The Isis Collar

8

What happened next was totally unexpected. Instead of fire and pain and a massive explosion, there was a warm, gentle breeze and silence and the trembling under my feet eased to a gentle sway. I slowly lowered my arms and looked at Rizzoli. He stared back at me, obviously baffled. Crawling out from under the steel table was a slow process because my calf muscles weren’t cooperating and I was watching the ceiling for falling objects. “Was that a quake or an exploding prisoner?”

Rizzoli’s brow was furrowed in confusion just before he frowned. “Neither. I’ve been inside this building during a quake. The floor reacts different. And he’s still there.” He stepped forward to the two-way mirror and used his jacketed elbow to wipe away some of the dripping fog on the glass.

The room was unchanged, except that both men were staring up at a spot near the ceiling that was swirling with multiple colors. I’d been thinking it had been Ivy in the room with us, because it’s nearly always Ivy who comes when I’m upset. But unless she’d discovered some interesting new tricks, this wasn’t her. Since my sister was only eight when she died, she didn’t learn very well and as a ghost, she isn’t very powerful.

This entity reminded me more of Vicki, who had been as powerful a ghost as she had been a clairvoyant. She not only retained her mind, she also could communicate by writing on glass with frost. But Vicki had well and truly gone to a better place. She’d sacrificed herself to close the demon dimension, and holy men from every faith had assured me it would send her straight to the greatest possible reward.

But they’d also said she couldn’t have been that powerful to begin with, so what did they know? There was only one way to find out.

“Vicki? Is that you?”

If it was her, she’d recognize my voice. The swirling colors stopped, and if a ball of energy can turn, it did. A loud popping sound made me step back from the glass. Windows and mirrors had often made that sound when Vicki wrote on them, because of the ambient temperature difference between room heat and frost cold enough to write. But these pops actually made the glass crack. And then letters appeared. Just two.

No.

That made me frown and Rizzoli turned to stare at me, possibly confused at my question, or at my expression.

“Then, what is your name?”

No.

That nearly made me laugh, because it was so absurd. I couldn’t tell if the spirit was being obstinate or if that was the only word it knew. It was powerful, to be sure, but maybe not so bright.

Think again, Celia, appeared in the glass, and with a sharp crack loud enough to make me cover my ears, the whole window erupted into a pattern of breaks that should have made it fall out of its frame. But the windowpane held and the words remained.

My jaw dropped, literally. Even Vicki couldn’t read minds and couldn’t do that to glass. What the hell was this thing?

“What does that mean?” Rizzoli had his head cocked, staring at the words like that dog in the old gramophone ads. “What are you supposed to think about?”

I didn’t know, so all I could do was shake my head.

I could see a dozen tiny versions of the prisoner through the wall of cracks, all of them staring at the mirror. For him, the words I was reading must be backward, so I’m sure he was struggling with aileC ,niaga knihT. No doubt he thought it was some strange sort of code. Or heck, maybe it meant something in his language. I wasn’t quite sure what alphabet he used.

I was still pretty sure that the prisoner couldn’t see inside this room even though his attention was certainly focused on the mirror. But then he let out a yelp and jerked his hands off the table. The other FBI agent did, too. Rizzoli and I both moved closer to the window to see what was up.

The cheap metal table in the lower room was smoking and a growing circle of glowing red had appeared on the surface. Black letters seemed to rise from within the molten tabletop.

Tell them or you will learn pain.

The prisoner huddled in a corner, holding a burned hand to his chest. He was clutching an object on a chain and muttering furiously with wide eyes. His gaze was locked on the words that had risen from the table altogether and now hovered in the air for all to see. The man was obviously terrified. I mean, I certainly was. I could see his pulse increasing in his neck and knew that if I was in the same room as him, he would smell of fear. I couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t exploded yet.

I found myself whispering in totally serious tones. “I’m not doing this. If you’re not doing this, are we going to be held responsible? Does the Geneva Convention even cover sentient non-corporeal beings?”

Rizzoli’s voice was likewise serious. “I don’t think Hell was a signatory.”

A low chuckle caught me unaware because it both came through the speaker from the other room and seemed to echo from behind me. The agent in the room did what he was supposed to do. He turned toward the entity overhead and raised his gun, backing around the superheated table to protect the prisoner. The agent tossed down several charm disks and barriers rose in a semicircle that separated their corner from the rest of the room. His sidearm was probably loaded with a similar combination of bullets to mine. The FBI is where I’d gotten the idea. I was certain he could fire through the barrier. But I had no idea if the entity couldn’t fire right through in return.

“Who are you?” I asked with bravado, like it would answer. It had already refused once. “What do you want?”

The voice that came was low and male and had a strength that a ghost simply shouldn’t have. There are other … beings that can appear without form, but they tend to be either really good or really evil. “You want answers but are hampered by … morals. I’m not.”

Well, okay then. The burning table sort of gave it away, but that certainly removed the last question. If it had a name, I didn’t want to know it now. “I don’t want the help of the demonic. I banished your kind because I want nothing to do with you and yours.” I knew not every single demonic entity had been banished when the rift collapsed. A number of people had already been possessed by then and not all of them had been found. But if one was actually following me … well, that was a worry. A big one. “Please leave now.”

Another laugh made the small hairs rise on the back of my neck. “I’m nowhere close to the demonic, Celia. But since you asked nicely … I’ll leave. For now.”

The demonic are well known to lie, so I just rolled my eyes and promised myself I’d be speaking with more than one expert in exorcism if I made it out of here today. I’ve already been exorcised twice, once to rid me of the taint from the vampire and the second to clear me of a link to a greater demon. But the death curse keeps the lines annoyingly open.

The sparkling ball of energy near the ceiling flickered and began to slide down the wall. When it reached about chest height, it floated toward the corner where the FBI agent stood behind the barrier, keeping his gun trained on the entity. The energy stopped outside the barrier, right where the prisoner was huddled. The captive held the object on the chain toward the sparkling ball as the barrier flared in response.

The agent fired once. His bullet went right through the entity and splattered against the wall. Clear liquid rolled down the cream-colored paint. If it was holy water it had no effect. That was confusing. More disturbing still was that the flickering and flaring of the magic barrier had finally ceased and words appeared—just like on the window and the table.

Only the truth can set you free.

Then the entity disappeared, leaving behind a smoking table, a ruined mirror, and two men huddled under a completely worthless magic barrier—because really, if a ghost … even a demonic one, could carve a message right onto the magic, it’s useless.

Of course, that phrase wasn’t something generally associated with imps and demons. Just the opposite, in fact. And add in the holy water pooling on the floor. Except there were the smoking table and flaming threats of pain to consider.

“Can we pretend you didn’t come to my house and start this day over?”

Rizzoli seemed a little stunned by what had just happened and let out a slow breath. “I will if you will.”

I nodded. “While we’re pretending, can I just be an ordinary human again?”

He chuckled and started walking toward the door and the promise of light and fresh air, both of which sounded really good to me at this point. “Sorry, Graves. My imagination’s not that good. I’m pretty sure you were never ordinary.”

I gave a snort of laughter and followed him through a maze of corridors that led to the outer doors. We got as far as the front sidewalk when his phone rang. The prisoner had started to talk again and they needed him upstairs.

I followed, even though I was fully expecting he was going to tell me to find a cab and go home. But he didn’t.

Apparently, the call had told him where to go, because he turned left when I turned right and I had to stop short to turn back. The new room was even smaller … just big enough for the two of us and the Asian agent who was now sitting at a recording studio control board.

“What do we have so far, Yao?” Okay, then. He was Chinese. I admit I’m not good at recognizing the facial differences in that area of the world. I need to work on that.

Yao didn’t turn his head to look at Rizzoli. He kept watching the scene unfolding behind the two-way mirror while he spoke. “The sketch artist is still with him.”

I looked through the window and it seemed like nothing was happening. The man in black was just staring at the petite white-haired woman. But both of her hands were moving fast across a pad on the table. I realized she was holding a pen in one hand and a pencil in the other. As I watched, an image began to appear on the page.

I must have looked confused, because Rizzoli leaned closer. “She’s a telepath. We don’t want to risk any more chances of blowing the guy up. All he has to do is think about his boss and Kristi will draw.”

My smile was automatic. “But she’s not just drawing, is she?” Unless the guy was unusually adept at shielding, I was betting the FBI telepath was gathering as much information about the man, his boss, and the plan as possible.

Rizzoli’s grin was answer enough. “We’ll know for sure soon.”

Kristi’s hands stopped moving and I expected that she was just going to stand up and walk out. I’d seen it before with telepaths. They’re not as social as you’d imagine. They often think they’re social, but none of it is verbal and they confuse the two inputs. But the Feds must train them better, because she tipped her head and stared at him with sympathy. “Do you want to tell me about it? You think she’s playing with fire, don’t you, Gavrail?”

My brow furrowed and it matched the other two men in the room. But the man in the room with Kristi simply sighed and shook his head. “She is … how you say in this country? Foolish prideful—she believes she is more than she is.”

“Egotistical?”

That made Gavrail put his hands on the table and tap fingers against the metal surface. “Yes. And no. She has power, but it is false power. And she makes poor choices of the use of the magic. Hurting children is bad, against the Maker’s will. They are innocents, but she considers them less than fleas. It is not womanly, not right.”

Part of that perked Kristi’s interest just like it did mine. “Why is it false power?”

Now Gavrail was less confident. “I don’t know. It … feels false. I don’t know, but I fear her. She does not have the caution born of training.”

Interesting. I poked Rizzoli in the arm. “Does she have an earpiece in? Could she ask him what makes him think she doesn’t have training? I’m wondering if it’s the same caster I encountered.”

Yao looked up and back. Rizzoli nodded. Yao asked and even though Kristi gave no indication, I could tell she heard. She tapped the picture significantly and asked a leading question. “Did you see her do something … foolish prideful that a witch shouldn’t do? Something that made you not want to work for her?”

The disgust on his face was immediate. “She forced an old man to put petrol in her car. Mocked him while she moved his arms this way and that. He was stooped and crippled, yet she smiled as he cried out. I have known sorcerers who are cruel, but they are not vicious without cause, for they know magic returns evil greater than it was sent. They do not risk foolish pride. She—” He spat on the floor. “That one knows no better.”

“I agree she is foolish about this spell. Can you tell me why you fear it so? What will it do to the children? Is it without a cure?”

Gavrail was so incensed about the old man that he started to speak. “It is a disease that—”

He stopped speaking suddenly and his eyes widened until they were bulging. Hands went to his throat as though trying to remove a rope that had tightened. I felt familiar magic slice through the very walls and Kristi was forced to put her hands to her temples with a sharp cry. For a long moment, nothing happened. But then Kristi stood up and walked toward Gavrail. Her hands raised and her nails turned inward. Gavrail didn’t try to stop her. He just stared at her, fear plain on his face.

But what I couldn’t understand was why Rizzoli and Yao were just sitting there. Were they waiting for something actionable? Personally, I like to prevent events, not wait for a crime to happen. That’s what bodyguards do.

I bolted from the room because I fully understood what Kristi was going through. At least it eased some guilt in me. After all, if a trained telepath was open to this woman, false magic or not, I’d done pretty good to get out alive. I was about to kick down the door to the interview room when Rizzoli grabbed my arm and pulled me off-balance. I jerked away and pushed him backward against the wall. He hit with a loud thump and a picture rattled on its hook a dozen feet away. “Don’t try to stop me, Rizzoli. She’s going to kill him if we don’t stop her. You don’t know how powerful this witch is.”

Rizzoli went very still and spoke softly enough that I had to stop moving just to hear him. “But we want to know. We won’t let Gavrail die, but we have to know if Kristi can fight off the influence. This is our spell containment room. We have magical sensors all over, tracking the magic back to the source. We can shut down the room if we have to—shield it to where even a level nine couldn’t get through. We won’t let it go too far. Just walk away, Graves. Don’t screw this up. I don’t want to have to arrest you or, worse, shoot you.”

I didn’t like it. Not at all. I didn’t doubt Rizzoli had a plan, or at least someone above him did. But I didn’t want to be party to someone dying, even if he wasn’t precisely innocent and I was only a party by being in the building. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at the door. Technically, I didn’t work for the Feds, which meant they could very well arrest me.

Or shoot me.

Damn it.

“If this goes badly, we’re done. Understand?” I turned and glared daggers at Rizzoli. “Done. I will hate you forever.”

His face went very still. “If this goes badly, I probably won’t be around to hate.”

I didn’t want to think Rizzoli would go over the line. He’s a good man. I really believe that. And I was exhausted. Diving under the table hadn’t done either my head or my leg a bit of good. So despite my misgivings, I went.