Storm Of Magick Part 1

Storm of Magick.

Logan Wolf Chronicles.

L. A. Burton.

This one's for you Debbie for never judging me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Many thanks to a few people for whom it wouldn't have been possible to do this book. To my critiquing partner, Naomi Clark, beautiful, author and friend. Thank you for telling me the truth even when I didn't want to hear it. To Kimi Schaller for a beautiful cover. To, my dear friend, Elizabeth Howell for getting me out of my slump more times than I can count, thank you.

A huge thank you to Gary and Sherry, my in-laws, for believing in me even when my own family didn't, it has meant the world to me. I truly appreciate it. To my loving husband, Bob. Thank you for reading all the different versions of Logan, brainstorming with me and standing by me even when I wanted to quit. I love you. To, my daughter, Morgan for understanding that being a writer sometimes means I'm at my desk more times than not. I love you.

A special thank you to all my readers without you writing wouldn't be as important to me. Logan and I appreciate you.

Copyright 2009 by L. A. Burton All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This is the Kindle edition 2010 The characters and events portrayed in this book are fict.i.tious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Chapter 1.

I was at that point just before you are fully aware of your surroundings, warm and cozy under the covers. The only noises in the room were the warm rush of air from the furnace, and the purr from my cat, Nemo, asleep on the pillow next to me. As I dozed, a loud ring startled me fully awake. I grabbed the phone off the nightstand and put it lazily to my ear. "Logan Wolf," I said sleepily.

"Logan, I've got a body and I need your expertise," Lieutenant Patrick Doyle said. I heard that familiar click of a Bic Lighter. Doyle was a chronic chain smoker if ever there was one. Doyle heads the Supernatural Special Unit, S.S.U. for short.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, fumbling with the notepad and pen I kept on the nightstand. "Where are you?" I asked, trying to keep my reluctance to get moving on my day off out of my voice.

Doyle told me where to meet the unit and hung up. I finished writing down the directions and was left listening to an obnoxious busy tone. I hung up the phone, got out of my warm bed, and stretched my stiff five-foot-seven frame. I padded across the hall to the bathroom, turned on the lights, and locked the door.

There used to be a protection spell on the bathroom door, until few months ago, when a couple of warlocks got into the house, busted through the spell, and nearly killed me. I have the scars across my back to prove it. I hadn't got around to renewing the spell, so I was counting on locks to keep me safe in the mean time.

Waiting for my eyes adjust to the harsh bathroom light, I blinked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale, making my ice blue eyes almost blend in with my skin tone. I brushed my long brown hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, then brushed my teeth and quickly did my three-minute make-up routine. If I didn't use blush and mascara, I looked sick.

"Just once on my day off I would like it to be just that, my day off," I griped as I walked back into my bedroom. I opened my dresser and took out a pair of black b.u.t.ton-fly jeans and a bra, and quickly put them on. Next was a pair of flat black ankle boots. I refused to do heels in the winter, and the weatherman had called for snow. I fished a thin black belt through the loops on my jeans and put on my holster, which sat at my lower back. It was an awkward place for a gun but it was my favorite. I got my Ruger 9mm and slid it into place.

I finished my outfit with a blood red cashmere sweater and a black leather coat that hit me right below the b.u.t.t. "s.h.i.+t, I forgot to ask if the snow started already. No rest for the wicked as Grams always says," I muttered to myself. Did I mention that I talk to myself? A lot? It's one of my bad habits.

I walked down the hall, through the living room to the kitchen, my boots clicking on the hardwood floors. I went straight to the refrigerator for my preferred source of caffeine - a cold Diet c.o.ke. The bottle made a hiss under the carbonated pressure as I opened it. I took a long swig, making my eyes water, and then returned the bottle to the refrigerator. I picked up my keys and small black bag off the table, and I was on my way.

There wasn't much snow on my van. I started the engine and sat there for a couple of minutes, watching the snow whirl around the dusk-til-dawn light. Sometimes when it snows and it's cold, I wish I were back home in Arizona. It was cold, that kind of cold that seems to make your skin sting when the wind blows. Sighing, I put the van into gear and slowly rolled down the gravel driveway.

I turned right on to Hollow Road, which snow lightly covered it. At least the murder scene wasn't too far away. The wind picked up making me grip the steering wheel a little tighter. I pa.s.sed a couple cars as I went, but living out in the country, not many people traveled this road. My closest neighbor was a cemetery.

Bare trees adorned each side of the road and they stretched up over ahead, creating a tunnel affect. The sky was the color of dark blue velvet. I came to a stop and watched the falling snow whirl around the streetlights. Turning left, I could see the flash of red and blue lights in the distance. It was the only activity that could be seen. I slowly drove up to the other cars and parked. Now I could see several people walking around with flashlights in hand, apparently looking for clues. I shut off the engine and got out.

I spied Doyle in the thick of the crowd. He stood talking to Detective Jake Evans. I headed over, picking my way carefully over the packed snow.

For a divorced man, Doyle dressed impeccably. In this light, all I could tell was that his suit was dark - maybe gray or black. The dark coat didn't look warm enough. It was one of those dress coats that you see many businessmen wearing. One thing I did know, under the coat, Doyle's clothing would be pressed and clean. It always was.

I stopped right in front of Doyle. The snow coated his Irish red hair and his nose was already red from being outside.

"What do you have for me to see, Doyle?" I asked, trying not to s.h.i.+ver too obviously. Did I mention that I hate the cold weather?

"A body that seems to be right up your alley. Evans will take you to the victim once the crime scene guys are done," Doyle said in his low voice, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat. He was the worst chain-smoker that I ever saw and he had the perpetual scent of nicotine to prove it. He was also the most composed and soft-spoken person I've ever met. I'd been volunteering at the Little Rock Police Department for seven months, and in that time, I've never seen him raise his voice.

He headed a special unit for the Little Rock Police Department. I was on retainer to help out on occult and paranormal related murders. I'd promised myself after my childhood best friend was killed by a Brag, a shape s.h.i.+fting goblin, that I would always help capture the supernatural bad guys.

I looked around. Everyone seemed to be in a somber mood. Was the victim that bad? After two weeks of freezing temperatures, the ground was rock hard. I guess it was better than traipsing through mud.

Staring at a dead body wasn't how I wanted to start my night off, but here I was. Hunting ghosts is usually night s.h.i.+ft job, but tonight had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with my volunteer job. I was Little Rock Police Department's supernatural and occult expert. Most people didn't expect a woman to have this type of job. With a name like Logan Wolf, most people expected a man to show up.

"Could the weather be worse?" I asked Doyle. Snowflakes the size of goose feathers whirled around us in a frenzy and the wind howled. It wasn't my favorite kind of weather. In fact, I hated it. We huddled together, staying out of the way while the crime scene investigators finished their job. I was not happy about standing out in the cold, freezing my a.s.s off but hey, sometimes life sucked.

"Oh yeah, it's going to get a lot worse. The weatherman is calling for fourteen inches of snow in the next twelve hours," Doyle answered.

I shot him an evil look. "I did not need to hear that." I watched the investigators gathering their things and walk away. "Time to get down to business." All I wanted was to get this done and get out of the cold as quick as possible.

There were barely four inches of fresh powder on the ground, and with still more to come, things were going to get interesting. I followed Evans who stopped a good fifteen yards away from the body.

"I'll leave you to it," he said. His normally perfect sandy blond hair danced in the strong wind. Like Doyle, Evans wore a dark suit, but with so little light, it was hard to tell the actual color. At six foot two, with his GQ looks, he always appeared out of place at scenes like this.

"Was it a good enough show the first time?" I asked a grin on my face. Evans was a pain in my a.s.s sometimes, but we enjoyed joking around.

"Yeah, it was," he said, a sick look on his face. His expression made me lose the grin.

I shrugged and went to look at the body. It was obviously a female, but to get through this, I had to refer to her as 'the body' or 'it.' The ground was crisp and clean, but everyone who'd been here packed the snow around the body down. There wasn't any blood around, and from what I could tell, no blood leading to the scene. I took a pair of rubber gloves from my pocket and put them on. I squatted down next to the body and tried to wrap my head around the mess I was looking at.

I pulled out a small flashlight from my pocket. As much as I hated it, I thanked the G.o.ds for the cold weather. No nasty scent the body was preserved.

The eyes stared blankly at the sky. There was nothing left in those eyes, nothing of the person anyway. There wasn't any damage to the face. I followed the jaw line to the neck; it looked like the left carotid artery had been severed as if the killer was trying to cut off the victim's head.

The skin was pale from blood loss, and the edge of the wound was drawn back. I shone my flashlight on the jagged cut. The deep red of the muscles glistened with ice crystals and blood had dried on the neck, showing it had drained out somewhere. It looked like the victim had been standing when the throat was cut. I could see where some kind of blade entered the neck at two different places. So where was all the blood? It would be a substantial amount.

The two jagged wounds about four inches long, but wouldn't have caused death. No, that was the gash of the carotid artery. She didn't have a coat on so she may have been killed inside and dumped here. Or, at the very least she'd been caught off guard. Her blouse had been pushed back out of the way. I bet that one of the investigators moved it. I shone the light on the stomach. There was some bruising and several deep cuts that stretched from the left breast to the navel and below the low-rise blue jeans. It didn't leave much to the imagination. Plus, I could pretty much tell where the wound went. I put my hand on the ground next to the body and felt the residue of magick. It was a slow vibration, tickling my hand.

I stood, shaking my head. Magick was definitely involved. I took off my gloves, turned and walked back to Doyle. The snow came down at a steady pace. I glanced at the sky and wondered how bad it was going to get. Doyle was lighting another cigarette when I reached him. I inhaled deeply, taking in nicotine, and it burned my nose.

"Whoever you're looking for has magickal powers of some kind, but nothing I'm familiar with," I said.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Magick residue seeps into the ground and resonates there for hours, or even days after magick have been performed," I answered.

"What kind of magickal person are we looking for?" he asked, taking another long drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground. Lifeless b.u.t.ts gathered in a small pile at his feet.

"Well, there are a few beings that can create this level of magick. Vashon, witch, or maybe a gypsy," I said, thinking it was about time to get out of the f.u.c.king cold.

"That could be anyone in the Mirtel Square Community," he said, aggravation tightening his face, "or h.e.l.l's Commons for that matter."

He was right. The Mirtel Square Community was one of the two concentrated group of witches in town. h.e.l.l's Commons was the other, as well as home to a lot of vashon. I shrugged. All I could do was tell Doyle was who I thought had enough magick to leave this level of residue. Behind us, two men from the county coroner's office peeled the body from the cold ground, put it into a long black bag, and zipped it shut.

"Anything on where the victim was killed or who she is?" I asked, turning away. I really didn't need to watch the men load the body.

Doyle finished writing and looked at me. "We'll check her description against any reported missing women," he said, "but we may never know because of the coming storm. Everything in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be closed up tight."

"If you don't need anything else, I have another place to get to," I said.

"We're done here. If I need you, I'll call your cell," he said.

I nodded, and walked to my van. Even though the engine hadn't been off that long, when I sat on my leather seat, the cold radiated through my jeans, sending a s.h.i.+ver up my spine.

The temperature had been hovering around twenty degrees during the day and that's without wind chill. At night, it plummeted down to single digits. Now, the second week in December, we had record snowfalls and a blizzard on the way. Little Rock normally had a couple of good snows but nothing this major. It was very unusual for us to have this much snow this early in the season or at all. The fluffy clouds looked like dark gray cotton candy, just a couple shades lighter than the sky. The wind howled. It was definitely a two hands on the steering wheel day.

I started the engine, cranked the heat, and pulled away. The road was deserted. The only thing I had seen for a mile was a plow truck and that was fifteen minutes ago. I was only twenty minutes away from the local college, but I could barely see the buildings for the snow. With the wind blowing, and the snow whirling around the van, it was hard to see anything more than five feet ahead.

I pulled into the Chandler Building's parking lot. Sam couldn't wait for me to see her new office. She had only moved into the new s.p.a.ce a couple weeks before she left for vacation. I met Sam my second year of college at Ma.s.sachusetts University. After that, we became roommates and best friends.

I opened the van door and the wind hit me hard in the face, making me catch my breath. I tied my long hair back, so it would be slapping me in the face. My hands were already red raw. I didn't wear gloves since it made handling my gun too awkward. The only way I could combat the cold was to put my hands into my coat pockets. I continued my fast pace to the double gla.s.s doors of the building, and walked in.

I stomped the snow off my boots, letting the warmth envelop me. The building was quiet, but it was after hours. With the snowstorm coming, most of the students were tucked in their dorm rooms cramming for finals. Only the security floodlights were on in the main entrance. The hall was dimly lit in most places, making the building look dark and lonely. I've been to the building many times and Sam's new office was on the same floor as before. I walked down the hall to the stairs, heading for room 215, second floor. I don't like elevators. I didn't trust them not to break down.

Chapter 2.

Sam was sitting on the floor of her new office, surrounded by papers and books.

"Sad, a brand new desk and chair going to waste," I said with a grin, "How was your trip?" I walked into the room. The room was filled with the scent of fresh paint and a hint of pottery clay.

"Logan, hey! The dig was everything I could imagine," Dr. Samantha Williams said enthusiastically. "You know we were at the Labna Caverns, in the far eastern part of Mexico? I'd read something about scrolls in the Adobo Ruins there. For a few days, we found nothing but chipped and empty pots. Then we pulled out two unique pots decorated with hieroglyphs." She gestured to me to join her on the floor.

She crawled to her desk and removed something from the bottom drawer. She pulled out three rolled-up scrolls tied with strips of aged leather, and a burgundy velvet cloth with something in it. The scrolls were faded to a dingy yellow and tattered at the ends.

I moved some of the books to make a s.p.a.ce for myself, and sat down next to her. By the look of the floor and the pile of books, she was deep into research. Sam sat the velvet cloth and two of the scrolls down on the carpet. She untied the strip of leather and unrolled one of the scrolls. The aroma of clay wafted from the paper. The writing was similar to several ancient languages I remembered from a college cla.s.s a few years ago, but not exact to any specific one.

I looked at the hieroglyphs again and tried to make sense of them. The only thing I recognized was a symbol used for binding demons. The odd symbols were written in blood centuries ago. The blood left a hint of magick behind.

"Sam, what kind of writing is this? Oriental?" I asked. I pushed my ponytail away from my face. "I've never seen it before, have you?"

"I thought the same thing, but it's not. It was also all over the cave walls. It's the Adobe language," she explained, looking through the books.

She stopped to tie back her naturally curly strawberry-blond hair, revealing her pale green eyes. She handed one of the books to me and looked for another one. She picked up a leather bound book, sat it on her lap and pulled out a packet of papers clipped together. Sam removed the paper clip and flipped to the fourth page.

"From what I've been able to translate, the first page is a ritual of some sort," she started. "I believe it's a ritual to raise a Dracae, a type of ghost that warns of tragic events. This type of harbinger hasn't been mentioned in any recent recorded history. I've searched back over seven thousand years of records. The only description of a Dracae is as a black, shadowy figure. No one has ever really seen it from what I can find." As she spoke, she opened up the cloth and revealed an artifact.

Magick radiated off the blade, tingling along my skin and making me catch my breath.

"You okay?" she asked.

"It's the dust," I answered, wiggling my nose. What was I going to say? 'That object still hold a lot of power and it makes me feel icky?' Sam knew that I was a witch, but not the most powerful natural witch with active powers. I could quite possibly shock the h.e.l.l out of her. She looked at me thoughtfully for a second, and then continued.

She told me that she didn't know what the weapon was used for, or by whom. She called the beautiful blade a 'Mannuz.' It was shaped like a large, flat hook. It had been buried in a pot for who knows how long. But, the edge was still sharp and there was more of the strange writing on the blade and wooden handle.

I held the Mannuz, really studying the carvings, and the major magickal vibration it gave off. The wood was smooth, the color of fine cherry wood, and it too smelled of fresh clay. The artisans.h.i.+p was intricate and exquisite. I thought the blade must go with the spells she'd found.

"Who do you think could use these spells?" I asked. "This ritual looks complicated and could take several magickal beings to complete it. Usually spells like this had to be done within certain parameters."

"A High Priestess of any kind, maybe a witch, gypsy, or shaman," Sam replied.

"Can you tell how old the scrolls are?" I asked.

"They could be about a thousand years old. I sent a piece off to be carbon dated," she said, studying the parchment. I touched the paper. It had the texture of rough leather.

I knew not many could perform the old spell. It would take someone very powerful, or even several beings. As I turned my attention to the blade, my cell phone rang. The Twilight Zone ringtone was loud in the hush of her office. I cursed under my breath. It was supposed to be my day off except for emergencies. Of course, there had been one already tonight, so why stop there?

I owned Wolf Inc, a ghost-hunting company that cleansed homes, put spirits to rest and, on rare occasions, raised the dead. Was it a work emergency? I doubted I was that lucky. I'd rather it be work than Doyle with another crime scene; one was enough for tonight. I opened my cell and it was cold against my ear.

"Logan Wolf," I said, not taking my eyes off the scroll.

"Logan, its Paris! There's a problem and the Kitsune needs your help," he said, his voice strange. I heard people talking in the background.

Paris worked with me at Wolf Inc. I've been training him for two years to help him control his natural witch powers. As he's a lycanthrope, we had to pet.i.tion the Elders Circle to get special permission for him to practice witchcraft and learn to control his unique illusion magick. Technically lycanthropes aren't supposed to practice because magick tends to make them a little crazy. It took months for the Elders to agree. Of course, they put stipulations on how powerful he to become.

"Paris, are you okay?" I asked. But, what I thought was 'I didn't want to do this s.h.i.+t right now.'

"I've been better! Can you come to the Dark Hour?" he asked, talking a little too fast. He only did that when he was nervous.

"That new coffee house that opened a month ago?" New shops were opening so fast around h.e.l.l's Commons it was hard to keep track.