No Rest for the Wicca (28 page)

Xia nodded slowly. “Darla would have fallen for such a line. She always said she wanted to make some sort of contribution to the world.”

“Graft preyed upon her feelings, I’m certain. So, let’s see. She wants to ensure she’s given the recognition she deserves, so she decides to meet up with Graft before your meeting and work out the details. We know she gave the book to Florrie—maybe she threatened Graft with not giving him the volume unless he capitulated—maybe she even threatens to start blabbing to other people about what’s in the book. Maybe she runs a bluff, tells him she’s got other interested parties. The coroner said the job wasn’t as neat as the others—maybe he panicked, killed her. He knew she had the blood, so it wasn’t a total waste—someone else was spared that night.”

Xia’s hand went to her throat. “So, when he attacked me, he didn’t intend to kill me? He just wanted to get away before I saw him?”

“He didn’t want to kill you,” I muttered. “We know it know. One sacrifice at a time, on those nights of the moon phases.” I leaned back, rested my bare feet on the coffee table, crossed them at the ankles and looked at Xia. “Maybe it wasn’t Graft who attacked you. Can you tell me exactly what happened that night? As best as you remember?”

“Sure.” She hunched forward, hands twisting in her lap. “I went to the room where we were supposed to meet. It was dark, and I groped on the wall for the switch.”

“Did you say anything when you entered?”

Furrowing her brow,
she nodded. “Yes. I opened the door very slowly, and said, “Hello? Darla? It’s Xia. Are you here? Then, as I felt along the wall, I heard a strange sound—a flapping of wings. I felt something brush against my hand for a split second, and I looked upward. I thought I saw a shadow of a large bird, with a tremendous beak—I was startled. I gasped, I guess, and took a step back and the next thing I knew, a pair of strong hands went round my throat—then I blacked out.”

I swung my feet off the coffee table and sat up straight. “You didn’t say you saw anything before, Xia.”

She licked at her lips. “I know. I—I was afraid to, because I—I’m really not certain. You know how sometimes your eyes play tricks on you, and you think you see something, but it’s all in your head?”

“Many times,” I said. “This is important, though, Xia. Think, really think hard. Did you actually
see
a bird?”

Xia hesitated. “It all happened so fast. I—I’m really not sure. But—“ she twisted her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “Yes. I did. ”

“A bird,” I muttered. “Now that’s interesting.” I rolled my shoulders, leaned my head forward, let it drop into my hands. I sat still for a few minutes, letting my thoughts coalesce.

“Morgan.” Xia touched my shoulder. “Are you allright?”

My head jerked up. “Zeus,” I cried. “I think I’ve got it.” I scrambled to my feet. “Come with me.”

In my office, I went to my large walk-in closet and pulled the box containing my father’s papers off the shelf. I slammed it on the desk, tore the top off. The journal lay where I’d put it, right on top, and I snatched it, started to thumb through it.

Xia looked at me anxiously. “What are you looking for?”

“You’ll see when I find it,” I remarked, then suddenly gave a little cry and passed the book to her. “Look at this. Does it look like what you saw?”

Xia studied the drawing. “Well, as I said, it was very dark, and I only had a fleeting glimpse, but—yes. Yes, it does look like what I saw. Exactly.” She passed the journal back to me. “What is it?”

“This,” I said, as I tucked the book back into the box, “Is a drawing of Ogau’s familiar—the large, winged bird he uses to commune with his followers.”

Xia’s eyes widened bigger than saucers. “You mean—the daemon was in the room with me? But I thought he had to be summoned?”

“He does. What you saw wasn’t the daemon himself.”

Her eyes clouded over. “I don’t follow.”

“You don’t have to, not really.” I dragged my hand through my hair. “It fits—it could fit.
”  I looked at my cousin.  “If I’m right, the danger’s still out there.”

“What do you mean?” Xia asked, eyes wide.  “It wasn’t Graft?”

“I need to check something out.”  I picked up my jacket and started for the door, pausing midway to turn around. “Was Graft involved?  My gut says yeah, he probably was.  But he didn’t work alone.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dean Robbins.”

I’d phoned and managed to secure the last appointment of the day. Now, as I sat in the Dean’s office, I had the distinct feeling I was underdressed in my crisp denim jeans, white shirt and notched collar jacket. Robbins’ circular oak desk took up nearly three-quarters of the west wall, facing a magnificent picture window which afforded an excellent view of the University’s immaculately manicured grounds. Robbins himself was an imposing figure as he entered the room, his burly frame clad in a designer suit I was certain cost more than I made in one month. My entire month’s salary—maybe more. He rounded the desk and placed the folder he held in a large inbox off to one side as he motioned for me to sit. I sank into one of the butter-colored leather club chairs in front of his desk. It was like sinking into a soft cloud.

He slid behind the desk, folded his impeccably manicured hands in front of him and smiled, teeth pearl-white against
midnight
skin. “No problem.  What can I do for you, Ms. Hawkes? You told my assistant it was an extremely urgent matter?”

“Yes.” I leaned forward in the straight-backed chair. “It’s about the investigation, Dean.”

His brows lifted. “Investigation? You mean the murders?” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I was under the impression it was a fait accompli, Ms. Hawkes. The case is closed, and Graft the madman behind it all.” He shook his head. “I have to admit, I’m still a little surprised at all of it. Graft was very intense in his beliefs, true, and he dedicated his life to his research, but to carry it as far as he did—“

“Just the point, Dean,” I cut in. “I don’t think Graft worked alone in his mission.”

Robbins’ eyes, bright behind his wire-rimmed glasses, met mine.  “No? You can’t mean—there’s someone else?”

I nodded. “That’s exactly what I do mean, Dean. I have reason to believe Graft had a
n accomplice.  Someone very close to him, actually.”

He leaned forward, picked up a pencil, tapped it against his blotter. “
Who?”

I cleared my throat.  “Professor Morrow.”

He removed his glasses and set them in front of him, reached with his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “
Professor Morrow?  Excuse me, Ms. Hawkes, but I was under the impression that he was in the clear.”

“He has an alibi for the time of Graft’s murder, but if he’s what I think he is, Dean, that would have been a simple thing for him to accomplish.”

“Really?” The Dean replaced his glasses and leaned back in his chair.  “And just what do you think Professor Morrow is?”

“A bokor—a high-ranking voodoo priest.  And he’s a follower of Oagu.  And I can prove all this, if you’ll just help me.”

“Why, certainly, Ms. Hawkes.  I said I would assist the police in any way I could.  How can I help you?”

I twisted my hands in my lap.  “I need to search Professor Morrow’s office. I believe I can find what I need in there.  Commander Stone’s closed the case—she wont’ reopen it unless I bring her irrefutable proof.”

He shook his head.  “I must say, I find your allegations unsettling, to say the least.  Professor Morrow has been an esteemed colleague here for many years, and—“

“So was Graft,” I interrupted.  “You get my point, I’m sure.”   As the Dean hesitated, I leaned forward.  “Evil can fester even in the best of men, Dean.  Believe me, I’ve seen it.”

“What sort of proof are you talking about?”

“
I remembered seeing a statue of a bird in Morrow’s office.  At the time I thought it was just an odd paperweight, but now…I believe it’s an idol—Ogau’s familiar.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry?”
  He leaned forward, and his hand brushed against his intercom
, knocking it off to one side
.  He straightened it, then steepled his hands  underneath his chin. “What bird?  And who is this Ogau?”

“It’s a symbol of the one they worship. Ogau is the daemon who requires human sacrifice. I believe my cousin entered the classroom just at the moment either one or both killed Darla. The shape shifting was a diversion, to knock her out, probably to keep her from seeing Graft, who as a human has no such powers.

Graft was probably killed because he’d been careless, had bungled several tasks.
He’d failed to get the proper spell book, he’d killed a girl who wasn’t a pureblood witch. Dru
’s rage over Florrie made her a natural choice for a scapegoat.  I believe of the two, Morrow is the bokor—and as such, he could easily have worked a spell to ensure his alibi while he, or possibly one of his voodoo slaves, killed Graft.  If he is a bokor, there are certain things he’d have to have.  I need to find them.”

“What makes you think they’d be here, instead of at his home?”

“I don’t know for certain he keeps anything here, but I’ve got to give it a shot. I’m running out of time.  I’m pinning my hopes on his being egocentric enough to leave something lying around, something to show off his power, in plain sight because he’d feel no one would possibly know what it is or make the connection.  But if I find it, I can. I can.”

Dean Robbins shook his head.  “I don’t know…”

I got up and leaned forward, splaying my hands across his desk.”Look, Dean. I know what I’m asking is unorthodox, but—this has been an unorthodox case.  There’s a killer still at large, I know it.  There’s also the possibility of more horror occurring in—“ I glanced at the luminous dial of my Gossip watch—“less than seven hours.  The sacrifice to Ogau must be complete before the dawn of Lughnasad.”  I grabbed at his arm. “Please, Dean Robbins.  You’ve cooperated with us so splendidly in the past.  All I’m asking for is fifteen minutes in that office. If I don’t find what I need to corroborate my theory, then—“  I let the sentence trail off.  I had no idea what I would do if I didn’t find proof.

He stared at me for a few more minutes, then nodded.  “All right, Ms. Hawkes. But I’ll want you to show me this proof, as well once—or should I say if—you find it.  If you’ll wait here a moment, I’ll get one of the guards to unlock the office.”

After a twenty-minute wait that seemed to stretch on forever, I was in Morrow’s office.  The bird was still on the desk, holding down a mountain of papers.  I snatched it up, turned it over in my hand.  On the bottom of the brass base were etched some crude symbols, which I
recognized immediately.
.
A triangle inside a circle,  two giant
tears next to a squiggly line, and the familiar seven pointed star.

But there had to be more.  Dammit, there had to be!

My sharp eyes darted around the room, rested on the overflowing bookcase in the far corner.  I walked slowly over to it.  Many of the same titles that had been on Graft’s shelves were duplicated here.  I ran my hand along the leather bindings, and paused as I caught sight of one, shoved far in a corner.

FAMILY TIES – HONORING THE ANCESTORS

I grabbed the book off the shelf and opened it.  The inside had been hollowed out, the contents covered by a black velvet cover.  I dug my nail underneath and opened it.

Inside the cavity lay a hollow calabash gourd, decorated with beads of blue and pink crystal.  A small silver bell was attached to the handle.

I sucked in my breath.  Here was all the proof I needed.  I threw the book to the floor and twirled the ason between my fingers. 

“That egocentric fool, keeping this here,” I muttered.  “It proves he’s a bokor.  Only  an initiated Voodoo priest is permitted use of the ason.”

I held the ason up, and my eyes settled on the bell.  I frowned.  There was something etched on it.  I held it between my fingers for a closer look.  Yes, indeed. There were two initials etched there.

D.S.

“D.S.?” I muttered. “Who in blazes—“

I gasped as another memory flooded through my brain and I staggered backward, the ason still clutched between my fingers.

“Good Lord,” I muttered.  “I’m not looking for a High Voodoo Priest.  I’m looking for a Priestess.  It’s incredible, but it’s—“

I had to call Cole.  I had to tell him what I’d discovered.

I heard the door creak open behind me and without turning around said, “Oh, Dean Robbins.  Thank God.  I need you to do me a favor. I need you to call Agent St. John—“

“I’m sorry.  I can’t do that.”

I whirled around, and my breath caught in my throat. 
Robbins’s frame filled the doorway and next to him, gun leveled straight at my heart, stood Commander Delia Stone.

At first I thought I’d had a dream when I woke, groggy and hot. My head spun, but when I tried to lift my hand to rub it, I found I couldn’t move. I twisted and pulled at the ropes, an action which only served to make them bite deeper into my flesh. My breath sobbed out as I struggled, and as my vision cleared I looked down.

Well, at least I still had my clothes on.

I had a honey of a headache. I remembered Stone walking toward me, leering at me, jeering about how smart I thought I was. I’d seen her twist the gun in her hand, saw the handle coming toward my forehead, and then the world had gone black.

Apparently they wanted me alive. But for how long?

I twisted my neck, trying to get a bearing on just where I was. Shadows shifted through the tiny room I was in, chased by the lights of dozens of candles set on gleaming brass tripods.  The wall opposite was a mirror, and I could see my image in it. My hands were tied behind my back, my ankles bound similarly. I wondered just where this little chamber was located. Somewhere in the bowels of the University, no doubt.

I forced down the panic that threatened to rise up and choke me. No doubt these two meant to kill me as part of their blood sacrifice.

Have to keep my mind clear, my wits about me.
Have to fight back
.

Although how I was going to battle them with my hands and legs bound I had no idea.  I glanced at my wrist, saw they’d removed my watch. How long had I been here? How close was it to
midnight
?

The mirrored wall suddenly slid back and Stone, draped all in black, sashayed through. “Ah,” she purred, “you’re awake. Good. It’s best this way. The blood is fresher if the sacrifice is lucid.”

Robbins stepped out behind her, also in a black robe, only his features were covered by the mask of a boar. He withdrew a silver athame from the folds of his robe, held it aloft. The blade glinted, reflected the light from the candles.

“Excellent,” he intoned. “Now we can begin.”

I caught a faint whiff of garlic mixed with body odor and fought the urge to gag as Stone bent down next to me.
I slid her a glance.

“
You planted that stuff in Morrow’s office.  Unfortunately, you forgot your initials were still on the ason.”

She laughed, a harsh sound.  “Yes, that is one slight mistake I made.  However, I was in a bit of a hurry.  When I overheard you telling Robbins what you wanted, I didn’t have much time to set the stage.”

I looked at the Dean.  “Ah, so it was no accident you almost knocked that intercom off your desk, huh?  What, did I interrupt the two of you making your final plans for tonight.”

“As a matter of fact, you did.”  She cocked her head
.  “I must say, Morgan, I’m impressed you made the connection so quickly.”

“Yeah, well, I happened to remember another bird statue in another office. Sometimes one little memory is all it takes.”

She
stared at me.
“You’re quite something, you know that?” she said. “You would have made a very good PSI agent.  Too bad you’ll never get another chance, now.”

I squirmed, and my questing hands touched something hard in my back pocket.

Zeus, it might work.
If I can just distract them long enough
…

“I don’t think I’ll kill you quickly,” Stone was saying.  “The others—they all died fast, but you—for all the trouble you’ve been, you deserve to suffer.” She pressed her lips to my ear. “I think perhaps we’ll drain every last drop of blood from you, leave you for that other butinsky,
St. John
, to find. Maybe we’ll even think of a way to frame your murder on him—yes, it might work.” She threw her head back, and I caught a gleam of madness in those overbright eyes. “I know he wants my job, he’s been yearning after it for the past two years…yes, it’s perfect. Inheritor gone mad. The thirst overcame him. With the evidence I’ll plant, they’ll have no choice but to revoke his license—maybe even banish him, throw him into a prison.” She chuckled. “I’d say your cousin would surely champion the cause to have him locked away, but, you see, as soon as we’re finished with you, we’re heading over to your house.
I know you have that book, and once we get it from your cousin, she’ll
provide us with the seventh sacrifice—and since she’s so pure of heart, Ogau should be very pleased, indeed.”

I strained against my bonds, my own lips curling backward.  “You bitch,” I growled.
  “Is there really a Sevites of Marinette, or was that just a ploy?”

“I’m sure there is one…somewhere.  But not here.  Here there is only Ogau, and we, his devoted followers.  Dean Robbins and I.  And yes, Graft too.  He, however, outlived his usefulness.  Too many mistakes—he almost killed your cousin, he did kill Florrie.  There is no place in our order for such stupidity.” 
Stone brought her hand back, whipped it hard across my face. “I think perhaps we should kill her now,” she growled.

Robbins shook his head.  “We must follow the timeline.”

Stone glared at him. “You mean the one you fucked up, right? It’s already blown—one more won’t matter.”

He laid his hand on her arm. “Patience, Delia. All must be adhered to. The seventh sacrifice must occur at one minute to
midnight
exactly. That leaves us two hours. I personally think we should get the other book and Xia, bring them here, and make Morgan the seventh sacrifice.”

Stone put her finger against her lips. “Yes, perhaps that would work better. It would certainly make Morgan suffer more, to see us chop out Xia’s liver right before her eyes. Although I doubt Morgan’s heart is as pure as her cousin’s—still, I like the idea. Fine. We’ll do it that way.”

My wrists burned, slicked with my own blood as I strained against the leather straps that bound me. “Is this how you call up your daemon, how you siphon his power? I don’t believe you wish to pay homage to Ogau at all. I think the two of you just need an excuse to murder innocents.”

Stone lunged for me, but Robbins grabbed her arm, held her back. “You’ll have your chance at her,” he murmured. “Right now, we must adhere to the ancient ritual.”

He let go of Stone, walked over to the corner where a small box sat on a table. He opened it, pulled out a black crow. It clucked and squawked, wings flapping as he held it aloft. He murmured a few phrases in Latin, then pulled out his athame and sliced off the bird’s head. Blood gushed out, spattering all of us. Stone writhed in ecstasy.

“Blood, for the Master. For our purpose.”

“Symbolic of the blood shed, of what remains. We shall make the sacrifice perfect.”

He handed the knife to Stone. Stone raised it up. “The master must have blood. Satan must have it, Ogau demands it.” She made a slashing motion in the air. “Innabi. Mosalu katandu innabi.”

I recognized the words and frowned, wondering why Stone would choose to utter such a phrase. Robbins took off his mask and tossed it to one side. He smiled at me.

“I am truly sorry, my dear. We never meant to involve you, but now…you will serve a purpose. You will be instrumental in paying homage to one of the few daemons who can transcend both Satanism and voodoo. It is a distinct—“

His last word turned into a gurgle as Stone came up behind him, the athame in her right hand, and raked the knife over Robbins’ throat. She laughed as he stumbled back, blood flowing over his robe, hands grabbing at the wound.  As he collapsed on the ground she stepped over him, shook her head.

“Did you really think I would share the power of Ogau with you, you fool?” she sneered, glancing at me. “Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.”

I twisted, and my hand found its way into my back pocket, closed over the object there. I raised my chin. “Why, Commander Stone? Why would you, a defender of the law, want to become involved in all this?”

Stone laughed. “Why do you think? Adelphi shape shifters have long been known for their resourcefulness and cunning. I became interested in the study of voodoo a few years ago, and discreetly signed up for a few of Graft’s lectures
, using a false name and paying in cash, of course.
Along the way, Robbins and I discovered we shared a common interest—a desire to see if we could use the combined forces of Satanism and voodoo to harness the power of the storm god. It was a simple matter to get Graft on the bandwagon, and we spent years looking for the proper spell—Darla, hungry for recognition, happened to tell him she had one of the ancient books we sought—you know the rest.”

“And you killed Florrie because she wouldn’t turn over Darla’s book.”

“No,” Stone shook her head. “Graft killed her—stupid fool. He thought she was a blood witch, thought he could dispose of two birds with one stone, so to speak. Oh, well,” she put her fingers against her lips and yawned. “He did me a favor actually. Now I get to rid the world of a witch, and a half-witch—isn’t that what you like to call yourself?”

I squirmed against the wall. Almost there. If I could only keep her distracted a while longer…

“Shouldn’t you be leaving to kidnap my cousin?” I asked with a curl of my lip. “You haven’t much time, you know.”

She chuckled. “Don’t worry. I have other helpers, Hawkes. Adelphi’s are masters of mind control, the power of suggestion, as I’m sure you’re aware. Some of my aides aren’t even aware their will’s been subjugated until I command something of them.”

I gasped as the meaning of the strange phrase she’d uttered came clear.

“You put a spell on someone to turn them into a zombie on command, didn’t you?”

She yawned. “Let’s just say the call’s gone out. As you said, it won’t be long now. So relax, and enjoy the last few minutes of your life, Morgan Hawkes.”

***

Cole pealed into Morgan’s driveway and braked his car to a screeching stop.
When the hospital had called him to say Dru was awake, he’d left a message on Morgan’s pnone to meet him there, and had been mildly alarmed when she hadn’t responded. 
His visit with Dru had been very brief, as she was barely lucid, but she’d managed to tell him all he needed to hear, and then some. He leapt from the car, dashed up the steps of the cottage, and pressed the doorbell, once, twice.

No answer.

He frowned
, raised
his fists, pounded them against the door.

“Xia. It’s Cole. Open up. Xia.”

Still nothing. He cocked his head, his Inheritor senses acute.

From within the house, he could hear a small cry, like a wounded sparrow.

Cole went to the side of the house, ran his fingers across the side. He closed his eyes, concentrated all his energy. A moment later, his body began to quiver, to expand as if it were jelly. Another moment’s concentration, and he was inside the house, in the middle of the living room. He lifted his head, every sense acute.

Agent
St. John
.
Help me.

He crossed the room to the closet, flung the door wide. Xia hunkered there, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide. Behind her crouched the form of Patrolman Leo Petrie. With a small cry Cole reached out, grasped Petrie’s collar, and pulled him out of the closet, raised him up above his head.

“Petrie, what are you doing here? What’s happened to Morgan?”

The patrolman didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead, his eyes wide and unblinking, his jaw slack. With a moan of disgust, Cole flung him against the far wall. Petrie hit it with a resounding thwack!, and crumpled down in a heap.

Cole reached into the closet, pulled Xia up. He brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. “Yes, I—I think so. He just—he frightened me.”

“What happened?”

She took a deep breath. “
I was getting ready to go upstairs, when I heard a knock at the door.
I looked out, saw Patrolman Petrie. He flashed his badge at me, said Morgan’s sent him, but it didn’t seem right.” She let her lips curve upward. “Morgan’s told me enough stories about him. I knew he’d be the last person she’d send for me. And I remembered what you told me. I shouted out to him to go away, or I’d call his superior. Then his face just—it just went slack, as if he’d had a stroke or something. He pulled out his gun, shot the lock off, and came in. My God, his grip—almost superhuman.  He grabbed my hair, dragged me into Morgan’s den. He took this.” She held out Darla’s book. “He dropped it when you shouted through the door. I grabbed it, but he dragged me into the closet. Thank God you came when you did,” she gasped. “What’s wrong with him? Morgan always said he was a little odd, but—“

“It appears someone put a zombie spell on him,” Cole remarked. He walked over to the inert form, jerked the patrolman’s head up. He slapped his cheeks, and the man’s eyes fluttered open. Cole fixed him with a burning stare. “Petrie. Who did this to you?”

Petrie’s eyes were fixed on Cole’s. He slowly shook his head. “Don’t…know.” He said at last. “Just felt…funny. Like all the fight, my will drained out of me. They told me I had to come here, get the woman and the book.”

“They? They who?”

Petrie’s head drooped. “Don’t know. Just heard the voice in my head. I had to get
her and take her
to the University.”