“That is the place. It is very inaccessible… but perhaps you could come up with some way of getting inside the hospital.”
“The Hellmouth is inside the facility?”
“In the basement, yes. It is… not a nice place, from what I’ve heard.”
Violet pushed away from the table and began tapping her chin. She walked back and forth from the table to the checkout desk. There was no way she could get in there as a private investigator — the clinic’s privacy policy would frown on that. But she also wasn’t rich or famous enough to get in there on her own. Who did she know that could—
Clint Jacobs. He was president of a major bank and a known homosexual. He had the money to buy his way in and an obvious reason for being there. But she’d sworn to not involve any more of her friends… But what other choice did she have?
“None,” she whispered. “None at all.”
Chapter IX
“He’s dead.”
Burkard said nothing in response, instead choosing to stare down at his bowl of Brunswick Stew. It was a greasy dish that was somehow appetizing, despite the fact that it looked vaguely like someone had vomited it up. He spooned another bite into his mouth and took a cursory glance around the restaurant, a ‘home-cooking’ establishment by the name of Frannie’s Kitchen.
Lazlo Bane shifted in his own seat and nervously reached up to smooth down his slick hair. He detested this sort of place, which was nothing like his usual haunts. Bane preferred smoky jazzy clubs with pretty boys with painted faces and women who preferred tuxedos to dresses.
Burkard continued to eat in silence, finally setting his spoon down into an empty bowl and plucking up a napkin, which he dabbed against his lips. “What do you think she is going to do with it?” he asked at last.
“I have no idea. Try to destroy it, I would imagine.”
“I am unhappy with this situation, Lazlo.” Burkard spread out his napkin in his lap and took out a tin of tobacco. He rolled himself a cigarette, sealing the paper with a quick flick of his tongue. He lit it and exhaled, his eyes locking on Bane’s. “If it continues, I might decide that you are no longer fit for your current position.”
“None of this has been my fault!” Bane protested, his eyes widening. “That damned Eclipse gang interfered and now this Cambridge woman—!”
“She is crafty, I’ll grant you that. But you are supposed to be a dangerous man, yourself. Or am I paying you for something else?”
“I’ll find her, Mr. Burkard.” Bane tried to put an edge of certainty into his voice.
Burkard glanced away, his eyes narrowing. A well-dressed figure was approaching their table, a dark hat pulled low over a bald head. His slightly doughy body somehow managed to convey a sense of masculine power, despite the girth. Burkard tensed, recognizing the arrival of Aleister Crowley.
“My dear Mr. Crowley,” Burkard said, without rising. “Won’t you please join us?”
Crowley cast an imperious glance at Bane before looking back at Burkard. “I don’t sit with the help.”
Burkard snorted. “You heard the man, Lazlo. Go stand in the corner and wait for us to finish our little chat.”
Bane stood up so fast that he banged his knees on the underside of the table, causing the silverware to jump. Grimacing in pain, he moved away, avoiding looking at Crowley. The magician sat down in Bane’s spot, removing his hat and setting it on the edge of the table. “Johann,” he said, shaking his head as he did so. “How long has it been?”
“Almost seven years.”
“And you haven’t changed a bit.”
Burkard puffed away on his cigarette. “I cannot say the same for you, my friend. You’ve gained at least forty pounds, lost your hair and become so pale that you could pass for a ghost.”
Crowley’s lips dipped downwards at the ends but he merely shrugged and answered, “I am your senior. Mortality has a way of catching up with everyone at some point.”
“I heard about the incident at the Followers’ base. A shame to lose so many agents at once.” Burkard smiled teasingly. “Were they really taken out by a single person? And a woman, at that? Doesn’t say much for your warriors.”
“You and I both know that Violet Cambridge is proving herself very capable.”
“So why are you here, Aleister? Not in Atlanta… But right now, here at my table? The last time we saw each other, you had a bullet in your shoulder and I a carving knife in my back. So let us stop playing games: are you here to threaten me? Or propose some sort of alliance that will no doubt end with one or both of us trying to betray the other?”
Crowley threw back his head and laughed. It was a nasty sort of sound and several people at nearby tables stared at him in alarm. “You are so cynical, my boy. But I can’t blame you… your capacity for the truth is only exceeded by your greed. Yes, I’m here to propose that we unite resources. My Followers of the Eclipse are, as you pointed out, all dead. And from what I’ve heard, your loyal driver is no longer on the mortal coil, either.”
“It is strange,” Burkard admitted, picking up his glass of iced tea and swirling the dirty brown liquid before taking a sip. “Here we are… two of the most powerful men in existence and we cannot outwit a single woman.”
“The female is by far the deadlier of the species. Never forget that.”
Burkard finished off his cigarette. “What do you propose?”
“We go to a more private setting and I’ll cast a scrying spell. We can find out where she is and, more importantly, where she’s stashed The Damned Thing.”
“And then we kill her?”
“I’d rather fuck her… and then kill her.”
Burkard thought about Violet’s trim body and nodded. “All right. We will both fuck her. And then we kill her.”
WILL McKENZIE POURED himself a glass of Jack Daniels and stared out the window of his living room. He had a nice home, certainly not the mansion that his friend Max Davies owned, but it was a sturdy single-story house on the edge of Atlanta’s downtown district. It was spacious enough that it could someday allow room for him to bring in a wife and child, though if they had more than one offspring it wouldn’t be enough.
Of course, Will wasn’t planning to get married anytime soon. He was still young enough to relish his role as Atlanta’s most eligible bachelor, though he had been so involved with Violet as of late that he hadn’t bothered returning calls from a half dozen or so interested ladies.
Violet. She was so different from the other girls. She smoked, cursed like a sailor, slept in the nude… If it wasn’t for that incredibly amazing body of hers, he’d almost think she were a man. But she definitely wasn’t a man. She was 100 % woman, full-bodied and sensual.
His attempts to track her down this afternoon had failed miserably and she hadn’t called into the office. His men had picked up Johann Burkard returning to his home with his boy Lazlo in tow but Will had balked at bringing them in for questioning. It wasn’t time for that…. yet. If Violet stayed missing, though, he’d yank them in and give them the business until they coughed up everything they knew. But, Burkard was wealthy enough to be able to afford a small army of lawyers and McKenzie didn’t want to face down a legal firing squad just yet.
Will drank the whiskey in three quick gulps and poured himself another. When this, too, was gone, he poured himself one more before returning the now mostly-empty bottle to the cabinet. He sat down next to the radio, listening to the evening news. The International portion was filled with fearful reports from Europe, where Hitler and his cronies were laying siege to the rest of the continent. Will wasn’t sure how much longer America could avoid getting caught up in that mess. When the reports turned local, he found himself listening to the laundry list of bizarre incidents over the past few days. The city was still basking in the twin glows of the movie premiere and the Christmas holidays, but there was an undercurrent of fear building because of all the shootings and gossip about supernatural goings-on.