Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(66)
“Supernatural criminal forensics,” Jeff said with a mirthless smile. “A growing field.”
“I guess so.”
“Sorry,” Scott said, holding up a hand. “Who’s Cyrius Lore?”
“He was the manager of La Douleur,” Ethan said. “He’s one of Reed’s people, and La Douleur was one of Reed’s places. He confessed to Merit and me that Reed was responsible for Caleb Franklin’s death, and that Reed has something big planned that will ‘bring order to the city’ by taking control of it.” Ethan mimicked justifiable air quotes.
There was lots of grumbling around the table.
“Reed must have decided Cyrius was a loose end,” Catcher said, and my grandfather nodded.
“That would not be out of character for the Circle,” he said.
“And what’s his long game here?” Morgan asked. “Even if he gets control, what’s the point of it?”
“Among other things,” Ethan said, “financial opportunity. Controlling the city’s coffers, awarding himself lucrative contracts, directing the allocation of resources. From what little he’s said, he’s somewhere near insane fascist on the political spectrum. Doesn’t like supernaturals, doesn’t like the poor. We suck away city resources.”
Scott snorted. “He’s clearly not looked at our property tax bills over the last few years.”
“Or any of the other ways we contribute,” Ethan agreed. “Maybe he’s using Celina’s neediness as his gauge. The point is, his motivations are personal, financial, political.”
“How does the magic tie in?” Scott asked, his gaze on the boards.
“That’s what we have to figure out,” Ethan said, and nodded at Luc.
Luc stepped forward, used a laser pointer—and whoever had given him that toy deserved an ear boxing—to gesture at the Wrigleyville symbols on the board from the library.
“These were found on an El track pedestal near the body of Caleb Franklin. The symbols are alchemical in nature. They constitute phrases that, taken together, appear to make up one part of a larger equation.”
“One part?” Scott asked.
“A local necromancer found another site yesterday.” Luc gestured to one of the new boards Jeff had brought in, which showed a map of the city, stars where the symbols had been found.
“There are similar symbols on both, including some hand-drawn images that look like hieroglyphics, so odds are they were created by the same hand.”
“Sorcerer?” Jonah asked, glancing at Catcher.
“Sorcerer,” Catcher said with a nod. “The symbols have magic to them, but the artist’s identity and origin are unknown. We’ve checked with the Order, and they don’t have any known alchemical specialists in Chicago. For what that’s worth,” he added grumpily.
“We have a very general description and a penchant for alchemy,” Ethan said. “We don’t have a name.”
“But we think the sorcerer belongs to Reed?” Scott asked.
Ethan nodded. “Based on what we know so far, including Cyrius’s statements, yes.”
“And the symbols themselves,” Jonah said. “What do they mean? What’s the purpose of all this magic?”
“Unfortunately, we have more questions than answers at the moment,” Luc said. “Mallory and Paige have been working on translating, with Merit’s able assistance. Paige, would you like to take over?”
“Sure,” Paige said, rising from her chair and walking to the boards. She wore a green T-shirt and jeans, a simple outfit that made her eyes seem to glow against her pale skin and red hair. For all that, she looked nervous. She’d been an archivist locked away in Nebraska. Probably hadn’t done many presentations.
She cleared her throat, took the laser pointer Luc handed her, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“So,” she said, gesturing to the boards. “What we have here is a complicated alchemical equation. Classic alchemical symbols mixed together with small hieroglyphs. We know what the alchemical symbols mean. We have best guesses about most of the hieroglyphs, but they’re still guesses, and there are gaps in our knowledge.
“Theoretically, when you read all the symbols together, it should produce something that’s both an instruction manual—do this thing at this time in this way—and a written spell.” She linked her hands together. “Both the writing of it and the doing of it trigger the magic that’s intended by the entire equation.”
Morgan leaned forward, smiled. “Sorry, but for those of us who are completely green where magic is concerned, can you give us some context? I mean, you say ‘alchemy,’ and I assume you want to make gold out of lead.”
There were general murmurs of agreement.
“Think of alchemy like chemistry or biology,” Paige said. “A set of methods and principles used to organize our understanding of the world. At its heart is the belief you can manipulate matter to get closer to its true essence. And when you reach that true essence, the matter becomes a powerful, magical, and spiritual tool. It might make you healthier; it might make you stronger; it might make you immortal.”
“Those all sound like things Reed would like,” Morgan said.
“Agreed,” she said. “But I don’t think this sorcerer is working on what I’d call the ‘traditional’ alchemy problems. The philosopher’s stone, turning lead into gold, whatever. The phrases—the smaller chunks within each equation—don’t match those traditional equations. They’re very contradictory.” She pointed the laser at one of the lines. “For example, this phrase tells you to do something.” Then she dropped it to the line below. “And this phrase tells you to do the opposite.”