Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

We can argue all day whether they are one in a thousand or one in a hundred, but what about when they are one in ten? One in five? All the experts agree their numbers are growing. When is it going to be enough? When will they stop? How much is too much? You’ve all heard about the Active supremacist’s plot. They think they’re better than us. They won’t be happy until they overthrow this great democracy and rule us with an iron fist! It is time to take a stand! Join me, brothers, as we converge on Washington. This week we are already ten thousand strong, but we need more. What have you done today to protect your country from them! We need your help to resist magical tyranny. Together, we will make our voices heard!

—Radio promotion for the

League for a Magic-Free America march

on Washington. 1933

Washington D.C.

Thirty agents from the Bureau of Investigation had been detailed to this operation by the Director. Extra agents were already in the city to keep an eye on the ever growing numbers participating in the anti-magic protest. They did not know the particulars of the case, only that J. Edgar Hoover insisted that it was of the utmost importance, and he was overseeing the operation personally.

Per Hoover’s orders, an agent had left a large courier envelope under some bushes at a small park on the corner of two busy streets. Ten agents had eyes and telescopes on the package. They were undercover, sitting on nearby park benches, watching from windows or rooftops, or simply out for a stroll. The other agents were waiting in chase cars, ready to swoop in and grab whoever picked up the package.

The agents were in the dark. Was it a ransom payment? A foreign spy? Communist agitators trying to stir up trouble in the anti-magic mob? Was it related to the Active Plot? All they knew was that Hoover was taking this case very seriously, and he’d warned them to be ready for anything. The director was pacing nervously in the command center, listening to the constant radio check ins.

The package had been placed at noon on the dot. It was now just after two o’clock in the afternoon and nobody had so much as sniffed around. A dog entered the area and began exploring the bushes, looking for a place to do its business. The presence of a golden retriever was dutifully reported. Twenty seconds after entering the bushes, the dog reappeared, carrying the courier package in its mouth.

As soon as he heard, Hoover ordered his men to seize the dog.

The agents had not been prepared to chase a dog. The retriever fled up the street and into an alley where it was briefly out of visual contact. The first three agents on the scene grabbed the apparently confused dog, who bit one agent on the hand during the struggle. (which later required six stitches). However, the package was gone.

On the opposite side of the alley, one of the chase cars called in a sighting of a suspicious, two foot tall dough creature. It waddled quickly along on two legs, cradling the package in its lumpy arms. Pedestrians screamed at the sight of the tiny Summoned and tried to get out of its way.

Hoover ordered all cars to arrest the demon.

The creature turned and walked through the door of a haberdashery shop. A crowd of agents pursued it inside, only to discover that the room was filled with a thick, dark smoke that quickly dissipated. The package was missing. The proprietor of the shop explained that the store had been empty except for a pleasant young lady in a straw hat and dark glasses that had been browsing the wares. She was nowhere to be found.

When the dejected agents returned outside, a small hand mirror had been left on the driver’s seat of one of the chase cars. Surprisingly, the reflection in the mirror was that of a large, square jawed, unshaven man. The mirror requested to speak directly to J. Edgar Hoover. It was brought back to the command center and turned over to the director, who promptly threw everyone one else out of the room.

“Was that supposed to be a test?” Jake Sullivan asked. “I’m assuming we passed.”

“It wouldn’t do to ally with a group of incompetents. The dog was a nice a touch,” Hoover responded, watching the magic mirror as if it might turn into a snake and bite him. “Your people are as clever as you made them out to be.”

Sullivan was already opening the package. “Is this intelligence current?”

“It is,” Hoover assured him. “We at the Bureau like to stay informed. However, I was recently ordered to have no involvement whatsoever with the OCI. So I’m afraid I have no need of these files. I’ve been hearing some very troubling things about our mutual acquaintances. Ugly things. Anything reliable you find will enable me to start an official inquiry. Until then any action I take will be looked upon as mere political vindictiveness. He’s seen to that. Bradford Carr is a crafty one.”

“Small world,” Sullivan muttered as he read one of the linotyped sheets. “Doctor Bradford. Ain’t that something? I’ve been in the library named after him. Very nice collection, though now I’m betting he was keeping the good stuff for himself.”

“Do what is necessary, but I will not abide a complete disregard for the letter of the law.”

“Uh huh . . .” Sullivan was studying one of the pages. “I bet you won’t. I’ll be in touch.”

“There is something else, Mr. Sullivan. The OCI has released a bulletin that they are expecting another attack shortly. Time is of the essence. We have never spoken.”

“Keep the mirror. It makes a nice souvenir.”

Bell Farm, Virginia

The gang’s all here!

Well, except for the ones that were in prison, the ones that had died, and the others that were far away, but it was most of the Grimnoir Faye knew, all in one place, and all, sort of, working together. The old farm house was packed. Faye Vierra, Jake Sullivan, Lance Talon, Dan and Jane Garrett, Whisper Giraudoux, Ian Wright, and the new lady, Pemberly Hammer, were all in the living room.

Faye thought Pemberly seemed nice, if a little frazzled. She was pretty too, in a straightforward sort of way, though she was no Whisper, who was constantly dolling herself up and putting cosmetics on her face and playing with her hair—Faye figured it was because she was French—and she was certainly not in the same league as Jane, who Faye still thought should be a movie star or something. Jane just woke up beautiful. All of the other women made Faye feel sort of plain in comparison. It was okay, she was used to it. Besides, Francis seemed to think she was pretty, but that wasn’t the only reason she was going to go rescue him.

Toru was the only one on the farm missing from the meeting, but Lance was using a rat to watch the crazy Iron Guard. Lance said that he was just sitting there on the barn floor, meditating or whatever it was Iron Guards do.

Mr. Sullivan had only been a Grimnoir as long as she had, so he was supposedly still one of the junior members, but everybody knew that when it came to combat nobody knew as much as he did. There wasn’t any pride about it, he just kind of came in and took over when the discussion turned to fighting. She was glad that Lance was smart enough not to let pride get in the way. Sullivan had used a grease pencil to draw a map on the wall. He’d been going over the plan for the last hour. As had been pointed out repeatedly, it wasn’t much of a plan, but the clock was ticking. It was Tuesday afternoon and sometime on Thursday morning, Heinrich was scheduled to die. They weren’t about to let that happen.

Luckily, they weren’t too far so they didn’t have to worry about getting there in time, just about what to do when they got there. Some of the others knew right away where the secret OCI headquarters was just from the name. Mason Island. Faye had never heard of the place.

“It’s a swampy chunk of dirt in the Potomac, just between D.C. and Arlington County.” Sullivan kept on drawing as he spoke. “Half a mile long, quarter mile wide. One bridge crosses the southern end of the island,” he made a broad slash, “connecting it to land on both sides. Government bought the place right after the Great War. They started building it up to put a Peace Ray on it, but that was before scientists figured out that the rays turned the air around it to poison. Couldn’t have that zipping a couple hundred yards over the city.”

“The elevation is crap. Stupid place to put an energy weapon,” Lance said.

“I think the idea was that it would make an impressive silhouette, looming over the capitol . Symbolic and all that. Anyways, they finally gave up and built this region’s Peace Ray over on Catoctin Mountain, but before that decision they’d finished the bridge and a couple of buildings. Officially, there’s nothing there, even though you can see the lights from the other shore. According to Hoover,” Sullivan drew a square above the bridge, “this is where the OCI has set up shop.”

“Good place for a secret police force. No flash, nice and secluded, out of sight, out of mind,” Dan said, “but driving distance to where the action is.”

“We can bet it’s fortified and heavily guarded. With twenty good men I could hold a place like that from now ‘till doomsday. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“Maybe there’s another option,” Ian insisted. “Why don’t we go after this Carr and take him out of the picture instead?”

Sullivan sounded weary. “Thought of that. First, they’ll still have our people. Second, Hoover said Carr hasn’t left OCI headquarters since the assassination attempt. He’s been working through intermediaries and telephone calls.”

“He’s scared of us,” Lance suggested. “Damn well ought to be. That’s what happens when you poke the wrong hornet’s nest.”

“You’ll still need whatever evidence they’ve got inside there anyway.” Pemberly hadn’t spoken in awhile. She knew she wasn’t very popular.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Lance said, sounding distracted, but that was how he normally was when part of his brain was occupied somewhere else. “Yesterday you were working for the enemy.”

Faye turned to him. “I think she’s okay.”

“You thought the same thing about Isaiah Rawls,” Lance responded gently. “Right before that treacherous son of a bitch near killed us all.”

Faye blushed. Lance had her there. She’d been the one that had spilled General Pershing’s secrets. At the mention of his father-in-law’s name, Ian visibly bristled, but didn’t speak up. Lance had no way of knowing the relation, and since Ian was in a room full of people who’d suffered because of Rawls, keeping his big stupid mouth shut was smart. She could tell it was difficult for him. Ian sure did like to argue and always be right. Faye didn’t hate Ian as much now that she understood why he was such a bitter know it all jerk, and he’d been brave in Ada, though she was still mad about being pushed out the window.

“Lance, is it?” Pemberly asked. “I’m risking my life by being here. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t even know your friend was alive. So you can stuff it.”

“Well, excuse me, missy.”

Faye thought that Lance and Pemberly sounded kind of alike. Not their voices, because Lance sounded like all deep and grumpy and Pemberly sounded kind of light and pretty like she might sing real nice. It was more about how they talked, with an accent like they should be riding horses and branding steers and other cowboy type things. Some folks said Faye had an accent too, a country one, but she couldn’t hear it, so figured they didn’t know what they were talking about.

Mr. Sullivan seemed to be ignoring them. He was too focused on that map to pay attention to little things like squabbles. He got that way sometimes. While Faye seemed to be at her best when her brain was bouncing around between topics a million miles an hour, Sullivan focused on one thing until it got done. “Biggest problem is going to be those magic nullifiers. Place is probably crawling with them and we don’t have a clue how to stop them. Stealth is out. Faye could pop in and get stuck and we’re missing our Fade. Without magic, we’re just guns, and they’re bound to have more of those too.”

“They can’t have too many men, though,” Dan mused. “If they’re as dirty as we think they are, they’d have to run a tight operation. Problem with conspiracies is the more people know, the more likely somebody will talk.”

“I’d like to assume that, but I can’t. I’d rather not shoot a bunch of know-nothing security guards just there trying to do their job that don’t know any better.”

“We might not have a choice,” Dan said. “They’ve declared war on us.”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve killed a bunch of folks who didn’t know no better . . . Keeps a man up at nights. I really don’t want to do the same thing with my own countrymen if I don’t have to.”

“Me too, Jake, but how many of our kind are going to die if we don’t?”

“Said I didn’t like it, never said I couldn’t do it . . .” Sullivan muttered, deep in thought, as he ran one finger down a line representing a wall.

“Mr. Sullivan, if I may?” Whisper lived up to her nickname. It seemed bigger groups made her a little bashful. “Mr. Sullivan?”

He broke away from the map. “Huh?”

“Do you still have this box? The Dymaxion you called it?”

He rummaged through one pocket and came out with a small orange cube. “Right here.”

“Could you turn it on? We can all try our Powers and see if perhaps any of us can work around it.”

The orange lid hinged open to reveal a sparkly ball inside. “Good thinking.” Sullivan touched it with one finger and gave it a shove. Faye thought it was rather pretty, the way it caught the light, and made bright spots swirl around the room. “Try it.” Whisper held up her hands but there was no fire. Ian looked like he was thinking too hard. Faye checked her head map and got . . . nothing. It was terrifying.

“Hey, Hammer,” Dan said. “I totally trust you a hundred percent and think that you’re just swell and really look forward to working with you.”

“Oh, now I know my Power is broken,” she answered.

Lance held up one hand. “Jake, shut that thing off.” Sullivan put a finger on the ball and the spinning stopped. Faye’s head map came flooding back. “Interesting . . . Start it again. Okay. Stop.”

“You got something, Lance?”

“Maybe. Ian, while it’s down, bring in a spirit or something.”

“Give me a minute.”

Jane sounded perplexed. “Very strange, I can still see everyone’s insides, just like I always have, but I can’t feel my Power. I don’t feel like I could Mend anyone, but shouldn’t I see everyone like a normal person would?”

“That’s too bad, honey. Then you’d finally be able to see just how ruggedly handsome I really am,” Dan quipped while rubbing one hand through his thinning hair.

“Oh, Dan. I love you just the way you are.” She took his hand. “Squishy and filled with juice . . .”

Whisper squealed and jumped as a gigantic barn rat scampered in front of her shoes. “Relax,” the rat and Lance said simultaneously. “You got a critter yet, Ian?”

The curtains rustled as if there was a light breeze, but the windows were all closed. “Yes.”

Sullivan spun the ball again. They all looked at the rodent expectantly. The rat turned to Sullivan. “I feel fine.”

“You can’t see it, but the spirit I called up is floating right over there,” Ian said. “That ball only stops magic from happening, it doesn’t banish something that’s already in effect!”

The rat did a couple of back flips to prove the point. “Yep. Looking good.”

“Neat! Can you make him dance?” Faye asked. Whisper was cringing. “You can toss fireballs at a super demon, but you’re scared of a big mouse?”

Her S sounds were even more pronounced when she was upset. “Because it is disgusting. Yuck. Look at it. So vile.” Faye had to wonder how much of that was an act. It was almost like Whisper wanted folks to think she was softer than she really was, she just did it automatically. It was as much a mask as her makeup. Faye had seen her standing in the middle of a raging firestorm ready to fight to the death, and that sure wasn’t sissy behavior. Whisper was an odd one.

“Oh well. I grabbed the prettiest one in the bunch, too.” Lance let go of his Power and the rat panicked and fled the room. Whisper stood on her chair and didn’t get down until she was sure it was gone. Faye didn’t mind rodents. They made decent enough company as long as they weren’t eating your food or giving you plagues.

Sullivan put the nullifier box away. “We can work with that. We know Crow used one of these on Francis, so unless that was his real body, we can assume that’s how Crow’s magic works too.”

“Good, but if we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right. I’m tired of wasting my talents on puppies, vermin, and livestock,” Lance said. “I’m in the mood to run something mean, something carnivorous.”

“For the rescue, but in the meantime—”

“I know, I know. Rodents and birds . . .” Lance looked over at Ian. “Sounds like me and you are going on a little scouting mission, kid. We’ll leave at sundown.”

Ian looked pained at the idea. Served him right, Faye thought. Ian liked to be bossy, but nobody could boss Lance. If Lance decided he respected you enough, like Mr. Sullivan for example, he’d listen, but anybody else who told him what to do was likely to get a punch in the mouth. Lance didn’t take no guff off anyone. Working with him would be good for Ian’s attitude.

“Well, that’s two that aren’t completely useless. What about the rest of us?” Dan asked.

Sullivan went back to staring at the map. “We’ll figure something out. We always do. Any word back on our request for reinforcements?”

“Browning is on his way with one other knight. No idea what he can do. As for the other groups, not yet,” Dan answered. “I think the elders are inclined to have everyone lay low.”

“Damned cowards,” Lance spat. “Fat lot of help they’ve ever been.”

Ian’s temper got the better of him. “Now hold on. They’re anything but cowards. There are more battles going on than just the ones you know about.”

“They got something more pressing than my friend getting hung? Maybe some party to attend? Let me check my social calendar.” Lance folded his thick arms and glared at the younger knight. “We’re going with or without them and they damn well know it. If they don’t have the spine to help, that makes them yellow.” Faye resisted the urge to clap. For once Ian had no response. The Summoner was surly, but he was nothing compared to Lance Talon. “They need to wake up and realize that if we fail here, everyone in the world is in big trouble. They pin this particular crime on us and get away with it, the whole Society is done forever. We need help and we need it now.”

Whisper had returned to her chair and was straightening the dress she’d borrowed from Jane. It was baggy on her. She seemed to be intrigued by what Lance had just said. “What kind of help would you like to have them give then?”

Lance looked to Sullivan. The big man shrugged. “Men. Weapons. Plenty of each. More Powers that we can use to take out these nullifiers, and more Powers we can use to fight our way in and then back out. Then resources so we can get away. It’s hard to say when you don’t know what you’re facing and the whole thing might just be a trap.”

“It isn’t a trap!” Pemberly was exasperated. “I’m sick of telling you, I heard what I heard. He was telling me the truth.”

“I didn’t say you were in on it.” Sullivan’s voice was flat. “But you’re assuming that you’re smarter than this Crow fella. Don’t underestimate the enemy.”

Faye chimed in. “I’m just hoping he underestimated us!”

This visit had been expected. Toru opened his eyes to see that Sullivan had entered the barn. He stayed seated on the dirt. The Heavy leaned against the pickup truck and studied him. “I need your help.”

“Are you ready to learn more of the Pathfinder?”

“Believe me, nothing I’d like more, but I’ve got to handle some business first.”

“Very well. Come and get me when you are ready to learn. Otherwise, leave me be,” Toru closed his eyes and pretended to go back to his meditations. He was curious to see what the Heavy would do.

As expected, Sullivan was persistent. “You swore to help me.”

“To help you defeat the Enemy in order to fulfill my father’s final wish. I do not care about your petty Grimnoir struggles. If your government destroys the Grimnoir, so much the better for the Imperium. They have always been a small, but annoying, thorn in our side.”

“I thought you weren’t Imperium anymore?”

“There is a difference between a warrior without a master, and a traitor . . . I am no traitor.”

“Neither am I. Accusation hurts though, don’t it?”

An unexpected tack. Sullivan was more perceptive than he looked. “Yes.”

“You’ve seen a lot of war, haven’t you, Toru?”

“All Iron Guards know is war. It is what we . . . They do.”

“Now some fraud has taken your honor away . . . Been there myself. Hurts.”

We are not the same. “What do you know of honor?”

Sullivan did not respond. The truck springs creaked as the Heavy shifted his weight. A match was struck and Toru could smell the smoke from Sullivan’s cigarette. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Nothing you do here makes a difference, Sullivan. Your troubles now are insignificant compared to what is coming.”

“I know.”

Curious. Toru opened his eyes. “Then why do you waste your time? We should be preparing for the war against the Pathfinder. We should be building a new Dark Ocean.”

“With who?”

“Any that is worthy, of course.”

“A bunch of worthy folks are going to die if I don’t help in this fight.”

“Then they should have been stronger!” Toru snapped. “Leave me be.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, feigning disinterest. This was not Toru’s war. Sullivan was a fool to even think that Toru would lower himself to fighting the wretched Grimnoir’s battles.

The cursed Heavy stuck around. “I got a question for you . . . Been nagging me since you got here. Why else did you leave the Iron Guard?”

“I told you. I have an obligation to Okubo Tokugawa.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean what else? That is all that matters.”

“Before all this, how’d a Brute like you get put in the diplomatic corps? Strength, speed, damn hard to kill, Brutes are the top tier of combat capable Actives. Why’d the Imperium take you off the front lines? You’re still young enough, healthy enough, and you act like you’re always looking to fight. The Imperium’s fighting in how many countries right now?”

“Six,” Toru answered sullenly. “If you count the Chinese and Thai rebels.”

“Seems a waste to pull a fighter, with an Active talent that’s practically born for war, off the line and send him to an embassy a couple thousand miles away from where the action is.”

“If you are trying to get me to slip up and admit to knowledge of covert Imperium operations in the United States, I will not do so.”

Sullivan chuckled. “Oh, of course not. I was just wondering how you fucked up bad enough to get kicked out of the meanest army in the world. Maybe you weren’t tough enough . . . You bastards worship strength.” Sullivan made a big show of reasoning it out. “But since you’re a Brute, it couldn’t have been physical toughness you lacked. Cowardice?”

“Go away.”

“Incompetence?”

“I said go away.”

“Had to be something.”

Manchukuo. The competitions, who could collect the most peasant’s heads in an hour? Who could make the biggest pile of ears? He remembered watching the starving prisoners fight for the officers’ amusement, the pleasure women with their blank expressions and eyes where the soul had long since fled, the Cogs and their infernal sculpting of flesh. Manchukuo had been a dark time. It had not been a war befitting the Imperium that he believed in. It had been madness. Toru had disapproved of the troops’ bloodlust. His disgust was taken for weakness. His questions caused dishonor. His hesitation to obey his superior’s orders had brought him shame.

“Maybe you just lacked the stomach for it—”

It was too much. Toru surged to his feet, covered the distance in a split second, and grabbed Sullivan roughly by the collar. “I will not be questioned by the likes of you!”

They stood eye to eye. The Heavy did not so much as blink as he rolled his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. “You talk about being worthy to fight the Pathfinder. How am I supposed to know that you really are?”

“I was Iron Guard, the finest warriors in history!”

“So you say. Why don’t you prove it?”

“I can do so very easily.” Toru tightened his grip on the Heavy’s coat. It would be so easy to rip his heart out. Sullivan kept on staring him down, surely ready to fire his own Power. It would be such a satisfying fight. “Here and now.”

The sound of an automatic pistol’s slide being racked came from the loft. “Need a hand, Mr. Sullivan?”

The Heavy looked Toru in the eyes. “Naw, Faye. We’re just talking is all.”

“Okay. I’m gonna hang around for a minute if that’s okay, though.”

“Not like this, Toru,” Sullivan lowered his voice. “I know you can fight. We’re not going to brawl the Pathfinder and we’re sure as hell not going to beat it in a duel. Show me you’re a soldier. You’ve pledged to help me. Prove it. Show me what you’ve got. There’s a fight coming. Show me you can follow orders and function in a unit.” Sullivan spit his cigarette on the ground and smashed it with his boot. “Prove it to me or walk the fuck away.”

The temptation to rend him limb from limb was great, but the obligation was all that mattered. The Chairman’s ghost had asked for this man among the multitude he could have requested among their American foes. He had not asked for a military leader or powerful politician. He had asked for Sullivan for a reason. It was not Toru’s place to judge worthiness, when Okubo Tokugawa had already done so himself.

Fires of purity burn on a Dark Ocean.

Toru let go of Sullivan’s coat. Sullivan shoved him away. The two men glared at each other, nostrils flaring, fists clenched, ready to fight. “I can see now why my father chose you for this mission, though I still do not understand how you could possibly have been strong enough to defeat him . . .” Toru bowed his head slightly, “I will think about your words.” Then Toru turned, snatched up his tetsubo, and walked quickly from the barn.

“That went well,” Faye said.

Sullivan watched him go.

“About the whole thing with him not getting how come we could beat the Chairman and all . . .” Faye suddenly appeared at Sullivan’s side. “Please don’t mention that was mostly me, okay? He seems mad enough as it is.”

Dan Garrett watched through one of the second floor farmhouse windows as the Iron Guard stomped away from the barn, red faced, angry, and with a spiked club in one hand.“What’re you doing?” Jane asked suspiciously.

“Keeping an eye on our friend, the Jap.” The Iron Guard stopped in the middle of a barren field, took a wide stance, raised his club overhead, and then stood as still as a statue. “Right now I think he’s trying to be a scarecrow.”

Jane came over and stood beside him. The Iron Guard wasn’t so much as twitching. “What do you think?” his wife asked nervously.

“About keeping that animal around? I think Jake’s lost his damned mind.”

Suddenly, the Iron Guard moved, striking out at imaginary opponents, moving in a circle, attacking in all directions. “What’s he doing?”

“Practicing how he’s going to cave our heads in when the moment of inevitable betrayal arrives.”

The club came down, back around, and up again. lightning quick. The Iron Guard went through several intricate movements, lashing out, and then leveraging the club as if he was blocking an attack, before returning to the starting position. The constant footwork raised a cloud of dust. It was too far away to hear with the window closed, but from his face it looked as if he was shouting with every swing. Toru was far too graceful for such a muscle bound hulk and faster than any human ought to be.

Dan was terrified of him, and he had never been kidnapped by an Iron Guard. He could only imagine how his wife was feeling. He reached over and took her hand.

The Iron Guard finished the complicated movements with the club extended in a blow that would pulverize half the bones in a man’s body, and then returned to the same ready position he’d started from. He waited a few seconds and then launched into the exact same series of movements, only faster this time.

“I’m sorry about this, Jane,” Dan muttered. “I know how you must be feeling.”

“I’m fine.”

“With all that happened last year, the very thought—”

“Dan. Look at me.” He complied and stared into her perfect eyes. “What do you see?”

“The beautiful and completely wonderful love of my life?”

“Correct . . .” she gave him a mischievous smile. “And?”

“You’re tougher than you look?”

“Yes. It’s alright. Don’t forget, I’ve been in the Society longer than you have. I grew up with this kind of stress.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Of course I’m scared of the Imperium elite. Only a fool wouldn’t be.”

“I’m not scared of him.”

Jane cocked her head to the side. “I may not have Hammer’s Power, but your blood pressure is elevated and the muscles around your left eye socket develop a nervous twitch when you’re lying.”

Dan unconsciously put one hand to his eye. “Okay, fine. You got me. I’m scared to death, but not for me. For us. Madi thought you were a valuable commodity, and now Jake is inviting the fox into the henhouse. What happens when Toru makes the same decision? Sure, he might be telling the truth with all that talk about honor and obligations, but what if he changes his mind and decides they’ll take him back if he brings his masters a good enough present? Like maybe a perfectly good Healer and a sack of Grimnoir heads. I’m telling you, no good can come of this. Jake’s lost his damned mind.”

“Jake is afraid, desperate maybe, but not crazy. Judging from the physiological indicators, I’d say that Jake is the most rational one in our group, and you have no idea how much it pains me to say that, since I believe he’s fully willing to throw his life away at the slightest provocation if he thinks it will make a difference. He’s prepared to do whatever he has to in order to win. If that means making a deal with evil incarnate, so be it.”

“Is is it worth making a deal with the devil, to beat another, bigger devil?”

“I’m afraid your theological analogy sort of falls apart there, Dan. But if they are even half right about how dangerous the Pathfinder is, can we afford to find out?”

Toru finished yet another set of intricate movements and froze. He held it for what seemed like forever. Unyielding.

“I don’t like it . . . But you’re probably right.”

“I usually am, dear,” she said. Dan just grunted in agreement. Even a man that could magically win any argument wasn’t going to touch that idea with a ten foot pole. One of the cars left the barn and set off down the lane in a cloud of dust. “Who’s leaving?” she asked.

“Jake, Lance, and Ian are going to scout the OCI’s island fortress.”

“And they’re simply leaving the women here alone with that crazy Iron Guard?”

“Hey, I’m here.” To be fair, his Power hadn’t proved the most useful against Iron Guard level willpower, and he knew it. He wasn’t offended. As far as protecting the women folk went, Faye by herself was more than a match for any old Brute, and the French girl was a Torch. It was difficult to be a misogynist when the women around you were human flamethrowers or could outfight a platoon of Imperium marines.

“That’s not what I meant.” Jane sniffed “Of course I know you’ll protect us!”

“It’s okay. I’m not offended. A wise man knows his limitations. Though, I thought you weren’t worried about him?” He chuckled. “Never mind. I’ll quit while I’m ahead there. Don’t worry. I asked for this.” He removed the captured Dymaxion from his pocket. “Mr. Toru doesn’t know this thing exists. If he tries any funny business, he won’t be nearly so tough when he finds out he’s not bulletproof anymore.”

“Oh, Dan. You’re so clever.” She kissed him.

“That’s why you married me, babe.”

OCI Headquarters

Francis tried to remember exactly how Buckminster Fuller’s drawing had looked before he’d been forced to eat it. A square. A circle. Another circle. Got to get the intersections right. Three triangles stuck together in back. Two squiggly bits that connected all the points. Two? Or was it three? Shit. I haven’t even gotten to the octagon yet.

Frustrated, Francis wiped away the design, smoothed the dust, and tried again. The dim flickering light made it difficult to see and his finger tip wasn’t the most precise instrument, especially when it was attached to a hand that was shackled to a chain.

“What are you doing?” Heinrich asked through the wall.

“Nothing.” I can’t talk about it or they’ll hear us.

“You know, I have been thinking about something.”

Square. Circle. Circle. “Yeah?”

“The one nice thing about them using our bodies as evidence is that they can’t torture us too obviously, plus they have to feed us, and let us use the latrine. To do otherwise would cause suspicion during the investigation.”

Sure, they’d been given water, canned rations, and been unshackled, then handcuffed and taken to the toilet while being watched by five burly guards with clubs and a Dymaxion twice a day, but it wasn’t like they had any opportunity to escape. Heinrich had tried last time, but had only managed to injure two of the guards before being wrestled down, and dragged back to his cell. “Your point?”

“No point. I’m just saying that this could be a lot worse. Starving and wallowing in our own filth before being murdered . . . Now that would be unpleasant.”

“Nobody likes annoying optimists,” Francis said.

“And to think that a few days ago you called me a pessimist.”

Francis went back to trying to draw the spell. If only he could get this thing to work, then Heinrich could fade through his chains. Fighting a Fade indoors was suicide. The guards wouldn’t have a chance. All he had to do was perfectly recreate the most complicated spell that he’d ever seen, and then only for a minute, and they could blow up all the Dymaxions and waltz right out of here. Squiggly bits. Octagon . . . Fuck.

Heinrich started to say something but then stopped. The opposite chains rattled for a moment and then his friend was still. Francis could have swore that he heard whispering. “Heinrich, you okay?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

Heinrich was a strange one, even for a German. Francis shrugged and went back to drawing. A few seconds later he heard a small ticking noise coming from inside the wall. A whisper came through the hole in the bricks. “Shhh . . . Don’t talk. Just listen.”

Lance?

“They’ve got spy holes in the walls. You’re being watched and listened to.” He turned his head enough to see the black head of a rat perched on top of his chain. “Here’s the deal. We’re going to spring you tomorrow.”

Yes! He should have known his friends wouldn’t let him down. He hadn’t given up hope, but he’d been getting close.

Francis urgently tapped his finger in the middle of the spell he was drawing.

“Interesting. What’s that do?”

Francis wrote in the dust. BLOWS UP DYMAXIONS.

“That would be handy,” Lance whispered. “Think you could do that on demand?”

SIGNAL?

“Explosions. Screaming. Gunfire. That kind of thing.”

???

“Well, a maybe is better than nothing. How big do they blow up?”

GRENADE

“I’ll tell Sullivan not to keep his in his pocket then. Anything else you can tell me?”

BRADFORD CARR

“Already know about him.”

Francis smoothed the dust. ATTACK COMING. KILL US. FRAME UP.

The rat made a skittering noise. “Figured as much. Be ready to move quick. If that spell works, great. If not, we’ll come get you boys the hard way.”

FIND BUCKMINSTER FULLER N.Y. HIS SPELL.

“Not much time, but we’ll try . . . Oh, and I can see what you’re doing there. Draw the wavy lines first. Then put the solid shapes on top of them. Easier that way. I’ve been messing with some of the ones Sullivan’s come up with, nothing like that beast, though.”

Francis scowled at the design. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

The rat moved around for a moment. There was a tinkle of metal against the floor. “Here’s some pieces of wire and a nail I found. I did the same thing for Heinrich. Maybe you can pick your lock. I’ll be back with the cavalry tomorrow. You boys hang in there.” And then Lance was gone.

They were going to bust out of here, no matter what. With renewed determination, Francis cleared the dust and started over.

There was only so much he could tell by glassing a dark tree line over and over. The shapes of the buildings could barely be seen and there weren’t very many exterior lights. He couldn’t even pick out the guards. Sullivan finally gave up and lowered the spyglass.

Apparently their Beastie was finished scouting too, and Lance wandered over to join Sullivan on the shore. He had heard Lance’s side of the conversation with Heinrich and Francis. “How bad is it?”

“Exterior wall is solid, and our targets are buttoned up tight in the main building. I counted eighteen heavily-armed men barracked there, our boys, and half a dozen other prisoners in another area. Guards patrol outside, working in pairs. Don’t know how many, but twenty-five bunks in total, but they might sleep in shifts. We could cut the electricity and telephone lines easy enough, but they’ve got a radio transmitter so they’ll still be able to call for help.”

“Only one bridge across. Easy to block our escape, too.”

“Too bad Pirate Bob’s on the other side of the world. Being able to land an armored blimp right on top of them would be mighty convenient.”

Sullivan shook his head. “The Navy’s had their newest carrier tethered over the city since the attack. We come in by air and the Lexington will have fighters on our tail in no time.”

“We’re gonna have to work for this one.”

It was cold on the Virginia side of the river, that humid, pierce your clothes kind of misery that made nights like this especially bitter. Sullivan jammed his hands into his pockets and waited for the young Summoner to finish up with his spirits.

Ian was sitting on the lowered tailgate of the truck, talking to thin air. “Good work, Molly. Tell me what’s inside the loud room?” He listened intently as the invisible creature spoke in a way that only Summoners could hear. “You’re so smart. Yes you are. Who’s my good girl? Molly’s my good girl.”

“Are all of them like that?” Lance asked.

“Summoners? Believe it or not, this one seems a lot more squared away than most.” Sullivan had worked with a few different Summoners over the years, from the scouts of the 1st Volunteer to friends he’d used for detective work. Compared to the rest, Ian could still interact with society rather well. He was still young, though. Maybe Summoners just got crazier with age . . . “What’ve you got, Ian?”

He sounded smug. “Molly is one of the sharpest spirits I can bring in. She says there’s a room at the top that’s got an engine running inside of it. It’s spinning a big ball. That’s got to be a Dymaxion.”

Sullivan was inclined to agree. The smaller one he’d found had a range of maybe fifty feet, but this one seemed to cover the whole island. They’d driven over the bridge to the D.C. side and back to test it out, and his Power hadn’t responded at all while crossing the river.

“I heard the noise upstairs,” Lance said. “I didn’t spend too much time trying to get in. The room was solid concrete with a bank door on it. But if it’s motorized, then there will be ventilation for that engine, and if there’s ventilation a rat can get in and start chewing through wires.”

“Might not be a bad idea.”

“You got any idea how bad copper wire tastes?”

“Can’t say that I do . . . Probably twenty-five men. I wonder how many of them know what’s really going on? You know we’re going to end up having to kill some of them.”

“I know.” Lance was somber. “But if you sign up to take away innocent folk’s freedom, you better be prepared to pay with your life. I saw something else while I was in there you need to know about. There’s a command center on the main floor. Nobody’s working this late, so I did some reading. They’re making big plans.”

“More attacks to blame us for, I bet.”

“Francis tried to warn me that something’s coming, but he had no details. That wasn’t what got my attention. Bad things, Jake.”

It wasn’t like Lance to be this hesitant. “Spit it out.”

“OCI is building prison camps big enough to hold tens of thousands. They’re segregated by Active types. Places I’ve never heard of out west, Topaz and Gila River for physical Powers, Granada and Minidoka for mental. They’re got lists of names. Pages and pages of them. Who’s not a threat, who to round up, and who to exterminate.”

“Aw hell . . .” This was worse than imagined.

“Exterminate, Jake. I didn’t pick the word. I didn’t make it up. It was on the title. Extermination order for undesirable Actives.”

Ian just stared at the dark mass of Mason Island. “I can’t believe that.”

Lance hawked his throat and spit in the Potomac. “Believe it, kid. It was posted on the fucking bulletin board.”

Sullivan took the spyglass out and put it back to his eye. Had it really come to this? What’s your game, Senator? But the trees held no clues.

Lance’s laugh was bitter. “OCI’s just gonna keep on pulling stunts like Miami ‘till they get what they want.”

“It’s hard to believe they can hate us that much,” Ian muttered.

Sullivan wasn’t sure. Maybe it was hate for some, fear for others, but was there something more? Were Actives an excuse for a power grab? Were they pawns in some bigger game? Sullivan didn’t know, but he was damn tired of being pushed.

It was a different time, different place, and it was right in his own nation’s capitol, but Sullivan couldn’t help but feel like he was back in the Great War, planning a raid across no man’s land. He had a mission, he had an enemy, and that meant that he had a purpose. If the OCI wanted a war, then they’d get one. “Let’s go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we attack.”

“We’ve been scouted, sir,” Crow reported to his superior.

Bradford Carr had been getting ready to turn in for the evening, and was dressed in his robe and savoring a pipe. He’d claimed the general officer’s quarters of the old Peace Ray facility as his personal suite and paid a great deal of money to have the rooms properly decorated. The plain concrete of the bunker had been paneled over fine wood. Ornate light fixtures had replaced the wire covered emergency bulbs. All of the furniture was huge, dark, and expensive. Crow felt like he was sitting in the salon of some upper-crust intellectual, which technically, he was.

The room was decorated with trinkets and souvenirs from the Coordinator’s travels around the world. There was a lion skin rug on the floor that the Coordinator had shot himself. One wall had weapons, Zulu spears, Arabian scimitars, even an Amazonian blowgun complete with darts coated in a poison made from blue frogs. Two walls were covered in books that the Coordinator had shipped down from his private collection in Chicago. Most of those books, scrolls, and stacks of paper were about magic, personally gathered by Carr from every corner of the globe. The last wall was covered in plaques, diplomas, medals, and awards, all strategically arranged to show how much better he was than everyone else. It was the honorable Doctor Bradford Carr’s display wall of personal arrogance.

“Scouted, eh? Grimnoir I assume?” Carr leaned back in his plush chair. It creaked ominously under all that fat. Crow had to remind himself that if the chair broke and the Coordinator came tumbling out, he’d better not laugh. The Coordinator struck him as someone who would be sensitive to even the smallest sleight.

“So it would appear. It was a minor spirit. I could sense it poking around.”

“Any chance that it might have been sent by someone else?”

The Coordinator was more worried about his rival, J. Edgar Hoover, who at best might be able to put them in jail, than the ruthless Grimnoir that would certainly try to kill them. Damned politicians. No sense of perspective. “Hoover’s got no trust of magic. I’d say it was the Grimnoir. Which means they’ll be coming soon.”

“Very good. Speed up the timeline then.” Carr smiled as he sucked on his pipe. “I want the next operation to begin as soon as the Grimnoir attack us. Move up the schedule. Have some of the men prepared to evacuate Stuyvesant and the German into the city. I want it to seem as if the two events, the attack on the city, and the Grimnoir assault against our headquarters were done simultaneously. It will make their group seem more capable of nefarious scheming in the papers, and it will position the OCI as the logical force to stop them.”

It would also split his available resources and put all of them in more danger. The Coordinator didn’t care, though. He would be safe in his bunker the whole time. “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent, Mr. Crow . . . I’ll bring the rest of the trustworthy men here to reinforce our numbers. The Grimnoir’s little scout will not have known that . . . Here, let me show you something.” He picked up a thick leather book from his reading table and held it out for Crow to take. Crow had to lean way forward in his chair to get the book. The wheels of his chair couldn’t roll across that stupid lion rug. The book was battered, the cover was stained, and the writing on the pages was done by hand. “Do you know what that is?”

“No, sir. I do not.” The writing was in a language Crow didn’t recognize. He flipped through a few pages, noting the many intricately designed spells.

“I bought this book from a Romanian peddler back in ’23 for thirty-five cents. The poor Gypsy had no idea the astronomical value of such a tome. In fact, from the pages of that very book came the spell that I gave to you, and that you gave to Giuseppe Zangara, to drastically increase your abilities. What you hold in your hands is one of the personal research journals of Anand Sivaram, an absolutely brilliant mystic, driven insane in a quest for more Power. He was one of the first to figure out how to bind new forms of magic to his own body, including the single greatest design ever accomplished by the hand of man. A spell that worked as a collector of recently severed Power. A design that no one has been able to replicate since. Yet it ruined his mind, and as a result, he did many unspeakable things.”

Was this about the spell that the Coordinator had carved onto Crow’s narrow chest? Crow fidgeted nervously. Did the boss know just how difficult it was getting to control the demons? Was he going to take it away? Crow would rather die than lose his freedom.

“In the west, Sivaram was referred to as the Warlock.”

Crow had been briefed about the mad Traveler. “The Spellbound?”

“For many years, I’d thought he was a myth. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by magic. Ever since I was a child the mysteries of the Power intrigued me. Sadly, I was not born blessed with any miraculous abilities . . .” The Coordinator paused to stroke his huge mustache as he reminisced. “Yet, I was driven to dedicate my life, my considerable intellect, and my family’s wealth to the study of such things.”

Where was the old coot going with this? “You’ve accomplished great things.”

“With more to come I assure you, but I have gotten away from my point. Warlock. I’d thought he was a myth, this crazed mystic that murdered man, woman, and child, in order to absorb their life force to strengthen his own Power. At the time we all believed it was impossible to manipulate magic beyond what a tiny percentage of mankind was born with. All legitimate scholars thought so as well . . . Until during my service during the Great War, when by fluke happenstance I came across the bullet-riddled corpse of the Warlock on a farm in France. I could positively feel the energy still smoldering in the designs carved upon the body. If he was real, the stories were true! Magic could be manipulated and molded for our use.”

Crow could only nod along with the story. The boss had never talked about this before.

“It was an epiphany. As a man of science, I do not believe in gods nor fate, but at that moment in time my future was laid clear before me. I would be the one that would control magic. I would tame its wild fury. I would harness it for the good of all.” He held out his hand, and Crow had to struggle forward to give the strange book back. “For far too long, Actives have squandered their gifts through ignorance and selfishness. Magic does not belong to them alone. It belongs to all mankind. It will take a great man to correct this deficiency. History is defined and directed by the wills and vision of great men, Mr. Crow. Let us make history.”

You self-righteous idealistic bastard. “Yes, sir.”

“That will be all. I will have one of the men take you back to your quarters.”

“If it would be alright, it would be safer if my real body wasn’t near the battle.”

The Coordinator sighed, as if insulted by Crow’s cowardice. “Very well. I’ll have the men take you across the river. Dismissed.”

Even in the pathetically weak, very-limited, human form he’d been born with, Crow found his dislike for the smug Coordinator growing. He’d liked the man up until a few days ago, and Crow wasn’t sure if the feeling originated with him or was lingering hate left over from the demons he’d been sharing a mind with. It was a good thing he was not allowed in the inner sanctum in demon form, because he was beginning to doubt that his employer would survive the meeting.