Kelley Armstrong - Women of the Otherworld 4 - Industrial Magic

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Industrial Magic

(Women of the Otherworld #4)

Kelley Armstrong

Cover design by Jamie S. Warren Youll

ISBN 0-553-58707-2

To my mother-in-law, Shirley . . . thank you for being proud of me

Acknowledgments

With thanks . . .

To my agent, Helen Heller, for always keeping me on track.

To Anne Groell at Bantam US, for helping me bang this one into shape.

To Antonia Hodgson at Time Warner UK, for suggesting the perfect "kick" for my flat ending.

To Anne Collins at Random House Canada, for her ongoing support.

To Random House Canada marketing manager Constance MacKenzie, and my publicist, Adrienne

Phillips, for their continued efforts to get this series into as many hands as possible.

To Taylor Matthews, my Florida connection, for reading through my scenes of Miami and the

Everglades, and giving me some great advice.

And finally, a special thanks to Ary, who created the wonderful RPG site based on the Otherworld

series (www.kaotherworld.com). And thanks to Jen, Matt, and Raina, who help her maintain this

ever-growing site. You guys do an amazing job!

Prologue

"Got another CSI question for you," Gloria said as Simon walked into the communication hub with

an armload of papers. "If you're not busy."

"Perfect timing," Simon said. "I'm just about to start my coffee break." He started pulling a chair to

Gloria's workstation, then hesitated. "Can I get you something?"

Gloria smiled and shook her head. Simon moved the chair beside hers, being careful not to block

her view of the digital-display city map on the side wall. That's what Gloria loved about shamans, they were

so damned considerate. You want a nice guy, you get a shaman. You want a self-centered jerk, you get a

half-demon.

Her shift partner, Erin, hated it when Gloria said that. Racial discrimination, she called it. Of course

Gloria didn't really believe every half-demon was a jerk—she was a half-demon herself—but that didn't

keep her from saying so to Erin. Night shift in the communication hub could get deathly dull, and there was

nothing like a good political correctness debate to liven things up.

Gloria pushed her chair back, one eye still on her monitor. "Okay, so I'm watching CSI last week,

and they trick this guy into giving them DNA. Then, like five minutes later, they tell him it's a match. Can

you really analyze DNA that fast?"

"Can they? Or can we?" Simon said. "For a municipal crime lab, it's damn near impossible. With

our lab, though, there's no political wrangling about overtime and budgets and case precedence. We can't

analyze a DNA specimen in five minutes, but—"

Gloria's headset beeped twice: an incoming call on the emergency line. She lifted a finger to Simon,

then swung around. Even before the call connected, data began flashing on her computer screen as the call

tracer went to work. She glanced over her shoulder to see the map of Miami replaced by another city:

Atlanta.

Gloria reached for the button to page Erin back from lunch, but Simon beat her to it, simultaneously

grabbing Erin's headset to put it on.

The line clicked.

"Cortez emergency services," Gloria said.

A female voice came on, shrill and garbled with panic. "—help—park—man—"

Gloria soothed the caller with reassurances that help was on its way. She could barely make out a

word the caller said, but it didn't matter. The computers had already pinpointed the location, a pay phone in

an Atlanta park. The Cabal had an office in Atlanta, which meant they had an emergency crew there, and

the computer automatically dispatched them the moment it located the call's origin. Gloria's only job was to

keep the caller calm until the team arrived.

"Can you tell me your name, honey?"

"D—na M—ur."

Sobs punctuated the words, rendering them unintelligible. Gloria glanced at her monitor. The

computer was analyzing the voice, trying to match what it heard against the roster of Cabal employees and

employee families. A list of several dozen names appeared. Then the computer factored in gender, an age

estimate, and the call location. It came back with a list of five names. Gloria focused on the top one, the

computer's best guess.

"Dana?" she said. "Are you Dana MacArthur, honey?"

A muffled "Yes."

"Okay, now, I want you to find someplace—"

The line went dead.

"Damn!" Gloria said.

"The Atlanta team just phoned in," Simon said. "Ten-minute ETA. Who is it?"

Gloria waved a hand at her screen. Simon leaned over to look at the photo. A teenage girl grinned

back.

"Ah, shit," he said. "Not another one."

***

The driver swung the SUV into the park and dowsed the lights. Dennis Malone stared out the

window into the overcast night. He turned to tell Simon they'd need good lighting, and saw that the

crime-scene tech was already fiddling with his flashlight, replacing the batteries. Dennis nodded, stifled a

yawn, and rolled down the window for some air. On the jet, he'd loaded up on caffeine, but it wasn't kicking

in. He was getting too old for this. Even as the thought flitted past, he dismissed it with a smile. The day he

retired without a fight would be the day they found him cold and stiff in his bed.

He had the best damned job a cop could want. Head of the finest investigative unit in the country,

with the kind of resources and funding his old buddies in the FBI could only dream about. And he didn't just

get to solve crimes, he got to plan them. When the Cortezes needed to get rid of someone, they came to

Dennis and, together with his team, he'd devise the perfect crime, one that would stump the authorities.

That was the best part of his job. What he was doing tonight was the worst. Two in one week. Dennis told

himself it was a coincidence, random attacks unconnected to the Cabal itself. The alternative . . . well, no

one wanted to consider the alternative.

The SUV stopped.

"Over there," the driver said, pointing. "To the left, behind those trees."

Dennis swung open his door and stepped out. He rolled the kinks from his shoulders as he surveyed

the site. There was nothing to see. No crime-scene tape, no television crews, not even an ambulance. The

Cabal EMTs had been and gone, arriving silently in an unmarked minivan, then speeding back into the night,

headed for the airport, where they'd load their passenger on the same jet that had brought Dennis and

Simon to Atlanta.

Over by a stand of trees, a flashlight signaled with an on-off flicker.

"Malone," Dennis called. "Miami SD."

The light went on and a heavyset blond man stepped out. New guy, recently come over from the

St. Cloud Cabal. Jim? John?

Greetings were a brief exchange of hellos. They only had a few hours until daybreak, and a lot of

work to do before then. Both Jim and the driver who'd brought them from the airport were trained to assist

Dennis and Simon, but it would still take every minute of those remaining hours to process the scene.

Simon moved up behind Dennis, camera in one hand, light source in the other. He handed the light

source to the driver—Kyle, wasn't it?—and pointed out where he wanted Kyle to aim it. Then he started

snapping pictures. It took a moment for Dennis to see what Simon was photographing. That was one

advantage to having shaman crime techs—lead them to a scene and they instinctively picked up the vibes

of violence and knew where to start working.

Following the angle of Simon's camera lens, Dennis looked up to see a rope dangling from an

overhead limb, the end hacked off. Another length lay on the ground, where the EMTs had removed it from

the girl's throat.

"It took me a while to find her," Jim said. "If I'd been just a few minutes faster . . ."

"She's alive," Dennis said. "If you hadn't been that fast, she wouldn't be."

His cell phone vibrated. He took it from his pocket. A text message.

"Have you updated Mr. Cortez?" he asked Jim. "He hasn't received a site report yet."

From Jim's expression, Dennis knew he hadn't sent one. With the St. Cloud Cabal you probably

didn't phone anyone in the family at three A.M. unless the Tokyo stock market had just crashed. Not so

when you worked for the Cortezes.

"You've filled out a preliminary report sheet, right?" Dennis said.

Jim nodded and fumbled to pull his modified Palm-Pilot from his jacket.

"Well, send it to Mr. Cortez immediately. He's waiting to notify Dana's father and he can't do that

until he knows the details."

"Mr. . . . ? Which Mr. Cortez?"

"Benicio," Simon murmured as he continued snapping pictures. "You need to send it to Benicio."

"Oh? Uh, right."

As Jim transmitted the report, Simon moved back to photograph the rope on the ground. Blood

streaked the underside of the coil and Dennis flinched, imagining his granddaughter lying there. This wasn't

supposed to happen. Not to Cabal children. You worked for a Cabal, your kids were protected.

"Randy's girl, wasn't it?" Simon said softly behind him. "The older one?"

Dennis could barely picture Randy MacArthur, let alone know how many kids he had. Simon was

almost certainly right, though. Lead the man once around a corporate picnic, and the next day he'd be sure

to ask Joe Blow in Accounting whether his son's cold was improving.

"What is her father?" Jim asked.

"Half-demon," Simon said. "An Exaudio, I believe."

Both Jim and Dennis nodded. They were half-demon, as were most of the Cabal's policing force,

and they knew what this meant. Dana would have inherited none of her father's powers.

"Poor kid never had a chance," Dennis said.

"Actually, I believe she is a supernatural," Simon said. "If I'm not mistaken, her mother is a witch,

so she would be one as well."

Dennis shook his head. "Like I said, poor kid never had a chance."

That Cortez Boy

I sat in a hotel room, across from two thirty-something witches in business suits, listening as they

said all the right things. All the polite things. How they'd heard such wonderful accounts of my mother.

How horrified they'd been to learn of her murder. How delighted they were to see that I was doing well

despite my break with the Coven.

All this they said, smiling with just the right mixture of sadness, commiseration, and support. Wendy

Aiken did most of the talking. While she did, her younger sister Julie's eyes darted to where Savannah, my

thirteen-year-old ward, perched on the bed. I caught the looks Julie shot her, distaste mingled with fear. A

black witch's daughter, in their hotel room.

As Wendy's lips moved in rehearsed platitudes, her gaze slipped past me to the clock. I knew then

that I would fail . . . again. But I gave my spiel anyway. I told them my vision of a new Coven for the

technological age, linked by sisterhood instead of proximity, each witch living where she chooses, but with a

full Coven support system only a phone call or e-mail away.

When I finished, the sisters looked at each another.

I continued. "As I mentioned, there's also the grimoires. Third-level spells, lost for generations. I

have them and I want to share them, to return witches to their former glory."

To me, these books were my trump card. Even if you didn't give a damn about sisterhood or

support, surely you'd want this power. What witch wouldn't? Yet, as I looked at Wendy and Julie, I saw my

words wash right over them, as if I was offering a free set of steak knives with the purchase of a complete

living-room suite.

"You're a very compelling saleswoman," Wendy said with a smile.

"But . . ." Savannah muttered from the bed.

"But we must admit, we have a problem with the . . . present company you keep."

Julie's gaze slid toward Savannah. I tensed, ready to leap to her defense.

"That Cortez boy," Wendy said. "Well, young man, I should say. Yes, I know he's not involved with

his family's Cabal, but we all know how things like that turn out. Youthful rebellion is all very well, but it

doesn't pay the bills. And I hear he's not very successful in that regard."

"Lucas—"

"He's still young, I know, and he does a lot of pro bono work. That's very noble, Paige. I can see

how a young woman would find it romantic—"

"But," Julie cut in, "like Wendy says, it doesn't pay the bills. And he is a Cortez."

Wendy nodded. "Yes, he is a Cortez."

"Hey," Savannah said, standing. "I have a question." She stepped toward the sisters. Julie shrank

back. "When's the last time you saved a witch from being murdered by Cabal goons? Lucas did that just

last month."

"Savannah . . ." I said.

She stepped closer to the two women. "What about defending a shaman set up by a Cabal? That's

what Lucas is doing now. Oh, and Paige does charity work, too. In fact, she's doing it right now, offering

two-faced bitches like you a spot in her Coven."

"Savannah!"

"I'll be in the hall," she said. "Something in here stinks." She wheeled and marched out of the hotel

room.

"My god," Wendy said. "She is her mother's daughter."

"And thank God for that," I said, and left.

***

As I drove out of the city core, Savannah broke the silence. "I heard what you said. It was a good

comeback."

The words "even if you didn't mean it" hung between us. I nodded and busied myself scanning

traffic. I was still working on understanding Savannah's mother, Eve. It wasn't easy. My whole being

rebelled at the thought of empathizing with a dark witch. But, even if I could never think of Eve as someone

I could admire, I'd come to accept that she'd been a good mother. The proof of that was beside me. A

thoroughly evil woman couldn't have produced a daughter like Savannah.

"You know I was right," she said. "About them. They're just like the Coven. You deserve—"

"Don't," I said quietly. "Please."

She looked at me. I could feel her gaze, but didn't turn. After a moment, she shifted to stare out the

window.

***

I was in a funk, as my mother would have said. Feeling sorry for myself and knowing there was no

good reason for it. I should be happy—ecstatic even. Sure my life had taken a nasty turn four months

ago—if one can call "the end of life as I knew it" a nasty turn—but I'd survived. I was young. I was

healthy. I was in love. Damn it, I should be happy. And when I wasn't, that only added guilt to my blues,

and left me berating myself for acting like a spoiled, selfish brat.

I was bored. The Web site design work that had once fired a passion in me now piled up on the

desk—drudgery I had to complete if anyone in our house intended to eat. Did I say house? I meant

apartment. Four months ago, my house near Boston had burned to cinders, along with everything I owned. I

was now the proud renter of a lousy two-bedroom apartment in a lousier neighborhood in Portland, Oregon.

Yes, I could afford better, but I hated digging into the insurance money, terrified I'd wake up one day with

nothing in the bank and be forced to spend eternity living beneath a deaf old woman who watched blaring

talk shows eighteen hours a day.

For the first two months, I'd been fine. Lucas, Savannah, and I had spent the summer traveling. But

then September came and Savannah had to go to school. So we set up house—apartment—in Portland, and

carried on. Or, I should say, Savannah and Lucas carried on. They'd both lived nomadic lives before, so this

was nothing new. Not so for me. I'd been born near Boston, grown up there, and never left—not even for

school. Yet in my fight to protect Savannah last spring, my house hadn't been the only thing to burn. My

entire life had gone up in smoke—my business, my private life, my reputation—all had been dragged

through the tabloid cesspool, and I'd been forced to relocate clear across the country, someplace where no

one had heard of Paige Winterbourne. The scandal had fizzled out quickly enough, but I couldn't go back.

The Coven had exiled me, which meant I was forbidden to live within the state boundaries. Still, I hadn't

given up. I'd sucked in my grief, dried my tears, and marched back into the fight. My Coven didn't want

me? Fine, I'd start my own. In the last eight weeks I'd met with nine witches. Each one said all the right

things, then turned me down flat. With each rejection, the abyss widened.

***

We went out for dinner, followed by an early movie. My way of apologizing to Savannah for

inflicting another witch-recruitment session on her.

Back at the apartment, I hustled Savannah off to bed, then zoomed into my room just as the

clock-radio flipped to 10:59. I grabbed the cordless phone, jumped onto the bed, and watched the clock.

Two seconds after it hit 11:00, the phone rang.

"Two seconds late," I said.

"Never. Your clock must be running fast."

I smiled and settled back onto the bed. Lucas was in Chicago, defending a shaman who'd been set

up by the St. Cloud Cabal to take the fall for a corporate espionage scheme gone awry.

I asked Lucas how the case was going, and he filled me in. Then he asked how my afternoon had

gone, specifically my meeting with the witches. For a second, I almost wished I had one of those boyfriends

who didn't know or care about my life outside his sphere of influence. Lucas probably noted all my

appointments in his Day-Timer, so he'd never do something as inconsiderate as fail to ask about them

afterward.

"Shot down," I said.

A moment of silence. "I'm sorry."

"No big—"

"Yes, it is. I know it is. However, I'm equally certain that, given the right circumstances and timing,

you'll eventually find yourself in a position where the number of witches clamoring to join your Coven will

far exceed your requirements."

"In other words, give it time and I'll need to beat 'em off with a stick?"

A soft chuckle floated down the line. "I get even less coherent after a day in court, don't I?"

"If you didn't talk like that once in a while, I'd miss it. Kind of like I'm missing you. Got an ETA for

me yet?"

"Three days at most. It's hardly a murder trial." He cleared his throat. "Speaking of which, another

case was brought to my attention today. A half-demon killed in Nevada, apparently mistaken for another

who was under Cabal warrant for execution."

"Whoops."

"Exactly. The Boyd Cabal isn't admitting their mistake, let alone conducting a proper investigation

and procedural review. I thought perhaps you might be able to assist me. That is, if you aren't busy—"

"When can we leave?"

"Sunday. Savannah could spend the night at Michelle's, and we'd return Monday evening."

"Sounds—" I stopped. "Savannah has an orthodontic appointment Monday afternoon. I'd

reschedule, but . . ."

"It took six weeks to get it, I know. Yes, I have it marked right here. Three o'clock with Doctor

Schwab. I should have checked before I asked." He paused. "Perhaps you could still come along and leave

early Monday morning?"

"Sure. That sounds good."

The words came out empty, the elation that surged only a moment ago drained by this sudden

glimpse of my future, calendar pages crammed with orthodontic appointments, Saturday morning art

classes, and PTA meetings stretching into eternity.

On the heels of that thought came another. How dare I complain? I'd taken on this responsibility.

I'd wanted it. I'd fought for it. Only a few months ago, I'd seen the same snapshot of my future and I'd

been happy. Now, as much as I loved Savannah, I couldn't deny the occasional twinges of resentment.

"We'll work something out," Lucas said. "In the meantime, I should mention that I took advantage

of a brief recess today to visit some of Chicago's lesser-known shopping venues, and found something that

might cheer you up. A necklace."

I grinned. "An amulet?"

"No, I believe it's what they call a Celtic knot. Silver. A simple design, but quite elegant."

"Sure. Good . . . great."

"Liar."

"No really, I—" I paused. "It's not a necklace, is it?"

"I've been told, on good authority, that jewelry is the proper token of affection. I must admit I had

my doubts. One could argue that you'd prefer a rare spell, but the jewelry store clerk assured me that all

women prefer necklaces to musty scrolls."

I rolled onto my stomach and grinned. "You bought me a spell? What kind? Witch? Sorcerer?"

"It's a surprise."

"What?" I shot upright. "No way! Don't you dare—"

"It'll give you something to look forward to when I get home."

"Well, that's good, Cortez, 'cause God knows, I wasn't looking forward to anything else."

A soft laugh. "Liar."

I thumped back onto the bed. "How about a deal? You tell me what the spell does and I'll give you

something to look forward to."

"Tempting."

"I'll make it more than tempting."

"That I don't doubt."

"Good. Now here's the deal. I give you a list of options. If you like one, then you can have it when

you get home if you tell me about the spell tonight."

"Before you begin, I really should warn you, I'm quite resolved to secrecy. Breaking that resolve

requires more than a laundry list of options, however creative. Detail will be the key."

I grinned. "You alone?"

"That goes without saying. If you're asking whether I'm in my hotel room, the answer is yes."

My grin broadened. "Good, then you'll get all the detail you can handle."

***

I never did find out what the spell was, probably because, five minutes into the conversation, we

both forgot what had started it and, by the time we signed off, I crawled under the covers, forgetting even

the most basic nighttime toiletry routines, and promptly fell asleep, my curiosity the only thing left

unsatisfied.

Death before Dishonor

Come morning, I bounded out of bed, ready to take on the world. This would have been a positive

sign had I not done the same thing every morning for the past two weeks. I awoke, refreshed, determined

this would be the day I'd haul my ass out of the pit. I'd cook breakfast for Savannah. I'd leave a cheerful

message of support on Lucas's cell phone. I'd jog two miles. I'd dive into my Web site projects with

renewed vigor and imagination. I'd take time out in the afternoon to hunt down season-end tomatoes at the

market. I'd cook up a vat of spaghetti sauce that would fill our tiny freezer. The list went on. I usually

derailed somewhere between leaving the message for Lucas and starting my workday . . . roughly around

nine A.M.

That morning, I sailed into my jog still pumped. I knew I wouldn't hit two miles, considering I'd

never exceeded one mile in my entire running career, which was now in its fifth week. Over the last

eighteen months it had come to my attention, on multiple occasions, that my level of physical fitness was

inadequate. Before now, a good game of pool was as active as I got. Ask me to flee for my life, and we

could be talking imminent heart failure.

As long as I was reinventing myself, I might as well toss in a fitness routine. Since Lucas ran, that

seemed the logical choice. I hadn't told him about it yet. Not until I reached the two-mile mark. Then I'd

say, "Oh, by the way, I took up running a few days ago." God forbid I should admit to not being instantly

successful at anything.

That morning, I finally passed the one-mile mark. Okay, it was only by about twenty yards, but it

was still a personal best, so I treated myself to an iced chai for the walk home.

As I rounded the last corner, I noticed two suspicious figures standing in front of my building. Both

wore suits, which in my neighborhood was extremely suspicious. I looked for Bibles or encyclopedias, but

they were empty-handed. One stared up at the building, perhaps expecting it to morph into corporate

headquarters.

I fished my keys from my pocket. As I glanced up, two girls walked past the men. I wondered why

they weren't in school—dumb question in this neighborhood, but I was still adjusting—then realized the

"girls" were at least forty. My mistake arose from the size differential. The two men towered a foot above

the women.

Both men had short, dark hair and clean-shaven, chiseled faces. Both wore Ray-Bans. Both were

roughly the size of redwoods. If there hadn't been a one-inch height difference between them, I'd have

sworn they were identical twins. Other than that, my only way of distinguishing them was by tie color. One

had a dark red tie, the other jade green.

As I drew closer, both men turned my way.

"Paige Winterbourne?" Red Tie said.

I slowed and mentally readied a spell.

"We're looking for Lucas Cortez," Green Tie said. "His father sent us."

My heart thumped double-time, and I blinked to cover my surprise.

"Fath—?" I said. "Benicio?"

"That'd be the one," Red Tie said.

I pasted on a smile. "I'm sorry, but Lucas is in court today."

"Then Mr. Cortez would like to speak to you."

He half turned, directing my gaze to a king-size black SUV idling just around the corner, in the

no-stopping zone. So these two weren't just messengers; they were Benicio's personal half-demon

bodyguards.

"Benicio wants to talk to me?" I said. "I'm honored. Tell him to come on up. I'll put on the kettle."

Red Tie's mouth twisted. "He's not going up. You're going over there."

"Really? Wow, you must be one of those psychic half-demons. Never met one of those."

"Mr. Cortez wants you—"

I put up a hand to cut him off. My hand barely reached the height of his navel. Kind of scary if you

thought about it. Luckily, I didn't.

"Here's how it works," I said. "Benicio wants to speak to me? Fine, but since I didn't request this

audience, he's coming to me."

Green Tie's eyebrows lifted above his shades.

"That's not—" Red Tie began.

"You're messengers. I've given the message. Now deliver."

When neither moved, I cast under my breath and waved my fingers at them.

"You heard me. Shoo."

As my fingers flicked, they stumbled back. Green Tie's eyebrows arched higher. Red Tie

recovered his balance and glowered, as if he'd like to launch a fireball at me, or whatever his demonic

specialty might be. Before he could act, Green Tie caught his gaze and jerked his chin toward the car. Red

Tie settled for a glare, then stomped off.

I reached for the door handle. As the door swung open, a hand appeared over my head and

grabbed it. I looked up to see the green-tie-wearing bodyguard. I expected him to hold the door shut, so I

couldn't escape, but instead he pulled it open and held it for me. I walked through. He followed.

At this point, any sane woman would have run for her life. At the very least, she would have turned

around and walked back out onto the street, a public place. But I was bored and such boredom has a

detrimental effect on my sanity.

I unlocked the inner door. This time, I held it open for him. We walked to the elevator in silence.

"Going up?" I asked.

He pushed the button. As the elevator gears squealed, my resolve faltered. I was about to get into

a small, enclosed place with a half-demon literally twice my size. I'd seen too many movies not to know

how this could turn out.

Yet what were my options? If I ran, I'd be exactly what they expected: a timid witch-mouse.

Nothing I did in the future would ever erase that. On the other hand, I could step on the elevator and never

step off. Death or dishonor? For some people, there's really no choice.

When the elevator doors opened, I walked on.

The half-demon followed. As the doors closed, he took off his sunglasses. His eyes were a blue so

cold they made the hairs on my arms rise. He pressed the Stop button. The elevator groaned to a halt.

Kelley Armstrong - Women of the Otherworld 4 - Industrial Magic

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