Shadow's Blade, page 14
“I get that. But what is it, Namid? What can it do?”
“It is the Sgian-Bán, the Pale Knife.” He pronounced it as Skee-an bawn.
“That sounds Celtic,” I said.
“Very good. It is.”
“So I take it this belongs to Saorla.”
He faced forward, his expression hardening. “It would be more precise to say that she belongs to it.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
His waters were growing more roiled by the moment. He might have been confiding in me, but he wasn’t happy about it. “The Sgian-Bán is the blade that was used to sacrifice the necromancers. This blade made Saorla and her kind centuries ago. It is infused with the blood of every necromancer empowered at that time. And just as it preserves their blood, it preserves as well an element of their power. It is a blade of awesome might, of magic you can scarcely comprehend, all of it dark, perverted by their avarice and malevolence.”
He faced me once more. “It is the one weapon in your world that can be used to kill runemystes, and as far as we know, it cannot be destroyed.”
I had long since learned to expect the worst where Saorla was concerned, and yet, as dangerous as I had thought this knife might be, I hadn’t imagined it could be this bad.
“Why haven’t I heard of this before now?” I asked. “During the summer, Saorla and her friends went to great lengths to kill another of your kind. Patty Hesslan and Regina Witcombe put me through that elaborate ritual so that they could use me to kill you. We both almost died. Why didn’t they use this Pale Knife instead?”
“It was lost,” he said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Until this moment I assumed it would remain so. You are sure that the weapon is here, in this city?”
“I’m not sure of anything. I’m trying to piece together a story I was told and a murder I all but witnessed. Tell me more about the knife.”
“I would not know where to begin. I have told you in the past that Saorla and her fellow necromancers sought to set themselves against the runemystes. They did not approve of the Runeclave’s attempts to protect your world against dark magic, and they opposed its decision to sanction the sacrifice that created my kind.”
“Was a weapon used to kill you as well? Is there a blade that can counter theirs?”
He shook his head. “Our sacrifice was a ritual of magic. No blood was spilled, which is why we can take the form we do, without the hint of corruption that lies at the core of Saorla’s being. But theirs was no sacrifice, not in any true sense. They used their magic and their blood to imbue the knife with unnatural power, and they transformed themselves into demons, powerful, fell, and all but immortal.”
“And then?”
A small shrug rippled his waters. “And then the knife was hidden away. It remained an object of power, and they wished to keep it secret from the runemystes and the Runeclave. We learned of it, but only hundreds of years later, as the true nature of what they had done became clear. By then the knife had nearly passed out of knowledge, to become little more than lore. Rumors of it floated on the air, as insubstantial as smoke. It was in the land you know now as Germany. It was in Eire. Some claimed that it found its way to the New World before your nation gained its independence. But all of this was said in whispers. We knew not what to believe and what to dismiss as hearsay.”
“But we know now it was more than rumor,” I said. “It turns out it was here in America, and we know that the necromancers didn’t have it, because they would have tried to use it long ago. So if it wasn’t them, who would have brought it here, who would have kept it for all this time?”
“There are those who collect such items,” the myste said. “There is a lucrative market for such magical artifacts. Some of these collectors are weremystes, some are not. But all of them would recognize the value of this knife. It is beautiful as well as powerful, and its hilt and blade are marked with carved runes, so that even those who cannot sense the magic in it would know that they held an object of power.”
I’d long been aware of the black market in magical goods, and I knew as well of several collectors in the Phoenix area. Strictly speaking, the market wasn’t illegal; there were no established laws governing the sale and ownership of such things. But those of us in the runecrafting community tried to keep track of these transactions for this very reason. Among the thousands of old books, carved amulets, ritual blades, and cursed or blessed gems, medallions, and baubles that filtered through this elusive marketplace, one might occasionally find items of true power, items that had no business gathering dust in someone’s collection. I had a hard time imagining that an object as powerful, important, and deadly as this knife could have been on display for all these years in the living room or study of some rich magical dilettante.
Because it probably wasn’t.
“No,” I said.
Namid swung his bright gaze to me, his watery brow creasing in surprise. “No? I do not understand.”
“I don’t think it’s with a collector. At least not the type you’re talking about. The man who’s after it didn’t go to the home of a wealthy collector in North Scottsdale or Paradise Valley. He went to a pawnshop in Glendale.”
“Do you believe he found it there?”
“I’m reasonably sure he didn’t. But this guy knows what he’s doing. He wouldn’t be wasting his time, or Saorla’s.”
Another idea came to me, not necessarily one I liked. It had already been a long day, and if I followed through on what I had in mind, I was going to be racing the sun into the evening.
“I’ll do my best to find this blade, Namid, but I might need to summon you again.”
“You have my permission to do so,” he said without hesitation. “You must tread like the fox, Ohanko. Those who would wield the Sgian-Bán will not scruple to kill any who oppose them.”
That much I knew already. Namid vanished from the truck, and I started the long, slow drive from the outskirts of Maryvale to a small park on the east side of Mesa.
The park itself wasn’t anything special. But at this time of the moon cycle, in the days leading up to the phasing, it was home to what weremystes and magical wannabes called the Moon Market, a gathering of vendors, mystes, and craftsmen who catered to runecrafters eager to ease or avoid entirely the worst effects of the full moon. Much of what was sold at the market was junk: knock-offs of Zuni fetishes, New Age books on Wicca and Shamanism, herbs that smelled great but did little else, carved and polished crystals that had been so over-processed as to rob them of any powers they might otherwise have offered. But occasionally I had found hidden in among the worthless stuff books of real value, raw crystals with palpable power, and herb sachets put together by people who knew what they were doing.
I didn’t expect to find the knife here. I was searching for a person, not a thing, and I found him where I thought I would, sitting behind a table covered with genuinely beautiful and potent gemstones. Barry Crowseye was a Navajo who owned a small gem shop in Tolleson. He was tall, with long silver-white hair that he wore tied back in a ponytail. He had skin the color of cherry wood, dark, penetrating eyes, and a chiseled face, that could have come off a coin. In other words, he was the sum of everyone’s notion of how a Native American should look. He wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a leather vest.
Seeing me, he smiled and stood, extending a hand across his table of wares.
“How’s it going, Jay?” he said, his voice deep. “I haven’t seen you since you brought down the Blind Angel. Nice piece of work.”
“Thanks, Barry.”
Many in Phoenix’s runecrafting community had resented me for insisting that the Blind Angel Killings had a magical purpose, and for a while I hadn’t exactly been welcome in the market. Barry had been as skeptical as the rest, but he’d always treated me well.
He folded himself back into the canvas chair behind his table. “So what case are you working on now?”
I grinned. “You do that every time I see you.”
“Do what?”
“Assume—correctly, of course—that I’m here for information instead of something else.”
He made a vague gesture that somehow encompassed the entire market. “You don’t believe in this stuff, Jay. I can’t say as I blame you, but the fact is, you don’t think herbs and crystals are going to keep the moon from crushing your mind in a few nights. So when I see you here, I expect to be answering some questions.”
“I’ve said it before. You’d make a good PI.”
“I think I’m better off selling rocks. How can I help you?”
I trusted Barry. I’d known him a long time, and he had never steered me wrong, or given me any reason to doubt his word or his motives. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask him about the knife directly.
“Have you heard people around here talking about a magical weapon of some kind? Something old and seriously dark that’s only been rediscovered recently?”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “I haven’t, and it sounds like I’m glad.”
“No kidding. To be honest, I would have been surprised if folks were talking about it in the open. The people who want it aren’t exactly advertising the fact, and whoever has it is probably lying low. It was worth a shot though. The reason I came was to ask you about a person, a collector of artifacts, Pueblo culture mostly. I think you mentioned him to me once, years ago, when I was still on the force. Old guy, Akimel O’odham, I think,” I said, giving the preferred name used by the tribe formerly known as the Pima Indians.
“You’re thinking of Lucas Quinn,” he said. “He made jewelry for a while and went by Lucas Twofeather, because he thought the tourists would be more likely to remember him.” He grinned, exposing a gleaming golden tooth.
“Is he still alive?”
“As far as I know. Last I heard he was still living in the Gila River Community, a few miles north and west of Komatke. He has a place at the end of a dirt road off of Seventy-Fifth. It’s not much more than a shack at the top of a small rise, but it’s his.”
He pulled out a piece of scrap paper and a pencil, and drew a rough map.
“He’s not real fond of strangers,” he said, handing me the paper. “And he doesn’t like white people. The truth is, he’s odd and a loner, and he’s not some high-powered collector, like some of the rich white people who hire you.”
I nodded. This was why I had come in the first place. “I’m not interested in talking to rich white people.”
Barry cocked an eyebrow.
“All right,” I said. “I’m not interested in talking to them about this.”
“You really think Lucas could be sitting on an ancient magical weapon?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s something that vanished a long time ago. It’s only recently resurfaced. People seem to think it’s in the Phoenix area. And I think that if it had fallen in the lap of one of those rich collectors, he or she would have been bragging about it. But if a loner had it, someone odd, someone who didn’t particularly like those other collectors . . .”
“I suppose it’s possible. Of course if somebody’s trying to find it now—”
“He could be in trouble. Thanks, Barry. I owe you one.”
I left the park, got back in the truck, and headed west, toward Komatke. Traffic had started to build on and off the highways, and the sun hung low enough in the western sky to make driving in that direction a battle. But given where I was headed, the freeways weren’t going to help me much, and sticking to the surface roads did make the drive a bit easier.
Still, it was after four when I finally turned onto Seventy-Fifth Avenue in the Gila River Community. Barry’s map proved to be a lifesaver. Without it, I never would have known Lucas Quinn’s road was anything more than a track carved into the desert by dirt bikes and ATVs. Whispering an apology to my father, I steered his truck up the road, bouncing over potholes and jutting rocks, a cloud of brown dust billowing behind me.
I crested the small rise Barry had mentioned, muttered a curse, and stopped to survey the scene waiting for me there.
The shack lay in ruin, its roof caved in, its windows shattered, the wooden planks of its walls twisted and splintered. The front door hung from its bent hinges, swaying in the wind.
I eased the truck forward stopping beside a beat-up white pickup that made my dad’s truck look like a marvel of modern technology. It had probably been days, if not weeks, since the damage had been done, but that didn’t stop me from pulling out my Glock before leaving the truck. I approached what was left of the shack, my pistol held before me, my eyes sweeping over the structure and the surrounding land.
I pushed open the battered door with my foot and peered inside. The interior was in no better shape than the rest. Shards of broken plates and glasses covered the dusty wooden floor, along with a few books, their pages torn, and the broken remains of a wood table and several chairs.
I had expected to find a body, but I didn’t see or smell anything to indicate that Lucas’s corpse was here.
But with my back still to the door, I did hear a light footfall behind me, and then the menacing growl of something large and very much alive.
CHAPTER 11
Before I could raise my weapon or ward myself, a second footstep, this one heavier than the first, made the floor creak. That was followed by the unmistakable clack of a round being chambered in a pump-action rifle.
“I think you should put your pistol on the floor and raise your hands.” A girl’s voice, with the faint lilt I was used to hearing in the speech of American Indians.
I did as she said, then straightened, my back still to the door, my eyes fixed on the shattered window that looked out over the sloping desert behind the shack. “Can I turn around?”
“Not yet. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I’m Jay Fearsson, and I’m a private investigator. I was hoping to speak with Lucas Quinn. I have reason to believe he might know something about an item I’m trying to find. Who are you?”
“Who sent you here?”
“No one sent me. A man named Barry Crowseye told me how to find the place.”
“You know Barry?”
“For a long time now.”
Another growl made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“Who’s that with you?” I asked.
“You can turn around. Very slowly. I’m feeling a little twitchy, and so is my grandmother.”
I stepped around, taking care not to make any sudden moves. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She was a bit heavy, with long black hair, dark eyes, and a face that was angelic, despite being partially obscured by the sights on her rifle. Next to her, its teeth bared, its ears lying flat, stood an enormous pale gray wolf with amber eyes.
“That’s your grandmother?” I asked.
“Yep. And you’re in her house.”
That I hadn’t expected.
“You’re a weremyste,” she said.
“If you can tell that, you’re a were.”
“That’s right. I’m a wolf like her.” She said it as “woof,” but I had no doubt as to what she meant.
“I didn’t mean to trespass. I came to talk to your grandfather. You can ask Barry if you want to.”
“My grandfather’s dead.”
Again, a deep growl rumbled through the shack.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, breathing the words. “Murdered?”
She nodded.
“By the people who destroyed this house.”
“By weremystes,” she said.
“Not by me, I promise you. But I’m sure they were interested in the same item I’m after.”
“Whatever that is, it’s not here. If they didn’t find it, it never was.”
I glanced around, noticing what I had missed before. There was nothing left in the shack of any value. Whatever remained of Lucas Quinn’s collection had been taken.
“They stole it all? Everything he had?”
For the first time, the girl hesitated. “Yes.” She said it forcefully, but I could tell she was lying.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. You and your grandmother removed what was left, isn’t that right? But then why leave the shack this way?”
Her mouth twisted, making her appear even younger than she had. My guess of eighteen might have been too high.
“I took it all away,” she said after some time. “Grandmother hasn’t changed back from being a wolf since the night he died. I’m not sure she ever will.”
I grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“I left the shack this way,” she went on, not responding in any way to my words of sympathy, “because I thought they might come back. People loot stuff all the time, so they wouldn’t wonder about that. But if I cleaned it up, they might come looking for us.”
“That was good thinking,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you that.”
“All right. Would you be willing to let me see the items they left behind? The stuff you took away?”
“I’m not sure about that either.”
I gave a self-conscious smile. “I can’t say that I blame you. Truth is, you have no reason to trust me, and I can’t make you answer any of my questions. But I’m going to ask anyway. Do you ever remember seeing, among all the things your grandfather had in his collection, a stone knife? It would have been a pale, warm beige, the color of creamed coffee, with a red streak in the blade.”
The girl frowned, and I could tell she was thinking about it, which was as much as I could ask. But it was the wolf who answered, with a sound that was half-yelp and half-chuff.
I regarded the wolf and then the girl, a question in my eyes.
“She says he had it.”
“You’re sure that’s what she was saying?” I asked, trying not to sound too skeptical. But grandma, with her big teeth and big claws, responded by making the sound again, which was almost enough to convince me. “But you don’t have it now, do you? It wasn’t here after your grandfather died.”
