“We’re the biggest producer of wolfsbane in the region,” Elara said.
“We can cut them a deal, can’t we, honey?” Hugh asked.
“I’m sure we can.” They would take a loss on it. It didn’t matter. The contacts and good will at the county level was worth more than all their wolfsbane put together. “How much are you paying per gram now?”
“We pay five hundred per half-pound,” Armstrong said.
She waved her hand. “We can do better than that. We will supply you with premium quality wolfsbane at six hundred per pound.”
Armstrong blinked. “We don’t want to take advantage.”
“Call it law enforcement discount,” Elara said.
“Look,” Hugh said, his face somber. “One day things could happen, and I may not be here when they do. My wife might be in danger. My future children. My people. When that day comes, I’ll count on you to ride out here just as you’re doing now and uphold the law. You can’t do that if you’re dead. Let us fix this small thing for you. It’s the least we can do to help.”
Wow, he was good. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve believed every word. What a “good” man I’ve got there. Elara almost rolled her eyes.
“I’ll have to run it by the chain of command,” Armstrong said.
“The wolfsbane will be ready to go when you are,” Elara said.
The road turned. The empty palisade loomed ahead.
Hugh watched the forensic mage read the magic scanner’s printout. The m-scanners sensed the residual magic and printed them as colors: blue for humans, green for shapeshifters, purple for vampires. They were, at best, imprecise and clumsy; at worst, misleading. He’d seen printouts that made no sense, and from the faint lines on the paper, this one held very little value. The magic signatures were too old. Whatever took the people was long gone. Might as well get some druids to cut open a black chicken and study its liver.
Speaking of druids. He turned slightly to watch Elara’s magic users waiting patiently outside of the palisade. They wore the typical neo-pagan garb; light hooded robes, just generic enough to make it difficult to pin them down. They could be witches, druids, or worshippers of some Greek god.
Eight people. Not really enough for a coven.
His gaze slid to the harpy. There was something witchy about Elara. When he goaded her into letting her magic out, it felt odd, a touch witchlike, a touch female, and a whole lot of something else, sharp and cold. Daniels had felt like that, a little witchy, but mostly her magic felt like boiling blood. Elara was ice.
The void yawned at him. Thinking of Daniels always put him on the edge of the chasm. If he lingered too long on her or her father, the void would swallow him again.
The mage came out.
Here it comes, the magic signatures are too old, there is too much interference, blah blah blah.
“The magic signatures are too old and faint for a clear reading,” the mage said to Armstrong.
The deputy sighed. “Is there anything you can tell me?”
“It wasn’t an animal,” the mage said. “Animals would’ve left more evidence. It wasn’t an undead and the scene isn’t indicative of a loup attack.”
When shapeshifters failed to keep their inner beasts at bay, they turned loup. Loups weren’t playing with a full deck. When they attacked a settlement, they tore humans apart, usually while fucking them, they boiled children alive, and generally had a great time indulging in every perversion they could think of until someone put them out of their misery. The only cure for loupism was a bullet to the brain or a blade to the neck.
Armstrong sighed again. “Any idea at all?”
“No.”
“Something comes into this place, takes sixteen people out, and leaves no trace of itself.”
“In a nutshell.” The mage shrugged.
Armstrong looked at him for a long moment.
“What do you want, Will?” The mage spread his arms. “The scene is three weeks old. I don’t work miracles.”
“Perhaps we could try?” Elara asked, her tone gentle.
“Are you done with the scene?” Armstrong asked.
The mage nodded. “Can’t hurt. We’re not going to get anything more from it at this point.”
Armstrong looked to Elara. “It’s all yours.”
“Thank you.”
She walked toward the gates. When she wanted to, she moved like she was gliding. Mostly she stomped like a pissed off goat.
The eight people followed her and formed a rough semicircle.
“Come on,” Hugh said to Armstrong. “We’ll want a front row seat for this.”
They walked through the gates. The mage followed them.
Elara’s people pulled the hoods of their robes over their faces, so only their chins were visible. A low chant rose from them, insistent and suffused with power.
She stood with her back to them, seemingly oblivious to the magic gathering behind her.
The chant sped up. They poured out an awful lot of magic, but it felt inert.
Time to see what you really are. Hugh grounded himself, focusing through the prism of his own power. The world rushed at him, crystal clear, the magic a simmering lake submerging the eight chanters. Feeling magic was one of the first things he learned under Roland. Show me what you’ve got, darling.
Elara raised her arms to her sides and waited, her eyes closed.
The magic streamed toward her, as if a dam suddenly opened.
It drenched her.
She didn’t touch it. She didn’t absorb it, didn’t use it, didn’t channel it. It just sat there around her.
Elara opened her eyes. Magic whipped inside her, and to his enhanced vision she almost glowed from within.
They were treated to a show, he realized. The chanters were there to make it look as if she channeled their power. She didn’t need them. Whatever was about to happen was hers alone.
His lovely wife didn’t want anyone to know how powerful she was. Smart girl.
Elara knelt, scooped a handful of dirt, and let it crumble from her fingers, each soil particle glowing gently.
The chant rose with a new intensity, rapid and sharp.
A pulse of magic burst from Elara, drowning the palisade. For half a second every blade of grass within stood perfectly straight and still. She’d poured a shitload of power into that pulse.
Silver mist rose from the ground in thin tendrils, thickening in the middle of the clearing, flowing together into a human shape, translucent, tattered, but visible. A man, six feet tall, broad shoulders. Big bastard. Long blond hair braided away from his face. Pale skin. A tattoo in a geometric design marked his right cheek, a tight spiral with a sharp blade on the end. He wore dark scale armor with a spark of gold on one shoulder. Hugh rifled through his mental catalogue of scale mail, everything from Roman lorica squamata to Japanese gyorin kozane.
He’d never seen anything like it.
The dark metal scales lay close to the man’s body, not uniform, but varying in size, smaller on the waist where the body had to bend, wider on the chest. This wasn’t made with the ease of manufacture in mind. It was created from life. Whoever made this was looking at a snake for inspiration.
The man’s eyes flashed with gold fire. He thrust his left hand forward. Mist spiraled up in five different spots, melding into the outline of creatures, barely visible. They stood on two legs, hunched forward, big owl eyes unblinking, their mouths slashes across their faces.
He felt a small remnant of humanity buried deep within the brown bodies, a barely perceptible hint of the familiar. They were once human.
The beasts darted forward into the nearest house. A ghostly door swung open and the first beast dragged out a body, a woman, her head hanging down from her twisted neck.
Another beast carrying a man followed. The man was large, at least two hundred pounds. The creature had slung him over its shoulder like he was weightless.
A scuffle, then a beast emerged with an adolescent girl, her long hair sweeping the ground. Blood dripped down her hand. The owner of the torn nail.
Another beast followed, one carrying a boy of about five, another a baby. Both dead.
The beasts laid them in a row and darted into the next house. The man watched, impassive.