Lyn Benedict - Sins & Shadows

“Knock yourself out,” Sylvie said.

Val closed her eyes, raised her hands, and began talking.

At least, that was how it sounded to Sylvie. Talking, but incomprehensible, some bastard mixture of sounding too far away, or too foreign. It sounded like those important speeches she heard in dreams, full of portent without meaning.

The air rippled; the subway wavered in her sight and reappeared, warped out of true, the walls gleaming darkly, the shadows oppressive, the screech of metal heart-pounding. The commuters fled up the stairs in a disorderly mess.

Val was obviously still pissy; usually her leave-me-alones were gentle things, tending to make people recall sudden chores that required them to be elsewhere. But this—

Sylvie watched the nightmare spread across the station, adding a layer of revulsion to the glamour, and blinked it away, refusing to give in to her suddenly racing heart. She knew better, dammit. It was all illusion. She closed her eyes as the glamour tried harder to get rid of her, leaving behind subtle nightmare imagery for streamers of blood on the ground, the patchwork paint of body outlines. If she looked long enough, the shape took on the contorted one that Suarez had fallen into when the bullet took out his throat.

Ignore it. It’s false. It means nothing. The dark voice was calm as it declared there was no threat here.

Sylvie opened her eyes, and things were back to normal. Or as normal as it could be with a witch casting a spell in a subway station.

“You really shouldn’t be able to evade my spells,” Val said. “Someday I’m going to test your aptitude for magic.”

“Yeah, and someday I’m going to make a nice little housewife,” Sylvie said.

Val shook her head and bent to her bag. “Well, now that I’ve gotten rid of them, let’s keep them gone.” Val pulled out a silk-wrapped feather, a grey Baggie of what looked like spiderwebs, and a knife from her bag.

“You have trouble with airline security?” Sylvie said, noticing that the suit at the platform was still there, still watching, looking sweaty and rather sick. “Ah, Val?”

“I took the jet,” Val said, teasing the spiderwebs apart with the knife tip. “Shut up, Sylvie. This takes concentration.”

Val teased one of the cobwebs back into web shape, dangling it from the tip of her knife. “Come down the stairs,” she said.

Sylvie sighed and joined Val. “What about him?” she asked, gesturing to their watcher.

“He should have left when I asked him to,” Val said. She raised the knife and blew gently on it, simple breath giving way to more of her exotic murmurs.

The cobweb fluttered from the knife, expanding, thinning, gleaming red and gold like metal reflecting firelight. It drifted up the stairs, and Val whispered more coaxing words. The suit on the platform began to look concerned. Sylvie flipped him off and grinned. After all, there weren’t many people who were determined enough to stick around through a repulsion glamour. He had to be ISI. He edged closer to the rails, as if a foot or so could make all that much difference.

Val gestured with the feather, and the web spread wider and darted forward, sticking suddenly to the edges of the entrance to the El. Sounds from above stopped filtering down to them, wrapping them in silence.

“One more,” Val said, another web dangling from the knife tip.

She turned to the wary agent watching them and smiled, that perfect social smile that allowed all sorts of backstabbing to go on behind it. The web flew wide and pushed the agent to a teetering position on the very edge of the platform. The man jumped off, rather than be pushed, and the spell snapped into place behind him.

“I knew we were friends for a reason,” Sylvie said, smiling at the agent’s predicament. “Hope he’s informed about the train schedule and the dangers of high voltage.”

Val permitted herself a more honest grin, a rare, open look on her face. There was the impish gamine Sylvie had known in high school. “What? I’m not allowed to enjoy my work?” Val said, turning back to the spell circle. She took a white-silk glove from her bag and traced the circle in silence.

She sat back on her heels, finessed the glove from her fingers, careful not to let the outer part of the glove touch her skin, and tossed it into the trash can. “Nasty,” she said, wiping her hands down her slacks. “I was afraid of that.”

“Don’t be vague,” Sylvie said. “If you’ve got something bad to say, might as well get it over with.”

“Maudits,” Val said. “Specific enough for you?”

“Fuck,” Sylvie said, closing her eyes. “I thought they’d disbanded, decovened, or whatever sorcerers do when you destroy their leaders.”

“We stopped them,” Val said. “Once. Hardly a final battle. They must have found a new figurehead.”

“Lovely,” Sylvie said. “ ’Cause their last choice was oh so good for the world.” The Maudits were bad news; a cabal of blood-crazed sorcerers could hardly be anything but. Last time Sylvie had run into them, they’d been intent on resurrecting Val’s ex-husband, a voodoo king with one hell of a mean streak. Sylvie doubted their tastes had improved in the time since.

“Sloppy, though,” Val said, looking over the spell, breaking Sylvie’s darkening thoughts. “Far from their usual standards—maybe you’re dealing with a splinter group. Last I’d heard, they had begun to argue their methods—since they were so spectacularly unsuccessful last time. Beaten by two women and a child.” Val’s lips quirked. “Serves them right, those chauvinistic blowhards.”

“Yeah, yeah, we kicked their collective ass. Yay us, moving on,” Sylvie said. “The spell is sloppy? Meaning what exactly?”

Val slipped off her loose jacket, laid it on the concrete, and settled herself on it. “Well, for one thing it’s active, which it shouldn’t be. Not if it’s swallowed its prey.”

“So it is a snatch-and-grab machine,” Sylvie said, toeing the painted curlicues thoughtfully, “not a curse or a kill.”

Val fiddled with the platinum hoop in her ear, a habit Sylvie recognized from high school, from a hundred scenes of Val before a test, before a big date, before lying her ass off to get away with coming home drunk. Sylvie braced herself for trouble.

“Not exactly. It’s an oubliette spell. A magical ambush keyed to a specific person. It sucks the target down the minute they cross it, then it shuts down and disappears. We shouldn’t be able to see it at all. A spell like this is either hidden and active, or triggered and gone. The fact that it’s visible at all tells me it’s triggered, but not complete. Normally, I’d say that its prey got away. God only knows how—we’re not talking a beginner spell here. But you say that Wolf is missing?”

“Vanished,” Sylvie said. “In the space of a heartbeat according to my client.”

“Witnessed it?” Val paused in her fidgeting.

“Felt it,” Sylvie said. “How’s that for proof?”

“Don’t scoff,” Val said mildly. “Talents can feel such things. Is he—”

“Talented? Oh hell yeah,” Sylvie said.

“So we can assume he’s right, and the boy’s gone down.” Val set her earrings to swinging again, stilled them. Noting the nerves, Sylvie was prepared for the hesitation in Val’s words, the softness of her tone. “You know he’s dead, right?”

Quick shock touched her back and cheeks with an internal chill, and a denial so strong she didn’t think it was hers; some bastard leftover of Dunne’s touch or influence. She fisted her hands. “He could—”

“You said weeks. Weeks in an oubliette. No food, no water, no air. An oubliette’s a coffin, Sylvie, for sorcerers who are too impatient to wait for their victims to die.”