Larry Correia: Spellbound

The killer had a Grimnoir ring? Had the killer been a member of the Society? Impossible!

Crow got tired of waiting. “What? No reaction?”

“I’m not a jeweler.” Francis sniffed. “I’d like to talk to an attorney now. The lawsuits are going to be very impressive. I don’t know what your agency pays, but I hope you like soup lines. I’ve got butlers with a bigger salary than you.”

“Oh, I’m not in this for the money.” Crow shook his head sadly. “Tsk tsk, young Francis. I’m trying to have an honest conversation here and you’re trying to complicate matters with legal mumbo jumbo.” He came off the desk in a flash. Francis barely had time to brace himself before Crow slugged him in the mouth. Francis saw stars. Crow stepped away, shaking his hand loose. “God, I love this job.”

That’s enough of that nonsense. The next time Crow got up, Francis was going to teach him a lesson in humility. There was a solid-looking paperweight sitting on the desk. Bouncing it off his teeth at fifty miles an hour ought to do the trick. He lifted his head with a groan and looked the G-man square in the eyes. “I don’t know anything.”

“Your bodyguard had a weird thing on his chest, half tattoo, half scar. What was that?”

Since Jake Sullivan had worked out the kinks, Heinrich had volunteered to be bound to a Healing spell a few months back. It had been painful and dangerous, and a fat lot of good it had done him. It helped you recover faster, but too much damage at once and you still died just like anybody else would. “Beats me. I don’t know what my employees do off the clock.”

“I know you don’t have anything like that on you. I asked the doctor after he patched you up. But strangely enough, the man you gave the old guillotine treatment had something similar… Bigger and more complicated, but the same general idea. That strike you as odd?”

Francis’ response was a stony silence. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Somebody had tried to kill the president and was pinning it on the Grimnoir.

The lack of response seemed to anger the man. “Was Zangara a loose end that needed tying? Was your job to kill your triggerman before he could talk? Was that why you were here, Francis, as cleanup for your little magical plot?” Crow shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “You thought you could get away with it! You people always think you can get away with it. Well, you aren’t better than anyone else. I got you, Francis. You helped try to kill the president.”

“That idea’s got holes an imbecile could drive a blimp through. You must have come up with it yourself. You’re quite the gumshoe.”

Crow came off the desk, hand curling into a fist. Francis concentrated on the heavy paperweight, reached for his Power, and-

Nothing.

Crow knocked him silly. Francis hit the tile and Crow kicked him in the face. Francis got his arms up to protect himself as Crow kicked him repeatedly. “You tried to use magic on me? ” Crow stomped him hard, again and again. One shoe caught the cast and ground the freshly broken bones. Francis cried out and curled into a ball. The door flew open with a bang. Several Miami cops spilled into the room. Crow was roughly pulled away and dragged from the room. shouting, “Magic won’t work on an OCI man, asshole. You better warn your friends.”

The cops were trying to help. Somebody asked him a question. His head was swimming and he couldn’t remember what his answer had been. His Power had failed him. For the first time in his life, when he’d reached for it, the magic hadn’t been there. They got him onto the bench. Somebody stuffed a towel against his nose to catch the blood. There was more commotion in the doorway. Francis recognized the man standing there waving a briefcase as a UBF attorney. How had his Power failed? Somehow he was on his feet, and weaving his way down the hall. The lawyer was talking to the police, rapid-fire legalese flying faster than bullets. They were heading for the exit.

Crow had been backed into a corner and blocked off by two cops. His face was red. “Everything’s changed now, Francis. Your kind aren’t untouchable anymore.”

“This isn’t over!” Francis shouted back.

“We’re watching you.” The cops had to hold Crow back. “Hunting season’s coming! Opening day…” He stuck out his finger like a pretend gun. “Bang.”

Francis made it outside. He hadn’t realized how late it was. The darkness was a bit of a shock. He stumbled down the steps to a waiting car. Flashbulbs popped and photographs were taken. The attorney made sure that the press got plenty of shots. From how hot his face felt, he knew he had to look like a bad meatloaf. The driver came around and opened the door.

“Get us out of here. Snap to it,” Francis ordered. The attorney barely had time to climb in before they were rolling. “Give me your pen.”

“Huh?”

Francis reached over and snatched a golden ink pen from the lawyer’s pocket. He held it in the palm of his hand and concentrated. The pen lifted, spun in a lazy circle just like he wanted it to, then fell back in place. His Power had returned. It felt perfectly normal, but when he’d tried it against the government man it was like his magic wasn’t even there.

He tossed the pen back to the surprised attorney. “Crow’s right,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Francis stared out the window. “Everything has changed… Driver, get us to the airfield.”

The Miami Police detained Crow. Federal lawman or not, he had just assaulted a prisoner, and not just some prisoner off of the street, but an extremely important man, and the press knew. Heads were going to roll. The locals put calls in to contact Crow’s superiors, but rapidly discovered that his superiors were very difficult to reach. Crow waited long enough for the cops to not have a direct eye on him and then easily made his escape. There was no cell that could hold him if he didn’t feel like it. He even stopped long enough to pick up everything that had been confiscated: his fabricated identification papers, his. 45, the Dymaxion nullifier, and his coat, before walking right out the door.

Later, the police would finally get through to somebody at the mysterious Office of the Coordinator of Information, only to be told that they had no officer by the name of Crow. The U.S. Attorney’s office would be stymied as well. Eventually the whole thing would go away like these things tended to do.

His men picked him up on the corner. The automobile barely even slowed as he got into the back. “Status?” he asked in greeting.

“The President is going to live, but he might still lose the use of his legs.”

“That’s unfortunate news.” Crow feigned sympathy rather well. “I don’t know if the country is ready for a cripple to be in charge. What about the prisoner?”

“He’s been secured, sedated, and sent with two Dymaxions to headquarters.”

“Good news. Where is Stuyvesant now?”

“Heading for the air station like you predicted.”

“Excellent.” Crow’s manner was completely different than when he’d been questioning Stuyvesant. Inside, he’d acted hot-headed, erratic, and violent. That had been necessary. He needed Stuyvesant rattled. Out here it was back to business, so Crow was collected and focused. Hot, cold, good, evil, friendly, vicious, it didn’t matter, they were just modes. He picked the one he wanted and wore it like a suit. It was all about whatever it took to get the job done.

The brazen assault on Stuyvesant would raise questions as to why an investigator had been so angry with the rich kid and supposed hero of the hour-even though Stuyvesant’s presence had been an unexpected development and certainly not one to be wasted-but with the press there, rumors would begin to spread about Stuyvesant’s possible involvement. And all that would occur without the OCI having to say anything official at all.