To Kill a Sorcerer Page 12

  I turned slightly, knowing my father was still listening.

  “We’ll have to see,” he said. “As long as your chores are finished . . .” He started for the door.

  “I’ll be here,” I said, staring at her lips, painfully excited at the prospect of returning.

  She held on to my arm a moment longer, her soft scent making me wonder at the secret parts of her. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek. “Come alone,” she breathed into my ear before she released me and strode to the bar.

  As if on air, I wove my way through the tables toward the front of the alehouse. I had never felt so good in my life. Agnes’s lovely face floated before me, and I could still feel her body against mine. Thinking of the look in her eyes when she kissed my cheek caused my stomach to flutter. After I had bumped into two chairs and one table, I finally met my father at the door.

  “We will need to have a talk about your career as a drinker, Sebastian,” he said.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  We pushed outside. The light of late afternoon was nearly blinding after the gloom of the alehouse. Blinking, we stepped into the street and turned toward the drawbridge. I was nearly clearheaded now, though my face still burned from Agnes’s lips.

  My father was apparently feeling the effects of finishing his wine so quickly. He walked unsteadily, the jug swinging precariously in his hand. When he saw me watching him, he laughed. Moving over to me, he put his arm around my shoulders.

  “I knew you could do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Drink with that knight. I wanted him drunk enough to pass out so he wouldn’t follow us home. Let’s hope he forgets about your sister.”

  “He’s seen her before,” I said, recalling the way Guthbert had ogled Marguerite. “I don’t think he’s going to forget about her.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right.” He took his arm from around my shoulders. “As long as he let her go this time.”

  We passed the castle walls. The sun was a couple of hours from setting, and many people still traveled the streets.

  “How did you know I could drink like that?” I did not really want to ask. This was part of my uniqueness, and I avoided that topic zealously. But I was certain he would not let me return to the alehouse on Tuesday unless we discussed my “ability.” And I would have talked about my differences all day for the chance to see Agnes again.

  We continued in silence for a few minutes. I waited anxiously, wondering what he was going to say.

  “When you were two years old,” he began, “you were running and fell down. Happens to kids all the time. You banged your knee and gashed open a bloody cut. I picked you up and brought you to your mother.” He scratched his chin. “The bleeding had already stopped, and by the time we had wiped the blood off your knee, there was no cut. Not a trace of it. Your skin was unmarked.”

  I had been naive to think my parents did not know about my peculiar nature just because they had said nothing about it. Realizing how wrong I was, I said, “That’s not the only example, is it?”

  “No.” He glanced at me, then up at the sky. I kicked a rock out of our path. Now that we had cleared the village, we were the only ones on this stretch of road, the wheat fields of the Miller farm on either side of us. The house was visible from where we were, a small curl of smoke rising from the chimney.

  “I’m glad to see you looking so serious about this, Sebastian. You know what would happen if people knew how different you were? How much you would frighten them?”

  I had not thought of that exactly, but I nodded. As fervently as I had wanted to be the same as everyone else when I was younger, so too would others avidly want me to be like them. If I were unusual, they would fear me and hate me, for we were a superstitious lot.

  “Then you don’t think I should be in the drinking contest because people will see I can’t get drunk?” Disappointment engulfed me. That meant I couldn’t help Agnes and the other girls win money! And if I couldn’t do that, Agnes probably wouldn’t care if I came back on Tuesday.

  “Do you feel anything when you drink the wine?”

  “Yes, it makes me feel great.”

  “And you don’t feel anything now?”

  “Not from the wine. Is that what’s wrong?”

  “After the amount you drank, that is remarkable, yes. But it doesn’t mean you can’t drink for Agnes and her friends. It just means you have to do some acting, that’s all.”

  “What?” I was too stunned to think. I was sure my father was forbidding me to go, but now . . . was he saying it was okay?

  “Pretend to be drunk. In a drinking contest, it doesn’t matter how intoxicated you become, it matters whether you’re still conscious at the end. Act besotted, and people will think you can simply handle a lot of drink. Act too sober and people will think there is something queer about you.”

  “So I can go on Tuesday?”

  “Well, that I’m not so sure about. I will have to discuss this with your mother. You know how tough that will be.”

  “Yes, sir.” I beamed with joy because I knew my father would convince my mother. I just had to earn it now. But I could go! My imagination burned with the implications of Agnes’s urgent command that I return alone.

  “This edge near the toes,” he said, pointing at the tip of his left boot, “the sole is coming away. It would be nice to have both boots cobbled by tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ruffled my hair. We strolled home in the quiet early evening, watching the sun sink lower on the horizon, listening to the zing of the insects in the tall wheat, discussing sweet mulled wine, happy we had brought a pitcher for tonight’s supper.

  Ambling slowly along that dusty road with my father, talking about spicy drinks and my mother’s meat stew, I felt closer to him than I ever had, especially since we had brought my uniqueness out into the open. The love and warmth between us on that evening journey made me long to capture those moments in a bottle, that I might save them for all time.

  Twenty-One

  Thursday, December 23, 2:11 a.m.

  My trance dissolved slowly, echoing. Staring at the ceiling, the dust of that old trail in my nostrils, I had the silly, childish wish to go back and live it all over again.

  I stretched, glanced at my watch, picked up my phone.

  “I was wondering if you had fallen asleep,” Aliena said upon answering. Wind filled the background.

  “Reminiscing. Where are you?”

  “On my way to your place.”

  “Good, I’ve missed you.”

  “Marcus is with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you I wanted to discuss the case with him. He would like to speak with you.”

  What on earth? Aliena had assisted on murder investigations in the past, but with detached curiosity, not concern. I could not fathom what interest Marcus could possibly have in the murder of two teenage girls. Vampires did not care what happened to mortals.

  I stepped onto the patio. The night was cool and clear, the heavy tang of the ocean salting the air. Orion the Hunter aimed his bow while slowly marching west. I scanned the sky, wondering if I would see the two vampires arrive.

  I never saw a thing. One moment I was alone, the next they were standing on the other side of the deck. I gave the two of them a slight bow.

  “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. “A lovely place, Mr. Montero.”

  “Please call me Sebastian. Won’t you come inside?”

  We stood in the living room. From their rosy complexions, the two of them had obviously dined before visiting. I wondered if they had been together since Aliena and I had separated four hours ago.

  For the second time tonight, Marcus and I faced each other while Aliena watched. Was there a subtle significance in these encounters? Aliena had told me Marcus had lived more than two thousand years. Perhaps he was challenging me with ancient delicacy in an effort to prove I lacked the refinement
to recognize it.

  I decided such suspicions were unworthy of me and unfair to him.

  “I would offer you something . . .” I said to Marcus.

  “Please excuse me for the intrusion.”

  “Not at all.”

  “About these murders you are investigating . . .”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “I understand both of these girls were virgins,” Marcus said.

  “Yes.”

  “And they were both suspended from the ceiling with their heads pointed toward the ground.”

  “Yes.”

  “Herbs and wax were present at both crime scenes?”

  I nodded. Aliena had relayed all the important facts in the murders.

  “Your conclusions?” he asked.

  “Ancient cultures have considered the sacrifice of virgin women to be an offering to the gods,” I said cautiously.

  “That’s right,” Aliena said. “But more than that, there are ancient rituals that combine virgin sacrifice with magical rites designed to provide the priest with limitless power.”

  “We discussed all of this with Reed,” I said. “It’s possible the murderer is trying to achieve magical powers through these ritualistic killings, but without more evidence, concluding that he can do so is premature.”

  “And if he possesses the Key of Akasha?” Marcus asked.

  “You know of this?” I asked without thinking.

  A trace of a smile. “I do. It is something for which we have searched long before you were born.”

  “Yes, of course.” That intrigued me. The Key of Akasha was one of the most ancient occult objects, dating back to pre-civilization. No story described its origins. None told who the first owner was. What was special about the Key? The information filtered from my memory slowly, as if my brain had dug out an old book, dusted it off, and opened it to the correct page.

  The Key of Akasha magnified the effects of any properly executed magical ceremony. It gave the possessor the ability to manipulate the Akashic Records in order to harness and control vast energies. The Key represented the most powerful supernatural object in existence, considered mythical by most scholars. I couldn’t remember a single story or anecdote about it ever having been used.

  Another interesting fact: vampires could not make it work, as I could not—the Key was only magical when wielded by a mortal.

  “It is of no use to you,” I said. “You have all the power you can ever have.”

  “True, but we would like to have such an object under our control.”

  The same idea had occurred to me. “That makes sense.”

  “Yes. If a powerful man who knew of vampires and other immortal beings were to achieve the power the Key could give him and decided we were a threat, he could become a formidable enemy.”

  “One man? Against all of you?”

  “If this killer does have an ancient object like the Key and completes an archaic formula for sorcery, he would become more powerful than we could handle.”

  “I agree.” I thought about it. “The possibility that our murderer has the Key is remote.”

  “No doubt,” Marcus said. “However, his pattern includes elements that are consistent with the first stages of the ritual. I prefer to err on the side of caution. Though the probability that the killer does possess a suitable artifact is slight, I would like to assist in the investigation.”

  “Aliena is already assisting me. As usual.” I sounded argumentative, but I couldn’t help it. It seemed Marcus was trying to intrude on the one thing I shared with Aliena.

  “Please, Sebastian,” Aliena said.

  A low-voltage flash of jealousy coursed through me. Was Marcus Aliena’s real partner? I thought about the dinner they had shared together tonight, a kind of dinner I could never experience with her. Aliena and I never dined together. We could not. Unless her dining on me counted.

  “I will share with you everything I have, but it seems as if you know all I know.”

  “May Aliena inform me of everything in the police files as your investigation proceeds? I would like to stay abreast of every detail.”

  “Of course. You may contact me directly, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If I may ask, why now, why this series of murders?”

  “Because of the possibility the killer will harness the power of the Akashic Records.”

  The Records were a detailed account of all that humanity had done and all that the universe was. As such, they were imbued with primordial energies. I had thought about the great book once while traveling on the astral plane and my ka had been transported to the Black Hills National Forest, above the gigantic carvings of Mount Rushmore. The Records were available to everyone, everywhere, at any time, so were often in many places at once. Where one’s astral spirit might end up when searching for them proved unpredictable.

  “I have had many dreams,” Marcus said, turning and gazing out the window, “but lately, they seem connected. In fact, for the last seven days, I always have variations of the same one.”

  Aliena and I exchanged a glance. I could tell by her expression she hadn’t heard this before.

  “When it begins, I am on an elevator with no walls, rising high above a city. It is a modern metropolis, with a carpet of lights spreading out in all directions, but whether it is Los Angeles or Buenos Aires or Miami, I cannot tell. In the dream, it does not matter.

  “The elevator stops. A door appears. I push it open and proceed inside. Now I am walking down the aisle of a large library. The shelves are so high, their tops are hardly visible, and I think this must be a vampire’s library, since only someone who could fly would be able to retrieve the highest books. After a few moments, I feel uneasy. I realize I do not know the title of the book for which I am searching, but I know it is vital I find it. I meander through the towering stacks, a gnawing sense of urgency pushing me along. I see books I have read in the past.

  “Wide, bottomless atriums separate the different parts of the library. As I float over one yawning abyss, the book for which I have been searching is now in my hands. It’s the Akashic Records, the book of knowledge taken from the Garden of Eden by God and placed in the ether where only spirits dwell.”

  I hadn’t heard that description of the records in a long time. “What happens then?”

  “I can’t hold on to it.” He sounded amazed. “It starts to shake. I grip it more tightly, but I feel weak, and I sense something stronger than me pulling the book from me. I am not in the library anymore, but standing on a cold, blustery cliff, a rising tide of wind howling through the rocks. When I realize the book is about to be torn out of my hands, I try to rip pages from it, the crucial pages that will protect us all, but my hands suddenly have no strength, and the book floats away.” He turned back to us, his forehead creased in a frown. “I cannot fly after it. None of my powers work. I am rooted to the ground like a common mortal, and I stand there, watching it drift away.”

  “It sounds like a frustrating dream,” I said helpfully.

  “To say the least.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Can there be any doubt? It means someone more powerful than me is taking possession of the book.”

  “Our murderer?” I could not keep the skepticism out of my voice.

  “I know. It is only a dream. But I have been alive for over two thousand years, and I have only seen this type of murder sequence once before.”

  I hadn’t expected him to say that. “A sequence that started the same way?”

  “Exactly the same way.”

  “When was this?”

  “In the year 312, in a remote part of what is now Iran. Two men from the same rural town had reconstructed an ancient ritual designed to bestow enormous magical powers on the initiate. No one knows how they came to be in possession of the information, though there were tales they had a book written by a dark angel—possibly even Satan himself—entitled Mortal Suffering.�
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  “I’ve never heard of it,” I said.

  “Few have. In accordance with this book’s ritual, they each murdered virgin women in ceremonial fashion, just as your man is doing now. And both achieved powers beyond anything known in history.”

  “Both,” I murmured. I could see how this story would end.

  “Yes. They lived in harmony for a very brief time. I, and the other immortal beings in that area of the world, watched with great apprehension. These were men who could have wiped us out, if they decided we should become extinct.” He shook his head. “We needn’t have worried. In spite of their newfound magic, they were still men. And neither could abide that one other existed with the same power.”

  Aliena and I were silent.

  “The final clash between them became a war unlike any the world had witnessed, or has since. Two men, standing on the field of battle, a kilometer apart, sending powerful bolts of energy at each other, lighting up the sky with their fireworks, but holding no weapons or devices, merely gesturing. It was terrifying to watch. Any one of those energy bolts could have killed large groups of people. Perhaps vampires could have survived such an attack, but my instinct tells me we could not have.”

  “They destroyed each other?” I asked.

  “Yes. The battle began moments after twilight and lasted for more than an hour. The first man launched a lightning attack, a blue-white flame that arced precisely across the sky and descended on top of his enemy. The other man responded, and soon the sky was ablaze with attack and counterattack—the sizzling clamor was deafening. Static electricity filled the air, prickling skin. No one could stare directly at the action for more than a few seconds without being blinded.

  “I watched the battle out of the corner of my eye, hair standing on end. Then suddenly it stopped. When my eyes had adjusted to the new darkness, I could see neither man. Several of us searched the battlefield for their bodies. There was no trace. They had disappeared. The areas where they had stood were blackened circles of scorched earth with circles inside them that had remained untouched.”