The Isis Collar (10 page)

Well, okay then. The burning table sort of gave it away, but that certainly removed the last question. If it had a name, I didn’t want to know it now. “I don’t want the help of the demonic. I banished your kind because I want nothing to do with you and yours.” I knew not every single demonic entity had been banished when the rift collapsed. A number of people had already been possessed by then and not all of them had been found. But if one was actually following me … well, that was a worry. A big one. “Please leave now.”

Another laugh made the small hairs rise on the back of my neck. “I’m nowhere close to the demonic, Celia. But since you asked nicely … I’ll leave. For now.”

The demonic are well known to lie, so I just rolled my eyes and promised myself I’d be speaking with more than one expert in exorcism if I made it out of here today. I’ve already been exorcised twice, once to rid me of the taint from the vampire and the second to clear me of a link to a greater demon. But the death curse keeps the lines annoyingly open.

The sparkling ball of energy near the ceiling flickered and began to slide down the wall. When it reached about chest height, it floated toward the corner where the FBI agent stood behind the barrier, keeping his gun trained on the entity. The energy stopped outside the barrier, right where the prisoner was huddled. The captive held the object on the chain toward the sparkling ball as the barrier flared in response.

The agent fired once. His bullet went right through the entity and splattered against the wall. Clear liquid rolled down the cream-colored paint. If it was holy water it had no effect. That was confusing. More disturbing still was that the flickering and flaring of the magic barrier had finally ceased and words appeared—just like on the window and the table.

Only the truth can set you free.

Then the entity disappeared, leaving behind a smoking table, a ruined mirror, and two men huddled under a completely worthless magic barrier—because really, if a ghost … even a demonic one, could carve a message right onto the magic, it’s useless.

Of course, that phrase wasn’t something generally associated with imps and demons. Just the opposite, in fact. And add in the holy water pooling on the floor. Except there were the smoking table and flaming threats of pain to consider.

“Can we pretend you didn’t come to my house and start this day over?”

Rizzoli seemed a little stunned by what had just happened and let out a slow breath. “I will if you will.”

I nodded. “While we’re pretending, can I just be an ordinary human again?”

He chuckled and started walking toward the door and the promise of light and fresh air, both of which sounded really good to me at this point. “Sorry, Graves. My imagination’s not that good. I’m pretty sure you were never ordinary.”

I gave a snort of laughter and followed him through a maze of corridors that led to the outer doors. We got as far as the front sidewalk when his phone rang. The prisoner had started to talk again and they needed him upstairs.

I followed, even though I was fully expecting he was going to tell me to find a cab and go home. But he didn’t.

Apparently, the call had told him where to go, because he turned left when I turned right and I had to stop short to turn back. The new room was even smaller … just big enough for the two of us and the Asian agent who was now sitting at a recording studio control board.

“What do we have so far, Yao?” Okay, then. He was Chinese. I admit I’m not good at recognizing the facial differences in that area of the world. I need to work on that.

Yao didn’t turn his head to look at Rizzoli. He kept watching the scene unfolding behind the two-way mirror while he spoke. “The sketch artist is still with him.”

I looked through the window and it seemed like nothing was happening. The man in black was just staring at the petite white-haired woman. But both of her hands were moving fast across a pad on the table. I realized she was holding a pen in one hand and a pencil in the other. As I watched, an image began to appear on the page.

I must have looked confused, because Rizzoli leaned closer. “She’s a telepath. We don’t want to risk any more chances of blowing the guy up. All he has to do is think about his boss and Kristi will draw.”

My smile was automatic. “But she’s not just drawing, is she?” Unless the guy was unusually adept at shielding, I was betting the FBI telepath was gathering as much information about the man, his boss, and the plan as possible.

Rizzoli’s grin was answer enough. “We’ll know for sure soon.”

Kristi’s hands stopped moving and I expected that she was just going to stand up and walk out. I’d seen it before with telepaths. They’re not as social as you’d imagine. They often
think
they’re social, but none of it is verbal and they confuse the two inputs. But the Feds must train them better, because she tipped her head and stared at him with sympathy. “Do you want to tell me about it? You think she’s playing with fire, don’t you, Gavrail?”

My brow furrowed and it matched the other two men in the room. But the man in the room with Kristi simply sighed and shook his head. “She is … how you say in this country? Foolish prideful—she believes she is more than she is.”

“Egotistical?”

That made Gavrail put his hands on the table and tap fingers against the metal surface. “Yes. And no. She has power, but it is false power. And she makes poor choices of the use of the magic. Hurting children is bad, against the Maker’s will. They are innocents, but she considers them less than fleas. It is not womanly, not right.”

Part of that perked Kristi’s interest just like it did mine. “Why is it false power?”

Now Gavrail was less confident. “I don’t know. It …
feels
false. I don’t know, but I fear her. She does not have the caution born of training.”

Interesting. I poked Rizzoli in the arm. “Does she have an earpiece in? Could she ask him what makes him think she doesn’t have training? I’m wondering if it’s the same caster I encountered.”

Yao looked up and back. Rizzoli nodded. Yao asked and even though Kristi gave no indication, I could tell she heard. She tapped the picture significantly and asked a leading question. “Did you see her do something … foolish prideful that a witch shouldn’t do? Something that made you not want to work for her?”

The disgust on his face was immediate. “She forced an old man to put petrol in her car. Mocked him while she moved his arms this way and that. He was stooped and crippled, yet she smiled as he cried out. I have known sorcerers who are cruel, but they are not vicious without cause, for they know magic returns evil greater than it was sent. They do not risk foolish pride. She—” He spat on the floor. “That one knows no better.”

“I agree she is foolish about this spell. Can you tell me why you fear it so? What will it do to the children? Is it without a cure?”

Gavrail was so incensed about the old man that he started to speak. “It is a disease that—”

He stopped speaking suddenly and his eyes widened until they were bulging. Hands went to his throat as though trying to remove a rope that had tightened. I felt familiar magic slice through the very walls and Kristi was forced to put her hands to her temples with a sharp cry. For a long moment, nothing happened. But then Kristi stood up and walked toward Gavrail. Her hands raised and her nails turned inward. Gavrail didn’t try to stop her. He just stared at her, fear plain on his face.

But what I couldn’t understand was why Rizzoli and Yao were just sitting there. Were they waiting for something actionable? Personally, I like to
prevent
events, not wait for a crime to happen. That’s what bodyguards do.

I bolted from the room because I fully understood what Kristi was going through. At least it eased some guilt in me. After all, if a trained telepath was open to this woman, false magic or not, I’d done pretty good to get out alive. I was about to kick down the door to the interview room when Rizzoli grabbed my arm and pulled me off-balance. I jerked away and pushed him backward against the wall. He hit with a loud thump and a picture rattled on its hook a dozen feet away. “Don’t try to stop me, Rizzoli. She’s going to kill him if we don’t stop her. You don’t know how powerful this witch is.”

Rizzoli went very still and spoke softly enough that I had to stop moving just to hear him. “But we
want
to know. We won’t let Gavrail die, but we have to know if Kristi can fight off the influence. This is our spell containment room. We have magical sensors all over, tracking the magic back to the source. We can shut down the room if we have to—shield it to where even a level nine couldn’t get through. We won’t let it go too far. Just walk away, Graves. Don’t screw this up. I don’t want to have to arrest you or, worse, shoot you.”

I didn’t like it. Not at all. I didn’t doubt Rizzoli had a plan, or at least someone above him did. But I didn’t want to be party to someone dying, even if he wasn’t precisely innocent and I was only a party by being in the building. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the door. Technically, I didn’t work for the Feds, which meant they could very well arrest me.

Or shoot me.

Damn it.

“If this goes badly, we’re done. Understand?” I turned and glared daggers at Rizzoli. “Done. I will hate you forever.”

His face went very still. “If this goes badly, I probably won’t be around to hate.”

I didn’t want to think Rizzoli would go over the line. He’s a good man. I really believe that. And I was exhausted. Diving under the table hadn’t done either my head or my leg a bit of good. So despite my misgivings, I went.

9

It’s
really
sad when you’re completely exhausted and it isn’t even eleven o’clock in the morning. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a little ball and go to sleep. No, scratch that, not sleep. Not when I was liable to end up God knew where with no memory of how I got there. So instead of going home, I had the cabbie drop me off at the office. I needed to make a few calls, do some research into the entity, maybe arrange another exorcism. You know, the usual.

My office is on the third floor of the only big old Victorian mansion downtown. It’s a registered historic landmark, perfectly tended, and is worth a not-so-small fortune. I own it, a fact that simultaneously thrills and scares the crap out of me every time I see the place. I try not to worry about things like property taxes and maintenance fees. But of course I do. Vicki’s mother, mega–movie star Cassandra Meadows, may have decided to drop her suit contesting Vicki’s will, but I really did want to give all of the cash portion of my inheritance to the special school being set up in my sister’s name. My accountant, on the other hand, wants me to keep at least 10 percent for expenses and emergencies. I was still waffling on that.

I paid the cabbie, my mind going over who I should call first. Once upon a time it would have been an easy decision. When in doubt, call Warren Landingham. Warren, “El Jefe,” is the head of Paranormal Studies at the university where I got my degree. He’d been a father figure to me, and a close friend. But both he and his son had betrayed me. Granted it was to save Warren’s daughter, Emma. And yes, Emma is second only to Dawna as my best friend, but it was still a betrayal. And try as I might I couldn’t just forgive and forget. I don’t trust easily, but I’d trusted them both. Which made the pain that much worse.

I could call Dr. Sloan. Aaron Sloan is a grizzled old guy with wiry white hair and brows that bristle over the top of his Coke-bottle glasses. He’s as brilliant in his own way as El Jefe. But while Warren is more of a generalist, and plays university politics, Aaron focuses almost exclusively on curses and the demonic. If he doesn’t know the answer, he knows who does, or can find out.

He’d given me a textbook the last time I’d been to his office—
Man’s Experience of the Divine
—and I never had taken the time to read it. Now might be the time to start. It would be embarrassing to call him and find out I had had the answer sitting on the shelf in my office.

“Morning, Celia. Are you okay?” Dawna’s face had a thoughtful and worried expression. I noticed she didn’t say I looked bad again. Smart girl. It’s just one of the reasons I like her so well.

“Rizzoli dragged me to the FBI offices to help interrogate a witness. I’m feeling a little twitchy. What do we have for food here?” “Twitchy” was our private code for the vamp trying to get the best of me. At first after the attack I’d had to eat every four hours. Which was a real nuisance—particularly since I couldn’t eat any solids at all. Thankfully, things have settled down a bit. If I make sure to take my liquid vitamins, and have lots of protein via au jus or broth I can eat three times a day. Unless I’m stressed. Today was shaping up to be very stressful.

She pursed perfect mauve-tinted lips. “Hmm … bad morning interrogations probably call for a big cup of meat broth and some chocolate Ensure. Or … ooh! Wait. I have some
phð.
We could strain it to keep the noodles and other stuff out. We could use the blender, but that’s almost sacrilege.”

My smile was automatic. No, it wasn’t a traditional breakfast, but Grandma Long’s
phð,
a Vietnamese noodle soup, was legendary.

“Thanks! Are you sure? I don’t want to steal your lunch.”

The phone started to beep and she reached for the handset. “You won’t. You drink the broth. I’ll eat the meat and noodles. It’s all good.”

It made perfect sense and I got to the small office kitchen in record time. We have a full-sized refrigerator because everyone in the building works really weird hours and needs to have food available around the clock. The moment I opened the door, the scent of the
phð
erupted into my nose from beneath the plastic cover on the bowl. My fingers were tapping on the counter as the microwave heated the soup, until it occurred to me that I needed to find a secondary container and some way to strain the noodles. Three plastic forks and a tumbler later and I was ready.

I was trying to manage the forks, hot bowl, and tumbler when the bowl started to slip. Dawna was there just in time to grab the pot holder and steady the bowl before the whole mess wound up down the drain. “Got it. Go ahead.”