Spellbound (2 page)

She tried to answer again, but her voice didn’t want to work anymore. Sobbing, she got up and hugged him. Awkwardly, the man held her close. “They are all gone? There is no one left? I’m so sorry,” he said as he lifted her and carried her away. “I’ll find someplace safe for you, I promise.”

A group of soldiers had been marching up the road, heard the shooting, and come running. From the way they sounded as they shouted orders, they were Americans. Rifles were pointed their way, but the man that saved her life addressed the Americans with a dignified, commanding voice. “I am a commandant in the Gendarmerie on special assignment. Here are my orders.”

The American officer was a large and frightening man with a huge mustache and sideburns, but he understood French and seemed impressed by the papers her savior had produced. “These are signed by Foch!” The American snapped rigid and gave a salute, even though her savior wasn’t wearing a uniform. “Very well, sir. What can we do to assist?”

The guns were turned away as her rescuer gently placed her into the passenger seat of the truck. “See to it these people are given a decent Christian burial, except for him . . .” He pointed at the body of the grey-eyed man. “Burn that corpse. Burn it to ash. Then I have a message for you to convey to General Pershing at AEF headquarters. He will understand. Tell him that the Warlock is dead.”

Chapter 1

I swear before my God and these witnesses that I will stay true to the right and good, that my magic will be used to protect, not to enslave, that all my strength and wisdom must always shield the innocent. I swear to fight for liberty though it cost my life. The Society will be my blood and its knights my brothers, and that I will always heed the wisdom of the elders’ council. I willingly pledge my magic, my knowledge, my resources, and my life to uphold these things.

—Oath of the Grimnoir Society
,

original date unknown

Miami, Florida

1933

FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT MUST DIE
.

The angel had said so. No matter what, the president had to be killed, but it hadn’t told him what to do about the crowd that had gathered to see the new president. Giuseppe Zangara decided he’d best murder all of them too, just to play it safe. It would be easy, since it felt like the angel had given him magic sufficient to burn the whole world. Roosevelt first, though. The last thing he wanted to do was upset the angel.

Other than a generalized hate for all rich capitalists, Zangara didn’t know much about the man who had been elected President of the United States. Hoover, Roosevelt, they were all the same to him. Names changed, but all were filthy capitalists, these American politicians, crushing the workers underfoot. He’d come to this country and they’d stolen his health, ruined his life, and destroyed his dreams. Some said that those failings were his own fault, his health problems were just bad luck, losing his job was because he wasn’t a very good bricklayer, but he knew the truth . . . Oh no, Zangara was not to blame. The capitalists were to blame. Capitalists were always to blame.

Florida was warm, even in winter. He’d come here because the humidity was supposed to be good for his health. Now, packed into the crowd, it was too hot. Excited, the mob waited for their false savior to arrive. Many of them had made signs, painted on cardboard or sheets. He could not read the words, but he could guess what they said.
We need jobs. We are scared. We are pathetic. Protect us from magic.
When these fools had heard the new president was coming, they had painted signs. When Giuseppe Zangara had heard the new president was coming, he had begun daydreaming about how to kill the man.

Originally, he’d planned to shoot the president with a gun. Sure, he’d been born with magic, but not enough to make a difference. His connection to the Power was weak. Zangara had just enough magic to be branded a freak, certainly not enough to kill a capitalist and the many guards he was sure to have.

Then the angel had come to him last night, and everything had changed.

It was as beautiful as only something that had escaped from heaven could be. The angel had heard his prayers and come to bless him because of the righteousness of his cause. Its magic touch had fixed the sickness in his guts. It had drawn a spell on him that had made his magic a hundred times stronger, and even given him a fancy piece of jewelry. All it wanted in return was for him to destroy a man whom he’d wanted to kill anyway. Only it had demanded that he do it in a spectacular fashion. It had been his lucky night.

Giuseppe Zangara was very short. All the stupid Americans in front of him were tall, making it difficult to see past them. As the bodies shifted, he caught brief glimpses between them of the president’s big automobile arriving. He tried to push his way closer, but there were too many people shoving. There was a cheer and many began clapping as the president stood up from the back seat and waved. A group began chanting “Remember Mar Pacifica,” over and over, but others shouted for them to be silent. Someone opened the car door for the president. Time was running out. If he let the president escape, the angel would be upset with him and take the magic away, and he’d just be a sick and weak nobody again.

Luckily, the president stopped to give a speech. Good thing politicians loved to hear themselves talk. Roosevelt raised his voice so that everyone could hear as he started yapping about how everything was going to get better and they just needed to be patient and have hope. More lies. Filthy capitalist lies.

Now there was a lady with a big flowery hat blocking Zangara’s view. His first instinct was to blast her into pieces, but the president had to come first. A nearby father hoisted his son to sit on his shoulders in order to better see over the crowd. Zangara noticed that someone had left a wooden folding chair at the edge of the mob and that gave him an idea.

Chair in place, Zangara climbed up. Now he could see better over the crowd, but the chair was wobbly. It would make aiming his magic more difficult, but it didn’t matter . . . for the first time in his life he had Power to spare. Before, he could make little pops of energy, not worth much more than firecrackers, but with the new design the angel had drawn on his chest, so fresh it burned, he’d show these capitalist pigs real fireworks.

As the new primary shareholder of United Blimp & Freight, Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant had only been a millionaire for a relatively short period of time, but he’d already grown accustomed to people not keeping him waiting. Time was money, and by that logic Francis’ time was worth more money than damn near anyone. His grandfather had been the richest man in the world, but thanks to the UBF board’s legal wrangling over Francis’ unorthodox inheritance, and the splitting off of several subsidiaries, he was only something like the fifth richest. It would have to do. He checked his watch and sighed. Obviously, no matter how wealthy you were, when the President of the United States wanted to stop and give an extemporaneous public speech, he got a pass.

The club windows had been cracked open enough to let in the refreshing ocean breeze, which also enabled Francis to hear the speech. He watched Franklin Roosevelt for a moment and had to admit that the man was a fine orator, very good at stirring up emotion, and that was what troubled Francis. Roosevelt’s words may have sounded reassuring to the masses, but some of those words were frightening to every Active in the country.

Officially, it was a vacation that had brought Francis to Miami. The weather in New York had been dreadful, so Francis taking his new personal dirigible,
Cyclone
, south for a holiday had not struck anyone as odd. Franklin Roosevelt would also be vacationing in the area at the same time. Roosevelt would not be sworn in until March, and since they were both such important men they had agreed to meet for dinner.

Unofficially, he was here to gather information. Francis was a knight of the Grimnoir Society, and the Society was nervous about some of the things Roosevelt had said about Actives during his campaign. Unlike his father and grandfather, Francis had no stomach for politics, but since he was already acquainted with Mr. Roosevelt (both came from very wealthy New York families) the elders had asked Francis to try to get a feel for what the president intended to do. Other socially connected knights had already tried, but the man was a cipher on this particular topic.

“I do not trust politicians.” His companion leaned over to whisper, “but I especially do not trust this one.”

“How does that make him special? You don’t trust anyone.” Francis didn’t bother to lower his voice. Nobody was going to hear them over the general racket of the crowd outside and the excited socialites inside.

Heinrich Koenig shrugged. “What can I say? He speaks like a Mouth.”

“Your best friend is a Mouth.”

In the Society, the two of them were knights of equal standing, but Francis had created public UBF cover jobs for everyone on his team. Heinrich was supposedly Francis’ bodyguard, though Francis reasoned that since he himself was a skilled Mover, a bodyguard was superfluous. However, Heinrich, with his professional paranoia and scowling distrust of almost everyone, certainly looked the part of a convincing bodyguard. Plus, Heinrich was a Fade, and nobody wanted to get into a fight with a Fade.

“Chose your words carefully with him, Francis. That is all I am suggesting. This one is slippery. How can a man who walks only because of a Healer be such a hypocrite?”

There was a rumor that Roosevelt had once been saved from a paralytic disease by a Healer. “His family could certainly afford a good Mending.”

“He’s benefited from magic, but when it becomes expedient to get elected, he is all in favor of rounding us up in the name of security.”

“Nobody is going to get
rounded up
.” The public was jumpy since the Peace Ray obliteration of Mar Pacifica had been successfully pinned on rogue Actives, but the idea struck Francis as absurd.

“The people are frightened of us. Many in your government know it was the Imperium’s doing, but they are not ready to risk war. Instead, they blame us, a home-grown and more easily managed problem. So now we get to be the cause of everything from anarchists to the economy. You heard him promise to keep us under
control
. What do you think control means?”

“Well, that’s what I hope to find out.”

“You control an unruly dog with a chain . . . or a cage. Never underestimate fear”—Heinrich gestured angrily at Roosevelt—“or the men who would capitalize on it to get what they want.”

“You are such a pessimist. This is America. Nothing like that could ever happen here.”

“We used to say something similar back home, before the Kaiser raised an army of the dead.”

Shaking his head, Francis turned back to the window just as President Roosevelt finished his platitudes. The crowd erupted in cheers. The people were angry, their families were hungry, their jobs were gone. They needed something to believe in . . . or someone to blame. He watched the desperate faces and knew just how dangerous things could become for his kind, for all Actives everywhere, if the things the elders were worried about came to pass. Magicals had more freedom in America than any other nation, but if America were to follow in the footsteps of the Imperium or the Soviet Union, where Actives were seen as nothing more than property of the state . . .

We can’t let that happen.

Francis understood that his inheritance had made him a very influential man. Between Stuyvesant riches, Black Jack Pershing’s teachings, and the luck of being born with magic, Francis now found himself a sort of unofficial ambassador for the Active race. He felt that weight on his shoulders and knew that he had to do his best in order to sway the government from a destructive course. A servant came by with a silver tray full of glasses. Francis took one with a grunt of thanks and downed the drink, not really paying any attention to what it was. Unfortunately, it wasn’t made of alcohol. Prohibition was rapidly going the way of the dodo, but appearances had to be kept in the meantime.

Roosevelt was waving to the people as he walked up the steps. The staff had opened the doors of the club for him and the management had lined up to shake hands. Flashbulbs popped as the press took their obligatory photographs.

Then there was a much larger flash and Francis’ eyes closed involuntarily, but not before leaving him with a split-second afterimage of the crowd, bones visible through their skin, before they were washed away.

The explosion was deafening. He would surely have been killed by flying glass if Heinrich hadn’t grabbed his arm and Faded them both out of existence. A wall of heat and energy rolled harmlessly through them. It was a strange, fuzzy feeling as hundreds of shrapnel bits pierced his body and flew out the other side. Heinrich let go and their bodies returned to normal, solid and unharmed.

Bomb!

It took a moment for his vision to clear. The front of the hotel had been ripped apart, paint stripped away and timbers blackened. The president’s automobile was on its side, sputtering flames. The center of the crowd was gone. The edges collapsed as the injured fell or scattered. Heinrich shouted something, but Francis couldn’t hear him over the highpitched ringing in his ears. Then Heinrich turned grey and stepped cleanly through the wall, leaving Francis alone at the ruined window.

There was a lone figure standing in the center of the carnage. A man was walking along, his lips pursed like he was whistling a tune. He spread his hands wide and blue sparks fanned between his fingers. He swept one hand forward. The hotel shook from another massive impact, this time directly against the steps where the president had been.

Francis was flung to the floor by a wall of hot air. The bones in his forearm broke with a sick crack and his forehead bounced off the hardwood. People were running and screaming and plaster rained from the ceiling. Wincing, Francis pulled himself up with his uninjured arm and looked out the window just in time to see a third explosion rip through the scattering survivors. The pressure wave flung bodies through the air, and they spun helplessly back to Earth as the madman turned to face the hotel again. He was laughing hysterically, seemingly having the time of his life. His shirt was flapping open in the fiery wind, revealing the red glow of a magical brand across his chest.