The Isis Collar

“All right, listen up. I told you that there were bombs in other locations. They were always in pairs. The first one hooked to the air ducts would go off first, freezing people in place and disbursing … well, we don’t know what just yet. The second wipes all evidence and memory of the first.

“The guidance counselor at the school in downtown L.A. happened to be a level-seven mage with a black arts defense background. Sheer fluke that, just like you, he felt a pair of bombs go off. He recognized the first one as something very dark and forbidden—something even the big boys in the sorcery circles don’t play with. We’ve had our best people working forensics on the magic and they keep saying it’s a mess, that the results they’re getting just aren’t possible.”

He took another deep breath before continuing at the same breakneck speed. “In the meantime we’ve been monitoring the teachers, kids, everyone involved, trying to figure out what the first bombs do. So far we can’t find anything wrong with the kids. But the adults in the schools … that’s a different story. They’re dying at an alarming rate, but none of the deaths seem to be magical. They’re just showing up at the hospital with what seem like mild symptoms, say they’re in extreme pain, and then … they never check out. Nobody in the press has put it together yet, thank heavens. And in one case … something happened. I can’t tell you about it. But if it gets out, all hell’s going to break loose. Even as it is now, people are eventually going to start to notice. In a few days the story is going to be impossible to contain.”

Crap. I believe in disclosure. I believe the public has a right to know. But I also know how much damage mass panic can do. I wouldn’t want to be the one calling the shots on this case. Hell, I wouldn’t even want to be in Rizzoli’s shoes.

“So. Someone cast a spell, but nobody knows what it does. What does the guy you have in custody have to do with it?”

The nod said he expected the question. “We started watching the Internet, low-key stuff in the anti-American chat rooms, hoping for anyone who claimed responsibility or bragged about it. What we found was far more disturbing. The event was definitely organized. There were indications that this is a timed magical event. That there are more bombs, and that when they’ve all detonated the spell will be released full force.”

“Do you have a date?”

“Not yet. That’s one of the things we want to find out. If there’s a deadline, we need to know what it is.”

“What about the two guys the cops arrested at our school?”

“No good. They were hired wands. Didn’t know a thing other than how to set up the device. But the guy we have now—we think he can tell us what the spell does. But we have to be careful; as soon as they figure out he’s been captured, they’ll pull the plug. They put a curse on him that will activate if we use physical force. But it can also be remotely detonated. Our agency witch confirmed the curse. It’s one of the worst and could take out the building if it activates.”

I wasn’t even sure what to say. My mouth opened several times, but no words came out. Finally, I managed to sputter, “If you’re trying to encourage me to help, you’re failing miserably.”

He let out a small sound that deepened the creases in his broad forehead with both worry and fear. It reminded me that he wasn’t just a desk jockey for the FBI. He was a field operative. If this scared him, it was worth being scared about. His voice lowered to a deadly growl. “My boy was in the school in L.A., Graves. I spent half a night putting together Mikey’s first two-wheeler so he could have the birthday he’s been talking about all year. I want to know what that asshole and his friends did to him, or so help me God—” His eyes were flashing and his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled.

Whoa. I’d never seen Rizzoli like this. Not during a political crisis or even a demonic one. This was personal to him and it was going to make him call in every favor and push every button he had on me and everyone else until he had answers. “And you’ve already had your son checked out?”

“Doctors, witches, and even some psychics and priests. The witch found a spell on him all right but not one that could be removed. It’s somehow melded to his skin, has become a part of him. They don’t know what it does, who cast it, how to get rid of it, or even what culture the magic is from.”

The doctor’s words echoed through my mind: I haven’t found a base I know yet. Well, fuck a duck. I already have a spell like that, too. A death curse was put on me when I was a child. So far it hasn’t killed me, but I’ve been told removing it might. Even with the caster long dead it hasn’t faded much. The last thing I needed was another one and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. “How long do you have before they know the guy you got is missing?”

“Could be anytime. He might already be dead. But if he’s not, I want to know what he knows.”

I understood but … “I won’t force him to talk, Rizzoli. I don’t have any control over that particular ability yet. He could wind up brain-dead.” Let’s not mention to the nice federal officer that I’d left several other people like that fairly recently. Admittedly, they were bad guys who were helping a demented siren turn me into a mental vegetable … but still.

He didn’t turn to look at me, but the smile that curved his lips creeped me out. “No, I have something very special in mind for you, Graves. And I don’t think you’re going to mind doing it. In fact, you might really like it.”

7

The road to ruin is the one that’s smooth and paved, and the fastest cart to carry you is good intentions. Words of wisdom from Gran and they were oh so true today.

I’d sworn never to use my psychic abilities again to torture or coerce, but what Rizzoli was suggesting wasn’t precisely either one.

I stared through the two-way mirror at the slender middle-aged man with the pockmarked face. He glowered at the bearded Asian agent in the room with him but didn’t speak a word, no matter how hard the agent tried to convince him to do the right thing and not hurt innocent kids. The layered black clothing on the captive spoke of an extremist religious order, perhaps one of several that had arisen in eastern Europe lately. The heavy salt-and- pepper eyebrows and Roman nose made me think of Croatia or Bulgaria, but I could be wrong.

Rizzoli leaned close to my shoulder and whispered, “All you have to do is suggest he cooperate with us. It’s not torture and doesn’t change anything that’s happened. But we’ll know where the other bombs are and what they do.” Then Rizzoli did the one thing I’d been praying he wouldn’t do. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to a posed family portrait. His wife was blonde and a tad chubby but pretty in a pale blue silk dress. A little girl, still a toddler, sat on Rizzoli’s lap while an older boy, obviously Mikey, stood at his father’s side proudly, a hand on his shoulder. Damn it. The kid had his father’s dark good looks. Rizzoli’s hand tightened on my shoulder with something approaching panic. “Celia. Please don’t let anything happen to my son.”

He’d never called me Celia before and it made me let out a pained sound. What were my morals worth? What price, ethics? “What if he doesn’t know anything? What if he’s just an innocent dupe you picked up by accident?”

The voice in my ear must have been the same one that accompanied the apple in the Garden. So reasonable, logical. “If he doesn’t know anything, he can’t tell us anything and he’s free to go.”

Free to go. Even though he’d already admitted to being involved with people who put an exploding death curse on him. Not freaking likely. No, he knew something and I didn’t figure that somehow the guy in black was going to be allowed to go back to his buddies. Maybe it wouldn’t be the FBI proper who did the deed, but they’d find someone who would. Still, why was it little Mikey’s fault? What did a kid who just wanted his first two-wheeler have to do with stupid, ugly politics?

I grabbed the wallet out of Rizzoli’s hand and stared at the happy family, not the man in black or the distraught father standing next to me. Was it wrong for me to want a child I’d never met to be safe? Didn’t I have the right to want him to grow up happy and healthy? Couldn’t I want it … a lot? That wasn’t coercion or torture. It was just me, wanting people to be happy in a way I’d never been lucky enough to have in my mess of a family.

Movement erupted from the corner of my eye, but I kept my gaze hard on the photograph. I could look at the photo and worry and fear for those sweet kids. More, I could care whether they lived, free from harm.

The longer I stared, the more the toddler resembled my little sister when she was a baby. I’d lost her early, at the hands of greedy, thoughtless assholes who thought kids were easy targets and could be used or abused at