Low Midnight Page 13

  She stayed at her camp until dawn, but she didn’t sleep. Sitting wrapped in her blanket, she fed twigs into the fire to keep it burning low, and looked out at the prairie, her ears still ringing from phantom gunfire. Dawn came slowly.

  After packing her things and brushing and saddling her horse, she took a few moments to walk around the site, stepping carefully on hard-packed soil, last year’s dried grasses catching on the hem of her skirt. The massacre had happened more than forty years ago. A generation. But that old man—he could have been a boy here. No physical sign of the Indian camp, of what had happened here, remained. The prairie, the wind and the dust blowing over it, had obscured it all. Only memories remained. Memories and shadows.

  Her toe hit against something with a metallic clink. She knelt, searched, found what her step had dislodged: a brass bullet casing, weathered and corroded. It had obviously been lying here, half buried, for years. When she lifted it, it felt much heavier than it should have. As if the bullet was still housed in it, as if the weight of what the bullet had done still clung to it.

  Of course, there was no way to tell that this came from a gun that had been used in the massacre. Forty years had passed, forty years of people crossing this patch of ground for any number of reasons. No reason to think this particular casing was cursed.

  She put it in her pouch and would think on this further.

  * * *

  SO MUCH for the romance of the American West. Anderson Layne, Jess Nolan, all of them were a pale shadow of those old days. No, that wasn’t right. These days, these people were probably not so very different at all. Just as venal, just as criminal. These days simply hadn’t had time to gain a veneer of romance. No one had yet told any thrilling tales of men like Anderson Layne.

  She had thought to use the casing she’d found at Sand Creek for some kind of charm or talisman. Even if it hadn’t been used in the massacre, the fact of its age, of its lying in such a place of power, would give it some small usefulness. But she never got the chance. She didn’t know what happened to her belongings after her arrest. Confiscated and given away, she imagined. Thrown in a trash heap. This was why returning to her childhood home to retrieve what few things she’d left behind there had become so important, last year when Cormac went to London with Kitty. It had been a small treasure hunt, but such a large prize, because it was all she had.

  * * *

  HIS RINGING phone woke Cormac up. He took a long time to crawl to wakefulness, as if the ringtone was some thread from a dream, not at all real, and his conscious mind dismissed it. But it didn’t stop. He grabbed his phone from the crate he used as a bedside table. Three A.M. The number wasn’t Kitty or Ben calling, which meant it wasn’t an emergency as far as he was concerned.

  He answered anyway, and Layne talked at him. “Bennett, oh God, Bennett, you have to get over here.”

  Cormac flopped back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and bit back a curse. “Did you get my message?”

  “No … no, there’s no time for that, you don’t understand—”

  “I can’t help you,” Cormac said. “I’m not working for you. Leave me out of your shit.”

  “But—but this is crazy! I don’t know anyone else who can help!”

  “What about your guy, Kuzniak? Let him figure it out.” He almost hung up at that, but Layne let out a wail.

  “That’s just it! He’s dead! He’s been killed!”

  Chapter 16

  BY DAWN, he was driving back down the freeway.

  Perhaps Nolan and company aren’t as harmless as we thought.

  He didn’t have a clue. But a guy named Milo Kuzniak dying under mysterious circumstances—he had to check it out. Layne hadn’t been able to tell him much, just that Milo didn’t have a mark on him, which ruled out Eddie the skinwalker and Nolan’s rifle, and nobody knew what had happened. Cormac had told him to call the police, let them investigate. But that would have invited scrutiny of everything else Layne had going on at his compound. So, no, he would not call the police. He wanted Cormac.

  Cormac kept thinking he should have refused to help. But he also thought he could stick around just long enough to get an idea about what happened. Maybe he’d find the key to the whole damned puzzle.

  Amelia had him pack a few things, different odds and ends than what he usually carried around in his pockets: red pillar candles and a round, frameless mirror. There was something familiar about the items, but it was from one of her memories, not his, and she was keeping thoughts about it to herself. Something he ought to learn to do, since she always seemed to be able to tell exactly what he was thinking.

  Because you’re very emotional. You do a good job of hiding it from everyone, but behind all that you’re rather a mess.

  Last thing he needed was the back of his own head psychoanalyzing him. He knew he was a mess. He dealt with it. He turned up the radio in the Jeep so he wouldn’t have to hear himself think.

  The sun was up and burning off the winter chill when he arrived at Layne’s compound. He turned into the drive, ready to roll all the way to the front of the house, but a body lay in the middle of the dirt tracks. Milo Kuzniak the younger, splayed face up, arms and legs spread out, no obvious signs of violence on the body.

  He considered slamming the Jeep into reverse and getting the hell out. This—approaching a potential crime scene, disturbing a crime scene with no intention of telling the cops about it—was exactly the kind of thing Ben and Kitty were worried about him getting into. This could get him thrown back in jail.

  You have gloves, yes?

  Sometimes, he wondered if Amelia wasn’t worse than he was. He found his leather gloves shoved on the dashboard.

  Layne had been watching for him. He came walking up from the house as soon as Cormac left the Jeep, and had a rifle tucked under his arm. Cormac glanced at the house, wondering if Mollie was around. He hoped not, what with people dying and all. He ignored Layne and went to the body.

  Cormac wasn’t a forensics guy. He’d read a couple of books because Amelia wanted to learn, and he figured, why not. Mostly, it told him where the TV shows got everything wrong. But he knew a little. The body’s stiffness meant Milo had been lying here for a while, but he hadn’t started to stink. His eyes were open, his lips slack. No blood, no wounds, no nothing. The guy looked smaller, somehow.

  He questioned Amelia: did magic do this?

  We’ll find out.

  “Thanks for coming,” Layne said, which was decent of him. He seemed a lot calmer now than he had on the phone. The panic had subsided. That made Cormac suspicious.

  “I ought to just keep driving, Layne. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “I figure I paid you enough for the werewolf job, I earned a little extra work from you.”

  That was exactly what Cormac thought he’d say. He gave Layne a look and stepped up to the body. He studied the surrounding area for anything out of place, signs of violence, a fight, or magic. As it was, Milo might have had a heart attack and fallen over. This needed a coroner, not a magician.

  Kneeling by the body, he looked closer. Maybe not a heart attack—he didn’t look like he’d died in pain. He wasn’t tense, curled up—his muscles hadn’t been clenched. Really, the guy looked like he’d been surprised. He hadn’t even had time to turn around. Something had happened that he hadn’t expected, and it had been instantaneous.

  Milo’s arms were outstretched, his hands turned up, and soot streaked his palms, as if he’d held an exploding firecracker. Or put his hands up to fend off an attack.

  Cormac looked up at Layne, who stood a ways off, refusing to approach the body. “You see what happened?”

  “No.” He crossed his arms. “I was expecting Nolan’s crew to come back and pull some other stunt, so we were all awake, keeping watch. Milo was out front here, all by himself. There was a bang, like somebody setting off a bomb, and I came running. Nothing was there, not even a puff of smoke, and Milo was dead, just like that. They did something to him, didn
’t they? Nolan and his werewolf?”

  The story didn’t sound right. Kuzniak wasn’t one of Layne’s heavies. He didn’t even carry a gun. He wouldn’t have been keeping watch at the end of the driveway all by himself.

  Nolan didn’t do this, Cormac was sure. Dumb as he was, the guy wasn’t dumb enough to come after Layne on his own ground. He would have sent Eddie, and Eddie would have just torn the guy up. Even if Kuzniak had been out here by himself.

  Layne wasn’t telling everything that happened. Of course he wasn’t.

  “Did you listen to the message I left you?” Cormac asked.

  “Not yet—”

  “Nolan doesn’t have a werewolf working for him. Nolan didn’t do this. You’re being paranoid.”

  “Easy for you to say. Can you tell me what happened or not?”

  There’s a way to learn more. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he didn’t have any other ideas.

  “I still think you should call the cops.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this, but missing people and dead bodies drew attention sooner or later and Cormac didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of this.

  “I am not calling the cops.”

  “Then I take it you have a hole to drop him into?”

  “Of course.” He sounded offended.

  Right. What now? he asked Amelia. We’ll need privacy.

  “You go back to the house. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He glared. “You want me to do this or not? Go back to the house.”

  Still nervous, still gripping the rifle like he’d be happy to use it if he just had a target, Layne shuffled back on the gravel drive. Cormac watched him go, all the way to the house’s porch.

  “He’s going to keep watching, you know,” Cormac murmured.

  Yes, but at least his paranoia will be far away from here. And really, we don’t want him to see this.

  Dead body. Mirror. Candles. “Wait a minute—”

  Just let me do this. Please?

  “Goddammit,” he muttered.

  Get the chalk and candles. First, we’ll need a circle.

  This was what Amelia’d been doing with Lydia Harcourt when she’d been arrested: questioning the body about its own murder. Convenient.

  He followed her instructions. They’d worked together enough that he knew about protective circles—they didn’t just keep the magician safe while she was working her spell, but they also kept the sometimes dangerous energies from escaping and causing harm. Amelia was careful with her protections, and Cormac took his time marking out the circle, both with ground-up chalk that he kept in a jar in the Jeep, and also with the candles. The thing started looking downright sinister, and he wondered what Layne back at the house was making of it.

  Pay attention, if you please.

  One of these days, he was going to lose his temper at her and just walk away from this shit. And she’d stick right there with him. He could ignore her—but she’d invade his dreams and stand there, scowling at him. He couldn’t get away.

  He was going to need a drink after this.

  Perhaps it’s time you simply let me take charge of this.

  Fine with him. Without her knowledge and experience, he could only do so much. So he stepped back.

  He’d gotten used to the feeling, like he was dreaming while also being awake. He watched through his own eyes as his hands moved, his body turned, and his senses dimmed. It should have been terrifying, but it was like hunting predators, bears and wolves and the like, with the ability to turn on you and maul you to death: you couldn’t panic. Simple as that. Stay calm, keep breathing, get through it.

  She always stepped aside when she finished whatever magic she was working. He kept watch, ready to take action if he needed to.

  “You should trust me by now,” she spoke, using his voice. The sound was his, but the words and syntax were not.

  He didn’t trust anyone. She knew that.

  She pulled out the mirror she’d had him pack, laid it by the body’s head. Lit candles, burned incense, whispered words of invocation.

  He felt it. Even if he hadn’t been watching for it, he would have felt the power rise from the ground itself, a tingling across his skin, a prickling as individual hairs rose on his scalp. This wasn’t scrying. Not exactly. This wasn’t just trying to read an imprint of whatever magic had happened here, this wasn’t just tracking the lines of power—she wouldn’t have needed so much ritual for that. This was something else, something more.

  Knowing abstractly what was going to happen and seeing it happen were two different things. When the power rose, feeling like the whole universe was going off kilter, he almost let the panic take hold. He wanted to run. Kick her out of his mind and get the hell away.

  The dead body moved. The faintest flush passed through it.

  “It’s all right,” she murmured. To the body, not to him. He held his breath, waiting.

  The mirror fogged, as if hot breath blew across it. Breath from the body. Then the eyes blinked, and lips pressed together. Brief flickers of movement. Amelia murmured, “Shh, it’s all right, Milo. Just a question or two, then you can rest.”

  He blinked again; his eyes were shining, moisture gathering in them. Tears, maybe.

  “Milo Kuzniak,” she said. “I know you can hear me. I need to know what happened to you.”

  The lips worked, struggling to form words. Amelia leaned close.

  Of all Cormac had seen in his life, this was the first thing he’d ever thought to call horrifying. She’d called the man’s soul back to interrogate him—and he was in pain.

  The mirror fogged with breath again, and he spoke in a wheezing whisper.

  “Back. It came back. It came back.” Lydia Harcourt’s throat had been cut deep; she hadn’t been able to speak when Amelia summoned her a hundred years ago. Kuzniak could, and it sounded wrong.

  “What came back, Milo?” Amelia said, gently as she could, but clearly impatient. “Was there a creature? One of your enemies? Was it Jess Nolan and his skinwalker?”

  He—the body—grimaced, his whole face contorting with grief or pain or terror. He could talk, enough of him had been drawn back to his body that he was aware—but he couldn’t move. He had no power.

  “Pocket. Book. Pocket.” A low keening started in his throat, a scream that couldn’t break loose. He bared his teeth, as if an electric shock traveled through his body. Still, only his expression stirred. His body was dead. But what was speaking?

  “Milo—stay with me. I want to know who did this to you. Help me learn who did this, and how.”

  “No one.” The words hissed, then the lips clamped shut.

  The light sputtered; the candles around the circle had burned down to stubs in just a few minutes. Soon, they’d burn out.

  Amelia said, “Do you have any messages? Anyone you’d like to say good-bye to? I’ll pass along any words for you, if I’m able.”

  “No one. No one.”

  The fog across the mirror’s surface vanished, and Milo Kuzniak’s face went slack. Dead, absolutely dead. His eyes were closed.

  Cormac’s stomach was turning, and he wasn’t sure any of this had been worth it. Three sentences and a lot of pain.

  Damn, Amelia murmured.

  She slipped away, and Cormac’s body was his own again. His skin tingled, his muscles clenched. He stretched his gloved fingers, rolled his shoulders back, and took a deep breath. He was back behind the wheel, taking over from a lousy driver.

  It’s not so bad, is it?

  None of what dead Milo had said made any sense. Something had come back, something about a pocket book—or just a pocket. Cormac tipped the body on its side to pat down the overcoat, jeans, feeling in the front and back pockets. And there it was. His little moleskin notebook, worn around the edges, elastic around the cover stretched out, pages dog-eared.

  Another damned book of shadows, he’d bet. He slipped the book into his own pocket t
o look at later. Another mystery, another secret, and maybe they had a chance of finding the answer this time. As long as he hadn’t written in code. Cormac resisted an urge to stand up and kick the body, just in case he’d feel like doing it later.

  Instead, he cleaned up after the spell, gathering the mirror and candle remnants, brushing the chalk circle into oblivion with his boot.

  “What the hell was that?” Cormac muttered. A rhetorical question mostly, but directed at Amelia. “Fucking necromancy?”

  She wasn’t apologetic. I haven’t worked that spell since I was arrested. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to.

  “Then was that me panicking, or you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “So, what is it? A ghost, haunting their body? Their souls? Does the spell trap them?”

  I’m … not entirely sure.

  “You don’t know what happens to them after? You’re chaining some kind of spirit to their body and pulling their strings, and you don’t know? You might be trapping them, torturing them—you stop to think that Lydia Harcourt’s ghost may really be haunting that house in Manitou, after what you did to her?”

  Silence. He couldn’t even feel her lurking.

  Layne was walking back up the drive. Show was over.

  “Well?” the man asked.

  Something wasn’t right here. “I still need to do some checking around. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “But what killed him? Is it going to happen again?”

  “I don’t know,” Cormac said.

  “Then what good are you?”

  “I never said I was any good, you just assumed.”

  If it helps, I don’t think it will happen again. I think this was something that targeted magicians, someone who was working spells.

  So where does that put us? Cormac asked. “I don’t think it’ll happen again. Looks like what got him might have been magic gone wrong. Avoid magic, you’ll be fine,” he said to Layne. “Keep an eye out, though.”

  “Okay. Good. I believe you. Oh, and I’ll take that book you found in Milo’s pocket.”

  So he’d definitely been watching. Cormac thought about responding with, “What book?” Just to see the look on Layne’s face, and just to see what the guy would do about it. But he was supposed to be walking away from all this. Might as well just let him have it.