Cat Adams - The Isis Collar

I wasn’t going to let him—or any of the other cops—get to me. If I did, I’d start to actively hunt them. I can’t help that they fear me. I can help to make sure they don’t act on that fear.

It was the other cop who returned my items as Officer Danson climbed back into the patrol car. “We’ll let you off with a verbal warning this time, Ms. Graves. Please watch your speed.” He seemed honestly befuddled by his partner’s actions, but it wasn’t up to me to be the bearer of bad news. Danson was nuts. Either this young kid would be dragged down with his partner, or he’d figure out how to avoid the nuts. I just smiled sweetly with my lips closed and reached into the sunshine to take back my items.

“Thanks. I will.”

I didn’t start the car until both officers were in their seats. I didn’t need this crap and knew it was going to get out of hand again fairly soon. But today I had other things to think about. Soon the scent of cumin and peppers and oniony meat claimed my attention and I didn’t worry about it anymore. Except that I set my car alarm and sprinkled both door handles with a special residue that would capture fingerprints.

Not that there should be any. Right?

I walked up to La Cocina y Cantina and was reminded again why only locals eat here. It’s sort of a dive. The adobe coating is falling off the walls in chunks that reveal the skeletal rebar underneath. The sign is from the sixties and the turquoise paint is so faded it’s hard to read. But the owners weren’t worried about the outside. They concentrated on the inside. I knew the kitchen had shiny new equipment and high-end refrigeration and all ingredients were Grade A, top-of-the-line. Stepping through the door, I reveled in the heavy dark wood punctuated by gleaming white tablecloths and red bowls of homemade corn chips. I headed straight for the partitioned room at the back, which holds a large, circular table where a group can sit and share family-style meals. One of the owners, Barbara, saw me. She gave a cheery wave with her free hand and then motioned for me to wait before I joined the others. I paused in my tracks while she put down the plates on the table she was serving, then trotted over and gave me a big hug. “Celia! It’s been too long. You’re too busy lately.”

“Actually,” I said, laughing, “I haven’t been in because I’ve been too lazy. I took a couple months off and have just been hanging out at home. But I should have come by.”

“It’s okay. We’ve been busy again since you chased off those bad vampires. How about a Sunset Smoothie on the house? As a thank-you for your hard work.”

I smiled. Barbara and Pablo had created a very tasty drink for me, full of cheese and sauce and beef broth and lots of spices. “Well, I’ll definitely take the smoothie. But I’ll pay for it. It’s my thank-you for sticking around for those of us who can’t come in every day anymore.”

She beamed, then turned to take the order to the kitchen. “I’ll make sure it comes out with the other orders. Go. Sit. Talk to your friends. There’s a pitcher of margaritas on the table.”

I hoped everyone in the room was my friend. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

I smiled at the occupants and took the chair next to Bruno. On my other side was Dawna. Rizzoli was here, and Dr. Sloan. I wished John were here, but of course he wasn’t. A year ago, there would have been one more chair—for Vicki—and we all would have been laughing and having a fine old time. Now, the mood was … tense. They’d been talking before I walked in, but now all was silent.

“So … what’s up? Who has news, because I sure do.” All eyes turned my way expectantly. But no. “You guys first. I need to know how my news fits into yours.”

But nobody spoke up. Finally, Dawna let out an exasperated breath. “For heaven’s sake. Just go alphabetically by first name. Dr. Sloan, why don’t you start?”

Aaron Sloan nodded and pushed his glasses a notch farther up his nose. “Very well. As you know, Bruno assisted me in examining the table from Mr. Rizzoli’s office. It was quite fascinating! Basically, we learned it contained neither demonic nor angelic residue, but only standard magical traces from a practitioner with impressive skill.”

“But that entity at the ceiling … how would that—?” I turned my head to look at Bruno. He looked tired, like he used to after long nights of studying. It looked strangely good on him, because he was happiest when he was mentally exhausted. “Could you do something like that? Did you see the tape?”

He nodded and I could see a certain level of frustration there. “Could I do it? No, probably not, at least consciously. I don’t think this was a spell, per se. I think it was more an out-of-body experience by a living being. That’s not something I know much about. I’ve always considered magic to be tied to physiology, starting at the cellular level. Even if a mage can ghost, the magic should stay with the body, not travel with the spirit. I can’t explain what I saw on that tape. At least not yet.”

“Can you identify the caster?”

He nodded. “With time. There’s no spell here, no physical being to follow. All I have is residue. It’s like searching for a head of hair somewhere in the world when you only have one hair to work with.”

I nodded. “So, a needle in a haystack.”

“Worse.” His lips twisted in a wry smile. “It’s looking for the haystack with only the needle as your guide.”

Ouch. “Okay, so we have an unknown caster who might have unintentionally come to the FBI building, and for an unknown reason.”

Rizzoli spoke up after taking a sip of iced tea. No midday alcohol for the Fed. “Actually, that’s not quite true. We have several clues and I think it all comes down to you, Celia.”

That forced me to look at him. “Huh?”

“The facts are quite clear.” He raised one finger. “You were called in to aid in an interrogation.” A second finger went up. “You were in emotional distress, which Ms. Long informed me has always brought the spirit of your sister to you.”

That was true and she would know it well. I’d told her about a class project involving Ivy when I was in college. We tried various stimuli to see if she would manifest. I’d told my sister about the experiment and asked her to try to stay away unless I specifically called her. Only when I was in actual mental distress did she come without being summoned. “Okay, I get where you’re going. But why ?”

Rizzoli shrugged. “You wanted answers. The entity offered to help.” He held up his ring finger. “And he knew your name. There was conscious thought and playfulness. Toying with you by making you guess. So it’s likely a mage you know, at least well enough to banter with.”

“I know a lot of mages.”

“Yes, but only casually. Name five that you can talk to any time you want … who have enough power to pull it off.”

I shrugged, suddenly frustrated. “Okay, fine. Bruno. John Creede. Bubba—though he’s not much of a mage.” I thought again. “Um, wow. Who else? Terrance Harris, with the police. No, that’s too casual. Iv … no, he’s dead. But wait. Could it be a recently deceased mage? A powerful one? Could someone like that hold their magic together on the other side?”

Bruno and Dr. Sloan both looked at each other; then Bruno shrugged. “I would have said no until today. It’s uncharted territory, I’m afraid, Celia. Who died?”

“His name was Ivan. He was the personal guard of King Dahlmar of Rusland. He was killed just before Christmas. He had the oomph to pull off an illusion like the rubber tree one you did in my office. Once, I truly thought he was a newspaper vending box, complete with papers inside.”