Queen of Wands-eARC (12 page)

“Who in the hel…heck are you talking about?” Kurt asked.

“Uh…” Barb said, then shrugged. “Need to know. The powers that be determine who has need to know.”

“Your powers that be?” Kurt asked, angrily.

“
Yours
, actually,” Barb said.

“Oh, great,” Kurt said. “I’ve got the responsibility, but nobody’s giving me the information? Why?”

“That’s a very interesting question,” Barb said. “But not an important one at this point. Thing is that nothing’s adding up here. I’m going to sleep on it. I’ll see you tomorrow, but not early. I need to talk to somebody.”

“Great,” Kurt said. “You go ‘see somebody.’ I’m going to go get out of this monkey suit and get a beer. There’s not much else for me to do.”

* * *

As Barb unlocked her door, a black van with tinted windows pulled up beside her.

“That was somewhat nervous-making,” Brother Marquez said as the passenger-side window rolled down. “If we’d had to do an entry, it was going to be tough. We’d have to blow the stair doors and go up eight flights.”

“I take it you’ve seen the blueprints,” Barb said, crossing her arms.

“For tactical reasons the Bureau gets copies of all new building permits and their schematics,” Brother Marquez said. “When we go somewhere, we get copies of their copies. Also something I’d prefer you not share with your friend Kurt. Hop in.”

* * *

The back of the van was laid out as a mobile command post, and two men were watching screens as they pulled away. Barb strapped herself into a seat as Brother Marquez swiveled his captain’s chair to the rear.

“The entry to the house, the entire house in fact, has architecture that I’d describe as Hittite,” Barb said. “But it’s not. Slight differences.”

“Osemi?” Brother Marquez asked, raising an eyebrow. “Where would they get Osemi architectural data? The Hittites destroyed every trace of the civilization.”

“That’s a very good question,” Barb said. “The thing is, I don’t think that’s their power center. It didn’t have the feel of an active temple. I’ve
been
in an active temple. There’s a definite…vibe to one. There wasn’t one in Reamer’s house. A slight vibe, but not anything strong. Much stronger at Rembrandt’s.”

“But those houses well predate any indications of supernatural occurrences,” Brother Marquez pointed out.

“Which is why I don’t think it’s in that building cluster,” Barb said, frowning. “I’ve got the sneaking suspicion it’s
under
them. But the entrance
has
to be close. Probably under Rembrandt’s or one of the other buildings. But we don’t have enough information to get a search warrant.”

“Who needs a search warrant?” Brother Marquez said, shrugging.

“I’d rather we try to avoid a black-bag operation,” Barb said, referring to a covert entry on a building. The term went back to the early days of law enforcement when the tools would be carried in black leather satchels.

“As do I,” Brother Marquez said. “But those are public buildings, no? You’ve never heard of a health and safety inspection?”

* * *

Barb hoped that her hair tucked up under a Chattanooga Food Safety Inspector ball cap and a matching blue shapeless coverall was going to disguise her enough. It might work as long as she avoided Vartouhi.

The buildings didn’t have basements as such. Just subground levels, partially open. That was as good as it was going to get. She was tapping one of the solid rock walls when the restaurant manager caught up with her.

“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” he asked, seeming amused.

“Rat holes,” Barb said, shining a light under the wine racks. “Rat droppings. And structural unsoundness.”

“We’re on rock,” the man said, with a shocked expression. “And we don’t have rats, ma’am!”

“Sedimentary rock,” Barb replied, glibly. “Water flow can cause sudden openings in it that lead to unsoundness. And you’d be surprised what rats will bore through to get to food.”

“Oh,” the manager said. “Well, I can assure you we don’t have rats. I am very strict about that sort of thing. But if you need anything, just holler.”

“I will,” Barb said, tapping at the walls with a stick until he was gone. Then she opened her Sight and tried to get something from the surroundings. There was still the feeling of otherworldliness. But now that she was in the basement, it didn’t seem…malevolent. She realized it was more just…power. Not even really power she could use. Just raw power, like the hum from electric lines. You tended to get nervous around it, even fearful.

She started as her phone rang with Germaine’s ringtone: “Danse Macabre.”

“Yes, sir?” Barb said.

“I understand you’re at Bluff View,” Germaine said.

“Yes, sir,” Barb replied. She wasn’t even going to bother to wonder how he knew.

“I have arranged a meeting for you at Tony’s in ten minutes. Ask for Mrs. Arquero. I believe you shall find the conversation…enlightening.”

* * *

Tony’s was a fairly high-end restaurant for Chattanooga, and Barb felt rather out of place in her coveralls.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Arquero?” she told the maitre d’.

“This way, Madame.” The maitre d’ may have found the coveralls a bit underdressed, but
nobody
in the restaurant industry was about to piss off a health inspector.

“Mrs. Everette.” The speaker was “a woman of a certain age.” Barb placed her as anywhere from thirty to sixty. Dark hair, short, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Barb’s entire wardrobe. “Christina Arquero. I believe Germaine called you?”

“Yes, he did, Mrs. Arquero,” Barb said cautiously, sitting down at a wave.

“My husband and I are the owners of Bluff View,” Mrs. Arquero said. “And we are of course quite concerned about a health and safety inspection from such an eminent inspector.” She gave a slight smile.

“It’s a…fascinating place,” Barb said. “Very…fascinating.”

“It’s a labor of love,” Mrs. Arquero said. “We took a bunch of run-down and honestly unsafe apartment buildings and old houses, and turned it into a place of beauty and repose.”

“The food is excellent,” Barb said. “I really love Rembrandt’s. It almost tempts me to gluttony.”

“Almost,” Mrs. Arquero said. “Do you speak Spanish, Mrs. Everette?”

“One of the languages I never learned,” Barb said, wondering at the change of topic.

“
Arquero
is generally translated as ‘The Archer,’” the lady said, taking a slight sip of wine. “However, the etymology is complex. It is also the term, in what Americans call soccer, for a goalkeeper. This etymology comes from its Castilian definition, which is ‘a guardian at the gates.’”

“Ah,” Barbara said.

“The reason for Augustus’s call becomes more clear,” Mrs. Arquero said, giving a very slight chuckle. “We have lived in the South for many years, and I must admit I am sometimes given to Southernisms. If you will permit the indelicacy, you are barking up the wrong tree.”

“That…yes,” Barb said. “The problem being, I really don’t have another tree to bark up.”

“Tell me what you know,” Arquero said.

“Janea was attacked,” Barb said, carefully. She avoided the word “mystic.” “When she was found, she was wet as if she had been in the river. This place is across the river and had a certain…air.”

“Indeed it does,” Mrs. Arquero said with what was an almost unladylike snort. “One has to be…extremely mundane to ignore it.”

“But…I realized as I was working, not exactly a…negative air. Nor…positive.”

“Neither,” Mrs. Arquero agreed. “Quite, quite neutral. As neutral as a hurricane. Yet an air that is…workable. Useable. And many come here to install, as it were, wind turbines. Some less neutral than others. While others act as…windbreaks. My husband and I are not the only such. There are at least nine. And perhaps twice as many groups involved in wind generation. Fortunately, those who act as windbreaks are generally stronger than those tapping the wind. Generally.”

“And now?” Barb asked. “If Janea didn’t come from here…?”

“As you noted, your friend had been…attacked,” Arquero said. “She was, therefore, in not the best of conditions. Had you considered the strength of the Tennessee River? To swim across is difficult in the best of conditions. It is, however, quite possible to float.”

“Float?”

“Have you considered what is on the
other
side of the river?”

* * *

“Kurt,” Barb said, walking up to his cubicle. “What do you know about Girls’ Preparatory Academy?”

“Oh, God!” Kurt swore. “Not them!
Please
, not them!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Okay, other than about the ugliest uniforms I’ve ever seen in my life,” Barb said, “I’m not really seeing anything different about this school compared to, well, any number of all girls’ schools. Been there, left with scars.”

“Didn’t get along?” Kurt asked.

“Not particularly,” Barb said. “Japanese ones were the worst. There is no more arrogant, stuck-up bitch than a billionaire’s granddaughter who can trace her lineage back to the founding of the Empire of the Sun.”

“That would be…?” Kurt said.

“Two thousand years.”

“Ah. Talk about old money.”

“Akio considered the Medici nouveau riche,” Barb said, distractedly. “We compromised. She didn’t piss me off, I didn’t break her arm by accident. Again.”

“Very Christian of you.”

“It’s actually when I truly found Christ,” Barb said. “He was…”

“Behind the couch the whole time?”

“Exactly. Actually, on the couch. Took me a while to notice. But being the only Christian in a school made me realize I could be the ugly American or witness for Christ. Witnessing, as in being the nice girl and showing them how a Christian ought to act. Turned out Jesus was right there waiting the whole time. Nothing special here. Okay, their internal network is called ‘bruisernet.’ That’s not so good. Their colors are, you can’t make this stuff up, black and blue.”

“Hey,” Kurt said.

“Found something?”

“Sort of. Girls’ Preparatory Academy. GPA. Grade point average, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s lower than Bluff View, so that would be low GPA.”

“Kurt…”

“Returning to work. Really high rate of busts for cocaine possession.”

“Inverse rates of successful prosecutions.”

“Might have something to do with…hello. DA’s wife went to GPA. Daughter goes to GPA. So do daughters or granddaughters of half of the city council and county commission. Court judges either graduates or family attending or graduates…”

“That doesn’t spell Special Circumstances,” Barb pointed out. “You’re just talking about a small town that’s turned into a medium city. I’m not exactly seeing the Kabala or pentagrams.”

“I’m starting to agree,” Kurt said. “I’m looking at the website and just not seeing Satanic cult here.”

Barb pulled up the website and paused.

“Okay, we’ve got a problem,” she said.

“What?” Kurt asked, rolling over.

“Look at them,” Barb said.

“I have been,” Kurt said. “Other than the uniforms…”

“No, I mean
look
at them,” Barb said. “This is
not
normal.”

“Rich girls. Prep school…”

“They’re
all
smiling,” Barb said. “In perfect unison. Mechanically. Like…You ever hear about that case in Connecticut…?”

“I read the report in background prep. Holy…”

“Not…”

“
Stepfords
,” they both said, simultaneously.

“Stepfords
and
zombies?” Kurt said. “Houston, we have a problem.”

* * *

“It can’t be a Stepford cult,” Sharice said, wearily. “Okay, they look like Stepfords. But there’s too many of them. A Stepford ritual requires very high-end magics, powerful channels and multiple blood sacrifices. Find me the Ted Bundy, times ten, and I’ll agree that it’s a Stepford cult.”

Sharice had been napping on one of the couches in the parlor. Barb had checked on Lazarus, who was out cold on Janea’s chest, then reluctantly woke Sharice up.

“How many blood sacrifices?” Kurt asked.

“Nine for each Wife,” Sharice replied. “Of ‘good station,’ generally meaning innocent of major evils themselves. For Stepfords, the average crack addict is insufficient. Don’t ask why, you’re getting into occult quantum physics. Let me point out that I spent last night in the astral plane, which is not exactly sleeping. Can’t you just Google this?”

“Please, Sharice? I heard you were…involved…?”

“One of my first major cases,” Sharice said, sort of sitting up. “The key was finding Bundy. Bundy was their collector. The sacrifice doesn’t have to take place under the dark of the moon in a temple, simply be a sacrifice by a collector using certain minor rituals. Fortunately, I’m a fairly good Seer and I know Florida.”

“Wait,” Kurt said. “You…?”

“How many girls in this school?” Sharice asked.

“About six hundred,” Barb replied. “And I’ve looked at a few of the ones around town. They’re definitely…something. I’ve never actually seen a Stepford, but their auras are…awful. Not demonic, just awful.”

“Still doesn’t track. Six hundredish girls. Even if a third were Stepfords, you’re talking about the ritualistic killing of more than two thousand women between the ages of puberty and about twenty-five by a
single
channeler.
Then
you have to remove the
ka
of the Wife.”

“Which you do how, exactly?” Kurt asked, continuing, “he asked without really wanting to know the answer.”

“Which is fortunate, because it’s SCAP and you don’t have Level Eight access,” Sharice said.

“Wait…” Barb said. “You
do
?”

“In general, it can be voluntarily surrendered,” Sharice said, ignoring the question, “but it usually has to be removed by force. Either one is a rather serious ritual that
does
require the dark of the moon. I don’t see even a third of these girls being…those creatures. There’s not that many serial killers murdering basically decent young women running around. More than are generally recognized, but not that many.”

“Not in the US, anyway,” Kurt said.

“Yes,” Sharice said. “Don’t ask about Congo and Moldova. Fortunately, there’s a group of Asatru covering the Caucasus. Led by a demon-possessed former SEAL. Good story…I could write a book. Too tired.”

“Any real-world terminology you can inject here?” Kurt asked, flailing for the shores of sanity. “Like, what’s the effect of soul-death in…I hate to call it ‘reality,’ but…”

“There are two types,” Sharice said, yawning. “The death of the
ba
and the death of the
ka
. The…PCP zombies are
ba
-dead. True walking dead. The effect of that, with an infilling force is, well, what you’ve seen. Without specific direction, you get homicidal psychosis. Without an infilling force they are, well, dead as a stump. Stepfords are
ka
-dead. Often diagnosed as sociopaths. There’s more around than just Stepfords, by the way. The only thing they can feel is the pain of others. Generally, psychological pain. So they get off on inflicting pain and dominating everyone around them. They are…soul-suckers. Succubae, sort of.”

“More shit I wish I didn’t know,” Kurt said. “Sorry for the language, ladies.”

“You did ask,” Sharice said, stretching out on the couch. “If there’s nothing else, I need to rest my old bones.”

“Thanks, Sharice,” Barb said. “Get some rest.”

“If you haven’t got your health,” Kurt said.

“Did you just make a
Princess Bride
reference?” Sharice said, chuckling. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Hey, I can watch movies,” Kurt said. “I didn’t realize till I read the file
The Stepford Wives
was based on a real event.”

“
The Exorcist
,” Barb said. “
House on Haunted Hill
…”

“Seriously?”

“
Gilligan’s Island
,” Sharice muttered.

“You’re making that up,” Barb snapped.

“Check the secure files at the Foundation,” Sharice said. “There’s a reason they never got off the island. The Harlem Globetrotters story was an in-joke, though. Good night. Afternoon. Morning. Whenever it is…”

“Sharice?” Kurt said, pausing at the parlor door.

“What?!”

“Isn’t the problem with Miss Grisham that she had her
ka
…Pulled out? Sort of like…”

“Shit,” Sharice said, sitting bolt upright. “There is no fool like an old fool!”

* * *

“Let’s think about this,” Barb said, grabbing her head. They’d been going around in circles for nearly an hour.

“Sleep deprived,” Sharice said. “Exhausted. You think.”

“This isn’t possession,” Barb said.

“Wait,
what
isn’t possession?” Kurt replied. “Let’s get back to the point. We’re investigating the
Madness
cases. Not Stepfords. If they even
are
Stepfords.”

“They’re Stepfords,” Barb said. “Or something similar. And the Madness cases are related. Either that, or Janea’s a hell of a coincidence. Sharice, I know you’re tired, but just…tell me about Stepfords.”

“They’re seen as the perfect wives and mothers,” Sharice said, sipping tea. “Perfect homemakers, perfectly dressed, perfect hostesses. Honestly…” she said, then paused.

“They look sort of like me?” Barb said, grinning.

“That, yes,” Sharice said. “The truth is that they wrap their families in a web of control, both mundane and mystical, and slowly suck the life out of them. Husbands tend to get promoted, often well above their ability, because anyone who stands in their way gets run over. Generally personal tragedies, child dies, generally of some lingering fatal disease, often death, suicide. Murder–suicide is a favorite. ‘He was such a nice guy with a great future ahead of him. I don’t know why he killed his whole family and himself. I guess Ron with the bitch wife gets the promotion.’ And woe betide the husband who tries to escape. You do
not
divorce a Stepford. Death is a blessing when it finally comes. The same goes for their children. Who are almost invariably basket cases for life unless they drink the Kool-Aid themselves.”

“So they’re control freak wives and moms,” Kurt said. “What else is new?”

“And then there’s the secondary effects,” Sharice said. “Leukemia clusters around them. Accidents. The ‘nice guy’ down the street who turns out to be the serial killer who’s been kidnapping and raping girls or boys. Generally, if you find some nice mundane community that suddenly is experiencing tragedy after tragedy, look for a Stepford and you’ll find the source. Only the families of other Stepfords are immune. Specifically, they become cluster points for various malevolent entities.”

“Sounds swell,” Barb said.

“Oh, and they are
very
hard to kill,” Sharice said. “I’m not into the ‘whole kill them all, God will know his own.’ I prefer things like walking the Moon Paths. The Stepford clearance I would have enjoyed, were it not quite so…So. Turns out they’re pretty much immune to poisons; don’t bother trying tear gas as the seventies version of HRT did. Heal in the blink of an eye, too, which turned out to matter when the only thing that worked was head shots and sometimes not even that. You pretty much have to put a stake through their hearts or cut off their heads to kill the little bitches. And that perfect skin is as thick and tough as a rhino. And if you pull the stake out too soon…Don’t. Just…don’t. Leave it. They sort of wake up…really annoyed.”

“That doesn’t explain the Madness cases,” Kurt pointed out.

“Let me repeat,” Sharice said with a sigh. “
If you find some nice mundane community that suddenly is experiencing tragedy after tragedy, look for a Stepford
. They, personally, are all about power and control.”

“Through men, though,” Barb said.

“Remember, the case was at the beginning of the feminist revolution, and up to that point, the power was
always
through men,” Sharice said. “I’m not sure what a feminist Stepford would be like.
I’m
a feminist, and the thought makes me sort of shudder. And I’ll repeat. Again. This isn’t Stepfords. This is something else.”

“They’re all about power and control,” Barb said. “More circumstantial. Kurt, the drug cases.”

“GPA alums and attendees are all through the power structure in this area,” Kurt said.

“Common in smaller cities and towns,” Sharice said.

“My point, but there’s
something
here,” Barb said. “I Looked at some of those girls, Sharice. They’re not possessed but they’re also not…normal. Kurt, known associates of the victims in the Madness cases?”

“No commonality,” Kurt said. “I mean, some overlap but no major common associates.”

“Can you find out how many of their girlfriends or female friends were GPA girls? Not the same girl, the same school?”

“There’s an app for that,” Kurt said, grinning. He pulled out his smart phone and started tapping. He paused, then grinned mirthlessly. “Every single one had dated a GPA girl.”

“Had?” Barb asked.

“If I’m reading this right, they were all
ex
-girlfriends. Reasoning in advance of data, I think if we poked into it, they’d have all dumped a GPA girl prior to going zomb.”

“You don’t divorce a Stepford,” Barb said. “You especially don’t dump one.”

“Stepfords can do a lot of harm,” Sharice said. “They could
not
strip a
ba
without an additional major ritual, which the victim had to be present for, nor could they then infill them. Both you’re talking
heavy
-duty hoodoo, and animating a corpse is such high necromancy, there’s only a few necromancers who have succeeded. At least succeeded and survived. Oh…
crap
. I hate to do this…” She pulled out her phone.

“Do what?” Barb asked.

“Phone a friend,” Sharice said. “Augustus, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Very well,” Germaine said. “Go ahead.”

“We’re pursuing a theory that a local girls’ private school is the source of the Madness cases.”

“I take it you’re talking about GPA,” Germaine said.

“You know, it would help if we had a
full
briefing,” Kurt said.

“Agent Spornberger, a full briefing on the mystical underworld of Chattanooga would take several hours, which…I do not have. Be silent. Go on, Sharice. The last I checked, GPA was simply a dark power center. There are…four in Chattanooga and some seven in Hamilton county.”

“Barb believes they may be Stepfords,” Sharice said. “Or something similar.”

“On what basis?”

“Gut,” Barb said. “And some circumstantial evidence. Item A. Your friend suggested that I bark up the tree.”

“I would not describe her as a friend,” Germaine said. “More of a colleague. And GPA is…Paris to her London. Minas Morgul to Minas Tirith might be a more current referent. Go on.”