Demon Moon (Prof Croft Book 1) Page 3

  “For hundreds of years,” I continued, “the two sides battled until there remained only three demons and three saints. They battled for a millennia more. Demons held the advantage during the dark of night, the saints during the day. Similarly, the demons gained ground in the winter months, when the world turned dark and brittle.” A subtle chill descended, and Meredith hugged her arms. “The saints did the same in the summer months, when light and life prevailed.”

  Though I didn’t describe the battle in words, I could sense my students slipping out of time, experiencing the struggle on a deep limbic level. Their pupils expanded beneath hooded eyelids.

  “At last, they agreed to an accord,” I said. “Both sides would retreat from the world and no more involve themselves in matters of humankind. But it was a trick. Following the agreement, the demons slew two of the saints.” Several students flinched. “The third and most powerful of the saints, Michael, escaped. He represented Faith. Through his strength and virtue, he ultimately overcame and banished the three remaining demon lords: Belphegor, Beezlebub, and, finally, the terrible demon Sathanas, who represented Wrath.”

  “Sathanas was the precursor to Satan,” Meredith said in a distant monotone.

  “In the traditional sense, yes,” I replied. “Saint Michael’s work wasn’t done, however. During their time in the world, the demon lords had taken many human concubines, their offspring precursors to the night creatures: vampires, werewolves, ghouls, other monstrosities. In answer, Michael wed a peasant girl, and they began a family of their own. Their sons and daughters became the progenitors of powerful lines of mages meant to balance the darkness of the night creatures.”

  I wasn’t about to tell my students that I was a descendant of one such line. But it was true—on my mother’s side. Sensing I needed to wrap up, I began expelling energy from the circle.

  “So, the First Saints Legend gave rise not just to later versions of the seven deadly sins—even though there were nine original demons—but to many of the creature and magic myths that persist to this day. Indeed, they’re all around us.” Much more literally than you kids realize, I thought, glancing at my watch. “Oops, we went over again.”

  I clapped sharply to break the remaining energy in the circle. The students started as though coming out of trances, which they were.

  “Keep working on those lit reviews,” I said as they stood and gathered notebooks and backpacks. “I have to cancel office hours tomorrow, so we’ll meet again Monday afternoon.” That would clear my schedule to follow up on last night’s summoning and learn exactly what I was dealing with.

  I waited for the students to file out, Meredith’s gaze lingering on me from the hallway, then grabbed a folder of ungraded student papers from my desk, tucked it under an arm, and aimed for the door myself. I had just locked up when a prim voice sounded behind me.

  “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Professor Croft.”

  Recalling Caroline’s warning too late, I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose.

  “Professor Snodgrass,” I said.

  “Can you can spare a minute, I wonder?”

  Not really, you self-important jerk.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  7

  With a priggish clearing of his throat, Professor Snodgrass settled behind a behemoth desk that swallowed his five-two frame, making him look like a boy playing in his father’s office. In many ways, he was. Family connections, and not scholarship, had elevated him to chairman of the history department. He adjusted his plaid bow tie, then clasped his small fingers on the desktop.

  “We have a problem, Professor Croft.”

  “Is that right?” I dropped into one of the ridiculously steep wingback chairs facing him.

  “Several, I should say. For starters, you were late to your own class again.”

  “The subway broke down.”

  His right eyebrow arched. “Your colleagues had no trouble arriving on time.” He gave a pointed sniff. “They also managed to arrive without the stink of alcohol emanating from their pores.”

  “That’s aftershave,” I lied again. “Purchased from a street vendor, granted.”

  “And yet, you’re clearly unshaven,” he said, touching his smooth chin. I remembered my own jaw as it had appeared in the restroom mirror: steel-blue with bristles. He had me there. “And how do you explain the rumpled condition of your suit—didn’t I see you in the same one yesterday? Or the unsightly stains on your collar. We have a professional code of appearance, you know.”

  I lifted a gunky shoe. “Do you think it’s cheap keeping these kickers shined?”

  I wasn’t typically such a smartass. Or as much of one, anyway. My headache and underslept state had a lot to do with it. That and the fact he’d chosen the morning after a demon summoning to re-air his list of petty grievances—an event that would have reduced a man like Snodgrass to a shitting wreck.

  Although Snodgrass was my boss, he had little power in the matter of hiring and firing, thank God. That responsibility rested with the college board. Whether or not they shared Snodgrass’s low opinion of my character, they certainly liked the grants I hauled in. Not to mention that my student reviews were generally stellar. That no doubt irked Snodgrass all the more. His department meetings put grown men and women to sleep, so I could only imagine what his students thought of him.

  “I’m glad you find this all so amusing, Professor Croft,” he said. “But some other concerns have come to light that go more to the heart of your role at the college.” Snodgrass, who agitated easily, remained oddly composed. No lip twitching or obsessive fingering of his little oval glasses. Instead, he gave a knowing chuckle, which I did not like.

  I fought the urge to swallow. “Such as…?”

  “Well, you already know how I feel about your course. Ancient mythology and lore hardly qualifies as academia. It comes across as pop scholarship and more than a little … occultish.”

  I rankled at the suggestion, even coming from him. History might help explain the mundane world, but it was mythology that lent insight into the forces that supported the mundane—

  “Given the present budget constraints,” he continued, “as well as dwindling interest in your course, I made my recommendation to the board that it be dropped from the catalogue.”

  “Again?” I feigned a yawn.

  His lips pinched, but not in irritation. He was trying not to grin.

  That got me. Against my better judgment, I pushed back. “And I’m betting the board reminded you that I bring in half the research grants of this department.”

  “Oh, let’s not exaggerate,” he said, clucking his tongue. “It’s more on the order of thirty percent—and trending down. And there have been no grants so far this semester, am I correct?”

  “They’re pending,” I muttered.

  “But yes, the board is impressed by your grants. I’ll give you that. What they’re far less impressed by, however, is news of your criminality.”

  “My what?”

  He lifted a stapled-together packet from a neat wire tray and tossed it forward.

  Heat spread over my face as I lifted the packet from his desk.

  “Last summer you were picked up at an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said. “The scene of a murder. You were in an intoxicated state. When you sobered, you claimed to know nothing, remember nothing. And yet the victim’s blood was on your hands and clothes. The NYPD had their theories, but without a murder weapon or apparent motive, there was little they could do except charge you with obstruction. You’re currently serving a two-year probation.”

  Hand to my frowning chin, I read over the police report, even though I already knew it line for line. Long story short, I had failed to get to a conjurer in time, then exhausted my powers banishing the tentacled creature he had called up—not unlike what happened last night. Only in the Hell’s Kitchen case, I failed to escape the scene before Thelonious took over and evidently discovered the liquor cabinet.

 
I could feel Snodgrass’s smirking eyes on me as I flipped to the court order.

  I had foolishly believed these reports would remain buried beneath a growing mountain of unprocessed paperwork. Like most city services, the criminal justice budget had been slashed to the bone. Dysfunction and backlogging, problematic even in the best of times, had rocketed to new heights. For almost a year, the reports had stayed buried.

  Meaning the son of a bitch had gone digging.

  Snodgrass brushed the stiff lapels of his double-breasted suit with the back of a hand. “Shouldn’t you have reported all of this to the college?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to suggest there was more to the story, but he cut me off.

  “Save it for the board, Mr. Croft. I’ve proposed a hearing for Monday morning. You’ll have an opportunity to make your case then. I suspect it will take more than another grant—or even a stack of fawning reviews—to convince them of your fitness to continue teaching here.” His eyes sparkled with delight. “The board takes such matters very seriously.”

  I turned to the last page of the court order, which enumerated the conditions of my probation: remain in the state, no drugs or alcohol, consent to searches… The next item hit my memory like a cattle prod. I jumped from the chair. Snodgrass flinched back, as though I intended to knock him from his perch, but that wasn’t where I was headed. Cane in hand, I spun toward the office door.

  “Professor Croft,” he scolded, recovering himself. “I haven’t dismiss—”

  “Save it, chief. Gotta run.”

  The window glass gave a satisfying rattle as I slammed the office door behind me. But it didn’t change the fact I was late again. This time for a meeting with my probation officer.

  8

  At the entrance to the subway station, I drew a deep breath. It was partly in anticipation of the stale-urine odor but more so that I had, well, a phobia of going underground. A skin-prickling, airway-constricting, almost full-blown anxiety. Not something I was proud of. The origins of the phobia weren’t entirely clear. My therapist and I had been trying to get to the source before wizarding became too costly for me to afford him any longer. I still had his card somewhere.

  I plunged down the stairwell and, approaching the turnstile, exhaled at the sound of a south-bound train squealing toward the station. Movement helped the condition. I swiped my transit card, hurried onto the platform, and boarded a rear car.

  Edging to the back of a compartment crowded with the barely making it and the beaten down, I checked my watch. My meeting was at ten. If the track was clear, I’d be no more than fifteen minutes late. Not terrible—assuming my officer was in a good mood, which happened sometimes. If I had a cell phone, I could have called him, but wizards and technology? Yeah. Payphones were a surer bet, but I wasn’t toting any change. Plus, there was no guarantee I’d get through the warren of extensions to his office.

  If nothing else, it gave me something more immediate than my demotion to the bread lines to worry about.

  At Fourteenth Street, the train lurched to a crawl. The Broadway line and its east-west services had been out for more than five years, doubling traffic on the Lexington line. Promises to have the routes restored had run into budget shortfalls, not to mention the mysterious disappearance of a team of surveyors. All sorts of theories had been floated regarding their fate—they got lost, suffocated on the foul air, etc.—but the stark, bone-crunching truth was that the defunct tunnels were now infested with ghouls.

  Not my beat, thankfully.

  At the stop for City Hall, I burst up into the gunmetal light and dodged the traffic on Centre Street. Beyond the municipal building, the cube-shaped fortress of One Police Plaza took shape. I was joining the line at the pedestrian checkpoint when a sharp voice called from my right.

  “You’re a half hour late.”

  I spun and nearly fumbled my cane. The woman striding toward me was dressed in a no-nonsense suit, black blouse, midnight hair pulled from a striking Latin face, one that managed to appear youthful and veteran at the same time. That was what Homicide did to a third-year detective, I supposed.

  “Technically, you’re in violation of your probation.”

  She would know. She was the one who had arrested me.

  “Detective Vega,” I managed. Hooking a thumb back the way I’d come, I stammered, “The subway, ah, hit a snarl.”

  “Save it.” She seized my wrist with a small but manacle-tense grip. “Let’s go.”

  I was resigning myself to arrest—could the day get any crappier?—when I noticed she was marching me away from the thirteen-story headquarters. I stumbled to keep pace, even though I had a good foot of height on her. My cane wasn’t doing anything for her sympathy, apparently. We arrived beside a scraped-up sedan parked over the curb. Opening the passenger side door, she all but swung me inside. I raised a finger. “Um, where exactly are—?”

  She slammed the door.

  The driver side door cannoned opened, and she dropped behind the wheel. “I had the pleasure of meeting your department chair last week,” she said, throwing the gearshift into drive. The car jumped from the curb and into traffic. “He told me you’re a professor of the arcane?”

  So that’s where Snodgrass had gotten the report.

  “Ancient mythology and lore, actually. It’s a graduate-level course.” Or was.

  Detective Vega gave no sign she’d heard me as she swung south onto Park Row and switched on the siren. Cars honked and edged from her path. She accelerated, knocking past an obstinate taxi. Not even a backward glance.

  “How are you with ancient languages?”

  “Huh?” When I realized I was white-knuckling the door handle, I relaxed my grip and brought both hands to my cane. “Ancient languages? Not bad. I mean, I’m fluent in a couple, familiar with several others.”

  “Good.”

  I waited for more, but her dark eyes remained narrowed on the traffic in front of her. It was the same ruthless look she’d fixed on my court-appointed attorney while testifying against me last fall.

  Police Plaza disappeared behind us. “Hey, uh, what about my meeting with the probation officer?”

  Instead of answering, Detective Vega lowered her window. We were entering the shadow of the barrier that separated the Financial District from the rest of Manhattan. I dipped my head to take in the grim concrete span. Following the Crash, public outrage had fallen on the banking class. Detonating bombs around their buildings had become a popular pastime.

  Now Wall Street featured an actual wall again, even if it was located a few blocks north, on Liberty Street. No small irony there.

  At an entrance for official vehicles, Detective Vega held up the ID that dangled around her neck. Armored guards in shield sunglasses looked from her to me, then motioned us through with assault rifles. The skyscraper-lined corridors beyond were strangely silent.

  “There’s been a murder at St. Martin’s,” Detective Vega said.

  I stiffened. “The cathedral?” Sited on a fount of ley energy, it was the oldest and among the most powerful places of worship in the city.

  “No, the Caribbean island,” she replied, giving me a dry look. And you’re a professor? it seemed to ask. I’d gotten that look a few times. “I’m not going into details other than to say the rector’s body was found in the church sacristy this morning. There was some writing at the scene our language people couldn’t make sense of. They’re thinking it’s ancient.”

  Well, that explained things. “And you want to see if I can decipher it?”

  “Boy, you’re sharp.”

  “What are you offering?”

  When her eyebrows pressed together, I remembered how quick she was to anger. “Excuse me?” she challenged.

  “You’re contracting my services, right? Shouldn’t there be a fee or something?”

  While it was true I could use the extra money, this was about getting some things straight. First, probation or not, I wasn’t hers to muscle around. I had enough g
oing on in my own life at the moment. Second, we weren’t friends. I didn’t owe her any kindnesses. Especially since she was the reason I was about to get drop-kicked from Midtown College. If she wanted her back scratched, she was damn sure going to run her nails up and down mine.

  Hmm. Probably could have phrased that better.

  “Your fee,” she said evenly, “is me not collaring your ass for failure to show. How’s that sound?”

  I shook my head against the rest. “Nice try.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know I was going to be late. You parked with a view of the checkpoint well before I showed up. Forty minutes, I’m guessing.” I nodded toward the hood. “Engine was cold.”

  She glanced over as though taking some measure of me.

  While it was true wizards possessed an enhanced awareness, catching subtleties that most overlooked, I was presently blowing an ass-load of smoke. I had no idea what temperature the engine had been.

  “It doesn’t change the fact you were late,” she said.

  She’d bought the bluff, but I could see she wasn’t going to budge on her position.

  “Well, what were you preparing to offer?” I asked.

  She blinked twice quickly. A tell.

  “All right,” I said, drumming my fingers over my cane as I thought aloud. “You had no intention of paying me. I’m on probation, a criminal. I know how that would look—even inside the NYPD. I get it. So, I’m guessing it was some kind of commutation of my sentence?”

  Another rapid blink.

  “A year?” I pressed, my heart already accelerating at the possibility. A year would take care of the second half of my probation. I’d be a free man. And if, come Monday’s hearing, I was no longer under the NYPD’s thumb, I might actually have a crack at saving my job.

  “A month,” Detective Vega countered sharply.

  My hope shattered like a clay pigeon. I could see in her set expression she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into a full year. She already hated that I’d made her feel transparent. My mistake, I realized now.