"All Molly has is the same basic folklore we heard," I said to Adam when I got off the phone. "A line of women, raised to kill witches, go on a murderous walkabout when they reach adulthood, then return to live normal lives and raise their daughters to do the same. They have no supernatural abilities. It's all training. Ideally, they never even face their victims, just kill them in a way that looks like an accidental or natural death."
"Such as injecting them with poison while they nap. Or pushing them in front of a truck."
"That last one was lame. It wasn't even a very big truck. I think someone just wants to get a second notch on her belt and go home. Maybe if we see her again, we can make a deal. I'll play dead. She can snap photos. Everyone's happy."
"She may have decided you're more work than it's worth."
"I've heard that before," I said. "Usually from guys. I'm high maintenance."
"Nah. I've had high maintenance. You're just stubborn. And opinionated."
"Don't forget difficult."
"That goes without saying."
I smiled. "Well, as tempting as it is to hope this girl will give up on me, it only means she'll latch onto another witch, one who won't see her coming. Which is why we need to stop her."
Before we left, I downloaded the office general in-box. With everything else going on, it'd been a few days since I'd retrieved it.
"Seventy-eight e-mails?" I said. "I think our spam blocker is broken."
It wasn't. Either a well-connected supernatural had been at Jaime's show or the sorcerer was spreading the story himself. Over half of our in-box was notes from supernaturals wanting to know what the agency was doing about this exposure threat. Or what the interracial council was doing about it. Or what the Cortez Cabal was doing. We were one-stop shopping for all three.
"You start at the top and I'll take it from the bottom," Adam said. "File the ones just asking for news and we'll mass e-mail them a chill-out note. Hopefully some have news themselves."
E-mail after e-mail asked "what's going on?" and "what's being done?" Damned few offered to help, that's for sure.
In the human world, I could understand that. When threats emerge, you turn to the police and military and expect them to fix it because that's what your taxes pay for.
But the council is strictly a volunteer organization. It's an interracial policing and mediation body made up of delegates from the major races--Paige for witches, Adam for half-demons, Jaime for necromancers, Elena Michaels for werewolves, Cassandra DuCharme for vampires--plus a handful of others who help out, like me and Hope. We'd attracted cash donors as we'd become more effective, but they weren't the ones demanding to know what we were doing about this mess.
The e-mails that made me laugh the most, though, were the ones contacting us as a shortcut to the Cortez Cabal. Lucas did play a role in his family's Cabal, now that two of his brothers were dead. But demanding that the Cabals take action was like pounding on the door of a multinational corporation during a terrorist threat, asking what they planned to do about it. Yes, the Cabals would be concerned, but not because Joe Nobody wanted answers. If this activist or group posed a threat to business, they'd shoot them down . . . and shoot Joe, too, if he happened to be in the line of fire.
"No way panic is spreading this fast on its own," Adam said. "Not after one sorcerer starts shouting in a concert hall. I don't think this is one guy. It has to be a group pushing for us to expose ourselves. A movement. They had the sorcerer pull this stunt, now they're using it. Fanning the flames hoping to scare up converts."
"Easy way of letting supernaturals know there is a movement underway. Why pay for billboards when you can harness the power of the Internet?"
He paused as he read another e-mail. "Well, they may have already tried more traditional means. The guy who sent this one heard that a few activists were distributing flyers last week. That definitely suggests we may be dealing with a group, not one crazy guy."
"Damn."
"On the bright side, it may be a smaller group now. Those flyer distributors? They were handing them out to employees near Nast headquarters. According to this guy's sources, they haven't been seen since."
"Cue the ominous music. Need an evil scapegoat, blame my family. Very unfair, notwithstanding the fact that they're usually responsible."
Adam laughed.
"I have one that claims the Pack ate an activist in New York State," I said. "That's what they get for coming around Stonehaven with their recruitment flyers. Clay must have mistaken them for Jehovah's Witnesses."
"I had something similar in my pile," Adam said. "Except mine was about killer vampires."
"Figures. If you want to stir up a big pot of panic in the supernatural world, convince them the werewolves and vampires are on a rampage. Oh, wait!" I skimmed an e-mail. "Our group has a name. Thank God. I was thinking I'd need to give them one, and it wouldn't have been pretty."
Adam leaned over. "The Supernatural Liberation Movement? Please tell me that's a joke."
"Nope. It's pinging matches in a half-dozen e-mails. Apparently, they don't have anyone with marketing experience on their board of directors or they'd have gone for Supernatural Liberation Army Movement. Then they'd have a cool acronym. Oh, hell, I say we just do them a favor and fix their name. SLAM it is. And that's what we'll do to them."
seven
It's only an hour flight to Portland, but security procedures mean it's often quicker to drive--or at least it's more convenient. So we drove the rental car back to Portland and returned it there, then we packed bags of fresh clothing, grabbed some supplies from the office, and caught a plane to the next stop on my information gathering tour.
I'd told Adam we were going to see another of my mother's old contacts. He didn't ask for details; he never did. While he'd met most of the folks in my black book, this was someone I'd only visited once since my mother died, and not with Adam.
When we opened the door to her office, it jangled to the tune of "Jingle Bells." A miniature train set--Santa pulling cars filled with presents--chugged around the room. The waiting area smelled of peppermint and pine. That probably had something to do with the bowls filled with candy canes and potted dwarf conifers festooned with lights.
"Someone's really late taking down the decorations," Adam said.
"It's Las Vegas," I said. "Cheesy is encouraged. Holly loves Christmas. She says it makes people happy. Happy is good."
"Holly?"
"Yep. She told me once that she'd been damned tempted to marry a guy named Chris Kringle even though he was eighty and had breath that would kill a cat."
I grabbed a candy cane and wandered over to her consultation room door. Beyond it, I could hear Holly talking to a client.
"Beware the man with the empty green eyes," she intoned. "He is looking to fill his soul by stealing from yours."
I glanced through the partly open door. The dark room was lit only by candles. Pumpkin pie candles, by the smell. At a tiny table, the client--dark-haired, in her twenties--sat with her back to me. Across from her was a white-haired woman with eyes just as white, staring blindly into nothing.
Holly Grayson, shaman by birth, psychic by trade. Not that she had any ability to see into the future. No supernatural does. But like every good shaman, she had an ayumi--a spirit guide--who could spy on clients and learn enough about them so she could then "predict" their future. Holly wasn't as altruistic as Jaime, but she wasn't all bad either. I'm sure her client should beware the "man with the empty green eyes," likely a lover with those eyes fixed on her bank account.
Holly flipped over another tarot card. I'm not sentimental, but I have to admit, the hanging Santa kind of freaked me out.
"I see a life in suspension," Holly said. "You fight against the stasis. You sway, side to side, struggling to get free, to move on."
"I'm frustrated," the woman said.
"Which is the problem." Holly tapped the hanging Santa, her blind eyes staring straight ahead. "You are too eager. Embr
ace this time of suspension. Relax. Take a step back and look--truly look--at your choices."
The session came to an end after a few more cards and the young woman rose, leaning across the table to clasp Holly's hands.
"Thank you. You have such a gift."
Holly smiled beatifically. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But he is always generous. If given the choice, I would give up my vision again for the gift of the second sight." She rolled back from the table, her electric wheelchair purring. "And my legs for the chance to step into the lives of others, and make a difference."
I went to cast a cover spell, remembered I couldn't, and quickly waved Adam back into the corner with me. I don't think it would have mattered. The young woman was so caught up in her own thoughts she walked right past us.
Adam arched his brows as I tiptoed into the room where Holly was gathering up her tarot cards.
I slid behind Holly and said, "Boo!"
She almost jumped out of her wheelchair. Then she swiped out the white contacts and peered up at me.
"Your mother used to do the same thing," she said. "Cruelty to the disabled apparently runs in the family."
"No, we're just trying to teach you a lesson. If you're going to play a blind woman, spring for the semi-transparent contacts, so you can see if someone's sneaking up on you."
"But if I can see, then I'll look. And if I look, then they'll know I'm not blind." She tugged me over and held me at arm's length. "You look even more like your mother than you did last time I saw you. Prettier eyes, though. Just don't tell her I said that."
There was a noise across the room, and she glanced over to see Adam.
"You must be the Vasic boy," she said. "I've met your father. Can't say it was a pleasant encounter. He wasn't too happy with me." She lowered her voice. "I was causing a bit of trouble at the time."
"Must have been quite a bit of trouble if you managed to get Dad away from his books."
"Oh, I don't mean Robert Vasic. I mean your real father, Asmondai, who appears outside his domain even less often than Robert. And when he does? One really wishes he hadn't."
Holly gestured to her chair. "He's responsible for this. I don't blame him, though. I was young and arrogant, and it was a lesson I needed to learn."
She waved for me to pull another chair up to the table. As we sat, she picked up her tarot deck and shuffled through, fingers discreetly rubbing the edges, looking for the one she wanted. When she found it, she flipped it over.
"The high priestess," she said. "Mystery and duality. Hidden meanings. You've come to me on behalf of a friend with one foot in the world of the dead. Yet I see her addressing masses of the living. She's speaking to them when she's interrupted by"--she flipped another card--"the fool. A man who thinks he speaks the truth, but babbles nonsense."
"News travels fast," I said. "Yes, Jaime's show was interrupted by a crazy man last night. That's not why I'm here, though."
"No?" She arched her brows. "Perhaps you don't think it's why you're here. But the cards never lie."
When I opened my mouth to steer her back on track, Adam cut me off.
"It's not why we came," he said. "But if you know something . . ."
"I know many things. About this . . . not so much. But let's just say that if the council launches an investigation, I won't be unhappy to see it. This kind of nonsense pops up every now and then, and it seems to be coming back into vogue among the young and disaffected."
"So you think it's more than an isolated case?" I asked.
"It usually is. Supernaturals, mostly youths, band together and carry out their little uprisings. If you check your council records, you'll note the last one was in late 2001. Before that, 1990, then 1982 . . . See a pattern?"
"Periods of social and economic unrest," Adam said. "And now we're going through another one, it's starting up again."
"And it will be squelched again, by supernaturals themselves. These youths are like the lone fur protester at a fashion show. No one's interested. They just want him to shut up and sit down. This time, though, they're being a little more aggressive in their approach." She glanced at Adam. "Do you know Walter Alston?"
"I've heard the name," he said.
Holly laughed. "How very circumspect. You should take lessons from your friend, Savannah."
"I don't need to. That's why I bring him along. So this Walter Alston is a nasty guy? Someone Adam's dad knows?"
"He's a demonologist," Adam said.
"But not the same kind as your dad, I take it."
"No, exactly the same kind. He was one of my father's students. Also a former priest and half-demon. Walter Alston takes a more active approach to the study, though."
"Raises demons, rather than just reading about it."
Adam nodded. His expression gave away nothing, and he had chosen his words with care. It was fascinating to watch, especially when I could remember a time when Adam had been just as forthright and volatile as me. In private, I'd still see that side, but put him into a council situation and it was like dumping a vat of ice water on his fire. He became the perfect diplomat, cool and calm. And it was a good thing he'd learned the knack, because I sure as hell hadn't.
"So how bad is Alston?" I asked.
"He's not bad at all," Adam said. "He's an expert in his field."
"Ha-ha."
Holly cut in. "They call Walter the anti-Robert. Everything Robert Vasic stands for--understanding demons, treating them with cautious respect--Walter disagrees with. A typical student rebelling against his mentor's teachings. If you want to make a deal with a high-ranking demon, he's your man. He'll summon it and negotiate a bargain . . . for a price. A very high price."
My heart sped. An expert in the art of summoning powerful demons? The kind of demon who could take away--and return--my powers?
Adam glanced over. I tried for a poker face of my own, but knew I hadn't managed it.
"So you think Walter is connected to this new movement?" Adam said. "From everything I've heard, he doesn't sound the type."
"He's not. Apparently, two people came to him a week ago, wanting him to contact a lord demon. He named his price. They started preaching at him, going on about how supernaturals shouldn't have to hide their powers, how the time is right, the stars are aligned, the omens are in place." She fluttered her hands. "New Age crap. I can't believe people fall for it."
I looked around the room, at the tarot cards and astrology charts and scrying bowls. "No, I'm pretty sure you can believe it."
She smiled. "Which makes me an expert in recognizing it. Walter, too. We're old. We have no interest in such nonsense. We know how dangerous exposure could be. He wasn't buying what they were selling, but if they wanted to buy what he was selling, they could do business. Apparently, though, they hoped he'd summon the demon as a donation to the cause. He sent them packing."
"What demon did they want to contact?" Adam asked.
"I have no idea. That's Walter for you. He's a stickler about client confidentiality. Has to be, in his business. Though that doesn't stop him from calling up his old friend, Holly, and bitching about it for an hour. No names. No details. Just general old geezer whining."
Adam looked at me again, then said, "Can we talk to him? See if he'll tell us any details?"
"I doubt he will. But I'll give you his address. I'm sure he'd love a visit from his archenemy's son. It'd give him something else to bitch about."
eight
Holly took us into her apartment for coffee. I was eager to pump her for leads on the witch-hunter, but one glance from
Adam warned me to cool it. He was right. No one likes it when friends pop by for a visit, only to get what they came for and leave. That goes double for old people.
So we had the coffee. Gingerbread spice. I'm not much for flavored brews, but it was a damned sight better than the candy cane one she poured the last time.
"Do you remember Wanda Mayo?" I asked. "A witch friend of my mom's?"
"Witch acquaintance," Holly said. "Your mother didn't have friends."
"You were her friend."
"Perhaps." Her cheeks flushed faintly, like she hoped that was true, but hadn't dared presume. But Holly had been as close to a "friend" as my mom got. As a child I'd met very few of my mother's associates. She kept that part of her life private to protect me. Every time we passed through Vegas, though, we'd stop in to visit Holly. When she'd reached out a couple of years ago, I'd been genuinely happy to hear from her.
"And Wanda was your friend," I said. "When she died, you sent a message to the council, saying you thought she'd been killed by a witch-hunter."
Holly's blue eyes snapped at the memory. The council had been polite, but they'd refused to investigate. That's when Paige's mother had been in charge.
The council record of Wanda's death was barely a paragraph long, noting the date, the complainant, the nature of the complaint, and the grounds for refusal, namely that witch-hunters didn't exist.
Now I got the full story.
Wanda had been living in Tucson. She was a dark witch who'd dabbled in the black market. The kind of supernatural that the council wouldn't harass, but wouldn't be particularly sorry to hear had passed.
In the week before she died, Wanda complained to Holly that she was being followed. No proof. Just a feeling. Then Holly came home to a message on her answering machine from Wanda, who said she'd finally caught a glimpse of her stalker. It was a girl, barely out of her teens. Wanda snapped a picture and faxed it to Holly, to pass around her network, see if anyone recognized the girl.
Holly called back to discuss it with Wanda. No reply. When Wanda didn't return messages for two days, Holly sent her ayumi to Tucson, where he discovered Wanda dead in her bathtub, the victim of an apparent slip and fall.
"Which was ridiculous," Holly said. "She had osteoarthritis. Bending her knees for a bath was torture. She'd had a fancy separate shower installed."
"I don't suppose you still have the photo she faxed you?" Adam said.
She did.
If the mousy girl in the photo wasn't related to my witch-hunter, I'd . . . well, I'd say I'd give up my spells, but it was a little late for that.