Authors: Ann Macela
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Paranormal, #Romance, #Suspense
Wild Magic (2 page)
On the other hand, for all his accounting ability, Alton wasn’t the most complicated spreadsheet on the computer. He couldn’t even understand Visicalc and was perfectly happy to let Bruce do the thinking. As a result, Bruce could usually manipulate him to do whatever he wanted, as long as Alton got the credit and none of the blame.
“All right, but you owe me for this.” Bruce handed Alton the candelabra.
In the glimmering candlelight, the stone face seemed to move, almost to laugh, almost to lick its lips, almost to be looking forward to chomping on some juicy fingers.
Bruce felt his own hand twitch and reminded himself he was a higher level than the old hedonist had been. He could protect himself. He thrust his index and middle fingers into the mouth.
Nothing happened.
He wiggled his fingers. The space around them was empty.
He reached farther in. The tips hit something. He withdrew his fingers enough to insert his entire hand into the hole and explore. The object at the back became a handle.
“What’s there?” Alton asked. “What’s inside?”
Bruce grinned as anticipation of what they’d find behind the stone in the wall rippled through him. He knew, absolutely
knew
, his life was somehow about to change enormously. He ignored his cousin and hooked his fingers around the bar. He pulled, first carefully, then harder.
knew
, his life was somehow about to change enormously. He ignored his cousin and hooked his fingers around the bar. He pulled, first carefully, then harder.
CLICK.
He took a firmer grip and exerted more pressure. With a harsh grating sound, the whole face and the nine-inch-by-twelve-inch stone into which it was carved slid an inch out of the wall.
“Oh, shit,” Alton whispered. “What do you suppose is behind it?”
Bruce ignored his cousin, braced his feet, and pulled harder still, grunting with the effort. Stone scraped on stone, and he managed to haul the damn thing out only about three inches. Panting, he looked up at his hovering cousin. “Granddad must have used a strength spell to move this. Do you know one?”
“No, never learned it,” Alton replied. “Or a telekinesis spell, either.”
“Neither did I.” Bruce stood up and waved at the protruding face. “Brute-force time and your turn. Get it out a couple more inches so we can get a better hold around the edges.”
Alton put the candelabra on the floor, knelt, wiped his hands on his robe, reached into the mouth, and began to pull.
When the rock protruded another three inches, Bruce said, “Stop.”
He grabbed one of the candles and held it by the wall above the face. A deep groove was gouged in the stone’s top. The thing was not a stopper protecting a hole behind it, but a drawer.
He put his fingers into the groove. “Come on, Alton, pull.”
With the two of them working together, they brought the drawer out another foot. Alton held up the candelabra, and they peered into the small pit.
The groove was not empty.
A red leather-bound book, a duplicate to the diary in Alton’s pocket, and a drawstring bag lay in the bottom. Bruce picked up the book and riffled through its pages. “It’s a spell book, I think, and some of it looks like a list. It’s written in a weird language with strange letters.”
“Oh, great,” Alton said, rolling his eyes.
Bruce put the book in his robe pocket and studied the bag, a dark red silk with embroidered gold runes and glyphs and black drawstrings. It appeared to be about ten or twelve inches square. Whatever was in it pushed out the sides to make it six inches thick.
He held his hands over it, but could detect nothing to indicate either a threat or the contents—not that he would have been able to recognize a spell, but it seemed the thing to do. The bag itself, however, glistened as the candlelight hit the symbols. Granddad was nothing if not meticulous in his magic and protective of his secrets.
Whatever was in the bag, Bruce knew he didn’t want to discover it in this cold darkness. He carefully picked it up by the drawstrings and laid it on the table. “Let’s close the drawer and get out of here,” he told Alton. “We can investigate our ‘inheritance’ better upstairs.”
“Fine with me,” Alton said with a shiver. “I’m freezing.”
With both of them pushing, the stone drawer slid back into its place in seconds. Bruce took up the bag, Alton blew out the candles, and they exited the chamber, closing the door firmly behind them. Flashlights worked out in the storage room, thank goodness.
“Let’s put the boxes back,” Alton said. “We don’t want one of the staff finding the door by accident.”
Although Bruce doubted anyone had been in this room in decades, he went along with the idea. Alton was so damn picky-obsessive-compulsive, in fact—about how he put stuff away, and Bruce had long ago given up arguing about it. They restored the wooden boxes to their previous position.
“Come on, my father’s study is the best place for privacy,” Alton said, and he led the way up the stairs to the book-lined room on the first floor.
The only light came from a green-shaded lamp on the desk, barely enough to illuminate the portrait on the wall over the credenza behind it. Otto Finster, the previous owner of the book and the bag, glared down at them with his perpetual expression of distrust and disgust.
“You have no power now, old man,” Bruce said to the picture.
“I wish I was as sure of that as you are,” Alton muttered.
Bruce placed the bag on the desk under the lamp and looked through the book again. He had no clue what language it was written in—Greek maybe?
Alton went straight to the bar where he poured himself a stiff brandy. After swallowing it quickly, he poured one for Bruce and refilled his own.
Bruce raised his glass in a small salute to his grandfather and took a generous swallow of the amber liquid. He felt every fiery drop all the way down, and his sense of anticipation returned. “All right, let’s see what we have. The diary says it’s potent magic, so let’s take the precautions it outlined.”
“Right. I’ll get a bowl from the dining room.” Alton left and came back in a minute with a clear crystal bowl. He carried it to the desk, sat in the big leather chair behind it, and put the bowl directly in front of him.
Bruce pulled up a chair and sat across from his cousin. He gently picked up the bag, first by the drawstrings, then cupped it in his hands. The runes and glyphs glowed when the lamplight reflected off the gold threads.
“It’s not very heavy,” he said, squeezing it slightly. “I can’t tell what’s inside, however.”
“Get on with it, man,” Alton gritted.
Bruce took a moment to study his cousin. Since he’d laid eyes on the pouch, Alton had become nervous and sweaty, whereas he himself felt calm and collected. He shut off his curiosity about their different reactions and turned his total attention to the container.
Careful, very careful not to touch the contents, he loosened the drawstrings. Holding the bag by its bottom corners, he slid the contents out of their covering and into the bowl.
The two of them sat until dawn, staring at what fell out.
The contents stared back.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
Good, the don’t-notice-me spell is working
. Irenee Sabel sidled out of the packed second-floor ballroom and into the hall.
. Irenee Sabel sidled out of the packed second-floor ballroom and into the hall.
Nobody paid the slightest attention, and a couple she knew well passed her without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment or recognition. After a quick glance around, she started walking toward the stairs to the first floor.
She had to admit, Alton Finster knew how to throw a party. On this early summer night, his Chicago Gold Coast mansion was wall-to-wall with the rich and famous and their wannabes. The charity for which the auction gala was being held would rake in a bundle.
Holding her long skirt carefully so she wouldn’t trip, she hurried down the stairs and turned right into the darkened corridor. The guards were on their rounds, and she had only a short time to accomplish her task.
A little buzz of excitement—and anxiety—skittered along her nerves. Her first solo assignment as a Sword! She would accomplish her task, whatever it took.
The carved oak door was locked, of course, but an
adaperio
spell opened it. After another glance around, she slipped inside. She locked the door manually and leaned against it while she studied the room.
adaperio
spell opened it. After another glance around, she slipped inside. She locked the door manually and leaned against it while she studied the room.
Only a lamp over the portrait of Otto Finster on the left-hand wall and a small green-shaded one on the desk illuminated the high-ceilinged study, leaving the bookshelves and corners shrouded in shadows. The elder Finster glared at her from his frame, his hooded eyes seeming to follow her movements. The man had been an unscrupulous scoundrel in business, a ruthless robber baron like his fathers before him. His craggy face with its bushy eyebrows and fierce expression confirmed his determination and implacability.
“You old warlock,” Irenee muttered at the portrait, “What do you think of your grandson and the uses to which he’s putting your treasure? Or, were you the source of the item we’re after? I wouldn’t put it past you.” She scanned the room. No sign of what she was looking for, of course.
“Deprendo incantamentum.”
She cast a “discover spell” over the room. A faint glow outlined the edge of the oriental rug in the corner to her right. She stepped onto the hardwood in the corner, knelt, and laid her purse on the floor. If anyone had noticed how much larger it was than a regular evening purse, no one had said a word. Let them think she was out of fashion. What did it matter?
She cast a “discover spell” over the room. A faint glow outlined the edge of the oriental rug in the corner to her right. She stepped onto the hardwood in the corner, knelt, and laid her purse on the floor. If anyone had noticed how much larger it was than a regular evening purse, no one had said a word. Let them think she was out of fashion. What did it matter?
Now to see if she’d found the right place, where the spell-sensitive spy they’d inserted into the event catering staff had reported picking up emanations of powerful casting. She knelt and lifted the rug by its tasseled edge.
The hidden safe pulsed faintly with protective enchantments—stay-away and do-not-touch as well as lock-tight, according to her discover spell. To gauge their strength, Irenee held her hand close to the glow remaining from her first spell. She shook her head in disgust when she realized they offered only minimal protection, the kind that would deter only a non-practitioner burglar. Alton must be an idiot to think a simple spell would keep out a Sword.
All practitioners knew certain extremely sensitive Defenders could pick up the vibrations set off when someone used an evil magic item unless the spell caster took elaborate precautions with shielding. True, the vibes Glynnis Fraser, their evil-sensitive expert, felt were faint, but clearly the signature of an ancient, extremely powerful focus for casting. Maybe Alton believed he had been sufficiently protected when he cast spells using the item and had no idea the Defenders were after him. After all, it had taken time—three weeks altogether—to track down the source of the evil. He might believe he was in the clear.
She doubted Alton even knew she was a Sword. The Defenders didn’t announce their membership; neither did they keep it a secret. Surely he would have reacted differently to her if he thought she was after him or his treasure. No, his reaction when he greeted her upstairs had been his usual cordial self—exactly as it had been at all the other society functions where they ran into each other.
Irenee, however, had to control herself firmly when they met. Evil people, practitioner or not, gave off an aura, almost a miasma, of
wrongness
Defenders could identify. Where Alton hadn’t before, he certainly did now. His recently acquired emanation raised the question of how long he had been using the item. Finding that answer, however, was not her goal.
wrongness
Defenders could identify. Where Alton hadn’t before, he certainly did now. His recently acquired emanation raised the question of how long he had been using the item. Finding that answer, however, was not her goal.
Her task was clear: bring back the item to her team and help them destroy it. When she succeeded, she would be a Sword in every sense of the word, and also able to hold her head up as an accomplished member of the Sabel family.
She was stretching to lay the carpet back away from the safe, when faint noises came from the door into the hall—a scratching, a click, and the doorknob turning. Someone was picking the lock.
“Damn,” she breathed while she let the rug drop over the safe and intensified her don’t-notice-me spell to full invisibility. She could see the shimmer as light bent around her, and she smiled with satisfaction. She wouldn’t be seen even if somebody looked directly at her.
The door opened slowly, only a crack, just far enough for a figure to slip through.
A tall, dark, curly-haired man in a tuxedo entered quickly and locked the door behind him. Although from her corner and in the darkness, she couldn’t get a good look at his face, she didn’t think she knew him. He stared at the portrait for a long moment before striding over to it. After tugging at the sides, he swung the picture on its hinges, revealing a black safe door.
A lighted bank of eight red zeros marched across its front. The man pulled a rectangular box out of his pocket and held it to the door. Two green lights on its side blinked alternately while numbers flashed through a complicated sequence.
Irenee smiled to herself. Primitive technology, compared to her magic.
In a few seconds, the green lights stayed on, the zeros had changed to a set of numbers, and the man twisted the handle to open the safe door. He searched through its contents—some papers; a small pistol; a few small, possibly jewelry, boxes—but he must not have found what he wanted because he put it all back. She heard him curse before closing the safe and the portrait.
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