Ritual Magic

THIRTY-FOUR

THE Torrey Pines Reserve was closed at night, but people interested in committing murder often don’t worry much about park rules. Maybe the killer hadn’t realized that rangers sometimes work late. Two rangers had been busting some asshole for camping on the beach below the bluff when they heard gunshots. When they checked that out, they found a bloody scene complete with arcane symbols.

“You sure the EMTs knew to keep latex between them and their patient?” she asked T.J. as they headed up the Guy Fleming Trail. The body was at the north overlook; no one waited there but the dead. Once T.J. arrived, he’d kept everyone away except for the EMTs.

“I told ’em. Sent word to the hospital, too.” T.J., aka Lieutenant Thomas James of the San Diego Police Department, looked less like Santa Claus than he had a few months back, when he’d grown a beard. He’d made a saggy Santa, but he did have the white hair and twinkle. Behind that twinkle was a canny and suspicious cop’s brain. The SDPD had been warned about the steps to take if they found an apparent ritual murder. T.J. had followed that directive.

“I guess you haven’t heard anything more about Ms. Ward’s condition.”

“Not yet. You a fan?”

“I saw Duck Walk five times when I was a kid.” Not to mention the Pygmalion remake a couple years ago, plus a dozen other movies that every person in the country must have seen at least once. Angela Ward was an old-fashioned, capital S Star. Four Oscars, more than any other living actor; four husbands, too, though she’d been single for years now. She called herself retired, though this or that director was always coaxing her back for a part. She’d chosen San Diego for one of her homes, though she spent most of her time in Hawaii.

She’d be wishing she’d stayed in Hawaii, if she lived to make wishes. She’d been tied up when they found her. Unconscious. The EMTs said she’d damn near bled out. Bullet wounds in the abdomen and upper arm.

“You see anything?” she asked the man ahead of them.

“Trees.”

Trust Cullen to find an excuse for sarcasm. She needed him along, though, and for the same reason he was up front now. He’d see any icky magic before stepping in it. They made quite a cavalcade. Cullen first, then her and T.J. with Rule right behind. Behind Rule, two cops with some of the gear they’d need at the scene if they were able to enter it. Behind them, the six lupus guards Rule considered necessary.

Lily hadn’t argued. Not after the dworg.

On the way over, she’d tried talking to Sam. Either he was finished chatting or he hadn’t heard her. The latter was possible. Likely, she supposed. Even the black dragon might find it hard to eavesdrop telepathically on so many people in different locations, none of them near him, while keeping watch over Nettie. She hoped he’d be available for questions when she finished with the scene. She had several.

The two rangers who’d found the victims were back at the park road. So was the scene-of-crime squad. Lily had checked the rangers for traces of icky magic. Nothing on them. Maybe no icky magic here at all. Maybe she wasn’t needed. “Doesn’t make sense,” she muttered. “Bullets?”

“That part doesn’t,” Cullen agreed, “but the location does. There’s a baby node on the lookout.”

She wondered if Cullen knew the location of every node in a hundred miles. Probably. “They used a ley line the first time. Why change? Maybe this isn’t the same bunch.”

“Maybe, but not for that reason. A lot of spells and rites can use either one, depending on the skill of the caster. They could’ve used a ley line the first time because it was their first time. Ley lines aren’t safe, but they’re safer than nodes. Even a small node has a lot of raw magic.”

The trail wound around and up. They moved slowly, giving Cullen time to study both the trail and the area near it. The wind off the ocean was strong and cold, whipping Lily’s hair around and making her think again about cutting it. Assuming the fabric of time held together long enough for her to get an appointment . . . she dug in her pocket and pulled out an elastic. A couple of quick twists and one problem was solved.

What happened when time was damaged? When the fabric of the realm was damaged?

What did the Great Bitch want to happen?

It was, maybe, a mistake to try to get inside the head of a being older than the cosmos, due to being impossible. Lily still had to try. G.B. thought her goal was noble. She wanted to save humanity from itself. Therefore, she didn’t want to destroy humanity . . . but anything short of utter annihilation might work for her. Might work out great. Knock everyone back to the Stone Age, flash some power around, start helping the survivors of the devastation you’d caused, and bingo. Before you knew it, you had everyone worshiping you, just like they ought to.

Maybe understanding that much helped, but trying to figure out what kind of damage might occur was a distraction. She didn’t need specifics to know it would be a heaping helping of world-class horrible. She didn’t need to prepare for the horrible. She needed to stop it. That meant stopping Friar. How did you stop someone if you couldn’t find them? If—

“Now I see something,” Cullen said.

Lily stopped, her arm flashing out to bar T.J., who’d already stopped. “What?”

“Leakage from the node. It looks . . .” He tipped his head to one side. “Well, that’s not good. Wait here.” He left at a run.

Lily tucked her flashlight under her arm, pulled off her shoes so she’d know if she hit a patch of icky magic, and jammed them into her purse. “Do like he said. Wait here.” She gripped the flashlight and set off the way Cullen had, only slower. Three footfalls later she added, “Dammit, Rule!”

“You’ll let me know if there’s contagion.” He ran easily just behind her.

“I could lie.”

“You won’t. Not about that.”

Wisps of power brushed her face as she ran—overflow from the node. Her feet didn’t touch anything icky, just rocks and sticks that jabbed. There wasn’t much brush at the crest of the trail, but the lookout was at a high point and it was dark. Lily didn’t see what waited there until she reached it.

A man’s body lay facedown on the flat, sandy ground. Near one outflung hand was a small wooden altar, tipped on its side. Near his feet was a small duffel bag. A large shape—a pentagon? No, a hexagon had been drawn or painted on the bare ground of the overlook. Under the beam of her flashlight it glowed a bright, cheery yellow. Six dark candles were distributed evenly around the painted shape, which enclosed the body and the toppled altar. Cullen stood in front of it, glaring at them. “Does anyone listen to me? Does anyone ever freaking listen to me?”

“There’s no contagion.”

“No, there’s a goddamn major working that got interrupted at the worst goddamn time possible, so instead of dissolving like it ought to, it jammed. Then it got fed a lot of blood. And it’s still tied to the goddamn node, and now it’s about to blow up. So sit down out of my way and shut up.” He began pacing around the hexagon, eyes narrowed as he studied the ground.

Sometimes you really had to listen to the experts. Lily sat on the trail. Rule dropped down beside her. After a moment, she turned off her flashlight. It might be a distraction.

Cullen made a slow circuit of the hexagon. There was barely room for him to stay outside it in one spot; the overlook was enclosed by a low pole-and-cable fence meant to keep idiots from straying off the trail or falling off the cliff on the ocean side. He crouched twice, tilting his head, and muttered under his breath now and then. At last he stopped, nodded briskly, and raised his arms. He began chanting too low for Lily to hear the words. All at once he snatched something invisible out of the air, flung it up, and shouted, “Ak-ak- areni!”

Fire shot up from the candles—fire as red as molten lava. It leaped from candle to candle, then inward to the center of the hexagon, where the six crimson flows collided with each other—and with a seventh, this one from Cullen’s other hand. Rainbow fire, that one, green-blue-orange-purple-yellow, every color but red. It merged