Blood and Whispers, page 27
“Bran,” I grunted, my heart slowing as the initial adrenaline rush wore off. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s dangerous to sneak up on sorcerers?”
I tapped my hand on the car roof to let Connors know I was clear of the vehicle, and she drove off to make her own preparations for what was to come that evening.
“I got your message. Found out summat tha’ might be of interest. Can we talk inside?”
I nodded and checked around before unlocking the shop and passing through to the safety of my wards. Bran followed me in, and I locked up behind us, waving him over to the reading nook.
“Whisky?”
“Aye, if ye are offerin’,” he nodded.
I ducked into the back room and grabbed a bottle and my two cleanest—least dirty, really—glasses before heading over to join him. Once we both had something to drink, I waved a hand for Bran to start talking.
He took a long sip. “Heard rumors the other day about some kind of cultists or summat settin’ up in town. Supposedly got here a few weeks back. After I got the message ye left, I asked ’round and the word was they’re some Roman cult. But when the local revivalists went to introduce themselves, they got the cold shoulder. Didn’t want nothing to do with ’em.”
I nodded. “That sounds like the group I’m looking for.”
“Aye,” he drank down the rest of his whisky in a single gulp. “Thought so. They were up in Conshy at first, tha’s where the revivalists went to see ’em. Didn’ stay long, though—no one seems to know where they are now. But Quinn,” he paused and looked back at me, “rumor is these fuckers are serious. No playin’. Those two sorcerer murders last week were apparently sacrifices to whatever Olympian they serve.”
“And that’s why I’m looking for them,” I growled. “Any word on how many of them there are, or who they serve?”
“Me revivalist source said he saw eight or nine a’ the place in Conshy when they went a-callin’. An’ there was a symbol, looked like a key, scratched into the doorframe.”
“Janus,” I muttered. He had many symbols. Most prominent was a head with two faces, one looking forward and the other back, but the key and the staff were also common, and somewhat easier to carve into a wooden doorframe.
“I hope it was useful,” Bran said, standing. “I need to be gettin’ back to me pub.”
I just grunted.
“Why, thank ye, Bran! Excellent work, Bran! Ye have yerself a lovely day, Bran!” the púca muttered to himself in a singsong voice.
I looked at him silently and raised an eyebrow.
“Fine, Sorcerer,” he snorted. “I will just put this bit o’ work on your tab, then.”
I locked up after he let himself out. I’d think about what this meant while I got ready for this evening’s events.
Bran’s information had confirmed the group behind the current Tamesis rites were most likely cultists of Janus. That didn’t change the immediate plan, though I now needed to be sure I was ready for more than a couple enemies to show up at the target house—they’d lost two-thirds of their team the last time they faced me, and they had to suspect I’d be trying to stop them once again. They’d likely come in force. If there were nine at their original base in Conshohocken, that meant there were at least seven left. Possibly more, if Bran’s source hadn’t seen everyone they had.
The smart play was to call Rachel and request backup. I could probably handle seven cultists, even including a Faerie, but if there were significantly more than that, or if Janus himself showed up, things could rapidly get out of hand. I only had one weapon that could kill a Faerie that powerful, and I’d already been too cowardly to risk using it in Grays Ferry, when my life and those of my companions had been on the line. Without it, I would be in trouble.
But I couldn’t bring myself to make that call. I knew I should. But I couldn’t ask the Arcanum for help, especially given the last fellow sorcerer I’d asked for help had literally shot me in the back, mere days before. Rachel wasn’t a bad sort, as far as they go, but I didn’t really know her except in passing, and after so long distrusting the Arcanum in general, I couldn’t bring myself to trust another member so soon after Sam’s betrayal.
Like I’d told Connors, the Rector would be free to try to fix the mess I left behind should I fail, but I refused to ask her, or anyone else in the Arcanum, to fight beside me. Not again. No matter the stakes. While I drew breath, this was my city, which made it my fight.
I headed upstairs to dress for battle. Over a simple black T-shirt, I pulled on a Kevlar vest, and over that went my overcoat, which had been undamaged despite the heat spell’s effects bleeding through. My ring would once again serve as a focus for any shield spell I needed to cast. I wanted as much armor as I could reasonably get, both magical and otherwise.
My Glock was unavailable, in a police evidence locker, but for this particular fight it would be underpowered anyway. As a general rule, pistols are too small to do much damage, and people carry them only because they’re much more concealable and portable than other options. This evening, I wasn’t terribly worried about concealment. Pistols are “just in case” weapons, and I was pretty certain I was going to get in a fight this evening, so I upgraded my primary weapon of choice. I unlocked the trunk at the foot of my bed and pulled out a Vepr-12.
The Vepr is a magazine-fed shotgun modeled on the Kalashnikov series of rifles and machine guns, much like the more famous Saiga. Unlike the Saiga, it comes standard with a chrome lining, which makes it ideal for work around corrosive substances like those often found in magical confrontations—the same reason I Cerakoted my pistols. Also unlike the Saiga, it’s able to accommodate most 12-gauge loads without having to adjust the gas system, making it useful for those of us who have to customize their loads to the task at hand. You really can’t simply use the same shotgun loads for the Fae as you’d use for demons. If the Vepr had been invented in time for the Shadow War, I suspected more sorcerers would have become firearm enthusiasts.
My specific model was a fully automatic military variant with a compact barrel, perfect for confined spaces. For this fight, I loaded three magazines with double-aught magnum anti-Fae shells. I didn’t know if I’d actually be facing any Faeries, but that load would work just fine for humans, too. One magazine went in the gun. The spares went into a belt holster on my left hip.
I decided thirty-six rounds of double-aught magnum buckshot wasn’t a comfortable enough margin against seven or more enemies, so from the same trunk I also pulled out my old stainless-steel Colt Delta Elite as a backup weapon. The Model 1911 Series 80 wasn’t the first ten-millimeter gun ever, but it was the one that popularized the caliber for a large audience. I’d christened this one Moses, after John Moses Browning, and had carried it for almost three decades before switching to the Glock, with its useful aftermarket modifications and higher magazine capacity. Moses only held eight rounds, plus one in the chamber, but they were still my custom bullets. I tucked a spare magazine into a carrier on my belt just behind the two for the Vepr.
I also retrieved my Smith and Wesson J-frame, loaded it up with five rounds of a similar custom design, and tucked it into an ankle holster on the inside of my left leg. Between the Vepr, Moses, and the J-frame, I should have enough rounds to deal with whatever came through the door. If not, then I supposed I’d have to resort to fireballs and lightning bolts after all.
I briefly considered grabbing the kukri from the same box, since my dagger was in the evidence locker with the Glock. The kukri, the legendary combat knife of Nepal’s Gurkha warriors, was much larger than the dagger, boasting a twelve-inch steel blade bound with powerful enchantments against dark magic—it had been a gift from Charlotte, to use against the Shadows. After a moment, however, I decided it was too big if it came to hand-to-hand fighting in a confined space like a house. Instead I grabbed a clinch pick, as small knife specifically designed for close quarters, clipping it to my belt to the left of the buckle.
I fed Roxana and headed downstairs to wait with the rest of that bottle I’d been sharing with Bran. I had no intention of getting drunk, just taking some of the edge off. I could think clearer when the screams in my head quieted down, and I’d need to be able to think as clearly as possible this evening. I poured myself a glass and started mentally running through the plan, visualizing what would happen when the shooting started.
With the knowledge of the third ritual’s location, I had had enough data to pinpoint the exact address of the next rite, a three-story row house in Pennsport, a few blocks south of the Mummers Museum. Connors had gotten me a layout of the house when we were still at the district station, courtesy of some city department. Now I tried to imagine what might go wrong and figure out contingencies. I mentally mapped out the house so I’d know where to go if it turned into a running fight—upstairs, downstairs, the back door. Most gunfights last less than a minute, but I wanted to win, and I didn’t know how many enemies I’d be fighting. I didn’t care to be surprised again, like I had in that stairwell. For two hours, I rehearsed the fight in my head over and over, in every possible variation I could imagine.
When Detective Connors walked into the shop to pick me up, I was waiting in the reading area, my overcoat draped over the back of the chair next to mine. I downed the remaining whiskey in my glass and stood to face her. She froze, observing the body armor and the Vepr in my hand. After a moment to take it all in, she cocked an eyebrow at me.
“What is that, an AK-47?”
“Military grade automatic shotgun. Smuggled in from Russia.”
She paused as that registered. “You know that’s…super illegal, right? Like, major felonies. Multiple. State and Federal.”
I looked down at it, then back up at her. “Yes,” I grunted.
“Well…okay then.”
I threw on my overcoat and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go kill these bastards. You can try to arrest me later if you want.”
Chapter 28
By half-past seven, I was sitting in a recliner in the target house’s living room.
In Captain Paulson’s office, after he’d accepted the things I’d revealed to him, the three of us had agreed that it was best not to have other cops directly at the scene. Not only would it pose a greater chance of tipping our hand and giving the initiative to the enemy, it also didn’t add much value to justify the risk. I didn’t have enough ammunition for more cops, we didn’t have time for my source to make more, and regular bullets were unlikely to do much against magical defenses. Any tactical team members rushing in to confront the suspects would just become more victims.
Instead, Captain Paulson arranged to have backup available within a thirty-second drive, but to keep the area around the target house clear until they received an all-clear signal. He also enforced another public works evacuation, trying to minimize any collateral damage. Fortunately for our plan, enough families in the area apparently owned two cars that it still looked like plenty of people were home. It wouldn’t do for the enemy to realize the trap was set before they walked into it.
That left Connors and me taking on the enemy all by our lonesome. And Connors wasn’t equipped to confront them directly. As at Grays Ferry, she’d be armed with my ammunition for self-defense if necessary, but her job would be to observe and make one of two calls: either to our backup to secure the scene and treat injuries, or to Rachel Liu.
If she were making the latter call, it meant I was dead. I’d made her promise that this time, no matter what, she would not run in, gun drawn, to try to save me. I couldn’t afford two detectives on my conscience. Henri Lajoie was still in the ICU. I’d already accepted I was on my own, come what may.
Last time, we’d tried to catch the killers before they reached their target. That plan hadn’t worked, and two men had died. This time we were going to be more straightforward. Connors would remain outside, and I would ward her car so she’d be unnoticed and defended in my absence. Meanwhile I would be waiting inside, glamoured to look like the middle-aged Latino man who owned the home. I’d be both bait and trap in one.
I sat in the recliner in the living room with the Vepr across my lap. This being a row house, the living room had no windows—it was connected to the front door by a hallway and the back door was through the kitchen. The front and back doors were locked. I didn’t expect it to pose much of an obstacle, but at least it would mean I’d know which door they were coming in as they took the time to open it. I’d already confirmed that the layout I’d used for planning had been accurate, and I’d carefully checked the whole house to make sure nothing would surprise me if it became a mobile fight. I’d memorized where all the furniture was and moved things as necessary—it would be somewhat embarrassing to be killed because I tripped over an unexpected stool at a critical moment.
Whether they came through the front or back, they would have to enter the living room to deal with the homeowner before the sacrifice. I didn’t expect my illusion to last long against sorcerers and Faeries. But a few seconds is a lifetime in a fight, and it would give me the advantage—only fools and competitive athletes fight fair. I’d neutralize as many as I could before they had time to react, then withdraw to either the kitchen or the front hallway and reassess if there were any threats remaining. I had no desire to retreat upstairs to the bedrooms and back myself into a corner with no escape. And I’d have to be careful not to hurt the sacrificial victim they were likely to bring with them.
Unless they left me no choice, I wasn’t planning on killing all of them—I wanted to capture at least one if at all possible. Killing the foot soldiers would stop the immediate threat of the Tamesis, but we’d leave the real threat out there to regroup and try something else down the road. Someone was behind this whole plan, pulling the strings and giving the orders. Bran’s evidence pointed to Janus and the Olympians, as the Immortal had suggested, but I needed further confirmation before I could rely on Lugh to act.
The radio squawked next to me, bringing me back to the present. “I’ve got eyes on approaching suspects,” Connors said. Finally. I was anxious to get this show on the road. The anticipation was worse than the actual fight.
I reached for the radio to acknowledge, but before I could key the mic, Connors spoke again.
“Looks like they’re rolling heavy. I count six headed your way.”
Six was within expectations; I’d been prepared for seven or eight. To get to where I waited in the living room they’d have to filter through the front hallway or the kitchen door, so I’d be facing no more than two or three at a time. I’d have to spring the trap before the first few caught on to my glamour, meaning I wouldn’t get all of them with my first burst, but at least I wasn’t short on ammunition.
“Understood,” I replied. “Six approaching. How far out?”
“Three houses down. Maybe a minute until they’re at the door.”
“Do they have a victim with them?”
“One of them is carrying a duffel bag. Looks big enough to fit a person, but from the way he’s carrying it, it doesn’t seem heavy.”
“That could still be the victim. Magic can make weight easy to handle, same as I levitated Captain Paulson this afternoon. Thanks, Adrienne. I’ve got to greet our houseguests. I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Good hunting,” she answered, then the radio went silent.
I heard the lock on the front door click just before the door opened, followed by the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“You three go take care of the guy and get the living room ready,” one of my guests instructed someone else in a low male voice with a harsh accent. I guessed he was from Chicago originally. “You two keep an eye out for Quinn. I’ll get him prepared.”
I heard a zipper opening, presumably the speaker retrieving their intended sacrifice from the duffel bag, just before multiple feet started tromping in my direction.
From the recliner I had an easy view of both doorways into the room: the entrance from the front hall, and the arched passageway into the kitchen. While sitting in the open isn’t the ideal way to start a fight, my trap required fooling the enemy into thinking I was an innocent victim long enough for them to enter the room with me. Had it just been two or three of them, I could probably have risked knocking them unconscious without having to kill anyone. But with six, I decided it would be prudent to cut down the odds against me before trying to take any prisoners. The three whom the voice had just sent to the living room were about to have a very unpleasant lesson in the hazards of joining evil death cults.
I readied the Vepr in my lap, my hand on the pistol grip, finger registered on the frame above the trigger well. It wouldn’t very well do to accidentally shoot myself in the process of getting out of the chair when things started happening. My left arm was extended to the side of the chair, my hand hovering palm down, ready to activate the spell at the heart of the trap.
The first of the group came into my sight in the doorway. He was wearing a hoodie, and I couldn’t see his face in the shadow it cast. He was tall enough to be Aes Sidhe, though I still had no idea about what type of Faerie was helping them with the rituals. He paused for a brief second, scanning the room. Unless he were tasting the magic in the room, he wouldn’t notice my glamour immediately, and I’d appear to be a middle-aged Latino man asleep in his recliner. For a few critical seconds, that is; the spell wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny once he was further into the room. But I didn’t need it to. I just needed him to take a few more steps.
He obliged. After a second’s hesitation, he strode forward into the room, clearing the entrance for his comrades. Two more came in behind him before he froze and looked in my direction.
