Spellbound Page 3

  Faye returned to her seat. She may have been the youngest there and the only girl, but she wasn’t about to have somebody talking up the men responsible for killing Grandpa like they were heroes. Whoever it was who said that . . . well, she was going to have a little talk with them after.

  The German elder stood to address the room. “Turn off that blasted machine.” The projector was shut down. The only illumination was the bit of sunlight sneaking around the edge of the curtains. “Gentlemen, lady, the elders have much to discuss. Our American brothers are in trouble, with being blamed for the Peace Ray destruction of Mar Pacifica, and talk of a registration of Actives or worse . . . These are challenging times for our people everywhere. Thank you for coming all the way here. Your reports are valuable and your efforts, as always, are appreciated.”

  “And of my request?” Mr. Browning asked.

  “We have discussed it. The American knights have taken terrible casualties over recent years. Some here have already volunteered to join your cause and will be returning with you.”

  “And of new recruits?”

  The fat Englishman answered. “It appears General Pershing recruited against our counsel anyway.” It was obvious he was looking directly at Faye as he said that. “I can only assume you plan on continuing that tradition. You Yanks tend to do what you want, regardless of the risks it exposes the rest of us to.”

  “We did what we had to,” Mr. Browning said pointedly.

  “Though it may have felt that way in the past, you have not been in this fight alone. Across the Orient, the Imperium grows. The Soviets are enslaving every Active they can get their hands on. Both groups have agents and saboteurs in every single land, stirring the pot.”

  “I assure you, sir,” Mr. Browning said as politely as possible, “that there is a significant measure of difference between pot-stirring and having Tesla superweapons fired at your cities.”

  The German elder just nodded. Faye had to remember that Germans knew all about what it was like to get blasted with a Peace Ray. “Very well. You have the authority to recruit as you see fit. You will report solely to the American elder, who, sadly, was unable to join us today. Pershing’s knights are yours to command, Mr. Browning.”

  “They will continue to be called Pershing’s knights. I do not consider myself worthy.”

  “As you wish, old friend. Do your best. Alive or dead, it seems the Chairman, or perhaps the idea of the Chairman, is still our greatest threat.”

  Faye had to speak up at that. “There’s something worse.” The two elders hadn’t wanted to listen before when they were alone, but now that all the others were in the room, they had to know. “The hungry thing. The thing that’s looking for the Power. Even the Chairman was scared—”

  “That’ll be all,” the elder stopped her gently. “Do not worry. We will discuss what you and Mr. Sullivan told us, and make plans accordingly.”

  It was the politest way that she’d ever been told to shut up. These Europeans sure were fancy with the manners.

  The meeting broke up. The elders shuffled out one door to be whisked off by their many bodyguards to some other secret hiding place. It was understandable. Even though there were something like twenty knights watching this place, their enemies would love to take a crack at them. Sometimes Faye wondered if doing everything so secretly for so long had made many of the old Grimnoir too timid.

  “I don’t think I did very good,” Faye told Mr. Browning.

  “You shook things up a bit,” he answered with a gentle smile. “But I don’t necessarily believe that to be a bad thing. It is easy for an organization led by old men such as myself to be a little hidebound. In fact, the only other person I know of that’s ever been able to shake up this bunch was Black Jack himself.”

  That comment made Faye especially proud.

  Once the elders were away, someone opened the curtains. Faye was surprised to discover that many of the regular knights wanted to talk to little old her. Some of them had come a very long way, and apparently the stories about her had caused quite a stir. She really wasn’t used to the attention. She spent the next few minutes retelling the story about the fight aboard the Tokugawa. She didn’t even have to exaggerate to make it sound amazing.

  There was a sudden commotion at the rear of the room. Browning may have been an old man, but you wouldn’t know it by the speed his hand landed on the butt of the .45 automatic inside his suit. Several other Grimnoir reacted in the same manner, which just went to show that they were a jumpy bunch. One of the elders’ bodyguards was in the doorway, speaking rapidly in French. Someone else was asking him to slow down. “Just a messenger,” Browning removed his hand from his pistol and listened, scowling.

  “What is it?” Faye asked. The other Grimnoir were reacting with disbelief. The ones like her that didn’t speak the language were all asking questions, and that was most of them.

  Mr. Browning had gone as white as the movie screen. “An Active tried to murder President Roosevelt . . . It is unknown if he survived. Hundreds are dead.” He turned to face her. “This is horrible.”

  Francis and Heinrich were supposed to have met with the president today. She had spoken to Francis by mirror just that morning. She really liked Francis, and the idea of him being in danger made her sick, but he was smart and brave, so surely he’d be okay. Well, maybe not, because if anybody could get himself into trouble, it was Francis. At least Heinrich would have protected him and kept him from doing anything stupid. Heinrich was the reliable one. Francis was the cute one.

  “The Peace Ray and now this?” someone exclaimed. “The government will clamp down on Actives for sure!”

  Faye was sickened by the idea. There had been talk . . . But that couldn’t happen here. Could it?

  “This is dire news,” Mr. Browning told her.

  “What’s going to happen?”

  Mr. Browning looked very tired. “War, Faye. I believe someone just declared war.”

  The elders of the Grimnoir Society had not gone very far, and they reconvened a few minutes later in a room several floors below. The two that had been in the prior meeting were joined through a communication spell to the five other elders around the world. All had been listening in secret to the interview with Faye and the meeting afterward. The matter at hand was so important that it needed the full wisdom of all the Society’s leadership.

  The seven skipped the pleasantries. They had much to discuss.

  The prepared mirror gave the illusion of spinning to face the distant speaker. “Do we believe she’s the one?”

  “As mad as it seems, we have no reason to doubt her truthfulness,” the Englishman said as he turned to his companion. “Klaus?”

  “She’s very difficult to Read. Her thoughts are different. She is not unintelligent, quite the opposite in fact. She’s just uncomplicated . . . and quick. All I can say is that she certainly believes her own story.”

  “Could it be? Could the Chairman really be dead?” a woman asked.

  “Pershing’s knights are no fools, and their stories are consistent. The girl is extraordinarily gifted. Her connection to the Power is unrivaled,” Klaus pointed out.

  A French elder interjected, “It seems that she is not nearly as strong now, though. Transporting the Tempest nearly killed her. Yet that fits the pattern, and the events leading up to that certainly fit with what we are looking for. Harriet?”

  “She is about the right age.”

  “The battle that killed the Warlock was fifteen years ago,” Klaus said.

  “I know. I was there.”

  “As was I, Jacques . . .” Klaus told the French elder. “Only on the Kaiser’s side. Second Somme was a nightmare. I still wake up with chills.”

  “That poor Okie girl doesn’t know her own birthday, but she’s certainly older than fifteen,” the American elder spoke for the first time.

  “Yes, but if the Power connected to her when she was young, rather than at birth . . . Then, yes, it is possible. Th
is has happened before.”

  Harriet broached the question that no one wished to ask. “Well, what do we do about it then?”

  It was an awkward silence. The elders were used to making difficult decisions necessary to defend their people, but no one wanted to harm a child.

  “For now . . . We keep a close eye on her. If she becomes corrupted by the spell as Warlock did, we must be prepared to strike her down.”

  “Jacques!”

  “Don’t look at me like that. If that happens, it is either her, or all of us.”

  “No!”

  “You would have us risk the safety of the entire world for one person?”

  The discussian descended into a general argument, spinning about wildly, as it often did when the elders disagreed.

  “We will do nothing until we are certain.”

  “We can’t—”

  “We’ll make sure first,” a calm voice interjected. “I have just the knight for the job.”

  “Very well.” The American sighed. “Watch her carefully. Test her. Have your knight try to discover the truth . . . And if she is the Spellbound . . .”

  “If she’s the Spellbound, then we must decide on a course of action,” Klaus insisted.

  “I will arrange everything.”

  “Browning and his men cannot know. They would never stand for it. Their fondness for the girl could blind them to her true nature.”

  “You would have us sit on our arses and wait to see if the most dangerous piece of magic in history has chosen to bind itself to an unstable child?” the Englishman exclaimed.

  Several of the elders replied at once, “Yes.”

  “And if she is the one?”

  “We will do what we must to survive,” Jacques stated.

  That matter was settled.

  “And what of the matter of this coming Enemy?” Klaus asked. “Faye and the new man, Sullivan, are both convinced it is real.”

  “The Chairman’s mythical beast?” the American openly scoffed. “Coming to devour the Power and all of us along with it? A fairy tale, nothing more.”

  “I hope you are right.” The Englishman shook his head. “If the legends of Dark Ocean are true . . . May God have mercy on us all.”

  Crazy Guy

  Chapter 2

  Dearest Devika. I have succeeded where all others have failed. They called me mad, but I have confirmed the truth. The Power is alive. What we call magic is the means by which it feeds. It grants a piece of itself to some few of us, and as we exercise that connection through every manipulation of the physical world, the magic grows. Upon our death, that increase returns to the Power. It is a symbiotic parasite. Grown fat upon us, the process repeats, more Actives are created, the cycle continues. The Power itself has a certain measure of awareness. Aware? Yes. I do not know yet if it knows that I have stolen from it, and if so, how it will react to my petty thievery. As the Power is using us, I intend to use it. I beg your forgiveness for what I must now become.

  —Anand Sivaram,

  Personal correspondence discovered in

  Hyderabad, India, 1912

  New York City, New York

  THE LIBRARIAN WAS FRUSTRATED. He had finally gotten through every single document, report, study, and book about magic in the entire rare books collection of the main branch, and though he’d found some interesting trains of thought to pursue, he was no closer to what he was searching for than when he’d arrived in New York. It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise. A sizable Stuyvesant grant had gotten him the title of visiting research librarian under an assumed name and free access to the entire Library of Congress. After months in D.C. devouring every work on magic in the largest library in the world, he hadn’t found anything about the Enemy. Weeks spent at the extensive Carr Library, devoted exclusively to magic, at the University of Chicago had been just as fruitless.

  His newfound title and more of Francis’ dough had gotten him a peek at all of the good stuff at the second largest library in the country. He knew full well that if New York didn’t pan out, the only other place that might have what he was looking for was in Europe, and he didn’t think he had time to learn French. The library he really wanted to hit was in Tokyo, but he didn’t think the Japanese would be particularly fond of him coming for a visit, since he’d recently sliced their First Iron Guard in half.

  It had been stupid to get his hopes up here.

  The idea was troublesome, but Jake Sullivan was beginning to think that maybe he was the expert. And that was just downright scary.

  He’d started hitting various collections after he’d combed through all of the Grimnoir Society’s collected Rune Arcanium. The Society was proud of the information they’d collected over the years, and they’d kept the things that they thought particularly dangerous a secret. Once he’d taken the oath he’d been able to learn the collected spells of the Society, and though it had been educational, their spells were nothing to worry about.

  The Society didn’t know much about the Enemy either, and it seemed the elders thought he was crazy for even suggesting its existence. Sullivan knew something else was out there, searching for the Power, and it would find them eventually. They had to be ready. The Chairman had understood that. Why couldn’t anyone else?

  Sullivan rubbed his tired eyes, shoved the latest useless research paper off to the side, and checked his watch. It was nearly closing time. Studying magic was hard work, but it beat breaking rocks. The library was quiet, as such places tended to be, but it was especially quiet tonight. February was late in the year for this much snow, but there had been a real cold snap over the last few days, and the city was blanketed in white. Everybody with any sense had already gone home.

  “Hi. They told me you could help me.”

  He hadn’t even heard her coming. Sullivan looked up to see a fancy mink coat snuggled around a pretty redhead. “Pardon me, ma’am?”

  “They said you were a librarian and that you could help me find something.” She had the build of a calendar girl, the voice of upper-crust Manhattan, and a face designed to turn men into easily malleable putty, and as she batted her big flirtatious eyelashes at him, he could tell that she was used to men usually doing what she asked, and quickly. “You don’t look like a librarian, though.”

  That’s because he was a square-jawed, thick-armed, solemn block of a man who had obviously lived a high-mileage life. “I’m not that kind of librarian.”

  “What kind are you then?”

  “The kind that isn’t much help. You need to head that way.” He pointed down the stacks. “Ask the nice ladies at the big desk in the middle.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can be helpful if you want. You strike me like a real chivalrous type.”

  Sullivan just wanted to be left alone. “Not really.”

  “What’re you reading?” she asked, craning her head over his shoulder to read. “Oh . . . Powers? Are you an Active?”

  “No,” he lied as he pushed the book away. “Just an interesting topic is all.”

  “Too bad. I’m fascinated by Actives. Can you imagine being able to do such amazing things? Controlling weather, reading minds, changing gravity, healing the sick . . . Oh, how would it be?”

  He gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “You don’t seem very talkative. What’s your name?”

  “Nobody important.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Important.”

  Sullivan could feel a pounding headache coming on. It must have been the eyestrain from twelve hours of reading small print. “Sorry, lady. Been a long day. Place is about to close.” He paused to rub his temples. “If you want to find something you’d best hurry along.”

  She regarded him curiously. Pretty girls weren’t used to getting the shove-off like that. “Well then. Never mind. Good night.” She walked off, heels clicking against the marble floor. He hadn’t heard her come, but he heard her go.

  Despite the sudden headache, Sullivan watched her appreciatively. There was
a fine-looking woman, perfectly friendly, just needing a hand, and he had to go and run her off in a rude fashion. Nobody had ever accused him of being overly friendly, or friendly at all for that matter, but he’d become even more withdrawn over the last year. That was to be expected. Anyone close to him was in danger. He was a marked man.

  Delilah had died because of him. There was just no going back from something like that.

  Ten minutes later Sullivan had gotten all the day’s books put back in place. There was no need to say any goodbyes to the staff. They didn’t know his real name anyway. Tomorrow he’d leave town. Days would pass before anyone even noticed the big quiet man was gone.

  The front steps were slick with fresh snow. Pulling his fedora down tight, his scarf up over most of his face, and hunching his broad shoulders against the wind, Sullivan set out for home. He passed between the two big stone lions, Lennox and Astor, which were well-known local landmarks. One of the mayoral candidates had suggested renaming them Patience and Fortitude, because since the economy had gone to hell and everybody was out of work, it was going to take patience and fortitude for New Yorkers to get out of this mess.

  Little did all those New Yorkers realize that if it hadn’t been for the sacrifice of a bunch of brave unknown Actives, this whole part of the country would be nothing more than a big pile of ash. Bitter cold always put Sullivan in a melancholy mood.

  The city got rougher and older only a few blocks from the library. He’d picked a rundown place to lay his head. New York had been especially hard hit over the last few years, so there had been plenty of vacancies to choose from. Folks in the rough parts of town paid less attention to each other, which was exactly what he wanted.