Page of Swords (The Demon's Apprentice Book 2) (10 page)

There were markings around the edge of the circles that made something in the back of my memory twitch. Each circle had the same symbols in different places. I rolled my sleeve up and looked at the fading Lemurian blood tattoo I'd carved into my right biceps almost a year ago. No symbols crawled along the outside of the miniature circle.

“What the hell!” Collins said. “Kid, how am I supposed to keep you out of this as a suspect with shit like that tattooed on you?”

“As a former insider who left the cult, one who is offering to turn his knowledge of its inner workings to its downfall,” Vortigern offered smoothly.

I arranged the photos in front of me and looked at the symbols again, then rearranged them.

“Is this the right order?” I asked Collins.

He shook his head and reversed the second and third pictures. “That's the one we found in January, and then the one from February.”

“Right. Mars was in retrograde until the end of February. These are planetary symbols. The darker ones set the circle's place in time from when they were done, and these empty ones, see how they're all the same? They must be where the planets are going to be later. Like . . . when the whole ritual's done. This is part of something bigger, a ritual that's still going on. ” I looked up to see Collins' face go dark.

“What kind of ritual?”

“I don't know. A big one. If Julian's death is a part of it, then it's got at least one more piece to go before it's done. Big rituals like this usually have nine or thirteen parts, and they don't go off quietly. They're messing around with reality, so you get the standard 'portents of doom' thing going on as they get closer to being finished.”

“Like hordes of locusts and raining fire?”

“Yeah, like that. Lots of warning.” I gave him a mocking smile.

A knock sounded on the door.

“I take it this is sufficient to clear my client?” Vortigern asked with a perfunctory smile.

“Yeah. I'll ask to have him declared as a confidential informant. We can keep his name out of the public records between that and him being a juvenile.” As he collected the pictures and closed the folder, as the tapping came again on the door, this time more insistent. He crossed to the door and yanked it open.

“The kid's mom's here,” a new voice said. “And she's pretty pissed.”

“First you, now my mom. Who called you, anyway?” I asked Vortigern, after Collins left. The door was standing open, which pretty much meant the interview part was over. I got up and headed for the doorway, and he followed.

“The police. Mr. Zucherman called the last contact number he had, which was that of your father's attorney. He appears to have informed your juvenile officer of your new representation, to wit, myself. I, however, did not contact your mother. Even I am loath to incur the wrath of a protective Romany mother without
very
good cause.”

“So, what do I owe you for this?”

“In mundane terms, this is
pro bono.
I am merely protecting my investment. There will come a time when you return the favor.” He was smiling when he said it, and that bugged me more than any price he could have named.

Mom and Dr. C were waiting for us at the exit. I knew right then who their occult expert was. I also knew he was the same guy who had called my mom. Mom was in a pair of black sweats and a white t-shirt, with her hair pulled back into a thick ponytail that hung down to the middle of her back. She had her purse slung across one shoulder, a big hand-woven monster made with black, blue, and green yarn in alternating rows. Dr. C looked only a little rumpled, in tan cargo pants and a light jacket over a blue polo shirt. He had an overstuffed satchel slung over his shoulder, probably filled with books. Collins was talking to them as we came to the thick glass door.

“Look, when we get out—” I started to say, but Vortigern was no longer at my side. “Now that wasn't just creepy,” I muttered to myself as I opened the door.

Conversation stopped as I stepped into the lobby. Three pairs of eyes turned to me, and I got the feeling I had been the topic of conversation. And of course, Mom had to choose that moment to give in to her maternal instincts.

“Son, what happened to you?” she said as she swooped in on me.

My mom's mothering wasn't the usual wadded up tissue or fussing. She reached out and put her fingers on the left side of my face, her thumb on my chin, and tilted my face so she could see the scrapes.

“I fell,” I told her as her right hand probed the raw skin. I tried not to wince, but it hurt like all Hell.

“Mm-hmm,” she said. In mom-speak, it meant she didn't believe it, and I was expected to know it and be suitably chagrined. Her head only turned slightly, but I felt her gaze slide off of me and fall on Collins. “What really happened to my son, Mr. Collins?”

“It would have to be like he said, Miss Murathy,” Collins replied. “Cuz if he got those scrapes while he was running from the police, we'd have to charge him with resisting arrest. Your son is too smart to do something like that.”

He slid my backpack off his shoulder and handed it to me. Mom frowned as it shimmered into sight for a moment. He made his excuses and headed back into the depths of cop-land, leaving me between Mom and Dr. C.

On my own.

Coward.

I looked at Mom, who stood few inches shorter than me, and felt like she had a foot on me. She shot a sharp glance over my shoulder at Dr. C, then she turned the full weight of her glare on me.

“All right, son. You tried it your way and ended up in jail. Now you're going to do it Mom's way. I don't want to get called away from the house again this weekend. Am I understood, young man?” She was trying to sound like she was scolding me, but the worry I heard in her voice was worse than any ass-chewing she could give me.

“Yes, ma'am,” I told her. Again, her eyes went to Dr. C, and I wondered just what they'd been talking about before I came out.

“For the rest of the weekend, you are grounded. You're to be at Dr. Corwyn's researching the Maxilla, or at home eating, sleeping, or helping with chores. Nowhere else. Trevor, you are not to let my son leave
your
sight unless he's where
I
can see him. If he's not trying to find what he's supposed to be looking for, he should be doing whatever other lessons you have for him, or something else that builds character and isn't fun. Do
you
understand me?”

“Of course, Mar- I mean, Miss Murathy. Chance will be very productive this weekend, I can assure you.”

“He'd better be. I will see you at home, young man,” Mom said. Her hand came up to my face again, and she shook her head. “What am I going to do with you, son?” she said with a sigh. She cupped my cheek and pulled me forward to plant a quick kiss on my forehead before she turned and walked for the glass doors leading outside.

I turned to Dr. C.

“All right, let's go. We have a great deal to do tonight.” He led the way out to the parking lot and his beat up green Range Rover.

The ride back to his place was quiet. Between being mad at myself for worrying my mom and still being pissed at Dr. C for revealing what I was to her, I didn't have much to say. I watched the rest of the world slide by my window and wondered if I wanted to be out there, or what.

Chapter 9

~ To know, to will, to dare…to keep silent. ~

Oath of the Magi.

Most people seem to think being a wizard is all about casting spells and being cryptic, but, really, most of it is really
boring
. A big chunk of it is research. Reading old books, cross-referencing them against other books, and then double-checking all of that against other sources. Then, for the big finish, writing down your own conclusions in your own journal, detailing what you did and how you did it so that someone else can repeat the process with your notes in a hundred years. Yeah, I was in for a glamorous life. That's why mages get invited to all of the good parties.

The thing is, it worked. There was a lot of useless crap to sift through, but I ended up learning a lot about the Maxilla. It had a history that went back a long way. I'd never heard of it while I belonged to Dulka, and for good reason. An old Arab mage from back before the Romans were a big deal found out that it could kill a demon for good. I'd never heard of anything that would actually kill a demon up ‘til then. The most a mortal could ever do to a demon was send it back to whichever of the Nine Hells it was originally from. That tended to piss them off, but it wasn't much more than an inconvenience. Not the Maxilla. It just flat
killed
demons. Dead for all time. No wonder they didn't talk about it. Religion didn’t seem to matter, either. No matter which of the Nine Hells they came from it killed them just as dead.

Not all of the sources I found agreed. A Greek scholar said that only a holy warrior could use it, but one of the early Phoenicians talked about it like anyone could use it. It had popped up in the hands of heroes of most religions, from the early Greeks to the Mesopotamians, even before the Hebrews told the story of Samson. All the sources I could find in Dr. C's library did agree on one thing. No matter what name you used for the Divine, the Maxilla was the concentrated wrath of God, straight up Old Testament-style ass-kicking in a box. It had brought down kingdoms, allowed warriors to kill dozens of men in battle on their own, and slain some of the scariest-sounding monsters I'd ever read about. It had only fallen into the hands of agents of Hell twice. Both times, it had been found somehow, and heads had literally rolled. But while it was lost to Hell, the world had really, really sucked. The first time had been before the rise of Lemuria, and the second time had kicked off the fall of Rome. No pressure.

But all of that was about the sword's past. What I needed was its present. The best source for clues on that was going to be in the journals of its last guardian. Dawn was about half an hour away when Dr. C handed me a thick, leather-bound book with the previous year stamped in gold on the front, and the title “Journal, Sydney Chomsky.” My chest went tight and my jaw clenched as I ran my hand over the leather cover.

I'd known Mr. Chomsky for about a day before he was killed by a rogue werewolf. It happened a few days after I had escaped from Dulka, and I'd been pretty screwed up. Not the usual teenage angsty version, either. I was verging on the homicidal maniac brand of dark and twisty, with an unhealthy dose of low self-esteem for good measure. Okay, I was
still
pretty neurotic, but now I was just moody and hard to get along with. I could pass for a normal teenager most days. Mr. Chomsky had managed make me feel like I was worth something in only a few hours. He'd made me feel like I wasn't just a warlock. His death had also given me a purpose when I really needed one. It was kind of disturbed, but I've only ever seen normal from a distance anyway.

Reading his journal was going to be like getting to know an absent, idolized father. It was tempting to start at the beginning, but I had a job to do. I started at the back, and hit paydirt almost right off. The last entry was dated the same day I started at Kennedy High School, and mentioned the sword by name. I went back a few entries and found another one, and started there, in the hope that it would help me make some sense of the last entry:

Thursday, October 15: The Maxilla has awakened. I know of no other way to describe it. Had I not been its guardian for the past thirty years, I would have missed it. But there is no mistaking the eldritch glow of the blade, nor the pulse of pure, divine power emanating from it. If my theories about the blade are correct, it has just called a Seeker. That can only mean one thing: it will be needed, and soon. There are divinations that will reveal more, but at the moment, I must admit I am afraid. The Maxilla hasn't called a Seeker since 1938, and then even the death of Heidler's Demon was not enough to keep the entire world from plunging into war. What threat is so dire that the sword needs a Wielder now?

The date was the day before I escaped. I fought down a sense of panic, and wondered if someone somewhere was spouting off some cryptic warning about the slave who was not a slave passing through fire to walk among men, who would walk without walking or something equally hard to understand until it was too late. The next entry was two days later:             

Saturday, October 17: My sources tell me that the representative from Samael and Berith who arrived here three months ago was on the move last night. Could this have something to do with the fire at Truman High School last night? It sounds like I need to make a trip to the Underground tonight and put my ear to the proverbial ground. It's been too long since I had a taste of Patrick O'Gill's darkling ale anyway.

Sunday, October 18: Note to self: stop at six pints. The headache is worth it, though. And not only for the ale itself! Word traveled fast, and what word! Someone has been spreading it about that the demon Dulka, whom I had long suspected of working here, was beaten last night in a magickal duel of some sort, by its apprentice, no less! All of this is rumor and suggestion, but I think that before long, the demon is going to start spreading a new story that will help it save face. If that happens, I will be sure that the first story is the accurate version.             

Addendum, 8:00 PM: The Council has already sent word to be on the lookout for the fugitive, and has labeled him as a warlock. I disagree with their ruling. Polter will undoubtedly be pleased, but I have to wonder if an apprentice who beat his master is as bad as they think.

Monday, October 19 (barely): I have been awakened from a sound sleep by the activation of the external wards on my sanctum. I will set wards in the neighborhood tonight to mark anyone who is watching the house. If they are in close proximity to me, I will know. For now, the Maxilla is safe.

The last entry was the day I met him, and I had to take a second before I could go on.

Tuesday, October 20: Whoever is seeking the Maxilla is no mage, of that I am certain. The wards were activated, and the aura of the person who tripped them felt . . . familiar.  Addendum: This day was particularly frustrating and heartbreaking. All day, I felt the ward marks nearby, but I could not pin them down. Finally, during my fifth period class, I felt them strongly enough to feel certain I was in the same room with the would-be thief. I also sensed the taint of the Infernal Realms in my classroom, and wondered if my new student might be the culprit. Unfortunately, he wasn't.

              I have rarely been so saddened as I am now. The boy, Chance, must be the 'warlock' the Council is seeking. Despite the fact that his aura is tainted by dark magick, I sense that he is not evil. He is deeply scarred, wounded in ways that make my heart break to imagine. That a mere child should be subjected to things that could so deeply stain his soul . . . we failed him. The Conclave is supposed to stop this sort of thing before it happens. Not hunt the victims down years later to punish them for what we let them become. He is bright, but woefully ignorant in so many ways. I can see the glimmers of a gentle, good spirit in the boy, hidden beneath the armor he has built around himself.

             
The identity of the would-be thief is no less distressing. Alexis Cooper, one of our most talented athletes, bears the marks of my wards on her aura. The girl is a cheerleader! She plays on the volleyball and basketball teams! She seemed to share the interests of many of her classmates, however juvenile and shallow those might be. How can she be involved with this? I will set a tracking spell on her this afternoon, and see where she leads me.

5 PM: I can't stand by and let the Conclave have this boy. I have to give him the chance to redeem himself. If only to satisfy my own guilty conscience, I'm going to take him as my apprentice in secret, and see if he might be able to make something of himself.

The last words played across my mind like the last few steps before jumping off a cliff, and suddenly, it was like Mr. Chomsky had died all over again. The book closed in front of me, and Dr. C pulled it out from under my numb hands. While his back was turned, I scrubbed the back of my hands across my eyes and tried to look like I was all business again. He put the heavy leather-bound tome on the desk and took a moment to clean his glasses before he turned back to face me.

“Well, that was almost useful,” I said dryly. The sniffle at the end killed the smart-ass in that comment, and pushed it toward the borders of teen angst. My eyes itched and my brain felt like my head was two sizes too small for it.

Dr. C covered his mouth like he was going to yawn, and the next thing I knew, my jaw was cracking in a yawn that I thought was going to swallow my head.

“It's a start,” he pronounced while I was trying to shake my head clear. It only took me a few seconds to get that he was talking about all the research I'd just done. “I think it'll have to do for now. Let's call it a night. Get your backpack. I'll take you home.”

Yeah, home. That place where Mom was pissed at me. Maybe I could just walk on broken glass or chew some razor blades. It would hurt less.