Eileen Wilks - Ritual Magic

Out, out, out .

He was so damn tired of this. Tired of hurt and fear and handling himself. Tired of war and people he loved being damaged, endangered, killed . . . and Lily wasn’t taking his hand the way she always did in elevators. She wasn’t thinking about his fear because she was tired, too, exhausted by worry and fear and people she loved being damaged and endangered and . . .

A warm hand slipped into his.

Lily didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him. Her expression remained inward and closed, but she held his hand as they rode up to the top floor. The elevator doors opened.

Spiritual hygiene, Nettie had said. Rule still didn’t know what that meant, but he suspected his soul could use a good scrubbing. He didn’t know how to do that, but holding on to Lily wasn’t a bad substitute.

Dammit, Nettie, you’d better not die. I am going to be so pissed if you die.

THEVIP lounge was to the other waiting room as a memory foam mattress is to a sleeping bag. Both served the same function, but they did so with vastly different levels of comfort. Rule had Scott sweep for bugs before they entered; the delay could have been engineered to give their enemies time to plant a listening device. Mr. Reddings observed this precaution with some alarm.

No bugs. The helpful Mr. Reddings seemed relieved and rather rushed as he pointed out the room’s amenities—a cushy sofa that let down into a bed, a fruit basket, a well-stocked bar, a refrigerator . . . and a brimming pot of coffee that smelled like it had been brewed from freshly ground beans. Costa Rican, Rule thought, inhaling appreciatively. Lily headed straight for that amenity as the executive assistant asked if there was anything else he could do.

“Thank you,” she said, filling one heavy white mug, “but no.”

This clear dismissal sent the man out the door. Rule could hear Scott asking him a question after it closed.

Lily held out the filled mug to Rule.

His eyebrows lifted. “That’s real love, offering me the first cup.”

“True. But not, you’ll note, the last one. That you’d have to wrestle me for.” She poured a cup for herself and sipped with her eyes closed. “God, that’s good.”

“Never mind the damn coffee,” Benedict said. “What have you learned?”

Rule looked at his brother. Whether it was the effect of physical movement after hours of immobility or the promise of something, anything, to distract him, Benedict’s patience had evaporated. Without it, he was . . . intense.

Arjenie moved up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Lily looked at him over the rim of her mug and answered crisply. “I’ll give you the key points first. One, the artifact last seen in Friar’s possession was used to ritually kill our John Doe. Two, the icky magic I found on the body, which transferred to Officer Crown, is some sort of residue from that ritual. Three, that magic isn’t just icky. It’s evil. And no, I don’t know what that means exactly, but it matters.”

“Are those suppositions or facts?”

“Expert opinions based on observation. Drummond and Hardy—”

“Drummond?” Arjenie said. “You mean your ghost? He’s back?”

Rule had forgotten to tell Benedict and Arjenie about that.

“He’s not my ghost,” Lily said, “but yeah, he’s back. He, uh, was sent here to help. He says spirit is visible on his side.” Her hand waved vaguely to indicate the nebulous direction involved. “The artifact leaves an obvious spiritual mark or color, which is how he knows it was used in the ritual killing of our unknown victim.”

“No ID yet?” Rule asked.

“No, and we may have trouble getting one. I’ll tell you about that in a minute. Drummond says that the bad magic—the contagion—is evil. Seems there’s a clear definition for evil that he can’t tell me, and he can’t tell me why the contagion fits that definition. But it does. Hardy agrees, if I’m interpreting his hymn choices correctly. Which reminds me—”

Benedict broke in. “Hardy is the supposed saint.”

Lily cocked her head. “You don’t believe he is one? Or you don’t believe in saints?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the word means.”

“I don’t, either, and no one . . .” Lily used both hands to push her hair back. “ No one will define anything for me! Saint, spirit, evil—all that shit’s tossed into the mix and I’m just supposed to guess what it all means! Though Cullen did say a saint was a holy man or woman . . . God, I wish he was here.” The moment she said that she shook her head. “No, I don’t. He’s needed with . . . but his ability to see magic would sure help right now.”

Rule glanced around. Uselessly, of course, but he couldn’t resist the impulse. “Is Drummond here?”

She shook her head. “He hung around awhile, then said he had places to go, things to do.”

“You’re accepting his statement as fact? Even if Drummond’s on the side of the angels now, he isn’t one himself. I don’t think ghosts are infallible.”

“True, which is why I’m calling it expert opinion, not fact. But all three of my experts agree that the contagion is evil, so I’m considering that as established.”

“Drummond’s one of your experts. And Hardy?”

She nodded. “The third is Miriam.”

Rule had met Miriam. She was the head priestess of the coven the Unit called on in this area. “Not Karonski?”

“He said no, not for this. Since spirit, not magic, is the—”

“Discuss their credentials later,” Benedict snapped. “Rule has described the shooting to me in detail. Nettie was not a random victim. She was targeted specifically.”

“So we concluded. We meaning me and Drummond and Karonski. Not Miriam. She thinks the overdose of evil caused Crown to commit evil acts, but without a specific target. In other words, he just started shooting, didn’t matter who he killed. I don’t agree. If all Crown had wanted was to kill people, he would have kept firing at the ones near Nettie. He didn’t, which tells me he had specific targets in mind. He was turning to shoot the next one when I dropped him.”

Had she shot to kill and missed? Probably. That was her training. As she put it, when your target was using deadly force, you did, too. Or, as Benedict put it: In battle, take the easiest shot. You’ll do well to hit at all. Don’t make it any harder to win than it has to be.

“Who was the other target?” Arjenie asked. “Do you know?”

“Drummond thinks it was Karonski. That’s based on his observation of the shooter, not on some special ghostly knowledge, but he was a cop for a long time. He may be right, but another possibility is—”

Benedict broke in. “But Nettie was primary. He had time to select his first target, and he chose her. Why?”

“We think it’s because she’s a threat, and she’s a threat because she’s a shaman. This goes back to the contagion being evil. That’s a spiritual quality, and spirit is what Nettie works with. Wiccan and Native practices both have spiritual aspects, but with Wicca the spiritual part is sort of fenced off.”

Arjenie frowned. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“I probably said it wrong. Here’s what Karonski told me. That Wiccan star of yours—Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Spirit? They’re the points or arms of the star, and they’re all tied to the Source, which is represented by the open space at the center. But spirit is only one aspect of the Source. That’s why so many unbelievers can use Wiccan spells. And—again, this what Karonski said—a lot of Wiccans don’t work with spirit that much, except during your major rites, because it’s so unpredictable. With Native practices, it’s different. Spirit is at the center. It’s the way they access power, so Nettie’s used to working with spirit directly.”