened on her arms. Her reporter instinct kicked in just ahead of her

martial arts training.
Patience, grasshopper
.

“Following me again?”

“I’m a reporter. Maybe you’re newsworthy.” She pushed back the

images of the murdered homeless men that played across her mind. Had it

only been last night that she found John Doe number ten?

He lifted her slightly, and she centered herself, ready to pull him into a

throw. “I’m not.” With a sigh, he released her. “I assure you, I’m not.”

His eyes changed their focus inward, and she saw sorrow etch itself into

his face then settle over him like a weight. What was he remembering? What

had he done? His expression, full of pain and regret, didn’t jibe with her

cold-blooded Skid Row Butcher theory.

He returned his gaze to her. “I just want you to stay safe. Following me

jeopardizes that.”

“Why? How does it . . . ?” She laid her hand on his arm. He reminded

her of Nic, trying to protect her when he was the one needing protection.

“Maybe I can help somehow?”

For a moment the sorrow returned to his eyes then he seemed to lock it

away again.

“Really, I’m pretty handy to have around.” Odd, but she couldn’t see

the Butcher anymore when she looked at this man. In some way, he was

vulnerable to something, someone, as surely as “her” homeless guys were,

and she couldn’t let him face that alone. “Maybe I can help you with

whatever it is.”

Gently he took hold of her arms as his gaze sharpened. “Ah, Miko, if I

believed that . . .” His head dipped toward hers, his breath feathering across

her cheek.

Fragrant incense enveloped her. She realized he was going to kiss her.

And she hadn’t the foggiest idea what she thought about it.

Then his lips descended onto hers, and her mind went blank. At first,

his lips barely whispered across hers. Slowly, so slowly, they pressed firmly,

gently against her mouth and held for a timeless moment. Her heart

thundered in her ears and languor slithered through her, melting her bones,

her brain.

His hands tightened on her arms then abruptly freed her. She caught

herself with one hand on the wall and shook her head. What . . . ?

Hawken scrubbed a hand down his face. “I cannot.” He drew in a

ragged breath and took several steps back.

Miko forced her own breath in and out, the mist of it clouding her view

in the frigid night air. When the mist dissipated, Hawken was walking away.

“Wait.” She hated the way her voice sounded weak.

He paused. Without glancing back, he said, “I’m warning you, Miko.

The story you’re following is more dangerous than you can imagine. Stay

away from it, and stay away from me.” With that, he stepped into the dark

toward the river.

Still weak-kneed and blurry-brained, Miko leaned against the wall. The

reporter in her wanted to follow him, just not get caught this time. Instead,

she remained where she was.

From the stygian shadows of the trees, Hadrian watched indecision

then the ghost of fear flit across Miko’s lamp-lit face. Good. Fear was good.

Finally, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and headed toward the

busier part of downtown. Hadrian turned and walked deeper into the

shadows.

Tail thrashing the cold air, Azrael approached.
Do you hunt tonight?

Hadrian scented the breeze then shook his head. “The cold has driven

them inside.”

You are of no mind to ferret out their hiding places?

A rising wind billowed Hadrian’s coat and ruffled Azrael’s fur. Turning

his steps northward along the river, Hadrian lowered his head against it.

“The moon progresses. Soon enough, they’ll crawl out of their lairs. Then

I’ll hunt.”

TWO DAYS PASSED without a single homicide, but her relationship with

her editor hadn’t warmed to more than an armed truce in those two days. He

still refused to approve her in-depth article about the Skid Row murders.

Her pursuit of the killer hadn’t progressed either. Resolutely, she

propped her feet on her desk and flipped through her notes on the murders

of John Doe, numbers one through ten.

“What am I missing?” she muttered to herself. The chart she’d made of

links between the murders revealed nothing new no matter how hard or

long she studied it.

Nothing except the proximity of Hadrian Hawken to at least the last

two.

“Which proves absolutely zip.” She twisted up her hair and shoved in

her grandmother’s
kanzashi
. “Come on, Grandma. Nic said these are

magick. I could use some about now.”

As if in response to her plea, the police scanner crackled with a

frightened voice. “This is Tommy Thompson. Send help! Oh, sweet Jesus,

send help!” The sound of retching followed.

Miko’s feet hit the floor, and she grabbed her coat in one motion.

Although Tommy Thompson was a rookie cop, he’d served five years in the

army in the ground-slog of digging out terrorists in the Middle East.

Whatever he was trying to report had to be unbelievably horrendous for him

to lose it like that.

Waiting no longer than it took the dispatcher, voice calm and

professional, to elicit the address from Tommy, Miko headed for her car. As

the office door closed behind her, she heard the dispatcher alternately

coaxing and ordering Tommy to explain his call.

In minutes she pulled up to a scene crawling with cop cars, ambulances,

and chaos. As she exited her Jeep, a paramedic stumbled, ghost-pale and

gagging, away from the site. Miko’s hands trembled as she thumbed on her

camera. The police hadn’t yet set up a crime scene perimeter, and she walked

right into the carnage.

Blood. Everywhere. Puddles of it. Streams of it. Torn flesh.

Dismembered gore. The coppery smell of blood enveloped the riverside

clearing. And over it all, a faint acidic tang that stung her nose and throat.

The camera bobbled in her hands as she brought it up. These poor

men. Who had done this? Who could do this to any creature, much less a

human?

She’d investigated dog and cock fights and the aftermath of a bear

mauling. But nothing she’d seen resembled this slaughter. Only man could

think up anything this horrific.

In slow, grisly arcs with eyes blurred by unshed tears, she swept the

camera across the scene. Cracked and bent bones littered the site, glistening

in the cop car strobes and headlights.
Please, God. Don’t let any of them be Nic.

Don’t let them be someone I know.

Footsteps crunched directly behind her. She looked over her shoulder.

Gaze riveted on the victims, Kelly whispered, “God have mercy.”

“Amen to that.” For the first time since arriving, Miko shut her eyes.

She inhaled a shaky breath and immediately regretted it. She stumbled

backward. Shudders rippled through her. It took three tries to turn off her

camera.

Kelly stooped and picked up something from the ground, using a glass

evidence bottle as well as her gloves to protect her. “I’d say our guy’s hit

numbers eleven through thirteen.”

Miko started to bring her camera back up but gagged as all the nausea

and revulsion she’d suppressed flooded up her throat.

“Not on my crime scene, you don’t.” Kelly twisted her around and

shoved her past where the police had finally strung their yellow tape.

Miko reached a tree trunk and clung to it. Away from the smells, her

nausea receded but not the horror. These weren’t easy deaths. Her mind

reeled at what these men must’ve gone through.

When she was able to look up, she saw Kelly in the mass of bodies lit

now by floodlights. Miko couldn’t go back there. Not now. Not for a while.

Bile rose again, and she knew that even after it was cleaned up, she would

avoid this area.

She swallowed to keep from throwing up and decided she didn’t even

want to pass those . . . bodies to return to her car. The riverside path had an

exit a block or two farther up that she could use to loop around.

Thick trees and brush crowded and shadowed the walkway, rattling in

the rising wind while the river pounded over its rock-strewn course. The

only light came from reflection on the low clouds overhead. The almost full

moon was nothing but a muted glow.

Miko’s footsteps clicked a steady rhythm on the black-topped trail.

Then images of the scene slowed her steps. Normally street savvy, Miko’s

attention turned inward.

She was about halfway to the turnoff when a sound intruded into her

ruminations.

Another set of footsteps. Heavier than hers. Coming from behind. Too

fast for a pedestrian. Wrong tempo for a runner.

Before she could turn, something hit the side of her head. She

crumpled to her knees, stars zipping madly behind her eyelids.

Questions tumbled across her scrambled mental circuits. What? Who?

Why?

She instinctively threw up her right hand to protect her head. Another

blow sent pain zinging up her arm, but she grabbed at the object—some

type of coarse fabric bag—and held on. As her attacker tried to wrench it

out of her hand, she latched onto it with her other hand and hung on, trying

to pull him into a fall over her head.

Hanging on
seemed
like a good move, but whoever her attacker was, he

was strong as a fucking bear. Suddenly, he slung her to one side. Air

exploded from her lungs as she slammed into the ground. For those few

seconds before her body remembered how to breathe, her mind processed

what was happening and sent one signal: Fight!

She gasped. Cold air wheezed into her lungs, clearing her head just in

time for her assailant to land a knee on her chest. He smashed the bag onto

her face.

Why is he doing this? Why me? Why doesn’t he say something?

Anything would be better than this silent struggle.

She chopped at him and tried to dig her nails into his face. He batted

them away, keeping up the bag’s pressure. She could barely force enough air

out to emit a whispered entreaty for help. No air returned, and her

consciousness faded. A deeper blackness than the night invaded the edges

of her mind, dimming even the flash as blood vessels ruptured in her eyes.

She bucked and kicked as she’d learned, but air just wasn’t there. All she

could do was shove weakly against her attacker.

Knowing she was going to die, wouldn’t be heard, had no breath left,

she screamed a silent “Help!”

As blackness clawed deeper, an unearthly shriek split the night.

ANOTHER SCREAM. Her attacker jerked. Air. Just enough. Miko gasped

once. Twice. She curled, arched.

He shifted. The bag shifted, some sort of clasp scraping her face.

Air. Blessed air. Miko drew it deep, again and again. As she shoved at

him, he seemed to levitate off. She rolled, scrambled to her feet, stumbling

over something in the darkness.

To one side, she heard scuffling, grunting. Weak moonlight broke

through the clouds, casting the scene into anime black and white.

Lit by the moon and an eerie radiance from a dagger in one hand,

Hadrian Hawken wielded a massive luminous sword with the other.

Another man writhed as the sword struck one sloping shoulder. Hawken

lifted the dagger, now almost too bright to look directly at.

Miko’s
kanzashi
buzzed, sending electricity down her back. She pulled

them from her hair to find them blazing with the same fire as the dagger.

“What the hell?”

Hadrian’s gaze flicked to her. As did her assailant’s.

In the dagger’s glare, his eyes were reptilian, slitted and lidless. His long,

forked tongue slithered out on a hiss. He turned and undulated toward her

in a sidewinder’s glide. “Misss Jonesss.”

Miko’s mind ran in frenzied circles. A snake? A snake man?

Coat billowing around him, Hadrian slashed at the thing. It contorted

itself so the sword blade sliced its frayed shirt, not snake. “Leave her be,

Apophis.”

The nightmare creature continued his advance. Its hands were human

in shape, but moonlight glistened on scales where skin should be. “Ssshe isss

the Massstersss.”

Miko knew she should be doing something—anything—other than

standing stock still. Her years of martial arts training were for
fighting other

people. This wasn’t a people . . . person . . . human.

“Miko, run!”

Freed by Hadrian’s voice, she lurched backwards. The thing slid closer.

The wind blew the stench of death and decomposition ahead of it. Its eyes

fixed on hers. She tried to scream. To move. But its gaze seemed to paralyze