Spellbound (27 page)

A single shape tottered through the dust on the opposite side of the demon. George was battered, burned, and bleeding, but he still managed to raise his voice nearly as loud as Crow had. “Demon! I’m George Bolander, knight of the Grimnoir.” He raised his fists high into the air. “And I’m sending you back to hell!”

The air felt
wrong
.

Lightning flashed through the swirling dust above. The entire sky turned blue. It was almost like a smaller version of the Geo-Tel.

“What’s he doing?” Faye shouted.

“He’s using up all his Power at once, drawing on the energy of the storm.” Whisper cried. “He will surely die!”

Crow swiveled his horns and studied the sky, then looked back at George and roared, “Show me what you got, boy!”

George roared as the storm ripped the life right out of him. Blinding lightning consumed the entire sky, a hundred strikes in a second, dragged to Earth by one man’s Power. Thunder shook the whole world. A wall of white electricity descended and everyone in town screamed as it surged down to engulf them.

A hundred feet above the ground all the lightning stopped, rolling and twisting, as if held fast by the hand of God. Then it all flashed inward at once into one brilliant point directly over the demon. The arc burned their eyes for a moment, a pillar of blindness, then it struck with a concussion that took the whole town off its feet and shattered every window on the block.

It took Faye a moment to collect herself. When she came to, the wind had stopped blowing, leaving the night eerily calm. All she could see was a white streak. Gradually it turned purple and she could sort of see around it. The dust was falling from the sky and settling over them like peaceful snow. Ears ringing, she got to her feet and stumbled toward where George had been standing.

There was a deep hole scorched through the road where Crow had been. The road had been melted into tar and the sand was cooling into glass, but outside of a pinpoint circle, there was no damage. The demon was completely
gone
, blown into smoking ash and scattered.

George was flat on his back, arms spread wide. His eyes were open and collecting the falling dust. She landed on her knees next to him and took his head in her hands. He almost looked like he was smiling. “George?”

But her friend was dead.

The Power had torn the life right out of his body.

The ringing in her eyes began to subside. Folks were screaming, crying, praying . . . Somebody was banging the bell at the church and the burning wood of the boardinghouse hissed and popped.

George was dead. Another friend . . . Another knight . . . How many people had to die?
Not again. Not again. Damn it, not again.
Faye looked up at the sky and screamed until it hurt.

And then it started to rain.

Whisper

Chapter 11

The female half of the population of this nation are utterly powerless to strike an unjust law from the statute books. It is difficult to justify the notion that women are inferior, and thus incapable of voting rationally, when some of us can move objects with our minds, while others have displayed the constitution of ten strong men. Can you display any such feats, Your Honor? Do not tell me I am out of order! I already know you cannot, because I can read your thoughts.

—Elizabeth D. Carlyle,

Trial on the Charge of Illegal Voting,
1873

Bell Farm, Virginia

THE FARMHOUSE
was quieter with Jane and Lance gone. Too quiet, and that just made him restless. Sullivan poked sullenly at his breakfast and wished that he could be doing something useful, but that was difficult when you were Public Enemy Number One.

Their rings had woken them up in the middle of the night. Francis had been hysterical. Then another call had come from a young knight that none of them had met before named Whisper. She’d told them about the battle in Oklahoma. One knight killed and two injured, including Faye.

Francis had wanted to fly down there himself, but Lance had talked him down. Since the OCI had seen him talking to Faye, that meant that there was now no doubt as to his membership in the Society. Francis needed to lose his tail and go to ground before he got rolled up too. Francis hadn’t liked that at all, but the kid was smart, and knew that Lance was talking sense.

Faye’s group was on the run and heading east, but that left about thirty-plus hours of driving ahead of them. Jane had volunteered to go and meet them halfway. They could certainly use her Power. Faye had some cuts and had been scalded by demon smoke, and another knight named Ian had been burned and inhaled too much smoke. Of course, Dan wasn’t about to let his wife go do something potentially dangerous without him, and though his name had shown up in the papers, Sullivan wasn’t about to try and talk him out of going. He let Jane do that. Their Healer was hard to argue with when she set her mind to something, and she really didn’t want Dan getting arrested.

Since Grimnoir always tried to work with backup, Lance had volunteered to go with her. He’d promised Dan not to flirt with his pretty young wife, and had gotten out of there before Dan had a chance to turn too red.

That had left Dan Garrett and Jake Sullivan to come up with their next move. Dan, being the much less recognizable of the two, had taken Lance’s truck into town to pick up the morning papers, and Sullivan read while he ate. His picture was on page one again, the dangerous public face of the Active menace. They’d put his picture right next to one of the assassin, like they were best buddies or something. Sullivan almost threw the paper down in disgust, but he forced himself to keep reading. Questions were being raised about how someone so obviously dangerous had been given an early release from Rockville. J. Edgar Hoover had been unavailable for comment.

There was nothing about Oklahoma yet, though a high profile Active battle against a Greater Summoned in front of witnesses surely wouldn’t help their case very much. Roosevelt had been Healed, though he hadn’t made a public statement yet. The inauguration was still on schedule. The people were up in arms. Active businesses had been put to the torch and many had been hurt. Some Shard kid had killed a few mobbers in Brooklyn, in what read to Sullivan like a clear-cut case of self-defense, but the editorials were screaming for his blood. Hearings were being convened about addressing the “Active problem.” Antimagic groups were holding a gigantic march on Washington.

The real bad news was an article six pages in, so small he almost missed it.

Dan came into the kitchen. “Hey, pass me the funny pages if you don’t mind . . .” He trailed off when he saw the look on Sullivan’s face. “Oh no. What’s wrong now?”

“Imperium ambassador dies of heart attack.”

“Heart attack? Let me see that.” Dan adjusted his glasses and read. “They killed him! They killed him to keep quiet about the fake Chairman.”

“Looks like it.”

“You think they’ll spread the word to the Iron Guards about being on the lookout for this Pathfinder? They have to . . . Even they couldn’t be that stupid.”

Their effort had been for nothing. Taking his warning seriously meant that the real Chairman was dead. Whoever was leading the Imperium now would kill their own and risk the coming of the Enemy to stay in power. Sullivan put the paper down and walked outside without another word.

They were on their own. He would have to stop the Enemy himself.

Deep in thought, he wandered for a bit. There was a woodpile behind the house. Physical activity helped him think. He found an ax in the shed. It would be like breaking rocks. Just like old times.

Sullivan pondered over their predicament while he methodically split the logs. The Enemy was coming, but they didn’t know how much time they had. They’d failed to alert the one government that did believe in the creature, and they were fugitives from their own. The ax rose and fell, and then Sullivan would drag over another log. The process repeated itself. He worked until his shirt was damp with sweat and the pile of split wood had grown large.

There were three possibilities. Defeat the Pathfinder themselves, or convince either the Imperium or the U.S. to do it for them.

First off, he didn’t know if they could defeat the Pathfinder. The Chairman had been scared of the damn thing, and the Grimnoir had spent decades trying to kill the Chairman. It was only through treachery and luck that they’d finally taken him down. They didn’t know enough about this thing to trick it, and they sure as hell couldn’t count on getting lucky.

The Imperium . . . Somebody was playing Chairman, and doing a fine job of it from all accounts, but he wasn’t the real Chairman, and that meant he could die. If the false Chairman was killed, then they’d have no choice but to believe. The issue then became traveling to the other side of the world and murdering a head of state, who was surely protected by a legion of Iron Guard, demons, and ninjas.

There were other Grimnoir in that part of the world, though . . . Something could be arranged.
Ironic
. This had begun with an accusation of them being assassins, yet their best chance to save the world would make that label a reality.

Sullivan smashed the ax cleanly through a gigantic log.

The last possibility was getting his own nation to pay attention. Sure, this Pathfinder was tough, but it couldn’t possibly be a match for the entire might of the U.S. military. Sullivan was no politician. He had no idea how to get the powers-that-be involved. That was way over his head. After Mar Pacifica, the Grimnoir had tried to get the truth in front of the right people. Some had believed, some hadn’t, but nobody had acted on it because to do so meant war. And though many could tell it was coming, no one was ready for war with the Imperium.

The Enemy was even more dangerous than the Imperium. The people running the U.S. government had to know. He had to figure out how to make them believe. It would be difficult, even more so because Actives were so hated and feared right now, which was partially understandable considering what had happened over the last few years. The Grimnoir in particular were being cast as criminals, and the OCI was out to destroy them . . .

Why?

Sullivan paused mid-swing. Why was the OCI so motivated? Who’d created them? What was their purpose? The Grimnoir’s only contact with that shadowy organization had been violent. The Society had sources that he was unaware of, they were a large group after all, and those knights were trying to figure those questions out. As long as the OCI was hunting them like animals, then they’d never stop the Enemy. Why had the secret police fixated on the Society? He smashed the next log into splinters without thinking.

The Grimnoir had to clear their names first. Only then would the government listen.

“Jake, come here for a minute,” Dan shouted from the edge of the barn. Sullivan stuck the ax into a log and walked over. Dan was sitting in the truck with the door open, listening to the radio. “It’s about you.”

The newscaster was just finishing up. “—tor of the Bureau of Investigation, J. Edgar Hoover, denies that Heavy Jake Sullivan ever worked for, and was in fact paroled specifically on behalf of, the Bureau. Mr. Hoover has stated that these lies are simply slander against his brave agents.”

That made Sullivan smile. Hoover always had hated bad publicity. He had berated and punished his men after the Maplethorpe case in Detroit and the time they’d let Delilah get away in Springfield. And then it clicked . . . “The OCI screwed Hoover. They’re who put my name in the papers and connected us.” Hoover never would have done anything that could have splashed muck on his precious bureau.

“Former Illinois senator, Bradford Carr, is demanding a full investigation to find out if the Bureau inadvertently released a member of an Activist anarchist group. Senator Carr’s close friend and mayor of Chicago, Anton Cermak, was one of the murdered in Friday’s attack. Mr. Hoover will be holding a press conference this afternoon at the Department of Justice building.”

They weren’t that far away. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Dan frowned. “Apparently not, but you’ve got that crafty look.”

“Hey, I trusted your last plan. I just want to go say hi to an old pal.”

OCI Headquarters

“YOU FOOL.
You incompetent! What in the hell were you thinking?”

Crow kept his eyes down. Partly to avoid his superior’s rage, and partly because he was so exhausted he could barely lift his head. He wasn’t allowed to bring one of his better bodies into the inner sanctum, so he was stuck with the weak one he’d been born with. “The Traveler is one of our prime targets. Intelligence suggested that she’s—”

“Not that, imbecile. I know how important the girl is. I’m aware of the Warlock’s handiwork. I saw his body with my own eyes,” his superior shouted.

“When word came, I decided to capture her myself.”

“That would have been splendid if you had. Instead you lost her and caused a spectacle.” He placed a telegram in the center of the desk and slid it over. “
This
is going to make the evening papers.”