The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

that. I added, “Better make sure your people are well warded, Sublegate: with one potion like that around, who knows what else Hernandez has in there with him?”

“We’ll send out the Special Wizards and Thaumaturges team,” Higgins said. “If they can’t handle it, nobody this side of D.St.C. can. I’ll call you back as soon as we have the warrant. Thanks for passing on the information.”

“My pleasure,” I told him. “I want this guy shut down at least as much as you do.”

After I got off the ether with Higgins, I went back through my files and found the names and addresses of the other three apsychic kids born near the Devonshire dump in the past year. Then I checked in the phone grimoire; two of the families were listed. I called both those houses and, by luck, got an answer each time. What I wanted to know was whether the mothers had bought any potions from CuauhtÇmoc Hernandez.

Both women I talked to answered no. I thanked them and added the data to my notes, then spent a while scratching my head. The curandero’s nostrum was certainly vile enough to have caused Jesus Cordero to be born without a soul, but just because it could have didn’t necessarily mean it had. I kicked myself for not doing a more thorough job around the Corderos’ house, but I didn’t kick too hard. When the microimps in your spellchecker start going berserk, you’d better pay attention to that.

More nearly routine stuff kept me busy the rest of the day. When Bea walked by my office door in the middle of the afternoon and saw me there, she raised an eyebrow and said, “I expected you’d be in the field now.”

I’d hoped to get to Bakhtiar’s Precision Burins myself, but it just wasn’t working. I said, “I’ll probably be out tomorrow or the next day,” and explained what Manstein had found in the potion I’d brought back from Lupe Cordero’s house.

“That’s—revolting,” she said. “You’re right, we need to clamp down on that as hard as we can. With the enormous Aztecian population in Angels City, the last thing we need here is a large-scale flareup of Huitzilopochtlism.”

“It would make worries over Medvamps rather small potatoes, wouldn’t it?” I said.

“I do admire your talent for understatement, David.” Bea headed on down the hall.

Understatement was an understatement. If Huitzilopochtli got established in Angels City, it wouldn’t be fruit trees drained dry, it would be people. I thought about hearts torn out on secret altars, necromancy, ritual cannibalism a lot less refined than the genteel Christian variety.

I also thought about all the other bloodthirsty Powers that would be drawn to the area. The act of human sacrifice is so powerful a magical instrument that it reverberates through the Other Side. All sorts of hungry Things would head this way, wanting their share: “When the gods smelled the sweet savor, they gathered like flies above the sacrifice.” What Utnapishtim told Gilgamesh five thousand years ago remains true today.

They say that’s how the horror happened in Alemania. But the Leader didn’t try to throw the Powers out. Oh, no. He welcomed them with open arms and fed them, I dare say, beyond their wildest dreams.

The whole world has seen what came of that. Not here, I thought. Never again.

Courts in Angels City open at half past nine. At exactly 9:37 the next morning (I asked my watch afterwards), I got a call from Sublegate Higgins. “We have the warrant,” he said. It was so fast, I wondered if he’d used Maximum Ruhollah. Maybe not; he operated out of the St. Ferdinand’s Valley substation, and he’d be sure to have a local judge up there under his spell. He went on, “We’re moving out at ten-thirty. If you’re not here by then, you’ll be late.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, and got off the phone. Miserable cowboy, I thought: everything had to be his way. But I headed for my carpet as fast as I could; when you’re dealing with people like that, you don’t want to give them any excuse to mess you up.

Just as well I did, too—I made it to the substation with only about three minutes to spare. Traffic up through the pass was just ghastly. Don’t ask me how, but when a big long-haul transport carpet broke down and had to land, a unicorn got out of its cage. People on carpets and others riding pegasi were trying to herd it back to where it belonged, and weren’t having much luck.

As my carpet crawled through the gawkers’ block, I wondered if they’d have to go to a nunnery to find someone who could calm the beautiful beast. Given Angels City’s reputation, they might have had a tough time finding a virgin outside of one. Catching the unicorn, thank God, was not my worry.

When I finally did get to the constabulary station, Higgins gave me a disapproving look so perfectly flinty he must have practiced it in the mirror. He introduced me to the SWAT team, who looked more like combat soldiers than highly trained mages. I nodded to the thaumatech. “We’ve met before.”

“So we have.” It was Bornholm. “You came up to the Thomas Brothers fire.”

“That’s right. I still envy you your spellchecker.”

“Enough chitchat,” Higgins said. “Let’s fly.”

I’d never ridden on a black-and-white carpet before. Let me tell you, those things are hot. As we shot up the flyways to the curandero’s place, I reflected that the sylphs in the constabulary carpet could have used a little discipline themselves. A couple of turns would have tossed me off on my ear if I hadn’t been wearing my belt. But we got there in a hurry.

Hernandez’s house was on O’Melveny, a couple of lots east of Van Nuys. I hadn’t known whether he had a storefront for his death shop, but no, it was just a little old house with a hand-lettered sign—in green and red, as Lupe Cordero had told me—that said CURANDERO nailed onto the front porch.

Watching the SWAT team operate was something else, too. Police carpets aren’t bound by the governing spells that restrict ordinary vehicles to their flyways. The mages drew an aerial ward circle around Hernandez’s establishment from above before anybody landed. Whatever he had in there, they weren’t about to give him a chance to use it. Constables don’t live to enjoy their grandchildren by taking risks they don’t have to.

Sublegate Higgins used an insulated umbrella (same principle as the footbridge at the Devonshire dump, but applied upside down) to penetrate the circle. With him came four of the SWAT team wizards, Bornholm the thaumatech with her fancy spellchecker, and, bringing up the rear, yours truly. All the firepower that preceded me —the constables were armed for any sort of combat, physical as well as magical—made me wish I was one of the mild-mannered bureaucrats the public imagines all government workers to be; I wouldn’t have minded falling asleep at my desk just then.

Bornholm said, “The spellchecker’s already sniffing something nasty up ahead.”

Higgins rapped on the door. Now the boys from the SWAT team stood on either side of him, ready to kick it down. But it opened. I don’t know what I’d expected CuauhtÇmoc Hernandez to look like, but an Aztecan version of your well-loved grandfather wasn’t it. He had white hair, spectacles, and, until he took in the crowd on his front porch, a very pleasant expression.

That faded in a hurry, to be replaced by bewilderment. “What you want?” he asked in accented English.

“You are CuauhtÇmoc Hernandez, the curandero?” Higgins said formally.

“Sí, but—” The old man smiled. “You need what I got, señor? Maybe you have trouble keeping your woman happy?”

From the way the back of Higgins’ neck went purple and then white, maybe he did have trouble keeping his woman happy. But he was a professional; his voice didn’t change as he went on, “Mr. Hernandez, I have here a warrant permitting the Angels City Constabulary to search these premises for substances contravening various sections of city, provincial, and Confederal ordinances dealing with controlled sorcerous materials, and another warrant for your arrest on a charge of dispensing such materials. You are under arrest, sir. Anything you say may be used against you.”

Hernandez stared as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “Señor, you must be mistaken,” he said with considerable dignity. “I am just a curandero; I don’t hardly do no magic worth the name.”

“Did you sell a potion to a pregnant woman named Lupe Cordero a few months ago?” I asked: “One that was supposed to fight morning sickness and keep the baby healthy?”

“I sell lots of these potions,” he said, shrugging. “It could be.”

“Lupe Cordero’s baby was born without a soul,” I told him.

He went pale under his swarthy skin; had he started off fair, he would have ended up the color of his shining