John Ringo - Princess of Wands

Princess of Wands

John Ringo

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0923-3

ISBN-10: 1-4165-0923-2

Cover art by Stephen Hickman

First printing, January 2006

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ringo, John, 1963-

Princess of wands / John Ringo.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original."

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0923-3

ISBN-10: 1-4165-0923-2

1. Housewives—Fiction. 2. Police—Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 3. Homicide

investigation—Fiction. 4. Human-alien encounters—Fiction. 5. Louisiana—Fiction. I. Title.

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PS3568.I577P75 2006

813'.6—dc22

2005032196

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production & design by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to the memory of K. Steinberg,

a fine Southron Jewish woman.

Raise a glass of something

pink, frosty and alcoholic.

Her voice and presence will be sorely missed.

As this book was being prepared for print, Hurricane Katrina came ashore and utterly destroyed many

of the sites included in the story. It can only be hoped, at this time, that those scenes will someday return

to us.

Our prayers go out to the people of Louisiana and Mississippi.

Baen Books by JOHN RINGO

Ghost

Kildar(forthcoming)

Princess of Wands

Into the Looking Glass

A Hymn Before Battle

Gust Front

When the Devil Dances

Hell's Faire

The Hero(with Michael Z. Williamson)

Cally's War(with Julie Cochrane)

Watch on the Rhine(with Tom Kratman)

There Will Be Dragons

Emerald Sea

Against the Tide

East of the Sun and West of the Moon(forthcoming)

The Road to Damascus(with Linda Evans)

with David Weber:

March Upcountry

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March to the Sea

March to the Stars

We Few

The Princess Of Wands

A tarot card in the Crowley deck

“The character of the Princess is extremely individual. She is brilliant and daring. She creates her own

beauty by her essential vigour and energy. The force of her character imposes the impression of beauty

upon the beholder. In anger or love she is sudden, violent, and implacable. She consumes all that comes

into her sphere. She is ambitious and aspiring, full of enthusiasm which is often irrational. She never

forgets an injury, and the only quality of patience to be found in her is the patience with which she lies in

ambush to avenge.”

—The Book of Thoth, Aleister Crowley

BOOK ONE

THE ALMADU SANCTION

Chapter One

The body of the young woman had been twisted into a fetal position and strapped with duct tape. Then

it had been dropped in a black plastic contractor bag and rewrapped. Which seemed like a heck of a lot

of trouble if you were going to just dump the body in the woods.

Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart stroked his beard as the coroner's assistant stretched the body out.

The corpse had been in the bag long enough for decomposition to work its way on the ligaments that

stiffened the body in rigor mortis. And for the smell to change. But Kelly had seen far worse in his ten

years as an investigator. And the department wanted to know, right away, if she was another victim of

the Rippers.

Kelly was six two and a hundred and sixty pounds when he was watching his weight. Most people

describing him used “thin” because “skeletal” was impolite. He'd started growing his hair when he got out

of the army and hardly quit in the ensuing twelve years. It hung down his back in a frizzy, uncontrolled

mass and was matched by a straggly beard and mustache.

Technically, since he'd worked his way out of vice and into homicide, he should have cut both back. But

he still worked, occasionally, under cover and he'd managed to convince his bosses to let him hang onto

the whole schmeer. Since he had a good track record for running down even tough murder cases, the

powers-that-be turned a blind eye to someone that looked like a cross between the grim reaper and

Cousin Itt.

As the corpse's legs were stretched out the open cavity of her torso and abdomen became evident and

he squatted down to look at the incision. Something sharp, but not as sharp as a knife, had opened the

young woman's body up from just above her mons veneris all the way to her throat. The edges of the cut

were haggled; it was more of a rip than a cut, thus the name the papers had slapped on New Orleans's

latest serial killer. And, as usual, all her internal organs were missing.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You know the problem with being me? It's always being right.”

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“Same MO,” the coroner's assistant said, pointing at the cut. “I'd love to know what he's using.”

“They'reusing,” Lockhart replied, standing up as another car pulled down the dirt road. “And if I didn't

know better, I'd say it's a claw, a big one like a velociraptor's.”

“A veloco . . . what?” the coroner's assistant said, confused.

“What, you've never seenJurassic Park?” Kelly said. “A dinosaur, you Cajun hick.”

* * *

The edge of the bayou made the roads wet and treacherous but the driver of the black SUV expertly

avoided the worst of the puddles and parked next to one of the parish unmarked cars. When he saw

who was driving, Lockhart tried not to groan. And it looked as if the FBI agent had a boss with him.

“Detective Lockhart,” Special Agent Walter Turner said, nodding to the detective. The FBI agent was

black, just short of thirty, with a heavy build from football that was getting a bit flabby. “This is Mr.

Germaine. He's a . . . consultant we sometimes call in on serial cases.”

Germaine was a tall character, about six four, maybe two hundred thirty pounds, very little of it flab.

Sixty or so, clean shaven, short black hair with gray at the temples, and a refined air. The suit he was

wearing hadn't come off a rack. A veryexpensiveconsultant, Lockhart suspected. Then the consultant

stopped looking at the body and locked eyes with the detective for a moment.

This is one dangerous bastard,Lockhart thought. As an MP he'd spent just enough time around the

spec-ops boys to know one dangerous mother when he ran across one. Not the gangbangers, although

they were nobody to turn your back on. But this was somebody who would kill you as soon as look at

you and whether you put up a fight or not. He kept looking around, not too obviously but obviously

enough, keeping total situational awareness like a cat at a dog convention. No, a lion at a dog

convention, wondering if he should just go ahead and kill the whole pack. What the fuck was the FBI

doing carting around somebody like that?

“Can you tell me anything that's not in one of the earlier reports?” Germaine asked, quietly.

The “consultant” walked strangely. Kelly had seen a lot of walks in his time. The robotic walk of a

tac-team member, arms cocked, fists half closed, legs pumping as if trying not to leap all the time. The

street “slide,” feet half shuffling, hips moving. Military guys with their stiff march. Germaine's wasn't like

any he'd seen before. His hands, instead of being turned in like most people, were rotated with the palms

to the rear and barely moved as he walked. Legs were slightly spread, heel strike then roll to toe, stand

flat foot as the next rose up in the air and forward. The ankles hardly flexed at all. Back straight but

shoulders held down.

It was almost as if he had to think about each step.

He had an accent, faint, not one that Lockhart could place. European anyway, not British. Other than

that faint trace his English was perfect. As perfect as his suit and just as obviously a disguise he could

take on and off. The accent might not even be genuine.

“If it's like the others, not much,” Lockhart replied with a shrug. “All the previous bags were clean of

prints, body had been washed. Semen in the remaining vaginal tract, multiple DNA, none from any

known sex offender. FBI's already gotten samples,” he added, nodding at the special agent. “What's

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your specialty? Profiling?”

“I'm called in when the FBI suspects there are Special Circumstances to an investigation,” Germaine

said, walking over to the corpse. He squatted down and pulled out a pair of gloves, putting them on

before reaching into the gutted corpse. He fingered the cut for a moment, lifting a bit of the mangled flesh

along the side and then pushed the abdominal wall back to examine the underside. If he felt anything

about manipulating a violently mutilated teenaged female, it wasn't evident.

“What are special about these circumstances?” Lockhart said, a touch angrily. “We've got five dead

hookers and a group of rapists and murderers. Sick fuckers at that. Where are the guts, that's what I

want to know. Draped on display? Eaten? Pickled in jars to await the body's resurrection?”

“Partially the group aspect,” Special Agent Turner said. “Serial rape-murders are almost always

individuals. And usually when thereisa group, somebody cracks and burns it.”

“The papers are saying it's a cult,” the coroner's assistant replied. “Ritual killings.”

“Perhaps,” Germaine said, reaching up to close the girl's staring eyes. It was a gentle action that made

Lockhart rethink his initial evaluation of the “consultant.” “But cults can be taken down as well,” the

consultant continued. He stood up, stripped off the gloves and nodded at the FBI agent. “I've seen

everything that's important.”

“Got a bit of bad news,” Special Agent Turner said, wincing. “You know that scale you recovered from

the second body?”

“Yeah?” Lockhart said, uneasily. The thing had looked like a fish scale but it was about three times as

large as any he'd ever seen. They'd sent it to the FBI to try to figure out what species it had come from.

Probably it had been stuck to the body or hands of one of the rapists, a fisherman and God knew that

there were enough in the bayous, which would probably be a dead lead. But a clue was a clue. You just

kept picking away at the evidence until you got a match. Or, hopefully, somebody got scared and agreed

to turn state's evidence in exchange for not being charged with capital murder.

“The crime lab lost it,” Turner said, grimacing.

“Lost it!” Lockhart snarled. “It was the only thing we had that wasn't complete bullshit! How the hell

could theyloseit?”

“Things like that happen,” Germaine said, placatingly. “And, eventually, we'll find the perpetrators and

get a DNA match. One scale will not keep them from justice, Sergeant.”

“What about the odd-ball DNA?” Lockhart asked. “Our lab said they couldn't make head or tails of it.”

“Still working on it,” Turner replied. “You get occasional human DNA that doesn't parse right. Your lab

doesn't see as much DNA as the Crime Lab does; they've seen a couple of similar cases. We can match

it fine for court, if we get the right perp.”

“Which we will,” Germaine added, steepling his fingers and looking at the trees that surrounded the small

clearing. “On my soul, we will.”

* * *

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Barbara Everette stepped out of the tiled shower, patted herself dry with a towel and began blow-drying

her long, strawberry blonde hair. The roots were showing again, about two shades redder than her

current color with the occasional strand of gray. It didn't seem fair to have any gray at the ripe old age of

thirty-three.

She dropped the blow-dryer into its drawer and brushed her hair out, examining herself critically in the

mirror. She was either going to have to cut back on the carbs or findsometime to exercise more; there

was just a touch of flab developing around the waist and, yes, as she turned and checked there was a

touch of cellulite around the top of the thighs. The body was, otherwise, much the same as it had been

when she married Mark fifteen years before. Oh, the D-cup breasts were starting to sag a bit and

showed plenty of wear from little baby mouths, but it still was a pretty good body. Pretty good.

She dropped the brush and took a cat stance, twisting through a short kata to stretch her muscles. Ball

of the foot, turn, swipe, catch, roll the targetdownto the side, hammer strike. All slow, careful

movements, warming up for the trials ahead.

She slipped on a tattered golden kimono, sat down at the vanity and did her make-up. Not too heavy. A

bit of eye shadow, liner, very light lipstick. She still didn't have much to cover up.

Make-up done she stepped into the minimally decorated master bedroom, making another mental note

among thousands to brighten it up a bit, and started getting dressed. Tights, leotard, wriggle into casual

summer dress on top, brown zip-up knee boots with a slight heel. Her father had taken one look at them

when she wore them last Christmas and immediately dubbed them “fuck-me” boots. Which . . . was

Daddy all over.

Another brush of the hair to settle it after dressing, a pair of sunglasses holding back her hair, a slim

watch buckled on her wrist, and it was time to go pick up the kids.

Barbara picked up her pocket book as she walked out the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood

floor. The bag was a tad heavier than it looked: the H&K .45 with two spare magazines added significant

weight to the usual load of a lady's purse. But she wouldn't think about going out the door without clothes

nor would she think about going out the door without at least a pistol.

She climbed in the Expedition started it and waited for it to warm up. The SUV was a touch extravagant

and simplydevouredfuel but at least two days a week she ended up with six or more kids packed in the

vehicle. It was a choice of a big SUV or one of the larger mini-vans, with not much better fuel economy.

And Mark had flatly rejected the mini-van idea. If the stupid liberals back in the '70s hadn't created the

CAFÉ regulations, SUVs never would have been economically viable. Serves them right. If they hadn't

created the need, she could be driving a reasonably fuel efficient station wagon instead of this . . .

behemoth.

When the temperature needle had started to move she drove sedately out of the neighborhood and then

floored it. She knew that she already had too many points on her license and the local cops had started

to watch for the green Expedition as an easy, not to mention pretty, mark. But cars were for goingfast. If

she wanted to take her time she'd have walked. And it wasn't as if she wasn't busy.

The radar detector remained quiescent all the way to the school zone by the high school and by then

she'd slowed down anyway. She waved to the nice sheriff's deputy that had given her a ticket a couple of

months before and got in the line of cars, trucks and SUVs that were picking up children from middle

school.

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Finally she got close enough to the pick-up area that Allison spotted her and walked over, her face

twisted in a frown. The thirteen year-old was a carbon copy of her mother physically, with the true

strawberry blonde hair that was but a memory to her mother's head, but she had yet to learn that a

volcanic temper is best kept in check.

“Marcie Taylor is such a bitch,” Allison said, dumping her book bag on the floor and climbing in the

passenger seat.

“Watch your language, young lady,” Barbara said, calmly. “You may be correct, but you need to learn a

wider vocabulary.”

“But sheis,” Allison complained. “She said sluts shouldn't be on the cheerleading team and she was

lookingrightat me! She's just pi . . . angry because I got picked and she didn't!Andshe's trying to take

Jason away from me!”

Barbara counted to five mentally and wondered if now was the time to try to explain the social dynamics

of Redwater County. Up until the last decade or so, the county had been strictly rural with the vast

majority of the inhabitants being from about six different families. Three of the families, including the

Taylors, had been the “Names,” old, monied for the area, families that owned all the major businesses.

Recently, as nearby Jackson expanded, the area had started to increase in population and the economy

had become much more diverse. Chain stores had driven under the small-town businesses of the

“Names” and while they retained some social distinction, it was fading. Even ten years before, Marcie

Taylor would have been chosen for the cheerleading squad, despite being as graceful as an ox and with a

personality of a badger, simply because of who her father was. And at a certain level she knew that. It

undoubtedly added fuel to her resentment of a relative newcomer—the Everettes had only been in the

county for ten years—getting such an important slot.

Barb had seen, had lived through, countless similar encounters being dragged around the world by her

father. Marcie Taylor hadnothingin arrogance compared to Fuko Ishagaki. But pointing that out wouldn't

be the way to handle it, either.

“Why did she call you a slut?” Barbara asked, instead.

“Oh,” Allison breathed, angrily. “There's somestupidrumor that I've been screwing Jason!”

“Ah, for the days when a daughter would put it more delicately,” Barbara said, trying not to smile. “Have

you been? Because if you are, we need to get you on birth controlright now,young lady!”

“No, I haven't,” Allison snapped. “I can't believe you'dask. God, mother, I'mthirteen.”

“Didn't stop Brandy Jacobs,” Barb said, pulling into the line of traffic at the elementary school. “Not that

you're that stupid. But if it's before you're eighteen, just make sure you ask me to get the pills for you

beforehand, okay? I'd, naturally, prefer that you not have sex prior to marriage. But, given the choice, I'd

much rather have a sexually active daughter who isnotpregnant than one whois.”

“God, mother,” Allison said, laughing. “You justsaythese things!”

“Honesty is a sign of godliness,” Barbara replied. “And you know what sort of a life you'll have if you

get pregnant. Married to . . .” She waved around her and shook her head. “I won't say some

slope-brow, buck-toothed, inbred, high-school dropout redneck simply because I'm far too nice a

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person. And far too young to be a grandmother.” She lifted a printed sign that said “Brandon and Brook

Everette” and then dropped it back in the door-holder as the lady calling in parents waved. The teacher

was Doris Shoonour, third grade, and she immediately recognized Barbara. Everyone in both schools

recognized Barbara. She'd been president of the PTO twice, worked every fund-raising drive and fair

and could always be counted on as a chaperone on a school trip. Good old Barb. Call her Mrs.

Dependable.

Finally she reached the pick-up point for Brandon and Brook and the two got in, bickering as usual.

“Hurry up, stupid,” Brook said, banging at her younger brother's butt with her book bag.

“I'm going,” Brandon said, irritably. “Quit pushing.”

“Quiet, Brook,” Barbara said. “Brandon, get in.”

The seven-year-old finally negotiated the seats and collapsed with a theatric sigh as his eleven-year-old

sister tossed her much heavier bag in the SUV with a thump and scrambled aboard. Both of the younger

children had inherited their father's darker looks and were so nearly alike in height that they were often

mistaken for twins.

When the attending teacher had shut the door, Barbara pulled out, following the line of cars.

“Mom,” Allison said, “I want to go to the dance after the game Friday night.”

“No,” Barb replied, braking as a car pulled out right in front of her. “May the Lord bless you,” she

muttered at the driver.

“Why not?” Allison snapped. “I've got to go to the gameanyway. And everybodyelsewill be going to the

dance! You can't make me just come home!”

“Because I said no,” Barb said, calmly. “And no means no.”

“You'reimpossible, mother,” Allison said, folding her arms and pouting.

“Yes, I am,” Barbara said.

Except for the regular argument in the back, the drive home was quiet.

“Get ready for tomorrow,” Barb said as they were going in the door to the two-story house. “Brook, get

your dance bag. Allison—”

“Iknow, mother,” Allison spat, headed for the stairs. “Change into my work-out clothes.”

“Brandon . . .”

“I'm going, I'm going . . .” the seven-year-old said. “I don't think Iwantto take karate anymore.”

“We'll discuss it later,” Barbara answered.

While the kids were getting ready, and keeping up a steady stream of abuse at one another, Barb got

dinner prepped so all she'd have to do when they got home was pull it out of the oven. She often thought

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that the worst part of her current life was deciding what to cook every night. Followed closely by

cleaning up after dinner and then the actual cooking.

So after much mental agony she'd simply decided on making a rut. Tonight was Thursday and that meant

meat loaf. She'd made the loaf earlier in the day and now slipped it in the oven, setting the timer to start

cooking while they were gone. Broccoli had been prepped as well and she slipped it in the microwave.

She set out two packages of packaged noodles and cheese, filled a pot with water and olive oil and set it

on the stove. When she came home all she'd have to do was pull the meat loaf out of the oven, get the

water boiling, start the microwave and twenty minutes after they were back they'd be sitting down for

dinner.

Technically, Mark could have done it all since he'd be home at least an hour before they were. But Mark

was vaguely aware that there were pots and pans in the house and could just about make Hamburger

Helper without ruining it. She'd wondered, often, if she shouldn't have at leasttriedto get him to learn how

to cook. But that was water under the bridge: after fourteen years of marriage it was a bit late to change.

By the time she was done it was time to start chivvying the children out the door. Brandon couldn't find

the bottom to his gi or his blue belt. Brook was missing one of her jazz shoes. Allison was dallying in the

bathroom, trying to find just the right combination of make-up that would proclaim she was an

independent and modern thirteen-year-old without being in any way a slut.

The gi bottom was fished out from under the bed, the belt had apparently disappeared, the shoe was

found under a mound of clothes in the closet, and a couple of swipes of eyeliner, some lip gloss and a

threat of punishment got Allison out of the bathroom.

All three children were dropped at their respective locations and when Allison was kicked out the door,

still sulking, Barbara heaved a sigh of relief and drove to the dojo.

Algomo was a small town but unusual in that it successfully supported two schools of martial arts. For

reasons she couldn't define, except a desire to, at least one night a week, avoid her children for an hour

or so, Brandon had been enrolled in Master Yi's school of karate and kung-fu whereas Barb spent

Thursday evening at John Hardesty's Center for Martial Arts.

She parked the Expedition, mentally cursing its wide footprint and inordinate length, and walked in the

back door of the dojo. There was a women's locker room where she slipped out of the dress and boots

and donned tight leather footgear that were something like Brook's missing tap shoe. Then she entered

the dojo.

The room was large with slightly worn wood flooring and currently empty. In forty minutes or so the next

class would flood in and she'd help with it for another forty minutes or so and then go pick up the kids.

For now she was alone and she started her warm-up, working through a light tai-chi exercise, stretching

out each slow muscle movement. After she was slightly warmed up she sped up her pace, adding in some

gymnastics and yoga movements for limberness.

“You know,” John Hardesty said from the doorway. “It's a good thing I'm gay or I'd be having a hard

time with this.”

“You're not gay,” Barbara said, rolling from a split to a hand-stand, legs still spread. She looked at him

from between her hands and chuckled at his expression. “See?”

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John Hardesty was middling height and weight with sandy-brown hair. His wife, Sarah, helped out a

couple of evenings a week and between them they had five children, one from his previous marriage, two

from Sarah's and two together. If he was gay, it was a very closet condition.

“Why do you do this to me?” John said, going over to the lockers and pulling out pads.

“It builds character,” Barb replied, flipping to her feet. She fielded the tossed pads and started getting

them on.

Once they were both in pads, with helmets and mouthpieces in, they touched hands and closed.

John started the attack with a hammer strike and then bounced away lightly, staying out of reach of her

grappling attack. He'd learned, through painful experience, not to even think of grappling with her.

In honesty, the reason that Brandon and Brook, and up until recently Allison, studied with Master Yi,

was that Master Yi was simplybetterthan John. John had Barbara, a touch, on speed. And he was

definitely stronger; any reasonably in-shape male would be. But Barb had started training when she was

five, when her father had been a foreign area officer assigned in Hong Kong. Over the succeeding

twenty-eight years she had never once been out of training. The quality varied and the formsdefinitely

varied; over the years she'd studied wah lum and dragon kung fu, karate in the U.S. and Japan, hop-ki

do in Korea and the U.S. and aikido. But by the time she was Allison's age, she could have won most

open tournaments if they were “all forms.” And if all attacks were allowed.

John Hardesty, on the other hand, was straight out of the “tournament” school of karate. He'd won

southeast regional a time or two, come in second nationally, and now owned the de rigueur local martial

arts school. He was good, but he was by no means a superior fighter. And he'd come to that conclusion

after sparring with Barbara only once.

Master Yi, despite using “karate” to describe his school, had been studying wah lum before Barb was

born andwas, or at least had been, a truly superior hand-to-hand warrior. If the kids were going to train

with anyone local, she wanted it to be Master Yi. In fact, she often wished that she trained with Master

Yi instead of with John. You didn't get better by fighting someone who was your inferior. But,

occasionally, she picked up something new.

Barbara followed up with a feinted kick and then two hammer strikes that were both blocked. But the

second was a feint and she locked the blocking wrist with her right hand, coming in low with two

left-handed strikes to the abdomen and then leaping out of range.

“Bitch,” John said around the mouthpiece.

“Had to call Allison on using that term,” Barb said, backing up and then attacking in the Dance of the

Swallow. It was right at the edge of her ability and she nearly bobbled the complicated cross during the

second somersault, but it ended up with Hardesty on his face and her elbow planted in his neck. “Don't

use it on me.”

“Christ, I hate it when you pull out that kung fu shit,” John said humorously, taking her hand to get back

on his feet. “Bad week?”

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“Well, if you need to kick my ass to get it out of your system, feel free,” Hardesty said, taking a guard

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John Ringo - Princess of Wands

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