Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper (14 page)

Onyx crowded in front of Grace.  “I go first, remember? I’m all about protecting your body.”

Dr. Shawcross led the way down an aisle.

Madison muttered to Onyx, “Just so we don’t have to protect her from you.”

Onyx’s eyes got big.  “But I’m her fiancé.  I’m expected to take liberties.”

Grace pulled a laser pointer from a pocket.  She turned the

box on and a green, pencil-thin beam stabbed harmlessly into Dr. Shawcross’ back.  She killed the light and pocketed the device as they moved after the good doctor.  She gave Onyx a steely glare.  “Don’t forget I have this.  Piss me off at your own peril.”

Madison and I followed Grace and Onyx.

I considered what Grace had just let slip.  Apparently, shadow men were vulnerable to coherent light.  Laser light. 
Good to know
. I was going to have to start carrying one.

FOURTEEN

“It’s funny who you meet skulking in the dark.”

                                     —Caine Deathwalker

The vaulted sky—an endless sweep of ever deepening blue—was pierced by only a few stars, with more coming.  The sun was down, but not quite vanquished, leaving a last slick of red on the underbellies of stray, cotton ball clouds.  The lampposts on the school property were black poles capped by frosted glass globes that flickered on, creating zones of golden light along a flagstone path to the main school building.  Only half the building was lit and in use.  I saw a pack of students on another path heading for the Victorian.

Ahead of us, Dr. Shawcross stopped, pointing to draw Grace’s attention to the old mansion.  “That’s our dormitory and mess hall.  Girls on the third floor, boys on the second.  We have a resident manager who lives on the ground floor.”

“It’s a lovely building,” Grace said.

“Real craftsmanship,” I said.

Dr. Shawcross continued on toward the steel and glass class complex.  Grace, Madison, and Onyx were right behind him.  As he reached the main entrance, Shawcross stopped by a post that rose to his stomach.  On top of the post was a box with a keyhole and a keypad.  He used the pad and entered a number.  I used my phone to video record the pattern for my later use. 

The door automatically opened.  Dr. Shawcross led us inside.  “The students use a key.  The teachers have the code.”

“Same system at the Victorian?” I asked.

“Well, uh, no, but there is a receptionist on duty during the day, and at night, the students know who is supposed to be

there.”

I nodded. 
So the security here is really to protect property more than the people.

Dr. Shawcross swept across a lobby with real potted plants, a charcoal gray rug, and cream colored walls.  There was a receptionist’s desk, empty at the moment.  He took us to a section of wall with glass display cases.  Most of the space was empty, waiting to be filled.  In one of the central cases a shelf was devoted to the history of the conservatory—nothing about it ever having been used by a serial killer.  The next shelf down had some laminated newspaper clippings from a handful of competitions and some open boxes displaying various medals won by students currently attending.  For a small outfit, new to the world, the conservatory seemed to be off to a good start. 

There was a newspaper article about an alumni, Dr. Shawcross’ grandson winning a national competition in Paris, a first place medal and ribbon.  Another article announced the grandson—a Dr. Martin Shawcross—as returning to Santa Fe to teach flute here.  
One of the teachers here I haven’t met yet.  I wonder what he remembers about the attack all those years ago.  I wonder if he knows the ghost girl that’s plaguing my sleep.  I’ll have to look him up.

“Give us a few more years,” Dr. Shawcross said, “and we will be nationally recognized.”

“Then comes the world,” I said. 
Those are my plans anyway.

He smiled at me, nodding vigorously.  “Exactly!”

We went past it to a set of elevators.  Our guide pushed the call button.  “Classes are out for the day, but I can show you the facilities.  The practice rooms are still in use.  You’ll see some of our most gifted students sharpening their talents.”

  The doors opened and we piled in.  I looked for a camera and saw a small one in a corner of the ceiling.  I suspected it was cosmetic, used to influence the students toward decorum.  A small conservatory like this one probably didn’t have a security room with a full-time security guard on duty. 

The doors opened and the tour continued.  Dr. Shawcross led

us right, down a hallway with a cranberry carpet and fawn-colored walls.  Over several doors, signs numbered the practice rooms.  Each door had a small glass window.  The old guy peered into a few as we passed.  Three doors down, he smiled, his face brightening as he knocked in a perfunctory manner and went on in.  We clustered behind him, but there was a lot of open room inside.  Acoustic panels adhered to the walls, breaking their smoothness, cutting down on the echoes. 

There was a baby grand piano, and a brunette playing it, her head bent down in hard concentration.  Her fingers flew furiously across the keys.  A storm of notes filled the air, a backdrop to the metallic soar of a flute.  Wearing a black
Nightwish
concert tee, jeans, and unzipped hoodie—the hood thrown back—a young man stood near the piano, adding the second instrumental voice.  He watched us watching him, his eyes muddy brown, his hair a mass of bronze curls.  The body that went with this package was rail thin and unimpressive. 

Dr. Shawcross waited, drawing a deep breath as if he could smell the notes, not just hear them. 

From my position, I couldn’t see his face, but I assumed his eyes were closed as he absorbed the music by osmosis.

In a hushed voice, Grace identified what we were hearing: “Mozart’s Flute Concerto in D Major.” 

Onyx showed no surprise Grace would know that, but Madison gave her a reappraising stare.  From the profiles I’d reviewed, I knew Grace had a nearly eidetic memory.  She only needed to have enjoyed the song once to have it filed away in her mind for immediate recall.  I felt there were depths to her still waiting for exposure.  Some people, you just knew were special, and not in a Special Olympics kind of way.  All the great powers of the preternatural world were once just uncertain outcasts being kicked around by the world.

My phone chimed.  I checked the caller ID. 
Speaking of great powers…
  I stepped out of the room to take the call.  “Caine here.”

“I would hope so; otherwise you’d be wasting my time.”  The tone was dry and somehow managed to convey an air of

superiority.

“What do you want, Drac?”

“A world drowned in sweet, fragrant blood, fresh enemies to humble, a faster car, and faster women…”

“Tired of your gypsy sluts?  I’ll take a few.  Anything to help.”

“Speaking of helping, how does the investigation proceed?”

“Making progress.  I’ve enlisted the assistance of the local demon clan and the fey.  I’ll have advance notice of the auction.  If I can’t recover the item before the auction, I plan on buying it during the event, which may increase my price.”

“Money is no object.  Vengeance is beyond value.  Do not fail me.”

“As if.  One thing, Drac…”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t been able to get a handle on who runs the vampire community here.  Apparently, there’s been a big shake up.  I need to know if my presence on your behalf constitutes stepping on someone’s toes.  I like to anticipate trouble and prepare when possible.”

“The response of a sane warrior.  I have already looked into this.  The new Master of Santa Fe is Dominika Volkov.  She connected to the Russian mob and a descendant of Grigori Rasputin the mystic monk, therefore her vampiric mesmerism is more potent than any you have dealt with before.  I think it best you avoid her and her people.”

“And if my mission brings me into conflict with them?”

“Kill whomever you need to.  I give permission.  Even those who owe me no direct allegiance know better than to challenge my will, something to bear in mind.”  He ended the call without another word.

I pocketed my phone and went back in.  The song had ended.  Everyone was piled up over by the piano.  I went over, listening to the conversation.  The flute player stared at Grace.  How he could still play with his panting tongue in the way, I didn’t know.  As it was, his synchronization with the pianist showed hints of suffering.  She frowned in irritation.  The look was mirrored by Onyx who stood behind the flautist, his right hand blurring into flutter of shadows, reforming into an all-black version of a Roman short sword.  The blade might have been made of obsidian, but shed no glossy refractions, swallowing all the light that touched it.

Madison stomped on his foot and whispered.  “Behave.”

The sword fluttered away.  The collapsing shadows became a hand once more.  Onyx hissed back, “I wasn’t going to kill him.  Just bleed him a little.”

“That’s not how we deal with things in the human world,” Madison said.

“At least, not in front of witnesses,” I said. 

Grace gushed, “That was fantastic.  The way you two were completely synchronized…”

“Hard work,” the pianist said.

“Natural greatness.”  The flautist grinned.  “I’m Justin.  Who would you be?”

“Cultivated greatness,” Dr. Shawcross said. “Accredited teachers and an environment supportive of artist achievement cannot be underestimated.”

Grace said, “I’m Grace.  These are my friends, Onyx and Madison.”

She left me off the list.  I tried not to take it personally, lifting a hand into the air to snag Grace’s attention.  “Go ahead, finish the tour.  I’ve got to take a conference call.  I’ll touch base with you in a while.”

She lifted an eyebrow in inquiry, but just said, “Sure.”

Madison followed me back into the hall.  She closed the door behind her.  “What’s the play?”

I held up a hand to stall out her question as a brown-haired male approached who looked too old to be a student.  A flute case under one arm, he ignored the other rooms and came straight toward the one Grace was in.  He wore black slacks and a light blue shirt with a navy tie.  His windbreaker was dark blue as well.  A patch near the heart said: Branden Conservatory in gold lettering.  The name waving across the fluid lines of a treble cleft that bisected a circular seal wreathed in laurel branches.  His bifocal glasses were rimmed with thin, gold wire.  He ignored me, his interested glance evaluating Madison through her clothes.

She visibly bristled at the attention.

He pushed past her, cracked the door, and peered in, only to close the door at once, a soft curse falling from his lips. 

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“This is my time to have the room.  Students are supposed to be precise about such things.”

“You look a little old to be a student here,” Madison said.

He looked at her once more.  “I’m not.  I’m Paul Hastings.  I teach voice and flute at this school.  Just now, I’m on my own time—and that time is being wasted.  If the old fossil weren’t in there with them, I’d kick everyone out.”

By old fossil, I assumed he meant Dr. Shawcross. 

Hastings sighed like one well put upon by the universe.  Without a goodbye, he turned and marched back the way he’d come.

“You guys stay here,” I said.  “I’m going to check out a few things, starting with Shawcross’ office.”

Madison nodded.  “Okay, just don’t get caught.  It would reflect badly upon Grace and me.”

“Caught?  Not possible.”

The ink across my upper back was a tribal version of demon wings.  Treasure-seekers got these so they could search cursed ruins and fool demon spirits into thinking the wearer was a demon, too, and so could be ignored.  It worked better in theory than practice.  Fortunately for me, my demon wings were powered by demon magic.  I tapped my lifeforce and poured raw dragon magic into my tat.  Pain—
Magic’s price
—engulfed me, as if I were held by a not-so-jolly green giant and he were twisting me by the head and feet in opposite directions.  I could swear I heard my vertebrae popping like firecrackers.  The sensation ghosted away, leaving me undamaged. 

“Caine?”  Madison took a step toward me, her hand fanning the air, her eyes searching the corridor.  “Where the hell did you go?”

I didn’t bother to answer.  The
You-Don’t-See-Me
spell

which diverted her visual attention from me would have done the same for anything I said.  In this state, I could even brush past her—letting a hand stray too freely—and the magic would convince her mind she’d only imagined the touch.  The potential for abuse in magical powers was great. 

Good thing I’m such an ethical person
.

I went to the elevator and pressed the call button.  The doors opened at once since we’d brought the car to this floor, and no one else had used it since.  I entered and pushed the button for the first floor where the offices were.  The doors closed and I was carried away.  A short ride later, I disembarked and went strolling around.  The administration and faculty offices were clustered together, all of them seemed empty—at least, I didn’t see light under the doors.  Beyond them, I found the faculty lounge.  And there it was, a door labeled: PRESIDENT.  I tried the knob. 

Locked, as expected.

I could have used a lock pick, but I’d been way too nice lately.  Congeniality, I’d discovered, was a terrible burden.  I gripped the knob tighter, drew a deep breath, and my dragon-born strength nearly ripped the whole door off the hinges.  The frame splintered with multiple cracks.  As the sounds faded, I paused to listen.  No sign of anyone taking notice.

I went inside the office and turned on the light.  In the wash of bright illumination, I took stock of very expensive furnishings: a big red Chinese urn next to display case with old song books, antique instruments, and a few bronze busts.  There was a decapitated doll’s head under a bell dome.  A complete doll wore a cheery yellow dress, leaning against the glass dome.  There was an antique metronome there, its single arm still, no longer counting off the seconds.