Larry Correia - Spellbound

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Francis flopped onto a bench to stare off into space. Dead. Holy shit, Heinrich is dead. He had to tell the others.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Stuyvesant?” the policeman asked as he handed Francis a paper cup filled with water.

“Bottle of whiskey?”

“That’s illegal… Hell, I’ll see what I can do.”

They’d stuck him in a detective’s office. There was a name stenciled on the glass of the door. It was backwards and Francis was too tired to try to read it. “How much longer do I need to sit here?”

“There are some other federal men that still want to ask you questions.” The young officer turned to leave the room. He stopped on the way out, seemingly embarrassed. “You’re a hero too, sir. Everybody is saying that you killed that assassin. Chopped his head clean off.”

“I’m not feeling particularly heroic,” Francis muttered.

“Just unexpected is all. I mean with you being a rich guy and all. Getting your hands dirty and being brave like that,” the officer stammered. “And you’re even a… a…”

“An Active?”

The policeman lowered his eyes. “Yeah. Well, I guess you folks aren’t all bad, huh?” He retreated and closed the door behind him.

They had already questioned him repeatedly, what more did they want? Sure, he could have thrown his weight around and had an army of lawyers descend on the place if necessary, but he was still too numb. What was he going to tell the others? What was he going to tell Faye? She was really fond of Heinrich. And poor Dan. Heinrich was the closest friend Dan had, his partner on a multitude of missions, hell, even the best man at his wedding. Dan was going to take this hard.

Florida water always tasted vaguely swampy. Francis frowned at the cup, but no matter how hard he concentrated it wouldn’t magically transform into proper mind-numbing alcohol. He was only telekinetic. There was only one person who had ever had the kind of Power useful enough to turn water into wine.

A few minutes later the door opened again, only instead of another local officer it was a man in a shirt, tie, and shoulder holster. The tie was undone and there was a big black automatic in the holster. He was of average height but with a torso like a heavyweight boxer, probably forty, with dark hair thinning on top, and thick, angry eyebrows. His chin was dark with stubble and his manner was cold. The stranger took in the stained remains of Francis’ expensive Italian suit and the cast around his arm. “You Francis Stuyvesant?” He didn’t offer to shake hands.

“And you are?”

He ignored the question and took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “Smoke?”

“No. Thank you. What’s going on?”

He pulled the curtain down over the glass door. “I ask the questions. If you try to get all indignant and do some don’t you know who I am rich asshole shtick, I’ll personally shoot you in the head and get it ruled a suicide.”

The stranger had said it so matter-of-factly that it took Francis’ tired mind a moment to realize that he’d just been threatened. Francis was not used to being threatened. “Who are you?”

The man struck a match with his thumb on the first try. “The UBF heir… In the flesh.” He lit his cigarette. “Why, lucky me. I’m just a poor old investigator for the OCI.”

“So what’s OCI?”

“Office of the Coordinator of Information.”

“Is that supposed to sound intimidating?”

“Naw,” the man chuckled. “It isn’t the name that’s intimidating. It’s what I’m authorized to do that’s intimidating. We take care of sensitive things. Like regulating magic, or questioning spoiled brats who suddenly became important because their rich grandpa kicked the bucket.”

Francis had cultivated the public persona of being a useless fop, good for little more than attending social functions. It helped when your enemies underestimated you. The UBF board had thought that he would be an easily controlled figurehead because of that public persona, and he’d used that to his advantage to end up with actual control of the company. Despite that, most of the papers still thought of him as more a topic for the society pages than the business section.

Apparently that’s what this mystery G-man believed about him as well, so there was no reason it couldn’t work to his advantage. Might as well run with it. Francis played indignant. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I can and I will. You can call me Mr. Crow. So tell me, Francis.. You mind if I call you Francis?”

“That’s Mr. Stuyvesant to the likes of y-”

The man was quick. The fist slammed into the side of his head so hard that Francis was certain that if he hadn’t flinched his eyes closed before impact they would have popped out of his skull. The world wobbled and then the floor tile came up to meet him.

Nobody slapped around the upper crust. This wasn’t some collar off a crap-town speakeasy. Francis was somebody important. The surprise was worse than the pain. He knew how to take a punch, but he wasn’t as used to taking an insult. Something was very wrong.

“Let’s try that again.”

Francis was dragged up by the shirt and placed on the bench. The blow had staggered him, but he’d felt worse. Francis’ initial reaction was to use his Power. There were dozens of items scattered around the detective’s office that would look better stuck through the G-man’s ribs, but he needed to see what this was about first.

“Will you get a load of that bruise? You sure did get banged around during that attack, didn’t you, boyo? Let’s try this again.” Crow returned to his seat, perched on the edge of the desk. “Normally I only get to beat confessions out of darkies or bohunks. I never thought I’d get to beat a confession out of a rich kid. If only mom could see me now.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Yes. I. Can. State of emergency, OCI is now in charge of any investigations involving Actives. Things have changed. You just don’t know how much yet. So tell me, Francis, why is it that there have been two major acts of magical terrorism in the last year and you were a survivor of both?”

The Peace Ray had been aimed at his estate in Mar Pacifica because an Iron Guard wanted to blot a group of Grimnoir off the face of the Earth. Today? “Just lucky I guess.”

Crow casually backhanded him. Francis’ head snapped around.

“The assassin… Did you know him?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“Maybe you’ve seen this?” Crow held out his hand. In it was a familiar gold ring with a black stone. A Grimnoir ring.

This was very bad. “I don’t know.”

All knights received one when they took the oath. It was spellbound with a few minor wards, the insides engraved with designs of Power. They were useful tools and a symbol of the office. Francis didn’t wear his in public. He was too famous, photographed too much, and the Society didn’t need the exposure. He always kept his ring nearby though… Was that his? Had they searched his luggage? Did this OCI know about the Society?

“What’s the ring for?”

“It’s just a trinket. I don’t know. Is that mine? Because I’ve got lots of rings.”

Crow held it up to the light. “There’s writing on the inside. Magic? Isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Francis said evenly.

“Funny. This was on what was left of your dead German friend.. ” Crow set the Grimnoir ring on the desk, then reached into his pants pocket to take something out. He placed an identical ring next to the first. “This one was on the man you decapitated. Or was it the other way around? Did I get them mixed up? Hard to tell, since they’re identical, even down to the funny writing inside.”