Warlock Wolf / Bring The Night / Chapter 1

First day on the job—only three hours in—and he’d already caught a case. Someone from the Sheriff’s department phoned in a dead body. Homicide, they said; mysterious circumstances, they said. Wouldn’t be the first time in the town of White Chapel, and the local sheriff’s department wasn’t reluctant to call for help from the FBI; specifically the Occult Branch.

The flight from Tennessee arrived this evening in New Hampshire, and Porter Black had taken a cab directly to the new office. Woozy and jet-lagged, he’d unpacked some of his things and had been setting up his office when the phone rang. Murder. Now he was in his predecessor’s FBI Tahoe with the 4x4 on, wipers slashing away fat, wet snowflakes. Heat blasted from the vents while he slowed, clicked the indicator before turning and passing between ten-foot tall wrought-iron gates that opened onto the Cartwright mansion’s drive.

Conifers towered on either side of the winding snowy driveway, and he sighed, cheeks puffed, whispering to himself, “Get a load of this joint,” as the conifers parted and he caught his first glimpse of the 300 year-old industrialist-slash-robber-baron’s family estate. The place was a Classic Revival Georgian, done in stone; a house with a name, ‘Rijkdom,’ maybe twenty rooms, maybe more—massive, with a circular drive and boxwood hedgerows topped with a layer of snow. The porch-lights were on, and the windows of the main floor shone in warm amber. Out front, at the base of the stone steps that led to the portico, two sheriff’s cruisers parked with the motors running and the cherries flashing a blue-red doo-wop on the mansion’s facade.

He nosed the Tahoe up behind one of the cruisers and left it running so it wouldn’t lose heat. A deputy stood on the stoop now, coming out in his official brown parka and a water cover on his four-dent Stratton hat.

Out of the truck, he patted the grip on his Glock, checked the holster, zipped his parka and went up the steps to join the waiting police officer. He asked him, “You the one that called?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, “You the one they sent to replace Otterman?”

“I am,” Black said. “Special Agent in Charge, Porter Black.”

“Agent Black? You’re a little young,” the man said, “to be a Special Agent in Charge.” He held out a gloved hand to shake, and Black met it, giving the man a curt two-pump.

“I’m not too young,” Black said.

The deputy said, “I’m Tommy. Tommy Boston. Sorry if I sounded rude. It’s just Otterman...”

“Was an old man?”

Boston shrugged, cocked his head. “He wasn’t young like you.”

“I’ve been a Special Agent for a year.”

Deputy Boston put his hands in his parka pockets, looking out across the snowy gardens, sighing heavily. “Shame about Otterman. Didn’t see it coming, you know? Otterman wasn’t the type to...”

“You never know what’s in someone’s head,” Porter said. “Now, about the body...?”

Boston ignored the prompt, instead asking him, “How come you didn’t call the sorority?”

Porter said, “I wanted to make sure we had a case first. I haven’t even had time to meet with them yet. . . . Just got off the plane.”

“We have a case,” Boston said, still looking out over the garden toward the driveway. Pale light rimmed the tips of the conifers; headlights of a car approaching, coming along from the driveway. “And I called the sorority.”

Black said, “That the way you did it when Otterman was around? You know I’m the occult authority now, at least in New Hampshire.”

Boston was watching and waiting to see the headlights emerge, saying, “The bureau’s the authority, not you, Special Agent in Charge Black. And one thing’s for sure, I trusted Otterman, and Otterman didn’t trust the bureau. But he loved his girls, and his girls loved him. I know he’d want me to look after ‘em.”

“His girls?”

“Now’s a good a time as any for you to meet ‘em, Agent Black,” Boston said, nodding his chin as headlights splashed out over the paved circle, a car approaching, following the boxwood curve to come up past his Tahoe and pull alongside one of the cruisers.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Porter muttered. The car was a Rolls Royce, a Phantom, an old one, maybe from the thirties, gleaming in silver and black, whitewall tires, spare on the side, and the outstretched silver-lady ornament extending off the grill.

The rear door opened and a long, bare, girl’s leg stretched out, setting a black loafer down in the slush. It was a fine and shapely leg.

Four girls emerged from the Rolls, three from the near side, sliding along the bench seat and stepping into the cold, the fourth coming out the front passenger door. The driver remained at the wheel, and from the silhouette Black figured him a big man in his forties, wearing a wool overcoat and tan leather driving gloves. The girls congregated together before mounting the steps toward him and Boston. While they wore different coats to protect them from the cold, the coats were unbuttoned, and underneath they all wore the same outfit; prim looking school uniforms. Four girls around twenty, coming up the steps with skinny legs and black knee socks, short pleated wool skirts and black blazers; they all had white button-down shirts and striped ties.

Boston was squinting at them as they came up under the awning out front of the mansion’s portico, saying, “And who do we have tonight?”

One out front in the lead with a leather-bound book the size of a shoebox clutched to her chest said, “It’s me, Deputy Boston.”

“Terrible evening, Maddie,” Boston said, instead of greeting them, stepping aside and ushering them to the mansion’s huge double doors. “Let’s all get inside for our introductions before we get frostbite.”

“Thank you,” the girl said, hustling past, shoulders hunched up to protect from the cold. Each one passed, all of them fresh-faced sorority girls from the nearby private college: Maddie, the one with glasses and a book clutched to her chest; another with long, bright blonde hair and a somber expression; third with chestnut brown hair and a quirky sideways smile; and coming up the rear was the shy one, he figured, with gingery-blonde hair like a shaggy mane, beautiful, with blue-green eyes that almost glowed, like sunlight picking up a Caribbean shoreline.

Their gazes met as she passed and something zipped between them; his stomach did a drop-away, and he felt weak in the knees suddenly, almost stumbling a step. The girl flinched too, her lips parting in a silent shocked gasp. Then she was gone, following her friends and passing through the door and into the mansion. His fingers tingled, and he made fists to ease the funny sensation, watching the ginger-haired girl still. Eyes on her long legs—the legs first stepping out of the Rolls—he watched the bounce of her silky hair; over her school uniform she wore a beaten leather motorcycle jacket and had slung over her shoulder something he would swear was a sword in a scabbard. Whatever it was, a fucking divining rod or something, it was wrapped in burlap and bound with leather cord. At the door, she shot him a sudden sheepish look over her shoulder, and like a dumb schoolboy he jerked his head away.

As he joined them in the mansion’s foyer, he composed himself, adjusting his tie, fidgeting with his belt and his Glock while Boston closed the heavy doors behind them and snow blew in and swirled around their feet.

“Hoo!” Boston exclaimed, stomping his boots and beating the cold out of his parka as he came around from behind the gathered girls to stand beside Porter.

Now they were all in the mansion’s warm foyer, almost three in the morning. The ceiling rose above them maybe thirty feet like a cathedral; at the apex hung a glimmering crystal chandelier. A staircase ascended to the second floor, running along one wall festooned with oil-painting portraits of the more famous Cartwright family members. The girls eyed Porter warily.

Boston unzipped his parka, stood with hands on hips, thumbs hooked in his gun belt. He said, “Sorry, ladies, to bring you out here in the middle of the night, but we have a weird one.”

The one up front’s glasses had frosted, and she removed them now, book clutched in one arm, clumsily using her wool scarf to clear the lenses. She said, “It’s our pleasure, Deputy, and you know it’s our duty.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Boston said, knocking the brim of his hat up a little with a knuckle. “Now, I don’t know all your names so I’ll let you do the introductions, but the man on my right here is your new FBI liaison, Special Agent In Charge, if you believe it, goes by the name Black.”

All four girl faces, propped up on perfect girl-school posture, watched him without expression, their pretty eyes studying him; he avoided the turquoise eyes in the back, but met each of them with a nod. “You can call me Agent Black.”

Boston said, “Maddie, Agent Black here is brand new at this.”

“I’ve been a Special Agent for a year.”

Boston paused. “And how long you been a SAIC?”

Black worked his mouth around, not liking the deputy pushing him around in front of his new charges. “Twenty-four hours.”

“Anyone tell you what it’s like here?”

“I’m the liaison official with the college, the SAIC, and the head of the O-Branch for the state of New Hampshire.”

The one called Maddie asked him: “Were you in the O-Branch before?”

“The Occult? No, I worked Tennessee, mostly drug trade and robbery.”

She adjusted her glasses, looked over her shoulder at her sorority sisters who all shifted where they stood. She said, “What do you know about the Sorority?”

It was getting warm now, and he opened his coat, stretched his neck; he had a sudden and severe craving for meat. A hunger for red meat. And the one in the back with the blue eyes was watching him all the time, trying to catch his eye, trying to get him to look at her. “It’s hot in here,” he said, loosening his tie. Then, straightening, he said, “Look, I know the O-Branch here uses you as a resource. Your sorority is part of the Primrose girls’ college, and your particular sisterhood is based on occult studies. Now, I was hired yesterday, got on the plane today, and just got in. I read some of the files on the plane, but I haven’t read Otterman’s notes on—”

At the mention of their predecessor’s name the girls all shifted again, the sound of their fabric was loud and overwhelming in his ears; he swore he heard their throats swallowing, heard their hearts beating; heard their biology. . . . How could he hear that?

The one with the brown hair said, “You feeling all right, Agent Black?”

“Just a little queasy,” he said. “Jet-lagged.”

The blonde-haired girl said, “It’s the magic.”

“What magic?”

The brown-haired girl nodded, saying, “You didn’t work occult before, so you’re new—”

“A virgin,” the ginger-haired beauty said, her voice clear and smooth as tempered glass. His knees felt watery again. He looked up at her dumbly, and she smiled, making his vision go hazy-white, then she went bashful too, averting her eyes and tucking her shining hair behind a small, perfect ear.

He shook his head, cleared his throat, managed to say, “I’m not a virgin.”

It brought a quiet titter from the group of girls and they shifted again; the sound of wool-on-wool roared in his ears, and, seriously, what was the fucking temperature in here?—it was like they were standing in a boiler room.

The blonde-haired one said, “You feel queasy? Hot? Maybe hungry for meat? Bloody meat?”

Bloody meat? That was it, she was right, and at the words his stomach growled and he salivated. A steak, a rare and juicy steak.

The brown-haired one said, “That’s the magic.”

Maddie said, “It’s in the air.”

The one with the beautiful, crazy eyes, said, “Black magic.”

Porter undid another button on his shirt, hands working frantically under his tie. He said, “Black magic?”

Maddie said, “It’s in the air, Agent Black. That’s why we were called.”

He said to Boston, “You feel it too? Aren’t you hot?”

Boston made like he would answer but the blonde-haired girl did it for him. “He can feel it, but it’s not his first time, so it’s not overwhelming.”

Now Porter stepped back, set himself down on a velvet-cushioned straight chair underneath a towering painting of red-coated fox hunters on horseback. He rubbed his sweaty hands on his thighs.

Boston said, “I feel it. Was why I called you and called the school. Even if I didn’t feel it, one look at this crime scene, you know it’s not right.”

Maddie said, “Maybe we ought to take a look now.” Then she came to the chair, extended her hand to Porter, saying, “Agent Black, I’m Maddie Arbuckle, a senior.”

He gave her his hand and stood, using her to steady himself. “Will the nausea pass?”

“It won’t be long. . . . Your body’s never felt something like this before and it’s reacting with fear and aggression even if you don’t feel it in your mind. That would be worse. Some are sensitive enough they might feel like they’re going to go mad.”

He took his hand from her before she could appreciate how sweaty it was. He straightened his jacket, did up his buttons and tightened his tie. “I’m fine now, I’m all right,” he lied.

Maddie nodded, looking at him with compassion and a little suspicion. Hand extended now toward the brown-haired girl, she said, this is Pris,” then hand to the blonde-haired girl, she said, “This is Goody.”

He bristled with anticipation: And the beauty at the back, the human tiger whose heartbeat I can still sense? Who is she? . . . What’s her name?

“And at the back, with the red hair, is Lizzy.”

Lizzy. A beautiful name.

Porter said, “Well now, we all know each other’s names, maybe we can do what we came here for.”

Maddie nodded, her smile fading, making him think it had been a manufactured one to begin with. “You’re right—it’s best we stick to business.”

“Otterman stuck to business?” he asked, still fixing himself, smoothing his hair and flexing his neck in the collar of his sweat-dampened dress shirt.

There was that bristling again, all the girls shifting uneasily and sharing side-glances. One of them cleared their throat.

The brown-haired girl named Pris, said, “Otterman was a professional, but I’d rather not talk anymore about him tonight, if you please. It’s late, and we all have class tomorrow.”

Boston said, “I wouldn’t mind getting home and into bed at some point. The more we yammer here, the less likely it’s looking.” With that he gestured down the wide, elegant hall, deeper into the mansion. Black led the way though he had no idea where he was going.