Gunmetal Magic (28 page)

Everything inside me hurt. I felt like I’d been chewed up by a beast with small sharp teeth. My bones felt so heavy, you’d think they were made of lead.

I didn’t want to go anywhere. I just wanted to lie there and fall asleep so I wouldn’t hurt anymore. But there were people dependent on me for answers and I wouldn’t get those answers by taking time out to rest. Besides, with the magic down, now was the best time to search the room. Who knew how long technology would last?

Come on, Ms. Nash. Get your ass in gear.

I forced myself to sit up. Doolittle had said no physical activity, but time was of the essence. I’d just have to take it easy.

I drove to Pucker Alley two blocks from White Street and hid the car in the shadow of a ruin. A vast, cloudless sky stretched above me, and the night was gauzy with curtains of silvery moonlight. Just my luck. I grabbed my duffel bag out of the backseat and pulled it open. It held my emergency kit: matches in a plastic bag, gauze, antibiotic ointment, Band-Aids, knife, roll of duct tape, flask of alcohol, bottle of water, an MRE—a Meal Ready to Eat courtesy of the United States Army—spare knife, rope, gloves, hat, and a towel. I had once read a book that said a traveler should always have one and it made a lot of sense.

I slipped on the gloves, hid my hair under the hat, zipped the duffel, and set off.

My forehead immediately began to sweat under the cotton hat. Hats and muggy Atlanta spring didn’t exactly play nice. But I’d suffer a little sweat to keep from leaving stray hairs at the scene to be found by PAD crime techs.

The street in front of Gloria’s Antiques looked very much the same, deserted and foreboding. No sign of the cops’ presence remained. I had figured as much. Atlanta was a busy city and the PAD was stretched thin. They’d likely resume processing the scene tomorrow.

My ears caught no close noises. White Street lay empty.

I approached the door. A large paper seal was plastered across the door and part of the door frame with a big red
DO NOT ENTER
on it. Most police departments didn’t have the budget for the infamous yellow crime scene tape. Ninety percent of the time, a sticker was the only indication of sealed premises. It wasn’t meant to physically prevent anyone from entering the scene. It was meant to give the cops proof of your intent to enter despite the seal.

I pulled my lock pick ring out of my vest pocket, sliced the sticker with the thicker pick, and slid it and its thinner twin into the lock.

One, two, three…
Click
.

I edged the door open, slipped through, and locked it behind me. The moonlight spilled through the windows, giving more than enough illumination to examine the scene where I had almost died. The snake woman was gone and so were the snakes. The dark smears of Gloria’s blood still painted the floor. Beyond them, the back door waited for me. I walked past the stains along the counter. The cops had probably swept the scene, but I didn’t want to contaminate it if they hadn’t yet.

The back door had a serious look about it. I rapped my knuckles on the door. Steel. Large lock, with a few fresh-looking scratches across the metal. The PAD must’ve gotten a locksmith to pop it open. I tried the door handle. It turned easily in my hand. The door swung open, revealing darkness. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, and slid my hand along the wall, groping for the light switch. My eyes did fine with little light, but this was complete blackness. No moonlight meant no windows, so nobody would see me.

The air smelled of jasmine, that same dark, entrancing, menacing scent I’d smelled before. My ears caught nothing. No sound troubled the silence except for my own breathing.

My fingers brushed the light switch. A row of recessed lights ignited in the ceiling. I stood in a long rectangular room. In front of me four rows of heavy-duty shelves stretched the length of the space, almost all the way to another door in the opposite wall. Odds and ends filled the shelves. A collection of beige stone spheres, ranging from the size of a grapefruit to as big as a basketball. A strange metal contraption with a tall metal rod in the center and two-feet-wide rings of metal threaded onto it. A dozen empty bottles, green, yellow, brown, and clear, were thrust through holes in rings, suspended upside down at an angle. A spear with a stylized metal flower for a guard. A lantern wrapped in chains. A fishing net hanging off a hook in the shelf. Clocks, a bust of a monkey carved from some dark wood, an ancient underwater helmet, a violin, an Egyptian cat next to brass scales, a Catholic priest’s vestments
with a purple stole…There was no rhyme or reason to it. No organization by type, no markings on the shelf.

A smorgasbord of junk, protected by an inch-thick metal door. That meant the junk was likely magic.

I squinted at the door in the opposite wall. A metal chain sealed it, locked with a heavy padlock. The PAD must’ve run out of time or experts, because from where I stood, the padlock didn’t look touched. I tiptoed through the gap between two shelves toward the back room.

The padlock featured a little black wheel. Combination-based. Great.

I grasped the chain and pulled. Little black dots swam in front of my eyes. My nose felt wet, as if I was bleeding.

The metal gave with a tortured screech, and the links of the chain snapped.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. No blood.

I pulled the chain out of the loops on the door and eased it open. A small office waited inside: a writing desk with a computer and a phone on it, shelves filled with files, and a tall glass cabinet. Inside the cabinet, a staff rested, caught between two metal hooks. It stood at least six and a half feet tall, its shaft of brown, aged wood polished to a smooth sheen. At about five feet high, the wood gave way to ivory that flared into a complex shape that seemed oddly familiar. A ferocious male face with a long mustache had been carved into the ivory, followed by rows of Cyrillic characters etched into the wood.

Cyrillic. I wondered how Roman was doing.

I moved to the desk and turned the computer on. It started with a quiet whirring. Code scrolled up on the screen, some sort of mathematical nonsense, and the log-in screen came on, requesting a password.

Let’s see. “123456.”

The PC beeped and the log-in refreshed with a warning in red. Denied.

“12345678”?

Another beep.

“Password.”

Beep.

Okay, fine. How about “password1”?

The screen blinked and Windows booted up.

Heh. One of the most common passwords, right up there with “Jesus,” “letmein,” and “Iloveyou.” I bet she’d thought she was brilliant.

I pulled up the recent documents. Two clicks and I stared at the picture of the knife from the photograph in Anapa’s study.

I leaned back. Something was vitally important about this knife. If Raphael was right and Gloria and Anapa were two independent players, that knife had to be truly something special. It looked so simple, time-worn, and almost brittle.

I sifted through the contents of the folder. PDF files. Yellowed clippings of news articles about Jamar’s collection. An interview with the building’s architect and next of kin after the Blue Heron fell. I hadn’t seen that one before.

They were uncovered, alright.

Magic punched me, strong and sudden. The world blossomed in an explosion of sharper scents and brighter colors. The computer screen turned dark. I raised my head to the sky and swore. There were times I really hated magic. This was one of them.

A small silvery web flared on top of the ceiling directly above me.
Uh-oh.

I jumped to my feet and moved away. Another web blossomed on the brick wall, expanding. A third bloomed to the right and above, yet another to the left and below…All around me glistening webs sprouted like wildflowers, stretching and growing. Within seconds the entire office was sheathed in a network of pearly slime, drawn in gossamer patterns across the walls and ceiling.

I moved toward the doorway and glanced through, into the
main warehouse. Iridescent webs hung in layers from ceiling to floor, forming curtains over the shelves, the walls, and the other door.

The office was sealed tight and I was trapped in the middle of it.

Staying trapped here wasn’t an option. Tomorrow the PAD would show up, and I would be arrested. They would be disinclined to take it easy. If I was arrested, I would be jailed and I’d go away for a while, and Jim would have a hell of a time trying to pick up my investigation where I left off. Killers would go unpunished, justice wouldn’t be served, and Nick would not get closure for the murder of his wife.

I needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

I took a pack of wooden pencils off the shelf and hefted it in my hand. If that stuff exploded, I’d have to duck and cover.

I hurled the pencils into the web. For a second, the small package stuck to the slime, and then the web around it shivered and wrapped over it, twisting and winding, over and over, until the pencils disappeared from view and only a thick cocoon of slime remained. The rest of the pearly curtain flowed, replacing the web that had been used up by the cocoon.

If I tried to bust my way through the walls or run through the slime, I’d be wrapped up like a mummy ready for burial faster than I could blink.

New plan. I pulled out my knife and worked a square of the parquet floor aside. Concrete. Great. Just great. That’s the second time I had gotten trapped after breaking and entering. Maybe God was trying to tell me that I should give up my life of crime.

I dug in my duffel bag and pulled out the small flask of alcohol. The chair yielded a leg, the medkit gave me the gauze, and once I soaked it in alcohol, I had myself a torch. I set it on fire and carried the torch up to the wall. The flame licked the slime. The web bit at the torch, jerking it, and I let go a fraction of a second before the slime touched my fingers.

The torch stuck to the wall, cocooned in webbing. Fire didn’t work. Fire pretty much always worked.

I looked around. Throwing something heavy at it wouldn’t do either—there was too much web and the walls were solid enough that I’d have trouble breaking through.

Think, think, think…

My gaze snagged on the staff.

I walked up to the desk and grabbed the phone. Phones were strange. Sometimes they worked during magic and sometimes they didn’t. The phone clicked, once, twice, and I got a dial tone. I fished a card out of my wallet and dialed the number.

“Ullo,”
a familiar Russian voice said, dripping fatigue.
“Yesli ehto ne catastropha…”

Well, it looked like a catastrophe from my end. “Hi,” I said. “This is Andrea.”

“Oh, hello.” A new life came into the voice. “How are you?”

“I’m great. Never better. Hey, listen, I have a staff here I thought you might be interested in. It’s about six and a half feet tall, part wood and part bone. There is writing on the shaft and a face with a mustache. Interested?”

Roman fell silent for a second. When he came back on the line his voice was calm. “Can you read the writing?”

“Some of it looks like runes and some of it is Cyrillic. Let’s see, the top one under the face looks like backward number four, then e, then p, then something that looks like capital H except it’s lower case…”

“Are you holding the staff now?” Roman’s voice was still very calm.

“No, it’s in a case.”

“Do not touch the staff. It’s a very bad staff.”

“Noted.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the back of a warehouse. I broke into it illegally, and I’m now trapped by some strange ward. Looks like spiderwebs made out of slime. If you were to come and help me with the web, the staff is yours.”

“Give me the address.”

I recited the address.

“I’ll be right there. Don’t touch the staff. Don’t touch the web. Don’t touch anything until I get there.”

I hung up. The dark scary servant of all evil was on his way to rescue me. Somehow that thought failed to make me warm and fuzzy.

I had just finished going through the last box of documents, when the door across the warehouse opened, and Roman called out, “Andrea?”

“In here,” I yelled. “Don’t touch the webs!”

I got up and walked to the office doorway. The large warehouse space with the shelves stretched before me, shrouded in the curtains of the web. I could barely see him. From where I stood, he was merely a gray silhouette in the opposite doorway.

“Okay, okay, I got this.” The silhouette muttered something in Russian. A dull roar issued from Roman’s direction.

Roman’s voice rose, chanting, mixing with the roar.

The webs shuddered. The curtains bent toward Roman, turning concave, as if pulled backward.