Shapers of Worlds Volume II, page 30
Abigail Cousin’s laughter was almost a cackle. “Dreams. So many dreams keeping me up at night. The book called to me. If I told the world, a new guardian would come for it. My family could be free of the burden.”
I rubbed my forehead. This was getting me nowhere.
She reached the corner and gripped the latch of an oversized travel trunk. The lid screeched, echoing through the stale, dank basement. “Come over here and see.”
The hair at the back of my neck prickled. She was baiting me into a trap. “Why don’t you just show me the book with the cipher?”
“Oh, it’s very heavy.” She peered back at me, suddenly looking decades older than the spry woman who had led me down the stairs.
“Why don’t you tell me why I’m really down here?” I slipped my hand inside the pocket of my slacks and grasped the smooth adder stone, relieved I’d decided to bring it along.
The black stone had been favoured by the druids for protection from magic. The natural hole in the centre of the rock collected the enchantments instead of allowing the magic to penetrate the person grasping it. My gun was still in my shoulder holster, but in this instance, my gut told me it wouldn’t be much help anyway.
Abigail turned around slowly to face me. “You’re a smart one.” Her eyes flashed a bright violet in the swinging light. Definitely not human, not completely.
I tightened my grip on the stone. “Who are you?”
“Rude,” she spat. “This is my house.” She pointed a crooked finger up at me. “I bet you’re not even with the FBI.”
I raised a brow. “If you don’t have the cipher, then I’ll save us both some time and get out of here.”
“Yes. Leave!” She balled her hands into fists and blurted out a Gaelic incantation. My Gaelic was rusty, so I couldn’t place if it was Scottish or Irish, but the way her eyes glowed made her intent clear. The adder stone heated in my grasp, burning my fingers. I dropped it as I whispered my counterspell of protection.
She looked back up at me, confusion pinching her wrinkled brows. “Who are you?”
Now that I was certain I wasn’t really standing with a human grandmother, revealing my agency wasn’t so risky. We both had secrets to protect. “I’m a federal agent from Department 13.” I tightened my jaw. “Do you really know where the cipher is hidden?”
She stumbled back. “You have magic.”
I bent to retrieve the adder stone and met her eyes. “It appears I’m not the only one.” I studied her, piecing together her perfect veneers, her small stature, and her glowing eyes. “Are you . . . a changeling?”
The last time I’d come in contact with a fae trapped in the human world, it had been a leprechaun. I hadn’t seen an actual changeling since I’d first joined the department in 1963 after the Kennedy assassination. Before the industrial revolution, it was more common for the fae to walk on our side of the veil, swapping their infants with human infants. These days, changelings were rare.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t confirm my suspicion.
I put the adder stone back in my pocket. “Why did you share your story in that paper? Who are you looking for?”
She crossed her arms and sighed. “I’m tired, and I want to go home. My real home.”
I raised a brow. “What’s the cipher got to do with interdimensional travel?”
“Nothing.” She lifted her gaze to my face. “But I swore an oath to protect it. I can’t leave until I find someone who can take on that burden. That’s why I talked to the reporters.”
I shook my head and let out a frustrated breath. “So, this basement was some kind of test?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
I crossed my arms, tipping my head to the box in the corner. “What’s in the trunk?”
She mimicked my stance, which only further revealed the fae blood in her veins. “Devil’s Breath powder.”
My eyebrows shot up. The CIA used to use the white powder as a truth serum. It left its victims in a compliant, trance-like state. “How did you get . . . ?”
“That doesn’t matter now. I’ve seen your magic.” Her eyes sparkled. “I believe you might be the one we’ve been waiting for. You could be a worthy guardian.”
“We?”
She nodded. “My last descendant.”
The air sizzled and sparked around us as her form gradually changed from a decrepit elderly woman into a younger version, with tawny brown hair and a black suit like mine. Her smile was like pure sunshine radiating across the basement wasteland.
My jaded knees almost wobbled. I straightened my jacket. “Let’s get out of here.”
She followed me up the stairs and through the small kitchen, and out to my rental car. The high-pitched buzzing of the cicadas popped and sizzled like surging power lines as I disengaged the car’s locks and got behind the wheel. She settled into the passenger seat, my first time seeing her in the sunlight. Her smooth skin glowed, a sharp contrast to the crone who had met me at the worn screen door of the faded pink house. She had delicately precise features. Only her pert nose was still recognizable from her earlier form.
She turned my way. “Is there a problem?”
Her voice had lost the crackly drawl too.
I searched her eyes. “Am I looking at your true form now, or is this glamour?”
Her lips curved at the corners. “I’m not your first encounter with the fae.”
“No.” I shook my head. “So, which is it? Have you been pretending to be elderly, or is this your mask?”
She tilted her head slightly. “I have never been elderly by human standards. I was raised as Abigail Cousins, and when I came of age, I vanished before I could be accused of witchcraft.” She clicked her tongue. “Now you owe me answers.”
I chuckled, but I shook it off. Fae magic was insidious. You could become enthralled without ever noticing. It was a slippery slope. I cleared my throat. “I don’t recall agreeing to answer questions.”
She shrugged. “I believe humans call it being polite.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. She was funny. “Okay. Ask your question.”
There was that bright smile again. “Tell me about Department 13.”
I shook my head. “I’ve told you all you need to know. We protect Americans from paranormal threats.”
“Fine.” She smirked, shaking her head. “Then I get another question.”
What could it hurt? I started the engine and drove down the dirt drive toward the street. “All right.”
“Why do you care what happens to people you don’t even know?”
I stopped at the end of her driveway. “I’m not sure. I guess I got it from my father. I looked up to him, and when he died, I wanted justice.”
She nodded slowly. “A magical justice the police couldn’t give you?”
“That’ll cost you another answer to my next question.”
Her laughter was like the melody from a wind chime. “Agreed.”
“How did you find the cipher?”
“It was entrusted to my husband.” She pointed to the right. “This way.”
I followed her directions and glanced over at her. “You were married?”
Her lips curved into a wistful smile. “Lifetimes ago.”
“And you’ve been keeping the cipher hidden all this time?”
“Of course.” She looked out the passenger window. “We were told the power of the angels could be wielded by speaking their language.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. I’d had my share of run-ins with angelic beings. They were powerful and seemed to suffer from an inability to relate to mortals or mortality in general. “Does your descendant know I’m here? Is he fae too?”
“You’re tenacious.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s human. My great-great-grandson.” She stared out the window, her voice softening, becoming distant. “My family has been protecting the book since it arrived on this continent in the 1800s.”
She pointed out the final turn, and I frowned. “This is a graveyard.”
“Yes.” She nodded as we drove into the Oak Hill Cemetery. “The perfect place to hide a valuable book.”
I parked alongside the grass, got out of the car, and sucked in a deep breath, grateful I didn’t have the ability to hear the cries of the dead like a few of our agents. Scanning the headstones, I saw that many were from the 1800s. Old cemeteries unleashed an almost unbearable burden on psychic mediums.
Abigail stopped, frowning as she checked the area. “He’s usually here by now. Maybe he’s already in the tomb.”
She started walking again, faster, leaving me in a state of confusion.
I scanned the cemetery for any sign of life, but we were the only movement, and the only sound was Abigail’s footsteps on the road. Could her grandson be . . . a ghost?
I hurried after her and caught her arm. “Wait.”
Her eyes dropped to my hand and back up to my face.
I released her. “Is this person . . . alive?”
“Of course, he is.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “How long have you been in this world, Agent Bale?”
This wasn’t information I usually shared with anyone outside the department, but Abigail wasn’t an ordinary citizen. “Almost one hundred years now.”
Her gaze slid up from my shoes to my face. “I’ve never met a human with glamour before.”
I shook my head. “Not that kind of magic.”
After I joined Department 13 in 1963, I rose through the ranks quickly. Directors of our secret division had access to an herbal mixture that combined the Balm of Gilead with water collected from the Fountain of Youth. It healed our wounds and kept our bodies from aging. I hadn’t changed since the 1960s, and I wouldn’t again until I retired from the department.
She studied me for a moment and finally shook her head. “I’ve been here since this fledgling country started. I was Margaret back then. I came to Kansas with my husband, John P. Usher, and Dr. Dee’s cipher. We came here after Lincoln was assassinated. We’ve been protecting it ever since.”
The hair on the back of my neck tingled at the mention of Lincoln. Recently there had been novelizations about Lincoln slaying vampires and the like, and while the world looked at it as satire, there were nuggets of truth in the story that no one would believe.
Lincoln and his wife had forged a connection to the spiritualism of the time. Mary Todd Lincoln’s curiosity about the occult led her husband to discover some of the first powerful relics to be housed in the Department 13 underground vault.
But other than Poe’s story of “The Fall of the House of Usher,” the name Usher didn’t ring any bells with me.
We rounded the corner, and a foreboding crypt came into view. “USHER” was carved into the stone between two polished marble columns. Locked doors with iron bars blocked the entrance to the massive facade that seemed to open into the side of a grassy knoll.
I glanced around the cemetery and frowned. “I don’t see any other hills around here.”
“That’s why John picked this spot. He wanted to be sure the only way to access the tomb would be with a key.”
My curiosity was piqued. I crossed to the tomb and peered through the dusty glass. I could make out a plaque for John P. Usher, entombed in 1889. There were more Ushers laid to rest with their founder, all the way up to 1957 that I could see.
But no sign of Dr. Dee’s missing cipher.
I stepped back, inspecting the ornate carvings in the stones at the tops of the columns. Algae had dyed the surface to a faded green colour, but the engravings were still fairly distinct even after more than a century of weather. The trim bore a traditional grapevine, signifying Jesus as the vine and his followers as the branches, but at the top of the right column, I noticed an anomaly in the trim. I went to that side for a closer look, and my pulse quickened.
It was the Monas Hieroglyphica, the esoteric symbol designed by Dr. John Dee to represent the unity of the cosmos. The crescent shape at the top represented the moon, and it intersected with the circle in the center symbolizing the sun. Below the circle, a cross joined the sun with the elements and the base of fire. There was no mistaking the unique engraving. And here it was, far from England, in a cemetery in Kansas.
I looked over at Abigail. “Do you have a way to contact your grandson?”
“There he is.” Abigail pointed.
I turned around to find an elderly man with a cane approaching us. His gait was slow, but the cane hit the rough pavement in a steady rhythm. He had pure white hair, and his complexion seemed ashen.
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a gun. “I got no desire to pull this trigger. Leave her alone.”
I put my hands up, but I didn’t walk away. “I just want to talk.”
As long as he didn’t shoot me in the head, I wouldn’t die, but it would hurt like hell until I could use my healing herbs to close the wound. I’d rather avoid getting shot altogether.
Besides, this was one of my favourite black suits.
“Walter, this is Agent Bale.” Abigail took a step in his direction. “He saw the article. I think he’s the one we’ve been hoping for. He can protect the book.”
Walter didn’t lower his gun, but the barrel shook, the weight beginning to tax his muscles. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes narrowed as he studied me. “What’s in it for you?”
I crossed my arms. “It’s my calling. I lock up items that could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands.”
“Put the gun away, Walter.” Abigail looked at me and back to the armed man. “Trust me, Agent Bale is our best chance to keep the cipher out of human hands.”
Walter holstered his gun. After smoothing back whisps of silver hair from his forehead, he came a little closer. He eyed Abigail. “How can you be so sure?”
Abigail gestured to me. “He has strong magic, and his job is to defend humanity from paranormal threats.”
Walter stopped in front of me. “Is this true?”
I nodded. “I’m the lead agent with one of the most secret departments of the government. We protect Americans from relics that could harm humanity. My agency saw the article about the missing cipher, and I came to retrieve it and lock it in the underground vault in Washington, DC.”
Walter raised his chin. “Do you have any proof?”
I handed him a business card. He took it, flipping it over before he chuckled and lifted his gaze. “This is a blank card with your name and phone number. I’m going to need more than this.”
I took out my phone, scrolling through my contacts. Usually, we went to great lengths to be sure no one knew who we worked for. Trying to prove the department’s existence was a new exercise. Which staff member would be the most believable to vouch for me? My finger hovered over Kingsley Pratt. The Brit was our shamanic computer programmer. He had the ability to weave spirit magic into his coding that supercharged our searches.
He was also sarcastic and a high-functioning alcoholic. He might be jaded enough that Walter would believe me. I pressed Kingsley’s name.
He answered right away. “Did you find it, sir?”
“Not exactly.” I looked at Walter. “But I think I just met someone who has seen it. I need you to explain who we are and what we do.” I put the phone on speaker and held it out toward Walter. “This is Kingsley. He’s our programmer at Department 13.”
Walter’s silver brows popped up. He looked skeptical, but he leaned in and said, “Hello?”
I had the volume up so loud we could all hear Kingsley’s clipped British accent. “This is Kingsley Pratt, Agent and Shamanic Programmer for Department 13. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Walter Usher the Third.” He stared at me. “I’m not sure how this proves anything.”
“I agree,” King answered. “Agent Bale must be desperate to choose me to validate his mission.”
Walter’s lips twitched as he bit back a smile. I crossed my arms, trying to keep my body language from exposing the rush of hope. I’d chosen the right person to call.
Walter cleared his throat. “Maybe you can confirm what your department does, exactly.”
“We protect Americans from paranormal threats,” King said without hesitation.
Walter pointed to a stone bench near the entrance to the Usher tomb, and we walked over so he could sit down. “Funny, you don’t sound American to me, Mr. Pratt.”
Kingsley chuckled on the other end of the line. “I wasn’t born here, but more years ago than I care to count, I fell in love with an American woman and earned my citizenship.”
Walter mulled over the information. “Tell me about this vault you have.”
I half expected King to ask me for clearance to discuss it, but he surprised me. “We have a high-security subterranean vault that holds dangerous and valuable metaphysical relics and artifacts. We monitor and inventory the items to be sure they remain locked up and hidden from humanity.”
Walter handed the phone back to me. I quickly ended the conversation and slipped my cell back into my pocket.
Abigail went to the bench and sat beside Walter. “This could be the chance we’ve both been hoping for.”
He met her eyes. “Or this is the moment I become the Usher who made it possible for someone to bring about Armageddon.”
She patted his knee. “Agent Bale is the one we’ve been waiting for. I can feel it.”
Walter searched her eyes and tightened his grip on his cane. He pushed up to his feet and approached me. “I’m ready to release this burden.”
He took out an old skeleton key, but he didn’t move toward the tomb. “This key has been handed down since my great-great-grandfather John P. Usher took his eternal rest.” He lifted his gaze to my face. “I suppose I should give you the story so you understand the importance of keeping this book hidden.”
“That would be helpful.” I nodded. “I can add it to the inventory sheet so that a hundred years from now, no one will be tempted to release the contents.”
Walter glanced at Abigail. “Do you want to tell him how the book got to America?”
“All right.” She looked over at the tomb with a sad smile. “John was the love of my life.” She turned my way. “After spending ninety-three years as Margaret, I used my magic to still my heart and allowed her to fade from mortal memory.”
