"Are these real?" I asked.
"Depends on your definition of real." Hope glanced out the door, making sure May wasn't coming back. "Like that dried-up hand. The Hand of Glory. I've heard that some real witches and sorcerers use them, but that one's a fake. Fake in the sense that it's not really magical. Not fake in the sense that...well, it's a real hand."
I glanced at the shrunken head.
"Yep, that's real too," she said. "As for how I know that, let's just say I have it on impeccable authority."
"A vision?" Jeremy asked as he sat down.
She nodded. "Completely freaked me out the first time May brought me in here. I was sucked right into the Amazon and watched the former owner of the head lose it."
"That's your power, isn't it?" I said. "You see..."
"Death, destruction and all that fun stuff. Other half-demons get a special power without a demon's attraction to chaos. That attraction is all I get. Raw deal."
She said it lightly, but her expression wasn't nearly so flippant. I thought about that--walking into a place where someone died and not seeing a ghost, but flashing back to the death itself. Seeing it. Hearing it. Smelling it. Living it.
Maybe seeing ghosts wasn't so bad after all.
MAY INTRODUCED us to Rona Grant and Zack Flynn, and explained their backgrounds.
Rona Grant was a medical researcher, one of the founding members of the group. In the eighties, when she'd considered a career in psychiatry, her mentor had specialized in satanic-cult memory retrieval. In other words, he'd take patients with a specific set of presenting factors and "regress" them, where they'd discover they'd been child victims of satanic ritual abuse. What Rona saw in those sessions had made her uncomfortable enough to do some research of her own, and she'd become one of the leading proponents of the "false-memory syndrome" theory, which says that our memories, far from being representations of fact, are a mix of fact and fantasy. The work of Rona and others proved that most of the memories of these satanic-cult victims were, in fact, therapy-induced fantasies.
Zack Flynn was a newer member, not much older than Hope--the L.A. Times journalist she'd mentioned. His claim to fame had been a series of investigative reports, uncovering a pair of fortune tellers whose seemingly harmless business working the psychic-fair circuit had masked a multimillion-dollar identity theft ring. His area of expertise didn't seem likely to help us, but seeing him sneak sidelong glances at Hope, after May made sure they sat together, I could tell Hope's mother's society friends weren't the only ones playing matchmaker.
May had already explained our cover story to the others--which was that, having seen many cases of "paranormal abuse" myself, I was considering a documentary on the subject. While my area was spiritualism, my backers wanted to include more sensational topics, like ritual abuse, animal sacrifice--even, perhaps, human sacrifice. What I was looking for, then, was local groups who either laid claim to such things or were rumored to engage in the practices.
"An excellent subject," May said. "And welcome exposure for our cause. As titillating as such topics are, it is too easy to vilify innocent people. Wiccans, for example, are some of the most peaceable people I know, yet they're reviled as witches. And don't even get me started on the misunderstandings about the church of Satan. Even reasonable people who hold no prejudice against Wiccans and other pagans would hide their cats and babies if a satanist moved in next door."
Rona said, "Which is not to say that there aren't people out there practicing animal sacrifice and such. It does happen. As for who you could talk to..."
The three brainstormed a short list of contacts. Most were not practitioners, but experts or former practitioners with groups known or believed to practice the "darker arts." As shortcuts went, this one was more safe than short--circumventing the dangerous underbelly of the pseudoparanormal world. That underbelly was where we'd have to eventually go, but there was no way to tell these people that--not with the cover story we'd given.
We took the names, chatted for a bit, then thanked them. May gave us her phone numbers and offered to help in any way she could. As May and Rona led Jeremy and me out, I glanced back at Hope. She was laughing at something Zack said, and waved us on. In the lobby, May and Rona headed down to the underground lot while Jeremy and I went out the front door.
"Should we wait for Hope?" I said.
"We'll start walking. I expect she'll be along soon."
"Guess she's not seeing Karl Marsten anymore, huh?"
He glanced at me, brows knitting. "Oh, you mean..." He nodded. "As for Karl, I'm not certain she ever was involved with him. Whatever their relationship, they're still in contact. In staying behind to chat with that young man, I think she has something other than romance in mind. Did you notice when they were giving us the list? He clearly wanted to add something, but was uncertain."
"Missed that completely. I was busy jotting down names and groaning over the thought of doing all these interviews."
He chuckled. "I don't blame you."
"So you think the group's hiding something? Something they didn't want Zack telling us?"
Jeremy shook his head. "My guess is it's a wild--"
"Jaime?"
I turned to see Rona hurrying up behind us. Jeremy arched a brow my way, as if to say that Zack might not be the only one who hadn't spoken up inside.
"Sorry," Rona said as she caught up, her large form shaking as she wheezed from the exertion. "I wanted to give you my card. May can be difficult to contact at times--especially on court days."
She handed us each a business card.
"Please don't hesitate to contact me if you have questions or if you just want a sounding board. The paranormal can be a confusing area to navigate, and a guide is always useful."
"I'm sure that's true," Jeremy said. "Thank you."
When she left, Jeremy watched her go, then steered me into a coffee shop. "Let's take a seat in the window and watch for Hope."
HOPE PASSED the coffee shop window a few minutes later, as Jeremy was still waiting in line. I waved her in. Jeremy called her over to get her order, then joined us with take-out coffees. We headed outside.
"Did Flynn tell you whatever he was holding back in the meeting?" Jeremy asked.
"You picked that up too? You should be a reporter. Yes, Zack has a source he wanted to pass on, a shady one--and probably an unreliable one."
"Which is why he was reluctant to mention it in front of the others."
She nodded. "May is trying to give us respectable contacts. This guy is anything but. His name is Eric Botnick. Straddles the line between serious practitioner and wannabe. He runs an occult shop and heads a group that calls itself the Disciples of Asmodai. Not affiliated with any known faith practice. Into some...questionable stuff."
"How questionable?" I asked.
"Mainly sexual. Definitely not to be confused with Wiccan or tantric sex magic. This is hard-core S & M. Emphasis on submission and dominance. Group sex with bondage, flagellation and bloodletting. It's supposed to release magical energies."
"Uh-huh."
"Exactly. The whole thing sounds like an excuse to indulge in some hard-core fetishes. But Zack says Botnick is very serious about the magic angle, even if his group members may be there to scratch other itches."
"Any link to children?" I asked.
"As far as Zack knows, the Disciples are all consenting adults. While they haven't found any cause for concern, the group keeps a close eye on them. Zack says May has it in for Botnick."
"She thinks he's into something darker than consensual bondage?"
"Zack seems to think May just doesn't like that part, but May's never struck me as the closed-minded sort. Live and let live, I think she'd say...unless she suspected not all the women in the group were as consenting as Botnick claims. Then she'd be all over it."
"Ah."
"Now, with the cover story you gave, it's this Disciples of Asmodai group that Zack thinks might interest us. But what I think you'll f
ind more interesting is something else about Botnick. One of Zack's informants in this underground told him that Botnick's been promising his group that something big is on the horizon. He's been hinting at a major breakthrough. Something about powerful magic. True magic."
I choked on my coffee. Jeremy patted my back.
"Sorry," Hope said. "I should have prefaced that by saying it sounds like a better lead than it probably is. According to Zack, Botnick has serious credibility issues. The guy's been promising his followers this 'true magic' for months. Zack thinks it's just a ploy to keep disgruntled Disciples from leaving the flock. He hasn't even mentioned it to May and the others--he had an embarrassing experience last year when he gave May a hot tip about Botnick that went nowhere and she was not pleased."
"Still sounds like something we need to check out."
DISCIPLES OF ASMODAI
HOPE FOUND WORK AND HOME ADDRESSES for Botnick. Jeremy, with his new prepaid cell, headed out on a tracking expedition. He invited me along, but I figured I'd only get in the way. Hunting was his area. I'd stay behind with Hope as she dug up details on the contact names the Ehrich Weiss Society had provided us.
We went to her office. No need to worry about being caught researching S & M cults on an office computer--in Hope's line of work, she'd get commended for putting in the extra effort.
No one else was working overtime. The office was barely larger than her apartment, and not nearly as clean. It stank of burned coffee, stale burritos and overflowing ashtrays that shot a middle finger to the state's workplace smoking ban.
There was one semiprivate room, presumably for the editor. In the main area, a central table was covered with papers, printers and fax machines. Four to six desks were crammed along the walls--it was tough to tell the exact number, the way papers spilled from one surface to the next, and cables snaked everywhere.
As we picked our way through the cable jungle, Hope explained that few of the staff worked from the office. Most spent their days on the streets, tracking down the latest celebrity infidelity or plastic surgery rumor.
We'd just settled in when Jeremy called to say he'd found Botnick closing down his shop. He'd follow him and see where he went.
When I hung up, Hope was tapping away at the keyboard. I glanced at a stack of papers. The top one looked like an edited printout of an article with her byline.
"Mind if I...?" I waved at the article.
"Enjoy. Oh, and I think we need to bring that particular case to the attention of the council right away. Definitely threat potential."
"Demon transmitters in breast implants?"
"Hey, at least it's not alien transmitters. You have no idea how sick I am of aliens--sightings, implants, abductions...it never ends. But demons? That's a lot rarer. Obviously the whole 'impregnating human women and creating a master race to take over the world' thing isn't working out for them. If I'm the best they can do, the apocalypse is in serious trouble. As a backup plan, controlling large-breasted women isn't too shabby."
"Start with subliminal messages in Hustler. Work your way up to Playboy...I can see it."
"If anyone can bring down the politicians in this country, it's hot women with breast implants."
I laughed. "Any more tips for the council in here?" I asked, pointing to the stack.
"Nah. There's a piece on a body found with fang marks. Cassandra and Aaron suspect it's a vampire's annual kill. They're investigating, and will give the careless vamp a slap on the wrist, but they told me not to bother killing the story. Corpses with fang marks? Passe. And even if my editor had wanted me to investigate it for a full-blown article, I could convince him it wasn't worth the inches. That's mostly what I do--not so much suppressing real supernatural stories as downplaying them and, in most cases, like this one, even that isn't necessary."
"Must be an...interesting job."
She grinned. "Oh, come on. Say it. Cheesy is the word."
"You're talking to a woman who pretends to contact the dead and returns the same message every time. Cheesy is my life."
"Fun, isn't it?"
I smiled. "Yes. Yes, it is."
We talked about her job as she continued to search for information, multitasking like a pro. After a half hour, Jeremy called again to say he was outside Botnick's home. He'd keep watch for another hour or so, see whether this was just a pit stop or if the man was settling in for the night.
At nine-thirty, Jeremy checked in. Botnick--who lived alone--had eaten, and was now in front of the television. As it looked likely he was home for the duration, Jeremy decided it was a good opportunity to take a closer look at his store. He asked me to pass him to Hope.
At his request, she zoomed in on an aerial photograph of Botnick's shop, then relayed its layout and potential entry points.
"So you're doing a little B & E?" she said. "Too bad Karl's in Massachusetts."
She paused.
"Ah, Arizona this week, is it? Glad someone knows where that man is. If you need him, though, you tell him to haul his ass over here. Whatever job he's pulling, he doesn't need the money and this is more important." She tapped at her keyboard. "Speaking of help, could you use ours? We can be there in--"
She paused. "No, I understand, but I could help. Karl's taught me a few things about casing a place--strictly for information, of course--and I'm sure the extra eyes would come in handy."
Another pause. She nibbled her lip, eyes down as she listened.
"I know, but I'd love to help, risks or no risks. Hey, if things do go wrong, I'll even take the fall for you. I'm an ambitious tabloid reporter--no one's going to question why I'm breaking into a place like that. Plus, it's experience, right? If I'm helping the council, I need to build up my arsenal of skills, legal and otherwise."
There was a note of puppyish pleading in her voice. She reminded me of Paige--always in the thick of things, taking any risk to help others. Frustrated from hours of research, I found myself sharing her enthusiasm, even seconding it loud enough for Jeremy to overhear.
After a moment, she grinned at me, flashed a thumbs-up, then handed back my phone. "He wants us to meet him in the lot behind the shop in ninety minutes. That'll give him time to find a way in first."
She turned back to her computer, continuing down the list.
"So Karl Marsten is giving you break-and-enter tips?"
"Against his will. He doesn't like me doing stuff like that. But we have an agreement. He teaches me B & E and I cook for him. You know werewolves." She grinned. "Feed them well and feed them often, and you can win any argument."
I wished it were that easy with Jeremy. For him, food was just fuel. Which was okay with me, because cooking--like most domestic skills--wasn't one of my strong points.
"So I guess you and Karl are together?"
"Nah. Just friends." She printed off a page. "That's strange enough. I'm a half-demon with delusions of crime fighting. He's a werewolf jewel thief. Logically, we shouldn't be able to stand one another. But as a friendship, it works." She hit "print" again, then pushed back her chair. "Okay, let's see what we've got."
WE WERE eyeing the clock when Hope's cell phone rang. As she glanced at the display, she cursed under her breath, hesitated, then seemed to think better of it and answered. A string of "uh-huhs" followed, her shoulders slumping with each one.
After listening to the caller for at least thirty seconds, she said, "Could this wait until morning? I'm hot on a trail tonight--"
Pause.
"It's still in the early stages, but it's about ritual magic--"
Pause.
"I know we covered that new Voodoo club opening last month, but this is different--"
Pause. She closed her eyes, sighing softly.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure a 'Bigfoot in L.A.' story doesn't come along all that often but--"
Pause. A deeper sigh.
"Okay, I'm on it."
When she hung up, I said, "Bigfoot?"
"Apparently he's been spotted cutting through an
alley near a nightclub."
I paused. "I hate to break it to you, but it's probably--"
"A guy promoting a new movie? Or 'Monster Pizza'? I know. So does my editor. It doesn't matter. The point is that multiple witnesses claimed to have seen Bigfoot. That's indisputable. So I go out, interview some stoned clubbers, collect grainy cell-phone pictures of the monster and write it up under the headline 'Bigfoot Spotted in L.A.?'"
"I see."
"It's the question mark that makes the difference. We're not saying he was in L.A., just that the claim was made."
"Uh-huh."
"Tabloid journalism: where the truth comes with many loopholes, and we know how to exploit every one of them."
She turned off her computer. "The club is on the way to Botnick's place. We can share a cab. I'm going to whip through this monster story, then fly back to help you guys."
I HAD the taxi driver drop me off a block from the shop, just in case Botnick reported the breakin later. As I scanned the road, lined with pawn shops and massage parlors, I realized I was being overcautious. Breakins in this neighborhood wouldn't warrant more than a police drop-in. Even if someone did canvass the taxi companies' drop-offs, I looked suspicious only in that I didn't seem like someone seeking a late-night body rub. Giving them maybe.
My clicking heels echoed like a siren's call to would-be muggers. I walked slower, trying to muffle the sound. Rather than fret over being dropped off too close to the scene, I should have been considering the wisdom of wearing high heels to a break-and-enter.
Behind me, a car rounded the corner, engine revving. I walked faster. The entrance to the shop parking lot was less than a store length away. Better to get there before the oncoming car reached me or I might suffer the humiliation of being mistaken for a hooker within earshot of Jeremy. I did up a button and walked faster.
"Jaime?"
I jumped. Jeremy stepped from an alcove, hand going to my arm to steady me. I rapped him with my knuckles.
"We're belling you. I swear it."