Gooseberry Bluff Community College of Magic: The Thirteenth Rib (Kindle Serial) (27 page)

He managed to leave the last part out of his nervous
monologue as he led Zelda up the stairs from the lobby. Or maybe it was the
geas, censoring him. If so, he was grateful for the damn thing for once.

“Anyway,” he said as he led her into the loft, “this
is my place.”

“Wow. It looks like an art gallery or something.
Except for how you don’t really have any art.”

Hector laughed. “I guess I could stand to decorate a
little more. I’ve kept it simple because I like the feeling of space.” He was
about to offer to take her coat when he realized she wasn’t wearing one.
Probably because it was still eighty-five degrees. God, he was nervous. She was
wearing black slacks and a cowl-necked tank top in a shade of pink that Hector
was sure there was a name for other than “pink.”

She looked amazing.

“Um. You look really nice,” he said, and then
wondered why he hadn’t just said what he was thinking.

“Thanks.” She looked around the loft, scratching
absently at her elbow. “Could be an art gallery, but it could also be an
aviary. Why does anyone need ceilings this high?”

He led her toward the kitchen, where he had tamales
steaming. “I like it. I grew up in an old house with tiny rooms, narrow
hallways. This makes me feel like I have room to move.”

“Where do you sleep?”

He pointed to the steps next to the door, which led
up to a lofted bedroom space.

“Oh.” She blushed. “It’s not very private, is it?”

“Unless my neighbors across the river are standing by
with binoculars, it is,” said Hector. “Safe enough to walk around in my purple
underpants.”

“Now you’re trying to make me blush.”

“You’re cute when you blush,” he said.

“And you are…dangerous,” she said.

“Not really,” he said. “Would you like a drink? I
have some Surly beer, and I have some wine, and I have some Scotch, and if you
don’t want any of those I have water.”

“I’ll have a beer.” There were bar stools by the
kitchen island, but she didn’t sit. She took a long sip of the beer he handed
her and wandered over to his bookshelves. Hector wondered if he was blushing,
himself. Something about just being this close to her made him crazy. He wanted
nothing more than to skip the tamales and give the hypothetical Wisconsinites
with the binoculars a show.

“I hope you don’t mind spicy food,” he said. “I mean,
it’s not
truly
spicy—just a few chilies,
mainly—but then people around here consider garlic salt a spice.”

“I’m not actually from here, you know,” she said. “Besides,
I grew up on Turkish food, which is spicy, although in a different way.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“New Jersey,” she said. “What, you never heard the
accent before?”

“I’m not as good at accents in English,” he admitted.
“But I heard it when you said ‘Jersey.’”

“That’s where it happened, you know.” Her tone turned
serious. “The curse.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure she was going to elaborate, but
he wanted her to feel safe to if she wanted to, so he didn’t say any more.

She started to sip at her beer again and then set it
down on his coffee table. “This is—I actually didn’t drink for years until
pretty recently. That’s part of…that night, with you. I wish I hadn’t drunk so
much. I like wine a little more than is healthy, really. Now I do. Back then it
was beer, because it was cheap and we could get a lot of it. I was seventeen.

“I think it’s important that you know…dammit. Hector,
I wish I wasn’t cursed, but the truth is, I deserve it.” Her voice cracked as
she spoke, but when he started toward her she waved him off.

“Give me
a minute,” she said. “I have to tell this. I was seventeen. I was a popular
girl. Cheerleader, if you can believe that. I went to a lot of parties. And I
always drove, because even though my car was crappy, it was a car, and that was
a big deal. So even after I drank more beers than I bothered to count, I always
drove myself home, because I was stupid. And one night, there was someone
crossing the street, and I didn’t see her until it was too late, and…I lived.
She died. She was two years younger than me. She had a late-night paper route.
She…her name was Amber. I think about her every day.

“Her mother didn’t think fourteen months in juvie was
a very high price for her daughter’s life, so she cursed me. And then she
killed herself. I think about her, too.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hector said.

Zelda shook her head. “I just think…I don’t know who
you think I am, Hector. But I can’t let you think that I’m…I don’t think I’m a
bad
person. At least, I don’t
always
think that. I tried so hard to
become a better person after all that, after I got my second chance. But I did
something really, really awful once, and this thing I’m living with is just
payback for that, and if I let you believe otherwise, I won’t be able to
forgive myself.”

“Can I hug you now?” he asked, and she nodded. But
she was tense, and he didn’t squeeze her as hard as he would have liked to. She
was right; he hadn’t thought very much about why she had been cursed. He didn’t
know a lot about curses, but he did know that the more powerful ones had righteous
anger behind them; simple spite could only fuel a hex for so long. He tried to
picture Zelda at seventeen, a thoughtless girl, irresponsible. He couldn’t see
her. He didn’t know her.

“I can’t even pretend to know what that feels like,”
he said. “But you aren’t the same person who made that mistake then.”

“But what I’m trying to tell you, Hector, is that I
am
that person. I own what happened. I
have to.”

“OK. I’m not sure I understand completely, but I’m
glad you told me.”

“I can leave,” she said.

“Don’t you dare,” he said. “I made tamales.” The
buzzer went off; they were ready. He lifted the lid on the steamer and used a
pair of tongs to pull the banana-leaf-wrapped bundles out and set them on a
platter while Zelda wiped her eyes.

“I thought we could eat out on the patio,” he said.
He shut the stove and the lights off, grabbed the platter and his beer, and led
her through the glass door and outside.

It was still warm—it had been an unusually warm
September so far—but not sticky, and the breeze off the river was cool and
fresh and piney. The table was already set, and the sun was just beginning to. Tea
lights lined the deck railing. Hector placed the tamales on the table.

“Have a seat.” There were candles on the table, but
he hadn’t lit them yet. He took a box of matches from his pocket and began
lighting the tea lights.

“You thought of everything, didn’t you?” she asked as
he set one on the patio railing beside her.

“The stars won’t be out for a while yet, and we need
to see what we’re eating.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What is the story with you and Joy Wilkins?”

“Joy?” Hector tried to stall. “I don’t know what you
mean.” He was so focused on trying to find a way to talk around the geas that he didn’t see what was happening right away. He smelled
it first, and looked up to realize that Zelda’s hair had caught in the candle
flame.

Her hair was on fire.

Hector picked up the nearest thing—which happened to
be his beer—and poured it on her. It put out the flame, but she yelped and
stood up, pitching the table over sideways. Hector watched, unable to stop it
from happening, as his lovingly crafted platter of
tamales colorados
pitched off the patio toward the dark street
below.

“You threw beer on me,” Zelda said. The smell of burned
hair covered the delicious scent of the tamales completely.

“You were on fire,” said Hector.

“I ask you about Joy, and you throw beer on me.”

“I’m sorry.” This was the end of it, then. He had
just blown it once and for all. Hector felt like throwing himself after the
tamales.

“I need to use your bathroom.” Zelda’s voice was the
sort of calm that was just on the edge of being not calm at all. Hector hurried
to let her back in the apartment, but he spun around when he heard something
ignite, afraid one of his stupid candles had set the entire patio on fire.

“
Dios mío!
”
He reached for Zelda and wrapped an arm around her protectively.

“What the hell is—oh!”

A barrier of flame had ignited in the air, and beyond
it, in the middle of the St. Croix River, towering above them, stood a massive,
long-legged owl wearing a thirteen-pointed crown. Its beak parted, and it was
not a hoot that escaped but rather a massive roar.

There was a new school of
military demonology that advocated negotiation with infernal entities.
Depending upon what you wanted from the demon in question, Ingrid supposed that
the approach might be worth an attempt. Demons were venal, and their reputation
for trickery was well-earned, but most of them were intelligent enough to be
reasoned with. Perhaps someday that would become standard operating procedure.

Ingrid’s experience and
temperament led her to prefer the old-fashioned way: threatening them. To that
end, she stood on the roof of her rental house in the center of a power circle
of chalk and salt, holding an ancient bow made of bone, horn, and sinew,
wearing the yellow, lily-covered shirtdress that Zelda had handed her the other
day in the Frog’s Umbrella. That seemed like months ago, now. Some impulse had
told her to dress up for the occasion. She felt powerful, standing barefoot on
the cooling shingles, looking up at the enormous demon
who had answered her call.

“Howdy, Prince,” she said.
“Let’s talk.”

It was partly the magic and
partly the psychedelic mushrooms, but when Stolas responded she saw and felt
the words as waves of heat. The giant crowned owl’s beak didn’t move—it had
growled once and that was it—but its words reverberated through the link
between the summoning circle and her own circle of power. The jewels of its
absurd crown left trails of color every time she blinked.

Y
OU
ARE THE ONE CALLED
I
NGWIERSEN
, said Stolas.

“You’ve heard of me.” She laughed.
“I hope it’s been good things.”

Y
OU
HAVE A REPUTATION
. Stolas’s voice was like the wailing of a hot summer
wind. T
ONIGHT WILL BE THE END OF IT
.

“I’m not afraid of you.” It was
true; she was beyond fear. She was thrilled—her heart
was
racing—but there was no fear in her.

N
EVERTHELESS
.

She held up the bow. “Do you
know this weapon?”

S
PARE
ME YOUR LEADING QUESTIONS
. I
AM NOT ONE OF YOUR STUDENTS
. I
AM YOUR MASTER
.

“This weapon is the bow of the
Parthian general Surena, who defeated the Roman
Crassus at the Battle of Carrhae. The wood comes from sacred cypress, spruce,
and maple trees; the horn and sinew from a wild oryx. After Surena’s betrayal
at the hands of King Orrodes II, the magi preserved the bow, which was blessed
in the name of Ahura Mazda and imbued with the power to defeat demons.” She
lowered the bow; it was heavy, and she did not plan to use it yet. “That would
be you.”

I
T
IS YOUR KIND THAT CALLS US DEMONS
. W
E SIMPLY ARE
. W
E WERE BEFORE YOU CAME; WE
WILL REMAIN WHEN YOU ARE GONE
.

“Yada, yada, yada.”
This was standard demonic cant, as unverifiable as it was portentous. “If we’re
so far beneath your notice, why have you allied yourself with the
Heartstoppers?”

Y
OUR
IDLE CURIOSITY IS TEDIOUS
, I
NGWIERSEN
. T
ELL ME WHAT YOU WANT
.

Stolas’s legs were trembling,
Ingrid thought. Or perhaps there was steam rising from the river. Running water
weakened demons, but it would also weaken her summoning circle over time. She
needed to pick up the pace. She was doing several things at once—maintaining
the pentagram, protecting her own power circle, lending power to the bow to
activate its magic—but she needed to keep some of her attention on moving the
conversation forward.

“You took something of mine
when you manifested on this plane,” she said. “I’m curious about the reason
that you chose to take physical form, when for most of your kind simply
projecting a shade of yourself is enough. But I don’t really need to know why.
I just need you to give up what you took from my sister.”

Y
OUR SISTER
. H
OW SMALL-MINDED YOU HUMANS ARE
. I
COMMAND TWENTY-SIX
LEGIONS OF HELL
. D
O YOU KNOW HOW
I
CAME TO POSSESS THOSE LEGIONS
? I
KILLED AND
CONSUMED MY BRETHREN
. T
HEY WERE AS NOTHING TO ME
.

“Nevertheless,” said Ingrid.

H
ELL
HAS NO STARS, DID YOU KNOW THAT
? A
ND YET
I
KNOW ALL THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR
STARS
. I
HAVE TAUGHT THIS KNOWLEDGE TO BETTER THAN YOU, ALONG WITH THE SECRETS
OF HERBS AND POISONOUS PLANTS, AND THE HIDING PLACES OF PRECIOUS STONES
. Y
ET YOU ASK ME FOR NONE OF THIS
.

“I want my sister back.” Ingrid
became aware that she was sweating. The psilocybin was beginning to wear off.
She fished a few more mushroom caps out of the pocket of her dress and popped
them into her mouth. Then she reached down and picked up one of the three
arrows at her feet, arrows of silver and fulgurite.

I
HAVE BEEN PROMISED THE STARS
, said Stolas. T
HAT IS WHY
I
AGREED TO BECOME MANIFEST
. T
HAT IS THE ALLIANCE
I
HAVE MADE
.

“I thought that question was
tedious.” Ingrid nocked the arrow into the bow. “You’re stalling, Prince Hooty.
Give me what I want, or I’ll knock that chintzy crown off your head.”

Y
OU
ARE THINKING THAT
I
AM FORCING YOUR HAND
. B
UT THE TRUTH IS THAT YOU HAVE FORCED
OURS
.

Ingrid drew the bowstring back
to her cheek. “Explain.”

I
F
YOU DO NOT RELEASE ME FROM THIS CIRCLE, MY MORTAL COMPATRIOTS WILL DETONATE A
H
EARTSTOPPER HERE IN THIS LITTLE TOWN
. K
ILL THIS BODY OR NOT; EVEN IF IT BRINGS
YOUR SISTER BACK, SHE WILL SUFFER THE SAME FATE AGAIN MOMENTS LATER, ALONG WITH
YOUR STUDENTS, YOUR COLLEAGUES, AND YOURSELF—THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN OF THE
INSIGNIFICANT CREATURES HERE WILL LOSE THEIR SOULS, AND
M
ASTER
L
EONARD WILL
RISE
.

Ingrid focused on her breath.
Stolas might be lying. Demons lied as effortlessly as scratching their asses;
sometimes they did it just because they were bored. Sometimes they did it
because they were afraid. For such powerful creatures, ultimately, demons were
cowards. Faced with a confident opponent, they had a tendency to talk fast but
eventually back down.

D
ON’T
BE FOOLISH
, I
NGWIERSEN
.

Ingrid let the arrow fly.

“What is it?” Cyril Lanfair
asked, staring out the library window with everyone else.

“Prince Stolas,” said Bebe. “If
you’d studied your
Ars Goetia
, you’d
know that, Cyril.”

“I’m an alchemist, for God’s sake.
I don’t want anything to do with demons.”

“Is it an attack?” Joy asked.
She looked at Ken Song. They all looked at Ken Song.

“What?” he asked. “Oh. No,
nothing. I’m fine.”

“He’s not moving, you know,”
said Lutrineas. “I mean, he’s just…wading out there in the river. If this were
an attack I’d think he’d be stepping on things.”

“Is that what you would do?”
asked Cyril.

Lutrineas sniffed Cyril. “You
smell like cats. You always smell like cats.”

“That’s because he has seven
cats,” said Bebe. She was moving away from the window, looking through the
bookshelves. “You should smell the apartment. I won’t even go in there
anymore.”

“Well,” said Lutrineas. “I do
not know how your cats behave, but I am an otter, sir. We do not crush things. Not with our feet, and not unless there is meat inside.”

“Can we focus on the demon?”
Joy asked. “Someone brought Stolas here, but not as an attack?”

“It seems that way,” said Bebe.
“But if they were just looking to consult with him, they wouldn’t have summoned
him in his physical form.” She pulled a large book off the shelf and flipped
through it. “Stolas. Gems, herbs, poisonous
plants…astronomy. One hundred and forty-nine.”

“One hundred
and forty-nine?” Joy asked. The number stuck out in her mind for some
reason. Something to do with Flood, or Flood’s office.

“That’s his demonic number.”

That clicked it into place.
Flood’s office, a week ago, going over the files on the Heartstopper attacks. “It’s
also the number of people killed in the Minneapolis Heartstopper,” Joy said.

“Oh,” said Bebe. “The one that killed Selma Ingwiersen.”

“Ingwiersen?”
Joy asked. “Wait a minute, do you mean Ingrid’s sister?”

Bebe nodded. “You didn’t know?”

“Dammit!” Joy pounded on the
nearest bookshelf. “Her sister is listed as recently deceased, but no details.
Someone at the FBMA fucked up.”

“Or they didn’t want you to
have that information,” said Yves.

“I’m not going to think about
that right now,” said Joy. “Why would Ingrid bring him here?”

Bebe shook her head. “I’ve
known her almost ten years, but Ingrid’s not the kind of person you really get
to know, in some ways. She’s guarded, which is one reason we never got around
to inviting her to join us here. If I had to guess, though?
She might be dabbling in some necromancy. When her sister died, Ingrid was
broken up, but she was also…she wouldn’t accept it. She might have some idea of
getting Selma back.”

“Is that even possible?”
Necromancy was illegal, but Joy was pretty sure Ingrid was too far gone to care
about the risks. Joy remembered the conjuration professor’s aura, bands of red
fading into a miasma of gray.

“Anything’s possible where
magic is involved,” said Yves. “Whether it’s
likely
is another matter. I understand that Ingrid has a great deal
of experience in dealing with demons on the battlefield, both major and minor.
But to face one in its physical form is as foolhardy a thing as I’ve ever heard
of.”

“Can you find out where she
is?” Joy asked.

“Yes,” said Abel Bouchard. “Get
me a map of the town, please,” he said to no one in particular; Simone Deschamp went to do so. The rest of them, including Lutrineas,
were all looking at Joy. It occurred to her that she had meant to do something
when she got here, before the gods and demons started showing up.

“I have something for you,” she
said. “All of you. Consider it a donation to your library.” She pulled the copy
of the manuscript out of her bag and set it on the table. “I’m hoping you’ll
grant me access to it in the future. It’s Carla Drake’s manuscript and, I
suspect, the reason behind her disappearance.” Joy was hoping that this gift,
combined with the geas the group had put on her, would create a loophole that
would conceal from Flood the fact that she’d copied evidence.

“Certainly,” said Yves. “I’m
eager to have a look at it myself.”

“Let’s concentrate on the big
owl first,” said Joy. “Can you send Stolas away?”

Bebe scoffed. “I was just
beginning to think that you were smarter than that. What’s out there isn’t a
projection; it’s the real damned thing. If we tamper with Ingrid’s summoning
circle, we’ll just let it loose to wreak whatever sort
of havoc it feels necessary.”

“So it’s been on this plane
since the Heartstopper attack?”

“Probably.”

“Abel, can you find out where?”

“Tricky,” he said. “Even in
their physical form, demons aren’t subject to our physical or magical laws.
Give me a shoe from a missing person and I’ll find them in about five minutes;
get me a feather from Woodsy down there and maybe I can backtrace him in a few
days.”

“I’ll see what I can do about
the feather,” Joy said. “Look, you people want me to trust you, right? So help
me on this. I want to know where Ingrid is, and I want some ideas on how to
deal with Stolas. And we don’t have much time. In about fifteen minutes this
town will be crawling with FBMA, GUMP, you name it. Bebe, Abel, get me what you
can and call me on my crystal.” She turned to Abel. “I need to borrow your
truck.”

“My truck?”

“I’m parked three blocks away.
You were parking out front when I walked up.”

“Um.”
Abel produced his keys. “OK. It’s a classic, you know. Please be careful.”

“Nothing bad is going to happen
to your truck,” said Joy. “Lutrineas?”

“Yes?”

“You’re coming with me.”

Zelda fumbled for the handle to
the glass door. She was too terrified to take her eyes off of the giant crowned
owl in the river, and Hector was still holding on to her, so she couldn’t see
what she was doing and she could barely move. Finally she said to him, in a
tone that came out more exasperated than scared, “Can we go inside, please?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Hector kept one
arm around her and reached for the handle with the other. They stumbled through
into the apartment, and Zelda twisted out of his grasp.

“I’m not sure what smothering
me was supposed to accomplish,” she said.

Hector was still staring out at
the monstrous thing. Zelda stepped up and shut the patio door.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.
I’m sure most people feel very safe when they can’t move or breathe.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“I don’t think the bear hug is
quite so effective a defense as you may believe.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Hector said.
“We have to do something.”

“Why?” Zelda asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do
we
have to do something?” Zelda asked. “Cowering in your apartment
feels like a good thing. I was living in Jersey during the Count Murmur attack,
and the police didn’t drive up and down the streets saying, ‘Please come out of
your homes and throw rocks at the giant demon in the harbor.’ ”