Summoning the Night
Page 62
“Oh . . . God.”
“I might’ve been wrong at the beginning when I thought that Bishop was doing this, but I wasn’t wrong about the motivation of revenge. Frater Karras—or Merrin, as he’s calling himself now—was the magician who performed the transmutation spells on club members thirty years ago. I don’t care what you and Lon found connecting Merrin with an Æthyric demon. Bargain or no bargain, that man is now going after the descendants of those members. This means my grandson and little Jupiter are now prime targets.”
My stomach flipped. I forced panicked thoughts to quiet and considered the news rationally. “How many descendants of transmutated members are in their early teens?”
“Including both children and grandchildren, seventeen.”
Seventeen? That seemed like a small and large number all at the same time. “Does Lon know?”
“My son, Mark, is parked outside, discussing this with Lon on the phone right now.”
“Why did you come here to tell me in person?”
“Because I want to know what the hell you plan to do about all this.”
You would think someone needing a favor would want to ask a little nicer. Indignation brought warmth to my cheeks, but I slid another mug into place and did my best to manage a calm tone. “This all centers on the bargain that Merrin made with the demon Chora.”
“That’s fine and dandy, but how is knowing this going to keep my kids safe?”
“If we can figure out why the spell—”
He interrupted me, raising his voice. “How is this going to bring the four children back home?”
I met his furious gaze and held it, listening to the tropical music and quiet conversations floating around the bar. “We need to find a way to track Merrin down again,” I finally answered.
“I agree.”
“Your people are still watching the Silent Temple?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I’m assuming they’ve seen nothing suspicious.”
Dare made no comment, just studied my face like an artist memorizing shapes. I felt extremely uncomfortable. After a few seconds, he casually reached into his jacket on the chair next to him and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“They are tracking every person who goes in and out of the temple. So far this has proved fruitless. However, that’s not the only tracking I’ve been doing. You’ll forgive me, but I had someone do a little checking up on you after the incident in the Hellfire caves last month.” He unfolded the paper and slid it across the table. “Magicians have a tendency to be loose wires. Imagine my surprise when we discovered an odd discrepancy in your origins.”
My hand shook as I set down a mug. The paper was a photocopy of a handwritten birth certificate. Arcadia Anne Bell. Born 1905. Dare removed a second piece of paper. A copy of my modern birth certificate using her name. Forged, of course.
My pulse doubled . . . then tripled.
“It was old newspaper articles from the 1950s that got our attention. Cady Anne Bell, winner of several equestrian trophies. She was a fine rider. Only one of the articles listed her as Arcadia. That’s the one that tipped us off, of course. We dug up the old certificate from a hospital warehouse outside Kirkland, Washington.”
Airtight. That’s what the caliph had told me about the identity years ago, before I started college. Something warm trickled down from my nose. I tasted copper. One watery, crimson drop fell and splashed on the bartop.
“Oh, my,” Dare said, reaching across the table to hand me a paper napkin.
On instinct, I tilted my head back, then remembered that was wrong. Never back. The blood would slide down my throat and I’d vomit. I held my nose closed with the napkin and leaned forward, breathing hard through my mouth. I hadn’t had a nosebleed since I was . . . I didn’t know when. I tried to remember. A child? No. A teenager. When I parted ways with my parents. Breath was coming too fast, and my temples were throbbing. I was going to rupture more than a few vessels in my nose if I didn’t calm down.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“No,” I answered honestly. Brimming tears stung my eyes.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He picked up the photocopies, stacked them together and refolded them, then slid them back into his jacket. “I’ve had problems with magicians in the past, Merrin being a prime example. If he is, indeed, the Snatcher, and if he gets away with it again, I’ll never forgive myself. Never. The children’s lives are my responsibility. I hired Merrin. He ate dinner in my home with me and my wife, and I never suspected anything. I blamed poor, stupid Bishop. And why? Because of a ridiculous argument.”
I didn’t care about any of this. My mind was racing, trying to put together my next move. What the hell was I going to do? All these years I’d been hiding from occultists who wanted me dead, and my fake identity had been ferreted out by some rich demon doing a standard background check? I pulled the napkin away from my nose, checking to see if the bleed was slowing. The printed Tambuku logo was obscured, soaked through with blood. I picked up a fresh napkin and clamped it back before the tiny trickle could fall.
Dare smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket and leaned back in his bar stool to squint at me. “Perhaps you and I can strike a new bargain concerning the Snatcher. If you stop him and return our children to us unharmed, then we’ll keep this matter of your identity under wraps.”
I bristled at his threat.
“I might’ve been wrong at the beginning when I thought that Bishop was doing this, but I wasn’t wrong about the motivation of revenge. Frater Karras—or Merrin, as he’s calling himself now—was the magician who performed the transmutation spells on club members thirty years ago. I don’t care what you and Lon found connecting Merrin with an Æthyric demon. Bargain or no bargain, that man is now going after the descendants of those members. This means my grandson and little Jupiter are now prime targets.”
My stomach flipped. I forced panicked thoughts to quiet and considered the news rationally. “How many descendants of transmutated members are in their early teens?”
“Including both children and grandchildren, seventeen.”
Seventeen? That seemed like a small and large number all at the same time. “Does Lon know?”
“My son, Mark, is parked outside, discussing this with Lon on the phone right now.”
“Why did you come here to tell me in person?”
“Because I want to know what the hell you plan to do about all this.”
You would think someone needing a favor would want to ask a little nicer. Indignation brought warmth to my cheeks, but I slid another mug into place and did my best to manage a calm tone. “This all centers on the bargain that Merrin made with the demon Chora.”
“That’s fine and dandy, but how is knowing this going to keep my kids safe?”
“If we can figure out why the spell—”
He interrupted me, raising his voice. “How is this going to bring the four children back home?”
I met his furious gaze and held it, listening to the tropical music and quiet conversations floating around the bar. “We need to find a way to track Merrin down again,” I finally answered.
“I agree.”
“Your people are still watching the Silent Temple?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I’m assuming they’ve seen nothing suspicious.”
Dare made no comment, just studied my face like an artist memorizing shapes. I felt extremely uncomfortable. After a few seconds, he casually reached into his jacket on the chair next to him and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“They are tracking every person who goes in and out of the temple. So far this has proved fruitless. However, that’s not the only tracking I’ve been doing. You’ll forgive me, but I had someone do a little checking up on you after the incident in the Hellfire caves last month.” He unfolded the paper and slid it across the table. “Magicians have a tendency to be loose wires. Imagine my surprise when we discovered an odd discrepancy in your origins.”
My hand shook as I set down a mug. The paper was a photocopy of a handwritten birth certificate. Arcadia Anne Bell. Born 1905. Dare removed a second piece of paper. A copy of my modern birth certificate using her name. Forged, of course.
My pulse doubled . . . then tripled.
“It was old newspaper articles from the 1950s that got our attention. Cady Anne Bell, winner of several equestrian trophies. She was a fine rider. Only one of the articles listed her as Arcadia. That’s the one that tipped us off, of course. We dug up the old certificate from a hospital warehouse outside Kirkland, Washington.”
Airtight. That’s what the caliph had told me about the identity years ago, before I started college. Something warm trickled down from my nose. I tasted copper. One watery, crimson drop fell and splashed on the bartop.
“Oh, my,” Dare said, reaching across the table to hand me a paper napkin.
On instinct, I tilted my head back, then remembered that was wrong. Never back. The blood would slide down my throat and I’d vomit. I held my nose closed with the napkin and leaned forward, breathing hard through my mouth. I hadn’t had a nosebleed since I was . . . I didn’t know when. I tried to remember. A child? No. A teenager. When I parted ways with my parents. Breath was coming too fast, and my temples were throbbing. I was going to rupture more than a few vessels in my nose if I didn’t calm down.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“No,” I answered honestly. Brimming tears stung my eyes.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He picked up the photocopies, stacked them together and refolded them, then slid them back into his jacket. “I’ve had problems with magicians in the past, Merrin being a prime example. If he is, indeed, the Snatcher, and if he gets away with it again, I’ll never forgive myself. Never. The children’s lives are my responsibility. I hired Merrin. He ate dinner in my home with me and my wife, and I never suspected anything. I blamed poor, stupid Bishop. And why? Because of a ridiculous argument.”
I didn’t care about any of this. My mind was racing, trying to put together my next move. What the hell was I going to do? All these years I’d been hiding from occultists who wanted me dead, and my fake identity had been ferreted out by some rich demon doing a standard background check? I pulled the napkin away from my nose, checking to see if the bleed was slowing. The printed Tambuku logo was obscured, soaked through with blood. I picked up a fresh napkin and clamped it back before the tiny trickle could fall.
Dare smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket and leaned back in his bar stool to squint at me. “Perhaps you and I can strike a new bargain concerning the Snatcher. If you stop him and return our children to us unharmed, then we’ll keep this matter of your identity under wraps.”
I bristled at his threat.
