Spell Blind

CHAPTER 11

South central Phoenix, from the 91 area of the Cactus Park precinct, through the Maryvale precinct, and into Estrella Mountain includes some of the toughest beats any cop in the city has to face. This part of Phoenix comprises maybe fifteen percent of the total area of the city and is home to a similarly small percentage of the population. But its beats account for more than a third of the violent crimes committed here. Maryvale itself is tiny when compared to other precincts, but in any given year, it sees more assaults and murders than some precincts many times its size. Parts of Estrella Mountain are even worse.

I was never good at math, and I’m no expert on crime numbers, not like some of the men and women in statistics, who can quote figures and percentages off the tops of their heads. But I understand stats well enough to know that when one small area of a city sees the lion’s share of its murders and aggravated assaults, that area has a problem.

I wouldn’t want to single out the worst of Maryvale’s beats-they are all bad-but I was headed to the 813, which was about as ugly as it got. Rundown houses broiling in the sun, storefronts that looked like they hadn’t seen business in years until you realized that they were still open, streets strewn with shattered beer bottles, kids’ playgrounds turned into havens for junkies and hangouts for gangs. I’d been down here plenty of times while I was still on the job, but I rarely drove these streets by choice.

I was hoping that Orestes Quinley would be able to tell me enough about the Blind Angel Killer to make the trip worth my while.

In the last few years, after his many brushes with the law, Brother Q had made some effort to join legitimate society. He’d opened a place on Thomas Street called Brother Q’s Shop of the Occult. Not exactly a name that rolled off the tongue, but I’m not convinced that he expected the business to appeal to a large clientele. He sold stuff that any small-time sorcerer might need: used books on magic, Wicca, and shamanism; many of the same powders, herbs, and oils he’d once been accused of stealing; and various stones, jewelry, and other items that might be used for conjuring. His was the only shop in Phoenix where a person could find Tuberose and Styrax oils. His prices were outrageous, and in all my visits to his place, I had never seen another person shopping there. But Orestes didn’t seem to mind. He had his store, he lived in the apartment above it, and he was content to sit outside in his old wooden rocking chair, smoking contraband clove cigarettes and watching the world go by.

That’s what he was doing when I pulled up to his place in the Z-ster. Even in the brilliance of the Arizona sun, Orestes’ storefront glimmered faintly with the light of his magic. This was not the flat yellow gleaming of his early conjurings. It was more a golden orange, the color of the sun as it sits balanced on the desert horizon. Orestes had grown more powerful and more skilled since our first encounter. And if I could see the magic on his place now, it must have glowed like a bonfire at night. He had enough wardings in place to hold off a horde of weremystes. I had a feeling he was worried about one in particular.

Apart from developing a bit of a gut, Orestes hadn’t changed much over the years. He claimed to have been born in Haiti, and he spoke with a heavy West Indian accent. He wore his hair in thick braids, and he often had on a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses, the lenses of which were far too small to serve any practical purpose. Today he was dressed in old khaki shorts, a pair of beat-up sandals, and a Coca Cola shirt that had been tie-dyed so many years ago that the colors had all faded to various shades of gray.

“Justis Fearsson,” he said, as I got out of the car. “Come a-callin’ over Brother Q’s way. To what does Q owe the pleasure on this fine, sunny day?”

Two things to know about Orestes. First, he was one of these people who referred to himself in the third person. Drove me up a wall. Second, on occasion, for no apparent reason, he liked to speak in verse. I used to find this annoying, too. In recent years I’d decided that it was funny, in a really weird sort of way. Still, despite his quirks, Q wasn’t a flake and I didn’t think he had started losing his mind yet, although Kona would have argued the point. He was smart enough to have survived on these streets for years, and in all the time I had been coming to him for information he had almost never steered me wrong. But he’d developed this persona, and while it might once have been a put-on, at this point I wasn’t sure he could have set aside the rhymes and the way he spoke even if he’d wanted to.

“Hi there, Orestes,” I said. I walked to where he was sitting and patted his shoulder. “You staying out of trouble?”

“Always, Brother. Always.”

I smiled. “Right.”

He pulled a folding chair out from behind his own and handed it to me. I unfolded it and sat.

“You here to buy or to talk?”

“Talk.”

“Good,” he said. “Then Brother Q don’t have to get up. Heat like this make a brother wilt. Seems they had no AC when this place was built.”

“The rhymes need a little work.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. You try it sometime. Ain’t as easy as it sounds.”

“You know why I’m here?”

“Brother Q can guess. There’s only one thing people in this town are talkin’ about these days. Brother Q ain’t never seen weremystes so scared. But why would the Deegan girl bring you to Brother Q? You know that Q wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with a killin’.”

“True, but I also know that you keep your ear to the street. If there was something going on that you didn’t like-maybe a sorcerer gathering more power than anyone ought to have-you’d tell me about it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Brother Q keeps an eye out,” he admitted, avoiding my gaze. “Purely out of curiosity.”

“Sure,” I said. “I understand. You remember me coming around to ask you about the Blind Angel case when I was still a cop?”

“Of course. Brother Q remembers everythin’.”

“Then you also remember what you told me.”

“Q told you the truth,” he said pointedly, facing me at last. “Q told you that he didn’t know anythin’ about the killin’s, which was true.”

“At the time, you mean.”

“Right. At the-” He clamped his mouth shut.

“What do you know now, Q?”

He stared out at the street, his eyes tracking a low-riding roadster with a group of Latino kids in it. He still had his lips pressed thin, and I could tell that he was angry; angry with me for tricking him, and angry with himself for letting me. Luis was right, though: Q knew something.

“Thirty-one kids now,” I said, my voice low. “Those are the ones we know about. And you can be sure that Claudia Deegan won’t be the last. If you know something you’ve got to tell me.”

“Brother Q knows nothin’ for certain,” he muttered.

“But you have an idea of who’s doing this, don’t you?”

He peered at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Who are you askin’ for, Brother J? Yourself or the cops?”

“Does it matter?”

“What matters and what doesn’t depends on where you stand. Brother Q might feel different with some green in his hand.”

I had to laugh. “That was pretty good.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out two twenties. It was more than I usually gave to any informant, including Orestes. But after three years, we were getting close. I felt it in my blood, in my bones. And I was still shaken by what I’d seen in my scrying stone on the trail. The money was the least of my worries. I held the bills up, but I didn’t hand them to him. Not yet.

“You’re hungry today, aren’t you, Brother J?”

“I need a name.”

“Brother Q doesn’t have a name to give.”

I lowered my hand. “Then what do you have?”

“What do you know about this sorcerer you’re after?”

“Not a lot. I know the color of his magic. I know that he’s taken an interest in me and my case. I know that he carried Claudia Deegan out into South Mountain Park and killed her there.”

“How you know that?”

“I scried it,” I told him. “A seeing spell.”

“Good for you!” he said, sounding like he meant it. “A seein’ spell. That’s high magic.” He glanced up at the sky. “But you’re right: you don’t know much.”

The last thing I needed was Q telling me how much I did and didn’t know. I examined his shop again, noting the orange light that danced along the roof line and around the windows and doors. “What are you so afraid of?”

He twisted around in his chair. “What do you mean? Brother Q ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

“No? Then why all the warding spells? Your place is glowing like the magical equivalent of Fort Knox.”

“There’s a lot of crime on these streets. You know that.” He forced a smile. “Things aren’t as safe around here since you left the force.” He wasn’t very convincing.

“What’s going on, Q?”

The smile faded. He regarded me for a minute. Then he motioned with his head toward the shop, stood up, and walked inside.

I followed.

“Close the door,” he said.

The shop was lit by a single light bulb in an old fixture, and it smelled of incense smoke and oils. I recognized the frankincense as soon as we got inside, but it was mingled with something harsher, more bitter.

“Is that petitgrain?” I asked.

“Very good, Brother J. You’re learnin’ well.”

Petitgrain and frankincense. Among herbalists, both were thought to be powerful guardians against dark magic. Orestes could deny it all he liked, but he was scared.

“What’s all this about, Orestes? Frankincense, petitgrain, all those wardings; it’s like you’re preparing for a war.”

“A man can’t be too careful.”

“Why not? What’s out there?”

He shook his head. “Brother Q doesn’t know.”

“Damnit! I don’t have time for this. Some sorcerer is out there stalking me, making me look over my shoulder every two seconds!”

“Brother Q is tellin’ the truth. Q swears it. He hears whispers, wind in the trees, nothin’ more.”

“What kind of whispers?”

He licked his lips, glanced around the shop. “There’s a new player in town. A real badass. You know what Brother Q is sayin’?”

“But if he’s new-”

“Brother Q doesn’t believe he’s new. It’s the same guy you’ve been after for three years. But he’s gettin’ stronger. That Q does believe.” He shook his head. “People are scared, J. People are real scared.”

“Who is he?”

“No one knows. He’s got no name. Nobody ever sees him, or at least they don’t talk about it if they do. He comes and goes and no one knows where he lives or where he’s come from.” He leaned forward. “Some are sayin’ he comes from Hell itself,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“How long have you been hearing about this guy?”

“Not long. Can’t say for certain. But not long.”

“Why does he kill? What’s he getting from these kids?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Come on! You’ve got to be able to tell me something about this guy, other than the fact that he’s a badass weremyste.”

“He ain’t like other weremystes. He’s more than strong, you understand? He’s different.”

I felt cold suddenly and had to keep myself from shuddering. “Different how?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer.

He shrugged. “Q don’t know. He’s just different. His magic’s stronger than it should be. Some people are sayin’ that the moons don’t bother him, though I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“Yeah, all right,” I said. I believed Q was trying to help me, and would have, had he known enough. “Who else can I talk to about this guy?”

“No one other than Q is gonna talk to you about him. They’re all too scared.”

“Leave that to me. Give me a name. Someone’s had dealings with him, right?”

He hesitated. “Some say he’s done business with an enchanter near here.” Orestes said the word “enchanter” as if it were something dirty. To those skilled in the use of magic, enchanters were weremyste wannabes, people who dabbled in conjuring but had learned little craft. He might as well have called the guy a fraud. “A boy named Antoine Mirdoux. Another brother from Haiti.”

“Mirdoux,” I repeated. “Sounds familiar.”

“He’s been around a little while, but he’s just a kid. Calls himself ’Toine. Thinks he’s goin’ to be somethin’ big, you know what Q’s sayin’? Thinks he’s goin’ to be the next Brother Q.” He shook his head. “But the boy ain’t got the chops.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Like I said, it’s not far. He has a place just off of Thomas; I think it’s on 18th. It’s white, but it needs paint. There’s — ” He stopped and waved his hand, in the general direction. “You’ll see the wardings on it. Pale green; very weak.”

I handed him the two twenties. “Thanks.”

“Did you mean what you said before? Is this hell sorcerer really targetin’ you?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, wishing I’d kept that bit of information to myself. “Yeah,” I said. “At least I think it was him. It felt like someone was about to use assailing magic against me. I warded myself both times, but no attack ever came.”

“Both times,” Orestes said. “It’s happened twice?”

I nodded. He grimaced.

“Have you considered whether you might be better off leavin’ him be?” he asked.

I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I reached for the door. “Thanks again.”

“Brother Q has one favor that he’d ask of you. .”

This one I’d heard before; his standard parting line. “Please don’t tell a soul that you heard it from Q,” we said together.

“You got it,” I told him. “Stay safe.”

“You, too. Keep your head down.”

Right. I got back in the car and drove east on Thomas and then turned onto 18th. Antoine Mirdoux lived in Mountain View’s 733 beat, another garden spot. To a civilian-one crazy enough to be walking these streets-there wasn’t a whole lot of difference among the beats in this part of town. A person could drive from one to the next without knowing it. But to the cops working the neighborhoods, each beat had a personality, a flavor. I’m sure the 733 was like that, a place that cops came to know and even like, in a perverse sort of way. To me though, these were just streets and ramshackle houses, places where a dark sorcerer could be waiting, watching for me. The area around Orestes’ place I knew; I’d been there enough times before to make even those rough streets feel familiar. But as I drove the Z-ster up and down 18th, looking for a house that glowed with pale green magic, I felt like a soldier entering an urban war zone for the first time. These streets were alien to me, and I could almost feel the danger crawling up my arms and legs, making me shiver. As I drifted past, kids and old people stared at me, grim and hostile. They knew I didn’t belong there; they might even have sensed an ill omen in my coming. I kept my speed the same, trying not to make eye contact as I searched for Antoine’s house.

I spotted it about a block short. Like Orestes’ house, it was dripping with magic-between Orestes and Antoine, I was beginning to feel like I should go home and put a few spells on my place. It seemed there were some heavy clouds looming on the magical horizon.

I couldn’t tell for certain in the daylight, but Antoine’s magic did appear to be a very pale green, about the same color you might see on a traffic light. At least I knew that he wasn’t our killer.

I drove past the house and parked two doors down, not wanting to spook him. I tucked my weapon into my shoulder holster, walked to the door, and knocked.

No answer. I raised my hand to knock again, and as I did, several things happened at once.

I felt a pulse of magic aimed at me through the door-an assailing spell-and without even thinking, I warded myself. When in doubt, go back to what you know best. I used a deflection spell.

I didn’t know what ’Toine had in mind for me when I redirected his assault at the first thing I thought of: his door, to be precise. But given the way the door exploded inward, I guessed that he wanted me blown up. The wood shattered with a sound like thunder from a too-close lighting strike and fragments of the door and flecks of old white paint flew through the house like flakes in a snow globe.

My initial thought was that Orestes had sold the kid short, making him sound like some kind of hack conjurer. He wasn’t a master yet-if he had been, I’d have been killed by the explosion-but he was better than Orestes had made him sound. I should have recognized Brother Q’s attitude for what it was: professional jealousy. ’Toine was every bit the sorcerer Orestes had been the first time I busted him. Give the kid a few years, and he’d be a force in this town.

In the next instant I realized that I’d heard another sound after the door vaporized. A second door had opened on the far side of the house and a moment later a screen door had slammed shut. I sprinted through the house and out the back in time to see a young black man disappear around a corner. It was Robby-freaking-Sommer all over again. And my leg still hurt.

But ’Toine had tried to kill me, and I was pissed. It was amazing what a bit of anger could do to strengthen a person’s magic. Turning that same corner, I saw Mirdoux running away from me, and I tried the most basic assailing spell I could think of, something so simple that he never would have expected it, something so harmless that if he reflected it back at me, it wouldn’t do any damage.

Three elements. My hand, his foot, his momentum. As I’ve said, the words don’t matter; it’s all visualization.

’Toine went down in a heap, the way he would have if I’d been close enough to grab his foot in the middle of his stride.

I ran toward him, warding myself as I did. I almost pulled out my Glock, but then I thought better of it. I didn’t want him panicking, and I didn’t want to give him another target for his magic.

As I got near him, I slowed to a walk. He had sat up, and was glaring at me. I expected him to cast a spell my way at any moment.

“Don’t even think about it, Antoine,” I said, still easing toward him. “I’m a better conjurer than you are.”

“The hell you are, man!”

“Have you seen your door lately?”

He said nothing, but if he’d been able to turn that glower into magic, I’d have been little more than ash.

Antoine couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, and he was surprisingly clean-cut for a kid who’d tried to splatter me all over his front steps. His hair was short and neatly cut, his face was square, his skin smooth. It was hard to tell with him on the ground, but I don’t think he would have stood much more than five-six or five-seven. He was broad in the shoulders and lean, and he wore a diamond stud in his left ear.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. ’Toine may have been from Haiti, but he had no accent, and I had the feeling that he could have spoken like a news anchor if he’d chosen to.

“You’re trying to kill me, and you don’t even know?”

“I know you don’t belong ’round here. I know you got no business knockin’ on my door.”

“So you’d have tried to blow me up even if I’d been selling Bibles?”

“You don’t look like no Bible salesman.”

“No? What do I look like?”

“A cop.”

I guess it never really goes away. It’s not like I could argue with the kid. “It would have been pretty stupid to blow up a cop.”

“Man, what are you talkin’ about with that blowin’ up shit? I didn’t try to blow up nobody.”

“No? Then what was that spell you threw at me through what used to be your door?”

“Nothin’ you ever heard of, man.” He grinned. “It’s one of my own. It would have felt like somebody shattered a beer bottle on your head. Would have put you out cold.” The smile vanished. “Instead, you gotta go and destroy my house.”

Either he was lying or I was far more powerful than I’d ever thought and had unwittingly found some way to amplify his assailing spell. Guess which one I was betting on.

“I’m not a cop, Antoine,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.” I pulled out my wallet and showed him my PI’s license. “My name is Jay Fearsson. I’m doing some work on the Blind Angel murders.”

He stared past me. “Never heard of them.”

“No? Maybe you heard that Claudia Deegan was killed.”

“Never heard of her, neither.”

Well, now I had to reconsider, because ’Toine was about the worst liar I’d ever met. What the hell had happened to his door?

“You know what? I think you’re full of shit. I think you ran away from me because you’re into something that you can’t handle and you’re scared out of your mind.”

“Whatever, man.”

“Claudia Deegan was killed with magic.”

“Bad luck.”

“Every Blind Angel victim was killed with magic.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“I used to be a cop. And I’m a weremyste, too. Remember? I saw the magic on them.”

“Then you know it’s not mine, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. I know that it belongs to someone with real power.”

“Fuck you, man!”

“The magic that killed those kids was red. Deep red, almost the color of blood. And the magic on Claudia Deegan had faded nearly to nothing in the span of about two days. There can’t be more than five people in the entire country with power like that.”

He refused again to meet my gaze. But he was clenching his jaw, and I had the sense that he was considering another assailing spell.

“Like I said, man, if you cast, then you know what my stuff is like. It ain’t red, and it don’t disappear after no two days. So you know it wasn’t me.”

“Maybe, but I think you know who this sorcerer is.”

“You think wrong, then, cop.”

I squatted down and got right in his face, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Like I said, little man, I’m not a cop anymore. But I’ve still got friends on the force. And who do you think they turn to when they’re working cases that involve magic?” I tapped my chest. “Me. All I have to do is give the word and they’ll be all over you. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in jail, wishing you were a good enough conjurer to get yourself out, and wondering why you were so stupid as to piss me off.”

He was working up to another attack. I could see it in his eyes; I could hear it in the rasp of his breathing. I pushed hard enough, and I got exactly what I expected. For all his talent and potential, ’Toine was still just a kid, playing with toys he didn’t quite understand.

The spell he threw at me was similar to the one Robby Sommer had used against me-a basic fire spell. Rudimentary stuff. But he was angry enough that this time he might have been trying to kill me, and so I went with deflection rather than reflection. I didn’t want to hurt him. But he needed to know that he didn’t want to be screwing around with me. I aimed the bounce at the wall directly behind him, so that ’Toine’s own fire flew past the side of his head, missing him by maybe an inch and blackening the wall with the sound of sizzling fat.

“Shit!” he spat, ducking away.

“Next time, I won’t miss,” I told him. “Tell me who this guy is, or I’ll bring the cops down on you. I’m a PI; I just want to get paid. And all the cops care about is clearing the case. None of us gives a crap if you go down for it. Hell, if I tell them that it’s your color on Claudia Deegan, they’re not going to know any different.” I shrugged. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve got nothing against you. I’d rather see this other guy off the streets. And I bet you wouldn’t mind using a bit less mojo around the house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man,” he said. “I don’t know any red magic sorcerer.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Who sent you here, anyway? Somebody got it in for me?”

“Who is he, Antoine? Why is everybody so afraid of this guy?”

For a second I thought he’d spill it all. He was scared, terrified even. I glimpsed it in his eyes-I’d seen that fear before, in little kids who were being abused by their parents. Terror, helplessness, the memory of pain, the desperate desire to end the abuse, but all of it overmastered by the belief that no one could end the cycle and the certainty that if he tried, if he dared tell a soul, he’d be punished even more severely than before. ’Toine felt trapped, and he had no faith that I could set him free.

At last he fixed his eyes on the street. It was almost like he expected to see the sorcerer strolling past. “I don’t know nothin’,” he muttered again. “Whoever told you I did was bullshittin’ you.”

He was lying. But again, as with Robby, I couldn’t do anything about it.

I stood. “Fine.” I fished out my business card, and tossed one down to him. It was a waste of time and paper, but what the hell. “If you reconsider, give me a call.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right, man. I’ll be callin’ you.”

I started to walk away.

“We can chat, man,” he called after me. “Like we’re old friends, you know?” He laughed again.

I made my way to the Z-ster, Antoine’s laughter still ringing in my ears. I had been preparing myself all day, planning what I’d do if I felt the Blind Angel Killer’s power again. But like an idiot, I allowed the kid to throw me off balance.

And so, when the red sorcerer suddenly had me in his sights again, I was utterly unprepared. I tried to ward myself, knowing as I did that anything I came up with he could defeat, knowing as well what he was trying to do with these teasing encounters. But I made the effort anyway.

The feeling was much more vivid this time. I knew he was close. Too close. I turned a quick circle, but I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to find him. The hairs on my neck and arms stood on end and my skin grew cold, as if I was in shadow and the rest of the city was in brilliant sunlight. If he had wanted to kill me in that moment, he could have, though I would have put up a fight.

But he was toying with me. For a split second, I thought I could hear laughter. Not ’Toine’s, though I heard that, too. This was deeper, more menacing, more elusive. I turned again, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. But it was everywhere. Around me, above me, below me. It was in my freaking head.

You’re mine now, I thought I heard someone say.

And then it was gone. The laughter ceased, the sun shone on my face and arms, a warm wind touched my skin.

Three times. Once outside of Robby Sommer’s place, once outside of Robo’s in Tempe, and now here, in front of Antoine Mirdoux’s house. Was there a connection there, something linking the three of them to one another and to this sorcerer with the blood-red magic? Or was it mere chance, the random choices of this bastard who was hunting me?

I should have been concentrating on those questions, trying to figure out what Robby, Robo’s, and Antoine had in common with the Blind Angel victims.

But all I could think was that he’d done this to me three times now. He’d touched my mind with his magic; he’d tested my defenses and seen how I would respond to an attack, how I would ward myself.

Three times.

There’s power in numbers. He knew me now. I was his. And the next time, if he chose to attack, there would be precious little I could do about it.