Spellcasters (72 page)

“So, what are you guys—” Jaime began, then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped mid-sentence. She yanked the clip from her hair and tried gathering it again, but her hands trembled so badly she couldn’t keep it together long enough to get the hair clip on. She crammed the clip into her pocket. “Can I borrow your brush, Paige?”

“Um, sure, it’s right—”

She was already in the bathroom. Lucas lowered his head to whisper something to me, but Jaime popped out of the bathroom, wielding the hairbrush with harsh strokes.

“So where are we at? Any fresh leads?”

Lucas glanced at me. I shrugged discreetly. If Jaime was offering to help with the investigation, I saw no reason to refuse, and no reason not to fill her in.

“Lucas was checking Weber’s phone records. Since that’s how Esus said he was making contact with the killer, it seemed a good place to start.” I looked at Lucas. “Please, tell me it was a good place to start.”

“It wasn’t a bad place to start, though I’d hesitate to call my findings overwhelmingly encouraging. Once I applied the approximate time range,
I came up with a reasonably definitive list of five phone calls. The last two took place in the past week, presumably after the killer took a hard look at the second list and decided to expand his criteria. Both calls came after the killings began. The first, received on the eighth, came from Louisiana, where he was likely preparing for his attack on Holden. The second came the following day, from California, presumably arranging to pick up the final list. Both calls were made from pay phones.”

“And the earlier calls? Before the attacks? Tell me they all came from the same place.”

“From the same region, though, again, all from pay phones. The first was made in Dayton, Ohio, the second in Covington, Kentucky, and the third near Columbus, Indiana. Triangulate those points on a map and in the middle you’ll find Cincinnati.”

“So he’s from Cincinnati?” Jaime said.

“It’s reasonable to assume he was residing there, at least briefly, before the killings began. By making the calls from three smaller cities, it would appear he was avoiding a deliberate link with Cincinnati.”

“So should we head up to Cincinnati? Start asking around the supernatural community?”

“There isn’t a supernatural community in Cincinnati.” I glanced at Lucas. “Is there?”

“While there may be a few supernaturals living in the region, there is no ‘community’ to speak of. The Nasts recently considered locating a satellite office there for that very reason.” He caught my frown and explained. “Cabals prefer to expand into virgin territory, where they don’t have many resident supernaturals to contend with.”

“So there’s nobody in Cincinnati to ask.” Jaime sighed. “Shit. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?”

“There’s still the motivation lead,” I said. “Esus thinks we’re looking for a supernatural with a vendetta against the Cabals. The only other reasonable motivation is money. Pay me a billion bucks and I’ll stop killing your kids. But the Cabals haven’t received any blackmail notes.” I paused. “Unless they have and they’re just not telling us. Damn, I hate this.”

“I feel reasonably safe in saying that no extortion attempts have been made,” Lucas said. “Now that one of Thomas Nast’s grandsons is dead, a killer with any knowledge of Cabals would know he can’t buy his way out of this. As Esus said, it’s personal.”

“Then, when you put the clues together, we have a serious lead here. Adult male, living in the Cincinnati area, has reason to want revenge on the
Cabals—not one, but all the Cabals. There can’t be many supernaturals who fulfill that criteria.”

“So we just ask the Cabals—” Jaime looked over at Lucas. “It’s not that easy, either, is it?”

“Probably not,” he said. “I’m afraid that if I give the Cabals too much information, we’ll have a repeat of the Weber incident.”

“Or a sudden epidemic afflicting male supernaturals living in Ohio,” I said.

“Precisely. We’ll start instead by canvasing my contacts. If a supernatural has reason to be this angry at the Cabals, someone must have heard of it.”

“There’s nothing we outsiders like better than gossip about the big bad Cabals,” Jaime said. “I could make a few calls of my own.”

“Excellent idea,” Lucas said. “First, though, let me talk to a local contact. He publishes an underground anti-Cabal newsletter, and he’s always my best source of Cabal rumor.”

“He lives in Miami and puts out an anti-Cabal newsletter?” I said. “He’d better hope your father never finds out.”

“My father knows all about Raoul. In such matters he follows Sun Tzu’s maxim about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Okay, well, is this Raoul someone I can meet?”

“He’s a shaman, not a sorcerer, so he’ll have no aversion to discussing matters with a witch. In addition, we may be able to find some, uh, interesting reading material in his bookstore.”

“Spells?”

A tiny smile. “Yes, spells. Remember, though, that by bringing you to the source of the spells, any that you care to acquire must be purchased by me, and therefore count toward my accumulated total option choices.”

I grinned. “You got it.”

“Spells don’t help me,” Jaime said. “But I could use a book to read. Mind if I tag along?”

That was fine with us, so we grabbed our things and left.

R
aoul was on vacation. According to his assistant, he hadn’t taken so much as two consecutive days off in five years but now, when we needed him, he’d decided it was time for a monthlong European holiday. I suspected this wasn’t a coincidence—he’d probably heard of the Cabals’ latest “investigative” tactics, and feared he’d be next on their list.

Although Raoul was gone, he wasn’t out of contact. That’s the life of the self-employed—you can never really be away, or you might come home to find your business in shambles. Even lying in my hospital bed, I’d checked my e-mail and followed up on anything critical—well, anything my customers considered critical. Raoul hadn’t left a phone number, but he was available by e-mail. His assistant sent off an immediate “Call Lucas Cortez” message for us.

“Can we check out the grimoires?” I said. “Wait, let me guess. He keeps those locked up, meaning they aren’t available until he comes back.”

“I’m afraid so.”

I sighed. “Strike two. Well, let’s go find Jaime.”

Although the building was larger than most used bookstores, every available inch of space was in use, leaving a maze of narrow, serpentine aisles flanked by ten-foot-high shelves. The occasional murmur or shoe squeak indicated other shoppers, but they were lost among the stacks.

“Guess we should split up,” I said. “Should we lay a trail of bread crumbs?”

“Perhaps, though I may suggest a more prosaic solution. Do you have your cell phone?”

I nodded. “Whoever finds her first, calls. Got it.”

I tracked Jaime to the horror section and told her about Raoul.

“Shit,” she said. “There’s no luck like bad luck, huh? Guess we should get back to the hotel then, and Lucas and I can tap into the gossipmonger circuit.”

I looked at her empty hands. “You didn’t find anything?”

“Not what I was looking for.”

She turned to leave, but I put a hand on her arm.

“We can spare a minute. What were you looking for?”

“Stephen King. Now, every bookstore
must
have him. But he’s not here.”

I scanned the shelf, which appeared to be arranged alphabetically by author. “You’re right. That’s strange. Did you want his latest? Maybe it’s in general fiction.”

“I’m actually looking for
Christine
, which should be under horror.”

“Let’s check the map up front, maybe ask the clerk.” I started walking. “Isn’t
Christine
the one about the possessed car?”

“That’s it. I’ve been wanting to reread it ever since this show I did a couple months ago. A guy had this car that he swore was possessed, just like in the book. I don’t do private consultations, but my prodco was filming the show, and they thought it’d be cool if we checked out his car in the parking lot. Oh, here’s the map.”

I scanned the map. “Aha. Here’s our problem. King gets his own shelf in the Popular Authors section.”

As we walked to the section, Jaime continued her story. “So this kid—he’s maybe your age—has this gorgeous 1967 Mustang convertible. First thought: ‘Uh-oh, call DEA.’ The kid didn’t look like any trust-fund brat, so where’d he get a car like that? When I ask him, he gets all nervous. Says his grandpa left it to him. And sure enough, it really is haunted. Guess who by?”

“The grandfather,” I said.

“Bingo. The old guy jumped me the second I got within sensing distance, so spitting mad he could barely communicate. Seems he
did
leave the car to the kid. But on one condition. He wanted to be buried in it. No one else in the family would listen, but the kid promised to do it.”

“And then he stiffed him.”

Jaime laughed. “Yeah, the kid stiffed the stiff. Took the car, took the money, and plopped Gramps into the cheapest casket he could buy.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Told the kid the truth. Either he buried Gramps in the car or he had to live with a permanent pissed-off hitchhiker. Oh, here it is.”

The King section took up two eight-foot-long shelves, and the books weren’t alphabetized. As I skimmed the titles, I glanced at my watch.

“We can skip this,” Jaime said. “No biggie.”

“Another minute or two won’t matter. Oh, I forgot to call Lucas. He can help.”

“Why don’t I just grab something else.”

As if on cue, a book tumbled from the top shelf and landed between us. Jaime picked it up.

“
Salem’s Lot
.” She shook her head. “Not one of my faves. You ever read it?”

“I started to, because I thought it was about witches. When I found out it was vampires, I stopped. Not keen on the vamps myself.”

“Who is? Damned parasites.” Jaime stood on tiptoes to put the book back. The moment she released it, it jolted out and fell to the floor.

“I think it’s lonely,” I said with a laugh. “Looks like it’s gathering some dust up there.”

Again, Jaime put the book back. This time, before she could let go, the book slammed into her palm hard enough to make her yelp. Then it tumbled to the floor.

“Maybe there’s some kind of catch up there,” I said. “Here, I’ll find a new place for it.”

As I bent for the book, it spun out of my reach. Jaime grabbed my arm. “Let’s go,” she said.

A book flew from the shelf, hitting her side. Another book sailed from a lower shelf, then another and another, pelting Jaime. She doubled over, arms wrapped over her head.

“Leave me alone!” she said. “Damn you—”

I grabbed her arm and propelled her out from the hailstorm of books. As we moved, I looked down at the novels strewn across the aisle. They were all copies of
Salem’s Lot
.

The moment we were out of the Stephen King section, the books stopped flying. I speed-dialed Lucas and told him to meet us at the door.

“Ghost?” I whispered to Jaime as I hung up.

She nodded, gaze tripping from side to side, as if ready to duck.

“I think it’s over,” I murmured. “But we’d better scram, before someone notices the mess.”

Again, Jaime only nodded. I rounded a corner, and looked down the unfamiliar aisle.

“Classics,” I said. “Wrong turn. Let’s back up—”

A book shot straight out from the shelf and clipped Jaime in the ear. More flew out, pummeling her from all sides. I shoved her out of the way, catching a few books myself, each striking harder than one would think possible for a slender paperback. One hit me in the knee. As I pitched forward, the book flopped to the floor.
The Iliad
 … the same as every other book flying from the shelves.

I righted myself and kept propelling Jaime forward until we reached the front door. Lucas took one look at my expression and hurried over.

“What happened?” he whispered.

I motioned that we’d tell him outside.

On the way to the car, I told Lucas what had happened. Jaime stayed silent. Strangely silent, not chiming in with so much as an “uh-huh.”

“Seems the bookstore had a resident ghost,” I said. “I’ve heard of things like that happening. A necromancer is sitting in a bar, having a drink, minding his own business, and all of a sudden a spirit realizes there’s a necro in the house and goes wild, trying to make contact. Like a shipwreck survivor spotting a rescue boat.”

Jaime nodded, but kept her gaze straight forward, walking so fast I could barely keep up.

“It certainly does happen,” Lucas said. “But I suspect that’s not what we had here”—he shot a pointed look at Jaime—“is it?”

She nibbled her lower lip and kept walking. Lucas tugged my arm, indicating for me to slow down. When Jaime got about twenty feet ahead of us, she glanced over each shoulder, realized we weren’t with her, then turned to wait.

For a minute we just stood there, looking at each other. Then Lucas cleared his throat.

“You have a problem,” he said to Jaime. “I presume you came to us for help with that problem. But we aren’t going to drag it out of you.”

“You have more important things to do. I know that. But I think it … it might be related.”

“And I assume you are going to explain what ‘it’ is as soon as we get back to the hotel?”

She nodded.

T
he hotel room door was still shutting behind us when Jaime started talking.

“I’ve got a haunter,” she said. “And it’s a strange one. I was going to tell you guys, but I know you’re busy and I wasn’t sure what was going on—I’m still not.” She perched on the arm of the armchair, still talking. “It started Wednesday afternoon, before my Orlando show. At first I figured it was Dana, that she knew she was dead and wanted to pay me back for lying to her.” Jaime twisted her rings. “I shouldn’t have done that … not that I could have told her she was dead—it’s not my place, right? But I went overboard with the reassurances. They just came out automatically, like I was doing a show.”