Prologue

I open my eyes to see an orderly standing close to my bed. I didn't hear him enter the room or approach my bedside. Kara, my guardian angel, is urging me to move when I notice two things that tell me exactly how much trouble I'm in: the pillow in his left hand and the knife in his right. Not standard issue hospital equipment even for “difficult” patients.

I let him take a take a step closer before I am all over him like a pit bull on a pork chop. I can't be nice or sporting about this. He’s got a lot of things going for him, too many for me to take any chances or to hold back. He's armed and I'm not. I’m hurt and he isn’t. I plan on changing that in the near future. I guess now would be a good time to mention I’m no stranger to violence. We aren’t close personal friends and to be honest, I try to avoid it. When it drops by for an unexpected visit, I try to get it over with as quickly as possible.

I ignore the searing pain in my right knee and the damage I am probably doing to it. I focus on the matter at hand. I think and act. A technique I learned over four years ago is used to immobilize his arm and gives me control of the knife. A blow I have thrown countless times in the air and in sparring class drives the wind out of my attacker. The driving elbow strike I’ve used to break boards now breaks bones. Just like that, the fight is over.

With my blood pumping, I feel the rush, the thrill of victory. Maybe it's the way the adrenaline affects me or maybe I’m just a little nuts, but every breath is that much sweeter. It feels good to be alive. I become aware of Kara again. Her comforting presence fills me with warmth. The only thing better would be sex.

"You're bleeding,” she says via the magic of our link. Even after all this time together, I don’t know how or why it works. All that matters to me is that it does.

I shrug, looking down at my arm and the rip in my hospital gown. That’s the problem with knife fights. Someone always gets cut. Still, it doesn’t look bad if you can ignore all the blood. “I’m alright.”

"You're a bad liar," she says.

She’s worried, but I can’t help but smile. Nothing can touch me. I’m alive despite someone’s best efforts. "Don't worry. I'm in a hospital."

Kara doesn’t laugh. Instead, she whispers, "This isn’t over. Others will come for you."

That brings me crashing down to earth. Someone wants me dead in a big way, big enough to send someone to kill me. Big enough to try it in a hospital filled with potential witnesses and guards. The pain, no longer content to be ignored, returns with a vengeance and my knee buckles. As I fall to the floor, I hear Kara say, "Rest....”

I nod and close my eyes with Kara’s thoughts to keep me company as I descend into the darkness.

"You'll be free soon,” she says.

Chapter One

I open my eyes and immediately, I regret it. I think hospitals and infirmaries have bright lights to torture their patients. At least that's what it feels like. I close my eyes again.

"Rise and shine."

Ordinarily, I like hearing Kara's voice. This time is no exception. I smile and focus on her instead of the pain in my head. I can tell she’s relieved. For several moments, I just lie there basking in the feeling before I ask the first of many questions troubling me. "How long have I been out?"

"Two days," She says.

That throws me. I must have been worse off than I had thought. It shouldn’t surprise me. It’s been a rough week. Rough enough for me to spend time in a hospital. My buddy with the pillow and the knife didn’t help matters.

"They had to operate on your knee and stitch you up. I didn’t want to wake you unless it was an emergency."

Nothing I can say to that. I know how much she worries about me. Sometimes it scares me that she cares so much about me. It goes beyond just being my guardian angel.

“You said that I would be free soon? Are they going to let me walk out here?”

Kara doesn’t answer immediately. She’s holding something back, deciding what to tell me. Sometimes it bothers me but I’ve learned to trust her. When she does answer, she sounds tired. More tired than I have ever heard her.

“Trust your feelings. They won’t lead you astray.”

Cryptic but sound advice for most occasions, I’m not sure how much it will help me in this situation. Maybe she will tell me more later on, after I rest and heal. I resist the urge to press her for details. She’s always done right by me.

“Get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

Kara doesn’t argue. I would bet my last dollar she’s probably been watching over me since the attack. I can sense her nodding off before she is gone, off to wherever she goes when she is not with me.

One of the nurses gives me a curious look. It’s the sort of look someone might give a wild animal or crazy person. I must have been talking out loud again. At least this time, I can blame it on the meds and my injuries. As the nurse leaves my room, she gives me another look. I can’t help but wonder what she might have heard. No. I have more important things to think about. I need some answers to the questions that are going to be tossed my way. It’s only natural. Someone tries to kill you, people ask questions. You beat someone down; people ask why even if the reason is blatantly obvious. Hell, I’m surprised the police weren't at my bedside waiting for me to wake up. No worries. They'll be here, it's only a matter of time and they’ll ask the same questions I am asking myself. Who wants me dead and why?

I admit I have a few enemies. You can’t go through life without making at least one enemy. The problem is that none of my enemies hate me enough to pull a stunt like this. Sure, some of them would like to see me hurt or dead but they want to either do it themselves or in a way that won’t attract attention. The only one that comes to mind has been dealt with. No, this has to be someone or something else. It has to be. Maybe, answering the ‘why’ might give me a clue as to who wants me dead but I’m coming up empty. If Kara was here, I could bounce a few ideas off of her head.

***

It’s just after I finish a blander than usual lunch when I learn my assailant is in a lot worse condition than I am. I should feel bad but I don’t. Don't get me wrong, I’m not jumping for joy either. Hurting people isn't something I enjoy but I can only feel so broken up about someone who tried to murder me. He pissed away any goodwill that I might have had towards him the moment he decided to kill me. Granted, I’m assuming he meant to kill me but it’s a safe bet. Call me silly but knives and pillows aren’t the sort of tools you use in any civilized conversation, even in New York. Some touchy feely types might not agree with me or call me a Neanderthal. I’ll be the first to admit my views aren’t main stream when it comes to a number of things. That doesn't mean I’m a nutcase who goes out of his way to pick fights. Violence is a last resort. The problem with last resorts is that if it doesn’t work, you’re officially out of options; that’s why anything you are saving for that moment has to work. After all, it is your last resort. If you use it and it fails, you’re done. There’s nothing left. It’s one of the reasons why I learned the martial arts. If that makes me a throwback or worse, so be it. What really bothers me is how much I have had to fall back on my last resort within the last few days.

I look up as the authorities arrive, trying to hide my surprise. They definitely aren’t NYPD. Anyone can see that. The three of them, two men and a woman, look too clean cut and regular, as if carved from the same mold. Their look and demeanor scream the word “Fed.” I’m not sure if it is a good thing or not.

They introduce themselves: Special Agent Lynch, Special Agent Marino and Doctor Bolland. I’ve never been good with names. In this case the names aren’t as important as the titles: two special agents and one doctor. Despite popular belief, FBI special agents aren't called in for just any case. Sure they investigate a lot of crimes but most of their work deals with national security and cases where local law enforcement need assistance.

After some meaningless chitchat about my stay here and my health, we get down to brass tacks. They’re all business and little warmth, especially Agent Lynch. It seems like he is going out of his way to distance himself from me as he verifies my contact information. It’s nothing that he says, it's what he does. He stands there at the foot of my bed with his arms folded across his chest. No, it goes deeper than that. Something is bothering him. Not just him, all of them. I see it in the little things they do and the looks they give one another. Whatever game plan or strategy they had went out the window some time ago.

Even without Kara being here, alarm bells start to ring. They didn’t come here about the orderly. No, they had scheduled this visit before I was attacked. That puts things in a new and dangerous light. I take a chance and break the routine to ask a question.

“What’s this all about?”

Who knows, I might even get a straight answer. The main thing is to get them talking. I need to know what’s going on. I can’t afford to be in the dark. Several moments go by before one of them speaks, the woman. I struggle to remember her name, Marino. That was it.

“Mr. Albritton, are you acquainted with Scott Dorward?”

I could lie, but what’s the point? Lying to federal agents carries a lot more risks than rewards. Odds are they already know the answer. It’s an interviewer’s trick. You ask a question you already know the answer to. It gives you the opportunity to gauge the person you’re talking to and measure their response. It’s a tactic I’ve used from time to time when I’m working a case. More often than not, it opened up a line of investigation that hadn’t occurred to me before. I decide to go with the truth. “Yes.”

Most people would be a bit surprised that I know Scott. Granted, he gets a lot more press coverage in Europe, but his name and face pop up from time to time either in the tabloids or on one of those entertainment programs. What he lacks in looks, he makes up for with his sharp wit and killer British accent. Not to say he is ugly or anything like that, but he's no golden boy. A bit too pale, his hair and eyes are just a little too dark to be considered attractive in most circles. Personality goes a long way and Scott has plenty of that. It and his father's connections helped him become a minor celebrity.

What the media doesn't know is that Scott Dorward is probably one of the most knowledgeable men on the planet when it comes to the occult and magic. If it's been researched or studied, Scott knows something about it. He believes the old adage 'knowledge is power' and it's something he has plenty of. Scott is a sorcerer, meaning he is able to use magic and cast spells.

Sorcerers are a lot like doctors. Most are general practitioners. They know a little bit about everything. Others are specialists who choose to concentrate on or study one area. Witches and warlocks study witchcraft. Ritualists are sorcerers who specialize in ritualistic magic, the kind that needs a lot of preparation. Necromancers perform necromancy. You get the idea.

Marino smiles, it’s the same sort of smile I wear when I am working on a case and feel like I am on the right track. I think I know where she might be going with this. This isn’t my first time being interviewed by the authorities.

“How would you characterize your relationship with him?”

“We’re friends but not close,” I reply. It’s true enough. I had the good fortune to met Scott back when I got started in this business. We've been friends ever since. Not best friends, but good enough to be able count on one another. Sometimes, he tosses work my way, extremely well paying work though I prefer to work for Solomon the Wise. Even sorcerers of Scott and Sol’s caliber need a little help from time to time. When Scott needs help, he is willing and able to pay well for it. Such jobs are never dull but after everything is said and done, you feel like you were underpaid. The last little favor I did for him resulted in this hospital stay and a few other far reaching consequences.

“And what is his involvement with Meredith?” she asks.

I open my mouth then close it. Meredith is someone I would like to forget. By all rights, he should be in no position to do no harm. He was the first person to come to mind when I was thinking about who wanted me dead. Now, the Feds are here asking questions about him and Scott. It’s no coincidence. What and how much do they know? They probably know more than they should. It also means I could be in a lot more trouble than I thought. They could probably figure everything out, but odds are they will jump to the wrong conclusion. So what do I tell them?

I look at Agent Marino and try to get a feel for her. My instincts battle with the cold rational part of me. I should ask for a lawyer and keep my mouth shut. It would be the smart thing to do, but it doesn’t feel right. Marino and her partners are here for answers, no matter how strange they might sound. If they don’t get them then no lawyer in the world will be able to save me.

“Maybe I should start at the beginning.”

“Go on,” She says.

“First off, I’m not crazy. Okay, I know it looks bad and that popular opinion is probably against me, but what I have to say is the truth. It all started last Tuesday……”

Chapter Two

My last case paid surprisingly well. For the first time in weeks, my creditors were not a problem. I could actually afford to take a night off and relax. As I got ready to go out, the evening news plays in the background. The news of the day washes over me, not making an impact. It is seen and heard but not felt. I’m not sure if it’s just me or if this is something we’re all guilty of. No matter the source of the news, be it television, radio, the newspaper, internet or word of mouth, I receive it with a sense of detachment. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism to cope with all the information at the tip of our fingertips. I’m desensitized to the news and its relevance unless it affects me in some tangible way. Is it human nature or is it just a character flaw too many people possess?

Tragedy mixes with peppy human interest stories designed to put a happy face on another all too bleak day. An earthquake rocks the Philippines. A fire guts an apartment building in Brooklyn. Another body turns up in Alphabet City. It’s the second one this week and it’s only Tuesday. The Mass Transit Authority announces more cutbacks making the threat of a transit strike all the more likely in the not too distant future. Entrepreneur Jack Meredith is being interviewed about his plan to revitalize the South Bronx. You learn something new every day. I never knew revitalizing a neighborhood meant kicking people out onto the street and turning their homes into condos. If that wasn’t bad enough, he makes a point to mention all of his accomplishments and his plans for the future. He calls it a better tomorrow, one where he is undoubtedly richer and more powerful. It goes on and on. I nearly miss it, a break in at 25 Sutton Place.

Kara catches it a second before I do, “Isn’t that Scott’s building?”

I turn up the sound as a picture of Scott at a recent charity event is flashed across the screen. He seems completely at ease, standing amid some of New York’s other philanthropists in one of his Neo-Victorian suits. The newswoman recites a blurb about Scott before moving on to details about the attempted robbery. She doesn’t have any real details, just enough to peak one’s interest. If I want to learn anything, I need to get over there. Calling Scott won’t work. He has this thing about phones, he doesn’t like or trust them. It’s one of the quirks that make him Scott Dorward. I remember asking him about it, He merely said anything important enough to tell someone is better done in person or by messenger. In a day and age where communication on the go is getting easier and easier, Scott clings to the habits of the past. Course, he isn’t stupid. He does have a cell phone which he will only use in the direst of emergencies. I have the number. Thankfully, I’ve never had to use it.

I finish pulling on my long coat and check my pockets for the few tools I always carry, before I head out the door. At this time of night, I shouldn’t have any trouble getting a cab cross town.

***

A half an hour and twelve dollars later, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. I never should have come here. I’m not a detective. It’s something I always try to remind myself whenever I think about taking a case. I let my concern get the better of me, something that happens too often when one of my few friends is in trouble. Despite my feelings about sorcerers, I consider Scott a friend.

Like I said before, I’m no detective. I call myself a paranormal investigator. I even have a piece of paper to prove it. Don’t be too impressed by that. The damn thing isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. It does come in handy especially around tax time. The IRS likes to be able to link your income with some sort of profession.

If you think I chase UFO’s, investigate haunted houses or hunt monsters, you would be half-right. I leave that stuff to the professionals. Most of my fellow PIs use scientific method and technology to help them investigate the paranormal. My way is a lot different. I always thought using mundane methods and tools put you at a disadvantage when dealing with the supernatural. It’s why ghost hunters and other paranormal investigators have such a hard time proving the existence of something supernatural. I’m not out to prove or disprove anything.

Early on, I realized people go to the authorities for assistance with something they think is supernatural or related to it. You might be surprised by how often this happens. Their reasons for doing so vary. It could be something as simple as a strange sound in their home to a mother afraid her son is involved with a cult conducting human sacrifice to a woman who thinks she is being stalked by a vampire. Most of the time, the authorities turn them away.

That’s where I come in. These people don’t need the help of a sorcerer or a ghost hunter. They need someone who knows, or at least has an idea about, whatever might be going on and how to solve the problem. Even if I can’t solve the problem, I’m fairly good at research and I probably know someone who can help them.

After a lot of trial and error, I developed a knack for the cases that need someone with my talents. Something jumps out at you when you hear the details. Something says, “Pick me, Monty! Pick me!!” It also helps having Kara around to guide me. Sometimes she can pick up on things I miss. Nine times out of ten, I end up referring my potential clients to someone else who can help them. The rest keep life interesting and pay the bills.

With the police combing the scene, there is no way I am getting up to Scott’s apartment. Even if I could, it’s unlikely I would be able to talk to him in private. I’m about ready to leave when I notice Hagan standing off to the side, well away from the police and the crowds.

Depending on how you translate it, his name means ‘the youthful one’ or ‘highborn’. He says he is immortal. I say he’s crazy, not that I’m a great judge of such things. Still the big man does come in handy from time to time. He has a love of battle and adventure which reminds me of the warriors of old. So does his skill with weapons.

“Hagan,” I say, trying not to smile as I give him the quick once over. “Still looking to go to Valhalla?”

He laughs before replying with his usual counter, “Still hearing voices, Count?”

Hagan also knows a lot more than he should. He’s one of the few people who know about Kara. As he puts it, one of the perks of immortality is being able to learn a little about everything. In his case that includes at least six languages and enough history to lend credence to his claims. I think he spends too much time reading when he’s not out bouncing or busting heads. That was how we met, he was bouncing in a bar and I was working on my first case when literally all hell broke loose. He had the time of his life while I was scared to death. Since then, we’ve helped each other out on occasion. His muscle and willingness to use it, as well as his talent for languages, have made the difference. When I asked him why he’s always willing to lend me a hand, he told me I was his ticket to Valhalla. That worries me more than his presence here or the fact he is armed. Only Hagan would be crazy enough to carry a weapon around this many police. The spiked club hanging from his belt might be more legal than a sword or axe. Even with my untrained eye, I can tell the weapon has been used recently despite Hagan’s attempt to clean it. Crazy or not, like me, Hagan connected to the paranormal. He’s not a sorcerer or anything like that, but he can hold his own against almost anything that lurks in the shadows. His presence here tells me what I already know. This isn’t a normal burglary.

Kara laughs at the two of us as we go through our ritual greeting, probably wondering if the two of us will ever grow up. I’m sure Hagan thinks I’m as crazy as he is, and Kara, well Kara has her own ideas about the two of us and our little quirks. “Tell tall, blond, and handsome, hello.”

“Yeah, Kara says hello,” I leave out the compliment. It doesn’t pay to boost Hagan’s ego and it’s one of my quirks. I don’t call other men handsome. Certain guys are a bit touchy about that sort of thing and might take it the wrong way. He turns and starts walking downtown, probably heading for one of the many bars he knows. I fall into step next to him, not bothering to ask why he’s here. I learned not to rush Hagan. He’ll say what’s on his mind when he’s good and ready, not a moment sooner. It’s another one of those so-called perks immortality has given him, the ability to waste time.

Hagan stops outside a bar with no name. Looking at the place brings to mind the phrase “Two men enter, one man leaves.” The front is decorated with twisted bits of scrap metal and things that would be more at home in a junkyard than the streets of Manhattan. Even with the door closed, I can hear the driving beat and lyrics of Rammstein. I’m about to open the door to see what the inside is like when Hagan reaches into a pocket for something.

“Dorward is going to be busy explaining things to the police. They’re going to ask him how his visitors ended up in critical condition.”

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.”

By way of reply, Hagan shrugs. He doesn’t look the least bit guilty or burdened by the fact that he bludgeoned several people nearly to death a short time ago. “Anyway, when Dorward was done ranting at me, he told me to give you this.”

When I see his hand again, it is holding an antique gold ring. The stone is dark green and from memory, I remember the red spots resembling drops of blood that decorate its face. I make no attempt to reach for the Bloodstone. I had told Scott this thing was dangerous and I wanted no part of it. I’m not sure if Hagan can feel the power locked within it. For me, touching it is like dipping my hand into greasy water. That’s nowhere near as bad as tapping into its power. As far as I know, I am the only person in recent memory to do so and it’s not an experience I want to repeat.

Reluctantly, I accept the damn thing and Hagan looks relieved. As expected, the greasy sensation is there, yet this time it’s stronger. Kara likes it less than I do and doesn’t hesitate to share her thoughts on the matter.

“It feels wrong.”

I’m inclined to agree with her. I glance back at Hagan waiting for the rest of it.

“Don’t give me that look. I don’t know what he was trying to do with it. He just hired me to play bodyguard,” Hagan says.

The fact Scott wanted backup doesn’t surprise me. A while back I heard he tried to do some sort of summoning and it didn’t go as planned. Since then, he prefers to have some backup when he experiments. Sometimes, he works with Sol, another sorcerer and someone else I consider a friend. Most people call him Solomon the Wise because of his extensive library and knowledge when it comes to the practical uses of magic. The fact he chose Hagan does surprise me. Scott would only hire Hagan if there was a need for cold steel and the willingness to use it.

“He was expecting trouble” Hagan says “The three gents who kicked down his door while he was doing his magic thing didn’t expect me to be there. Two of them were pushovers, the other one was an ogre. He took a little longer to deal with.”

It must not have been a very good workout for him but the ogre concerns me. There aren’t too many of them around. They tend to shy away from big cities. The ones that call the cities their home are rough customers who lurk in the back alleys and seedier parts of town. They possess a wide range of magical powers for blending in with their surroundings. Most like playing at being gang leaders or hired muscle.

“After the ogre took off, Dorward told me to get out of there with the ring. I think he was afraid the police might confiscate it or something. He said you would take care of it.”

Hagan steps into the bar, not bothering to say good bye or say what I already know. Call him if I need him. It makes me feel better, despite the vibes I keep getting from the ring and this whole deal. What the hell has Scott gotten himself into? Whatever is going on, I’m now involved in it.

Kara remains silent as I flag down a cab. Jake’s will be the perfect place to enjoy what’s left of my night and maybe have a few questions answered. If I’m going to play babysitter with this thing, I want to know more about it. Only one person can help me with that.

Chapter Three

Jake’s manages to steal the attention and clientele from all the other bars along this stretch of Amsterdam Avenue. Its dark interior sports a younger crowd but the scenery is to die for. Not only are the bartenders extremely well endowed. They also know how to make a killer margarita. The lower level has a huge dance floor where a DJ works his magic. It even earns bonus points for its lounge where you can talk and enjoy the company of friends without losing your hearing.

Tuesday night is a quiet night. There is no line to get in or cover charge. It’s still pretty crowded but not crowded enough that I have to fight my way to the bar or battle for the attention of the bartender. All in all, it’s a good place to hang out in. Tonight, I have an ulterior motive for coming here. This is one of Nerva’s favorite hangouts. I can usually find her here, breaking hearts and stealing souls on the dance floor. She collects dance partners and playmates like young boys used to collect baseball cards, always increasing her collection while discarding or trading away the ones who no longer interest her. She says she is a vampire and I believe her.

I don’t deal much with vampires. It’s unhealthy to hang around anyone or thing that views you as a potential meal. I also steer clear of most lawyers and landlords for the same reason. Yes, vampires do exist. Don’t ask me how many there are. I couldn’t tell you. I’m not a great authority on them but I’ve had enough encounters with them to know a few things about them. First off, you have to forget about all that nonsense you might have seen in the movies or on television. Contrary to popular belief, most vampires don't dress in black capes and tuxedos or sound like Bela Lugosi. They may or may not fit the more fashionable stereotypes of handsome men and beautiful women dressed in stunning black outfits. They can look like anyone you might meet on the street and they dress to individual taste. A select few are blood drinkers but that isn't the norm. Simply put, a vampire is any being who draws life and energy from another living person. Every culture has stories about vampires and the undead, each one with different powers and abilities.

Some can feed from you without your ever knowing about it. These vampires will either feed off a lot of people at once, taking a little energy from each victim or they feed very slowly from a single person. Others can and will leave you bone tired - or worse a burned out corpse to be found by the authorities. What they feed on also varies; some absorb what I like to call life energy through close, sometimes intimate contact while others feed off of emotions or even dreams. The few blood drinkers I’ve run into resemble the vampires most depicted by the media.

Each vampire also has some way or talent to make sure they can attract potential meals without much of a fuss. Many are extremely charismatic while others gravitate to professions and lifestyles where they can feed without attracting attention. There was a vampire I met in St. Louis who fed on grief. He worked as a funeral director. Are they alive, dead or something else? It depends on the vampire. Most of them are alive but not in the same way you and I are.

Nerva is more alive than anyone I know. Too bad, she isn’t here yet. It’s only a matter of time before she puts in an appearance. Waiting here for her is better than trying to chase her down. It gives me a chance to relax and digest everything Hagan told me. I do some of my best thinking in bars. The steady supply of alcohol helps. Despite the noise and crowds, I can turn my thoughts inward to solve a problem with the people and events around me to serve as inspiration.

I keep saying I’m no detective, but I do have some experience when it comes to solving mysteries and problems. Everyone has their own style and way of doing things. I like to look at the facts and people involved to see how they fit. The trick is to answer the big questions. What happened and where? Who was involved and why? How did it happen? For problem solving, I add another question. What is the best way to solve this? Sometimes I have to answer a few smaller questions to get the answers to the bigger ones.

I think about everything I know about my friend. Scott isn’t stupid. He knows the ring is dangerous and he’s good enough at what he does not to take any chances. So why would he mess with the ring?

Kara chimes in, “He had no choice.”

That isn’t a comforting thought. It causes me to flag down the bartender to make sure my next margarita is given an extra topping of tequila. Scott had no choice. It might explain why the Bloodstone feels so tainted.

“You should have kept it,” Kara says.

“We’ve been through this before. It’s dangerous. I have no business carrying around something like this, let alone using it.”

“Scott felt you should, otherwise you wouldn’t have it now.”

Sometimes, there is no arguing with her. Hagan said Scott was worried about the police confiscating the ring. Why give it to me and not Sol or another sorcerer? There is a sense of satisfaction from across the link but no answer to my question. I’m missing something. I pull out the Bloodstone to take a better look at it. The antique gold ring was made for a man. When I gave the ring to Scott, he said it was made during the Victorian era but the stone was much older. Looking at it now, I wonder how much older. The dark green bloodstone mounted on the ring looks different, not like how I remembered it. The red drops of color are more prominent on the stone’s surface. I feel dirty just touching the thing. It is enough to make me shudder. Still it had to be done. Kara’s senses are better than mine, or more accurately, she knows what to look for since she is using my senses when we are linked this way. Whatever sensations I am getting from the ring are probably worse for her.

“It’s gotten stronger.”

I’ve known Kara long enough to catch the sense of worry and unease she is trying to hide from me. It’s been a little over an hour since Hagan gave me the ring. I can see why Scott was worried, but why give it to me? I’ll have to ask him about it when I see him.

I put the ring away and try to forget about it. Kara relaxes a bit while I sip my drink. There is just enough salt around the rim of my glass to do my margarita justice, then it’s time for another one. By the third, I’ve washed the ring’s feel from my memory.

I can almost feel Kara’s lips brush my cheek. “So what do we do about it? It’s not safe for you to use.”

“I don’t want to use it,” I take a deep breath, grateful the bar is smoke-free. “I’ll talk to Sol and learn a little more about it. I want to take things slow till I know what I am dealing with.”

I was going to say destroy, it but I have no idea what might happen if I was able to do so. Destroying a powerful item like the Bloodstone could have serious repercussions. No, it is better to err on the side of caution. Kara breathes a sigh of relief. She was afraid I might do something rash. I don’t know why she thinks I need the thing. Whenever I ask her why, I never get a straight answer. Worse comes to worse, I could have someone drop it in the middle of the ocean.

***

It’s almost 2 am when Nerva finally arrives. A flicker of jealousy and wariness comes across the link from Kara as I catch her attention. The vampire rushes over and hugs me. During the brief moment of contact, Kara hisses spitefully. Nerva must have taken a tiny taste of me. As usual, I didn’t feel a thing. I’m too distracted by her presence.

“You’re looking good,” I say with a smile. It’s the truth. The tiny Brazilian bombshell is dressed to impress in a slinky black outfit and high heels. It shows off her body without being tight enough to interfere with dancing. She laughs as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. Nerva knows I’m fairly good at resisting her charms but I’m not immune to them. I don’t think any man could be. It's part of the game we play whenever we meet. Kara doesn’t like it and I can’t really blame her. The link has its downsides. She can tell I’m physically attracted to Nerva. I know it bothers her. Even a guardian angel, no matter how patient and caring, has her limits. She fumes in silence as Nerva’s teeth nip at my earlobe.

“Uh huh, you want me?”

Nerva doesn’t wait for an answer. She takes the drink out of my hand. Her tongue flicks out to lick the salt from the rim of my glass before drinking the rest of my margarita. Kara is beside herself with anger. I nearly forget why I wanted to speak to her. It wasn’t for a night of dancing and wild sex, though the thought does cross my mind. That’s part of danger when dealing with Nerva. So far, I’ve managed to avoid that particular fate because no matter how much fun it would be, it’s not worth giving up what I have with Kara.

“I need to see Sol.”

Nerva nods slowly, releasing her hold on me. “Is he expecting you?”

I shake my head. Sol is a hard man to see but if anyone would know more about the ring, it would be him. Nerva acts as his personal secretary and sometime bodyguard. There are rumors their relationship is far from platonic. She knows I would only go through her if it was important. I could arrange a meet without her but it would take longer. That doesn’t stop her from enjoying herself at my expense. She sets the empty glass down and takes my hand, leading me onto the dance floor.

I do a lot of things well but dancing isn’t one of them. I’m good enough not to embarrass myself on most nights. Sometimes having a good partner can make you seem ten times worse or a hundred times better. With Nerva, it’s the latter. I follow her lead and the beat of the music. She’s having fun, Kara isn’t. After the third song, I feign tiredness and Nerva lets me get away with it.

I buy her a drink and start to fill her in on the details now that she is ready to listen. The news catches her by surprise. Not the part about someone breaking into Scott’s apartment, by now, most of the major movers and shakers in the city should have heard about that. It’s the part about Hagan and the ring that blindsides her. I’m about to start rattling off more details that don’t interest her when she holds up a hand to silence me.

“He can see you the day after tomorrow around 4 pm. I’ll make the arrangements,” she says.

I smile, gratefully. I don’t have to say the next few words but I say them anyway, “Thanks, I owe you one.”

The way she licks her lips makes me wonder how she plans on collecting.

***

I spend the next hour watching Nerva dance while I start to sober up. It feels like I’m making progress. I decide to leave before last call is announced. I want to get in some practice time at the dojo, so that means I can’t afford to stay out much later.

Outside, I nod to the bouncers then turn the corner. It’s a nice night for a walk and my apartment isn’t far. The exercise will do me some good. I am two blocks away from my building when it happens. Even though it’s late, there are plenty of people on the street. Like me, most of them are returning from a busy night on the town. Unlike me, they only see two men step out of the coffee shop and walk in my direction.

One is tall and handsome with strong Germanic features. He could have been a model or a movie star with his good looks. His dark grey suit is tailored. The outfit would have put me back in debt. It was probably pocket change for him. I had never met the man before but I knew who he was. He made me feel uneasy, like I should know him from someplace other than television. His name is Meredith, Jack Meredith, a high wheeling and dealing real estate developer who has been making waves recently. The same Jack Meredith I saw on the news earlier tonight.

To everyone else, the man next to him looked like a mook from a gangster film. To me, the grey-skinned humanoid crammed into a less than stylish suit looked like trouble. This had to be the ogre Hagan was talking about. It wasn’t the largest I had ever seen, but big enough to be a problem if I had to fight him. At least, he wasn’t armed and from the way he moved, Hagan had put a hurting on him.

This can’t be a coincidence or anything good. Kara gives me some more bad news as I take a closer look at Meredith.

“Careful, he’s a sorcerer.”

Meredith looks and moves like a man half his age, far younger than he appears on television but still recognizable. It’s obvious he takes good care of himself. It could be a product of magic but I doubt it. He moves like a fighter, someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. The smile he favors me with is an empty thing lacking in warmth and friendship but it’s his eyes that worry me. I’m not a person; I’m an obstacle that is in his way.

“So you’re the one who got away,” He says more to himself than me.

I’m confused and I’m not the only one. Kara is also wondering about that remark. One of my teachers once told me no question is stupid, but this one sure does sound the part. “Have we met?”

Meredith’s laughter stings me. “This is rich. You’ve come full circle and don’t even realize it.”

The answer doesn’t help clear things up. I’m at a disadvantage here and operating in the dark. “So what does the ‘great’ Jack Meredith want with me?”

“You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

I’m about to make a smart comment about stereotypes and clichés when his next words slam into me.

“Albritton, you will give me the Bloodstone.” He says it like I have no choice in the matter. I risk a glance at the ogre who seems more than ready and willing to break me in two but he makes no move towards me.

Kara murmurs, “He’s good. I didn’t even know he was using magic until the spell touched you.”

If he just tried to use magic on me then it means he doesn’t know as much about me as he thinks. When I don’t respond to his words, Meredith’s smile falters. I can almost smell the wood burning between his ears as he starts running down all the possible reasons why his spell might have failed. Even when you do everything right, spells like anything else, can fail, especially now. Magic isn’t as powerful as it used to be.

It’s another thing the books, movies and television get half right. Scott told me a while back magic, like science, follows certain laws. All spells and magical powers take energy. You can find this energy in people, places and things to varying degrees. Most supernatural and magical beings draw this energy from within themselves to do magic, while others are tied to a place or an object. Sorcerers don’t have it that easy. They have to harness this energy using complex spells or rituals to work their magic. Sometimes the person or thing they draw the energy from is destroyed in the process. That’s what a sacrifice is. Death and destruction can liberate all the magical potential in someone or something. Thankfully, human sacrifice isn’t practiced like it was in past.

When you draw energy, you can draw attention. Anyone able to use magic might be able to sense someone else tapping into an energy source if they are close enough. This is especially true if they are sharing a power source such as a ley line, item of power, or whatever. This can be enough warning to defend his or herself, maybe even enough time to counter whatever is being done.

Another rule or law is that all spell casting also takes time and effort. You can’t just snap your fingers and make magic. Sometimes it’s quicker and easier to use more mundane methods than to use a spell. This is also why most magic is very subtle. There is no room for wasting energy on special effects. When magic has a visible or dramatic effect, it takes far greater energy, time, and effort time than a more subtle spell. For example, the energy used to shoot a jet of flame from your fingertips is far greater than just causing a target to spontaneously combust. The results are the same but in the first case you use a lot of energy producing the flame. Maybe in the old days, flashy magic was the norm. These days magic works almost invisibly.

Meredith’s expression hardens as he looks at me. I don’t need Kara to tell me what happened, he tried another spell to find out why his command didn’t work. It failed just like the first spell did. His mouth opens and then closes; I can tell he wants to ask me how I’m doing this. It’s the same reason why the ogre’s illusion doesn’t fool me. Most magic targeting me is redirected elsewhere. Only the most powerful spells and magical abilities can touch me. It’s a very good trick for someone to have in my line of work.

Kara knows what I am going to do next. It’s one of my guilty pleasures. Whenever I have the chance to poke fun at someone who is giving me a hard time, I take it. I admit it’s a little petty of me. It is useful for keeping people off balance. This is one of those occasions.

“This is a very public place for a mugging and that’s the only way you’ll get anything out of me. And don’t think the ogre in the monkey suit will help you. He’ll screw up again like he did at Dorward’s place.”

It’s a risk letting him know the ogre’s masking spell isn’t working on me, but it has the desired effect. Meredith doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. I want him thinking about what else I might be able to do. On the other hand, the ogre takes an angry step forward, one of his large hands reaching out to maim me when Meredith says, “G’rstaka, no.”

The ogre obeys reluctantly. It proves beyond a shadow of a doubt Meredith is the one in charge here. As I watch the two of them, Kara remains silent. She doesn’t want to distract me unless there is something important to tell me. I’m still in a bad position here. Neither one of these two mean me any good.

Finally, Meredith speaks. His smile is the same one he uses when speaking in front of the masses. It’s too late for that. I’m not going to be fooled by it or his words. Not only is he a sorcerer, I can tell he follows a far darker path than Scott’s or Sol’s. You just don’t walk up to someone on the street and do this sort of thing.

“You have a rare talent, Count Albritton.”

Damn right, it’s rare. According to Sol, I’m the only person he knows of with this sort of power and he knows a lot of people. Too bad I can’t control it. It works against all magic spells and abilities, baneful as well as beneficial. I decide to favor him with a smile of my own and a nod.

“You’ve come farther than I ever imagined, but that does not change anything. You have something I want.”

“Yeah well, in a perfect world we would all get what we deserve. Maybe, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” The ogre reacts more to my veiled threat than Meredith so I push a little harder, “You must not be too bright to send an ogre to rob someone.”

“G'rstaka wasn’t there to steal the ring.”

My eyes narrow slightly. Meredith sounds amused. It’s obvious he knows something I do not. There is no way I am going to get any straight answers out of him. This is all a game to him, one where he has all the cards. Why is he wasting time? The ogre should be all over me.

Kara says via our link, “The ring draws magical energy and stores it. Meredith was able somehow able to activate it.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, not bothering to internalize the question. Inadvertently, my words manage to confuse Meredith and G’rstaka again.

“He's feeding more energy into the Bloodstone as we speak.”

Kara is leaving something out but I can’t worry about it right now. From experience, I know the Bloodstone can store magical energy. What happens when it reaches its maximum capacity or exceeds it? Something bad happens to most objects that store energy when you overcharge them. That explains why Scott was messing with the ring. It also explains why Meredith sent the ogre to do his dirty work. A flash of anger leaps across the link as Kara sees my line of reasoning.

It’s a win-win situation for Meredith. Best case scenario, the ogre gets the ring. Even if the ogre doesn’t get the ring, he throws a monkey wrench into the works since Scott would have to deal with the NYPD and a mountain of paperwork. He wouldn’t be able to stop Meredith from using the Bloodstone especially if the ring was in police custody.

His laughter mocks me and I realize I’m the one playing the part of the fool. While I stood here and baited him, he was using the time to mess with the ring. I don’t know what he hopes to accomplish but the fact he only needs to be close to Bloodstone to manipulate it worries me. Then it hits me, the picture of Scott on the news earlier tonight. Meredith was there at the charity ball. That picture was taken weeks ago.

“Meredith, stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You cannot beat me. The Seven have seen to that.”

I don’t like the sound of that, not one bit. I like Meredith’s triumphant smile even less. I disobey my rule about violence and last resorts. I attack Meredith. My fist forever alters his smile. I’m sure Meredith will look just as good with a gold or false tooth to replace the one I knock out. Me, I have another problem.

Ogres are very good at hurting people. G’rstaka doesn’t waste a second; he leaps at the chance to tear me into bloody chunks. He comes in hard and fast using his size and weight. Hagan would have met him head on. Me, I use what’s called the “C” to step to the side and launch a counter. My hand is still hurting from punching Meredith in the face. I shouldn’t have done that, I let my temper get the better of me. It’s not the way I do things.

I make my second mistake of the night. I am thinking about the ring and everything but the mass of muscle looking to fit me with a toe tag. Even though I duck away from the grapple attempt, I am off-balance. The kick I should have avoided with ease lands dead center on my right knee. The pain is exquisite and I am officially hosed. A clubbing overhead right catches me though it’s more luck than skill which allows me to roll with the blow as Meredith climbs to his feet. This is not good.

Kara screams a warning in my mind. I move, throwing myself down and to the side away from Meredith, not trusting my gift to save me. The only words I could make out were “death” and “spell”, two words that should never be together in the same sentence. A spell like that should be impossible to cast on such short notice. The energy, effort and time required to actually kill someone with a spell is staggering, yet somehow Meredith does it. For a moment, the pain in my chest surpasses that of my knee. My gift saves me, but a passerby isn’t so lucky. The redirected spell catches the man. I know he is having a heart attack without even looking at him. Another casualty is the ogre. G’rstaka is gone, consumed by the spell Meredith had cast, a sacrifice.

It takes time for me to pull myself together. Not enough time for Meredith to take the ring from me or to finish me off but long enough for him to get away. I force myself to look at the victim of his spell. Someone is trying to help him, I hope he pulls through, but I can’t stay here. I stagger to my feet and limp the rest of my way home to escape the scene, if not the blame for this.

Chapter Four

I’m not a morning person. After a late night, I can be downright irritable. After a night of drinking and a fight with an ogre, I’m dangerous to awaken. So why is my studio apartment filled with the morning light and two unexpected guests? My bloodshot eyes focus on Hagan helping himself to my stash of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. For his sake, I hope the bastard had the decency to make a cup for me as well. My other visitor has not taken such liberties. He sits in the studio’s only chair, an old dime store novel lies open in his lap. Only when he sees I am awake enough to understand him, does Scott speak in his clipped and precise British accent. It’s easy to forget I am older than him. It’s the way he carries himself that makes everyone around him feel like his junior.

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