The
woman, some said, had escaped the first witch trials.
Others claimed
the ancient one had consorted with the sorcerers of
Alexander, Darius,
and Ptolemy. This small town, however, perched on the
shores of Lake
Superior, was bedrock practical and most of the townspeople
dismissed
the notions with a skeptical snort and muttered:
Doddering hermit.
Adam
Zolton favored none of the theories. One learned more with
an open mind.
Any tale was suspect until verified, and locating the gold
nugget of
fact took digging through a bushel of muck. Tonight,
likely, he’d
end up with only grimy shoes.
But
he’d had to come—the irresistible habit of his private
insanity.
The e-mail had mentioned mages.
Most
of his fool’s errands weren’t so miserable, though.
Hunching his
shoulders against the skin-biting cold, he reluctantly
pulled one bare
hand from his jacket pocket to knock at the log cabin
door. Wind
kidnapped the sound of his knock and flung it to the
featureless sky.
Adam rapped again, frowning at the dark cabin. He was
expected; Madame
Grimaldi had set the time. He’d given up his New Year’s
Eve; she’d
bloody well better answer.
A
gust found a path through the boles of the pines and
swirled around
him like a dervish on speed, sucking out heat and moisture.
Shivers
ran through Adam’s bones, as he knocked a third time.
Christ, but
he hated the cold. His blood had thinned from the years in
New Orleans.
The
wind attacked again, penetrating his coat, accompanied by
an unnatural
howl as piercing as a dragon’s call. Adam spun toward the
woods, but
saw nothing within the black trees. He stilled, listening
to the creak
of wood. The noise had vanished. Still, he pulled a small
digital camera
from his inside pocket and recorded the scene. The sudden
drops of sweat
froze to his forehead as the wretched cold reclaimed
him.
One
more attempt, then he was through. After stowing the
camera, he lifted
his hand for another knock, more forceful this time, when a
voice from
inside interrupted him.
"Who
are you?"
"Adam
Zolton from New Orleans New Eyes." He buried his
fist in a
pocket. So, St. Jude, patron saint of impossible causes,
teased him
on.
The
door screeched open. Faith Grimaldi stood in the entrance,
barefoot
and wearing a shapeless red caftan. Silk, he noted
absently; the mage
enjoyed her comforts. Her pewter-shaded hair was a trimmed
cloud, and
her face more wrinkled than the last known photo of her,
taken twenty
years ago. Then, she’d already looked like a pug, and time
had not
been kind.
"You’re
supposed to be a woman." Her strong voice revealed nothing
of age,
only a hint of accent and accusation.
"Natalie’s
on another assignment, and you said the matter was urgent."
He lifted
his brows, adding challenge to his smile and shifting the
subject away
from why he’d taken Natalie’s place in this forsaken
icebox. "Are
you prejudiced against a man simply because of the
appendages?"
He
took a chance, quoting back her own words with the
substitution of man
for woman. Despite the precious little he knew about her,
one common
theme hinted at her disdain for stereotypes.
Faith’s
eyes narrowed. "You’re a cheeky one."
"Does
it matter, so long as NONE covers your story?"
"More
than you know." Her gaze fixed on him, and Adam felt a
prick of pain
in his chest, as though he’d been touched by a surgical
laser. Bugger
it, she actually had some power! Unlike most of his leads,
this might
not be a fizzle.
Keeping
his gaze latched to hers, he concentrated on who he was
today: a curious
chronicler of the bizarre, editor and owner of NONE,
the alternative
paper some called tabloid and others called bible.
The
probe in his chest stabbed deep and unexpected. He pressed
back a gasp
of pain. "Trying to do me in, love?" he murmured.
"You’re
confusing," she admitted with a frown. "Murky. No, not
murky, the
parts I see are clear. It’s the parts I can’t see that
worry me."
"No
one should be laid bare to a stranger."
"Says
the newsman?"
He
laughed, genuinely amused. "Except my targets, of course.
Am I to
be allowed in? It’s beastly cold out here."
The
strange howl recurred. Fear spasmed the wrinkles in Faith’s
face,
and he spun toward an unseen threat. A finger of red—Fire?
Plasma?
Aliens?—flared out, then vanished. He’d taken one stride
forward,
when Faith grabbed his wrist. With unexpected strength, she
yanked him
backward. "Get in!"
Adam
took the invitation. He crossed the threshold, noting the
tingle of
some unseen barrier. Faith, apparently, had more protection
than he’d
realized. Curiosity, and, hell, admit it, hope, rose
another notch.
As
soon as his arse was inside, she slammed shut the door and
threw an
old-fashioned lock and a shiny new deadbolt. She then
chanted under
her breath, as her hand pressed against a carving of a
rampant lion.
When she spun to face him, her face contorted with
fear. "Were you
followed here?"
"I
didn’t see any lights after I left the highway." He thought
back.
"No, I wasn’t followed."
"Perhaps
we have time, then." She gave a small sigh, revealing the
vulnerability
of age. "Follow me, Adam." She led the way deeper into her
cabin.
Adam
studied his surroundings. The décor intrigued him. He’d
anticipated
backwoods cabin—hewn wood and handmade quilts—or mystical
new age,
but there was nary a patchwork, crystal, copper pot, or
vial of fragrant
oil. Instead, the room evoked the tropics, with soft
fabrics patterned
in bright colors and a profusion of plants.
It
was also beastly hot and humid. Adam flicked away a bead of
sweat, and
then stiffened as a flash of black caught the corner of his
eye. Involuntarily,
his hand shifted to his waist, where a weapon was normally
sheathed.
Bother, he’d left both gun and knife in the car. He hadn’t
expected
any trouble from a woman who’d asked for a visit, and he’d
thought
the weapons might disturb her.
Faith
gave a high-pitched chuckle. "That’s not the danger, at
least not
to me. My pet smells you. Galanthis, meet our guest." When
the animal,
whatever it was, refused to show, she shrugged. "She picks
her times.
Come, I’ll show you why I asked you here."
He
followed Faith down a short, unlit hall. She pushed open a
steel door,
and again, he felt the tingle of a protective barrier,
although the
source—technical or supernatural—eluded him. Perhaps it was
a mix
of both.
Faith
might be a hermit, but she was not doddering. A fact he’d
best keep
in mind.
On
the other side, he gave a low whistle. "Which Circuit City
did you
plunder?"
"Did
you think magick was stuck in the thirteenth century? That
the principles
couldn’t apply to a modern world?"
"If
I did, you’ve shown me different."
From
her sharp glance she’d caught the subtle evasion, but she
said nothing,
allowing him to look his fill. Despite the room’s crowded
state, it
was cooler here, air-conditioned to counter the heat-
generating equipment.
At the center of the room stood a scarred round table, one
carved elegantly
enough to have befitted the legendary Arthur. A single
office chair
pushed up to the table served as seating for the open
laptop, which
was a top-of-the-line Mac.
Electronics
and arcana. The table portioned the room into schizophrenic
halves.
A
reflection of his hostess?
The
smaller piece contained classic magickal paraphernalia—a
clutter of
oils, books, herbs, quills, crystals. A brazier emitted a
thin curl
of smoke, scenting the room with the aromas of lavender and
sage. His
fingers itched to pull out his camera, to record the
details, but that
faux pas would earn him a quick exit. Instead, he tried to
memorize
what he could.
The
other side of the room was a geek’s wet dream. The Mac plus
two other
computers, a plasma TV—52 inch, he’d wager—a flat screen
monitor
on the wall, virtual-reality goggles, all wireless. Mage
business must
be lucrative.
"Sit
here," she ordered, rotating the chair to face the wall
monitor.
Willing
to follow her lead, he sat, and then jerked up as a tube of
dark fur
leaped into his lap, just missing the family jewels. Ready
to swat the
threat, his hand paused as he realized the attack came from
a miniature
sable ferret. Its dark eyes gazed at him curiously, while
the beast
made itself at home by crawling up his arm.
"The
shy Galanthis, I presume?"
"Don’t
bother our guest." Faith tugged the ferret off him, but as
soon as
she set Galanthis down, the ferret slid away to crawl
inside his pant
leg. "She’s inquisitive."
"I’d
rather have her on my shoulder." He tugged the ferret from
his leg
and hoisted her up. She promptly stuck her nose into his
ear.
Ignoring
the tickling sensation, he looked quizzically at the
monitor. All he
could see was a blur of colors. "What am I supposed to
see?"
"Put these on." Faith held out the virtual-reality goggles
and a
pair of gossamer gloves, which looked as though they’d been
woven
from a spider’s web.
He
struggled to don the gloves. Bloody things tangled worse
than cheap
cling wrap. At last he got them on, donned the goggles, and
instantly
the light from the monitor screen columned outward,
enveloping him in
its surreal glow. As he sat in a swirling rainbow, he heard
Faith chanting
low and keying the Mac laptop behind him. Suddenly, the
colors sharpened,
and a virtual library popped into focus within the column
of light.
He
gave a low whistle, covering his rising excitement with an
understated,
"Impressive." Swiftly, he scanned the titles; some he was
familiar
with; others not. Grimoires, ancient herbologies, modern
theories of
power, neuromancy, applied MEMS tech—the library was as
schizo as
the room. An eternity wouldn’t be long enough to study them
all.
"Pull
out that brown book, the one on the upper shelf," Faith
commanded,
her voice faint.
He
spied the book she meant. Testing, he reached out. Only his
hands entered
the cyber library. The sensation was dizzying, crawling
around in his
stomach like motion sickness, but by focusing, he
coordinated physical
motion to the disembodied hands and pulled the book off the
shelf.
He
ran a hand across the seemingly solid book. It was old,
with vellum
pages that had somehow escaped the destruction of time and
the Dark
Ages. He could feel the brittleness of the pages, smell the
distinctive
age mold.
"Is
it real?" he breathed.
"Do
you think I’d allow anyone to touch it in solid space?" she
countered.
It
existed, and yet it didn’t, preserved by some technique he
didn’t
yet understand, a meld of magick and technology. Newsman
instincts rose
as the twin thrills of discovery and curiosity fired. The
Magi lead
might be a fizzle, but this library made the trip
worthwhile.
"Turn
to page sixteen," she ordered.
He
turned the pages, occasionally needing to close his eyes
when the dizzying
nausea threatened. The snuffling of Galanthis on his
shoulder, along
with the musky ferret smell, helped to ground him.
The
book was a collection of predictions, unknown ones, unlike
those of
Nostradamus. Page sixteen was difficult to read, written in
Latin and
elaborate script, the words fading in and out of focus, but
he got the
gist. "It predicts that the slaughter of the mages will
usher in destruction
by…is that chaos?"
"Fiery
chaos."
"A
general prediction of Armageddon?"
"Or
a specific kind of chaos, like the eruption of Vesuvius or
even the
myth of the fire-spewing Chimaera."
"Slaughter
of the mages? Old news: Fifteenth-century European witch
hunts, the
Salem witch trials, the Inquisition?"
"Did
you read what occurred in Papua New Guinea a couple of
years ago? The
women who were burned with metal rods on suspicion of
witchcraft?"
"I
did. Isolated incident of ignorance and jealousy."
"A
symptom of a continuing mindset. Open the safe on the
library wall."
He
looked around the virtual library and saw a keypad. That
hadn’t been
there before; somehow Faith’s command had made it
visible. "What’s
the code?"
"051480."
When
the safe door swung open, the cyber library vanished with a
pop, to
be replaced by the dark maw of a safe. Inside was a fuzzy
stack of colored
folders.
"Open
the top red one," she ordered.
Inside
the folder was an array of newspaper articles. One was from
NONE,
but the others were from regular newspapers scattered
across the country.
He remembered the subject of the NONE article. He’d
suspected
the chap was careless with gasoline, but they’d found
enough discrepancies
to run it as a bizarre case of spontaneous combustion.
Swiftly,
he thumbed through the remaining articles and obituaries.
Each detailed
the disappearance, or death, of a local citizen. Reading
virtually made
focusing on the typeface difficult, but he caught the names
and realized
each had been a practitioner of magick.
Over
the years of his quest, Adam had had occasion to meet each
one. He’d
found them of varied temperament, varied skill. He hadn’t
realized
they had died, however. Mage deaths. A good story for
NONE. He
could play the random events into a conspiracy.
What
was Faith’s angle? As he screened the articles for added
details,
he asked, "Have you told the police?"
"Which
department? There are eight different jurisdictions. And
the FBI didn’t
take seriously a conspiracy theory to kill crackpots." The
fear in
her voice was real.
"But
NONE will."
"That’s
what I hoped."
"Even
mages die. Why think these are connected?"
"They
drowned in the breath of the dragon. And now it wants
me."
The
dragon. He stilled, the moment becoming a timeless vacuum,
while his
stomach muscles clenched at the coincidence. Unbidden,
memory played
the echo of another woman’s last lucid words: "The
dragon burns
me."
Was
Faith as deluded as his sister? Was St. Jude offering a
bread crumb
that led nowhere?
"Put
the file back in the safe," Faith commanded.
Perhaps
his brain had unthawed, perhaps he’d grown accustomed to
the nausea,
perhaps Faith had adjusted the resolution or was playing
games with
him. Whatever the reason, as he replaced the file, the
stack below came
into sharp relief and atop the folders lay a CD case. The
label on the
CD was a rainy-day gray, with two words stamped in deep
blue: Abby Zolton.
The
gold nugget!
Oh,
bloody hell. He snatched up the disk, his heart racing
against his throat,
sweat, cold, and nausea forgotten. Only the snores in his
ear from the
snoozing Galanthis kept him grounded.
Abruptly,
the safe snapped closed, leaving him back in the library,
the disk in
his glowing hands. Could he get the disk out of this
virtual prison?
View the photographs? Carefully he tried pulling the disk
into reality.
"This disk—" he began, his voice rough.
Before
he could finish, a high-pitched tone knifed from the
impressive tower
computer fitted against the wall. "Security breach,"
shouted a mechanical
voice.
With
a banshee shriek, Faith spun toward the breached computer.
The library—and
disk—vanished. She began typing at a speed that seemed
impossible
for her gnarled fingers. "Viper, you led them into my
system."
"No,
I didn’t!" He flung off the goggles, and peeled off the
gloves.
Faith ignored him, concentrating on the computer screen.
A
red and blue hexahedron burst onto her computer screen, and
began rapidly
replicating into a caterpillar of sparks. It erased her
efforts before
erupting from the screen in an electric stench. The twist
spiraled toward
the Mac laptop connected to the wall monitor, gathering
speed.
"What
the hell is that?" He leaped to his feet, and Galanthis
tumbled off
his shoulder. He grabbed the ferret in one hand, then set
the beast
on the floor.
"A
mage-born computer virus. They know about the library."
The
head of the virus incarnation bounced off the Mac, unable
to penetrate
Faith’s guards. Instead, it burrowed into the third
computer and flashed
into the screen, filling the pixels, erasing the merry
lines of the
screen saver.
The
strange virus also deposited a single red-glowing
hexahedron in the
room, and the remnant began spreading in reality. Adam felt
his lungs
labor for breath. The growing thing ate up breathable air,
replacing
it with ozone and burnt electricity.