Spell Bound

Adam arched an eyebrow, then cast a pointed look at me—fully dressed—then at the bed, still made with our laptops on it.

“You never know,” I said. “Maybe the people he hangs out with just lie on the bed together and surf porn sites on their laptops. Evolution at its finest.”

“Speaking of bodily fluids . . .” I pointed to the snail’s trail of putrefaction he had left in his wake. “Next time you need a dead body? Shopping is much better at the morgue. Cleaned up, stitched up, and prettied up. You’d look almost human.”

“Don’t take another step.” I went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, put it on the chair, and motioned for him to sit. As he did, I spritzed him.

He gave me a withering look. “No. I found something else you might consider useful. I realized that may happen as I continue this investigation, and if it does, we may wish to extend our agreement to cover it.”

“So you want to be paid for the leads that don’t actually solve the case?” I turned to Adam. “Why don’t we do that? If we’re investigating, and we find out someone’s screwing around or cheating his company, we can sell that information to the highest bidder.”

“Ah, right. There’s the rub. Our pesky human consciences.” I glanced back at Kimerion. “We’re not bargaining for every useless scrap—”

“Not even if it pertains to a recent case of yours? A certain Volo half-demon’s untimely departure from her hell dimension?”

When I blinked, he smiled. “I thought that might change your mind. Did you stop to wonder how Leah O’Donnell escaped? It’s not that easily accomplished, as may be evidenced by the fact that your world isn’t currently overrun by the spirit of every evildoer in history.”

“Yes, it’s harder than escaping from Alcatraz. So I’ve heard. But it does happen. I’ve heard that, too.”

“True. But Leah O’Donnell, while possessing a great power and a remarkable amount of animal cunning, lacked the intellect necessary to carry out her plan. So why was she able to escape hell when so many of her betters cannot?”

“So it was another demon.” Kimerion gripped the chair so hard a finger snapped off. “I do not appreciate competing for the attention of mortals, even Asmondai’s son.”

The demi-demon hesitated, then shrugged. “It could help us find out what has become of the witch’s powers. So sharing that information would be in your best interests. Otherwise . . .” Another shrug. “It is of no import.”

Kimerion grumbled and shifted and tried again to insist he was only doing us a favor, letting us bring him any information we might learn from Schmidt so he could put it into context for us. Finally, he gave up the pretense and spat, “Asmondai wants to know who freed the Volo.”

“Then say so,” Adam said. “Don’t set us on this trail pretending you’re doing us a favor. Who does Asmondai think freed Leah?”

Kimerion was lying, but when I glanced over, Adam only dipped his chin, telling me he knew Kimerion wasn’t telling the truth. He circled the question a few times, before Kimerion said, “I can give you more leads. Not answers, but leads.”

“A boon. A simple one, which will buy you all the extraneous information uncovered in the course of my investigation.”

“What’s the boon? I’ll tell you right now, we don’t do sacrifices. And if it’s sex?” I pointed at the bed. “There’s the laptop. Knock yourself out.”

His lip curled again. “I don’t concern myself with petty physical pleasures. The boon I ask is far more ephemeral. You know the daughter of Lucifer. I wish an audience with her. A brief audience, arranged at her convenience and with whatever restrictions you deem necessary—blindfolds, bindings, wards.”

Kimerion wouldn’t tell us why he wanted to speak to Hope, but Adam probed until it was clear this was a political move. Kimerion wanted to open a dialogue with someone who might prove useful. Adam then hammered out every last detail of the proposed meeting. How long would it last? When would it take place? Could others be present? Did he intend to ask her for something? If so, would he agree that her refusal would mark the immediate end of the discussion?

After a solid twenty minutes of negotiation they came to an agreement. For the information Kimerion had now, Adam would convey the request to Hope. He obviously couldn’t agree to a meeting for her. If she refused, Kimerion would stop supplying details.

Adam formalized the deal with a brief ritual. It wasn’t necessary. In fact, most demons balk at it, the same way shady business partners will balk at putting a contract in writing. Kimerion didn’t complain, just sat there, calmly rotting, until it was finished.

“She had help,” Kimerion said. “That’s clear to anyone with any knowledge of hell dimensions. They cannot escape without outside assistance. I would suggest you ask more questions. How did she get out? More importantly, why would someone help her? No one on our side could have aided her escape. It’s not possible.”

“I’d look farther up the food chain. Again, that’s only speculation. My suggestion is to ask this necromancer, Schmidt, for more.”

That was all Kimerion had. Hardly game-changing information, but it was worth the cost of asking Hope for an audience.

As he shuffled to the door, he stopped and glanced back. “Have you ever had any contact with your mother’s sire, witch?”

“Is this a trick question? Of course not. Lord demons make most deadbeat dads look like father of the year. They sow their seed and scram. Adam doesn’t know Asmondai. Hope doesn’t know Lucifer. My mother didn’t know Balaam. If you think otherwise, then we’d better shop for a demon helper who’s a little more in touch with his world.”

“They have been known to make contact,” he said evenly. “I was merely wondering if Balaam has, with you or with your mother.”

He nodded. “Then I will see you in Miami. I trust you’ll be there, after you speak to this necromancer? To facilitate my audience with Lucifer’s daughter?”

“Sooner rather than later, I’d suggest. If you are involved in this matter, it is the safest place for you.”

He left, and we did too—before housekeeping stopped by and tried to charge us extra to get rid of the stench.

I called Schmidt again. Still no answer. A quick check on his area code told me it was from a residence in Riverside, California. I researched him, hoping to ping a cell or business number. No luck.

“Then I guess we’re keeping the car for another day. And you get to avoid going to Miami for a little longer.”

Riverside was just close enough that it wasn’t worth the bother of flying. And just far enough that we were exhausted by the time we arrived.

We got to Schmidt’s place after eleven, and I couldn’t help being reminded of yesterday’s late-night visit to Walter Alston. Would we find another dead body here? As we sat in the car, looking at the darkened house, SUV in the drive, it was beginning to look like a definite possibility.

We had every reason to believe Schmidt would welcome our visit, so there was no need for subterfuge. Too bad, because it would have been a hell of a lot easier here than it’d been at Alston’s.

I didn’t see any signs of external security. No cameras. No dog. Not even a fence around the garden-filled yard.

From my research, I knew the Schmidts didn’t have children, which explained the small house. He was an economics instructor at the local community college. His wife was a high school teacher. The SUV was his. An identical model was registered to her, too, and was presumably in the garage. Both Schmidts were in their forties, but only married five years. They volunteered together at a youth group. They vacationed at their time-share in Maui every winter. They took pottery classes at the community center. A very normal, very boring middle-aged couple.

Given the kind of supernaturals Leah hung out with, I’d decided that Schmidt’s dull suburban life had to be an excellent front for his darker enterprises. Except that when I searched our files, I found no mention of him. We had Schmidt necromancers in the council records, but as complainants, not troublemakers.

Adam rang the bell. As we waited, he examined the front porch for any signs of a camera feed. None. He rang again. When no one answered, he peered through the side window.

We went in through a rear window and no sirens blasted. Adam checked the security panel by the front door. Taped to the inside was a scrap of paper with the word: Mom.

“He’s a necromancer.” Adam walked into the living room and lifted a pot filled with dried herbs. “He needs a different kind of security.”

We did a sweep of the main floor, then went upstairs. The banister was still broken where Leah had pushed Mrs. Schmidt through. The same trick she’d used on Michael, only there hadn’t been a banister to slow his fall and it’d been more than a ten-foot drop. I stared at that broken railing, thinking about Michael, until Adam nudged me along.

As Adam searched for a basement, I poked around the living room. Needlepoint on one end table. A half-constructed model ship on the other. The pillows and throws all looked handmade. Same for the artwork. None of it was particularly good. A couple of artistic dabblers.

I found a photo. The Schmidts were just what I expected. Middle-aged, plain, slightly dumpy. They looked happy, though. I glanced around the living room and could picture them there, doing their arts-and-crafts hobbies together.

“Just storage in the basement,” Adam said when he came back. “And not a lot of that. All of the boxes have been there a while. They’re covered in dust. No strange smells.”

Mrs. Schmidt’s SUV was in the garage, along with a bicycle built for two. A childless couple, who’d met late in life, content in each other’s company.

We checked the key rack. Two sets were there. No sign of a wallet for Schmidt, although he may have kept it elsewhere.

“It’s a coin toss,” I said finally. “He might have been murdered and dissolved in lime. Or he might have taken a taxi to the hospital because it was cheaper than paying for parking while he stays at his wife’s bedside.”

I found a cellular bill in the “to be paid” pile. I called Schmidt’s. His voice mail picked up and warned me that his access would be spotty—presumably because he’d be at the hospital a lot—and urged me to e-mail him instead. I’d already done that, so I left a message. I tried his wife’s number, but it forwarded to his.

Adam logged onto the computer. It didn’t even have a password. While he checked e-mail, contacts, and the calendar, I did the same with the physical versions, looking for a name I recognized or a suspicious notation. Nothing.

We went through the house again, searching for hiding spots. Not a damned thing. Either Schmidt was a master criminal or he was as clean as he seemed. I was starting to suspect the latter. It still didn’t explain his connection with Leah. Then Adam said, “Schmidt is from Wisconsin. Moved here ten years ago, after he met his wife.”