Queen of wands sc-2 Read online

  “There’s nothing wrong with looking good,” Barb said, frowning.

  “I agree,” Sharice said. “But there’s looking good for looking good’s sake, and looking good because it’s all you consider yourself to be. When you dress well and do your makeup, it’s almost a sacrifice to your God. It is one form of worship, whether you recognize it or not. In Janea’s case, for example, it truly is a form of worship. I’ve never brought her here. I’m frankly afraid of the effects.”

  “Where is Janea?” Barb asked.

  The Asatru High Priestess had been Barb’s partner on her first true case. While Barb was immensely more powerful, Janea, despite giving the air of being a bubblehead, was much more educated in the occult. They’d made a most effective team.

  “In Chattanooga,” Sharice said, frowning. “There’s a really strange case up there. Not one case, actually. The problem is, there have been several people who have changed from quite normal to psychotic literally in moments. The FBI’s trying to figure out if it has Special Circumstances. Most of the killers haven’t fit the normal profile. Janea’s up there checking it out. In her own inimitable way, I’m sure.”

  While Barb tended to dress well and becomingly, Janea went straight from “becoming” to “scandalous” without any of the normal intervening steps. When she got teamed with FBI agents, it was…humorous.

  “Any reports?” Barb asked.

  “Not that have come across my desk,” Sharice said as her phone started to play Ozzie Osborne’s “Over the Mountain.” “I’ll be right back. That’s Augustus.”

  Barb had just picked up a chicken wing and bitten into it when Sharice came in looking for their waitress.

  “We have to go,” the witch said, her face tight. “Right now.”

  “Why?” Barb asked, setting down the wing and wiping her fingers.

  “Funny you should have asked about Janea at that moment,” Sharice said. “Where is that waitress?!”

  Barb closed her eyes and Called.

  “I hope that’s not a sin,” she said, quietly. “Lord, I’m only using this demon, and the person that it rides, in Your works. If I have done wrong, I request some sort of sign.”

  “Well, it worked,” Sharice said. “Here she comes.”

  “Now what about Janea?” Barb asked.

  “She’s in the hospital,” the witch replied. “I need the check. Now. A friend’s been hurt.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the girl said. The demon on her shoulder was shuddering as if in pain.

  “What did you do to that thing?” Sharice asked.

  “I concentrated,” Barb said. “Hard. Janea.”

  “It seems she might have found what is causing the problem,” Sharice said. “Unfortunately, they don’t know if she’s going to live. Augustus has arranged a plane.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “We’re not sure what is wrong with Miss Grisham,” Dr. Stewart Downing said.

  The neurologist was tall and slender with a saturnine air. Barb, in fact, found him somewhat creepy.

  The trip had been…odd. It was the first time Barb, who had traveled extensively and in most forms of transportation, had ever flown in a Gulfstream. Now she knew how the other half lived. She’d already been packed; Sharice and Germaine apparently kept a traveling bag readily available, so the real question was, given that the plane had been prepped for takeoff when they arrived, did FLUF maintain a private jet? As it turned out, no. The FBI maintained a private jet for FLUF.

  By the time the team had reached Chattanooga, Janea had been moved from ICU to a semi-residential “long-term care” facility located near Memorial Hospital. Her condition had been determined to be non-life-threatening for the time being.

  The move was fortuitous since it meant nobody commented on Barb bringing a cat into the room.

  “Do you know where she was found?” Augustus Germaine asked.

  Augustus Germaine was the head of Special Circumstances for the US and Europe. In the US, the SC organization was called the Foundation for Love and Universal Faith: FLUF, pronounced “Fluff.” The inoffensive acronym was intentional; FLUF was the antithesis of a public operation. And in many cases it was even on point. Many, most even, of the Special Circumstances investigators were highly non-violent Wiccans and Buddhists.

  He was not an adherent of any religion. Nor was he agnostic or atheist. He knew gods existed, but for him, that was like saying air existed. You can’t see it, it’s there anyway, so what? Being strictly neutral was also the only way that he could settle the more-than-occasional disputes between his various agents. He didn’t care what kind of air it might be, as long as you could breathe it and not die.

  “Coolidge Park,” the neurologist replied. “Initially police thought she was under the influence of drugs. She was, at that time, conscious but incoherent, and attacked the officers. They started to place her under arrest and her heart arrested, so she was transported here. She was thought to be suffering from drug toxicity, until her tox screen came back negative. Then the FBI identified her as a consultant and, well…”

  “I understand,” Germaine said. “From your medical point of view, what is her condition?”

  “There were some small surface contusions,” Dr. Downing continued, pursing his lips in thought. “Possible indication of a struggle. That might actually have come from the altercation with the officers. No indication of sexual assault, and even the contusions are problematic. But nothing that would cause a coma. And it’s not a coma. She’s just very asleep. She has had a full CAT scan, EEG, and radiological MRI. There is no gross trauma to the brain but she remains in REM sleep. Only REM, not deep sleep. Heartbeat is up, blood pressure is high. Indications are of a more-or-less continuous nightmare. Which, sorry, isn’t good. The body can only stand so much stress. When I got all the tests done we administered a sleep antagonist, which is when it got truly unusual.”

  “She coded,” Sharice said.

  “Yes,” the neurologist said, frowning. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen the condition before,” the witch said. “I take it you administered an antagonist?”

  “And she went right back to this condition,” Dr. Downing said, nodding. “Do you know of a cure? I haven’t been able to find anything in the medical texts on this condition.”

  “It’s not common,” Sharice said. “And no, I don’t know of anything you can do to cure it.”

  “That’s a rather broad statement,” the neurologist said with a sniff.

  “It’s a rather accurate statement,” Germaine replied. “I know two neurologists in the world who are familiar with the condition. I’ll have one of them e-mail you.”

  Barb laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder and prayed to God for guidance. In return she received a very slight feel of life, of struggle.

  “Sharice…” she said a moment later in a strained voice.

  Sharice laid her hand on the patient’s other shoulder and then nodded.

  “She’s so far…”

  “I think that the good doctor has other things to do,” Germaine said. “We can stay with our friend, can we not?”

  “Absolutely,” the neurologist said. “If you need anything else…”

  “Not at all, Doctor,” the head of FLUF said. “But I appreciate your briefing in this matter.”

  “Her ka has been ripped from her body,” Sharice said after the door was closed. “This wasn’t an intentional projection. It was pulled out. The silver cord is barely holding.”

  “She’s fighting,” Barb said. “I get a feeling like dozens of…things ripping at her.”

  “Harpies,” Sharice said. “Probably the origin of the myth. That’s what most call them, anyway. One of the things to avoid on the Moon Path. She’s held, trapped. And being tortured astrally.”

  “How do we get her back?” Barb asked.

  “That’s a tough one,” Sharice said. “Augustus, I’m going to need help.”

  “Who?”

  “Drakon
and…Hjalmar,” Sharice said. “I’m going to have to go onto the Paths and battle. If we keep her here, I’m going to need physical security on her as well. She should be moved to a more secure location. We’ll need a nurse that can keep her mouth shut, support equipment and an on-call MD. Then Drakon to watch my astral back. Hjalmar, because if Freya doesn’t get involved pretty damned soon, we’re going to lose her.”

  “What can I do?” Barb asked.

  “Right now, what you’re doing,” Sharice said. “Send her power. It’s helping her, I can tell. We may need to bring in a coven to raise the support we’ll need. But you’ve got other things to do.”

  “What?” Barb asked.

  “Someone or something did this to her,” Sharice said, looking over at Augustus. “Am I right?”

  “Presumably,” the senior agent said. “There has been an upgrade in the case. It is now officially Special Circumstances.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “ See the Boss.”

  Kurt snorted at the post-it on his computer monitor and then crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. Special Agent Kurt Spornberger had been an FBI agent for barely two years, but he wasn’t exactly a newb.

  He’d been a street officer with Chicago PD for three years before moving to investigations and had worked his way up to Homicide before being recruited by the Bureau. The Bureau was, at the time, going through one of its periodic reevaluations, and some bright consultant had noticed that many investigations that the Bureau had been credited with solving could better be credited to local LEOs. It just made sense in many ways. Bureau agents rarely spent enough time in any one area to really develop relations with the local informants. They didn’t spend their early careers working the streets of a city. They often didn’t really get the zeitgeist of the local culture. Local law enforcement officers-at least the good ones-did.

  The suggestion of the overpaid consultant was taken to heart by at least one member of senior management in DC, and the order had come down from on high: Recruit some local guys. Kurt had good relations with the local office. After he turned up a critical lead in a local serial-murder case, an eyewitness to an abduction who just happened to be a street whore who would have never talked with a Fibbie, the local Supervisory Special Agent had recommended him. He had the requisite four-year degree, albeit in anthropology, not pre-law or criminal justice, and he had a good rep. He was a little less “STRAC” than the Bureau normally hired, another way of saying he didn’t look like he had a ten-foot spike jammed up his ass, but the idea was to look at different cultures and everyone agreed Kurt Spornberger was “different culture.”

  But he had an interesting time at the FBI academy. Some of the classes were taught by agents who had “been there, done that.” You could tell by the look. These were guys who had spent decades looking at bare scraps of evidence, trying to find that one word buried in billions that would pop the perps, turn up the terrorists, break the bank-robbery team.

  Those instructors looked him in the eye, looked at his record, listened to his answers and then nodded. He might be a greenie to the Bureau, but he wasn’t green. They’d brought him in on some techniques he hadn’t known and let him slide through the stuff that was rookie material without being assholes. He got along with the Old Guys.

  Then there had been the classes taught by the Belts.

  Suits were the upper echelon. Some of them were old agents who had been there and done that. Too many, though, were overgrown Belts. A Belt was like a Chairborne Commando in the Army. They were the agents who had somehow managed to never work outside the Beltway. Oh, they might have gone as far as Quantico, but that was about it. They had no field experience other than an initial tour.

  But my God, did they know how to run an investigation. They were investigating supermen, one and all. They had every answer, just ask them. And ask the Suits, all of whom they knew by name. You clearly got the impression that the FBI Director did not shit without their fully prepared Action Report on Shitting Methodology. And make sure that form 493-628-QX is filled out fully.

  Kurt had barely managed to survive the classes given by the Belts. He’d dealt with Belts before. Every department had them. You just had to learn to live with them because killing them forced you to fill out even more paperwork. And there were so many, you’d never get any real work done.

  On the other hand, the shooting instructors were pretty good. They believed in the FBI Way of shooting. But when Kurt proved that the Kurt Spornberger Way of the Gun was going to get him through the qualifications, they’d left him alone. The hand-to-hand stuff, well…

  It had taken him quite some time to convince them that he Did Not Want to move to Quantico to be a HTH instructor. Seriously. He had a house in Chicago, he liked Chicago, he did not like Virginia and he didn’t want to live in Virginia. He understood that the FBI meant he’d move at some point. But the idea had been to get local guys working local areas. Not get local guys to come teach HTH. I’m sorry about the arm.

  He’d graduated from Quantico with fair marks, really high on shooting, investigation techniques and hand-to-hand-pretty high from the Been There Done That instructors, pretty marginal from the Belts. Any BTDT Supervisory Special Agent who looked at the results was going to be able to parse it. Good field agent, not a natural diplomat.

  The last week of Academy, the postings came out. He was unsurprised to find that at least two of the natural Belts in the class were going to DC. Most of the rest weren’t untoward, either, except that they were actually posting the one Native American they had to a reservation. Of course, the guy was a Cherokee and they were sending him to a Hopi reservation in Arizona, but at least they were trying.

  Then he got to “Spornberger, Kurt M.”

  Chattanooga, TN.

  The whole effing idea had been to recruit guys for their local knowledge, and where did they send the guy from Chicago?

  Chattanooga. What, it started with a “Ch” so it had to be the same place? Belt thinking in a nutshell.

  Fucking Chattanooga. Goodbye, Lake Michigan, hello…Tennessee River? He could hear the echo of banjoes just saying it. Goodbye kielbasa, hello…What the fuck did they eat in Tennessee, anyway? Grits…God almighty, he’d be forced to eat grits. And…chitlins…Oh…God…

  Over the last couple of years he’d come to terms with living in the wilderness. Chattanooga wasn’t awful. Some of the local cops, with whom he’d quickly established a close relationship since his own BTDT came across fast, even insisted that they’d never live anywhere else. He’d tried to explain the inherent superiority of the only truly civilized city on Earth, but they just couldn’t comprehend it. It was probably something in the water.

  But he survived. Someday, he was assured, he could get transferred back to the center of the universe, the city with broad shoulders. They just wanted him to get accustomed to working with other areas. “Think of it as broadening,” his Supervisor had explained.

  “Morning, Kurt,” Supervisory Special Agent Garson said as the agent entered the office. “How’s case nine-forty-eight?”

  “I don’t think these guys have got a record,” Kurt said, sitting down and spreading his legs out. “We picked up one pretty clear print, but it wasn’t on file. And the way they move, I’d say military background. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve put in a request for access to the military database of fingerprints, but you know how sticky they can be. They’re going to want to know which guy, and we don’t have that yet.”

  “Well, I may have to transfer it,” Garson said, sighing. “We have a change of status on another case. A series of cases. The Madness cases.”

  “Oh?” Kurt said, neutrally. Everybody in the office, everyone in the area, knew about the Madness cases. Technically a series of unrelated cases, they’d gotten tossed together because while the MOs and perps were different, the patterns were remarkably similar. In seven separate cases, otherwise more-or-less normal people had suddenly gone bat-shit nuts. Violently psychotic. They
’d gone crazy, started attacking people around them, in one case partially cannibalizing a victim, and had never gotten their act back together. All seven were in long-term psychiatric holding, and the doctors couldn’t do more than dope them to the gills with antipsychotics.

  “A consultant attached to the overall investigation has been injured,” Garson said carefully. “I was asked to find someone to assist the replacement. In your files there is reference to an unusual murder investigation you were involved in in Chicago. The South Side Cult Murders.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kurt said, trying not to wince. The reality was, he had to get out of Chicago PD because of his final report on those murders. He’d been the guy who cracked the case, but putting in your report that you’d seen “a shadow” leave the body of the perp after he was shot and killed in the raid…Well, if Kurt had played it off and put it down to “combat fatigue,” it would have been one thing. But sticking by his statement and what he was sure he’d seen with his own damned eyes…

  “What I’m about to explain to you his highly classified,” the Supervisory Special Agent said, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward. “Codeword Sierra Charlie. Sierra Charlie stands for Special Circumstances.”

  Barb was used to the stares. It wasn’t that pretty women didn’t work for the FBI. It was that she was unusually pretty, and that attracted attention. Once upon a time, that had been a big thing for her. These days she found it to be a pain. And it was only getting worse.

  The bag over her shoulder with the black cat head poking out of it, said cat looking around with interest, didn’t help.

  She really didn’t care at the moment. “Focused” didn’t begin to cover it. Laser beams were lazy compared to Barb.

  “Barbara Everette, Foundation for Love and Universal Faith, to see Supervisory Special Agent Garson,” she said in one sharp rush.

  The rent-a-cop manning the security station couldn’t seem to get past the various views. He shifted from her face to the chest to the cat then back to the face, and his mouth opened.