Spell Blind

CHAPTER 13

Often on the cusp of a phasing, my dreams become fragmented to the point of incoherence, as if the insanity that’s about to be brought on by the moon has crept into my sleep. But not this night.

All night long I dreamed of the red sorcerer, and in every dream he was tracking me, hunting me down. I’d wake from one dream, fall back asleep, and slip right into another; my mind was like a flat stone skipping along the surface of a pond. At one point I dreamed that I was back in the monument with Billie, running along a dried river bed, leading her, pulling her by the hand. I kept staring back over my shoulder, expecting to see the red sorcerer. I could feel him behind us, and as much as I wanted to get away, to get Billie away, I also wanted to see his face, to find out who he was.

We reached a bend in the riverbed, and I hesitated, though now Billie tugged at my hand, trying to get me to run on. She said something to me that I didn’t hear, and I turned to her. And as I did, I saw her eyes widen at something she could see past my shoulder. She screamed, and I spun to look.

Which, of course, is when the phone rang, waking me from the dream. I groped for the receiver, missed it the first time, got it the second.

“Fearsson,” I mumbled.

“Sleeping late, I see,” Kona said. “You alone, or did you have another date?”

I grunted a laugh. “Both.”

“Good. What do you have for me?”

“So much for the social niceties.”

“You’re lucky you got as much as you did. I’m having a bad day, partner. It’s not even nine o’clock and my day’s shot to hell.”

I sat up, running a hand through my tangled hair. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“It’s nothing you don’t already know. Gann is being arraigned right now, and I’ve got no way of proving to Hibbard or Arroyo or anyone else that he’s innocent.”

Right. “I’ll see what else I can find,” I said, forcing myself awake. “I didn’t get much from Q or Luis, but there’s another place I can go today.”

“We don’t have much time.”

I chuckled humorlessly. “Don’t I know it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that our friend has taken a particular interest in me. I don’t know why; I guess he knows I’m after him. But he’s taken the measure of my warding three times now and-”

“You’ve lost me, partner. It’s that mumbo-jumbo stuff again.”

“Sorry. He’s been testing me in a way, and he’s done it three times, which in magical circles basically means that he owns me. The next time, if he wants to hurt me, or kill me, or turn me into a toad, he can pretty much have his way.”

“And you’re guessing it won’t be the toad thing.”

I grinned, despite the tightness in my gut. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Well then, watch yourself,” she said.

“I will.”

I hung up, showered, and was soon on my way back to Mesa. There was a small park near Falcon Field where I knew other weremystes would be gathered today in anticipation of the full moon. The drive was as slow as one would expect on a weekday morning, and by the time I was parking the Z-ster I could see the crowd gathered among the small tents and plywood stalls.

Passersby would have thought it nothing more than another small farmers’ market, of which there was no shortage in the Phoenix area. This market, though, was far from typical. We referred to it as the Moon Market, because it only turned up for a few days right before the phasing. Rather then selling produce and jams and homemade salsas, the sellers at the Moon Market sold herbs and oils, crystals and talismans, elixirs, incense, and bundled blends of flowers and native plants that resembled the sage sticks burned by the Pueblo people. Many of the items were similar to those Q sold at his place, only in far greater numbers and varieties, and often at much better prices. Some peddled their own spells, which they taught to other weremystes for a fee. Some sold knives or candles that they claimed to have charmed.

As usual, there were as many wannabes circulating among the tents as there were actual weremystes. Sometimes tourists stumbled across the market as well. They took pictures of the various displays and bought the occasional geode or quartz spear. But it was always easy to spot the weremystes in the crowd, even if direct sunlight obscured the wavering effect from their magic. They weren’t there for the fun of it, and they weren’t shopping for pretty trinkets. They moved around the market with quiet urgency, seeking something-anything-that might take the edge off the coming phasing.

I’d tried a few of the herbs early on: sachets of stargrass and alyssum that I was told to leave near all the windows and doors of my house; blends of anise, bay, pennyroyal, and rosemary that I was supposed to put in pots of boiling water. Once I even bought a wand made of mulberry. As far as I could tell, none of them had done anything to ease the pull of the moon.

But other weremystes swore by remedies like these, and who was I to argue? I knew cops who used one kind of aspirin, but not others. Different people have different headaches; same with phasings.

I wandered through the market, searching for people I knew, people who might be able to tell me something about the Blind Angel killings. A few vendors and shoppers appeared to recognize me, but most of them refused to make eye contact. They probably thought I was still a cop.

The first person I saw who both knew me and appeared willing to speak with me was an old Navajo named Barry Crowseye, who sold crystals at the market, and jewelry in a small shop in Tolleson. He waved me over when he spotted me and stood to shake my hand, reaching across a long table that was covered with baskets of polished stone-petrified wood, tiger’s-eye, citrine, jasper, bloodstone, malachite, and a dozen other stones I couldn’t identify.

I’d known Barry for years and he hadn’t changed at all. As far as I could tell, his hair had always been silver, and he had always worn it in a long ponytail. He was a big man, with a chiseled face that could have come straight off of a coin. If I’d been making a western and needed to cast the part of Indian chief, I’d have tracked him down simply because he looked the part. His skin was the color of cherry wood, and his eyes were almost black. He was wearing jeans, a pale blue Los Lobos t-shirt, and a brown leather vest. And as always, the shimmer of magic around him was so strong that his face, neck, and shoulders were blurred.

“Good to see you, Jay,” he said, smiling at me, a gold tooth glinting. “Been a while.”

“You too, Barry. Things going well?”

He shrugged, then lowered himself back onto a folding canvas chair. “I suppose. You interested in buying?” he asked, pushing a few stones around on his table until satisfied with his display. In addition to the polished rocks, he also had agate geodes, pendants of various sizes and colors, and amethyst, quartz, and fluorite crystals. Like the herbs and oils I’d seen elsewhere, his selection of stones was weighted to those said to offer magical protection and psychic strength.

“No, thanks,” I told him.

He gave a sage nod. “Information, then.”

I laughed. “Guess I’m getting predictable.”

He shrugged again. “I haven’t seen you around here in more than a year. And even back when you were a regular, you were never as interested in protection as you were in information.”

“You’d make a good PI.”

He chuckled, but quickly grew serious again. “People here don’t want to talk about the murders. They didn’t when you were a cop, and they don’t now. Can’t say as I blame them.”

“How’d you know I’d be asking about that?”

Barry regarded me in a way that made me feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.

“Yeah, all right,” I said, my voice dropping. “If you knew anything, would you tell me?”

“Yes,” he said.

I believed him.

“Who else should I talk to?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said. I started to leave, but then stopped. Barry knew as much about magic as anyone I’d met, aside from Namid. And unlike the runemyste, Barry was willing to give me a straight answer now and then. “What do you know about dark magic?” I asked, turning to face him again.

“Not a lot. Some. I did a little when I was younger. And my brother played around with some nasty stuff once upon a time. Why?”

I asked him the same question I’d asked Luis Paredes a few nights before. “Can you think of any reason why a weremyste would kill on the night of the first quarter moon?”

His eyebrows went up. “First quarter moon is a powerful night. Any spell would be stronger then.”

“So I’ve heard. But what spell would require a murder?”

“Lots of them do,” he said, his voice and expression grim. “Why do you think they call it dark magic? Sacrifice is just another word for murder, and there’s not that much difference between killing a goat and killing a person. Except that human blood amplifies the magic more.”

“Could he be using the kids he’s killing to make himself stronger?”

Barry gave a small frown. “I suppose.”

“But you don’t think he is.”

“I don’t know enough about the guy to think anything. But I’ve never heard of a weremyste making himself stronger with magic. We cast spells, we hone our craft, we practice. But using magic to strengthen our magic?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Yeah, all right. Thanks, Barry.”

“No problem. And don’t be such a stranger,” he called after me.

I walked away, raising a hand as I went. I made my way around the rest of the market, unsure as to what, exactly, I was trying to find. I figured I’d know it when I saw it.

I was right.

Near the back of the market, as far as possible from where I had parked, a woman sat under a small white tent selling an odd assortment of oils, herbs, and stones carved into animal shapes: owls, snakes, bears, wolves. They resembled Zuni fetishes in a superficial way, but I could tell they were knock-offs. In fact, her entire display could have come from one of those New Age stores in a mall; I doubted that any of what she was selling had much value for a weremyste. I noticed a small sign taped to one of the tent legs; it said “Renewing Designs, Shari Bettancourt.” It gave a website and PO address in Tempe.

I no more than glanced at the woman as I gave her table a quick scan and prepared to move on. Then I froze, eyeing the woman once more, my gaze settling on a pendant that hung around her neck. She wore a long multi-color batik dress with a v-neck. The necklace was barely visible beneath it. But I could see a small stone and the silver setting around it. And I was certain that the stone glowed with a faint shimmering of crimson magic.

The woman was speaking to another customer, and at first paid no attention to me. I stared at the stone, stepping closer to her table. The other customer walked away, but I hardly noticed.

“May I help you?”

I tore my eyes away from the pendant, forcing myself to look at her. She appeared to be in her forties. There were small lines around her mouth and eyes, and her short, dark hair was streaked with strands of gray. She had a pleasant, round face and pale blue eyes.

“Yes,” I said, finding my voice. “I was. . I was admiring your necklace.”

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said. But her smile tightened and she adjusted her dress so that it covered the pendant.

“Yes,” I said. “That red stone is quite remarkable.”

“It’s garnet,” she told me. “It’s a healing stone, and a protector.”

I nodded, meeting her gaze again.

“I have some garnets here,” she said, pointing to a small wooden box that contained a few pieces of raw red crystal. Compared to the glowing pendant, they appeared dull, lifeless. “Of course, they need to be polished to shine like mine.”

“Yes, of course. Where did you find yours? Shari, is it?”

Her gaze wavered; her smile vanished. “Yes, I’m Shari. I. . I don’t remember where I got it. I think it was a gift, but I’ve had it for a very long time.”

She wasn’t a very good liar.

“Can I see it again?”

Shari hesitated, then drew the pendant out from under her dress and held it up for me. I noticed that her hand trembled.

“That’s a lovely stone,” I said. “It’s so bright, it could almost be glowing.”

She slipped it back into her dress. “Trick of the light,” she said.

“I’m not sure it was. I think it was magic.” I kept my tone light, trying to make it sound like an observation rather than an accusation, but you wouldn’t have known it from her response.

“Well, I think I’d know if it was magic, wouldn’t I?” she said her tone turning brusque. She dismissed me with a flick of her eyes and spied an older man walking near her tent. “Good morning,” she called. “How are you today?”

The man offered a vague smile and half-hearted wave as he continued by. But Shari had made her point: our conversation was over.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said. That was a lie, too. I’d meant to spook her.

She scrutinized her goods, and made a show of rearranging several of the items. “You didn’t,” she said, her voice clipped.

I watched her a moment longer, then turned and walked away. I left the park by way of a nearby path that led onto the street running behind her booth, and went so far as to walk past her tent once more, so that she might see me over the small hedge growing there. I wanted her to think that I’d come on foot. Once I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore, I circled back to the Z-ster, pulled out of the parking lot, and then positioned it along a curb where I could watch the market entrance.

As I expected, Shari didn’t stay there much longer. I’d scared her too much. She came out a short time later wheeling a large, battered suitcase that must have held her goods. Her folded tent was tied to it with bungee cords. She walked hurriedly to a small hatchback, heaved the suitcase into the back, and pulled out of the lot. I kept low as she drove by me and then followed at a safe distance.

She drove straight back to Tempe, sticking to back roads, and eventually pulled into a driveway beside a small house near the sports complex south of the University. I parked nearby and waited until she was back in her house before walking up the path to her door and knocking.

Shari was slow to answer, and I began to wonder if I’d scared her too much. But then the door opened a crack and she peered out at me over the chain.

“Yes? What-” Her mouth fell open. “You,” she whispered. “How did you-?”

“I followed you.”

“You had no right!”

I showed her my license. “My name is Jay Fearsson, Ms. Bettancourt. I’m a private investigator. I’m doing some work on the Blind Angel killings. I need to ask you some questions.”

She shook her head. Opening the door a bit more, she looked past me into the street, her eyes wide and fearful. “You have to leave. Now, before he sees you.”

“You mean the man who gave you that necklace? The one who used his magic on it?”

Her eyes snapped to me and she opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You have to leave,” she said again, and started to close the door.

“I’ll tell the police to speak with you,” I said, blurting it out.

She’d nearly gotten the door shut, but now she opened it again, appearing even more frightened than she had before. “You can’t!”

“I will. I have to. We have to stop him.”

The woman laughed, sounding half-nuts, as if her phasing had already begun.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” she said. “You can’t stop him anymore than you can stop the moon from rising.”

“He’s a powerful weremyste, I know. But. .”

I broke off. She was laughing again, though there were tears in her eyes.

“You’re an idiot. Get out of here before you get me killed. Please!”

“Who is he? What’s his name? You have to tell me something! Anything!”

She shook her head, scanning the street again.

“He’ll kill again, Shari. You know he will. But we can stop him.”

“No, you can’t!” she said, her tone fierce. “No one can! He’s much, much more than you think he is.”

“What do you mean? Tell me about the magic he used on your necklace.”

Her hand strayed to her chest, where the pendant lay beneath her dress. Then she gripped the door again. “You have to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “You know what this man’s done. You know how many people he’s killed. You have to help me stop him.”

She hesitated, and I wondered if maybe I had gotten through to her.

“I will,” she said. “Really. But not now, not here. You have to go. Please.” This last she whispered. There were tears on her face.

I didn’t want to. Kona and I had been after the Blind Angel Killer for three years, and here at least was someone who knew him, who could describe him, tell me his name. She might even have known where he lived. He’d done more than give her a pendant. I was sure of it. That stone still glowed with his magic, which meant that he had done something to it recently. Red’s magic faded too fast for that glow to be from an old spell. Was he communicating with her in some way? Was she helping him? If I could convince her to let me into the house for a moment, I was confident that I could get something of value out of her.

“Just a few questions,” I said, pleading with her. “Tell me his name. His address if you know it.”

“I can’t.” She started to push the door closed. Then she stopped, her face contorting.

“Oh, my God! He’s here! You fool! You let him follow you!”

I started to tell her that I hadn’t been followed, but in that instant I felt him, too. The air around us seemed to come alive with magic; it felt charged, the way it does in a desert lightning storm.

She backed away from the door without closing it.

“No!” she said.

I felt his power, but it wasn’t directed at me, as it had been outside Robo’s or Robby’s house or Antoine’s.

“Let me in!” I shouted. “I can protect you if you let me in!”

“No!” she said again, but it wasn’t directed at me. She said a name-it sounded like Cower, but that wasn’t quite it. “Please, no!”

A moment later she screamed, clutching at the pendant or at her chest. She dropped to the floor, her body convulsing, her head jerking from side to side.

“Ms. Bettancourt! Shari! Let me in!”

She screamed again, the sound strangled this time. I considered kicking the door in, but thought better of it. I didn’t think I could get to her fast enough to ward her from whatever magic he was using. Instead, I pulled my weapon and whirled, searching the street. I was frantic; he had to be close.

And this time I saw him.

He stood at the corner on the far side of the street and he bore little resemblance to the bald man I’d seen in my scrying stone the day before while standing on the spot where Claudia Deegan died. He had long white-blond hair and a thick beard, and he was dressed in tattered jeans, a t-shirt, and an old army coat. But as soon as I spotted him, I knew it was the same guy. He shimmered and wavered like a mirage on a desert highway.

He must have seen the recognition in my eyes, because an instant later I felt his magic turn itself on me. I tried a warding spell, but knew that it would fail. Desperate, acting more on instinct than on rational thought, I raised my Glock and fired.

My aim was true. I’m sure of it. In all my years as a cop, and even in my academy days, I’d been great with a pistol. But somehow I missed this time. Instead of hitting him square in the chest, the bullet struck the street sign above him and to the left. A deflection spell, probably. If he’d used reflection magic instead, I’d have killed myself.

He glared at me, pale eyes blazing like stars in a night sky. Then he turned and ran. I spared only an instant for Shari, who I could see through the narrow gap in her doorway. She lay crumpled on the floor, as still as death, her hands folded over her chest.

There was nothing more I could do for her. I whirled and ran after her killer.