Chapter 25

The Riot

Savannah had cast a confusion spell once before. Though I hadn’t witnessed the results, Elena told me what had happened. During their escape attempt at the compound, Elena had been heading down a darkened hall to disarm a pair of guards. An elevator filled with guards responding to the alarm touched down behind her. The doors opened. Savannah cast a confusion spell. The guards started firing—at each other, at Elena, at everything in sight. She hadn’t told Savannah that she’d nearly been killed, and I hadn’t seen the sense in bringing it up later. Now I saw the sense.

Cortez started for the front door, then stopped and turned toward the rear.

“Wait here,” he said, pulling open the back door. “I’m going to countercast.”

“Can’t you do that from inside?”

“I need to be at the locus of her cast, the presumed target area.”

“I’ll go to her window and direct you.”

“No—” He stopped, then nodded. “Just be careful. If anything happens, get away from the glass.”

He checked to make sure no one was looking, then ducked out. People had only begun congregating in the backyard an hour or so ago, so the crowd there was less than a third of that out front, no more than a dozen people. With the patio lights off and the additional shadow cast by the room overhang, the back door was in darkness, so Cortez was able to slip through without being seen.

I hurried to Savannah’s bedroom. She was still lying on her bed, arms crossed. I moved to the window.

Cortez appeared a moment later. There must have been people out there who’d seen him escort me into the house earlier, but no one gave any sign of recognizing him now.

As Cortez slipped through the crowd, I looked over the sea of faces, searching for a sign of panic or confusion. Nothing. Cortez moved behind a couple selling cans of soda and glanced toward the window. I shifted left, positioning myself where Savannah had been. Standing on tiptoes brought me to her height.

“You’re both as bad as the Elders,” Savannah said. “Making a big fuss out of nothing.”

I waved Cortez to the right a few steps, then motioned for him to stop. His lips moved as he countercast. When he finished, he glanced around, as if trying to determine whether the spell was broken. Yet there was still no sign that Savannah’s spell had worked at all.

I motioned for him to come inside. He shook his head, waved me away from the window and headed into the crowd.

I released the curtain, but didn’t step away, only shifting out of his direct view. He traversed the crowd, pausing here and there before moving on.

“I don’t think it worked,” I said.

“Of course it did. My spells always work.”

I bit my tongue and kept my attention on Cortez. When someone shouted, I jumped. A man laughed and I followed the sound to see a couple of young men jostling one another and laughing between gulps from a paperbag-covered bottle. Guess my lawn had replaced the Belham Raceway as the leading source of community entertainment.

As I shifted my gaze away to search for Cortez, one of the men’s shouts turned angry. The other whirled and slammed his fist into his companion’s jaw. The bottle flew from the first man’s hand and struck the shoulder of a woman in a lawn chair. As the woman cried out, her husband leaped to his feet, fists raised.

Cortez came running from the other side of the crowd. I waved my arms, gesturing for him to stop, trying to communicate that the fight had nothing to do with Savannah’s spell. Then someone saw me. A cry went up.

I stumbled back from the window. A clod of dirt struck the glass. Someone screamed. The shouts lost their edge of excitement and turned angry, then seemed to drift away from the window.

“Go into my room,” I said.

Savannah only set her jaw and stared at the ceiling.

“I said get to my room!”

She didn’t move. The shouting became frenzied. Someone howled. I grabbed Savannah by the arm and hauled her into my bedroom, away from the front of the house. Then I raced to the living room.

I cracked open the curtains, hoping to see Cortez and make sure he was okay. The moment I moved the drapes, something hit the glass. I fell back, curtain still in my hand. When I looked up, a man was plastered against the window. Two matronly women held him by the hair while a third pummeled his stomach. I let the curtain fall and ran to the front door.

I once dated a soccer buff. One afternoon, as we watched a European game on television, a riot broke out and I’d stared at the screen in horror, unable to believe such an outpouring of violence could occur over something as trivial as a sporting event. The scene outside reminded me of that soccer riot. I had to help, to do something. If this was anything like the riot I’d seen, people would be hurt, and one of them might be the innocent guy who’d gone outside trying to stop it.

I hurried onto the front porch. No one noticed me. The loosely gathered crowd had become a seething mass of bodies, hitting, kicking, biting, scratching. Stranger attacked stranger while others huddled on the ground, protecting themselves from the onslaught. A half-dozen people had escaped the crush and stood at a distance, gaping as if unable to tear themselves away farther.

From a car window, a video camera lens panned across the scene. When I saw that, I had to stifle the urge to march over, grab the camera, and smash it against the pavement. I don’t know why, but even with all that was happening, that bothered me the most. After a glare at the cameraman, I diverted my attention to the crowd, searching for Cortez.

Finding one person in that mob would be like spotting a friend at a Columbus Day sale. I climbed onto the porch swing for a better look. Then, bracing myself against the house, I stepped onto the railing. As I did, it occurred to me that I was making myself much more visible than was safe. It also occurred to me that this might be the best thing I could do, to somehow divert the crowd’s attention by revealing the long-hidden object of their vigil.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Anybody want an interview?”

Nobody even turned. No, strike that, someone did turn. From the very bowels of the brawl, someone looked my way. Cortez. He was restraining a huge man intent on attacking an elderly woman. Cortez had the guy in a headlock, but the man must have outweighed him by a hundred pounds and, every time the man swung his arm, Cortez flew off his feet. I jumped from the railing and dashed into the fray.

I moved through the crowd with surprising ease. Sure, a few fists flew my way, but when I kept moving, my would-be attackers found less-active targets. With a confusion spell, no one cares who they attack, so long as they attack someone.

When I reached Cortez, I grabbed the elderly woman to lead her to safety.

“You fucking bitch!” she screeched. “Get your filthy hands off me!”

She clawed my face, and punched me in the stomach, then knocked me down as I doubled over. A man tripped over my prone form, righted himself, and kept running. As I struggled to my feet, Cortez lost his grip on the other man, who scrambled up and barreled into the crowd after the elderly woman. I lunged for him, but Cortez caught my arm.

“We can’t,” he panted, wiping blood from his mouth. “It doesn’t help. We need to break the spell. Do you know the countercast?”

“No.” I turned to see a woman crawling through the crowd, ducking blows. “It doesn’t seem to be affecting everyone.”

“It is. They’re all confused. Some don’t react violently to it.”

“I’ll get those people to safety, then. You keep working on the spell.”

I hurried to the crawling woman, helped her to her feet and ushered her through the throng. At the road, we crossed and I left her sitting on the far curb before heading back. It took several minutes to find someone else trying to escape, and several more to get him out of the mob.

As I went back for a third time, I realized my mission was like saving single seal cubs from the slaughter. While I rescued one person, at least two more were beaten unconscious. Either Cortez’s countercast wasn’t working or the violence had picked up enough momentum to continue on its own.

“Thought you could get away, did you?” a voice said at my ear.

I turned to see one of the Salvationists. He slammed a Bible into my face.

“Get thee hence, Satan!”

I whirled away. A hand caught my arm. I looked into the rolling eyes of a young woman.

“Bitch!” she shouted. “Look what you did to my shirt!”

She grabbed it, pulling the front forward with a seam-ripping wrench. It was covered in dirt and blood. More blood smeared her hand. In the opposite fist she held a Swiss Army knife, bloodied blade exposed.

Without thinking, I grabbed for the knife. The blade sliced across my palm. I yelped and fell back. Cortez appeared, grabbing the woman from behind. She spun and struck. The short blade plunged into Cortez’s side. She yanked it out and pulled back for a second stab.

I cast a binding spell. The woman stopped in mid-strike. I threw myself on her, knocking her down and grabbing the knife. The spell broke then and she fought, kicking and screaming. Cortez dropped to his knees and tried to help me restrain her, but adrenaline seemed to triple her strength and it was like restraining a wild animal. We both cast binding spells, but neither worked. If only we could calm people—Yes, of course. A calming spell. I cast one, then another, reciting the spell in an endless loop until I felt her limbs go slack beneath me.

“Hey,” she said. “What—Get off me. Help! Fire!”

Around us, people had stopped fighting and were milling about, wiping bloodied noses and muttering in bewilderment.

“Perfect,” Cortez said. “Keep casting.”

I did. We got to our feet and, with Cortez shielding me, we moved through the crowd as I repeated the calming spell. It didn’t work on everyone. As I’d feared, the aggression had taken on a life of its own and some people didn’t want to stop, yet enough people did that they were able to restrain those who kept going.

“Now, to the house,” Cortez said. “Quickly.”

“But there’s more—”

“It’s good enough. Any longer and people will start recognizing you.”

We ran for the front door.

Once inside, Cortez called the police. Then I led him to the bathroom, where we could assess injuries. Savannah stayed in my room, door closed. I didn’t tell her it was over. Right then, I was afraid of what else I might be tempted to say.

The slice across my hand was the worst of my injuries. Hardly fatal. I slapped on a bandage, then turned my attention to Cortez, starting with a cold compress for his bloodied lip. Next, the knife wound. The blade had passed through his right side. I pulled up his shirt, cleaned the wound, and took a better look.

“It looks okay,” I said. “But it could use a couple of stitches. Maybe when the police get here, we can take you to the hospital.”

“No need. I’ve had worse.”

I could see that. Though I’d only pulled his shirt up a few inches, I could see a thick scar crossing his abdomen. He was reed thin, but more muscled than one might expect from his build. I guess there’s more to fighting Cabals than courtrooms and paperwork.

“I’ll make a poultice,” I said. “It usually pulls the wound together better than stitches anyway. Less chance of scarring, too.”

“Handy. I’ll have to ask for a copy of the recipe.”

I opened the bathroom cupboard and took out the poultice ingredients. “This is my fault. She’s cast that spell once before, with even worse results. I should have warned her about it. I should have told her to wipe it from her repertoire.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. The confusion spell can be very useful, under the right circumstances, or as a spell of last resort. The caster has to understand it, though, which Savannah obviously doesn’t.”

“Does it always work like that?”

“No. Her casting is surprisingly strong. I’ve never seen a confusion spell affect so many people in such a clearly negative fashion. The spell always exacerbates any underlying tendency toward violence. Perhaps under these circumstances, I should have expected such a reaction, assuming the sort of people who congregate around such a story are not the most mentally balanced of individuals.”

“That’s an understatement.”

The doorbell rang then.

“The police,” I said. “Or so I hope.”

It was the police. They didn’t stay long. Outside, people had either left or resumed their vigil as if nothing had happened. The police took some statements, helped people to the paramedics, and secured the area. Afterward they left behind a cruiser and two officers to keep watch.

Savannah finally appeared as I was putting the poultice on Cortez.

“Don’t expect me to say I’m sorry,” she said.

I turned to face her.

She stood in the bathroom doorway. “I’m not sorry.”

“You—do you know what you’ve done?” I stalked across the bathroom and pushed open the window. “Do you see that? The ambulances? The paramedics? The blood? People got hurt, Savannah. Innocent people.”

“They shouldn’t have been there. Stupid humans. Who cares about them?”

“I care about them!” I ripped the bandage off my hand. “I suppose you don’t care about this, either. Well, there is something you should care about—”

I grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face Cortez, then pointed out his swollen lip and wounded side.

“Do you care about that? This man is here to help you, Savannah. To help you. He could have been killed out there trying to undo the spell you cast.”

“I didn’t ask him to undo it. If you got hurt, it’s your own fault for going out there.”

“You—” I flung her arm down. “Get to your room, Savannah. Now.”

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she only stomped her foot and glared at us. “I’m not sorry! I’m not!”

She turned and ran for her room.