Spellbound Page 2

  Luckily, the president stopped to give a speech. Good thing politicians loved to hear themselves talk. Roosevelt raised his voice so that everyone could hear as he started yapping about how everything was going to get better and they just needed to be patient and have hope. More lies. Filthy capitalist lies.

  Now there was a lady with a big flowery hat blocking Zangara’s view. His first instinct was to blast her into pieces, but the president had to come first. A nearby father hoisted his son to sit on his shoulders in order to better see over the crowd. Zangara noticed that someone had left a wooden folding chair at the edge of the mob and that gave him an idea.

  Chair in place, Zangara climbed up. Now he could see better over the crowd, but the chair was wobbly. It would make aiming his magic more difficult, but it didn’t matter . . . for the first time in his life he had Power to spare. Before, he could make little pops of energy, not worth much more than firecrackers, but with the new design the angel had drawn on his chest, so fresh it burned, he’d show these capitalist pigs real fireworks.

  As the new primary shareholder of United Blimp & Freight, Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant had only been a millionaire for a relatively short period of time, but he’d already grown accustomed to people not keeping him waiting. Time was money, and by that logic Francis’ time was worth more money than damn near anyone. His grandfather had been the richest man in the world, but thanks to the UBF board’s legal wrangling over Francis’ unorthodox inheritance, and the splitting off of several subsidiaries, he was only something like the fifth richest. It would have to do. He checked his watch and sighed. Obviously, no matter how wealthy you were, when the President of the United States wanted to stop and give an extemporaneous public speech, he got a pass.

  The club windows had been cracked open enough to let in the refreshing ocean breeze, which also enabled Francis to hear the speech. He watched Franklin Roosevelt for a moment and had to admit that the man was a fine orator, very good at stirring up emotion, and that was what troubled Francis. Roosevelt’s words may have sounded reassuring to the masses, but some of those words were frightening to every Active in the country.

  Officially, it was a vacation that had brought Francis to Miami. The weather in New York had been dreadful, so Francis taking his new personal dirigible, Cyclone, south for a holiday had not struck anyone as odd. Franklin Roosevelt would also be vacationing in the area at the same time. Roosevelt would not be sworn in until March, and since they were both such important men they had agreed to meet for dinner.

  Unofficially, he was here to gather information. Francis was a knight of the Grimnoir Society, and the Society was nervous about some of the things Roosevelt had said about Actives during his campaign. Unlike his father and grandfather, Francis had no stomach for politics, but since he was already acquainted with Mr. Roosevelt (both came from very wealthy New York families) the elders had asked Francis to try to get a feel for what the president intended to do. Other socially connected knights had already tried, but the man was a cipher on this particular topic.

  “I do not trust politicians.” His companion leaned over to whisper, “but I especially do not trust this one.”

  “How does that make him special? You don’t trust anyone.” Francis didn’t bother to lower his voice. Nobody was going to hear them over the general racket of the crowd outside and the excited socialites inside.

  Heinrich Koenig shrugged. “What can I say? He speaks like a Mouth.”

  “Your best friend is a Mouth.”

  In the Society, the two of them were knights of equal standing, but Francis had created public UBF cover jobs for everyone on his team. Heinrich was supposedly Francis’ bodyguard, though Francis reasoned that since he himself was a skilled Mover, a bodyguard was superfluous. However, Heinrich, with his professional paranoia and scowling distrust of almost everyone, certainly looked the part of a convincing bodyguard. Plus, Heinrich was a Fade, and nobody wanted to get into a fight with a Fade.

  “Chose your words carefully with him, Francis. That is all I am suggesting. This one is slippery. How can a man who walks only because of a Healer be such a hypocrite?”

  There was a rumor that Roosevelt had once been saved from a paralytic disease by a Healer. “His family could certainly afford a good Mending.”

  “He’s benefited from magic, but when it becomes expedient to get elected, he is all in favor of rounding us up in the name of security.”

  “Nobody is going to get rounded up.” The public was jumpy since the Peace Ray obliteration of Mar Pacifica had been successfully pinned on rogue Actives, but the idea struck Francis as absurd.

  “The people are frightened of us. Many in your government know it was the Imperium’s doing, but they are not ready to risk war. Instead, they blame us, a home-grown and more easily managed problem. So now we get to be the cause of everything from anarchists to the economy. You heard him promise to keep us under control. What do you think control means?”

  “Well, that’s what I hope to find out.”

  “You control an unruly dog with a chain . . . or a cage. Never underestimate fear”—Heinrich gestured angrily at Roosevelt—“or the men who would capitalize on it to get what they want.”

  “You are such a pessimist. This is America. Nothing like that could ever happen here.”

  “We used to say something similar back home, before the Kaiser raised an army of the dead.”

  Shaking his head, Francis turned back to the window just as President Roosevelt finished his platitudes. The crowd erupted in cheers. The people were angry, their families were hungry, their jobs were gone. They needed something to believe in . . . or someone to blame. He watched the desperate faces and knew just how dangerous things could become for his kind, for all Actives everywhere, if the things the elders were worried about came to pass. Magicals had more freedom in America than any other nation, but if America were to follow in the footsteps of the Imperium or the Soviet Union, where Actives were seen as nothing more than property of the state . . .

  We can’t let that happen.

  Francis understood that his inheritance had made him a very influential man. Between Stuyvesant riches, Black Jack Pershing’s teachings, and the luck of being born with magic, Francis now found himself a sort of unofficial ambassador for the Active race. He felt that weight on his shoulders and knew that he had to do his best in order to sway the government from a destructive course. A servant came by with a silver tray full of glasses. Francis took one with a grunt of thanks and downed the drink, not really paying any attention to what it was. Unfortunately, it wasn’t made of alcohol. Prohibition was rapidly going the way of the dodo, but appearances had to be kept in the meantime.

  Roosevelt was waving to the people as he walked up the steps. The staff had opened the doors of the club for him and the management had lined up to shake hands. Flashbulbs popped as the press took their obligatory photographs.

  Then there was a much larger flash and Francis’ eyes closed involuntarily, but not before leaving him with a split-second afterimage of the crowd, bones visible through their skin, before they were washed away.

  The explosion was deafening. He would surely have been killed by flying glass if Heinrich hadn’t grabbed his arm and Faded them both out of existence. A wall of heat and energy rolled harmlessly through them. It was a strange, fuzzy feeling as hundreds of shrapnel bits pierced his body and flew out the other side. Heinrich let go and their bodies returned to normal, solid and unharmed.

  Bomb!

  It took a moment for his vision to clear. The front of the hotel had been ripped apart, paint stripped away and timbers blackened. The president’s automobile was on its side, sputtering flames. The center of the crowd was gone. The edges collapsed as the injured fell or scattered. Heinrich shouted something, but Francis couldn’t hear him over the highpitched ringing in his ears. Then Heinrich turned grey and stepped cleanly through the wall, leaving Francis alone at the ruined window.

  There was a lone fi
gure standing in the center of the carnage. A man was walking along, his lips pursed like he was whistling a tune. He spread his hands wide and blue sparks fanned between his fingers. He swept one hand forward. The hotel shook from another massive impact, this time directly against the steps where the president had been.

  Francis was flung to the floor by a wall of hot air. The bones in his forearm broke with a sick crack and his forehead bounced off the hardwood. People were running and screaming and plaster rained from the ceiling. Wincing, Francis pulled himself up with his uninjured arm and looked out the window just in time to see a third explosion rip through the scattering survivors. The pressure wave flung bodies through the air, and they spun helplessly back to Earth as the madman turned to face the hotel again. He was laughing hysterically, seemingly having the time of his life. His shirt was flapping open in the fiery wind, revealing the red glow of a magical brand across his chest.

  That alien marking could only mean one thing. Iron Guard!

  The killer saw Francis in the window and grinned. Sparks gathered in his hands.

  Gathering his Power and blinking the blood from his eyes, Francis searched for a weapon. The waiter that had brought him a drink was on the floor nearby, burned and gasping. The silver serving tray was next to him, aerodynamic and solid . . . Francis concentrated, using his magic to reach out and lift the tray from the floor. It appeared to levitate, up, over the windowsill, and then Francis concentrated and used a mighty blast of Power to hurl it at his target.

  Being a Mover of his caliber was just like having a bunch of invisible, long range, extremely strong hands. Not impeded by the frailty of human muscle, Francis was able to spin the tray through the air at a terrible velocity and guide it with precision. The improvised discus hit the assassin square in the throat. That eerie smile disappeared as the head rolled off into the street.

  Los Angeles, California

  FAYE SAT IN SILENCE while the film reel played. It was an amazing thing, and though she’d sat through dozens of motion pictures over the last several months—since she routinely rubbed elbows with high society now—the magic of a moving picture never seemed to wear off. The projector was a small one, as was the screen. The smoky hotel room was certainly no theater, the subject was depressing, and there was no music or narration, but despite that, even this movie was neat. Faye just plain liked going to the movies. They were . . . well . . . magic.

  The newsreel was showing scenes of Japan. Faye had never visited the faraway lands of the Imperium in person. The closest she’d ever come to Imperium soil was standing on their flagship, however briefly, before it was blown to kingdom come by Tesla’s Geo-Tel. The film made Japan seem nice, with cherry blossoms falling like snow, big wooden arches, and exotic ladies with big sandals and pretty dresses. If it wasn’t all controlled by a bunch of evil crazy people who’d already tried to kill her a whole mess of times, the film would almost make her want to go for a visit.

  The hotel suite was crowded. Most of the participants were using tobacco, and she could watch the smoke curling into loops and swirls in the flickering beam of the projector. Faye found that it was hard to breathe, but the others didn’t seem to notice. These important-behind-closed-doors types all seemed to smoke. Their Healer, Jane, certainly disapproved, and despite the fact that Jane could actually see your lungs right through your chest and sense disease coming a mile away, nobody wanted to listen to her on that subject.

  Some of the people here were powerful, and not just in the magical sense, either. Knights had come from all over the country, and a contingent of them had even come all the way from Europe, including two of the elders. Things had really been shaken up since Mar Pacifica and the Geo-Tel. It was a huge meeting by the standards of the Grimnoir Society, and she knew that was partly because they wanted to see her in person . . . the girl who had dared to face the Chairman.

  The elders had spoken to her alone for a long time. Faye had given her report; she’d been grilled, quizzed, questioned, annoyed, and poked at, and now she was ready to go home. When it was time for the movie, they’d invited everybody else in.

  On the screen, men in robes beat a rhythm on giant gongs. Children laughed and played in the perfectly clean streets.

  “They skipped the part with the torture schools,” the man at her side pointed out.

  “Hush, Mr. Browning,” Faye whispered. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “There is no sound accompanying it, my dear.”

  He had her there. “It isn’t polite to talk in the theater anyway.”

  John Moses Browning chuckled, but decided not to take her advice. He spoke up so that all could hear. “Is it possible that this was filmed prior to the Tesla event?”

  Much to Faye’s consternation, the elder in charge of the secret gathering had no qualms about talking during the movie either. “We have confirmed that this was filmed recently. Here he comes. Watch carefully, please, Miss Vierra.”

  That was her. There were only three members of the Grimnoir Society that had ever spoken with the Chairman in person that were still alive, and Jane and Mr. Sullivan weren’t here. Faye made sure to concentrate, a skill that came with great difficulty when your brain worked so much faster than everyone else’s. The projector was showing a big army parade. Imperium soldiers were marching in wave after wave, their posture as straight as the long bayonets on the ends of their rifles. There was a man riding a giant black horse at the head of the column. The crowd of thousands bowed and stayed bowed as he rode past. He was familiar, handsome, intimidating, and far too alive to be who she thought he was.

  The image looked exactly like him. “There has to be a mistake,” Faye said. “The Chairman’s dead.”

  One of the younger knights at the back of the room chimed in. “The Imperium insists he didn’t perish aboard the Tokugawa.”

  “The Imperium also says the Tokugawa and the Kaga got wrecked in a storm, and we all know that’s a bunch of bunk.”

  “How can you be so certain he is deceased?” a young English knight asked.

  His accent—was that what English was supposed to sound like?—grated on Faye’s ears. “Shucks, I don’t know. Maybe because I cut his hands off and threw them in a propeller, is how. Then the whole ship got blown up. I was there, you weren’t. Besides—” John Moses Browning reached over and placed one hand on her knee to try to quiet her, because he knew what she was going to say next was going to sound crazy, and she already hadcultivated quite the reputation for crazy, but Browning was too late. “I talked to his ghost afterward.”

  Mr. Browning sighed.

  “Preposterous,” said one of the other knights.

  “No. He was sad that he was dead. He told me a poem.”

  The knights all began speaking at once. The film ended. The loose end of the reel slapped rhythmically against the projector. The screen went white.

  “The child is quite mad, Browning,” said a Frenchman.

  That made Faye angry. First, she wasn’t a kid anymore, and second, she wasn’t crazy. The Frenchman was lucky she didn’t Travel his head someplace without the rest of his body.

  Mr. Browning stuck up for her. “This child killed a hundred elite Imperium troops in combat, did battle with the most powerful wizard the world has ever known, and then Traveled an entire dirigible and its crew a thousand miles . . . I would watch your tone, sir.”

  There was a polite cough. “My apologies, madam.”

  Damn right, Faye thought to herself.

  “That man in the film could be a double,” one of the other Americans said. “Maybe a Ringer? Heaven knows the Imperium has enough Actives—they are bound to have a few of those.”

  “Not a Ringer. Their magic clouds the viewer’s mind. It has no hold over recording technology,” Mr. Browning said. He was one of the senior members present and as far as Faye was concerned, the smartest one there, but she was rather biased. “A skilled actor would be more likely.”

  “Then this thespian deserves one of t
hose new academy awards for his performance.” One of the two elders was British. The elders never left the shadows, as their identities were always kept secret, but he sounded fat. Even his shadow was fat. “Bravo. Excellent performance, I say.”

  Faye didn’t know very many of their names, and that was on purpose, including the Americans that hadn’t been Pershing’s knights. It wouldn’t be much of a secret society if you knew everyone else’s name, now would it? Whenever the Imperium captured a knight, the first thing they did was torture them until they gave up everyone else they knew.

  The fat Englishman continued. “Our spies insist that both the Imperial Council and the Emperor believe this man to be the real Chairman. His mission of purification continues unabated. The schools still churn out Active soldiers, more territory falls by the day, and Unit 731 continues their eugenic madness. So, even if deceased, the Chairman is having a rather fine year.”

  “I’m telling you, I killed the Chairman,” Faye insisted.

  A new voice came from the back. “If anything killed the Chairman, it was the cunning of Isaiah Rawls and Kristopher Harkeness.”

  The room grew deadly quiet.

  “Who said that?” Faye asked sharply.

  Through treachery, murder, and blackmail, those two Grimnoir had delivered a sabotaged Tesla superweapon into the Chairman’s hands. Its firing had vaporized the Tokugawa, but in order to deceive the Chairman, Harkeness and Rawls had sacrificed many of their fellow Grimnoir. Their plan had worked, but it had cost lives. Some had been her friends, and one in particular had been her grandpa. Harkeness was dead. Rawls was missing, and if she knew what rock he was hiding under she’d kill him too. It was amazing that anyone here actually had the nerve to speak up for traitors. Faye stood and tried to pick out behind the gleaming beam of the projector which one of the shapes she needed to hurt. “Say that again.”

  Browning sensed the coming murder. “Faye, please . . .”

  “Enough,” the elder in charge of the meeting spoke. He was German, and sounded a bit like an older version of Heinrich when he talked. “Their actions were a blight on the Society and made a mockery of what we stand for. Regardless of how you personally feel, Pershing’s knights were the ones bled by their actions. Those names will not be spoken here today.”