Spell Blind (19 page)
Authors: David B. Coe
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Urban, #Paranormal
Hibbard and my dad had been close. In fact, for a while Hibbard and his wife had been my parents’ closest friends. I still remembered them coming over to the house and staying up late playing Spades, smoking cigarettes, and drinking daiquiris. I was supposed to be sleeping, of course, but I’d spy on them from the stairway, mostly because I thought Hibbard’s wife, whose name I’ve forgotten, was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen.
Eventually the phasings started taking their toll on my father, and though Hibbard was his friend, I gather that Dad wasn’t able to confide in him about the magic and Namid and all the rest. Or maybe that’s an excuse that both he and I have used too often. I did confide in Kona, and in the end it changed nothing.
After a while, Hibbard turned on him. I suppose he had cause. My mother turned on him, too, in her own way. Hell, so did I. To Hibbard, it must have seemed that his friend had lost it, had burned out right before his eyes. When my mother and her lover died, Hibbard was one of those who believed my father had killed them both. And when my father went all the way over the edge, leaving me without a family or a home, Hibbard and his wife were among the few couples who refused to help me out. I guess that’s understandable, too. The Hibbards had lost their two closest friends in a tragic, ugly sequence of events. The last thing they would have wanted was a living reminder of both Dara and Leander Fearsson haunting their home.
But try telling that to a fifteen-year-old kid who’d lost his parents. That’s when I started hating Cole Hibbard. One of the reasons I so wanted to be a cop, and not just a cop, but a homicide detective, was to show Hibbard and all the others who had turned their backs on my father and me that we deserved better. I had a lot to prove, and I’m sure that I came into the force with an attitude to match. It’s not surprising that Hibbard had it in for me from the start; I had it in for him, too.
In the end, the only thing he had done to me that I couldn’t forgive was to refuse to accept that maybe I could be a decent cop and wouldn’t necessarily become my father.
Of course, I understood all this in my calmer moments, when I could reflect on all that happened back then. At other times, though, I couldn’t get past the fact that Hibbard was such a jerk.
By the time I reached my office, I’d worked myself into quite a state. I’d watched a woman die, nearly been killed myself, and had been shown, in no uncertain terms, that whatever magic I wielded was nothing next to the power of the Blind Angel Killer.
The
Republic
was still running stories about Claudia’s death above the fold. It had a picture of Gann on the front page, too, beneath a caption that read, “Is This the Blind Angel Murderer?” I wondered if Torres and Marra believed what I’d told them about Shari’s killer being the one who’d killed Claudia Deegan. Maybe that was the one good thing that would come out of this day.
I dropped the paper in the trash and rubbed my eyes. After a moment I stood again and started to pace.
Where was Namid when I needed him? I was eager to train, to work some magic and get the day out of my system. The runemyste would have told me that this wasn’t a proper use of magic, that the purpose of clearing prior to conjuring was to keep emotions and frustrations from intruding on the spells. Whatever. I wanted to break something. Failing that, I wanted to use my magic against someone, even if it was Namid and I couldn’t hope to do any real damage. In fact, better that it be him, for that reason.
“Namid!” I called.
After a few moments, he materialized, as smooth and clear as a mountain lake in early morning.
“I am not your servant, Ohanko. I am not to be summoned like one.”
“I know that,” I said. “But I need to train, and I . . . I thought maybe we could work on some more wardings.” I winced at what I heard in my voice. I sounded like some willful spoiled kid ordering around a playmate. “If you’d be willing to help me, I mean,” I added, knowing it was too little too late.
He considered me, his face placid. Then he shook his head. “No. You are clouded.”
“I can clear myself.”
“No,” he said again. “I do not think so. Not now. I sense much anger in you. Restlessness. This is not a good time for you to conjure.”
It only helped a little that I’d known he would say something like this. “Yeah, all right,” I said. “I’m sorry I called for you.”
He inclined his head and began to vanish.
“Tell me about my father,” I said, on impulse.
Namid grew more substantial again. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything.”
“You know much about him already.”
“Maybe. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know him at all.”
“You are much like him. The good and the bad.”
“Will I end up like him?”
“That has yet to be scried.”
“But I’m headed in that direction. Isn’t that right?”
The runemyste seemed to weigh this. Then he sat down on the floor right where he’d been standing. I sat as well.
“Magic exacts a price. You know this. And still you have chosen to conjure rather than block your power with Abri.”
“Right. Like Dad did. And now he’s nuts.”
“He made his choice. He lives with the consequences of that.”
“You make it sound so . . . simple,” I said, anger creeping into my voice. “This is my sanity we’re talking about, Namid. It’s my life. I don’t want to wind up like my dad.”
The runemyste gazed back at me, still glasslike. “Then take the Abri. Block your magic, and you will be free of the moon’s pull. You will not have to worry about going . . . nuts.” The word sounded strange coming from him.
“You know I can’t do that.”
He widened his eyes. “You cannot? Why is this?”
I started to answer, then stopped myself and chuckled. “All right,” I said. “I get it. I’ve made my choice. That’s what you’re telling me. So I should stop complaining, right?”
“You have made your choice for today, Ohanko. As you did yesterday. You can change your mind whenever you wish. The Abri will always be there, waiting for you.”
“I’m not sure I could give up being a sorcerer.”
“That is your decision to make.”
“I almost died today,” I told him. “I was face to face with this weremyste we’re after. He killed a woman with some kind of spell, and then used his magic to make me put my weapon in my mouth. He would have made me pull the trigger.”
The runemyste’s appearance clouded, his waters becoming turbulent. “He made you do this,” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “Just what I said. He made me. He didn’t say anything that I could hear, but suddenly I had no control over my body. I wanted to run. I wanted to shoot him. But I couldn’t do anything at all. None of my wardings worked against him.”
Namid was scowling. “He controlled you.”
“Yes.”
“How is it you are still alive?”
I grinned. “I defended myself, like you told me to. I couldn’t attack him, so I cracked the sidewalk beneath his feet. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but it broke his hold on me.”
The runemyste nodded. “That is good. You will be a runecrafter yet.” He eyed me again. “What else can you tell me about this man?”
“He can change his appearance. He’s bald and clean-shaven, and then he has long hair and a beard. His eyes are pale though. Almost white. And I have a feeling that they don’t change at all.” I thought for a moment. “He speaks with an accent. I’m not sure what kind. European, I think. Maybe French? And I heard the woman call him Cower.”
“Cower,” Namid said, with an intensity I’d never heard from him before. “Could it have been Cahors? A French name?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Do you know him?”
“There is much I need to learn,” he said. “I must go.” He began to fade.
“Namid, wait!”
He solidified once more, though I sensed his reluctance. “Do you still think I can protect myself from this guy?”
“I think you have no choice.”
I exhaled. “Right.”
“I must go now.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”
He frowned. “For what?”
“Being honest with me.”
“You expected less?”
I smiled at that. “Not really, no.” I stood. “I’m sorry I called for you that way. I won’t do it again.”
“Be well, Ohanko.” He faded from view.
I stared for a moment at where he’d been and then considered the pile of papers and unopened envelopes on my desk; most of them were unpaid bills. They could wait. As Namid might have said, I had a big date tonight, and I had enough time to get home, eat a little dinner, and change before I had to start back toward Tempe to pick up Billie. I started toward the door, but before I reached it the phone rang.
I strode back to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Fearsson.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I said.
“Yeah, this is um . . . this is ’Toine Mirdoux.”
He kind of mumbled it, and at first I had no idea what he’d said.
“Who?”
“
An
toine? Remember, dog? You blew up the door to my house?”
“Right,” I said. “How’s it going, Antoine? You calling for that chat you were going on about?”
“What?” he said. Then he allowed himself a half-hearted laugh. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. I wanna chat.”
Something was bothering him. I found myself wondering if whatever business he’d had with the red sorcerer had gone sour. There was a good deal of noise in the background and I had the feeling he was calling from a cell or maybe even a pay phone, if you could still find one in this city. Wherever he was, he definitely wasn’t home.
“Great,” I said. “Let’s chat.”
“Not on the phone, man. I need . . . I need some help. I’m in some trouble here.”
“What kind of trouble, Antoine?”
“Not on the phone.”
I checked my watch again. I didn’t have time enough to get to the Mountain View precinct and back, and still make it to Tempe by eight, not if my talk with the kid was going to take any time at all.
“I can’t now, Antoine. How about later tonight?”
“How much later?”
God, he sounded scared, like a little boy left alone in a dark house.
“Tonight. Eleven, at your place.”
“My place?”
“You still have it warded, right?”
There was a long silence, and after a while I started wondering if the connection had gone bad.
“Antoine?”
“Yeah, man. All right. My place. Eleven.”
“Keep your head down until then, all right?”
“No shit, man.”
The line went dead. I returned the phone to its cradle and shook my head. Mountain View’s 733 at eleven p.m. Not even close to the way I had hoped to end my evening. But it seemed that now I had two dates. One with Billie, and the other with ’Toine Mirdoux.
CHAPTER 15
I made certain to get to Billie’s house precisely at eight. She seemed to place a premium on punctuality. I rang the bell and a moment later she opened the door. My jaw dropped.
Don’t get me wrong. I already knew that Billie was beautiful. I liked the way she dressed. I loved the glasses and the pulled-back hair. But I wasn’t prepared for this. Her hair was down, dark curls spilling down her back, and she’d yet to put on her glasses. She had on a close-fitting black blouse, a flowing print skirt, heels, and a pair of long, glittering turquoise and silver earrings. It was like she had transformed herself into a movie star.
I’d showered again before coming and I’d shaved, which I only did when I had to. I’d even put on a pair of black jeans and a button-down shirt under my bomber, instead of the usual blue jeans and t-shirt. But I felt like I ought to go home and put on a tie and jacket.
“Hi,” I managed to say.
Her eyes sparkled. “You’re on time.”
“Always. You look incredible.”
“Thank you.” She spun around once, making her skirt swirl. “You’re going to take me dancing.”
“Whoa!” I said, shaking my head. “I’m taking you to hear a band. I never said anything about dancing.”
She walked away from the door, leaving it open for me. “Geez, Fearsson!” she called over her shoulder. “What do you think people do at these clubs?” She poked her head out of one of the back rooms. “I mean aside from investigate crimes.”
“I’m not much of a dancer,” I said, wandering around her living room, knowing that this was a fight I was going to lose.
“Well, I’m Ginger Rogers, so I guess I’ll be good enough for both of us.”
I grinned.
She came into the living room a few moments later, still no glasses on her face. “Ready,” she said.
“Don’t you need to . . . to be able to see?”
“I have my contacts in.”
“I didn’t know you had contacts.”
“I don’t wear them a lot. They’re kind of uncomfortable. But I figure this place is going to be pretty crowded tonight, and a lot of my readers are students. I don’t want to make it too easy for them to recognize me.”
She was just about my height with the heels on, and I found myself staring into those incredible green eyes.
“What’s with you tonight?” she asked, smiling at me.
“Nothing.” I laughed. “You really look great.”
“You’re surprised?”
“Not at all. I’m wondering what you’re doing with me.”
She rolled her eyes, then took my hand and led me toward the door. “Come on, Fearsson. We’re going dancing.”
We drove to the club, though the walk from where we were able to park was only a few blocks shorter than it would have been from Billie’s house. The moon shone overhead, and I tried to ignore the way it seemed to be tugging on my mind, muddying my thoughts. As we walked, I asked her about her day, and she asked me about mine, almost like normal people. Except that I glossed over my conversation with Shari Bettancourt, and I couldn’t tell her a thing about Shari being murdered, or the red sorcerer nearly getting me to blow my brains out, or the things I had discussed with Namid. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I was already reaching the point where I didn’t want to keep anything from her at all. I had too many secrets, and they were burning a hole in my chest.
By the time we arrived, the line outside of Robo’s already stretched halfway down the block. Apparently Electric Daiquiri had a good reputation. Most in the crowd were college students, the girls decked out in party dresses and heels, the guys dressed with studied indifference in jeans and untucked tees or dress shirts.
“Hey, you’re Billie Castle!” one of the girls called as we got on line. “I love your blog.”
Billie laughed. “So much for going incognito.”
The press was there, too, clustered across the street. Anything the Deegans did was a big deal in this town, this week more than ever.
We could hear the band doing a sound check inside. They sounded good. Billie said something to me, but in that moment I wasn’t paying any attention. The last time I’d been at Robo’s, Red had been here, too. I sensed that he was nearby again, and I started mumbling warding spells to myself, trying to figure out how I might extend my magic to protect Billie as well. I wasn’t even sure it was possible, though I couldn’t imagine why it wouldn’t be. Act of will, right? Well, I’d kill myself willing her to be safe if it came to that.
“Fearsson, are you listening to me?”
I grimaced. “No, I wasn’t. I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“What were
you
saying? I heard you muttering something.”
“I was thinking about work.” Too many lies, too many secrets. “This is more than dancing, remember? This is a work night for me.”
“Right!” she said, a conspiratorial smile lighting her face. “I’m your girl Friday.”
“That’s right.”
“Who are we here to talk to, boss?”
I laughed and shook my head. “This isn’t a game, you know. I probably shouldn’t have brought you at all.”
“Why not?”
Yeah, Jay, why not? Sometimes I’m pretty stupid. “Because this could be dangerous,” I said, feeling again like I was in a “B” movie. At least I was telling her the truth, though.
She sobered. “Really?”
“Really. I need to speak with the club’s manager, and the last time I was here, also to speak with him, I had the feeling that I was being followed.”
“That stuff really happens?”
“Not usually, no. But this has become a pretty weird case.”
“All right,” she said, with a small nod. “I’ll stop making jokes.”
I shook my head. “No, don’t do that. I want you to have fun. I want to have fun, too. But understand that I’ll be working.” I slipped my hand into hers. “And also know that I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Wow, Fearsson,” she said, grinning. “That was damn near heroic.” She pointed to her arm. “Check it out: I have goosebumps.”
She did.
Billie started to say something else, but then stopped herself, and whispered, “Oh, crap,” instead.
I frowned, but before I could ask her what was wrong, I saw that Professor Stud from the other day was walking down the street, straight toward us.
“Hey,” I said. “Isn’t that—?”
“Joel. Yes. Don’t say anything. Maybe he won’t recognize me.”
“Billie?”
“I don’t think your disguise is very good,” I whispered.
Billie giggled. “Hi, Joel,” she said, schooling her features.
Good-looking-professor-boy stopped in front of us, glanced at me, but then turned his full attention on Billie. “I didn’t know you liked . . . this kind of music.”
“Yes, very much.”
Joel opened his mouth to say more, but I stuck out my hand, and said, “Hi. Justis Fearsson. How are you?”
He shook it with some reluctance. “Fine, thank you. Joel Benfield.”
“Nice to meet you, Joel.”
“Are you with the university, Mister Fearsson?”
“No, I’m a private detective.” I used my Dick Tracy voice again. I figured I’d let him know what he was up against. Compared to private eye, professor of American history didn’t sound all that glamorous.
“Did you say your name was Justis?”
“Yeah. Kind of weird, huh? You can just call me Fearsson, though. Everyone else does.”
Billie burst out laughing.
Joel didn’t seem to know what to make of us. “Well,” he said with false brightness. “I should be going. Billie, nice to see you again.” He shot me one last less-than-friendly glance. “Nice to meet you, Mister . . . uh . . . Justis.”
“You, too, Joel. Take care.”
“You’re awful!” Billie said, after Benfield had walked away. But she was still laughing.
The line started to move, and a cheer went up from the college kids.
“All I did was introduce myself. You were the one who couldn’t stop giggling.”
She gave my hand a hard squeeze.
The cover charge was twenty dollars per person, which seemed a bit steep for a college band. But I didn’t let Billie pay her own way. When she objected, I shook my head. “I told you: this is business.”
Inside, Robo’s was a lot like every other college-town bar in the world. It wasn’t a big place, and I had the feeling that an accurate head count of the crowd would already put them over whatever limits Phoenix’s fire marshal had placed on occupancy. There was a bank of different-colored spotlights mounted on a scaffold above the band, a small, parquet dance floor in front of the stage, and a bunch of round, wooden tables scattered around the rest of the place, one of which was supposed to have my name on it. It was hot and loud, and it smelled of stale beer and sweat. But I could feel the excitement as soon as we stepped inside.
Electric Daiquiri started their set with a couple of up-tempo instrumentals, including the piece that I’d heard them play a few days before. They sounded great. True to her word, Billie wasted no time dragging me out on to the dance floor. Oh, well. Hadn’t I told myself that I’d be willing to take her dancing if that’s what it took to win her over? Truth is, it was kind of fun, in large part because I got to watch her. She might not have been Ginger Rogers, but she did dance very well.
“I thought you couldn’t dance,” she shouted to me at one point, her voice barely carrying over the music.
“I can’t,” I shouted back.
“Clown!” She smiled.
The first set went by quickly. Randy did most of the talking for the band, though Tilo, as the lead singer and guitarist, was the focal point of much of the music. It made sense: Tilo was a quiet kid, and Randy did a good job as front man. At one point he spotted me in the crowd and he sent a smile and nod my way. Other than that, though, both he and Tilo ignored me.
Late in the set they played a ballad that their keyboardist had written, and before I knew it, Billie was in my arms and we were dancing close.
“So why don’t you like to dance?” she asked, her breath stirring my hair and warming my neck.
“Because I look stupid doing it.”
She pulled back so that she could see my face. “Who told you that?”
“No one had to tell me. I just know it.”
She shook her head and nestled against my chest again. “You’re wrong.”
The set ended with a funky, upbeat instrumental that really got the place jumping. When they finished, the band vanished off the back of the stage, and some prerecorded music was piped through the sound system.
“That was fun,” Billie said, flushed and smiling, a fine sheen of sweat on her face. “You want a beer?”
“Sounds great. But I have to go work now.”
“Right.”
“Will you be okay?”
“Yes, Mister Fearsson,” she said, her voice like that of a dutiful schoolgirl.
I smirked.
“I’ll be fine. Go do your thing.” She smiled. “Then we can dance some more.”
“All right.”
I could see the manager’s office from the club floor. It was an elevated room with glass walls; a narrow stairway led to the door. I fought my way through the crowd toward the stairs and soon found myself face to face with a bouncer.
He was about six-four and he had the build of a professional wrestler. His head was shaved and he wore a black Robo’s t-shirt that must have been three sizes too small. He had on one of those small headsets that allowed him to communicate with the rest of security.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said, blocking the stairs. “No access beyond here.”
“I need to speak with Mister Moore,” I said. I pulled out my wallet and showed him my license. “I’m a PI and I’ve been asked by the Deegans to learn what I can about Claudia Deegan’s murder. I’m here as Randy’s guest tonight. He told me that Moore would see me.”
His entire bearing changed, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that I might have a legitimate reason for going up those steps. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Jay Fearsson.”
“Fearsson,” he repeated. “Wait here.” He turned and went up to the office.
It occurred to me that Randy might have forgotten to mention my name to Moore, but after only a few seconds the bouncer opened the office door again and waved me upstairs.
Moore was at his desk and speaking on the phone when I entered the room, but he hung up a moment later and stood to greet me.
“Mister Fearsson,” he said, holding out a hand. He was about my height and weight, with brown curls and a receding hairline. His skin was rough and pockmarked; I guessed that he’d had bad acne as a kid.
I shook his hand and tipped my head toward the window, which offered a clear view of Robo’s stage. “Those guys are great.”
“Glad you’re enjoying the show,” Moore said. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk, and both of us sat. “Randy said you wanted to talk to me about Mike Gann.”
“That’s right.”
“He also said that you’re a private investigator, not a cop. I’m a little uncomfortable talking to you about a former employee. Especially since I’ve already told the police everything I know about him.”
“I understand,” I said. “I used to be on the force, and I know how they work. I expect my questions will be a bit different from the ones they asked you.”
He frowned at that.
I pulled out my pad and pencil. “Did you ever see Mike do magic?”
Moore laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
His smile faded. “He always talked about stuff like that. To me, to Doug Bass, to the musicians. He wasn’t shy about it, but all of us thought he was crazy.”
Doug Bass didn’t, but I kept that to myself.
“You never saw him do anything that you couldn’t explain? Nothing that seemed . . . magical?”
“Not a thing.”
“Was he a good worker?”
“He was all right. I probably wouldn’t have fired him if Randy hadn’t insisted. Truth is, I didn’t want to do it. But when I mentioned that Electric Daiquiri was going to be playing here, Mike got real weird about it. After that, I understood what Randy was so worried about, you know? So I let him go.”
“Did he ever work on nights when the moon was full?”
He frowned again. “You’re right, Mister Fearsson: your questions aren’t at all like the ones the police asked me.” He sat back, eyeing me for a few seconds. “No, he didn’t work full moons. It was a pain in the ass if you want to know. If Doug hadn’t volunteered to cover for him whenever the moon was full, it would have caused me real problems. As it was, I didn’t pay him for those nights. But I assumed it was part of the whole magic thing, one more delusion. You think there was something to it?”