Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles, Book Two) (11 page)

“Sawyer,” Elyssa said, and it came out as a breathy whisper. “How nice of you to join us.”

“Oh,” Kieran said, “it’s you. Elyssa was just about to kill me.”

“He was…” she started.

“Do you really think I don’t know?” Sawyer responded. “Or that I would care in any case? Let’s dispense with this nonsense, shall we? Leave us.”

The last comment was directed to the
moidin
, who obediently filed out of the room. It wasn’t a mental command, but Kieran knew it didn’t need to be. These people would jump off a bridge if Sawyer so much as told them to.

Sawyer walked down the steps toward the two of them.

“You two could find other ways to release your tension, you know that?” he said with a trace of amusement.

“Well, to be fair, she did start with that offer,” Kieran responded. “But dying seemed preferable.”

He felt, rather than saw, Elyssa bristle, but ignored it.

“Okay,” Sawyer said and all humor dropped from his voice. “Why don’t you just give us an update and go bother someone else? Or, better yet, find the two we came here to find.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Kieran said.

He watched as Sawyer came to stand next to Elyssa. She immediately reached her arm around him. Kieran thought Sawyer flinched a little at her touch.

How long before you forgive her, old man
?

Sawyer didn’t look old, of course. He could easily pass for being in his early forties. Only Elyssa and Kieran knew he was three times older than that.

“Did your little plan work?” Sawyer asked.

Kieran nodded.

“It’s on the Internet,” he replied. “Whoever the Prince of Sanheim is—assuming they’re still here—they should see it within a few hours, if they haven’t already.”

“Can I see it?” Sawyer asked.

Kieran reached into his back pocket and pulled out two crumpled pieces of paper.

He watched silently as Sawyer read the article. Elyssa and Sawyer exchanged dark looks.

“There’s a mention that this could be a copycat,” Sawyer said, and his tone was disapproving.

Kieran shrugged.

“What did you expect?” he said. “Not everyone is as stupid as you seem to think they are, Sawyer.”

“If the public doesn’t believe, the plan won’t work,” Elyssa said.

“Yes, it will,” Kieran replied. “You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

“They have to feel threatened,” she said. “If no one thinks it’s the Prince of Sanheim doing this, they won’t.”

“Funny,” he replied. “You don’t understand human nature very well, do you? Not everyone needs to believe, just enough people. And they’ll have to respond in some way. And when they do…”

“We’ll find them,” Elyssa finished.

Sawyer seemed disinterested in the conversation but was instead staring at the paper.

“Quinn O’Brion,” he said. “That’s who wrote this.”

“Wow, boss, I didn’t know you could read, too,” Kieran replied.

Sawyer didn’t seem to hear him.

“He’s on the list, isn’t he?” Sawyer said.

Kieran didn’t need to check the list he was referring to, although there were nearly a hundred names on it.

“Yes,” he said. “He’s on the list.”

“And he’s the one who wrote about the Prince of Sanheim in the first place, correct?”

Kieran nodded again.

“How thoroughly have you checked him out?” Sawyer asked.

“Him more than most,” Kieran replied. “His chances are good. Better than many other candidates.”

Kieran was walking a fine line here and he knew it. It wouldn’t do to say too much.

“But…” Sawyer offered.

“But nothing,” Kieran replied. “It might be him. If it is, it’s a bit strange that he’s the one writing about the Prince of Sanheim. That’s something you traditionally don’t want to broadcast.”

“Crowley did,” Elyssa said.

“And look what happened to him,” Kieran replied.

“You’ve searched his background thoroughly?” Sawyer asked.

Kieran kept his tone steady when he answered.

“Of course,” he said.

“So let’s take it a step further,” Sawyer said, and looked at Elyssa.

“No,” Kieran said. “No way.”

Sawyer cocked an eyebrow at him.

“It’s overkill, boss,” he said.

It’s too soon
, he thought, but didn’t say.

“I don’t think so,” Sawyer said. “If he’s our man, no reason to beat around the rest of this place trying to find him. And we’d be ahead of schedule.”

Kieran opened his mouth to object and then shut it. It wouldn’t be smart to argue too much and Sawyer was eyeing him warily. Instead, he shrugged.

“Be my guest,” he replied.

Sawyer turned to Elyssa.

“My dear,” he said, “I think it’s time you paid Mr. O’Brion a visit.”

Chapter 10

September 17, 2007

Quinn sat at his desk staring at his computer, willing words to come out. Writing as a profession was both an immense joy and a terrible heartache at the same time. When the words clicked and it all came together, everything felt right with the world. But when the muse didn’t strike and the page stayed blank no matter how much you willed your fingers to type something, it all felt hopeless.

Unfortunately, now was one of those moments. How was he supposed to cover the murders of Zora and Robertson when they still didn’t make sense to him? He’d already put the initial stories online, of course, but he needed something more comprehensive for the weekly print edition. It was getting harder and harder to do. It wasn’t enough to cover the news once anymore. Now you had to do it twice, or even three or four times. First, when the news occurred. But if the print edition didn’t come out for a few days, Tim expected a virtually whole new story—one that looked forward, instead of back.

It was smart journalism, a way to keep the
Chronicle
relevant. Who would subscribe if all it did was give them yesterday’s news? But why did it always feel like a losing battle? Journalism was changing and Quinn wasn’t sure his little paper could adapt fast enough to survive.

The cursor blinked on the page, taunting him. In a way, he didn’t know any more than he had a few days ago.

Zora’s murder was an apparent dead-end. The police still had her last customer in custody, but they didn’t have enough evidence to charge him. Robertson’s death was a circular argument that Quinn couldn’t win with himself.
Someone
was trying to draw them out, but who—and why?

Kate, meanwhile, was all but completely distracted by a quest to understand more about her own part as the Prince of Sanheim. Over the weekend, they had spent long nights in various cemeteries—to no avail. Kate was searching for something, but Quinn had no idea how to help her find it.

He didn’t even fully understand his own role. He had become the Headless Horseman again, but this time he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. When his form changed, so did his thinking. He remembered kneeling before Kate—but couldn’t understand exactly why. She hadn’t been controlling him, it felt more like paying homage. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do. In retrospect, however, it worried him. Did he control the Horseman—or did the Horseman control him? He certainly wasn’t trying to kill him anymore, which he had to acknowledge was progress, but it made him uneasy.

He had hoped the book would help. They had searched high and low through Crowley’s work, hoping to find something new. But instead, it had been mostly gibberish. There were words and sentences that nominally made sense, but it was confusing and disjointed. There wasn’t any mention of the Prince of Sanheim. The book had proven more frustrating than useful.

He had even searched the entire text for the phrase, “You are the last.” But it had never appeared or, if it was in there, he couldn’t find it. He was seriously contemplating typing the entire book into his computer just so he could search it by keyword.

If all that weren’t enough, Robertson’s killing also remained vexing. The police were convinced it was the Prince of Sanheim, and although Quinn had subtly suggested the possibility of a copycat in his article, no one on the police force seemed to agree. Instead, they were concentrating their investigation on trying to identify the Prince of Sanheim. The profile had altered slightly. The cops were now convinced it was some kind of insane vigilante.

In Quinn’s grim thoughts, the situation looked like this: he and Kate were trying to catch a very real killer, while the police, in turn, were trying to catch Quinn and Kate. If they didn’t make headway soon, the police might. They were running out of time.

Why does it feel like we are always in a race against the clock?
he asked.

That’s what life is, honey
, Kate answered.

Kate wasn’t in the office, but instead was following up on the failure of Leesburg National Bank. It had been a long time since Loudoun County had seen a bank failure, and as the business editor, there were plenty of angles to pursue.

And still the cursor on the screen taunted Quinn.

Just start writing
, Kate thought to him.

Instead, he was saved by the bell. Gerri rang back to his phone.

“Quinn?” she said. “There’s a nice young lady here to see you.”

“Send her on back,” Quinn replied, and smiled.

Gerri had worked at the paper for the past two decades and thought most everyone who walked through the door was “nice” if she was a woman, or “polite” if he was a man. She had to really think someone was an asshole not to give them at least some kind of compliment.

Quinn had no idea who was coming to greet him and was surprised when a woman in a sleek black dress walked back. She looked professional—Quinn suddenly felt underdressed—but also incredibly sexy. The neckline was low cut and the dress short enough to show off her exquisite figure. As she walked by, Quinn saw Carl, the graphic artist, do a double-take and Josh, the head photographer, practically stop in his tracks. Quinn couldn’t blame them. With the exception of Kate, Quinn thought she might be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

I appreciate that I’m in there somewhere
, Kate thought at him.

You’re the only woman for me
, he answered, feeling a little guilty.

Don’t feel bad, sweetheart. You’re allowed to look, just don’t touch.

The woman stopped in the middle of the editorial area, looking around, and it took Quinn a second to realize she didn’t know what he looked like. He had just stood up by his chair when both Josh and Bill walked up to her on their own.

“Can I help you?” they said in perfect unison.

The woman flashed a smile at them that made the two men light up.

They are practically drooling
, Quinn thought.

Can you blame them
? Kate thought.
The woman is amazing
. 

“I was looking for Quinn O’Brion,” she said, as Quinn stepped up to her.

Both Josh and Bill looked disappointed.

“That’s me,” Quinn said, and when she turned to him, he reached out his hand.

“A pleasure,” she said, and he noticed her polished British accent.

Of course
, Kate thought.
A woman like that would have to sound perfect too.

Aren’t you supposed to be working?
Quinn thought back.

This is much more exciting
, she responded.

“Likewise,” Quinn responded. “How can I help you, Ms…”

“Zane,” she replied. “But please, call me Elyssa.”

Quinn noticed that neither Bill nor Josh appeared to be going anywhere, as if waiting for the conversation to shift back their way.

“Would you like to come back to my desk?” he asked, and hoped she wouldn’t notice the effect that she was having on those two.

“Actually,” she said. “I was hoping we could talk more privately.”

Both Bill and Josh raised their eyebrows at that one.

I’m starting not to like this woman
, Kate thought.

Quinn looked confused, but nodded. He pointed to the back conference room. As they walked in, he saw Bill flash him the thumbs-up sign.

Quinn felt a little embarrassed at the surroundings. The conference room wasn’t much—just a long table and a bunch of chairs in a room with stacks of bound newspapers. It was small, windowless, and smelled a little musty.

“Have a seat, please,” he offered. “Can I get you something. Coffee?”

He remembered then that the British prefer tea, but she shook her head in any case.

Quinn sat at the head of the table as she took her own seat. She pulled out a reporter’s notebook from her bag and placed it on the table in front of her. She then produced a small recorder and put it on the table.

She’s a reporter?
Kate thought.
For whom?

As if she had heard, Elyssa started talking.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” she said. “I’m Elyssa Zane. I work for
The Guardian
newspaper in London.”

“You’re a long way from home, Ms. Zane,” Quinn replied.

You’re a long way from home, Ms. Zane
, Kate said in his thoughts, gently mocking his tone of voice. Quinn had to keep himself from smiling.

“Please. It’s Elyssa to my friends,” she replied and smiled. It was a perfectly friendly smile, Quinn thought, but he thought he detected a note of falseness to it. It was just a gut feeling, nothing more, but he didn’t want to ignore it.

“Okay, Elyssa,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m working on a story about the Prince of Sanheim,” she said.

Quinn fought to stay totally calm, letting only a bemused smile play on his face. Still, he felt his heart fall into his stomach almost at once.

It doesn’t mean anything
, Kate thought.
She’s just following the news—you were the reporter who broke the story, remember? 

“Sure,” Quinn replied. “But there’s not much I can tell you that I haven’t already printed. I’m curious why a large paper like yours is so interested.”

“Well, the Prince of Sanheim is a bit of a local legend on our side of the pond,” Elyssa said. “I trust you’ve heard of it?”

Quinn shook his head.

“No, not too much,” he said. “I researched it on the Internet when it came up originally, of course, but I’m afraid what I learned wasn’t exactly illuminating.”

Quinn kept his voice disinterested, flat. It was just an intuition. He had no reason not to trust this woman, yet something told him he shouldn’t.

“Really?” she asked. “I’m surprised. Seems like the kind of thing you would want to learn all about.”

Quinn shrugged.

“It’s not that I’m not curious,” he replied. “There just wasn’t much to follow. I found some mention of a poet. I’m sorry, I can’t remember the name offhand. But it didn’t seem too connected with what was going on here.”

“Crowley,” Elyssa replied. “Robert Crowley.”

“Right,” Quinn said. “That was it. Anyway, you came all this way to look into a murder a year ago?”

“Well, and the one last week,” she replied. “We flagged the story this spring, but it didn’t seem like a current concern. Last week changed the situation. We felt it was better to jump in early.”

“I’m not sure last week really was the Prince of Sanheim,” Quinn replied.

Elyssa spread her hands wide.

“And that, in a nutshell, is what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “I saw the coverage elsewhere and yours was the only paper that suggested it might be a copycat. I was curious as to why.”

“Oh,” Quinn paused and licked his lips. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Just intuition, really. The pieces didn’t add up.”

“You reported something based on your intuition?” Elyssa asked, and there was a mild note of disapproval in her voice.

“Yes,” Quinn said, sounding a touch defensive. “Look, I’ve been a reporter for a while now. Sometimes you see things that just don’t fit exactly right. The story didn’t say it was a copycat, just that it could be.”

“And what makes you think it is?” Elyssa asked again. She reached over and turned the recorder on. Quinn had done this plenty of times to sources, knowing it usually made them uncomfortable. This was only the second time this had happened to him, however.

“I don’t know much about the Prince of Sanheim,” he said. “But the one letter we have from him…”

“Or her,” Elyssa added.

Quinn shrugged.

“Or her, right,” he continued. “They made it clear they were going after murderers. They said nothing about thieves.”

“So Mr. Robertson doesn’t qualify as bad enough for a vigilante to kill?” Elyssa asked.

“Maybe he was,” he responded. “I don’t know. But it’s worth raising the question, isn’t it? I’ll admit killing someone from horseback is rare, but it’s not impossible for two separate people to do so. They don’t have to be the same. And the Prince of Sanheim may be a convenient way to get someone off the trail.”

Elyssa paused and seemed to be considering something. She smiled at Quinn.

“If Mr. Robertson had been a murderer—if you discovered he had killed someone to hide his crimes, for example—would his death be okay then?” she asked.

Quinn was momentarily taken aback.

“No,” Quinn said. “It wouldn’t. I’m not sure what kind of question that is or why you’re asking for my moral judgment. But murder is always wrong, it doesn’t matter who the person in question is.”

“Even Lord Halloween?” she asked. “Was it wrong to kill him?”

She knows
, Kate thought.
Somehow, she knows.

But Quinn wasn’t listening. Instead, he responded to the question more forcefully than he thought.