Personal Demon

LUCAS: 4

PAIGE SETTLED AT HER COMPUTER, preparing to run investigative searches on the gang members. As moral as Paige is, she’s also an experienced hacker from her college days, and sees no reason not to use those skills in pursuit of a just cause.

The concept of breaching ethical boundaries to reach a morally acceptable goal is something Paige struggles with more than I do, though it’s always an issue in our line of work. But if the breach leaves no obvious victims, and only puts Paige herself at risk, then she doesn’t hesitate to do it.

It was now seven-or ten in the East-making it a reasonable hour to begin placing calls. I was reaching for the phone when a call came in for Paige from Gillian MacArthur, one of the students in her “Sabrina School.” Paige mentors a small group of young witches, long distance, those without ties to others. Life can be difficult for witches. Their primary institution, the Coven, is more interested in hiding a witch’s powers than in strengthening them.

The witch-sorcerer divide doesn’t help matters, not when the Cabals are run by sorcerers. Witches and sorcerers are historical enemies, a ridiculous prejudice that carries over to this day. According to the witches, they took the less powerful sorcerers under their wings, taught them stronger magic and were rewarded by being thrown to the Inquisition-getting them out of the way so the male spellcasters could rule the supernatural world unopposed. More specifically, it is the original Cabal-the Cortezes-whom they blame as the instigators. Our sorcerer version tells us that witches did indeed help us better hone our innate abilities, but when we became too powerful, they turned us over to the Inquisitors, and we retaliated by doing the same to them. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

With an impotent American Coven and exclusion from the Cabals, witches lack a strong place in the supernatural world, something Paige is trying to change. Her Sabrina School is one step in that direction. Today, though, she kept the call short, promising to phone back, then handed the receiver to me.

I dialed the number from memory. It took six rings for someone to answer. This wasn’t unusual, in a household where no one was ever in any rush to make contact with the outside world and trusted that if the caller was a friend, he’d know to stay on the line.

A woman answered, her greeting friendly but distant, as if she had better things to do, but given that no one else was going to pick up the phone, it had fallen to her, as it usually did.

“Elena, it’s Lucas.”

Her tone brightened. “Hey, Lucas.”

We chatted for a minute, then I asked to speak to Clayton. He was outside with the children, and it took a few minutes before he made it to the phone.

“What’s up?” he said.

No pleasantries exchanged this time. Not even an introductory hello. In anyone else, it would be a sign that my call was unwelcome. With Clay, there was no such subtext. Why bother with hello when I’d know he was there as soon as he started talking? Why ask after Paige’s health, or mine, or Savannah’s, when he knew if we were unwell, he’d already have heard it from Elena? The point of civilities was lost on Clay, and I must admit, it’s sometimes pleasant to get straight to business without wading through five minutes of social conventions.

“I have a hypothetical question to put to you regarding Karl Marsten.”

“What’s he done now?”

“If he felt some attachment to a woman and she began to form an attachment to another man, could his reaction be…violent?”

“We’re talking about Hope, right?”

“Not necessarily. I’m posing it as a-”

“Hypothetical question.” The line buzzed as he moved, probably thumping down onto the sofa, getting comfortable. “If it’s not Hope, then the answer is no, because Marsten doesn’t ‘feel some attachment’ to any woman-hell, to any person-except that girl. But if we are talking about Hope, which I presume we are, then the answer is different.”

“All right, it’s Hope.”

“So she’s getting cozy with another guy, and you’re asking whether he could get violent? Toward her? No.”

“I was thinking of the other party.”

“The competition? Yeah, he could. Not saying he would, but he could.”

“How violent are we talking?”

“Look, just tell me what’s going on. Yeah, yeah, client privilege or whatever, but you know I’m not about to go blabbing to anyone-including Marsten. Only person I’d tell is Elena, but that goes without saying.”

I explained the situation.

“Shit,” he said when I finished. “So you’re asking whether Marsten would take out his competition permanently? Wish I could cut back your list of suspects and tell you no.” A rustle, as if he was changing position. “You know Marsten attacked the Pack, right? Six, seven years ago? Because we wouldn’t give him territory unless he joined?”

“You’ve told me, yes.”

“Well, because he couldn’t hold territory, what he’d do is settle in a city for a few months and unofficially declare it his. Any other mutt showed up, he’d track them down and take them out to a fancy dinner. Buy them whatever they wanted, foot the bill, chat them up, be as gracious a host as only Marsten can be. Then he’d tell them they had until dawn to clear out. If they didn’t leave? Elena would get a call or a letter telling her she could remove that mutt from her dossiers.”

“He killed them?”

“Hell, yeah. Marsten’s not stupid. He knows you don’t quash a threat by tossing out warnings, maybe break a bone or two. Kill a few mutts and word gets around: don’t tread on Karl Marsten’s territory.”

“And in this case, Karl’s territory would be Hope.”

“But killing these kids doesn’t send a message to anyone except Hope and, as cold as that bastard can be, I can’t see him doing that. Could he have gone to scare the kid and things got out of hand? Maybe. Or if he felt that he could lose Hope to some kid she just met? Doesn’t sound likely, but who knows. You aren’t asking me if I thought he did it, but whether he could. Short answer: hell, yeah. Now, about this job Hope’s doing. Does Elena know? ’Cause she’ll feel out of the loop if-”

A whisper. Elena.

“One sec,” Clay said.

He didn’t bother covering the receiver.

“Time to go,” I heard Elena say. “Parent and tot swim starts this morning, remember?”

Clay let out an obscenity.

“Is that a no?”

“That’s a ‘why the hell can’t we just buy a pool?’”

“We can, but this has nothing to do with swimming lessons and everything to do with social interaction.”

Another, stronger epithet.

I considered hanging up, but if I did, Clay would call me back, annoyed, never understanding that I’d consider it rude to be privy to a private conversation.

“They love being around other children,” Elena continued. “Did you see them at the playground last week, Kate toddling after the older kids?”

“She was stalking them.”

A sputtered curse, from Elena this time. “She’s eighteen months old! She was not-”

“Classic stalking behavior.”

“And I suppose Logan hiding in the bushes was part of the ruse. She’d steer them into the trap, then he’d spring out-”

“Shit, I never thought of that.”

An exasperated groan, then a sharp “Hey!” from Clayton, probably as he got a poke or pinch. The phone line crackled.

“Lucas?” It was Elena. “Please excuse Clay’s rudeness, again.”

“That’s quite all right. Tell him I’ll talk to him later.”

“I’ll have him call you back…if spending an hour in a pool crowded with humans doesn’t traumatize him too much.”

“It makes me uncomfortable,” Clay said in the background. “It does not-”

“Bye, Lucas.”

“Good-bye, Elena.”

The line went dead.