Chapter Six

 

I could not find anyone named Eddie Darksoul who lived in North America, let alone San Francisco, let alone on Broadway Street.

There was a gamer named eddiepurple and/or eddiepurplebum, who made YouTube videos about playing something called Dark Souls, but I was pretty sure he was not Jinx’s erstwhile boyfriend.

There was an Edward Darquez who lived on Broadway Street, and I was on my way to pay him a surprise visit, when John called.

When his photo flashed up, my heart lightened with relief. I pressed Accept and said, “John, I feel like such a fool.”

“No. Why would you? You had a nightmare. It was real. I saw.” His voice was low and intimate. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine. Embarrassed.”

“No. Don’t be. I’m just glad you’re okay now. Do you still want to go to the party tonight?”

Not really. We hadn’t had a Saturday night at home in nearly two months. But this party was being thrown by the mayor, and everyone attending tonight would be, in John’s view, important. I said cheerfully, “Of course!”

“Because if it’s too much for you right now—”

I laughed. “Too much small talk? Too many watery cocktails? I’m pretty sure I can survive a few hours of it.”

“Okay.” He sounded relieved. “Great. I’ll see you around six. Are you a—”

I knew he was about to ask where I was and what I was doing, and I had given my word I would never lie to him again, so I cut him off quickly. “Where are you? Did you go into the office?”

“Yes. I thought I might as well catch up on some paperwork.”

“I feel terrible. You need a day off.”

“I’ll have tomorrow.” I could hear the faint smile in his voice. “We’ll both have tomorrow.”

“I like the way you think. Hey, I have to go. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.” I disconnected, then sank back against the upholstery of the Uber and exhaled a long breath.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

If Edward Darquez was Eddie Darksoul, John would not be happy with me sticking my nose in police business, but at least he would have the information he needed. And if Edward Darquez was not Eddie Darksoul, John would never need to know about my little fishing expedition.

It wasn’t that I wanted to play amateur sleuth—there were few things I wanted less. But if this guy really was Craft and really was involved in a citywide extortion ring, I needed to know that so that I could bring it to the attention of the Société du Sortilège, who could then inform the hierarchy of whatever tradition Darksoul belonged to.

Not that it was the society’s job to police other traditions. Such meddling would never be tolerated, except in this kind of situation where the bad behavior of one lone wolf was liable to result in exposure of Craft itself. The one precept that is universal to all traditions is the tenth: In our silence lies our safety.

Or as my friends and I used to joke: First rule of Witch Club? You don’t talk about Witch Club.

I couldn’t forget the scintilla of magic on the envelope I had received or the fact that whoever had broken into our house last night had used spellcraft. If witches were involved in this thing, and that seemed increasingly likely to me, it was a big fucking deal and needed to be dealt with as quickly as possible—and in-house, as we say.

 

 

It was street parking only in front of 1390 Broadway. I climbed out of the Uber, opened my umbrella, and jogged around the wet-beaded cars parked bumper-to-bumper on the steep hill.

The wide entrance to the dark-blue building was gated, and no one answered the buzzer, which was annoying. I glanced over my shoulder, looked up at the windows—most of them covered by blinds or drapes. I collapsed my umbrella, tucked it under my arm, raised my hands in front of the door handle.

“Ticktock, turn the lock.”

I didn’t expect any wards or protection spells, and I was not disappointed. The lock clicked over, the steel handle turned, the silver gate swung open in well-oiled invitation.

I stepped inside.

There was no one inside the elevators. I met no one on the third floor.

The building looked—and smelled—like it had been built in the twenties. Though there were thirty-six units, no one seemed to be around. Granted, it was not the weather for loitering in damp, drafty hallways.

I found #34 without much trouble and knocked on the door. I could hear rain thundering down on the roof, children laughing in the apartment on the right, and MSNBC blasting in the apartment on the left. Apartment #34 remained silent.

I knocked again.

The scent of baking pumpkin-spice muffins wafted down the chilly hall.

I was just starting to get uneasy—I’ve had bad experience with people not answering my knock—when the door suddenly flew open and a mostly naked man in camo briefs and an aqua gel sleep mask pushed up like a headband glared at me.

“Do you know what time it is?” he demanded.

“Just after ten, I think.”

“Ten? Ten! I’ve had less than two hours’ sleep!”

His hair was brown, lighter and longer than it had appeared in the photos, but judging by his extensive body art, I was pretty sure I had the right guy. The skull centerpiece chest wing tattoo was my first clue.

“Sorry to wake you. Are you Eddie Darksoul?”

His scowl gave way to an expression I couldn’t quite read. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and leaned forward, peering into my face like a drunk confronted by an old acquaintance. He drew back at once, as though the old acquaintance had turned into a cobra.

“What the fuck,” he whispered.

“Sorry?”

He took a step back, then took a step forward, then pushed both his hands through his hair, knocking the sleep mask to the hardwood floor. “What the fuck, man?” he repeated, only that time it was definitely a question.

I didn’t have the answer, so I asked a question of my own. “Is something wrong?”

He threw me a look of disbelief, pushed his hands through his hair again, and backed up a couple of steps.

“Eddie?”

“No, no, no.” He turned and began walking in a circle around his front room, clutching his head, and repeating, “No, no, no.” It was the right Eddie, in case I had any doubt, because I could see the Sigil of Baphomet blazoned on his muscular back as he began to make a second loop.

By then I had figured out what Jinx already suspected. Eddie was not Craft. I doubted if he was even Wicca. More likely he was just a guy with an unhealthy interest in the occult. I stepped inside the apartment and closed the door. “Hey, I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

He stopped and faced me. “How did you find me?”

“You’re in the phone book.”

He put his hand out as though pushing me back. “You gotta understand. I didn’t know you couldn’t swim.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I’m not a strong swimmer, but I can swim. John taught me after we had our pool installed. I hadn’t wanted the pool. We had argued over having one because I had always been a little afraid of water.

Eddie was saying, “That wasn’t my idea. I was just following orders.”

In fact, in June, I had nearly drowned in Paris when…

I stared at Eddie. Stared into his narrow-set eyes and his pillow-creased, rather stupid face. I had the weird sensation that the floor had just dropped out from under me—or that someone had given me a shove off the embankment overlooking the Seine.

“Who told you to push me in?” My voice did not sound like my voice.

I don’t know if he heard me. He was still trying to justify his actions. “It was a test. To see if you were what you claimed. But I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Who told you to push me in the Seine?”

“’Coz you’re not supposed to tell people,” Eddie said in a scolding sort of tone. “It’s against the rules. But you were going around blabbing to everyone, so they wanted to know if you really were or you were just pretending. Because a lot of people claim to be, but it’s bullshit. If you were, they were going to invite you.”

“In the name of the Goddess, what are you talking about?”

He looked offended. “The test I gave you. Because that’s all it was. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s not supposed to be dangerous. How was I supposed to know you couldn’t swim at all? I mean, you live in California.”

It was not easy to unravel that tangled web of gibberish, but slowly it dawned on me that this lunatic was talking about a good old-fashioned swimming test or test de flottaison as they called it back in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Except shoving people into a river to see what happened was not how that test was conducted.

And I guess that was the good news for me?

Because there wasn’t a high chance of surviving sixteenth and seventeenth century swimming tests.

“Who told you I had to be tested?” I asked. I remembered Jinx saying Eddie had claimed to be a friend of Rex’s. Rex was still in a coma, the victim of a hit-and-run that occurred shortly before my wedding to John. Had Eddie been involved in Rex’s accident? Was that supposed to be some kind of test too? Did this have to do with the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm? It had to. It couldn’t be a coincidence. What exactly had I stumbled into? What in the Nine Gates of Hell was going on?

“That prick the count,” Eddie answered.

There were so many thoughts whirling through my brain, I couldn’t even remember what the question had been. “Who? Wait. What count? Count who?”

“Whitney. Count Whitney.”

Who in the name of the Lady and the Lord was Count Whitney?

I tried to calm myself. Tried to marshal my thoughts. “Where did you meet this Count Whitney?”

“Through friends. He never did pay me, by the way. Your friend the count. He stiffed me.”

“My friend? What friend? Ralph Grindlewood? These friends must have names. Are you part of Valenti’s coven?”

Eddie looked confused and then scornful. “Covens are for chicks. I was working with the count. I don’t know anybody named Ralph, okay? I told you what I know.”

“You’ve told me nothing!” I felt an expected surge of fury. “Did you have something to do with Rex’s accident?”

Whatever Eddie saw in my face caused him to take a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Was that supposed to be a test too? Maybe you were trying to see if they could fly?”

Eddie goggled at me like a turkey on Thanksgiving morning, and took another big step back. So naturally I took a step forward—and pointed my umbrella at him.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.” I was trying to frighten him. I don’t deny it. I thought it would be the best way to get answers, assuming he had any to give. He was certainly not the brightest sparkler in the fun pack.

Eddie darted a couple of desperate looks around the apartment. “I’m not dealing with anybody. I told you he stiffed me. I never saw him again.”

“Did you mail me those photos of you and Jinx?”

He was already on defense and looking for a way out. That particular question seemed to send him over the edge. The color drained from his face, and he ran to the window next to the radiator, threw it open, and stepped out onto the dripping fire escape.

I followed him to the window. Ducked my head out, blinking away the raindrops. “Seriously?”

Eddie, crouched on the rain-slick platform of the fire escape, snarled, “Leave me alone!”

“Fine, Tarzan. I’ll leave you alone. You can talk to the cops instead.”

This is why interrogations are best left to professionals. Eddie was not smart, but he was optimistic. He believed climbing a slippery fire escape in the middle of a rainstorm while barefooted and wearing nothing but his underwear was a viable option.

His face twisted. He offered a hand signal that had nothing to do with the occult, backed up to descend the narrow ladder to the lower platform, lost his grip, and…fell.

Fell.

His descending shriek bounced off the canyon of surrounding apartment buildings.

I stared and stared and stared down at his splayed form in the alley below. Stared until black spots bubbled across my vision, like burning nitrate film. I closed my eyes. Blinked the spots away. Risked another look down. I had to wipe the rain from my eyes.

Eddie still lay there motionless, spread-eagled. His body would have looked cartoonish if not for the rapidly expanding red outline.

Across the way, in another apartment building, a boy of about nine was staring out the window at me.

I stared back.

He gave me a thumbs-up.

I fell back against the wall of Eddie’s apartment and took a couple of breaths that did not fill my lungs. I felt light-headed. Sick. Unable to think past the horror of what had happened.

Happened so quickly. So…permanently.

Because there was no spell to undo this.

My phone rang, unnervingly loud in the empty apartment, and I snapped back to awareness of my own danger. I remembered that I could be traced through my cell signal, and turned my phone off. Too late. And it probably wouldn’t have helped anyway. The bane of technology.

Somewhere outside the open window, a woman began to scream.