From down the hall, a woman’s voice speaks crisply. “In the living room.”

  Julia whispers, “Does that mean they only have one?”

  I snicker as we make our way through the foyer, past the winding staircase with its chandelier, and then down a hallway lined with a Persian carpet. I whisper, “Should we have taken our shoes off?”

  Julia glances down at my dirty boots, a smile tugging at her lips. “Definitely not.”

  Beatrice whispers, “You couldn’t leave tracks if you tried.”

  Apparently, she’s right. I glance back to see that the little clumps of debris left by the boots of yours truly are right now in the act of vanishing, as if being hoovered by an invisible vacuum. “I have to admit it’s a nice touch,” I mutter begrudgingly.

  “Isn’t it,” Beatrice replies dryly.

  At the end of our hike, we enter a vast room where two people sit on a sofa that’s roughly half a mile away. They look to be in their seventies, their gray hair perfectly coiffed, both of them expensively dressed. I can’t help but notice the shine on the man’s shoes, although he doesn’t notice the mud on my boots. That’s because he doesn’t look up from his newspaper.

  Two questions run through my mind concurrently. Who wears shoes in their own living room? And who reads newspapers anymore? I wasn’t even sure they still existed.

  The woman looks to Beatrice. “Ms. Doyle, how nice to see you again.”

  Wait. Beatrice has a last name? I guess she must, but it’s just that I’ve never heard it before. Somehow, it just never came up.

  “You as well,” Beatrice says.

  Neither one of them sound like they remotely mean it.

  The woman turns to me and Julia. “I’m Margaret, and this is Arthur.”

  Of course they are. This is hardly a Shelly and Bob situation. Arthur nods from behind his paper, evidently finding those pages too gripping to put down.

  Margaret says, “Please.” She nods just slightly, inviting us to sit, although not before her eyes linger on my shoes. Which actually cheers me up a little. It’s just nice to be noticed.

  Thus summoned, we walk forward past other sitting areas (there are actually several in the Lockwood’s living room) with plush chairs and gold-leaf tables, past the plants and statues (yes, there are white marble statues), the grand piano and then the crackling hearth. But, of all those things, it’s the painting above that fireplace that catches my eye. It’s a portrait of a man, presumably commissioned long ago. He’s shown wearing a long coat, a vest and high collar, his dark hair swept back from his tall forehead. The subject of that portrait stares out imperiously through cold, blue-gray eyes set above a long, straight nose. My eyes jump back to where Margaret sits waiting, seeing in her face enough of a resemblance that I’m sure the man must be a forebear.

  Margaret waits until we’re seated—Julia and I upon a loveseat, Beatrice in an armchair—before turning to Beatrice. She says, “So, you’re still employed by the Shadow Order after all these years. Still in administration?”

  Not exactly how I think of Beatrice, given that we’ve literally fought side by side in a number of supernatural battles. But I guess her role is at least partly administrative, in that she does manage things. And it’s not like she hides the fact that she has superiors within the organization. At the same time, the way Margaret says it leaves no doubt as to how she means it. In her eyes, Beatrice remains low in the magical pecking order and has done so for a very long time.

  Beatrice merely says, “Indeed.”

  A moment passes, during which Margaret's gaze remains upon Beatrice. “Arthur said you wanted to talk to us about Peter.”

  Beatrice nods. “That is the case, yes.”

  Finally, Arthur lowers his paper, folding it neatly at his knee. And there's the other half of the family tree. Other than the gray hair and thick glasses, he looks just like his son, Peter. Aka Jared Helton. Fear monger. Lie spreader. One way or another, murderer.

  “You could have asked on the phone,” Arthur says.

  In other words, why make us endure your presence? God, these people.

  Beatrice lets that one too roll off her shoulders. “I thought it might be better to speak in person.”

  That's what she says, but what she means is that she didn't come here to impart information. She came here to gain it. Talking on the phone wouldn't have allowed her to bring Julia along to receive psychic impressions. And, for what it's worth, she wouldn't have any observations I might be able to offer. I may not be Julia, but I've been known to pick up on a few things in my time. Beatrice also knows full-well that if anything ever goes wrong, I've got her back. I can open a portal and get us home again quickly. Because, while the Lockwoods appear to be no more than rich aging snobs, they're also full-blood witches. Underestimating them would be a mistake. And people do unexpected things when their kids are involved, even when their kids are over forty.

  “What about Peter did you wish to discuss?” Margaret asks.

  Beatrice hesitates, just slightly. “Well, you might find this upsetting, but it’s come to our attention that he’s been broadcasting his own show. He does so under an assumed name. Jared Helton. Have you heard of him?”

  Margaret shakes her head. “Never. This show—what’s it called?”

  “Occultists Among Us.”

  Margaret’s frown deepens. “Occultists Among Us,” she repeats. “Is it on television or the radio?”

  “YouTube,” Beatrice says.

  “YouTube.” She turns to Arthur, who shakes his head.

  Seriously?

  Apparently so, because Margaret says, “I gather that must be something on the internet.”

  In other words, garbage to be ignored. Not that, in this case, she’s wrong. Except for the fact that this garbage is getting people killed.

  Beatrice smooths her skirt. “It is. The intention of the show being to inform non-magical humans that witches live among them. That most of us are Satanists. And that our nefarious doings cause a great deal of harm. In fact, the show posits that witches using dark magic are behind the recent spate of murders.”

  Naturally, she doesn’t mention our suspicion that Peter himself must be behind the latest of those murders. After all, we can’t prove it, nor do we know how he’s pulling it off.

  All the same, Margaret frowns. “That’s absurd. Our Peter would never be involved with something like that. The very idea is—”

  “If I may.” Beatrice produces from her pocket one of her magically imbued stones.

  Margaret’s expression indicates just how seldom someone dares to interrupt her. Still, she says, “Very well.”

  What follows—as Beatrice projects the latest edition of “Helton’s” show—is a study in dawning realization. Both Margaret and Arthur appear to experience nearly simultaneous phases of shock, confusion and disbelief, eventually culminating in numb acceptance. Faced with the evidence, there’s no way for them to deny that what they see and hear is real. While I didn’t imagine finding it possible to feel bad for these two, I can’t help but feel that way now. After all, the aspersions cast by their son, as Jared Helton, are very much directed at them as well.

  Beatrice stops broadcasting—not surprisingly before the show’s accusations against Amaya—and gives the old couple a moment to let things sink in.

  Finally, Margaret speaks softly. “I don’t understand. Why would Peter do that?”

  Beatrice gently shakes her head. “We just don’t know, but that’s what we’re trying to find out. I’m afraid the ramifications are quite serious. This show appears to have inspired a movement among a certain group of non-magical humans. They call themselves the Hunters. We believe they’re responsible for the death of one of our own.”

  Not surprisingly, Margaret redons her armor. Her eyes harden. “Well, Peter certainly can’t be held liable, if what you’re suggesting is true. These people you describe—these so-called Hunters—must be deranged. And, come to think of it, isn’t it the Shadow Order’s primary function to keep our kind safe?”

  And there it is. Now, of course, it’s our fault rather than her son’s. Because isn’t that the way it works when you’re wealthy? You’re not supposed to have any problems to begin with. But, if you do, then obviously someone else is to blame. My brief period of sympathy is officially over. I’m right back to loathing Margaret’s entitled ass.

  To her credit, Beatrice takes the comment in stride. “That’s exactly what we’re attempting to do. The sooner we can find Peter and ask him to desist, the sooner we can stop things from spreading further. There’s been more than enough damage done as it is.”

  Arthur leans forward, tossing his still neatly folded paper onto the coffee table. He stares at us with magnified eyes. “Now, see here. If you’re looking for Peter, well then you came to the wrong place. The fact is, we haven’t heard from him in years. In fact, as far as we’re concerned, it was your very organization that caused him to change from a promising young man into a person we came to barely recognize.”

  He glowers at us for a few more seconds, then snatches up his paper again. Although, he doesn’t reopen it. Instead, his eyes drift to the window, as if seeing the past out there.

  This time, Beatrice actually does seem a little shaken. Softly, she asks, “What do you mean?”

  Her question is addressed to Arthur, but his gaze remains fixed on the window, his jaw set firm. Instead, it’s Margaret who answers, her expression scornful. “Are you actually going to sit there and pretend you don’t know?”

  Beatrice lets a moment pass. “Because we asked him to leave.”

  Margaret narrows her eyes. “Yes. Because you asked him to leave. Do you have any idea what an honor it is to be asked to train with the Shadow Order?”

  Beatrice opens her mouth to speak.

  “Of course, you do,” Margaret says. “We all do. He was so excited. I’ll never forget. We took him shopping. Bought him clothes, books and supplies. He kept saying he didn’t need any of those things—that the Shadow Order would provide everything he needed. Which we knew to be true, but we still did it, and he indulged us. He smiled from ear to ear the entire time. He was so proud. We all were.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beatrice says. “Truly, I am. But sometimes—”

  “Don’t apologize to me.” Margaret’s eyes flare with anger. “Don’t you dare. Not now, after all these years. You never said anything before, so why should I care what you have to say?”

  “But—”

  “But what? These things just happen? All the time, I suppose.”

  Beatrice has started to regain her composure. “Yes, they do, I’m afraid. Less than ten percent of—”

  Margaret scoffs. “Spare me the statistics. These are people we’re talking about. Young people given a chance at something the rest of the world doesn’t have to offer.” She gestures toward the same window upon which Arthur keeps his gaze focused. “Out there, we’re not even supposed to exist, never mind make some sort of mark. Not with the powers that make us different. The Shadow Order promises a chance at that, but then snatches it back again. And, because of what?”

  Margaret’s glare gives Beatrice no choice but to answer. “Because we felt that Peter was too headstrong. That he wasn’t willing to take direction.”

  “Ah, yes. I see,” Margaret hisses. “In other words, he knew his own worth. Well, let me tell you this. That decision you made changed his life. It changed all of our lives. After Peter returned, he was never the same. He grew distant. Cold. Constantly angry. And now we can’t help but wonder if our granddaughter will turn out the same way. Because of you and the choices you make.”

  Beatrice shakes her head in confusion. “Your granddaughter. I’m sorry—”

  “Yes, our granddaughter. Honestly, you don’t know? You can’t possibly be that inept. Chloe Leventhal. Peter’s niece.”

  Understandably, Beatrice just stares. We all do as that bomb drops.

  Misinterpreting Beatrice’s shock for unwillingness to speak, Margaret says, “You recently asked her to leave too. Or are you going to claim you don’t remember that either?”

  It takes Beatrice a moment, but then she says, “Yes, I remember. Quite clearly.”

  Suddenly, Arthurs swivels back toward her too. “Then, hopefully, you’ll remember this.” He rises to his feet. “Don’t bother us again. Not for any reason. Do you understand me?”

  Beatrice gets to her feet too. “Perfectly.”

  Arthur nods curtly. “Good. Because, as far as I’m concerned, this has gone on quite long enough. Now, if you don’t mind…”

  Within a few minutes, we’ve been shown the door and we’re back outside in Beatrice’s car. She starts the engine. “Well, then. It would seem we just hit the jackpot.”

  Even now, I’m still processing what I just heard. Talk about history repeating itself. Two full-blood witches from the same family that failed to make the cut. That has to hurt. And while I’d never normally wish bad things to befall anyone, this time it’s hard not to feel a bit gleeful. “We sure did.”

  “Twice, actually,” Julia says. “That portrait above the fireplace. Did you notice?”

  “It’s hard to miss,” Beatrice says.

  “Yeah, it is,” Julia says. “I’ve also seen it before. There’s a photo in the archives back at Elmhurst. Phoenix showed it to me. Guess who it is.”

  I turn to look at her. “One of Margaret Lockwood’s ancestors, right?”

  Julia nods. “Exactly. Rory Wallace. Does that name ring a bell?”

  Chapter 17 – Amaya

  I watch as, at the crack of dawn, Lolo leads her friends through an alley toward the back door of an old building. They stop, looking back to see if they were heard. A few seconds pass, then Lolo searches her pockets. “Damn it. I thought I had the lock pick. Did I leave it on the table?”

  “Sorry. I meant to tell you,” Garen says. “I grabbed it on the way out.”

  “Then pass it to me now!”

  I look back toward the street, wondering if their voices carried that far. I suspect they might have.

  Lolo gets to work on the back door, grunting and swearing a few times during her efforts. Even from where I’m positioned, I hear an audible click.

  “There it is,” Holger says.

  “Shh!” Sage shushes him, the sound of her admonishment possibly louder than his words.

  Lolo jiggles the knob, but the door doesn’t open.

  “Come on!” Garen says. “I’m hungry.”

  Bai says, “Me too. I can smell the food out here.”

  The target of their break-in is an all-night tavern that just closed a few hours ago. And Bai is right, the smell of grilled meat still lingers in the air. Which is why they couldn’t even get started before chasing a dozen or more football sized rodents away. A few wouldn’t leave until they were kicked, their angry snarls and shrieks no doubt carrying far.

  But, hopefully, those sounds too worked for our plan.

  Apparently so, because I soon hear the sound of a beast’s deep snort. Hooves clomp upon the street, drawing closer. What kind of beast it is, or who might be upon it, I can’t see from my position beneath the storm drain. But from what Lolo and the others told me, I can probably guess. Because it’s in the early morning when a bounty hunter named Erkah makes her rounds.

  Which is why Lolo gives the supposedly stuck door a good solid kick. It flies open, wood whacking against stone.

  A woman shouts, “You lot! Stop right there!”

  The alley goes quiet except for the sound of hooves coming to a stop. Chains rattle as boots smack to the ground. Steel sings as swords are yanked from scabbards, two quick menacing hisses.

  “Hands where I can see them. That’s right. And pull back your sleeves.”

  Yeah, she knows what to expect—tattoos magically burned into their skin.

  “Well, look at this,” the woman croons to herself. “Five of you, are there? Well, well! It appears to be my lucky morning.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  She spins about at hearing my voice, caught off guard—her eyes wide, her chest heaving. Erkah is taller than me, and broader, with red hair and a hawk nose. She wears high boots, leather pants and a leather vest embossed with an official seal. Her chest is crisscrossed by belts and a whip hangs coiled at her hip. In each hand, she holds a sword at the ready.

  She’s not the only one prepared for a fight. To transform this time, I didn’t need a direct threat. All I needed was a threat to those I now consider friends. I rise from the ground, wings spread, talons curving out from where I just had fingers.

  She doesn’t react to this change like a human. As expected, she reacts like a demon. She simply narrows her eyes. “If you think you’re cutting in on my bounty, think again. These cambion are mine.”

  I swoop closer. “Actually, I’m one too. Care to try taking me in?”

  This, at least, seems to take her off guard. She took me for a High Demon. She’s one herself, although the lowest of the High—a bounty hunter of teens and children, working for the sathana and the others at the top, capturing those who escape servitude and trading them for coin.

  “If you insist.” She grins, her teeth elongating into fangs. Scales replace skin, rippling down her forehead, her face and then her forearms. Her eyes go bright green with vertical pupil slits, as she too sprouts wings at her back. She flicks out a long split tongue

  There’s the transformation I knew was coming. The question being who holds more power, High Demon or hybrid.

  She launches from the ground, one of her weapons poised to strike. I fly back just in time to miss getting sliced. She darts toward me, slashing her other sword down as I swoop away once more.

 

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