Dragonproof - 3. Chapter 3

Connor tallied up the till, and in short order we were out the door. We walked in the temperate breeze, past trees that were just beginning to think of shedding their leafy coats, and talked. Connor was in college, as I'd thought, and he was paying his own way. He evaded inquiries about his parents; I could understand how one might not want to talk about family. Instead we spoke about things we enjoyed: books, movies, TV programs and the like. He liked to exercise; I only did in very controlled situations. Neither of us had a car; in his case an unnecessary expense, and in mine impractical. No ID, no driver’s license. There must be a good spell to forge things like that, but I'd never gotten around to it.

He teased me that it was a shame he only knew my last name because his boss had inquired. “Really? I never mentioned?” I asked, and he shook his head. “Well, I don't think you volunteered yours either, Con.”

“Con?” he asked with an amused expression. “We're far enough along to go with nicknames?”

“Well, unless you don't like it. Connie?” I asked, teasing. He reached out and took my hand in his.

“Not Connie,” he said with a little smile. “It's Flynn. Connor Flynn, Mr. Bosch.” I couldn't help but grin at his playfulness.

Dominic's is an institution in the old downtown district. An Italian restaurant that dated back to the late eighteen-hundreds, it had survived lean times and prohibition and was rumored to have been a speakeasy during that time. There were also many rumors that it had at one time been mob controlled. The walls were done in dark wood, the floor in mosaic tile, and each wooden table had flowers and a single candle for illumination. We arrived at Dominic's and were seated quickly. After placing a drink order, Connor sat back in his chair and regarded me with an interesting smile.

“What?” I asked.

“So,” he said, avoiding the question. “Have you ever done the relationship thing before?”

I debated briefly pressing him on that little smile. Then it occurred to me that his question may have been something of an answer in itself. Was he seeing a relationship here?

“Romantically? I'm not sure, actually.”

“Ah. Never had your heart broken then?”

“I'm not...no,” I said. I knew he was speaking romantically, not about my family. He wasn't thinking about the possibility of hearing your sibling being murdered by the people responsible for raising you, caring for you. That was a different kind of heartbreak.

“I wondered. You have a wariness a...sort of careful, defensive way about you.” He tilted his head a bit to one side and fell silent as the waitress brought our drinks and took our order. No sooner had she departed than I decided to steer the conversation away from me.

“Am I to assume you have had your heart broken?” I asked.

He stuck his tongue in his cheek and tilted his head, fixing me with a look. “What do you think, Nico?”

I leaned forward and rested my head on my hand, considering him. For his part, he leaned forward as well, looking at me with a more intense and assessing gaze. I wouldn't call him tense, exactly, but he was definitely interested in my assessment.

I didn't have a great deal to base my suppositions on, but I tried to line up what I did know of him and his behavior. Initially he'd been sort of in and out with me, a quick hook-up and then gone. The first time I'd gotten him to stay, perhaps our second or third time together, we'd spoken of light subjects as he'd leaned into my subtle touches. He recognized my guarded nature, but he had one of his own. His was just in a prettier package.

Gambling a bit, I finally replied. “Yes. You got your heart broken. Hard.”

He placed his chin on his folded hands and lifted an eyebrow in my direction. “And you know this because?”

I smiled and glanced around quickly. “In the beginning you were only interested in casual, short-term situations with no strings attached,” I said.

“Might have just been you,” he said, his tone of voice teasing.

“You don't reveal much about yourself; at least you haven’t until tonight. And...” I studied his face, one I hoped might be around for a bit. “I think bringing up this conversation is your way of warning me that you don't want to get hurt again.”

He lifted his head and nodded at me. “Not bad, Columbo.” He took his glass and sipped.

“Who?”

He waved his hand, waving the question away. “I was sixteen and thought I knew everything there was to know. I met a guy at a party I wasn't supposed to be at. He was older; in college, he said.” Connor snorted, indicating that might not have been the case. “We dated, I guess you'd call it. It was all kind of on the down low. I was underage, but thought I was madly in love. He had college classes, or so he'd said. A job. I had school, of course.

“And...” he said, his voice getting softer, “I didn't question that we just hooked up for sex. We never...went out to dinner,” he said, waving his hand at our table. “No trips to the movies or weekends away. By the time I started pushing for normal things like that, when the charm of sex with him was wearing off, I found out he was actually married. He had a baby and had dropped out of school a year before. He was only at the party because he knew some of the people there when he'd been enrolled.

“My biggest mistake, though, wasn't in falling in love with him...or what I thought that was.” He looked at me with a somber gaze. “It was in thinking he'd fallen for me, too.”

I wasn't sure what to say, so I busied my hands by picking up my glass and sipping. He looked away from me and then turned his gaze to the tabletop. His expression was one of embarrassment.

“Probably more than you wanted to hear.”

“No. I think that was important for me to hear.” I paused and said in a confidential tone, “I want to know everything about you.”

“Yeah?” he said with a sniff and picking up his glass. “Knowing I was a dumb kid who got played was important for you? How?”

I sat straight and said, “Because you were lied to. I think, whatever else I might do wrong in a relationship, lying would kill ours.”

He sipped from his glass and smiled weakly. “You really do need a raincoat.”

I glanced at the large windows looking out onto the dry night, but my question was forestalled by the arrival of our meal. We both ate well and drank little, and as the evening wore on and our conversation turned to lighter subjects, I found myself completely relaxed. Connor and I kept up a steady stream of conversation that never became forced or uncomfortable. After the meal was over, we walked back to my place by unspoken agreement. Being mindful of the conversation from the night before, and realizing for the first time, perhaps, that I would be inviting someone into my home for something other than sex, we cuddled on the little couch and watched, more or less, a movie we were both interested in.

In the morning, I woke to Connor climbing out of bed. I'd seen him do so before, of course, but it's interesting how a person looks different leaving a bed after a tryst as compared to having slept for the night. His hair wasn't as fresh as it might have been after a tumble in the sack. Instead, it lay down, flat in one spot and sticking up elsewhere. His eyes were still trying to work out the grains left in his eyes by the sandman, and his stretch was more about a body that had been at rest than one that had recently been quite active.

“Do you have to go?” I asked sleepily.

He pulled up his jeans and smiled at me. “I need a shower and a change of clothes before work. I told you I should have gone home last night.”

He lifted his shirt in his hands, and I snatched at it, missing the first try but snagging it on the second.

“Nico,” he growled and crossed the bed, crawling toward me and his shirt. I pulled him to me and kissed him softly.

“That's better,” I said. “And I'm glad you didn't. Go home, I mean.”

He smiled and kissed the end of my nose. “I have to go.”

“What time will you get done today?”

He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. “Around two or three. Then I have to finish that paper I told you about.”

“I can make some dinner, if you want.” I let the statement hang in the air. It was a continuation of our night, really. Returning to a prepared meal after your workday was done. Domestic and...it implied something more. Normalcy, a blossoming relationship perhaps. He hesitated and tilted his head to one side.

“What about my paper?”

“Well, can you do it here?” I countered.

“Will you let me concentrate on it?” he asked, letting a small chuckle slip.

I placed my hand over my heart. “Promise.”

He sighed and shook his head. “See you about four-thirty?”

“Can't wait.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

After Connor left I got up and made coffee with my asthmatic, used Mr. Coffee. As it brewed it occurred to me that if I'd been thinking, I'd have made coffee for Connor before he left. It was probably a little early to think about him keeping some clothes at my place, but then again why shouldn't he? Whose social conventions did I have to meet? I wouldn't mind just sitting in my tiny kitchen in whatever we'd gone to bed wearing and having a morning cup. While I mused on the great evening, Hugo flickered into view and, with a dour look, asked if I'd please put some pants on.

“Hugo, if you can't stand the naked human form, you're not going to be very comfortable here,” I chided him and reached down to scratch myself.

“Some forms are more appealing than others,” he said tartly.

“Good point,” I said with a laugh and poured myself a cup, then carrying it to my bureau and pulling on a fresh pair of sweatpants.

“I have been looking for some answers to our questions,” Hugo said, once I'd covered up my nether regions. “It seems that there are many options for the elderly to congregate, but it depends on several factors.”

I sipped my coffee and and waited for him to continue.

“One unhelpfully told me a great many are to be found in cemeteries. My first thought was some sort of joke in poor taste, however there are a great many who might visit lost loved ones.”

“True,” I said with a nod. “But unless they are all part of a family, they likely aren't visiting all at the same time.”

“Perhaps,” Hugo conceded. “There are various organizations based on nationality that are unlikely due to the multi-regional legends we have run into. There are, of course, other organizations based on interests, but I do not know of any occult groups for the elderly.”

I snorted. “I wonder how they'd advertise that? Anything else?” I asked with a shake of my head.

“Retirement homes.”

I perked up. “Huh. Now that sounds promising. How many of those can there be?”

“A spirit I spoke to sneeringly told me to Google it. Do you know what that means?”

“I do,” I replied and went to my laptop. It hadn't started out belonging to me, of course. I'd acquired it from a member of the city's less well-to-do. In moments I was online, using my upstairs neighbor's wireless connection to check up on the number of local retirement style facilities.

“Wow. That's a lot.”

“Perhaps if we were to restrict the search to those close to the events we've seen?” Hugo suggested.

I switched to a view where the facilities were pegged down on the map of the city and picked up pushpins to apply to our map on the board. Hugo has many talents, but picking things up isn't one of them. It also let him see the map when I wasn't there or if the laptop wasn’t on, not to mention making it easier for me as well.

“Huh,” I said, placing my hands on my hips and frowning at the board.

“I don't see a pattern,” he said doubtfully. “In fact, the area we've been seeing phenomena isn't very close to any of the facilities. Perhaps we're on the wrong track?”

I sipped my coffee and turned the problem over in my head. What he said was true—the creatures we'd handled were all within the city limits; in fact, they were within about a six block radius. The nearest facility was outside that radius. So, what did that mean? I felt like I was on the right track and just needed a few more pieces to see the puzzle, but it remained stubbornly hidden. The area the incidents were happening in were all residential – apartments like the one the Babaroga had gone to, some condos with small businesses at ground level, but no health care, no nursing facilities or shops where they might teach one to raise nightmares and kill small children. I mean, hey, if there were, at least this would be over.

Hugo flickered out and went wherever he goes when he and I aren't interacting. I got a fresh cup of coffee and started doing research on the computer about the area where we'd encountered the monsters. I was looking up news articles, history, events...anything that might give me a clue as to why these events were happening in this confined space. By noon I couldn't think about it anymore. My mind was running in circles, and I closed the laptop and stretched. I thought about going out to get a sandwich or something.

I pulled some clothes on and grabbed my coat. It wasn't until I put my hand in the pocket that I was reminded of the brooch I'd found the night before. All thoughts of food fled from my head, and I pulled the little piece of jewelry out and took it back to my warded room to examine.

Magic is flexible to a point. For instance, when I was using my staff as a focus, I had finer control than if I tried without it. In fact, the focus was very important in that kind of magic, because not only did it offer you control of the magic you expended, but also of the magic you used. Magic is everywhere. Think of it like this. When you whistle, your lips act as a focus—shaping the wind to your use and also limiting how much of it you use. If you tried to whistle without lips—stay with me here—there would be no control, no focus, and the results would be unpredictable. The same holds true with magic.

However, just as whistles can come from things other than your lips, magic can be wielded and shaped by other methods. One method is the practitioner’s will, which gives form and intent to the magic used in a spell and attached to a word or phrase in the practitioner's lexicon. There is magic that can be used in a potion, which takes time and a bunch of ingredients. There is magic like a summoning, which takes a ton of preparation and full rest so that your willpower is at its peak.

Then there is the type of magic like the sort on this brooch. It was like a weave of cloth, one thread of magic interwoven with others to create a specific effect. With some items you could tell what their use was based on the threads of magic: an amulet to put the wearer to sleep, to wipe out exhaustion or increase intelligence as a for instance. The idea is similar to the type of magic for my little listening rocks for finding bad guys and where they keep their money, but much, much stronger.

This one...was a bit of a mystery. I closed my eyes and relaxed my muscles. I moderated my breathing and cleared my head. As I went through the ritual exercise, I found it hard to keep my mind empty; I kept finding myself speculating about the brooch. Or Connor. And that sinuous movement he made while looking at me beneath him. Or how he looked climbing from my bed after a full night.

Damn. I exhaled and tried again. I counted, focusing my mind first on the numbers and finally on infinity. With my thoughts in such a state, I opened my eyes and looked down on the brooch with my magical senses.

The ritual I'd just done made me more sensitive to magical energies so I could see them, much like I was doing now. There were several bands of energy wrapped around the bauble. The basic building blocks of fire and air were present, but there were other strands I didn't recognize right away. I focused on something in a mustard yellow color and reached forward with my magical senses.

Knowledge, but not something good. It wasn't specific knowledge, like imparting wisdom. It was a...filter. It was looking for...and retaining some kind of knowledge. I moved on to another strand and another. With an effort I sat back and closed my eyes.

“Balls,” I said to the room.

“This doesn't sound like a conversation I want to have,” Hugo said, making me jump.

“Damn it, Hugo,” I grunted.

“I know. You hate when I do that.”

I turned, forgetting my enhanced sight was still active, and looked at Hugo. What I saw was horrifying. There were deep fissures on his wrists and his bare ankles, evidence of having been bound. There was a ligature mark just under his jaw and a slice, neat as you please, across the front of his throat. Dried blood crusted along the cut. His face was bruised, bloody and almost unrecognizable. I screamed and fell back in my chair, pushing my hands to my eyes and willing my senses to retract.

It took me a few minutes. I kept seeing poor Hugo beat to crap and obviously murdered. Although I'd never asked, I'd somehow assumed that he'd died of natural causes, or maybe I just preferred to hope that he had. I now knew the truth and that his soul was scarred with the memory. I took a deep breath and then swallowed the bile I felt rising in my gorge.

“Hugo?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“Yes?” he asked, his tone calm.

“I never asked. Hugo-”

“Where did you get that?” Hugo snapped suddenly, his voice like a whip cracking in the small room. I opened my eyes in an instant, wondering what could draw such a reaction from him.

“Get what?”

“That...thing!” he snarled and gestured toward the poorly set gem.

“That?” I asked. “It was at the store where Connor works. I felt some magic on it and didn't want him to touch it, so I bought it. Why?” I paused a split-second and then said, “Wait a second. Hugo.... I just saw you. I mean I saw you. Your soul. I never asked you how you died.”

His form flickered in agitation, looking from me and back to the stone. His face was like a broken movie reel, flipping from an angry, worried face to something that approached sadness.

“I thought you were different,” he said. “Why would you possess one of...these?”

“Hugo, I told you. I was at that store, and I picked up a few books that had some magical residue on them. So I looked around, figuring they'd spent some time around magical energy, and I found this bauble, an imbued item.”

“It's dangerous,” Hugo said with finality.

“I know. That's why I didn't want to risk someone buying it or Connor getting hurt, so I bought it and brought it home to study.” I stood slowly and narrowed my eyes. “I haven't been able to figure out much. You recognize this or work like it?”

Hugo flickered several more times. His face flashed to an image of him screaming, looking terrified and in pain, but only for the briefest moment. He fixed me with his normal, calm gaze and lifted his chin slightly.

“Have you heard of Charles VanHouten?” he asked quietly. I frowned lightly in thought. My parents had schooled us in a great many things. One had to develop in order to have enough talent to make a good meal, after all. Of the many things I'd learned, though, I didn't seem to recall anything specific about the name.

“I want to say I've heard the name at some time, but I can't remember why.”

Hugo flickered horribly, almost as if in physical pain. For all I know he was; who knows what can happen to a soul?

“My father was a drunkard. English. My mother was from a Dutch merchant family. A match was made between the two families, and my mother bore three children to that...man.” Hugo paused and then, as if he were a recording, continued. “The drunkard began to hemorrhage money, eventually losing everything and being imprisoned for his debts. He died shortly after entering prison. My mother, eager to change her fortunes, was engaged to Charles VanHouten, a man who was transitioning to the New World to make his fortune.

“Charles was charismatic, but just as worthless as the drunkard. He pursued the ideals of everlasting life.” Hugo's eyes tilted, taking me in. “He felt that the essence of life was created by individual moments. He thought that if he could steal those moments from others that he could turn them into extended life for himself.”

I blinked a few times. “That's crazy.”

Hugo nodded solemnly. “Yes. That was how I came to be in the New World, living in the muddy town across the river from Fort Orange. It was where Charles...murdered me.” Hugo's voice had gone flat, a monotone.

I started to rise, to reach out to him as if I could comfort the poor, scared boy he'd been. He flickered, appearing a foot farther away but not changing his expression or stance. I sat back heavily, defeated.

“I'm...I'm so sorry that happened to you, Hugo. Is there something I can do? Something to release you?”

His head snapped up, and he looked at me. “Why?”

I lifted my hands in a helpless expression. “You're my friend. Someone killed you, and I probably can't do anything about them, but if I can help you somehow...I'd like to.”

He stood still, continuing to flicker but otherwise unmoving. I was surprised when he did choose to speak, however. “The stone you have on the table,” he said, gesturing as if I'd forgotten it. “It's one of his.”

I glanced at the gem. “VanHouten made this? The setting looks more recent,” I said skeptically.

“The setting, yes,” he agreed. “That's far newer and poorly made. He made the enchantment on that stone, however. I recognize his work. I didn't put things together until after I'd...died. Each of these stones is powered by a soul. Charles would use slaves to create them, until his funds began to run out and people began to realize there was something wrong with him.”

I slumped back in my chair as I let his story wash over me. If anyone would understand the things I'd gone through, it was Hugo. Being betrayed by family. I think more than his sad story, the facts of what we shared in our past pain made Hugo's situation weigh on my mind and made it much harder for me to focus.

“What...um, what about your mother? Didn't she protect you? Or why didn't she?” I asked without looking at him.

“She believed in his work,” he said in a hollow voice.

He flickered out of my sight, and I sighed heavily. Hugo was murdered by someone who was twisting my art into something dark. It filled me with rage and sorrow, because I believed in the ability of magic to be used for positive things. There were always those, like my parents, who viewed it as a tool to gain more power, more control, just...more. That wasn't a function of magic, though. It was a human failing. There will always be some who just want more and will do quite a bit to get it.

I spent a little more time prodding the jewel, but I didn't get much farther with it. I decided to take a break and finally grab a sandwich or something. Glancing at the clock, I was surprised that most of the day had gotten away from me. I wandered into the kitchen and decided to make a snack rather than go out. For one thing, I'd need to hit the store and buy some stuff for dinner at home with Connor, and I didn't have a whole lot of cash. That drug house I'd hit hadn't helped me much, and Dominic's had probably been a grander statement than I could afford. Besides, rent would be due soon.

I cooked up a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and thought about what to do about my finances. I paid the rent in cash. The lady that owned the building was more interested in money than contracts, and as long as I paid on time and didn't make trouble, she left me alone. That would change if I couldn't find a way to score off these local thugs soon or find ATMs with fewer cameras. It would probably involve wandering late in the night when regular folks were sleeping at home. It was tough, though, to suss out where they were keeping their money, and the guys standing on corners only held so much.

If only I wasn't complete crap at divination. A few small lottery wins a month would help out tremendously.

I spent part of the afternoon brooding about my finances and was surprised when I heard my doorbell. I hit the buzzer and opened my door to see Connor crossing the entryway with his backpack on his shoulder and a smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said in greeting. “The shop closed a little early, so I'm ahead of schedule.”

“I like that turn of events,” I replied as I closed the door behind him. He set his bag down on the dinette table and glanced around.

“I don't smell anything burning. Are we not eating here?” he asked with an odd tone to his voice.

“I'm cooking, alright,” I told him as I leaned against the wall. “I just figured I'd go to the grocery store when you got here so you could get some peace and quiet for your work. I did promise you'd get to do some work.”

He looked at me with a faintly amused expression. “Yes, you did.”

“Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to pull on some street clothes and hit the store. I should be back in about thirty minutes.”

“Let me give you some money,” he said as he reached for his wallet.

“Nope. This was my idea. You can pay for your own ideas,” I told him. He grabbed my arm and stopped me.

“No. Last night was your invite. If you're cooking in your home you have to let me contribute more than just eating it.” He held a ten out to me, and I grinned at him.

“Eating my food may be a price you're not willing to pay.”

He stared at me for a minute. “I'll order pizza”

“Where's your sense of adventure?” I said with a laugh and pulled him close to me. “Besides, your contribution is just being here.”

“Don't get all romantic on me, Bosch,” he said with a curl on his lips and a slight blush on his cheeks. He pushed the bill at me, and I took it a little grudgingly. Five minutes later I was headed down the street and thinking about making a space for Connor to keep some clothes and stuff and wondering where one went to get a key made. I liked the idea of him having some of his things at my place. It was only practical, since he would be staying over sometimes, and it's stupid for him to get up early and run back to his place for a change of clothes. A key would make it easier for him to come home after school and work and-

I pulled up short, doubly confused. My apartment was many things to me, but I'd never really thought of it as home. Not in that warm way people have, thinking how nice it was to reach a safe place at the end of the day. Those thoughts were cut off as my confusion, as mentioned, doubled.

Magic is detectable. The average person might feel suddenly lightheaded or perhaps feel pressure on their body, as if the air has grown close to them. For someone adept, it's different. Subtle magic, like the sleep spell, isn't easy to spot. Something like conjuring flame, while visually easy to spot, sends up a magical flare for a few blocks. The magic I felt was like a hammer to a toe and had me spinning around the small plaza, looking for an attack.

I spotted the caster fast enough, and moments later I saw the victim of her handiwork scooting away from an outdoor cafe with an awkward gait and a wet spot in evidence on his khakis. His step hitched and he paused, bending slightly forward, groaning and swearing before continuing on. The girl, some twenty feet away, cast again; the fellow groaned, and his gait became even more awkward as he turned around the corner. The girl looked frustrated, but she hadn't been anywhere near the guy, and I had to wonder what...oh.

She started to head in his direction, and I stepped in front of her. Startled, she glared at me.

“Watch it,” she snapped. Her thin, angular face was pinched in a frown, and she made to move around me. I moved to block her.

“I warned you,” she said and stared hard at me. I focused my will, closing off my mind to her, and felt her angry cast splash harmlessly against my mental wall. She blinked a few times, wondering had what happened.

“Feelings aren't that easy to manipulate. Anger you can get. Fear. But desire is tricky.” I looked at her steadily. “From what I can see, you made that poor kid fill his pants a few times, probably more than he unloads in a month. Can't you just say hello to him like a normal person?”

Her eyes bugged out, and she turned tail. I was about to follow her, but she darted across the street and between two houses and was lost to sight. I sighed mentally. She was untrained and, while strong, was sort of like a sledge hammer trying to pound in a thumbtack. Glancing around, I continued to the end of the street to the market I prefer. I took my time selecting produce for a salad and a small package of chicken to grill and put over the greens. I had pasta at home and intended to mix some macaroni into the salad before adding the grilled chicken over the top. I had macaroni, but it wasn't mac and cheese, so I counted it as a win against Connor's preconceptions about my cooking skills. It was also about the only healthy thing I knew how to make. Shit. I may have to learn how to cook.