Chapter 7
Had I not known the location of Jared Casey’s fundraiser at Shaughnessy Manor, a historic mansion named after the old and very prestigious area in which it was located, I could have found it by sound alone.
The counterprotest in the park across the street led by pissed-off Eishei Kodesh could be heard for blocks. Bet the neighbors loved that. The right-wing Trad supporters inside the manor who’d paid $2000 a ticket (before any donations) to be at Jared’s event tonight no doubt loved it even more.
Most of the Eishei Kodesh protesters (and “allies!” as one sign proudly noted) were congregated under trees and across the broad expanse of grass, but others thronged on the sidewalks and road, despite Maccabee operatives herding them back into the park with the patience of sheepdogs nudging their flock into compliance.
It was an exceptionally cold evening, especially by Vancouver standards, and everyone was bundled up in warm clothing.
The speaker at the podium decried Casey’s horrendous proposed legislation in front of a cluster of Eishei Kodesh with flushed faces and raised fists. When they booed, their breaths formed white puffs in the air.
I shouldered through them and barely avoided being coshed by an overeager journalist’s camera.
The mood was poised on a knife’s edge of violence, as sharp and crackling as the frost lacing the ground and crunching underfoot.
Unlike the Maccabees on crowd control, the non-magic officers tasked with keeping peace had shown up in riot gear, including shields. Given my city’s tendency to riot over hockey games, that decision wasn’t unwise.
I continued down the road, past large properties hidden by tall hedges. They stood like handmaidens lined up in service to the massive estate anchoring the far end of the residential street.
Two men in black suits at the chunky stone fence provided the first line of defense. Their expressions were blank masks, their mirrored sunglasses adding a menacing vibe to their presence. More would be patrolling the grounds.
Let’s be honest, the guns in their belt holsters did some heavy lifting as well. I hoped whichever of Natán’s vamps was no doubt following me got shot. It wouldn’t kill them, but it would still hurt before they expelled the bullet. No, wait. Let them be stampeded by the protesters. Really prolong the pain.
I didn’t identify myself as a Maccabee when I presented my ticket to be scanned. Amateurs. Like a barcode couldn’t be faked. True, biometric security would have been more expensive, but given the raucous protests nearby, it also would have been the better option.
My presence was verified, and the men stood aside to let me up the driveway.
Even in January, the grounds of Shaughnessy Manor were well-kept, with stately copses of trees and a winter-blooming garden. The wide driveway curved around a fountain to a shallow set of marble stairs, which led up to a broad front terrace set with imposing pillars. Graceful arched windows lined the first floor of the main wing, with quaint stone flower boxes affixed under the glass panes on the upper levels.
A bunch of chauffeurs stood chatting near the fleet of expensive cars parked to one side in a makeshift lot.
I strode briskly up the stairs, waving at the pair of muscle-bound men flanking the front door. My gold ring glinted in the light.
The blond guard narrowed his eyes. “Maccabees aren’t allowed entry.”
Finally, some eagle-eyed security bro was on his game.
“Operative Aviva Fleischer. I’m here to speak with Mr. Henderson.”
“He’s busy.” The guard crossed his arms, bulging his biceps.
I was cold, this visit was a longshot, and my patience for his posturing was less than zero. I jammed my hands in my pants pockets and rocked back on my heels. “Lots of journalists out and about tonight. It would be a shame if any of them saw me being treated poorly or manhandled. What a PR fiasco. All I want is two minutes for a friendly chat, but you know the media.” I laughed. “Always putting their own spin on things.”
The guard tapped his Bluetooth.
I smirked.
While he called Henderson to the front door, his partner ran a metal detector wand over me.
I spread my arms wide. “That doesn’t check for magic.”
“We know where to find you,” he said.
“You also know with total certainty that there aren’t more of us inside?” I motioned from my face to his. “Newsflash. We look just like you.”
“Anyone moves wrong, and we’ll take them down before they know what’s hit them.” The guard sounded like he was hoping someone bust out their magic so he could wrestle them into submission with nothing but his bare hands and his hard-on.
This wasn’t unexpected from a member of a high-profile security detail, but he sounded a little too certain about his odds. I slid into my synesthete vision, expecting a rapid blue dot of excitement over his heart, but he was a blank slate. Either this guy was really reaping the benefits of his stoicism journal and pre-dawn cold plunges or—no, there it was.
All the guards were wearing very rare, very expensive shielding devices.
Magic -shielding devices. Their protection didn’t extend to a Red Flame touching and torching them, but the units blocked all psychological attacks on their person from Eishei Kodesh or vamps.
Their boss, Roger Henderson, had just gotten a lot more interesting.
“Operative Fleischer.” A lean man in his late thirties with nondescript brown hair buzzed almost to his scalp, a military-straight bearing, and eyes that had seen far too much for his age, strode out of the manor. “What’s this about?”
Diving into Henderson’s past had revealed a stellar army career with no financial abnormalities, contentious relationships, or children. He was the picture of respectability.
“Just a quick chat about a case I’m hoping you can help with.” I flashed him my most non-threatening smile.
He glanced back toward the protest. “I can give you five minutes.”
“I appreciate it.”
He led me through a stately wood-paneled foyer lined with black-and-white photos of garden parties at the manor from bygone eras. “I’ve got a temporary office upstairs we can speak in.”
Music and a buzz of conversation drifted into the empty corridor through the glass doors leading to the packed ballroom. Stylistic exterior details like the symmetrical placement of windows and Greek columns were echoed in this large room painted in shades of cream and peach.
I gave the crowd inside a cursory glance. How many of these civilized conversations held by people in elegant formalwear were as hate-fueled as the chanting outside?
The crowd shifted revealing a woman in an emerald silk dress, wineglass in hand, listening politely to her group. Her inch-long brown hair was on the shocking side of hairdos for this crowd, but less so than if she’d shown up with her skull snake tattoo popping against her brown skin.
Rukhsana Gill, chop shop owner and an informant of mine, was the last person I expected to see here, despite her having her fingers in all kinds of pies and traveling in many different social circles. Especially since I was positive she was Eishei Kodesh—though I’d never seen any sign of her magic.
As if feeling my gaze, she lifted her eyes to mine. My bafflement must have shown, because she gave a small, amused half smile before returning her attention to her party.
Roger and I continued up an expansive circular staircase, our footfalls muffled by the plush stair runner.
A roar from the park reached us through the windows, thin and old as they were.
Roger shook his head. “Tough times in our city.”
“A lot of detractors out there,” I said.
“Free speech is a wonderful part of our democracy.” Roger brushed a hand over the smooth railing then checked his palm for dust. “We’re happy to let Eishei Kodesh have their say.”
“You took extra precautions though,” I said. “Did Mr. Casey approve those shielding devices?”
“Jared has larger public appearances scheduled the deeper we get into this campaign,” Roger replied. “He stands by his beliefs but also cares deeply about keeping his people safe while he shares his values.”
“Keeping them safe using magic devices. Ones that are small, discreet, and probably unnoticed by any of his base tonight.” I hit the top landing. “As opposed to venues whose nulling magic is a matter of public record.”
“As the person in charge of his security, I didn’t see any reason to switch our fundraiser from this grand old home just because the venue doesn’t have nulling magic.”
Roger wasn’t stupid or na?ve. Holding the event here was a calculated move to show Jared’s strength. His guards were (secretly) protected from magic attacks, and any Eishei Kodesh who acted out would be swiftly dealt with—and fed into Casey’s narrative of how dangerous magic was.
My escort turned down a narrow corridor lined with plain wooden doors instead of the fine craftsmanship found on the lower level. His office was a glorified storage closet, the desk crammed into it overflowing with files, half-rolled blueprints of the grounds, and his laptop. He sat on the edge of his desk.
There was no chair for visitors so I stood. “Chandra Nichols.”
“My brother worked for her.” Roger spoke with the careful detachment of someone holding grief at bay.
Wind howled outside, rattling the glass in the panes.
“We have her phone records,” I said. “You two spoke on multiple occasions.”
“Sure. Chandra was looking for advice about her home security system. Brian had hoped to score points with his boss.” Roger’s lips quirked into a half smile and he shook his head fondly. “He asked me to help her out with tips and some names of reputable alarm companies.”
I couldn’t read Roger with my magic vision because of his shielding devices, but he didn’t look concerned about my line of questioning. His explanation sounded plausible, and neither Brian nor Chandra were around to contradict him.
There was nothing more to this lead. I was about to thank him for his time when a raised voice boomed through the connecting wall.
“…I don’t have the time or the crayons to explain your job to you, you total fucking donkey.”
Roger practically sprinted through the door. “Jared, enough.”
I followed him. I almost felt bad for Henderson, but he’d chosen to work for this douchebag.
Casey stood in a charming light blue sitting room next to a young man holding a clipboard whose expression was so blank it screamed of disassociation. “Gibson can take it.” He actually flicked his staffer’s sleeve. “Can’t you, Gibson?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said in a monotone.
“Go downstairs and get a soda,” Roger said, brushing off the staffer’s protest that he was working. “It’s okay. Go, Derek.”
Kudos to the young man, he walked out with his head held high, though the audible grinding of his teeth indicated he was going to require a good dentist.
I stepped into the room.
“Who are you?” Casey said.
I waved—with my ring hand. “Operative Aviva Fleischer.”
“What the fuck, Roger?” he growled, pouring himself a drink from the decanter on the round table beside him. “I’ve got a ballroom full of supporters wanting to donate to my worthy cause. Get her out of here.”
Legislating a group of individuals out of existence. So worthy.
“You have no authority over me.” I bestowed a wolflike smile on him.
He blinked, a crafty gleam entering his narrowed gaze. “Is that a threat? From a member of the dangerous magic community? One of their police representatives no less?”
“Not at all. I care about all the citizens in my city. Well, maybe not the hate-mongering, self-serving ones, but I would never abuse my position and threaten them either.”
Jared snorted and swirled his drink around. “You have balls.”
“Real humans don’t need balls,” I snarked back. I’m a trained Maccabee, a half shedim, and have dealt with far worse men than you . You’re kiddie league, asshole .
Damn skippy , Cherry cheered in my head.
Roger stepped between me and Jared, who was visibly bristling. “I’ll walk Operative Fleischer out then get you downstairs to the podium.”
“Good.” Jared set his glass down decisively and straightened his maroon tie.
I turned toward the door and?—
A window blew open, hitting the wall with a loud rattle.
Jared clutched his chest. Taking a labored breath, he sank into a chair.
The temperature in the room plummeted too swiftly for it to be attributed to the winter wind.
“Roger,” I said sharply.
He ignored me, already on the phone with 911 and answering questions from the paramedics.
If keeping Vancouver safe meant keeping the politician safe, then I’d do whatever it took to make that happen.
I crouched down next to Jared. “May I check you for heart attack symptoms using my magic? It will help the paramedics and get you the appropriate medical attention faster.”
“Fuck off,” he rasped.
“Paramedics are coming,” Roger said. “They don’t think it’s a full-blown heart attack, but I have to get him aspirin. The first aid kit is in my office. Back in a second.” He raced out of the room.
Jared looked like he was about to protest but his skin went ashen and he broke out in a cold sweat.
Normally, I would never have violated the politician’s decision, but my fingertips were white and my breath was coming out in icy puffs.
I slipped into my synesthete vision.
There wasn’t any indication of chest pain, nor was Jared’s heart beating rapidly. The opposite, in fact. Then there were his veins, which presented as a bright blue map through his body, the blood inside appearing as darker navy ribbons that moved sluggishly.
It was as if an Orange Flame was freezing him from the inside out.
My eyes tingled from an overabundance of adrenaline, presaging turning toxic green.
Stand down, Cherry . Thankfully, she did.
Two new guards raced inside, followed by Roger with water and aspirin. He gave his boss the medication, then ordered the other men to stay with Jared while he met the paramedics. Roger motioned for me to accompany him. “I’m bringing the first responders in through the back. I trust you’ll keep Jared’s medical condition confidential.”
“This was orange flame magic.” I held out my still-cold, numb hands. “The Maccabees should investigate.”
“I took every precaution against an Eishei Kodesh threat.” Roger hurried down a back stairwell. “There were no trees or hiding places close enough to the manor for one to hide and attack and there’s no magic that can open windows.”
“An Orange Flame could expand or contract those old locks causing the window to open.” Line of sight wasn’t as important for an Orange Flame as a lack of barriers between them and their target. “There is a park full of people with an anti-Casey agenda just down the block. The Maccabees will be investigating, with or without your blessing.”
He ushered me down a narrow hallway. “If word of Jared’s heart condition gets out, I will rain hell down on your organization and you personally.”
“It won’t.”
Roger opened the rear door, greeting the two paramedics. “Our business is done for tonight.”
That’s what he thought.