Labyrinth (Book 5) (9 page)

I watched for another moment, compelled to learn more even as I felt sickened by what I saw. Until something buzzed and burbled against my hip, insistent and getting louder. . . . I shook myself, dropping the loop of memory. It whipped away into the floor, fading until I could no longer see it in the mist that was receding as I struggled back to normal, pestered to the surface of reality by my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. Chaos rumpled about in my shirt as if she, too, had been shaken from a daze.

I took a few cautious steps away from the corner death had occupied, groping for my phone as I set my feet only where they would leave no significant marks. I squatted down and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you? You’re running late. The patrolmen are heading back around your way.”

It was Quinton. I took a couple of relieved breaths before I answered. “How long till they’re here?”

“Five minutes to sight of the office, I’d say, coming from the north on the opposite side of the street.”

“OK. I’m on the way out. See you at the truck.”

If I got out fast enough, I could stay to the darkened side of the building below the freeway ramp. They wouldn’t see me until I crossed the street.

I wanted to look around more and try to figure out what the electrical cables were for, but that was not an option: I didn’t know if the cops would inspect the office building again, hang around the bars across the street, or what. Quinton was taking a risk watching them at this point. They’d notice him if he kept it up. I had to be gone before they came down to this end of the block. I slipped into the Grey and found my way out through another balmy ghost of a summer day, onto the darkened asphalt beneath the freeway.

I strode out, keeping the building between me and the path of the policemen until I was a long block down. Then I crossed the road, timing myself between two trucks that rattled along the dray-haunted street with the sound of a dozen car wrecks. I nipped down the block until I was below the old Georgetown City Hall building and checked back up the street for the cops.

No sign. They must have stopped in a shadow or a doorway farther up the road—probably talking to the bouncer of one of the clubs. I made my way around by the long route to the lonely row of houses facing the plastic playfield.

The old man was still on his porch, but he didn’t pay me any mind this time, his odd aura keeping close as I made my way to Quinton and Grendel, strolling along the edge of the fake grass. The ferret took the first opportunity to abandon the snug confines of my clothing for the luxurious complexity of Quinton’s coat pockets.

“Find anything?”

“Some pretty disturbing stuff,” I replied. “Not something the cops could use as probable cause for a search, though. And,” I added, casting a glance toward the strange old man, “I’d rather discuss it elsewhere.”

Quinton nodded and we piled back into the Land Rover and headed away from Georgetown, looking for sign of any tail as we went.

NINE

“L
et me drive.” “Huh?” I replied, glancing at Quinton. He raised his eyebrows at me. “I said, pull over and let me drive. You’re thinking too much.” I’d been letting my mind churn and was paying less attention to the road than I should have. But I still didn’t like the implication. “Are you saying I’m driving badly?”

“No. I thought you might prefer to do just one thing at a time. Although with these two along, shotgun has to play battlefield negotiator too,” he added, scritching Grendel behind one ear as the dog stuck his head through the gap between the front seats to sniff at Chaos for the dozenth time in as many minutes. The ferret made a hissing noise and gaped her teeth at him.

My face cramped from the depth of my frown. Maybe I shouldn’t drive after all. . . .

I pulled over and traded places with Quinton, taking the ferret and putting her into my purse on my lap, which made her bolder. Chaos crawled out at once and up onto my shoulder so she could lord it over the dog from the height of the backrest. Strangely, the dog seemed to think this was much better, too, and laid down with his head on his paws, heaving a sigh. Apparently Grendel was perfectly happy not to be top dog, so long as he knew who was. That reminded me of the vampires’ pack mentality and I felt myself scowling again.

Quinton put the truck back in gear and pulled into traffic. We hadn’t even discussed where we were going: We were just driving.

“So what is it you’re thinking?” he asked.

“That I caused Simondson’s death.”

“What? I’m sorry you think so, but that’s a load of crap.”

“Maybe, but it’s still what I’m thinking.”

“You are not responsible for the death of anyone who ever touched you or knew you. People die. You aren’t responsible for your dad’s death, or that cousin you mentioned, or your ex-boyfriend who called up and put the current game in motion—”

“Cary did not start this. He’s not even involved.”

“Except to call you and say cryptic things.”

I stared at him. “Are you jealous of a dead man?”

“No, and that’s not the topic. The problem is you sound as if you’re blaming yourself for this guy’s death.”

“I am.”

“Don’t. You didn’t do it.”

“But he wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t been involved with me.”

Quinton made an impatient noise. “He wasn’t involved with you. You were investigating him and he went off the deep end and beat you.”

“But he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t been . . . bespelled and coerced by Alice and Wygan.”

“I don’t necessarily believe that.”

“I saw a loop of memory. I saw Goodall break the spell.”

“But can you be sure the spell compelled Simondson against his will?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t think you can. You don’t know what that spell did, only that there was one. And are you certain that any spell could compel a man into an action that is totally against his nature and inclination?”

“I’ve pushed on people myself, compelled them to answer questions and even pushed them into actions—”

“That they already had reason to do, or words they were already thinking, or ideas they had already formulated.”

And I suddenly wasn’t so sure of my guilt or of the things I’d done. What
had
I done?

“This guy wasn’t the nicest, straightest shooter to begin with, you know. What were you investigating him for again?”

“Fraud—which is not a violent crime.”

“Was that all he did?”

I had to think back a bit to remember—two years had passed since then, after all. It hadn’t been a major case in my mind at the time. Not like a pretrial investigation for a murder case or a rape.

Todd Simondson had embezzled from his dead wife’s estate, stealing from his stepdaughter’s inheritance. He’d done it for years after his wife died—longer than he’d had any legal right to be administrating her estate—by intimidating and manipulating his stepdaughter so she never challenged him. He hadn’t been a nice man; he’d been vain and greedy and emotionally abusive, for certain. But off the top of my head, I couldn’t remember if my client had ever said he’d struck her. She’d implied that he’d hastened her mother’s death, but there’d been no evidence of foul play; the woman had died in the hospital of a blood disease. The sort that creates bruises and freakish bleeding. I creased my brow as I thought harder, wondering if some of the bruises might have had some help in getting there. Simondson had certainly kept his stepdaughter quiet for a while and perhaps his methods crossed over into the physical. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely against solving his problems with women in a violent way.

If Wygan, through Alice, had led Simondson to believe that I and my investigation were a physical threat to him, that I was dangerous, that it was all right to fix the problem by putting me in the hospital . . . maybe he hadn’t been disinclined to do violence and the spell upon him had only encouraged him to go too far once he started. Most people, no matter how pissed off, wouldn’t have slammed an antique elevator’s security gate on another person’s neck. Especially after they’d beaten that same person’s head against a wall first. He hadn’t seemed like a violent guy when I’d approached him, but I hadn’t been looking into his proclivities in that direction; I’d just been looking at his creative financing.

I still had some doubt. I didn’t want to think that I’d been the cause of his death—no matter how deserving—or of anyone else’s. Even if it might be true once in a while, I didn’t think I could live with myself if I thought I had the literal touch of death.

“So, you don’t think it’s my fault, even though Wygan and his crew killed Simondson,” I said.

“Did they?”

I nodded. “Yeah. The bit of memory I got to see definitely showed me Wygan and Goodall were involved. I don’t think Goodall was in at the beginning—he wasn’t even around that I know of—but he’s playing on Wygan’s team now. And there’s something really weird about him....”

“Aside from the vampire thing?”

“Well, he’s not a vampire, at least not any type I recognize. But he’s something close. And there is something very odd about his energy. I think,” I added, considering the way I’d seen Goodall rip into the web of magic on Simondson, “that he’s got some kind of power. I’m not sure what he is or what the magic does, but I saw him touch the spell and most people can’t even see them. But I don’t think he cast it in the first place. . . . I don’t see how that works, timing-wise, since I never met him before a few weeks ago. If he’d been in the mix then, I’d have expected to at least stumble across him back when—”

“You were killed.”

I took a couple of deep breaths before I nodded. “Yeah.” Now I was confused. I wished I knew more about the spell that had been on Simondson and what Goodall had done to remove it. It had hurt and that didn’t seem to be true for most spell-destruction. At least it had never seemed to be the case when I dismantled a spell, but I rarely had anything to do with spells cast on people, so I wasn’t sure. I needed to talk to Mara; she could tell me more about the spells and maybe what Goodall was.

But that wasn’t going to solve the question of my guilt in Simondson’s death. And regardless of that, it was still Goodall who’d been the direct cause. I wanted to get my hands on Goodall and Wygan, not just because of what they were doing to me but also for what they’d done to Simondson and my father. And wherever I found one of them, I was pretty sure the other would be nearby.

“Umm . . . why do I think you’re planning something dangerous?” Quinton asked.

“Because you’ve gotten used to the face I make when I’m pissed off. I have to go after Wygan and Goodall. The sooner the better. They might not know I’ve gotten ahold of Simondson, and the faster I move, the less time they have to guess what I’ll do.”

Quinton pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything about how stupid I might be or what the risk was. That was one of the things I loved in him: He didn’t lecture me or tell me not to dive into things. If he had information or questions, he spoke up. Otherwise he let me do what I had to.

“You want me with you?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s strictly my gig. I wouldn’t mind having you nearby, but the Danzigers’ is close enough and we need to go there anyway.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. We need to drop off the pets before I go do something stupid.”

TEN

Q
uinton drove in loops and meanders up to Queen Anne Hill, checking for anyone watching the Danzigers’ house or the approaches. “You’re sure you don’t want us along?” he asked. “Sure? No. What I’d like is an army at my back, if I’m being honest. But that won’t really help and it will help even less if I lead the only people who can save my impulsive ass into a trap with me.”

“
Do
you think it’s a trap?”

“No. I don’t think Wygan and Goodall have had time to adjust to our disappearance. They know I’m out here somewhere, but vampires—especially Wygan—are arrogant and they may not have any contingency plan in place for my coming to them so soon without having been nabbed by their cronies first. Also—” I cut myself off.

“Also what?”

“I don’t think they know.”

“Know what?”

I waved my hand through the air as if wiping my words out. “Sorry, I’m going to hold that for now since I’ll have to explain it to the Danzigers, too. Just bear with me a few minutes.”

Quinton shrugged. “OK.”

We found a safe place to leave the truck, in a small parking lot near a tiny grocery store, and walked the rest of the way. There was a slight risk in us walking together since either one of us was probably recognizable to most of the vampires in Seattle by now and both of us together was a sure ID. Still, we were better as a team in detecting the bloodsuckers from a distance: I could see and smell them and Quinton had been tinkering with yet another Grey detector system. We had to go a bit out of our way but once again made it through the back gate to the Danzigers’ house safely—at least as far as I could tell. No one had renewed the spell I’d defused earlier so the way was open.

Brian was still abed, so there was no noisy reunion between boy and dog. Grendel looked disappointed as Mara met us at the back door.

“Ah, you’re back in one piece I see.”

“For now,” I replied. Grendel whined to come in and find his playmate, but we left him to guard the backyard instead. Bowls of food and water quickly replaced the boy in his affections—at least for a while.

Mara led us through to the living room where the drapes were, uncharacteristically, drawn closed. Ben was seated in a comfy chair, reading a thick tome in German. I know less German than I do Spanish—which is about enough to curse at people and ask for a beer, the bathroom, and my hotel keys—but I could still recognize the words for “ghost” and “paranormal” so I assumed it was more research for his book. He looked up as we entered.

“Hah! I found a reference to the asetem outside Egypt! So this is not the first time they’ve gone afield. But, here’s the interesting bit: They never travel without the direct order of the Pharaohn and they always have servants.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I’ve noticed most vampires have servants of some kind to protect them during the daylight hours. I met a sort of . . . fish man in London who was enslaved in some way to the vampire I was looking for.”

“But most of those are servants of opportunity—demi-vampires and the like. The asetem make theirs quite specifically.”

“Are you talking about the kreanou?”

“Kreanou?” Ben frowned. “I’m not sure. . . . What is that?”

I blinked at him, surprised I’d come up with something he didn’t know. “They’re, uh . . . sort of super-vampires. They’re incredibly fast, single-minded, and vicious. They can change shape, too, a little. But they are driven to hunt and destroy the vampire who made them. Some kind of rare mistake, I gathered. Sort of fury incarnate that dies once it kills its creator.”

They all stared at me. “Well, that doesn’t sound like a useful servant at all,” Mara said.

“No. I think they’re usually something vampires fear,” I added and explained the kreanou I’d encountered in London.

Silence ticked a moment after my tale ended. “Uh, no, I don’t think this is the same thing,” Ben said. “The book calls them ‘ushabti’—it’s the same word as the funerary statues of servants meant to attend the dead in the afterlife—and attributes some magical powers to them—limited, but still powers. Did I tell you the asetem are magical?”

“Yes, you did. What kind of magic?”

“Mostly small magic, illusions and emotional manipulations, but the Pharaohn has a few bigger powers, chiefly generative. He’s the only one who can make another asete or an ushabti.”

I narrowed my eyes in thought. “What are these ushabti like?”

“Unfortunately the book isn’t specific about that except that they can move around in the daylight. And it doesn’t say how they’re made or destroyed, just that they are ‘servants by life and by blood.’ Or that’s the best translation I can make. This is a pretty old book and the writing is a bit . . . eccentric.”

“So the asetem and their servant went to Germany once?”

“Looks that way. You know the Nazis were big collectors of antiquities, but they weren’t the first group of Germans to be interested in that sort of thing. Various Germanic states and institutions stuck their paws into the collection of ancient mystic artifacts. Apparently one prince or another ...” He looked down into his book for a moment for more information but had to shrug and continue after a fruitless moment. “Well, it’s a little unclear who, but someone managed to piss off the Pharaohn and he sent a small cohort into the area to exact revenge, with an ushabti to protect them. According to this book, the asetem did it in remarkably bloody style—even for vampires—which isn’t too unusual for them since they thrive on strong, negative emotions like fear and panic. They did things like flaying people alive and killing their children while they watched—”

I felt sick and, judging by the others’ faces, I wasn’t the only one. I held up a hand. “I get the idea. They committed atrocities.”

“In a word. And when they were done, they packed up and disappeared.”

“Literally?”

“Well, no. They went back to Egypt. The Pharaohn doesn’t squander his people—they’re too rare. But they probably didn’t worry too much about their ushabti once they got home since he wasn’t an asete—at least if I am reading this correctly he wasn’t. And I don’t see how he could have been; the asetem don’t have any daywalking abilities among their magical powers and they wouldn’t convert one of their own and then throw him away.”

“But their servants do have some powers? How does that happen if the ushabti aren’t asetem? Regular vampires don’t usually wield any magic. How do these guys rate?”

“One skill the asetem do have is sensing magical ability in others. Which might explain how the Pharaohn found you and your father in the first place. The . . . subject’s powers remain intact after conversion to asete, apparently.”

I was getting an idea, but it was also confusing me on another point I’d thought I had. “So they know what powers people like me have?”

“I don’t think so. I think they just know there’s a power there. To know which one, they’d have to observe for a while. I’m guessing here, but that seems the likely scenario.”

“And that would also explain why Wygan didn’t make a move to force me into his plan earlier. He had to wait until I did something he recognized. It also confirms something I was thinking—” I turned and glanced at Quinton. “This is what I didn’t say in the truck—I don’t think most vampires have any idea what powers I have or that I even have any at all. I don’t think Edward knew what I can do until he got information from others and made guesses that were often incomplete and presumed more on my investigator’s skills. I don’t think the asetem—or even the Pharaohn—know exactly what I can do. Wygan only knows what direction he’s pushed me in and he won’t be certain he’s succeeded until I show him or he pushes again and sees what I do.”

Quinton closed his eyes and nodded, putting the pieces together to his own satisfaction.

“Carlos is probably the only vampire who has any idea at all. And I have no way of knowing how good his idea is,” I continued.

“So y’need him as an ally,” Mara suggested.

“Let’s hope I don’t. I’m not sure how safe I’d be standing between Carlos and any offer of power.”

“True,” Mara agreed. “He can be a right greedy bastard.”

I grunted in thought: These ushabti had some kind of magic. They weren’t vampires or asetem, but they had some traits in common; they could walk in the daylight and were the servants—tied by blood and life—to the Pharaohn and his asetem. A servant . . . I knew who that had to be. “So . . . that would make Bryson Goodall Wygan’s ushabti. But I don’t think he always has been. Edward wouldn’t have let him close.” Now I thought I understood why Goodall had said, “Things change.” Not just things but him, too.

The Danzigers looked puzzled and I had to explain who Bryson Goodall was.

“Certainly if he was workin’ that closely with Edward, he couldn’t have been Wygan’s ushabti,” Mara said.

“But he was Wygan’s spy. So maybe the ushabti thing came later,” I suggested.

Ben looked crestfallen. “I don’t know how the conversion is done or what state the candidate has to be in first....”

“That doesn’t matter right now, but the fact that I know it might.”

In spite of my long rest earlier, I felt a little tired either from my exertions at the brewery or just in anticipation of what I was yet to do that night. I sat down on one of the pale green couches near the hearth. No fire was lit, but it was the most Grey-silent part of the whole room where the only ghostly noise was the distant electrical hum of the power grid. Quinton sat down next to me and slipped my closest hand into his own warm, grounded grip. I took a slow, clearing breath, savoring the moment of peace.

Mara perched on the arm of the chair next to her husband and they leaned together without thinking. A small, pink corona swirled between them. I hated to break the surface of contentment, but I spoke up anyway, knowing I had to get on with my plans soon. “If Goodall is Wygan’s ushabti, that would explain how he was able to pull away the spell on Simondson. Or rather, he’s Wygan’s ushabti
because
he could do so, once trained.” Mara and Ben looked startled. Quinton just squeezed my hand a little. “I think Wygan’s been a busy master while I was in London.”

I explained what I’d seen at the brewery office, how Goodall had been present at Simondson’s death and what he had done. “If he’s the ushabti, then his ability to break the spell—even knowing it was there to break—makes some sense it didn’t before. He didn’t seem very comfortable with it, though I’m not sure if that’s lack of experience or what. I would like to know what the spell was doing to Simondson before it was removed.”

Mara frowned. “Without seein’ it myself, I can’t say.”

I shook my head. “That’s not quite what I mean. What I’m really interested in is whether the spell could have caused Simondson to do something that was entirely against his will and inclination.”

“Some can. But it would have to be a very powerful compulsion indeed. The greater a subject’s resistance, the more force must be applied.”

“Like the inverse-square law?” Quinton asked.

“Well, perhaps not quite quadruplin’ the force as you halve the distance, but ’tis something like that, yes.” Mara smiled a little. “But a working that compelling would be complex and not so simply torn away when y’were done with it. It would need dismantling.”

Quinton turned his gaze to me, but he didn’t say anything. Certainly not “I told you so,” and yet I didn’t feel much better about Simondson.

“It didn’t look complex. Maybe I only saw the end of the process. We don’t know that Goodall couldn’t have taken a more complicated spell apart.”

“That we don’t,” Mara agreed, “but ’tisn’t likely. If he had such skills, surely you’d have noticed. And I’m thinkin’ Wygan wouldn’t want an ushabti with too much power runnin’ about while he’s dozin’ of a morning. Bit of a paranoid control-freak, isn’t he?”

That I would have to concede. “But the hole in the temporaclines—doesn’t that argue for some greater power? I’ve never seen them just broken up like that in a recent timeline. Someone tore that bit of history out of the Grey there.”

“Not necessarily. Was the Guardian runnin’ ’round it?”

“No. There wasn’t anything there except the
absence
of anything.”

“If it wasn’t attractin’ the Guardian’s attention, then it’s only a local break, not a chronic one. More likely the effect of someone bein’ hasty in the Grey while tryin’ to cover up their mess in the normal world. Settin’ the garden on fire rather than pullin’ up the weeds.” She snorted in disgust. “The Grey’ll repair itself there, in time, but they’ve made a bloody bags of it in the meantime.”

That, at least, made me feel I might not be walking into a nest of vipers—just one really big snake and his pet asp. “So you think,” I started, “that he might not really know what he’s doing . . . ?”

“He must know he’s touchin’ magic, but he may have been ignorant of what or how he’s usin’ it. Judgin’ by the wreck you say he’s made, he’s not experienced at the very least. Likely he’s just followin’ Wygan’s instructions and muddlin’ through on instinct. If he never knew he had any touch of the Grey before this, it must be comin’ as a bit of a shock now. Just think of yourself two years ago.”

I nodded. “All the better reason to move now, before anyone gets wiser.”

“Move?” Ben interjected, twitching hard enough to dislodge Mara from the arm of his chair.

I patted the air, trying to calm Ben down, but I knew it was useless. “Yes. Simondson’s ghost gave me a clue about what might be happening to my dad. And if I can figure it out, I can let both ghosts go free. So I’m going to go up to the station and see what I can get out of Wygan and Goodall that might help me find my father and Edward and ruin whatever plans the Pharaohn has for me. Right now they think they have all the cards. If I can surprise them, shake them up, I might be able to get some information out of them before they can do me any serious harm.”

“ ‘Any serious harm’?” Mara repeated. “Y’can’t mean to confront them so soon—y’don’t know anything, certainly not what they’re up to.”

“I do know that if they were ready to capture or kill me, they’d have done it earlier. Right now they only want to manipulate me and keep me off-balance. If they had grabbed me, they’d have to keep me, and that means guards and magical restraint and keeping me isolated and under control. Obviously they can’t or aren’t ready to do that yet. Probably they’re spread thin with other preparations. So I still have some grace period. If I hit them now, they won’t expect it and they may tell me something useful, if I can shake them. Maybe I can even do
them
a little damage for once. If I keep dithering around until the conditions are perfect, they never will be. A preemptive strike makes more sense in this situation than waiting. I will not allow them to think they have the upper hand.”