That red glow seemed to be a message in and of itself, a marquee of sorts, announcing to all who had the power to see it that there was a new act in town. It clung to the windows. It shone from the twisted hinges and shattered remains of Antoine’s new front door. And it glimmered from within the house as well, flickering like some weird red television screen. Yet, for all the magic I could see, I sensed nothing at all. The red sorcerer had been here-there was no doubt about that-but he wasn’t around now, unless he had managed to mask himself somehow.
To be safe, I pulled my weapon from under the driver’s seat, where I’d hidden it before leaving home, got out of the car, and approached the house. I glanced around, but saw no one. My weapon held ready, I walked up the cracked cement path to the door.
The inside of the house looked no better than the outside. What little furniture had been there was in shambles. The television had been knocked to the floor, the tube smashed and gleaming red with the sorcerer’s power. A table lay in pieces near the kitchen, and two chairs had been overturned.
I found Antoine in the bedroom, and upon seeing him had to fight to keep from being sick. His chest had been blackened; I assumed the red sorcerer had killed him with the same burning magic he had used to cauterize my heart. There wasn’t much left of his face, either. It was hard to tell in the dim light where his blood ended and the gleaming remains of the sorcerer’s magic began.
The bedroom was in far better shape than the living room had been. Forced to guess, I would have said that Red had charged into the house intent on killing Antoine; he cornered the kid in the back of the house, at which point he had no reason to do any more damage. He wanted Antoine, and once the kid was dead, he left.
I made a quick search of the house, hoping to find anything that might link Antoine to Claudia’s death or to the other Blind Angel murders. But Antoine’s home was modest; there were few places to hide anything, and fewer still that remained in one piece. I knew enough about crime scenes to stay clear of Antoine’s body.
I had the scrying stone with me-I had decided before leaving home to pick up Billie that I’d be wise to carry it with me at all times, like a real sorcerer. I tried a seeing spell now, hoping that ’Toine might be able to show me the red sorcerer. At first I used a shirt from the kid’s bedroom to link the magic to him. It worked initially. He was watching TV and rolling a joint. But then there was a noise outside the house that seemed to catch ’Toine’s attention. He stood, and at that point the images stopped. I went back to ’Toine’s body and, feeling like a ghoul, dabbed a bit of his blood on the underside of the stone. Blood should have given me a stronger vision than clothing. But when I tried the spell a second time the same thing happened. Either ’Toine had blacked out, or the red sorcerer had found some way to block my seeing spells. I was betting on the latter.
After I’d convinced myself that there was nothing to be found in the house, I grabbed a paper napkin from the kitchen. Then I went to the phone, took the receiver off the cradle, taking care to keep the napkin between my hand and the plastic, and punched in 911, again using the napkin to avoid leaving any fingerprints.
I heard the emergency operator come on the line, her voice thin as smoke as she asked if anyone was there. I left without responding. They’d dispatch someone to the house soon enough, and I wanted to put some distance between myself and the crime scene before the police arrived. Hibbard was eager for any excuse to mess with me, and a fresh corpse would have been like manna from heaven for him.
I got back in the car and started for home. Three blocks from Antoine’s house, I turned due west, deciding in that moment to check on Orestes. Call it a hunch. Brother Q had sent me to Antoine Mirdoux, and Mirdoux was dead.
Two blocks from Q’s place, I floored the gas. Already I could see the red glow lighting the sky. There was some orange mingled with it, though not much. Orestes was still alive.
I had my Glock in the pocket of my bomber, and as I jumped out of the car and ran toward Q’s door, I pulled it out again.
“Orestes?” I called.
From the outside, the place looked like it had been bombed. His door, like Antoine’s, had been ripped off the hinges and shattered. Windows were broken, and some of the building’s siding was blackened, as was a good portion of the roof.
The inside of Orestes’ store had been trashed. Broken vials of oils and herbs covered the floor, and the place smelled like two armies of conjurers had done battle with nothing but incense and brews. The remnants of Brother Q’s wardings still bordered the cracked windows and the door frame, but they flickered and hung there, weak, dim, limp, like the tatters of old orange curtains in a long-abandoned house. Red magic gleamed everywhere. A trail of it led toward the back of the store. I followed.
The small room behind the cash register was in shambles as well-more broken jars and dark stains on the old wooden floors from spilled oils and ointments, their smell mingled with the heavy stink of smoke. A narrow stairway, lit by red and orange conjuring, led to the second floor. I began to climb, holding my weapon with both hands, the stairs creaking beneath me.
As I neared the top of the stairway, I peered over the edge of the floor into Orestes’ small apartment. And as soon as I did, I felt the pulse of power. It was hot and moving fast and aimed directly at my head. I ducked. It flew over me and slammed into the wall of the stairway, raining burning pieces of wood and charred plaster down on me. I smelled burning hair, and brushed a flaming fragment off my head. Only then, thinking about it, did I realize that the magic I’d seen hurtling toward me had been orange.
“Orestes, you idiot! It’s me, Jay Fearsson!”
“Show yourself then!” Orestes called. “Let Brother Q see!”
He was talking in third person; he couldn’t have been hurt too badly.
“No way! You’ll try to blow my head off again!”
Q didn’t answer, and I started to wonder if he was gearing up for another assailing spell. I pulled my wallet free and flipped it open to my PI license.
“I’m going to hold up my ID, Orestes. Don’t blow my hand off, okay?”
Still no answer. I took a deep breath and lifted my hand.
After several seconds I heard, “Brother J? That really you?”
“It’s me. You all right?”
“Brother Q in a bad way, boy. Nearly got himself blown up today.”
I think it was an attempt at verse, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m coming up, all right?”
“Yeah. All right.”
The apartment was even more of a mess than the store had been. Shards of glasses and old plates covered the floor, crunching like snow under my feet as I crossed to the bed. Q’s pine and cinder block bookshelves had toppled, littering much of the room with old books and crystals. His mattress had been burned black, and was still smoking.
Q sat on the floor on the far side of what remained of his bed frame, his back against the wall. Blood from several deep gashes covered his face, and he had a nasty burn on his left cheek and temple. One of his legs was fractured; a bloodied, jagged end of the bone protruded through his pants leg. From the way he was holding his right arm, I guessed that it was broken, too.
“You don’t look so good, Q.”
There was a large pool of blood around his leg, and a good deal more soaked into his jeans. I knelt down in front of him and studied his eyes. They were glazed over, but it was too dark to see if his pupils were dilated. He might well have been in shock, or at least on his way.
“Where’s your phone?”
“Q ain’t seen it,” he said. His voice sounded strong enough.
“Is there even one up here?” I asked, surveying the damage.
“Most of the time.”
I found it under a pile of books. For the second time that night I dialed 911. When the operator came on, I told her to send an ambulance to Orestes’ address.