Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

Awake. Aware . . . Feeling every pain, every wound. Never healing. The poor bastards just can’t die. It’s no wonder they all go mad eventually. And the screaming coming from the trenches all night long . . . I wished they’d quit screaming. That was the worst part. Always with the screaming. Zombie kraut sons-a-bitches. Damn the Kaiser’s eyes.

—Unknown survivor

of the First Volunteer Brigade (Active),

Army report on the second battle of the Somme, 1918

Miami, Florida

As was to be expected, the temperature inside the morgue was kept chilly. The room smelled of formaldehyde and detergents. The two knights followed the attendant down the wall of small metal doors. It was obvious right away which door they were looking for. It was the only one with a padlock on its latch. The attendant looked both ways to confirm that they were alone, then pulled out a ring of keys. A moment later, he slid out a table containing a sheet-draped corpse. Even with the sheet in place hiding the evidence, it was obvious that the body was in two pieces, with the lump of the head being just a bit too far from the remainder.

Well done, Francis, John Moses Browning thought.

The morgue attendant looked at them expectantly. “Well, gentlemen?”

Donald Bryce removed his wallet from inside his suit jacket, pulled out five twenty-dollar silver certificates and handed them over. The attendant tried to pull them away, but Bryce wouldn’t let go of the money. He scowled at the attendant and waited.

“Half now. Half when we’re finished,” Browning said.

The attendant looked hurt. “Okay . . . You got fifteen minutes. That’s all I can promise. I don’t want to get fired for letting reporters in here. We’re under real strict orders.”

“That’ll be sufficient,” Browning said as he nodded at his companion.

Bryce relaxed his grip and the attendant snatched the money away. “Fifteen minutes. Take your pictures quick. Don’t fiddle with it,” he said, indicating the dead man. “The doctors can always tell.”

The bag in Browning’s hand did in fact have a camera in it, but that was only in case any of the police officers or staff had bothered to check as they’d bribed their way in. No one had. Apparently they were not the first “newsmen” that had snuck illicit photographs of the assassin’s body. None of the pictures had shown up in a legitimate newspaper yet, since a decapitation would never make it past the censors, but it made for a very plausible story.

The attendant hurried out of the room and locked the door behind him. Bryce pulled the sheet down to the corpse’s waist. The darkly intense knight was entirely too comfortable around the dead for Browning’s taste, but that was to be expected. One did not chose their particular Power, their Power chose them. So a man wielding a Power based in death would obviously be as at home with the dead as Browning was with metal and machines.

“Can you tell if anyone else has tried this on him?” Browning asked.

“No. It’s clean . . . Not surprising. Even when I was with the NYPD nobody wanted to know about what I did. They were just happy to close all those murder cases.” Bryce chuckled. “I’m a rare breed. Maybe a handful of us in the whole world.”

There was an overhead lamp on a long arm. Browning brought it over and turned it on. The body had taken on a pallid, nearly blue shade. Incisions had been made to open the chest, and those lines cut directly through the intricate spell that had been carved there before. The neck ended in a jagged tear. The exposed flesh was the purple of old meat. The head was resting on its side, features limp. Giuseppe Zangara had been a plain man.

“Best hurry.” Bryce casually took a handful of hair and hoisted the head from the table, so that the sunken face was pointing his way. It made Browning’s skin crawl. Bryce’s voice was raspy and cold. “No lungs to work with. Vocal cords, what’s left of them, are mangled. But if I channel enough Power through him I can make him understandable.”

Browning had never worked with a Lazarus before. “How?”

“Broadcasting. Sort of like how a Beastie can talk through an animal. The words are still there, even if the parts to make them aren’t . . . But the way the spine’s been crushed and how much decay’s set in . . . He’ll be in extraordinary pain.”

That afternoon had been spent surveying the scene where hundreds of innocent people had died. The fire department had been hosing down the streets to clean the dried blood. There was no compassion for one such as this. “Carry on, Mr. Bryce.”

The other knight closed his eyes, concentrated, and exercised his Power. The air grew colder. It was as if the lights dimmed, but perhaps that was just a trick of the imagination. Browning did not know, but the Power of a Lazarus made him deeply uncomfortable. Browning looked toward the entrance. They were in the basement and door seemed solid. Good. There could be screaming.

While Bryce worked his magic, Browning studied the intricate spell that had been bound to the assassin’s chest. It was far beyond anything he’d seen before, greater than anything the Society had ever discovered, more complex than any Soviet design, even better than the flowing Imperium kanji . . . This was a work of art. Even Browning, who had spent a lifetime studying such things, could only comprehend bits and pieces of it. Someone capable of creating a spell of such Power was very dangerous, indeed. They were tracking a worthy adversary.

The spell also matched the sketch that they’d received from their source in Washington. That was good news. He’d been unsure if he could utilize that particular source, but this confirmed their trustworthiness. They would be a valuable asset.

“Got him . . .” Bryce said simply, as if he’d just hooked a fish and was reeling it in, instead of the absolute horror of dragging a captive intelligence back from the spirit world. Intellectually, he knew it was unfair to judge a man’s character by what type of Active he was, but Mr. Bryce seemed to enjoy this entirely too much.

This time he was certain that the lights did in fact flicker. Dead eyes opened, revealing milky orbs, and Zangara looked about in terror. The jaw unhinged as the zombie let out a terrible wail. It was a revolting sound.

Bryce held the head so that Zangara could see his own body. “See that? Look familiar? Yeah, you’re dead. Get used to it.” Bryce spun the head around. “Welcome back to the world of the living, you rotten son of a bitch. The faster you answer our questions, the faster I’ll let you die again. Until I’m satisfied, I own you.” He turned the head back to face Browning.

The eyes were blinking and twitching. The dead man seemed very frightened. A creaking hiss was their answer.

Browning folded his arms and glared at the severed head. “You have some explaining to do, Mr. Zangara. We shall start from the beginning.”

“It hurts.”

Bryce swung the head back to face him. “You heard me the first time. Quit dicking around. Sooner you talk, sooner the pain stops. Do not waste my time. Got it?”

“Yessss.”

“All yours.” Bryce swung Zangara’s head back around.

“Who put that spell on your chest?”

“The angel.”

Browning was certain it was no angel that had bolstered the Power of this madman. “Did the angel have a name?”

“No names. Only angel. So beautiful.”

“Did the angel tell you to kill Roosevelt?”

“Yes. Wanted to kill him before. The angel heard my dreams and made me strong enough to do it.”

“What did the angel look like?”

“So beautiful. Eyes made of light.”

“Eyes?” Browning played a hunch. “Tell me about the eyes?”

“Red light. Soooo pretty. Like Christmas lights. First there were two. Then it had four.”

The two knights exchanged a glance. The angel had been a Summoned.

“The angel carved the spell on your chest by itself or did someone help it?”

“No! Only the angel!”

Bryce took the head and smashed it against the metal table. Zangara screamed. “Don’t lie to me, zombie. Summoned aren’t smart enough draw spells.”

“It was the angel. It talked to me. It knew me. It made me strong. There were no helpers, only the angel.”

Bryce lifted the head again, but before he could smack it against the table, Browning held up one hand. “You heard the report from Oklahoma.”

“The bastard that killed George . . .” Bryce muttered.

“The most clever Summoned I’ve ever met was as intelligent as a good hunting dog.” Browning gestured at the complicated spell. “That is the work of a talented wizard.”

“When did you get the spell?” Bryce shouted.

“When? Time means nothing here . . .” Bryce whacked the head against the table again. “Day before. Day before killing time.”

It was unknown how quickly Crow could travel in his demonic form, but he had been in Florida the same day in order to assault Francis at the police station. He very well could have been here the entire time. “Things are beginning to fall into place.”

“We’re treading on dangerous ground here . . .” Bryce said slowly. “You know what this means?”

“It means we’re in greater danger than expected. Another question, Mr. Zangara, before your death, did you ever speak with a man named Crow, or did you ever speak with any government entity, especially the Office of the Coordinator of Information or OCI, or with anyone else about your desire to murder the president?”

“No Crow. No Office of things. No government run by filthy capitalists . . . Spoke to only one man.”

“Tell me about the man you spoke to.”

“The capitalist pigs had me arrested once. I lost my job because I was sick. I was mad. I threatened some of the capitalists. Said I would kill them. They said I was crazy. Wanted to lock me in crazy house. Doctor interviewed me. He knew about magic. I liked him. Told him truth. He told the capitalist judges I was not crazy. I was not danger to society.” It took Browning a moment to realize that the horrible grinding noise was the severed head laughing. “I told him everything. Friend agreed with me. He was good friend.”

“What was your friend’s name?”

“Doctor Bradford. Not kind of doctor that could fix my guts. Kind that fixed heads. Kind of doctor for crazy people. He was expert on crazy people with magic. Good thing I’m not crazy.” The head laughed again, and Browning had to resist the urge to draw his .45 and end its wretched existence.

“Name ringing any bells?”

“I’ve not heard of the man. If that’s his real name, we should be able to discover something about him. Do you have anything to ask?”

“Got anything else you want to get off your chest?” Bryce asked the head, then he laughed when he realized he’d made a joke. “Heh . . . Chest. I kill me sometimes. How about it, Giuseppe? I’m tempted to sneak your head out of here and keep you on my trophy wall. Thick skull like you, you could be up there screaming for years.” Browning sincerely hoped that Bryce did not have such a wall, but it was difficult to tell with a Lazarus, even one that was supposedly trying to only use their Power for good. “Either that or you’re about the right size for a football . . . Help me out and I’ll let you get back to the big sleep.”

“The angel will stop you. The angel is too strong for you.”

Bryce put the head down on the table. “Eh, he’s done.”

“Do not hurt my angel!” Zangara begged. Bryce shoved the tray back into the wall, and closed the door behind it. Zangara’ wails could be heard coming from inside. Bryce simply walked over to the sink and began washing his hands.

“Shouldn’t you . . .”

“Put him out of his misery?” Bryce laughed as he lathered up. “It don’t work that way, John. He’s stuck for awhile. I can’t just release him. They’re going to have to crush him flat or burn him to free his spirit. That’s the nasty part of what I do. You know Dead City?”

He had never been there, but he’d heard the tales, mostly from Heinrich. “Of course.”

“You think the Kaiser herded them all into Berlin and put a wall around it just to be mean? Nope. He couldn’t just shut them off.” Bryce dried his hands on a towel. “We better get going. Next person to open that door is going to be in for a nasty surprise. That attendant looks healthy, so he shouldn’t have a heart attack, but he sure is going to earn that bribe money!”

Browning was exceedingly glad to get back out into the sunlight.

Browning had dropped Bryce off at the library to do some research before returning to the hotel to prepare a mirror to report their findings to the others. The Lazarus would catch a cab back later. His company would not be missed. Though professional enough, there was always an awkward edge to all interactions with someone of his nature, as if you knew they would be much more comfortable talking to you if you were already dead.

They had picked one of the less remarkable hotels in Miami to stage out of. The normal crowds of vacationers fleeing the cold had been replaced with newsmen from around the country hoping to interview victims of the carnage. He did not care for the reporters, since they behaved with all the manners of a flock of turkey buzzards. He had been told that in Miami, alligators actually wandered the streets. Perhaps they would do everyone a favor and eat some reporters.

Since he was thinking about reporters, Browning stopped at a newsstand on the way back to pick the paper. With all of the recent turmoil, staying caught up on recent events seemed like an important thing to do. One of the headlines immediately caught his eye.

UBF HEIR FRANCIS STUYVESANT IMPLICATED IN ACTIVE PLOT.

“Oh dear . . .” Browning muttered as he paid for two different papers. He read the first one on the walk back to his car, and the other as soon as he made it back to the hotel. According to the articles, Francis was wanted for questioning, but was missing, and was believed to have fled the country. A retired Marine general had come forward and said that a group of businessmen who reported to represent several wealthy Actives had approached him about leading a fascist coup against the government. The Hearst owned paper were calling it the Active Plot, while the other seemed to be gravitating toward the title Business Plot, which was not a surprise since Hearst’s low opinion of Magicals was well known.

He prepared a communication spell. Browning prided himself on always doing meticulous work, and the spell was perfect as usual. While waiting for the response he pondered their current predicament. All of this recent turmoil had been keeping him from his true passion, inventing. It was like his Cog mechanical genius was tugging at the reins, hoping for a chance to be free. Ideas were everywhere, and some of their more recent struggles had brought a few of those ideas to the fore. He promised himself that as soon as this problem was dealt with, it was time to get back to making new weapons. Certainly, even when these nefarious plots were squashed, there was still the matter of this Pathfinder. The creature had made mincemeat of the Chairman’s early group, but the Chairman had not had the greatest engineer of fighting implements of all time on his side . . . Perhaps, if he knew more about how the creature operated, he would be able to build something that might even their odds.

The spell connected. The first respondent was Jake Sullivan. Browning had not liked the Heavy when they’d first met. Sullivan was a former convict with a reputation for thuggery, but as usual his old friend Black Jack had been a good judge of character. Sullivan had proven to be a man of integrity, a fearsome fighter, and a remarkably perceptive autodidactic individual. Browning had taken a real liking to him. Plus, it helped that Sullivan had excellent taste in firearms. It had been a pleasure to give him the Grimnoir oath.

“Good morning, Mr. Sullivan. How goes it?”

Sullivan had dark circles under his eyes, appearing as if he’d not slept well, if at all. “Busy. I know we were supposed to ask the higher ups about recruiting first, but we’ve had a couple of folks just kind of show up and volunteer for duty.”

“Really? Who?”

“An Iron Guard and an OCI bounty hunter.”

Browning twitched. The most coherent response he could form was, “I see . . .”

A smile cracked Sullivan’s unshaven face. “Yeah, I know. I’ll have to catch you up. The Chairman’s boy wants the Pathfinder gone. The OCI one seems to think that Heinrich is still alive and being held under their headquarters.”

It would be wonderful if one of his men was still alive, but his natural cynicism kept him wary. “Can you trust him?”

“Her, and I don’t yet, but she sure thinks Heinrich’s a prisoner and they’re going to execute him soon.”

The Grimnoir were not in the habit of letting their people hang. “If that’s the case, then we need to mount a rescue operation.”

“Working on it. It could be a trap, but sometimes a trap works both ways.”

Browning could only nod along. When it came to issues of potential violence, he had to bow to Sullivan’s mastery of the subject. “I trust your judgment, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Thanks. And I almost forgot, we kidnapped J. Edgar Hoover yesterday. I think we’re secretly allied with the Bureau of Investigation against the OCI.”

If it had been anyone other than Sullivan, he would have been certain it was a joke, but the Heavy wasn’t known for telling tales. “You jest.”

“No, sir. I’m not pulling your leg. Like I said, we’ve been real busy.”

“Recruiting Iron Guards and Hoover . . . Perhaps I should retract what I said about trusting your judgment.”

“Hoover I don’t know about. The others seem legit, but I’m keeping an eye on them and Faye both. I don’t want her killing anybody.”

“Yes, that can be a fulltime job . . . How did Faye—”

“I guess she got bored of driving and Traveled clear from Tennessee in one hop. The others are on the way.”

Nothing about that girl could really surprise him at this point. “Did you see this morning’s paper yet?” Sullivan shook his head. “It has more bad news. They’ve gone public about Francis and they say that he has fled. I’m trying to contact him now but have not gotten a response. Have you had any word from him?”

“Not since word came down about Ada. I’ll see what I can find out. I sure hope they didn’t roll him up. Any luck down there?”

“Possibly.” Browning was hesitant to say how they’d gotten their information and had to chose his words carefully. Since Sullivan’s young lady friend had suffered such a tragic end through Lazarus magic, the Heavy’s feelings about such things were well known. “I believe the spell was bound to the assassin by a Summoned.”

“That’s impossible. A Summoned couldn’t— No.” Sullivan’s brow furrowed. “Crow.” As usual, the Heavy was remarkably perceptive. “That son of a bitch, excuse my language. It had to be him, unless there’s somebody out there just like him, and that’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“I am inclined to agree. We are now searching for a Dr. Bradford that may have been Zangara’s confidant. If we can come up with a link between the doctor and the OCI, we may have the evidence we need to clear our names.”

“Speaking of evidence, I might know where to find some . . .”

Bell Farm, Virginia

Despite being so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open, Faye continued watching the Iron Guard suspiciously. He just sat there, cross legged, eyes closed, mediating he called it, looking innocent as could be . . . But she knew that he was up to no good. Iron Guards were evil, heathen, no-good, rotten, murdering scoundrels, and the only reason she hadn’t killed this one already was because Mr. Sullivan had made her promise not to.

After having a long conversation with Mr. Sullivan, the Iron Guard had claimed the barn as his place to sleep. She figured it was so he could have someplace private to do whatever horrible things it was that Iron Guards did when nobody was looking. So Faye had volunteered to spy on the Iron Guard. It wasn’t like she was going to be able to sleep with one of them around anyway. Sullivan had told her that spying was unnecessary and that she should get some rest.

She’d agreed, but as soon as the bedroom door was closed, she’d gathered up some warm clothing and Traveled outside to keep an eye on the Iron Guard. Of course Faye wasn’t going to go sleep in a comfy bed, all unaware and vulnerable, while evil was lurking around doing who knew what. Not on her watch. So she had followed him, sneaky as possible, just knowing he’d do something awful right quick. However, the Iron Guard had just gone out to the barn, pulled a blanket out of his pack, and gone to sleep on the hard-packed dirt floor. She’d Traveled up to the hay loft and picked a quiet spot to keep watch.

The most interesting part of the night was discovering that the barn had rats, big black ones, and she’d passed the time by identifying and naming them all. The Iron Guard didn’t so much as roll over or even snore. Spying on him turned out to be completely uninteresting. Killing him in his sleep would have been super easy, if a little unsportsmanlike. It was still really tempting.

The long night in the drafty old barn gave Faye plenty of time to think. Despite all of the horrible things that were happening around her, her mind kept spinning back to a completely selfish issue. Why was her magic getting stronger again? Months had passed since the Tokugawa and she’d been relatively weak that whole time, with Power like a little stream, but all of a sudden she was doing better, and her Power had grown back into a small river. How come? She didn’t pretend to understand this stuff like some of the other knights. Faye had always been a little different than everyone else, and she had just taken it for granted, but now those differences were really nagging at her.

The government demon, Crow, had known something. He’d danced around it, trying to get her to come peacefully. It could have been a trick, but she didn’t think so. He knew something about her. How had he said it? What if I could tell you exactly what you are? He hadn’t said who, he’d said what, and Faye didn’t care for that one bit.

Would she keep on getting stronger like before? And if so, what would happen if she didn’t use it all up in one great big burst like last time? Would it ever stop, or would the Power just keep on giving her more magic? How strong could she get? And if she got strong enough, could she maybe learn how to use other Powers? Could she become as powerful as the Chairman had been?

All those questions without answers made her head hurt.

The night was really cold, but she’d borrowed some of Jane’s clothes and dressed extra warm, or so she’d thought. The pre-dawn frost made life miserable, and she found herself wishing that he would hurry up and do something nefarious so she could kill him and then go warm herself by the wood stove. The only hay left in the loft was old, and since the roof leaked, it was moldy and smelly, so she couldn’t even lay in that for extra warmth. Her grey eyes had always been extra good at seeing in the dark, so after she got done counting rats she counted the holes in the roof.

A few times she let her eyelids droop shut. Just for a second, she’d tell herself, only to realize what she was doing, panic, and then flinch back awake, expecting to see the Iron Guard leering over her, ready to slash her throat. However, each time she found the Iron Guard still sleeping peacefully below. Finally, after several hours of doing the blink too long and panic routine, she decided to check her head map to see if maybe playing with it for a time would help keep her awake.

And there was Mr. Sullivan, hidden fifty yards away, wide awake and smoking a cigarette, back against a tree, machinegun resting across his knees, watching the barn intently. He had probably been there all night, unmoving. He had just been trying to be nice when he’d told her to get some sleep. She should have known that of all people he wouldn’t have trusted the Iron Guard either. Faye probably could have Traveled back to the house and gone to bed at that point, but it had now become a matter of pride to see her watch through to the end.

The next thing she knew she had woken up and it was daylight and somewhere nearby a rooster was crowing. Panicking, she scurried over to the edge of the hay loft, sure to discover that while she’d slept the Iron Guard had murdered everyone.

Instead of being on a rampage, he was just sitting there on the floor, legs crossed, hands on his knees, back perfectly straight. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Did you sleep well up there, Traveler?”

He knew? “I’m watching you, Iron Guard.”

“Do not call me that.” He opened his eyes. “I no longer have the honor of bearing that title.”

“What are you then?”

“I do not know. That is why I’m meditating.” And with that he closed his eyes again and ignored her.

Faye waited for him to do something else. She got bored. “Hey . . . Hey, jerk face. I’m talking to you.” When he didn’t answer, she found a small scrap of wood and chucked it at him.

He caught it in one hand without opening his eyes. “Do not call me jerk face.”

“Why not? It fits . . .” He was a Brute. Faye decided that if she was going to pick a fight with him, she really should have struck when he was asleep. “What should I call you then?”

“My name is Toru.”

“A likely story.”

“Then I do not care what you call me.” The Iron Guard got up, dusted off his pants, and folded the blanket. “You are beneath my notice. You are an insignificant bug.”

“I’ll just stick with jerk face then.”

“Very well, bug.” Toru put his things back in his pack. Faye noticed that he was very careful to stow the broken sword pieces. He should be, even with his Healing kanji, he still had a bandage wrapped around one hand from grabbing the sharp part last night.

“What’re you keeping that busted thing for?”

“You would not understand.”

“I know more about your kind than you think,” Faye snapped.

Toru removed some wrapped food and closed the pack. “A blade can be reforged. A soul can be cleansed.” He walked out of the barn, chewing on what looked like a ball of white rice.

Cleansed? Faye could agree with that sentiment in principle. People could make all sorts of things right, but she had a real hard time thinking of murderous Iron Guards as people.

She found Mr. Garrett in the kitchen, cooking bacon. Faye Traveled in right next to him. “Smells good.”

Her sudden arrival startled him and he splashed bacon grease on his hand. “Don’t do that!” He stuck his burned finger in his mouth.

“Well, somebody’s jumpy.”

“Can you blame me? You about give me a heart attack when you do that.”

“Grumpy too.”

“Sleeping with one eye open will do that to you,” he answered as he forked a few cooked pieces onto a waiting plate. “I didn’t know who was going to murder us in our sleep last night first, the Imperium or the OCI. Jake’s lost his mind, joining up with these people.”

“I haven’t met the other one yet.”

“Hammer. Don’t trust her, Faye. She’s a manipulator.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“You bet, and that’s why I can tell. Just because you can’t lie to her doesn’t mean she can’t lie to us.”

Faye snagged a piece of bacon and popped it into her mouth. “Don’t worry, Mr. Garrett. I’m still the most dangerous person here.”

“That you are. Well, I’ll just have to trust you’ll keep us safe.” He chuckled, so Faye did too. She had always liked Mr. Garrett. He passed her the plate of bacon. “Here’s my protection payment.” Faye was starving. She wasn’t about to turn that down, and immediately started wolfing down the food without even bothering to sit.

Mr. Sullivan joined them a moment later. He still had his BAR slung over one shoulder. It said a lot about the company that she kept, that his wearing a machinegun at breakfast didn’t even strike here as odd. “Sleep well?” he asked with a wink.

So much for being sneaky. It was like everybody knew she’d slept in the barn. “Oh, my bed was just lovely.”

Mr. Garrett had boiled up a pot of coffee, and Mr. Sullivan poured himself a cup. He took it black. “I just got some bad news.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Faye asked.

“’Cause I don’t want you to fly off the handle and do something stupid when I tell you Francis is missing.”

Faye went numb. The plate shattered on the floor. “We’ve got to do something!”

“We will.” Mr. Sullivan was mulling over his coffee. “The others will be back soon. Sit tight. I got a plan.”