Eileen Wilks - Ritual Magic

“Weird weather,” Lily said as she stepped outside. The air was heavy with moisture and smog. Humidity was always a surprise, and usually the wind off the ocean was a tidy and tireless housekeeper, sweeping the city’s air clean of man-made murk. The air was utterly still today.

A few steps out, Lily stopped and shook her head. “Cullen.”

The parking lot was deep but narrow, with a single central lane and parking slots arrayed along the federal building on one side and an insurance company on the other. The spaces were reserved for Bureau and ATF employees, and there weren’t enough of them. And smack-dab in ATF territory, occupying not one but two spaces, sat a black behemoth of a car. A glossy Lincoln Town Car, to be precise, with armored sides and bulletproof glass. Three less-than-glossy men lounged nearby.

“What?” Cullen said. “You don’t think Cynna should have bulletproof glass between her and possible snipers?”

“Using the tankmobile is a great idea. Parking it illegally, not so much. Isen would be pissed if it got towed.”

“You wouldn’t let them do that.”

“ATF is hugely unimpressed by me. If one of them sees it, they’ll have it towed before I can blink. Hi, José,” she said to one of the men near Isen’s tankmobile.

José had a quick, appealing smile. “It’s good to see you, Lily. Ah . . . Isen said I was to mention the chain-of-command issue.”

Lily looked at the other three men standing about ten feet away . . . Santos, Joe, and Andy. Her Leidolf guards. José and the guards with him were Nokolai. The two clans had been enemies for at least two hundred years. Rule was now Rho of one and Lu Nuncio of the other and was trying to mend that, but some habits were hard to break. At the moment no one looked hostile, perhaps because they were avoiding looking at each other at all. “Right. Santos.”

“Yes?”

“This is José”—she pointed—“and Casey and Steve. While we’re all together like this, José’s in charge.”

Santos’s dark eyes flickered with outrage. He glanced at José, who was a head shorter and about fifty pounds lighter. A decade older, too, but that didn’t show. His response was carefully courteous. “May I ask for your reasoning?”

“First, I’m not going to put you over someone who’s been subordinate to your boss, and Scott was under José in D.C. Second, I’m told you’re good. I believe it, but I know José better than I know you. I know what to expect, how he thinks, how he reacts when the shit hits the fan. That’s an edge I don’t intend to give up just to smooth your ruffled fur.”

Santos didn’t like it. That was obvious in the very blankness of his face, but he nodded.

She glanced at Joe and Andy. She didn’t expect any problems there. Santos was pricklier and more dominant than the other two. They each nodded.

Good enough. Lily turned to follow Cynna and Cullen, who’d headed about a third of the way down the parking lot, arguing cheerfully—something about a ley line. José gave low-voiced instructions for how the men should station themselves. Lily carefully did not check to make sure Santos and the others obeyed. That was José’s job.

“I still say you’re too close,” Cullen said to Cynna, “but have at it. Just because I was playing with ley lines before you were born doesn’t mean you should listen to me.”

“Glad you realize that.” Cynna set her tote down.

He looked at Lily. “José could kick Mr. Macho’s ass.”

“When they’re two-footed, yeah.” Two-footed wasn’t Santos’s best form for fighting, and Lily had seen José take down fighters who outweighed and outmuscled him every bit as much as Santos did. As a wolf, though, Santos was supposed to be one of the best. Lily had heard Benedict’s assessment: superb in wolf form and potentially excellent on two feet, though mishandled and mistrained. Currently a pain in the ass.

Santos had issues. A lot of issues. Rule hoped to reclaim him. He said that Victor, the previous Rho, had wanted to make a weapon of Santos, alternately petting and punishing, trying to obliterate the man’s sense of right and wrong so that the only “right” was Victor’s word. Victor had been a grade-A son of a bitch. “But Santos has to be able to take orders from people who can’t kick his ass. Me, for one.”

“True.”

The door into the building opened and Fielding hurried out. “Have you started?”

“Not yet. There won’t be much for you to see,” Lily warned him.

“More than I’ve seen until now,” he said as he moved to join them. He glanced around, obviously noting the guards. “What are they—”

“They’re my men,” Lily told him.

He grimaced, but didn’t comment out loud. Maybe he didn’t consider lupi men, or maybe he didn’t approve of her having bodyguards. Either way, he didn’t want to make her mad. He really wanted to watch the magic happen.

Cynna was drawing her circle with her special chalk, using a piece of string.

Fielding whispered, “Is it okay if we talk?”

“Sure,” Cullen said. Not whispering.

“Why the string?”

“Same reason you used a compass to draw a circle back in geometry class. Circles don’t have to be mathematically precise, but the cruder the circle, the more power is needed to close and maintain it.”

Cynna finished drawing, crouched, and touched the chalked line to set the circle. She moved to its center and opened the plastic baggie, shaking the fillings out into the palm of her hand. She spoke a Swahili word and made a quick gesture with her other hand. After that, nothing at all happened, to Lily’s eyes.

Or to Fielding’s. “What’s she doing?” he asked.

“Copying all the patterns imprinted on the gold,” Lily said.

“What exactly are these patterns?”

Lily gestured at Cullen. “You try. I don’t understand it myself.”

“You might think of patterns as words. Both are representations of something, not the thing itself. The analogy isn’t precise, of course. A word is like a basket that lets you carry the idea of the thing around. Patterns actually partake of the nature of the thing, which is why they’re so effective for all types of sympathetic magic.”

Fielding looked at Lily. “Do you understand what he just said?”

“Not really.”

Cullen sighed. “It’s magic.”

Fielding nodded, satisfied.

Cynna made another gesture and then just sat there with her eyes closed.

“Whatever patterns are,” Lily said quietly, “she’s doing the heavy lifting now. First she copied the patterns that relate to those two fillings. Now she has to get rid of everything that isn’t part of the pattern for the victim.”

“Huh.” Fielding thought about that a moment. “How does she know what to take out?”

Cullen took over again. “Part of it is plain old hard work and experience. Part is art. She’ll recognize some of the elements she wants to keep, like ‘human’ and ‘male,’ because she knows them pretty well. She’ll spot some that she wants to remove that way, too. But the art . . . that’s what makes her such a helluva Finder. She’s got a sense for how a pattern flows, what belongs, what doesn’t. She’ll know when she’s got something she can work with.”

Fielding smiled. “She’s your wife, right? I can tell you’re proud of her.”

“Pride would suggest I played some part in what she can do. I didn’t. In other areas, maybe—I’ve beaten a little theory into her thick skull—but not this. She’s just damn good with patterns.”

Lily smiled. Yeah, he was proud of her.

Now and then Cynna gestured or spoke in Swahili. Fielding began to fidget. He dug into one pocket and pulled out a crinkly cellophane bag. It rustled as he dug into it and popped something in his mouth. “Want some?” He held it out.