The Vanity Case (Sondra Blake Book 1) Page 7

  ‘Did we get an ID?’ Sondra asked.

  Clarke flipped open his notepad. ‘Jill Grace Stewart, age twenty-two. Resident of Brooklyn. Uh, that address is in Vinegar Hill.’

  Sondra nodded, scanning the prone form before them. ‘Her skin looks discoloured. More than just the aging, I mean.’

  ‘Bruising? Seems like we’re working through a sequence of life-threatening conditions.’

  ‘See what Maureen says about them.’ Sondra gave a sigh. ‘And this afternoon we’re going to call an expert.’

  Clarke frowned. ‘There’s an expert in this stuff? I figured you were the expert.’

  ‘I suppose I am, but I know someone with… deeper knowledge. You’ll see.’ She lifted her eyes to the gates of the lot. ‘Another connection to this movie. Why?’

  ‘Detectives.’ The voice came from behind them and Clarke flinched, turning to look. ‘I’d say “good morning,” but clearly that’s not appropriate,’ Issacs said. Hall was beside her holding an umbrella over them both.

  Sondra seemed to have been expecting the FBI agents. ‘Special Agent Issacs, I was just thinking about you.’

  Clarke saw Issacs’ eyes widen fractionally. She moved up to stand beside Sondra, grimacing as Hall did not follow fast enough with the umbrella. ‘You were?’

  ‘Uh-huh. You’ll probably have less trouble accessing records for the film crew, management, etcetera, than I would. We’d be looking for criminal records, especially a history with demons or artefacts, any arrests for illegal magic use, and any reason someone here might be attracting bad attention.’

  Issacs smiled. ‘Of course I can do that for you. I’ll pass along anything we find. Do you think the killer is one of the crew?’

  ‘Honestly? No. The first two bodies weren’t really tied to the film. The connection to Archer with the first seems like chance. I think Devon Brightman’s story on the news has fed the killer’s need for recognition and he’s using the film to up the stakes. On the other hand, I could be wrong and you’re going to find our man. Work needs to be done, and you’re going to get it done faster.’

  ‘Will you be questioning Dillan Archer again today?’

  ‘They’re expecting him here at nine,’ Clarke supplied.

  ‘We’ll ask about this,’ Sondra added, ‘but I know what he’s going to say.’

  ‘He was in his suite,’ Clarke said, ‘alone, but the hotel security records will back him up. You know, for a guy with a reputation as a womaniser, he spends a lot of his nights alone.’ Hall gave one of his rumbles of mirth – kind of like listening to a rockfall in slow motion – but this time even Issacs giggled, covering her mouth quickly.

  Sondra just smiled. ‘I wish he’d start living up to his reputation, personally. If he could give us one unequivocal alibi, we could cross him off the list and get on with finding out who’s doing this.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s not him?’ Issacs asked.

  ‘No. He’s never given us an entirely solid alibi. But it doesn’t feel right. It feels more like someone is pointing a finger his way. I mean, this…’ Sondra pointed vaguely at the body and the gate. ‘If it was Archer, why would he dump a body all the way out here when he probably killed her in Vinegar Hill?’

  ‘And how did he get her here anyway?’ Clarke asked, frowning. ‘Archer doesn’t have a car in New York. He can’t have carried her from Vinegar Hill and even the most jaded cabbie is going to think twice about picking up a guy lugging a corpse.’

  Issacs sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, Archer seems unlikely. So, who gains from this film being linked to a lot of murders?’

  ‘Good question,’ Sondra replied. ‘I have a few ideas…’

  ~~~

  ‘You have to admit, Mister Bergen, that this is going to drive publicity for the movie,’ Sondra said, her eyes on the overweight man in the trailer with her. Bergen was one of the producers. He had a hands-on approach and had been there every day so far. It had been him Sondra had talked to about security, and he had apparently ignored her warning. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, tailored to fit his rather blobby figure. His nose was oversized and a little red, but his brown eyes were sharp and calculating. The only thing missing from his image of stereotypical producer was a huge cigar: Bergen did not smoke.

  ‘The idea that all publicity is good publicity is overplayed,’ Bergen replied. ‘Our hero is a member of the ACU. If the public thinks he’s played by a murderer, even if there’s no real evidence, that won’t translate into ticket sales. Our sponsors will back out. These days, scandal is bad for business. That doesn’t even consider the costs.’

  ‘Costs?’

  ‘We’re losing time while you people block the gate and–’

  ‘Take care of the body of a twenty-two-year-old woman who was murdered using demonic magic.’

  Bergen’s cheeks coloured, though Sondra thought it was anger rather than embarrassment. ‘I understand the delicacy of the situation, but you need to understand that time is money.’

  ‘If you like, I can arrange to bill you for the fifty-plus years Miss Stewart isn’t going to get.’

  ‘We’re already behind and over-budget because of the orcs,’ Bergen continued as if she had not spoken.

  ‘Orcs?’

  ‘We were supposed to be filming in Orctown, but our security people gave us some bullshit about it not being safe at the moment. We’re having to find new locations or build sets. Delay and cost, Miss Blake.’

  ‘Detective,’ Sondra said automatically. ‘And the Arcane Crimes Unit is shortened to Arcane, not ACU. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to target your production, Mister Bergen?’

  ‘No! You asked me that before and–’

  ‘You ignored my suggestion that they could be. Now you have a body almost dropped in your night security’s lap. And they didn’t notice for several hours.’

  ‘There was no evidence of a real threat. Obviously, we’ll be reviewing our security in the light of this… incident.’

  ‘Good idea. That’ll be all for now, Mister Bergen. We’ll have the body moved out shortly and you can get back to your filming.’

  ‘About–’ He seemed to recognise he was being insensitive and cut himself off. ‘Thank you, Detective Blake. We would appreciate that.’

  Sondra turned to the door of the trailer before rolling her eyes. It would have been nice if Bergen was killing women to bump up the movie’s Rotten Tomato score, but it seemed unlikely.

  Stepping outside, she spotted Clarke talking to Dillan Archer. The action star was looking relaxed, but there was a hint of irritation in the way his eyes were narrowed at the detective. Sondra moved closer and the conversation became audible.

  ‘No, it’s not much of an alibi, I suppose,’ Archer said. ‘I have demonstrated an ability to leave my suite undetected, but I was not in Brooklyn last night, never mind here killing someone.’

  Clarke gave an easy smile. ‘I thought you were the kind of guy with a girl in your bed every night. You’re destroying my image of the Orlando film scene.’

  ‘Huh. My reputation is largely undeserved, detective. I admit that I’m prone to some… wild antics, if you like, when I’m not working, but I have to be a professional when I am. More so because of that reputation. Early nights and not so much drinking. Uh, though I am getting a night out tomorrow. Charity event for inner-city kids.’ Archer’s gaze flicked around as Sondra closed the distance to stand beside her partner. His smile shifted up a notch and his eyes lost their tightness. ‘Detective Blake. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to represent your unit at a charity event, could I? I’ve a plus-one and no one to add, so to speak.’ He really was trying pretty hard.

  ‘Uh, I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Did I mention the charity? Impoverished children. A focus on improvements in education in the orc communities in our cities. Outreach programmes in the Territories…’

  ‘Uh, when and where?’

  Archer’s smile broadened. ‘Nine, at the Met. If y
ou come over to my hotel around eight thirty, I’ll have a car ready to take us over there.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you then.’ She turned and started away and Clarke hurried to catch up with her.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a certificate to say I’m not, actually.’

  ‘He’s a suspect in–’

  ‘He’s not, even if you want him to be. But if he is a way better actor than I think he is, then he’ll let something slip with a few glasses of bubbly in him, and I may get more out of him about possible enemies if I talk to him without a badge on.’

  Clarke’s eyes widened. ‘You’re playing him to get information?’

  Sondra flashed him a grin. ‘Well, that and the chance to drink free champagne and hobnob with celebrities.’

  ~~~

  ‘Your expert is a spirit!’ Clarke’s look was incredulous. Sondra could not really blame him.

  ‘Uh-huh. Alby. Uh, don’t call him that. He hates it. Albrechus Kint, high sorcerer. He was a magical bigwig on Lornaron. Died in the Collapse and now he’s a spirit. He’s, um, my spirit, sort of. He was the one who got me out of the nightmare my life was after the Collapse. The psychiatrists will tell you it was their therapy, but Alby was the voice I heard when I could finally hear one voice and not thousands.’

  Clarke’s gaze wandered around Sondra’s workroom, pausing at the books. ‘It, uh, must’ve been bad.’

  ‘Bad’s a word for it. Help me move the table.’ She gripped one end of the heavy workbench which took up the centre of the room and waited for Clarke to take the other. Together they lifted it and shifted it to one side, revealing a circle of glyphs carefully painted onto the wooden tiles on the floor. They were in a circle and Clarke did not recognise them immediately. ‘You’ve not much experience with spirit summonings, have you?’ Sondra asked, seeing the look on his face.

  ‘Uh, no. I mean, I know the basic theory…’

  ‘It’s better not to get involved if you haven’t trained in it. Uh, do you mind if I borrow some power from you if I need it?’

  ‘Sure. Just tell me when you need it.’

  Sondra smiled at him. Not every magician was willing to lend power to another’s ritual. It required trust. ‘I’m going to take this slow and easy anyway, so I might be okay. You might as well grab a seat. This is going to take… quite a while.’

  ‘I’ll be right here,’ he replied as he pulled a stool forward and sat down on it while Sondra settled onto the floor beside her circle of glyphs.

  She began by renewing her connection to the glyphs in the circle, much as Clarke had done with his notebook the first time he had cast a spell in front of her. Here, the glyph sequence describing the spell was repeated, over and over, to form the ring, and she really only needed to read them once, but she went around all of them to be sure. Then, focusing her will, she began to collect the energy she needed.

  The first part was trivial: every magician carried a core of energy pulled from the spirit world which they stored within their being, and it was quick to access and easy to use. Clarke had drawn the energy for his analysis spell from his own store; now Sondra drained hers and readied herself for the next phase.

  Her lips began to move in a slow, steady chant and her mind reached out across the dimensions to draw in energy from a world which was part of Earth, but also beyond it. No one had a real explanation for exactly what the world the spirits and demons occupied was. Physicists muttered things about quantum states, membranes, and congruent dimensions. No one who had ever attempted to enter the other reality had ever survived the experience. Magicians did not especially care what the place was. They just knew it was possible to draw energy from it to alter reality. Sondra did just that, drawing in the power and sliding it carefully into the shape of the spell she was holding in her mind.

  It took her thirty minutes to gather it all together. Her mind was humming with the suppressed energy ready to burst forth and she got to her feet, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Albrechus Kint, I summon you,’ she called out. The words meant nothing except to trigger the release of the shaped energy she had collected. It rushed from her, spreading in an invisible wave, out from Sondra and on for a mile in every direction.

  There was a pause just long enough for Clarke to open his mouth to ask if it had worked, and then a resonant voice sounded through the workroom. ‘Sondra Blake, I swear you’ll summon me out of the bath one day.’

  Clarke blinked. Where there had been no one standing in the circle of glyphs, now there was a man. Not very tall, maybe five-foot-six, he was of average looks and average build, and yet he seemed to have a presence which made him stand out more than his appearance would suggest. He had a thin, pointed nose and eyes like black pits, thin lips, and a scowl on his face. His hair was thinning, but still a strong, dark brown. He was dressed like he had just stepped out of an office on Wall Street, though most businessmen eschewed a silver-topped walking cane. He spoke English with an accent, just not any accent Clarke had ever heard before.

  ‘You don’t take baths, Albrechus,’ Sondra said. ‘And if you wanted to be left alone, you could just move up the island a mile.’ Sondra looked around at Clarke. ‘He hardly ever strays far from the Village.’ Looking back she added, ‘This is my new partner, Clarke Delacroix.’

  ‘As in that dullard… What was his name?’

  ‘Anthony,’ Clarke said. ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘However,’ Sondra said, ‘the son is a lot easier to work with. I need some information, Albrechus.’

  The spirit sighed and said something in a language Clarke had never heard before. Sondra, however, frowned. ‘You can’t drink tea, you old fool. You’re a spirit. Stick to English. Clarke doesn’t understand… that.’

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ Albrechus said.

  ‘We’ve got someone killing people, young women, in an unusual manner. They’re stabbed by a short dagger, but that doesn’t kill them. They seem to have been rapidly aged and they exhibit the symptoms of multiple diseases, alcoholism, drug use… one had broken bones.’ She stopped when the colour drained from the spirit’s face.

  ‘Have you established a pattern? Previous victims?’

  ‘Seven victims,’ Clarke said. ‘Each group of seven, seven years apart.’

  ‘All within thirty-two days of the first.’

  ‘The longest run was twenty-eight days.’

  ‘It was the length of a lunar cycle on Lornaron. Thirty-two days. It may stand here, or it may have changed to the new timing.’

  ‘What, Albrechus?’ Sondra asked. ‘It’s an artefact, right?’

  Albrechus nodded. ‘The Chest of Gartrain. Gartrain the Butcher, we called him. His followers knew him as Gartrain the Great. He was an orc warlord who did deals with demons to gain power. His victories brought with them legends of his invincibility. His followers would do anything for him, and he had thousands of followers. Every seven years, Gartrain would gather seven humans captured in raids and sacrifice them with a dagger which would only be brought out for that purpose.’

  ‘So, the sacrifices powered this chest?’

  ‘In a way. As the years went by and Gartrain did not age, his army grew with the belief that he was some sort of demigod. Orcs and humans alike tried to kill him, but nothing worked. He survived an arrow through the heart, a sword driven clean through him, poison, any number of assassins. Eventually, orcs and humans joined together to attack him during his Festival of Renewal. He was captured. Killing him had not seemed to work, so he was chained up in a dungeon while his army tried to break in to get to him. The siege ended thirty-two days after he had killed his first sacrifice that year. That was when Gartrain died, though what was left was hardly recognisable.’

  ‘Huh,’ Clarke said, grinning. ‘Let me guess. All the wounds, diseases, and poisons that had never worked on him, suddenly did. And his age. I assume he’d lived long past his years, and it all came back at once.’

  Albrechus raised a thi
n eyebrow. ‘Yes, precisely. There wasn’t much left but putrescent soup and a pile of broken bones. Was that deduction or–’

  ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s a novel,’ Sondra explained. ‘A young man wishes that a portrait of himself ages instead of him since he’s a narcissistic bastard. It works, and the portrait ages and changes as he tries every vice known to man. Whatever he does, the picture pays for it instead of him.’

  ‘The only novel Oscar Wilde ever wrote,’ Clarke said enthusiastically. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘No, but it’s a rather well-known book. Unless you’re from another world, of course.’

  ‘There does not seem to be the element of sacrifice,’ Albrechus commented.

  ‘No,’ Clarke agreed, ‘but when Gray tries to destroy the picture by slashing it with a knife, there’s a scream, and they find a twisted old man, stabbed in the heart, lying beside a beautiful portrait of Dorian Gray. Which is why I guessed the cause of death. What happened to the chest after Gartrain died?’

  ‘It was found in his stronghold, the dagger inside it. We placed it in the cellar of the castle, sealed it into a wall, and fused the stones together. However, when Lornaron was destroyed…’

  ‘It could easily have ended up anywhere,’ Sondra finished for him.

  ‘Gartrain’s citadel was not one of those which ended up here intact,’ Albrechus agreed. ‘It’s a miracle that the chest survived.’

  ‘Far too many of your artefacts ended up in this world. Why didn’t you destroy the thing when you found it?’

  ‘Destroying such things can be dangerous.’ The reply was a little too quick and Sondra narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘You mean you were scared to try and some of you thought it was better to keep it around so they could use it later.’

  ‘We… were unable to come to a definitive decision regarding its disposal. Yes.’

  ‘The same is going to happen here,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sondra agreed, scowling. ‘I’d imagine it is.’

  18th February.

  Sondra felt a little like a trophy as she walked into the entrance hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Archer’s arm. There had been the flashes of cameras outside – the local news and gossip media was out in force tonight – but inside it was worse. The charity was pushing their cause hard and had a lot of celebrities attending. A sort of reception line had been set up at the back of the hall where the press could get their pictures and questions could be asked before the guests slipped away to the upper floors where the real event was happening.