Shadow People

56

Witches were not supposed to fall in love. Nor were they supposed to get married and become soccer moms. It was not how being a witch worked.

It wasn’t written down anywhere. Most of the rules which dictated a witch’s life were not written down anywhere at all. But they were passed down to each generation of young women who were born into the coven of spells and sorcery. And those rules were clear.

True love and witches simply did not mix.

Of course, they could have partners, and engage in sex, and be all things that women could and should be. There were no laws against that. But they were not allowed to lose themselves with a partner and forget who they were, which was what happened to most people who fell in love. They forgot who they were, and became someone else for a while. Witches were not supposed to do that. They had to remain true to themselves throughout their lives, and never forget who they were. It made relationships with the opposite sex tricky, to say the least.

Perhaps this was Holly’s problem. She had gotten crazy over Peter before the rules of the game had been properly explained to her. By the time Milly had gotten down to spelling out the rules, Cupid’s arrow had pierced her heart, and nothing would ever be the same.

Peter had been such a logical choice. Cute, clever, with one foot stuck in the dark side, what more could she want from a boy? They had grown up together, and always been fond of each other. Falling in love had been a natural progression, and Holly didn’t think the world would fall off its axis because of it.

She poured the magic herbs into the water-filled vase sitting on the coffee table. The water grew cloudy, with lifelike forms swirling about.

Oh spirits from above, show me Peter, the boy I love.

The water grew clear, and there Peter was, slumped in a chair in his dressing room while lovely Liza shook his arm. Clearly, something was amiss, which seemed almost routine for poor Peter these days. He’d become a poster boy for the problems that came from being psychic.

Peter woke up. Soon he and Liza were in a car racing out of the city. At the wheel was a grim-faced man whom Holly recognized as an FBI agent of Peter’s acquaintance. The FBI agent was driving one-handed while talking on a cell phone and to Peter at the same time. It was like watching a silent movie, and Holly tried to make out what they were saying.

“Holly!” a familiar voice called out.

Holly looked up in alarm. The voice had come out of nowhere. “Aunt Milly, is that you?”

“Who do you think it is, the Girl Scouts of America?”

“You have no right scrying on me, if that’s what you’re doing.”

“Au contraire, I have every right to be scrying on you. You must leave Peter alone.”

“Why should I? I’m in love with him.”

“I fully understand that. But love doesn’t give you the right to invade his privacy. Peter must not be disturbed. Do you understand me?”

Holly glanced at the vase of water at the object of her desire. “Certainly.”

“You’re not listening to me. Peter is not like us. He’s different.”

“I know.”

“Much different.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

“Damn it, Holly.”

A framed photograph fell off the wall and crashed to the floor.

“Please stop destroying my things,” Holly said.

“Not until you do as I say.”

Holly had never won an argument with her aunt, and doubted she ever would. Clicking her fingers three times, she made the water grow cloudy and the images disappear. Rising from the floor, she found her aunt’s ghostly image in the oval mirror over her water bed.

Holly crossed her arms defiantly. Her aunt countered with a frown.

“What do you want, Aunt Milly?”

“Peter has enough on his plate these days. Stop pestering him.”

“Who said I was pestering him? And when did this become your business? I’m a grown woman living in my own apartment. I can do whatever I please, thank you very much.”

Her aunt started to argue, but stopped herself. The wisdom of old age was knowing when silence was more powerful than words. Her face softened. “You’re right. You are no longer a child, and I have no right to treat you that way. So consider this a warning, instead.”

“A warning about what?”

“Be careful with Peter.”

“How so?”

“Be discreet. Respect his privacy. Know when to look away.”

An icy finger ran the length of Holly’s spine. Was there a side to Peter that she didn’t know? If that was the case, then her aunt had every right to be checking up on her, and Holly suddenly felt bad about the way she was acting.

“I’m sorry I’m acting like such a turd,” she said.

“No need to apologize my dear. I wasn’t very tactful.”

“How will I know?”

“About Peter? You will see the change. It will not be pleasant to watch.”

“You mean he’ll grow ugly like he does when he gets angry?”

“This will be more severe. He will physically alter himself. It will not be pretty, to say the least.”

Holly brought her hand up to her mouth. “Have you seen him do this?”

“Yes, when Peter was a little boy. It occurred the night his parents died. The demon inside of him fully took over. It was like he turned himself inside out.”

“Did it affect your relationship with Peter?”

“It most certainly did. And it will change your relationship with him as well.”

Holly swallowed hard. “How can you be so certain?”

Her aunt smiled the way adults do when they’re talking to children. Her image in the mirror began to fade and turned a foggy whitish color. Just wait, her eyes seem to say.

“Do as I say for once,” Milly said, and then was gone.

Holly parted the blinds and gazed at the city’s canopy of blinking lights. Had she fallen in love with a monster? Or just someone who was frightfully different? Better to know what she was getting into right now, she supposed, than to get surprised down the road.

She had talked herself into it. She would scry on Peter and discover his terrible secret, her aunt’s warning be damned.

57

Like many New Yorkers, Peter’s sense of direction was useless once he stepped off the island of Manhattan, and he paid scant attention as Garrison followed the signs for the Cross Bronx Expressway and West 178th Street as he drove up the West Side Highway. Liza sat in the backseat, studying a traffic app on her iPhone. “This doesn’t clear up until the George Washington Bridge. We’re never going to get there.”

Garrison slapped a flashing red light on the dashboard and punched his horn. The lines of cars in front of them parted like the Red Sea, and the FBI agent began to weave between lanes with the skill of a NASCAR driver.

“That’s more like it,” Garrison said.

Peter rode shotgun and stared at the highway. His hands had grown sweaty and he felt nervous in anticipation of finally meeting Munns in the flesh. The greatest mass murderers in history were all associated with the Devil in some way, and there was no question in his mind that Munns would put up a terrible fight when the police tried to arrest him.

“You scared?” Garrison asked.

“A little,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

“Not really. I’ve dealt with serial killers before.”

The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood up. Hadn’t he warned Garrison about the dangers that Munns posed? Munns was capable of causing more harm than Garrison could possibly imagine. “If you’re not careful, he’ll kill every cop in Pelham, and you and me as well.”

“Come on. Doc Munns is an angry little man. Most serial killers are.”

“What do you know about him?” Peter asked.

Garrison stopped talking long enough to merge onto the I-95 Lower Level North/George Washington Bridge exit out of the city. The sound of the bridge’s metal grating beneath their wheels was oddly soothing. “The chief of the Pelham Police Department said Munns was a troubled soul. His parents were alcoholics who abused their son. They made him live in the basement and didn’t let him eat with them. They also made him work around the house and do a lot of manual labor. He went to school in dirty clothes without lunch money.”

“Sounds like they tortured him,” Liza said from the backseat.

“That came later,” Garrison said.

“His childhood got worse?”

“Yes, unfortunately. When Munns was a teenager, his father got laid off work, and started hitting the bottle. He and his wife used to sit around the house all day, collect welfare checks, and get blistered. They convinced Munns to quit high school, and get a full-time job so they could pay their bills and support themselves in the lifestyle to which they’d become accustomed. It was a crummy thing to do, but that’s what kind of people they were.

“At first, Munns wouldn’t do it. He had dreams of going to college and being a medical doctor. One day, he came to school with a black eye and a busted front tooth. Everyone knew who had given it to him.”

“His father,” Liza said.

“That’s right, his father. Munns dropped out of high school, and took a job driving a truck. The money wasn’t good, and the family barely scraped by. On weekends, the police were often called to the house to settle domestic arguments. Munns’s father was beating up his son pretty regularly, and should have gone to jail, only Munns wouldn’t play ball with the cops.”

“So he was loyal,” Peter said.

“That he was,” Garrison said. “But that all changed one day. Munns got a phone call from a lady with the Social Security office in Washington. A woman claiming to be Munns’s birth mother was looking for him. Did Munns want to talk with her?”

“Wait a second,” Liza said, leaning through the seats. “The people who were torturing and treating him like a slave weren’t really his parents?”

“No, they weren’t. His biological mother gave Munns up for adoption when he was two years old. The torturers were his adoptive parents.”

“That’s so sick. What did Munns do?”

“That’s the strange part. He did nothing to his parents, and in fact, continued to care for them when they became sick and eventually died. The people he took his anger out with were his neighbors and other people who lived in Pelham.”

“Why? They weren’t responsible.”

“That’s not how Munns saw it. The townspeople knew he was being abused, and they also knew that his parents weren’t really his parents, yet they turned their backs and didn’t step in. Munns held that against them. Still does.”

“How old is he?” Peter asked.

“Munns is forty-eight years old. Is that important?”

Munns had been carrying his anger around for a long time. It had corrupted his soul and erased any semblance of decency. His joining the Order of Astrum and taking his anger out on the world by killing innocent women was yet another chapter in his sick life. But were those women the people Munns was really after? Peter didn’t think so. It was the citizens of Pelham he wanted to pay back, every last one of them. By joining the Order, Munns had been given the means to accomplish his grisly task, and one day he eventually would. Had that day arrived?

“You need to drive faster,” Peter implored.

“I’m already doing seventy-five,” the FBI agent replied.

“Faster.”

Garrison floored the accelerator and the vehicle lurched ahead. Peter watched the exit signs as they flashed by, praying they were not too late.

The exit for Mt. Vernon/Pelham appeared just as Garrison’s cell phone let out a sonic blast. He yanked it from his pocket and took the call. He listened for several seconds and made an ugly face. “What? When did this happen?”

Peter could have waited for Garrison to hang up and explain what was going on, or he could plumb the agent’s thoughts and find out himself. Liza’s hand came up and squeezed his arm. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

“A rookie cop in Pelham spotted Munns at the train station,” he whispered back. “He was asking a dispatcher for backup when he got cut off. Munns may have gotten away.”

“Ugh,” Liza said.

Garrison finished his call. “Quit reading my mind. I don’t like it.”

“Sorry. Just trying to save time.”

“What about Rachael? Did anyone see her come into the station?” Liza asked.

“The cop who called in the license told the dispatcher there was a second person passed out in Munns’s car,” Peter said. “That was probably her.”

“So Munns abducted her.”

“It sure looks that way.”

Liza fell back in her seat and shut her eyes. Traffic had thinned out since leaving the city, and Garrison took the exit with his tires squealing.

“Go ahead. Tell her the rest,” Garrison said.

“There’s more?” Liza said.

“The Pelham police chief sent several of his officers to the next town to help with an apartment house fire,” Peter explained. “As a result, he’s short staffed, and only has a handful of available officers to deal with Munns.”

“You can’t be serious,” Liza said.

“It’s a small town. The force isn’t that big to begin with.”

“Does he realize how dangerous Munns is? Or that he’s in league with the Devil?” Liza asked.

“The chief’s a small-town cop. He’s never dealt with anything this serious before. He sent two cruisers to Munns’s house earlier, but hasn’t spoken to them. We’re meeting the chief at the train station, and then we’re all going to Munns’s place together.”

“Does this man know what he’s doing?” Liza asked.

Peter glanced across the seat at Garrison, who was thinking the same thing. The Pelham police chief was going to blow this if they didn’t hurry.

The two-lane road leading into Pelham twisted and turned across the hilly landscape, forcing Garrison to ease up on the gas. They began to crawl, and Peter felt his anxiety grow. Devil worshippers did not go quietly when caught. Often, they went on rampages, intent on taking down as many innocent lives as possible before being taken down themselves. This was the great threat that Munns posed to the people of Pelham.

Ten minutes later, they arrived in a quaint town with artificial gaslights lining the streets and an array of enticing storefronts. The railroad tracks ran next to the town. Signs warned people not to play on the tracks or risk electrocution.

Garrison followed the tracks to the station. A police cruiser with a flashing red light waited in the parking lot. Beside it was a second cruiser, which had been rear-ended and had a shattered windshield. Garrison parked beside the first cruiser, and they got out.

Peter checked out the damaged cruiser. The gaping hole in the windshield suggested a body had been thrown through it. On the ground he found glass and a dark black stain.

“Is this blood?”

Garrison studied the stain. “Sure looks like it.”

Peter had helped the police with difficult cases, and was adept at reconstructing a crime scene. There was no doubt that someone had died here. What he did not understand was how. The officer was calling in Munns’s license when he was rammed from behind, and the call was cut off. That didn’t make sense, unless Munns had a partner.

“Where is everybody?” Liza asked.

“Beats me. Anybody home?” Garrison called out.

“In here,” replied a man’s voice.

The voice had come from inside the station house. The front door was ajar, and Peter entered a small waiting room lined with wooden benches. Another open door led to the ticket office with a desk and a chair. A uniformed cop in his fifties greeted him with a glare.

“Who are you?” the cop asked gruffly.

“Peter Warlock. I’m helping Special Agent Garrison track down Munns.”

“Are you the psychic he’s using?”

“Yes, he is.” Garrison followed Peter into the office. “You must be Chief Burns. I’m Special Agent Garrison. This young lady behind me is Liza. She’s also helping.”

“Welcome to Pelham,” Burns said. “It was a quiet little town, up until a little while ago.”

“Can you tell me what happened outside?” Garrison asked.

“I’m about to find out.”

A video monitor sat on the desk. Burns punched a button on a remote, and a grainy surveillance tape began to play on the small screen. Taken by a camera attached to the station house roof, it had a date and time stamped in the corner. It had been recorded twenty-two minutes ago, and showed a train pulling into the station and a group of passengers disembarking and going to their cars or rides. One nicely dressed woman remained on the platform. She looked nervous, and glanced from side to side as if looking for someone.

“That’s Rachael,” Liza said.

“How can you be sure?” Garrison asked.

“I don’t know. I just am.”

“Who’s Rachael?” Chief Burns wanted to know.

“Munns’s next victim,” Liza said.

Munns appeared in the frame, and warmly greeted the woman. Together, they walked off the platform to Munns’s Volvo. Rachael got into the car, and they watched Munns put a handkerchief over her face, and knock her out. Liza let out a shriek, and momentarily averted her eyes.

Munns began to back out of his spot just as a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and blocked him from leaving. The cop in the cruiser exchanged words with Munns, and began to call in his license to a dispatcher. From out of nowhere a black van appeared, and rammed the cruiser from behind. The officer was propelled through the windshield and landed on the trunk of the Volvo, his head flopped to one side. Liza turned away again. Chief Burns swore.

The driver of the van hopped out. He wore a sinister Fu Manchu and his arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Peter had been right. Munns was working with a partner.

“Any idea who that guy is?” Garrison asked.

“Never seen the bastard before,” Burns swore.

Burns’s cell phone vibrated, and he yanked it off his belt. Looking at its face, he said, “It’s about time they called me back. I need to take this outside. Reception’s bad in here.”

Everyone went outside. Burns stepped away and took the call. It was from the cops he’d sent to Munns’s house. Judging by the expression on the chief’s face, the news was not good.

Peter peeked inside the chief’s head to find out what the problem was. And saw it clearly.

Munns was holed up inside his house with his latest victim. Burns’s men had peeked through the front windows, and seen Rachael tied to a chair in the living room. She was conscious, and trying to reason with her abductor. Munns was also in the living room but not visible, and the cops couldn’t pinpoint his location.

The cops had stepped back from the house. One of them had called Burns to find out what to do. Break down the front door and save Rachael, or stay outside and wait for backup?

Burns hemmed and hawed. He was a small-town police chief, and dealt with domestic situations and lost dogs. This was new to him.

“Tell your men not to go in,” Peter told him.

“Hold on a second,” Burns said into the phone. “What did you say?”

“Don’t let your men go in. Munns will kill them.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Then he’ll go into town, and kill as many people as he can.”

“How do you know this?”

“That isn’t important. Let me deal with Munns. I can stop him. It’s why I’m here. Don’t ask me to explain any more, because I can’t. You have to trust me.”

Burns looked to Garrison for confirmation. The FBI agent nodded. That was good enough for Burns, and he passed the instructions to the man on the line before ending the call.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the chief said.

58

Garrison followed Burns’s cruiser out of the parking lot and into Pelham. Soon the town ended, and they drove down a two-lane road with signs for crossing deer.

“How are you going to deal with Munns?” Liza asked from the backseat.

Peter had promised not to keep secrets from Liza, but there were times when he would have preferred not to give her a straight answer. It would have made things so much easier.

“I’d like to hear the answer to that question myself,” Garrison said.

“I have a friend who’s a witch,” Peter explained. “I’m going to call her right now, and ask her to cast a spell on Munns that will incapacitate him so I can get into the house, and free Rachael. The spell should also let me subdue him.”

“A spell?” Garrison said, sounding incredulous.

“Yes. It’s one of a witch’s more potent powers.”

“What will it do to him?” Liza asked.

“That’s up to my friend. Some spells can set their subjects on fire. Others make a person blind, or incontinent. My friend will know which one to pick.”

“Is this witch someone I know?”

Liza did not sound pleased. It was not the time to be discussing this, and Peter glanced into the backseat. “Her name’s Holly Adams, and she’s a student at Columbia University. I told you about her, remember? We grew up together.”

“I seem to recall the name. Maybe I should meet her one day.”

He decided to let that one go. They started to climb a steep hill. The scenery looked terribly familiar, and Peter realized that it was here that Munns had tried to end his life on three different occasions. It was a memory that he would just as soon forget.

“I’ve got a question,” Garrison said, eyes glued to the road. “This spell your friend Holly is going to cast on Munns, will it wear off?”

“Eventually, yes. A spell is never permanent,” Peter replied.

“How quickly?”

“It all depends on how strong the spell is, and if Munns is able to ward it off.”

“Can he do that?”

“He might. Members of the Order of Astrum have special powers as well.”

“That’s not the news I wanted to hear. If the spell doesn’t work, do you have a Plan B?”

Peter hadn’t thought that far ahead, and shook his head. “Afraid not,” he added for emphasis.

“Well, think of one.”

Peter stared out his window and gave it some thought. The night held the answer to many of life’s mysteries, and after a moment he knew what he must do. He’d enter Munns’s house and summon the demon inside him. The demon would destroy Munns, just like it had destroyed the criminals the night his parents had perished, and the assassin who’d entered their apartment, and the assassin in Hyde Park. His victims had been evil people, and it was because of their evil that the demon had done away with them. Munns would be no different.

That was his Plan B.

But how to tell Garrison? The demon was at the top of the list of things he was never going to discuss with the FBI agent. Only he had to tell Garrison something…

A gunshot interrupted his thoughts.

The car lurched to a stop, and Garrison rolled down his window. The night had grown still again. “That sounded like a high-powered hunting rifle,” he said.

“Do people around here hunt at night?” Liza asked.

“Not animals, they don’t.”

Climbing out, Garrison drew his gun. He motioned for them to stay put, and started up the road. Peter opened his door and felt Liza’s hand come through the seats and grab his arm.

“We’re supposed to stay here,” she said.

“I was brought here for a reason,” he reminded her. “I have to go.”

“Oh, God, Peter, this is scary. Please be careful.”

“Remember, I’ve got some powers of my own.”

He slipped out of the car, and headed down the road after Garrison. Pieces of glass crunched beneath his feet. Rounding a curve, he saw a police cruiser lying in a ditch, its warning lights flashing. Garrison stood next to the ditch, shaking his head in dismay.

Burns had taken the hit.

The bullet hole in the cruiser’s windshield was the size of a man’s fist. Garrison opened the driver’s door and the interior light came on. Still strapped in, the chief of the Pelham Police Department stared straight ahead with his hands clutching the steering wheel. The bullet had cut him in half, his lower torso drenched in blood.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Burns whispered.

“I’m calling nine one one,” Garrison said, grabbing for his cell phone.

“Too late for that. Tell my kids…” His voice trailed off.

“Tell them what?”

“That their father…”

Burns stopped talking and licked his lips. He blinked, and then he blinked again. Peter gently pushed Garrison to one side. Crouching down, he pried the chief’s hand off the wheel, and clasped it with both of his own.

“Let your thoughts go. It will make things easier,” Peter said.

Burns nodded and seemed to relax. Peter looked into his head, and saw that the chief had a lot on his mind. Some of it was meaningless, but most of it not. He owed five dollars to another officer that he’d been meaning to pay back; the dry cleaning had to be picked up; the upstairs bathroom still needed painting. Then there was the important stuff, his family. On the hard drive of his computer was a letter to his son stationed in Afghanistan that he had yet to send. He’d been meaning to tell his wife how he appreciated her waiting up for him at night, but never gotten around to it. To his teenage daughter, a simple I love you was all he’d wanted to say. Those were the things that were on his mind. And how much he was going to miss them.

Peter squeezed the dying man’s hand. “I’ll tell them for you.”

Burns’s eyelids fluttered. The look on his face was skeptical.

“I’ll make sure your son gets his letter, and I’ll tell your wife how important her staying up was to you,” he said. “And I’ll tell your daughter that she was the apple of her father’s eye.”

Burns let out a deep breath, satisfied.

“Anything else?” Peter asked.

Burns looked like he was drifting on a cloud. Then he was gone. Garrison reached in, and shut the dead man’s eyes.

Another gunshot ripped the still night air.

59

“Peter!” It was Liza, calling out in the darkness.

“I’m here,” he said.

“I heard another gunshot. Are you all right?”

“Get back in the car,” Garrison said. “You’re not safe.”

“Not until I know Peter’s okay,” she said.

Peter thought he was all right. But then again, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the bullet he’d just heard had gone straight through his heart, and what was now standing here was a ghost instead. It was entirely possible. He ran his hands up and down himself, feeling flesh and bone.

“I’m not hurt,” he said.

“Please be careful,” Liza said.

Peter listened to her walk away. Then he looked up the hill. Munns’s house sat at the top, bathed in the bright moonlight. A two-story shingle box with a pitched roof and sagging gutters, it reflected years of neglect and disrepair. Back when Munns’s parents had owned it, it had probably been nice. But evil had a way of corrupting everything it came in contact with, even the exterior of houses.

He started up the hill. He wondered who the shooter was. Was it the man in the van who’d killed the first police officer? It really didn’t matter. Whoever it was had to be stopped.

“Get back here,” Garrison ordered.

Peter ignored him, and kept walking. He dug out his cell phone and pulled up Holly’s number. The call went through, and Holly picked up on the second ring.

“Get down before you get shot,” Holly warned.

He fell into a crouch. “You watching me?”

“Yes. You’re going to get killed if you’re not careful.”

“Where’s the shooter hiding?”

“His name is Ray, and he’s hiding behind an old oak tree on the same hill as the serial killer’s house. Ray’s got a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight, and somehow is able to see in the dark. He must be a devil worshipper.”

“Make him stop shooting at us. I need to get inside the house.”

“And fast. I looked in there, too.”

“What did you see?”

“There’s a woman tied to a chair. Your serial killer is about to strangle her to death.”

“Stop him, please.”

“I tried, but he shrugged off my spell.”

“You’re slipping.”

“This was a strong spell. He was just stronger.”

Another rifle shot rang out and kicked up dirt around Peter’s feet. “Help me.”

“Stay tuned.”

His Droid made a funny beep as Holly ended the call. It would have been nice if she’d bothered to tell him if he was supposed to lie on the ground, or go hide behind a particular tree. Witches were peculiar in that regard: They gave only so much of themselves.

He scrunched down. The smaller a target he was, the better. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he tried to find the shooter, only there were too many trees. It occurred to him that if the shooter fired another round, he’d see the bullet as it left the barrel of the rifle, and that was the probably the last thing he’d ever see. He glanced over his shoulder to see Garrison lying on the ground.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” he scolded.

“Get ready,” Peter said.

“For what?”

“The shooter is about to be taken out of the picture.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I told you, I have a friend who’s a witch, and she’s going to cast a spell on him.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Peter shifted his gaze straight ahead. “Keep watching.”

A witch’s powers were derived from nature and employed all of its destructive elements. Wind, earth, fire, and rain were all part of a witch’s repertoire, along with the ability to hold sway over wild animals. Which of these powers Holly would use was anyone’s guess. If Peter had been a betting man, he would have put his money on an owl swooping down out of a tree, and ripping the shooter’s face clean off.

He would have lost the bet. A menacing black storm cloud formed overhead. A bolt of lightning sprang out of its belly and pointed a crooked finger at a large oak tree in Peter’s line of vision. The oak tree burst into bright orange flames. Not ordinary flames, but ones of incredible heat. The shooter hiding behind the tree emitted a blood-curdling scream.

Bull’s-eye, Peter thought.

The shooter ran out from his hiding spot with his clothes on fire. Garrison came crablike up the hill.

Peter pointed at the burning man. “There’s your shooter.”

“Tell your witch I said thanks.” Garrison rose to a full standing position and took careful aim. Several shots rang out as he tried to take the shooter out. “Damn,” he swore.

“Keep firing at him.” Peter rose from his crouch, and started up the hill.

“Where are you going?”

“Guess.”

“I’m ordering you to stay here.”

“Sorry, I don’t answer to you.”

“You don’t know what’s up there. This may all be an elaborate trap.”

The words struck Peter as being prophetic. Since Friday night, he’d known that he would meet up with a serial killer who’d do everything in his power to kill him. The whole thing was a trap, courtesy of the Order of Astrum, and he was about to step right into the thick of it. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and he felt ready for the dangers that lay in store.

“I’m ready,” Peter said.

He ran up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him.

60

The scene at the top of the hill was reminiscent of a war movie. Two police cruisers were parked on the gravel driveway in front of Munns’s house with their windshields shot out and their front tires deflated. Each had sunk into the ground like a wounded animal.

Both cruisers had contained a single uniformed officer. Both officers now lay on the driveway with bloodied legs, tending to their wounds while aiming their guns at the front door of the house. Seeing Peter approach, they cautioned him to get down.

“Are you guys going to be okay?” Peter asked.

They gritted their teeth and nodded. Their faces were filled with pain compounded by the anguish that they hadn’t stopped Munns.

“Who are you?” one of the officers asked.

“I’m working with the FBI. I just took out the guy with the hunting rifle who was shooting at you.”

Peter looked toward the house. “Is Munns still in there?”

“Yeah, he’s in there, and so is the woman he’s holding hostage,” the second officer replied. “We just heard her begging him not to kill her.”

Rachael was still alive. But for how long? Light was streaming through the downstairs windows, and Peter tried to place where the living room was located. He decided that it was off to the left of the front door. He imagined Rachael bound to a chair and Munns about to end her life. He hadn’t come all this way to let that happen.

I’m going in,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

The officers did not protest. They knew that something had to be done. He cautiously approached the front door. He supposed he could have grabbed one of the officers’ guns, but he’d never shot a gun before, and didn’t think now was a good time to start.

Not that he needed a gun. He had a weapon far more powerful. He thought back to the night his parents had perished. Rage filled his body like so much poison, the demon boiling up from within. His shoulder hit the door. The hinges gave way, and his momentum carried him into the foyer. He made a hard stop and looked into the room where he’d guessed Rachael was being held prisoner. His guess was on the money. She was there, bound to a chair.

So was Munns. He’d wrapped a thick piece of rope around her throat, and was pulling it taut, causing her eyes to grotesquely bulge out. Those same eyes were begging for mercy.

Evil did not know mercy. Nor did it know kindness, or love. Munns spun around to glare at his intruder. “I know you. Your name is Peter Warlock, and you were sent here to stop me.”

Peter wasn’t the only one who’d been warned. “That’s right. Let her go.”

“Not on your life.”

Munns pulled the rope tighter while grinning sadistically. Rachael was jerked out of her chair as the life began to leave her body. Her eyes shifted to Peter for the first time.

Save me, they said.

A yell came out of the young magician’s mouth. It did not resemble any sound that had ever come out of his mouth before. He charged across the living room, having decided to tear Munns apart and throw his limbs out the front door for the wounded cops to see.

His fist crashed into Munns’s jaw and snapped the serial killer’s head. He’d never been much of a fighter growing up, preferring to talk his way out of tight spots. Now the opposite was true, and he wanted nothing more than to beat Munns to a bloody pulp.

The rope dropped from Munns’s hand. Kicking it away, Peter struck Munns again. The sound of Munns’s nose breaking was loud and sharp. Blood poured from his nostrils like they were wide-open spigots. He started to lose his balance, and appeared ready to fall.

Peter should have stopped there, but the demon was having none of it. He struck Munns with all his might, the blow sending him across the living room and sprawling onto a couch. Munns lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He looked dazed, and gasped for breath as Peter came forward, prepared to finish him off.

“Stop,” Rachael said.

Peter raised a fist. One more blow was all it would take to end Munns’s miserable life.

“I said stop,” she said.

“I’m not done with him.”

“He’s taken enough punishment. Please don’t hurt him any more.”

“I was planning on killing him,” he heard himself say.

She let out a gasp. “No-don’t do that.”

“You want him to live? Come on. He was going to kill you.”

“That’s not what I said. I’d love nothing more than if that horrible man was dead. But that still doesn’t give you the right to beat him to death. No one has that right.”

There was no rage in her voice or sense of outrage over what Munns had done to her.

“You’re not angry at him?” he asked.

“Of course I am. But my anger doesn’t justify taking another life. Would you mind untying me? The ropes are cutting off the circulation in my arms.”

Peter was impressed that she could be thinking so clearly. As he started to untie her, Garrison rushed in through the front door, gun clasped in both hands. He zeroed in on Munns. He was still lying on the couch and had shut his eyes. Garrison aimed at his chest.

“Get up,” he said.

No response. Garrison pulled back an eyelid. Satisfied that Munns was no longer a threat, he holstered his weapon and crossed the room to where Rachael sat. “I’m Special Agent Garrison with the FBI. How are you feeling?”

“Hello, Mr. Garrison,” Rachael said politely. “All things considered, I’m doing fairly well, thanks to our friend here.”

“Peter does good work, doesn’t he?”

“I would say so.”

“There’s an ambulance coming to tend to a pair of wounded police officers outside,” Garrison said. “I’ll have them take you to the hospital as well.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked.

“It’s always smart. You know, as a precaution.”

Her arms free, Rachael touched her rescuer. “This is going to sound funny, but I had a dream about you the other night. Isn’t that amazing?”

So the spirits had talked to Rachael as well. Peter undid the last of the knots and offered her his hand. She stood up too quickly, and fell back into the chair. He pulled her upright.

“Be careful,” he said.

She thanked him with a smile. “I’ve never had a guardian angel before.”

“Is that what I am?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll feel better when you’re safely out of this house.”

Peter spied movement on the other side of the living room. Munns had woken up, and was going through a terrifying transformation, his body tearing out of its clothes. His fingers grew into talons, and lizardlike scales appeared on the back of his hands. He didn’t look human anymore. Grabbing Rachael, Peter pushed her out the front door.

Garrison went next, loudly complaining.

Peter slammed the door in the FBI agent’s face, locking it.

“Stay outside, and don’t look through the windows,” he warned.

“What’s going on?” Garrison said through the door.

“I’ll tell you later.”

He returned to the living room. The transformation was complete. The bearded faux college professor was nothing but a memory; in his place, a monster served straight up from the depths of hell. In his hand was a Swiss Army knife, which turned into a gleaming sword.

Now I know what a gargoyle on steroids looks like, Peter thought.

61

The water in the vase on Holly’s coffee table had turned a dreamy whitish color. Like a storm cloud, the water twirled and danced. Holly recited the magical words that would let her once again spy on her beloved Peter. The water cleared, and she leaned forward, filled with anticipation.

She gasped. Peter was inside a strange house, fighting to the death with a hideous giant reptile. The reptile looked half human, half alligator, with a head shaped like a monkey’s, and talons instead of fingertips. Incredibly strong, it was tossing poor Peter around like a rag doll.

To his credit, Peter was fighting back. He’d never been much of a scrapper, not that Holly had ever seen. But now he was using his fists with real skill, and landing solid blows against his opponent’s skull. It thrilled her to see him in this mode.

Only there was a problem. Peter’s blows were having little to no effect, and seemed to be making the giant reptile even more enraged. Throwing Peter to the floor, the thing began to stomp on Peter’s chest.

Holly shrieked.

Witches weren’t supposed to do that. Nor were they supposed to cry, or fall madly and hopelessly in love. But Holly had fallen in love, and now her emotions were on full display.

A loud banging on her front door caught her by surprise.

“Yes? Who is it?”

Her next-door neighbor, asking her if she was all right.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Burt,” Holly said.

Mrs. Burt asked if she should call the police.

Holly jumped off the couch. The last thing she wanted was the police in her apartment and seeing her wall of potions and herbs. There was no law against being a witch, but it could still lead to unpleasantness with the landlord and even eviction if she was not careful. In the vase, Peter was back on his feet, whacking the thing with a poker he’d pulled from the fireplace.

“Come on, Peter, smash its head in,” she urged.

“Is someone in there with you?” Mrs. Burt asked through the door.

Holly threw the dead bolt, and cracked the door. Mrs. Burt stood in the hallway wearing a pink bathrobe and curlers, cell phone at the ready.

“Is someone hurting you?” her neighbor asked.

“No, Mrs. Burt, no one’s hurting me. In fact, I’m by myself.”

Mrs. Burt stuck one eye to the door. “Why, isn’t that amazing! You have a movie playing inside a bowl of water! How on earth is that possible?”

Closing the door in her neighbor’s face was not the proper response, and Holly had to think fast. “It’s the latest technology, Mrs. Burt. I bought it online.”

“The figures inside the water are so lifelike! When I was growing up, the big thing was owning a color TV. Times have certainly changed. What do they call it?”

“Water movies.”

“What will they think of next?”

“Good night, Mrs. Burt. Thanks for checking up on me.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

Her neighbor shuffled off to her apartment. Holly shut the door, threw the dead bolt, and returned to the couch. Peter and the thing were still doing battle. They had destroyed the room they were in, the furniture in splinters on the floor. Peter’s face was a bloody mess and he was favoring his left arm. The thing had definitely hurt him. Holly had naturally assumed that Peter would win simply because Peter managed to somehow always come out on top.

But what if she was wrong? What if Peter had met his match, and was about to lose? The very thought threw her into a tailspin. Her aunt had warned her against interfering in Peter’s affairs, and Holly put the warning right out of her mind.

Water shiny and oh so bright, do my bidding this darkest night,

Give the strength to the boy I love, so that he may vanquish…

Her cell phone slithered across the coffee table. Caller ID said Milly. She decided not to answer it, and continued.

… this thing that would end his life.

Let him fight with the strength of…

Her cell phone flipped off the table into her lap. It had enough force behind it to tell Holly that if she didn’t answer it right now, there would be hell to pay down the road. Flipping it open, she politely said, “Well, hello, Aunt Milly, how are you?”

“Leave Peter alone,” her aunt replied sternly.

“I will do no such thing. Peter needs our help.”

“Stay out of it, damn it!”

Holly could not remember her aunt ever cursing at her. Not that Holly had been an angel growing up-few witches were-but harsh words had rarely passed between them. She had crossed over an invisible line, yet refused to back down. “Give me one good reason why I should.”

“Because you’re going to royally fuck things up,” Milly said.

Holly nearly fell off the couch. The f bomb? From her aunt?

“I’m just trying to help,” she stammered.

“For the thousandth time, Peter does not need our help.”

Her aunt could not have been more wrong. The giant reptile had put its slimy hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the life out of him. Peter’s knees had buckled, and his face lost its color. He began to sink into the earth one excruciating inch at a time.

“He’s going to die,” she whispered into the phone.

“No, he’s not.”

“Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?”

“I most certainly am. And so are the others. Max, Homer, and Lester are here with me.”

“You’re scrying on Peter and me?”

“That’s right. As they say, two vases are better than one.”

“You all see the peril that Peter’s in, don’t you?”

“He’s not in any peril.”

“Aunt Milly, are you blind?”

“For once in your life, stop questioning me.”

“What about the others? What do they say?”

“They agree with me. Peter will be all right.”

Holly started to cry. Peter was dying before her eyes, and her aunt was forbidding her from doing anything to prevent it.

Her aunt spoke again. “There’s one more thing you must do, my dear child. You must stop watching. Something is about to happen which you are not supposed to see.”

“Stop treating me like a child.”

“Listen to me. It’s for your own good.”

“Good-bye, Aunt Milly.”

The cell phone hit the wall and shattered. She’d been wanting to get a new one anyway. Kneeling on the floor, she pressed her face against the vase as Peter was pushed farther into the floor. She would have watched even if it had turned her blind, her love for him was so great.

62

As Surtr squeezed the life out of Peter’s body, the young magician began to slip away to the next world. The experience was peaceful, almost serene. Not dead yet, but getting close.

His eyes snapped open. He stood in a black forest filled with dense smoke. Hanging from the trees were corpses of men who had not pleased their master and now hung there for eternity. From the distance came the battle cries between the forces of good and evil that had been taking place since the beginning of mankind.

It was dusk, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found himself staring at a throne made of human skulls on which sat a man well over seven feet tall. Dressed in a black hooded robe, the man’s once handsome face had been grotesquely melted on one side like a worn-down candle.

Peter had two fathers. One biological and one… demonic. The black forest was residence to the second, whom he knew simply as the wicked one. Two thousand years ago, the Devil and his counterpart in heaven had struck a deal, with each of them sending six of his sons to earth to see which would prevail, the forces of evil or the forces of good. Lucifer had cheated, and made his six sons immortal. The earth had never been the same since.

“Hello, Peter,” the wicked one said.

Peter grunted a coarse greeting under his breath.

“Not happy to see me, are you?” the wicked one asked.

“Our meetings never end well,” Peter replied.

“You are a stubborn young man.”

“Do I get that from you?”

A wind whipped through the clearing, causing the hanging men to twirl from their ropes.

“You’re losing,” the wicked one said. “That’s unacceptable.”

“He’s much stronger than me, whatever the hell he is.”

“His name is Surtr, and he’s the eternal guardian at the gates of hell. The Order of Astrum sent him to earth to do away with you, once and for all. The fair-haired girl was nothing more than bait.”

“What threat do I pose to the Order?”

“The elders of the Order are sending one of their disciples to New York in the hopes that he will attract more converts to their cause. Only one thing stands in their way. You.”

“Who said I wanted to get involved?”

“I’m afraid you do not have a choice.”

Peter shook his head at these words. His life was becoming a dark, uncharted journey where he had no say in the matter. The wicked one rose from his throne and stepped toward him. “Give me your hand, and I will give you the strength to do battle with Surtr.”

“I don’t want your fingers digging into my flesh,” Peter told him.

“Do it. Before he kills you.”

Peter saw himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge and emerging from the waters a changed person. Perhaps if he died at Surtr’s hand, the same thing might happen.

“What if I say no?”

“Have it your way.”

The wicked one clicked his fingers. Peter’s body went stiff and his left arm rose on its own accord. The wicked one grabbed his wrist as his fingers turned into venomous snakes whose fangs tore into Peter’s flesh and sent their poison coursing through his bloodstream. Peter bit his lip and tried not to scream. He could feel himself growing stronger, but at what cost?

“I’ll be watching,” the wicked one said.

Like a switch being thrown, Peter returned to the living room of Munns’s house. The room had been wrecked by their battle, and Surtr still had his hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the last breath of life from his body. Nothing had changed.

Except, of course, him. He had been infused with an evil that had wreaked havoc upon mankind since the beginning of time, an evil that came straight from the source. Breaking free of Surtr’s grasp, he clutched the thing’s head and twisted it violently to the left, then violently to the right, hearing the bones in his neck crack like so many empty peanut shells.

“Uhhh,” the thing from hell groaned.

Surtr released him, and staggered around the room with its arms flailing, mortally wounded. Peter rose from the floor. He should have stopped right then. But he was no longer himself, and wondered if he ever would be again.

He crossed the living room and gave Surtr’s head another series of violent twists, and felt its neck grow looser. He found himself thinking about the three elders of the Order of Astrum, whom he felt certain were watching. It was time to send them a message.

He spun Surtr’s head clear around its body like it was attached by a string. Then he released his enemy. Surtr’s broken body hit the floor with a resounding thud. In the blink of an eye, he reverted back to being Doc Munns, whose head was now turned in the wrong direction.

“Peter, are you all right?” Garrison shouted from the front lawn.

Peter didn’t know if he was all right or not. He certainly didn’t feel the same. A piece of him had been stripped away during his journey, another layer of his soul lost.

An antique mirror hung over the fireplace. In its reflection, he saw what he had become.

He nearly cried.

He no longer looked human. His face was narrow as a wolf’s, his nostrils flared, his mouth set in a permanent snarl. The pupils of his eyes were tinged a savage red, and darted wickedly from side to side.

Covering his face, he begged the evil thing he’d become to go away.

Garrison started banging on the front door. Finally, he’d had enough, and took the door down with his shoulder, and came inside. He looked at Munns lying dead on the floor.

“For the love of Christ, you nearly tore his head off.”

“Guess I don’t know my own strength,” Peter whispered.

“That’s brutal, man. Did he hurt you?”

“No. How’s Rachael?”

“She’s fine. The woman’s amazing.”

“You still need to take her to a hospital.”

“I plan to. And you as well. Now stand aside for a minute. I need to record this.” Garrison memorialized the crime scene through photos snapped on his cell phone.

Lowering his hands, Peter took another look in the mirror. He had become his old self again.

“I need to get some fresh air,” he said.

“Be my guest. I’ll be done in a minute,” Garrison replied.

Outside, Peter stood in the gravel driveway and sucked down the chilly night air. Rachael was gone, and so were the pair of wounded officers, the ambulance’s siren carrying across the hills as they were taken to the local hospital.

He took out his cell phone to call Liza, and found a text waiting for him. U OK? she asked. THINK SO, he wrote back, then added, SAVED RACHAEL. That got a dozen exclamation points in reply. He found it in him to smile. Something good had come out of this.

Garrison came out of the house holding a promotional mailer in his hand. He shoved it into Peter’s face and said, “Take a look at this. I found it on the dining room table.”

Peter held the mailer up to the light coming from the house. It was for a tattoo parlor called the Blue Devil, and featured glossy photos of various tattoos that you could have inked onto your body for a nominal fee. The tattoos were routinely hideous and featured snakes and demons. One tattoo in particular caught his eye: the shimmering symbol of the Order of the Astrum. He flipped the mailer over. On the postage side was a photo of the owner, a biker type with a ponytail. Only his surname was given: Ray.

“This is the same guy with the hunting rifle who killed Chief Burns, and rammed the police cruiser at the train station,” Peter said. “He’s part of the Order as well.”

Garrison took the mailer and studied the address. “We need to run this character down before he skips town. Let’s move.”

“What about Munns?”

“You afraid of him coming back to life? Trust me, he’s dead.”

Garrison walked down the hill toward his car. Peter started to follow, then went in the opposite direction, and returned to the house. Munns had not moved from his spot on the living room floor. He looked dead, but looks could be deceiving. Peter wanted a sign, just to be sure.

“Show me,” he said aloud. “I have a right to know.”

In the oval mirror over the fireplace appeared a swirling form. Munns falling down an endless black hole as a silent scream came out of his mouth. It was fair punishment for all the terrible things he’d done, and Peter left the house believing there was still justice in the world.

63

Peter sat in the backseat with Liza while Garrison drove into town under the guidance of his GPS system. In a voice that was barely a whisper, Liza said, “What happened up there?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered back.

“Come on. No secrets.”

He had taken no pleasure in killing Munns, and wouldn’t sleep for the next few nights because of it. Talking about it would only make how he felt worse.

“Was it bad?” she asked, refusing to let go.

“On a scale of one to ten, it was a fifteen.”

“Ugh. Will you tell me later?”

He didn’t know if he could. Better to bury the memory and act like it had never happened. Just like all those times he’d killed as child. Just forget about it, and move on. The silence troubled her, and she squeezed his hand. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“How about, I don’t know?”

“You aren’t the same. The rage is boiling right below the surface. I can feel it.”

She was right. The rage had not gone away like it had the other times. The demon was lurking in the shadows of his soul, ready to rise up and kill again. He needed to get his emotions under in check, and he said, “I just killed somebody, okay?”

She fell back in her seat. Looked out her window at the two-story shingle houses that lined the road at the bottom of the hill. “You’ve changed. I can see it in your face and hear it in your voice. You look scary.”

“Do you want to get away from me?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“But you might.”

“I will if I don’t get some answers.”

Garrison was doing a fine job of chauffeuring, and Peter guessed the FBI agent had overheard every word they’d said. Placing his mouth against Liza’s ear, he said, “I’ll tell you everything that happened, just not here.”

She mouthed the word “When?”

“Later tonight. At home.” And nearly added, “Lying in bed in the darkness.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on, say it.”

“It’s a promise.”

His answer seemed to satisfy her. They held each other and kissed, and it all felt good again. His whole life, he’d been holding back his innermost feelings. Not since he’d lost his parents had he truly confided in anyone. That had changed when he’d fallen in love with Liza. Yet even with her, he’d held back certain things. Somehow, that was going to have to change.

“I also want to hear about your friend Holly,” Liza said. “She sounds like someone I should get to know.”

The words hit him like an invisible punch and he winced in the darkness.

“She actually kind of dull,” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied.

The Blue Devil was located in a half-ugly strip mall on the outskirts of Pelham. In the parlor’s front window was a blue neon sign of a smiling devil wielding a pitchfork. Beneath it, a second blue neon sign said CLOSED. A pair of police cruisers had taken the parking spaces in front of the store. Garrison said, “Stay put,” and hopped out of the car.

Staring at the neon devil in the window, Peter had an unpleasant thought. Ray, the store’s owner, had sent a mailer to people in town, shopping for clients. Each of the tattoos in the mailer had a demonic theme, and would attract a certain type of clientele. Munns had taken the bait, paid Ray a visit, and gotten an Order of Astrum tattoo stamped on his neck and become their slave. That meant Ray was a recruiter for the Order, and knew how things worked. Perhaps Ray could lead him to the elders, and he could pay them back for murdering his parents. Just thinking about it ignited a hot wire in his blood, and he threw open his door.

“Didn’t you hear what Garrison just said?” Liza asked. “He meant it this time.”

“Was he talking to me?”

“You’re not funny. Please stay here.”

“I need to talk to the man who owns this place. He knows things.”

“You have that look in your eye again.”

“You mean the suave and debonair look?”

“No, the evil one. No more bloodshed. I mean it, Peter.”

Her voice had a finality that he could not ignore.

“Okay,” he said.

Inside the Blue Devil, he felt a drop in temperature that chilled him to the bone. The reception area had a pair of cheap folding chairs and a counter with brochures strewn across it, the walls covered in posters of naked men and women whose bodies were tattoo canvases. A beaded curtain led to a cluttered back room with a low ceiling and jet-black walls. A barber chair sat in the room’s center. It was here that customers got their tattoos inked onto their bodies while listening to music coming out of a boom box on the floor. Ray, the owner, sat in the barber chair, his wrist handcuffed to the arm. He reeked of smoke and was covered in bandages. There was no doubt this was the person who’d been shooting at them with the hunting rifle.

Garrison and the local cops stood nearby, exchanging information. Garrison’s back was turned, and Peter drew up next to Ray, who shrank in his chair.

“Something the matter?” Peter asked.

“You’re the guy that Doc Munns was supposed to kill,” the tattoo artist said.

“Didn’t work out that way.”

“Is Munns dead?”

“Yes. I killed him.”

“But he was possessed by Surtr.”

“I still killed him.” Peter let the words sink in and dropped his voice. “I want you to tell me what you know about the elders of the Order of Astrum.”

Ray shook his head fearfully. “I do that, they’ll snuff me for sure.”

“You need to cooperate with the police. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”

“Right,” Ray said.

One of the cops said, “Son of a bitch was going to pour kerosene on the walls right when we came into the store, probably planning to burn the place down, destroy evidence.”

“What did you find in the van?” Garrison asked.

“We found a hunting rifle with a telescopic scope lying on the backseat, along with a box of ammo,” the same cop said. “We think it’s the same rifle that killed Chief Burns.”

“Then let’s charge him. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Once the cops charged Ray, they’d take him to the station to be processed, and Peter would lose his chance to question him. He drew closer to the barber chair, and Ray cowered like a frightened dog. “You had to know you’d get caught,” Peter told him. “What did the elders do? Make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“You know about the elders?” Ray squeaked.

“We’re old friends. Now what did they offer you?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Tell me, damn it.”

Ray clamped his mouth shut. Peter was not planning to leave empty-handed, and he stole a look inside Ray’s mind. It was filled with troubling images, but one in particular stood out. A sinister figure wearing dark flowing robes covered in astrological signs commanded a stage not unlike the one in his own theater. His spiked hair and dark fright makeup were pure Gothic. Plucking a succession of black silks out of the air, he bunched them together, and made a half dozen screaming vultures magically appear. With a mad explosion of feathers, the carnivorous creatures flew into the theater to pluck at the faces of the unlucky patrons sitting in the first row.

“Who is he?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the tattoo artist said.

“The man on the stage with spiked hair and the vultures. I want to know who he is.”

Ray gulped. “You know about Dante?”

“Is that his name? Dante?”

Peter felt a hand come down on his arm, and he spun around. Garrison pulled him away from the barber chair to the other side of the room.

“I told you to stay in the car,” Garrison said angrily.

“Just give me another minute with him,” Peter pleaded.

“That’s out of the question. We have an investigation to finish. Now go outside, or you’ll end up getting in trouble.”

“There’s something else going on here, and this guy knows what it is.”

“You heard me. Leave. Right now.”

Peter bit the words about to come out of his mouth. The expression “devil got your tongue” took on a whole new meaning. He pointed an accusing finger at Ray. “You’ve got to make him talk.”

“We’ll do that. Now vamoose.”

He started to leave and heard an odd popping sound. The noise reminded him of a soda can being punctured and the air escaping. Against the wall, the five-gallon kerosene tanks that Ray had intended to torch his studio with had mysteriously punctured themselves. The smelly liquid was pouring out, and racing across the concrete floor, where it puddled at the base of the barber chair, and climbed up its sides. Ray was talking to one of the cops, not having a clue.

“Get away from the chair,” Peter said.

The Pelham cops looked at him, not understanding.

“Why should we?” Garrison asked.

“Because it’s going to explode.”

“Is he serious?” one of the cops asked.

The rules of physics did not hold in the psychic world. An ashtray with a dead cigarette sat on the table where Ray kept his tattoo needles. The cigarette sparked to life, rolled out of the ashtray, and landed on the floor in a stream of kerosene. The stream caught flame, and did a mad dash toward the barber chair. In a split second, the chair was engulfed in flames along with the man chained to the arm. It was like watching a bomb go off.

Ray screamed.

The cops ran for the door.

Peter rushed toward Garrison. The arm of Garrison’s sports jacket had caught fire, and he pulled the FBI agent out of the building, found a patch of grass, and rolled him around until the flames were extinguished. The cops stood in the parking lot coughing and hacking but otherwise no worse for wear. The elders had spared them. It was Ray they wanted silenced.

The Blue Devil burned like a tinderbox, the flames licking the sky by the time the fire trucks and ambulance pulled in. As the building’s walls started to crumble, Ray’s final screams could be heard above the wailing sirens. The elders had kept him alive so they could torture him. It was the price you paid for striking a deal with the Devil.

Peter drew closer to the burning building and strained to hear Ray’s last words. He was trying to say something before he died, his voice rising above the din.

“Dante… will… kill you all…”

Peter still had no idea who Dante was. Only Ray knew the answer to that question, and as the fiery building collapsed, he guessed the secret would follow the tattoo artist to his grave.

64

“You can go upstairs, Ms. Adams,” the uniformed guard said.

Holly crossed the lobby and punched the elevator button. She had been coming to the Dakota for so many years that security knew her by name, yet the guards still called her aunt before allowing her to go upstairs.

She rode the elevator wishing she’d heeded her aunt’s warning. Milly had told her not to scry on Peter any longer, that she would end up getting hurt if she did. There were rules to being a psychic, and she’d broken every one of them. What an awful mistake she’d made.

The elevator doors parted and she walked down a hallway to Milly’s apartment. She wiped away her tears before pressing the buzzer. The image of Peter twisting the head of the serial killer from side to side would not go away. He had not seemed human.

She raised her hand to knock on the door. Before she could, it opened wide, revealing her aunt in the foyer along with Max, Lester, and Homer. Their collective faces were filled with sorrow. Had they continued to scry on her while she scryed on Peter? Something told her that they had. She entered the apartment, and the door was shut behind her.

“I’m sorry I disobeyed you,” Holly said to the group, her voice cracking.

“Peter is not like us-you understand that now,” her aunt said.

“He’s a monster. How could I have not seen that before?”

Milly gripped her niece by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Peter is not a monster. He is of both worlds, both good and evil. He can make choices, which purely evil people cannot. Do you understand the difference?”

Holly shook her head. All she understood was that there were two Peters: the one she loved, and the inhuman one she’d seen in the vase that terrified her. She had no idea how to deal with her feelings, so she’d run to her aunt’s apartment for help.

A tiny sob escaped her lips. Milly put her arms around her niece, and gave her a hug. Max, Lester, and Homer circled around her, and placed their hands consolingly on her as well. It made her feel better, and she told herself that somehow, she’d get through this.

Garrison was taken to the ER of the nearby Lawrence Hospital Center to be checked out.

A sign on the wall boasted that the hospital had over four hundred doctors. Judging from the activity inside the ER, most of them were on duty tonight.

Peter and Liza stood in a curtained room with Garrison, waiting for a doctor to see him. The agent sat on a table wearing slacks and an undershirt. He kept looking at his arms, shocked that the skin had not been burned. To Peter he said, “Why was I spared?”

“It’s complicated,” Peter said.

“Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”

“The Order was in retreat mode. Munns was dead, and the police were about to arrest Ray and start interrogating him. Ray was a recruiter and had direct contact with the three elders that call the shots. The elders needed to silence Ray before he started talking. That was their sole objective, and they succeeded.”

“Why didn’t they kill the rest of us as well?” Garrison asked.

“The elders don’t kill innocent civilians, if they can avoid it. They let their underlings do that.”

“And by not killing civilians, the police don’t pursue them. Makes sense. Looks like we’ve got company.”

Rachael came through the curtains. Except for a square bandage covering a scrape on her forehead, she looked no worse for wear, and she gave Peter’s arm a squeeze. “There you are. I was hoping to see you before I blew out of here.”

“You’re leaving?” Peter asked.

“I gave my statement to the police, and really don’t see any reason to hang around,” she said. “I think a good night’s sleep in my own bed is just what the doctor ordered.”

Liza stepped forward. “You must be Rachael. I’m Liza. It’s great to finally meet you. I heard you on the phone a few days ago.”

“You heard me on the phone?” Rachael said, sounding confused.

“It’s a long story,” Peter explained. “Maybe someday we can get together, and Liza and I will explain it to you.”

“That would be very nice. There’s an awful lot of what’s happened here that I still don’t completely understand. One of the policemen told me about the fire at the tattoo parlor. I hope no one was injured who didn’t deserve to be.”

“The good guys came out unscathed,” Garrison replied.

“How wonderful is that?” Rachael broke into a smile. It was the first time she’d done that, and it made her look radiant. To Peter she said, “May I steal you away from your friends for a couple of minutes? I have a question that I think only you can answer.”

Peter looked at Liza and saw her nod. Pulling aside the curtain, he allowed Rachael to leave first, then turned to his friends. “I’ll be right back.”

He followed Rachael outside the hospital to the parking lot. A yellow cab idled by the front entrance. Peter guessed this was Rachael’s ride back to the city. She would go home tonight and, hopefully, return to a normal life. He wished he could be so lucky.

“Can you please tell me what those things are?” she asked.

A darkish cloud hung over the taxi. Peter had thought it was the taxi’s dirty exhaust, but upon closer inspection, realized it was the shadow people, all clustered together. He’d assumed the shadow people would go back to wherever they came from once Munns was dead, and the threat to Rachael had passed.

Wrong.

The shadow people were not going anywhere until Rachael was back in New York, safe and sound. Their sole purpose for being was to protect Rachael. It had never been about him, or Munns, or the Order of Astrum. Their skin in the game was to keep Rachael unharmed, and they had succeeded.

“Can you make them go away?” she asked. “They’re scaring me.”

“You don’t want them to go away,” Peter said. “Those are your other guardian angels. They’re going to hang around for a while, and make sure you get home okay.”

She shuddered from an invisible chill. “I guess I can deal with that. But what are they? Ghosts? Or are they something else? I really want to know.”

Peter wanted to tell her to forget about them. She had escaped from the forces of evil, and that was all that really mattered. Asking questions would only lead to more questions and soon she’d be bogged down by the horrible weight of it all. He chose his words carefully.

“Think of them as friends from the other side.”

“Like fairies?”

He laughed to himself. That was one way to describe them. “Call them what you want. Don’t be afraid if you catch them hanging around. They’re just trying to protect you. Now, let me ask you a question. What do you do for a living?”

“Why is that important?” she asked.

Rachael had been targeted because she made a difference in the world, and Peter wanted to know what that difference was. “I’m just curious.”

“Very well. I’m a research scientist. It’s boring work. Endless hours in the lab staring through a microscope at tiny molecules. I specialize in molecular biology in the hopes it will one day lead to a breakthrough in cancer research.”

Peter had his answer. He smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

“Actually, no. I was looking forward to taking a break. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“May I ask why?”

She impressed him as a private person, and she gazed at the ground as she spoke. “Most of my experiments are done with lab rats. They are much nicer animals than you’d imagine. This past week, I had to put down six of my favorites. I gave them names, which made it that much more painful. It put me in a terrible depression. I hate killing animals.”

“But you keep doing it.”

She lifted her eyes. “You make that sound like a crime.”

“It makes you feel bad, doesn’t it?”

“It’s supposed to make me feel bad. But that doesn’t make it wrong. A long time ago I realized that some of us were put on this earth to kill in the hopes that it might better mankind. I know that sounds very noble, but I happen to think it’s true. Soldiers kill so that we may have peace, policeman kill to stop criminals from hurting innocent people, and I euthanize some unlucky lab rats in the hope I’ll discover a cure for cancer. It’s hard, but there’s no other way.”

Peter thought about the killing he’d done in his life. Had those bloody acts left the world a better place? He supposed they had, for the men he’d killed were the personification of evil, and had victimized countless innocent people. It was one way to rationalize the things he’d done, and the things that he’d no doubt do someday in the future.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said.

“Am I safe to go home?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“How do I thank you for saving my life?”

“No need to. I’m glad I was in time.”

She gave him a hug. The best things in life were the good deeds we did for strangers. Someone a lot smarter than him had said that, and it felt very true right now. He went to the cab and held open the door for her. The shadow people continued to hover above the vehicle like a storm cloud. “I have a question,” he said. “You said before that you saw me in a dream. Do you remember what was I doing?”

She stopped before getting in the cab. “It was so strange. You were standing on stage doing your magic. I was in the front row watching. When your trick was done, a single person in the audience started to clap. The sound had a hollow ring, and it caused me to turn around in my seat to see what was going on. To my surprise, the seats behind me were empty.”

“Who was doing the clapping?”

“A dark figure standing in the very back row. He wore hideous stage makeup and a flowing black Gothic robe. There was a black bird perched on his shoulder that looked like a vulture. He asked me if I wanted to join him.”

“Join him in what?”

“I honestly don’t know. He spoke to me by name. It was so strange.”

“What happened then?”

“I told him no thanks. Then I woke up, and found myself covered in sweat.” She paused. “I have no idea what the dream meant. Do you?”

Ray the tattoo artist had been thinking of a magician who made vultures appear from scarves as well. Was the man in Rachael’s dream the same person?

“No, I don’t,” Peter said.

“Well, I sure hope he doesn’t come back. Good night. Thanks again for saving my life.”

The taxi pulled out with the dark cloud still hovering above it. It occurred to Peter that he didn’t even know Rachael’s last name. He would have to ask one of the cops what it was. That way, he’d be able to Google her, and find out how her research was going. Something told him that before long, her name would be in the newspapers, and for all the right reasons.

He headed back inside. Through the glass doors he spied Liza standing in the lobby. She had a cell phone pressed to her ear, and was waving frantically to him.

He rushed inside.

65

“It’s Dr. Sierra. He needs to speak with you,” Liza said, handing him her cell phone.

Sierra was the last person Peter wanted to be talking to right now, and he pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Hello, Dr. Sierra. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m sorry to be calling at such a late hour,” Sierra said. “Hunsinger is dying. I’m with him at his apartment. The doctor just left, and said he only has a few hours left. It was Hunsinger who asked me to call you. He wishes to speak with you before he passes.”

A dying man’s last request was hard to turn down, only Hunsinger had already told him enough bad things about his childhood to last a lifetime, and Peter didn’t want to hear any more horror stories tonight. “I’m sorry your friend is dying, Dr. Sierra, but I’m going to take a pass. I’m already having a hard enough time dealing with what he told me the other day.”

“This concerns your parents,” Sierra said as if not hearing him. “It seems that your father confided in Hunsinger about certain events which had happened during your parents’ childhoods. Hunsinger wishes to share these things with you.”

“I already know about my parents’ childhoods. Good night.”

“Please don’t hang up. You don’t know about these things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hunsinger said your mother was the reason it all happened in the first place.”

“My mother? What is that supposed to mean?”

“He said your mother was the prize.”

“The prize for what?”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what any of this means. I would suggest that you speak to Hunsinger yourself. And hurry. The clock is running out for my friend.”

Peter cursed under his breath. If he didn’t rush back to the city to see Hunsinger, he’d never know what the old priest was talking about. The words would haunt him for the rest of his life, and he had no doubt this was why Hunsinger had uttered them to Sierra.

“Where does he live?” Peter asked.

Sierra gave him the street address and apartment number. Peter memorized it and ended the call. He felt like throwing the cell phone against the wall, only it happened to belong to Liza. “We need to go back to the city,” he said.

“Right now?” Liza said.

“Yes. Right now.”

They sat in a pair of middle seats on the midnight train back to New York, facing each other. The car was otherwise empty.

“That was rude to leave and not say good-bye,” Liza said.

Peter had sent Garrison a text, explaining that he had to go see a dying friend. He’d also asked Garrison to contact Chief Burns’s family, and pass along those things which Burns had communicated to him a few moments before he died.

“Hunsinger is on his deathbed, and has asked to speak with me,” Peter explained. “He knows a secret about my mother that he wants to tell me. I couldn’t say no.”

Liza had run out of patience, and she gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “When are things ever going back to normal? I feel like a puppet being jerked around on a string. First I get yanked one way, then another. This isn’t right, Peter.”

“Our lives used to be dull, You even complained about it once.”

She frowned at him. “Our lives are out of control, I don’t know what normal is anymore. You’re going to have to make a decision.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Do you want to be a psychic who runs around helping the FBI solve crimes, or do you want to be in love with me? You can’t have both.”

“I can’t?”

“No. I’ve reached my limit.”

It was his turn to stare at the scenery. Being a psychic was a reward for all it enabled him to achieve and punishment for all the lies it forced him to tell. That was his destiny, and there was no getting around it. But was it fair to Liza? He was pulling her into a world where she had no control. If he was going to keep her, he would have to change, even if it meant never sitting down to another Friday night séance with his psychic friends and talking with the dead. He had to stop it if he truly loved the woman sitting across from him.

And he had to do it right now.

“I want to be in love with you,” he said. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. I’ll stop the psychic stuff. No more talking to ghosts, or helping the FBI.”

The words hit her hard, and it took a moment for her to compose herself.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise.”

Liza switched seats, and snuggled up beside him. They held hands and kissed, and he saw how incredibly happy she was. That alone told him he’d made the right decision. That hadn’t been so hard. All he’d ever wanted was to have a normal life. By walking away from being a psychic, he could have one. It was as simple as that.

He resumed looking out the window. The train route was lined with billboards for theatrical shows playing in the city. There were musicals, revivals, and plenty of serious dramas, reminders that New York was the theater capital of the world.

One billboard caught his eye. It was for a magic show, the performer someone he’d never heard of. Peter tried to stay up on any magicians who played New York, if for no other reason than to know who his competition was.

He brought his face up to the glass for a better look. The billboard showed a dark figure wearing a flowing black robe, his face painted in fright makeup, his hypnotic eyes daring you to enter his world. Perched on his shoulder was vulture with a bunny rabbit in its mouth. Bold lettering announced his show at a theater in Times Square.

Dante-The Anti-Conjuror

Prepare to have your imagination turned inside out,

and your emotions stripped bare.

Call now for tickets

It was the same dark magician that Ray the tattoo artist had been thinking of before he died, the same evil character who’d invaded Rachael’s dreams as well.

Peter fell back in his seat. Anti-conjurors were the Devil’s entertainers, and were sent to earth during times of turmoil and strife, their sole purpose to recruit more disciples to the Devil’s unholy cause. Dante was about to unleash his dark magic on the unsuspecting populace of New York. If unstopped, the city would never be the same.

He had to act. He could not sit by, and let the city he loved be harmed. But how was he going to tell Liza that? Hadn’t he just promised to stop being a psychic? She was not going to let him off the hook this time. If he didn’t stop, she would leave him for good.

The train hit a bump in the tracks. The lights inside the car went off, plunging him into darkness. It helped him think, and by the time they’d reached their destination, Peter knew exactly what he must do.