Spellbound (19 page)

“Sorry,” she mumbled with a very full mouth.

“We will procure automobiles and split up. I shall continue on to Florida to research the identity of the assassin. Mr. Bryce will accompany me because he is a trained criminal investigator. The rest of you will rendezvous with Mr. Talon in Virginia.”

That made Faye uncomfortable. She didn’t know these new knights very well, and in particular really didn’t like Ian much at all. That was an
awful
long time to be stuck in a car with somebody that thought Harkeness and Rawls were heroes . . . Not murdering Ian for that long might be
really
hard. “Me too?”

“Yes, my dear. I would love the pleasure of your company, but I believe that taking one of the individuals on the persons of interest list to the scene of the crime would be unwise. Besides, with all of these dealings with Iron Guards, your rather direct abilities will certainly be of much greater value to Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Talon.”

That made her proud. Nobody was better at killing Imperium than Sally Faye Vierra.

“This should be pleasant.” Whisper rummaged through her enormous purse for a moment until she found a pair of sunglasses. She passed the cheaters to Faye under the table. “I for one enjoy a good road trip.”

Unknown Location

AS ALWAYS,
his nightmares were of zombies.

The memories would haunt him forever. The death madness consumed even the best of men eventually, until they were nothing more than ravenous maniacs, driven only by pain that could not end and a hunger that could never be sated. His bad dreams were always of the chase, running through the crumbling alleys and broken buildings, hiding in sewers and crawl spaces, sleeping precariously on ledges where the undead could not cross without waking him, for if he was not careful in picking where to lay his head, then he would surely be awoken by teeth.

A boy had to be clever if he expected to survive for long in Dead City. He must be quick to decide and even quicker to act. Yet, his every move must be tempered with wisdom, because in the decaying hell that had been Berlin, one wrong choice would be your last. Always outnumbered, but never outwitted, he had grown to manhood in the festering pit. Only the smartest of the living lasted long inside the confines of the Berlin Wall, and the greatest compliment that could be given amongst them was
survivor.

And Heinrich Koenig was a survivor.

He woke up chained to a wall but could not remember how he’d gotten there. Steel shackles encircled his wrists. Shackles meant nothing to a Fade, but when Heinrich tried to go grey, to drift the molecules of his body through his bindings, nothing happened. His Power was there, but it would not answer to him.

Curious.

Heinrich took stock of his surroundings. The room was windowless and constructed of crumbling brick. A single weak bulb hung from the low ceiling. It was very dark. There was a single door made of thick boards and the hinges were on the other side. There was no doorknob on his side. He tested the chains. They were substantial and went through holes that had been cut in the wall. When he tugged, there was no give. The chains were solidly anchored on the other side.

He was not afraid. It was not that he was fearless, but Heinrich was too methodical to spare the time necessary to dwell on fear.

Next, he took a physical inventory. His body ached, especially his head. The skin on his face and hands felt as if he had been sunburned. He was hungry, thirsty, and nauseous, as if he had been administered narcotics. His clothing smelled burned, and upon closer examination he could see where the grey fabric of his suit and trousers had been singed and blackened. His Grimnoir ring was missing. That ring meant a lot to him. Whoever had taken it would regret doing so.

Trying his Power again only succeeded in making his headache worse. He did not feel as if a ward of weakness had been drawn on him, so something else had to be going on. He tried to remember how he’d wound up shackled to a wall and drew a blank. The last thing he remembered was talking to Francis while waiting for the President to show up . . . Then there had been explosions.
Yes. Now I remember.
It had been a Boomer, stronger than any he had ever heard of, in the plaza killing many. Heinrich swore under his breath as it all came back. He had saved Francis by Fading through the shrapnel, then had run to save the President. He had reached the injured man, taken his hand, and dropped them both through the stairs. They had come out in the boiler room, but then there had been another flash of light . . . That was all he could recall.

There was a clank as the door was unlocked. A lone man. The door was closed behind him, and as he leaned in the shadows of the far wall, he removed a pack of cigarettes from his black suit coat. “You’re awake. Good. Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Koenig. You can call me Crow.”

Heinrich’s throat was so dry that it hurt to speak. “Unchain me and I will gladly shake your hand.”

“And wring my neck. Your reputation precedes you. You don’t need magic to be dangerous. You were some sort of Dead City street urchin. You’ve fought zombies, Soviets, Cossacks,
and
Imperium, but somehow you’re still around to talk about it. You got some mileage on you, kid. I seen it before. Old man’s eyes in a young man’s face. Being a Fade is like putting the cherry on top of a murder sundae. Those chains stay on.”

“Why is my magic not working?”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell, since the sooner you realize you’re stuck, the sooner you’ll cooperate. This facility is protected by a device that nullifies magic. Strictly temporary of course. It only works while the machine is running. It makes it so that the Power can’t hook up with you.”

Crow seemed remarkably forthcoming, a sure sign that Heinrich would be killed as soon as he was no longer of use. “What do you want with me?”

“I want to talk to you about the Grimnoir Society.”

“I do not know this thing you speak of.”

“Spare me the lies, Fade. I’m familiar with your little club and my assignment is to destroy it.”

This man knew much. “Torture me all you want, I have nothing to say.”

“Too late. You already sang. Usually those truth serums don’t work so good, but couple of sodium-thiopental drips, remarkable new invention that stuff is, with a few Readers picking through your brains for a whole day, and I got what I needed.”

It was possible. He could not remember. “You are a liar.”

All Heinrich could see of the man’s face was the small bit illuminated by the striking of a match. Crow was smiling. His teeth were yellow. The teeth disappeared as he cupped his hand and lit his cigarette. “The Grimnoir play it close to the vest. We figure there are maybe three or four dozen of you in the country, but you only know the ones you work with. After you immigrated, you answered only to Black Jack Pershing. John Browning, who didn’t have a fatal heart attack, was his number two. The remaining members of your group are that safari hunter, Lance Talon, Francis Stuyvesant the industrialist, Heavy Jake Sullivan, a Traveler named Faye Vierra, and Dan and Jane Garrett . . . You know I used to listen to his radio show? The man was good. He could do like a million voices. Amazing talent, that guy.”

“Leave them be,” Heinrich said, “or you will regret it.”

“That’s some big talk for a snitch. You gave up a few of the others outside your particular group, too. They’re all out there, thinking they’re doing the Lord’s work or some such nonsense. I got twenty names out of you, mostly here in the states, and then you blabbed about your old pals in Germany. But they’re not my problem. Twenty names . . . Twenty
living
, I should clarify. You gave us plenty of the dead ones. You boys have one
hell
of a casualty rate.”

Heinrich saved his anger. He was examining his options and coming up with nothing. Killing this man would be very satisfying, but he could see no way to accomplish that in his current situation.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m so interested in your friends.”

“Not really. I assumed you were Imperium swine.”

“Ha! That’s a good one. I wouldn’t work for the Yellow Peril. I bleed red, white, and blue. I even fought you tricky magic Krauts back in the Great War. No, see, me and my organization are supposed to clean up your kind. You Actives think you’re so much better than regular folks. I’m the law. Things need to change and people like you would gum up the works. You Actives won’t be happy until you take over. Some of our elected officials didn’t have the guts to do what needed to be done. Except as soon as you Grimnoir tried to murder President Roosevelt, that all changed.”

“That is ridiculous. I tried to save the man, not kill him.”

“I know! You should be getting a medal, not rotting under OCI headquarters. Heh, just between you and me, I know you Grimnoir didn’t do it. We’ve already got conclusive evidence upstairs.” Crow blew out a perfect smoke ring. It hung under the single light bulb. “But nobody in charge is going to see that evidence until I’m done cleaning house. I’m sure as hell not going to let a good crisis go to waste. My office just got a blank check to do whatever we needed to do to get you people under control. You know how rare that kind of pass is? In a little while, Congress will go back to getting cold feet and fretting about overstepping its bounds, but by then it’ll be too late for your kind.”

Heinrich had told Francis that Actives were going to end up caged like dangerous dogs. This was a terrible time to be proven right. He studied this new threat, trying to understand what he was up against.
Something
about Crow’s eyes was wrong in the dark. The glow of the cigarette reflected in them a little too well. “You talk of controlling Actives . . . Yet you are one of us. No?”

The interrogator’s posture changed the slightest bit. Crow’s voice was imperceptibly different when he responded. “Me? Magical? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It makes you uncomfortable, this place? Not being in contact with the Power? I know that I do not like it already. Working here must be very challenging for you.”

“You got all the answers, Kraut? You talk a lot for a man in chains.”

“You speak of Actives as if we are a different species, but you know this is not true. You are very good at playing a part. I assume you wanted me to think of you as a true believer on a moral crusade. I wonder what you expected to gain from that.”

The cigarette ash nodded up and down. “Oh, you’re good.”

“Yes, I am, and the good always win in the end. I would very much like for you to remember that as I choke the life from your body.”

Crow banged on the door. It was opened for him a moment later. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Koenig. Be seeing you.” The door closed behind him. Then the small light was shut off, leaving the prisoner in the dark.

Curious indeed.
Heinrich went back to testing his chains.

Crow found the OCI’s audio technician in the next room. “Did you get that?”

“It should sound nice and clear.”

“Excellent. I want the tape to start at where I first mention the Grimnoir. Then cut it off right after I say that it’ll be too late for his kind. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Crow. I can do that.”

So far these Grimnoir had impressed him; they were a tenacious bunch, but their loyalty to each other and their cause made them vulnerable. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. “Call me when the recording is ready.”

Bell Farm, Virginia

SULLIVAN WOKE UP SORE.
Jane’s magic was miraculous and all, but it would have been nice if the pain didn’t linger on afterwards. There was no longer a rib sticking in his lung, but it sure felt like there was. That Iron Guard had damn near punched a hole
through
him. He had fallen through a train car once and it hadn’t hurt that bad. He and that particular Brute son of a bitch were going to meet again, Sullivan was sure of it.

The two-story, eighty-year-old safe house was on an abandoned farm thirty miles southwest of the Imperium compound. It was in the middle of nowhere, didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing, and was frankly a dump, but Jane had bought plenty of groceries the day before; there was a pump, an outhouse, a wood stove, a barn to hide their cars in, spells carved into the walls to thwart Finders, and the beds didn’t seem to have fleas.

Opening the moth-eaten curtains, Sullivan discovered that it was an overcast, grey day, and it was hard to estimate the time without the sun. His belly told him it felt like lunchtime, but burning Power that hard always made him extra hungry. He found his watch on the nightstand along with his holstered .45. Sure enough, it was nearly noon. It wasn’t often that he got to sleep in.
Maybe I should get beat up by Brutes more often.

There was a polite knock on the door. That told him who it was. Dan would have knocked with more authority and Lance probably wouldn’t have bothered at all. Sullivan winced as he pulled his shirt on. “Coming, Jane.”

Once he let her in, the Healer examined him critically. She folded her arms, tilted her head, and scowled at his lungs. Sullivan had to admit that Jane Garrett was one good-looking dame, blonde, tall, curvy, and somehow always incredibly
neat
. In their paint-peeling, dingy-as-sin surroundings, she was a ray of sunshine, though her bedside manner did leave something to be desired. She walked over and poked him hard in the side. “Hmmm . . . How does that feel?”

“Tender.” He was not used to a beautiful woman staring at him that intently, but he had to remind himself that to Healers like Jane, everybody looked like see-through bags of skin filled with blood and guts. It was one downside to the most popular of all Powers, but Jane insisted that she was used to it. “So how do I look?”

“Like a translucent blood sausage. So . . . relatively normal.” She closed the door behind her. “We need to talk, Jake.”