Hexed

trying to stay on the wagon?
    The door of room 2, where Ansel had taken up lodgings a few weeks ago, was firmly closed, and no sound came from behind it. Usually I wouldn’t have let a Nightwalker into my hotel, but Ansel had seemed so alone and morose the night he’d arrived that I couldn’t turn him down.
    He’d so far kept to himself and been far less trouble than some of my human guests. I’d learned to have cow’s blood on order for him, but I wasn’t certain of our supply. I’d left a note for Elena the cook to check, but of course she’d decided to not come in today.
    I grabbed a flashlight from my office and headed to the kitchen while Mick stayed in the lobby to both check the wards and keep an eye on room 2.
    When I reached the kitchen, I could just make out Maya in the back, her long legs a pale smudge in the darkness. The occasional curse in Spanish floated to me.
    I yanked open the walk-in refrigerator and quickly splayed my flashlight over the shelves. The refrigerator was depressingly bare, but I relaxed a little when I spotted a plastic gallon bottle full to the top with blood. Good. One of those usually kept Ansel going for a couple of days, so he would be all right. The rest of us might get a little hungry if the doors stayed locked for too long, but at least we wouldn’t be Nightwalker food.
    Out in the lobby, Mick was hugging the wall by the front door, cheek pressed to it, palm moving over the plaster as though he caressed a lover’s skin. I envied the wall. I knew what he was doing, though, feeling the essence of the building, connecting with his own magic in it.
    Coyote sprawled in a chair with his feet up, watching Mick with interest. Cassandra sat on one of the leather sofas, arms pressed over her stomach, staring at the floor. I plopped down next to her.
    “Cassandra, you are the most amazing witch I’ve ever met,” I said. “Your power could light a city.”
    Cassandra didn’t look up at me. “Is there a point to this little pep talk?”
    Her acid tone surprised me, but I let it go. We were all a little nervous. “I mean that if anyone can defeat a curse it’s you. I’m here to help you, and so is Mick, and we have Coyote. The four of us are damned powerful. We can break this, especially if we work on it together.”
    “And me.” Fremont came down the stairs, minus his toolbox, his overalls, face, and cap still spattered with blood.
    “And Fremont.” I knew Fremont’s magic was minimal, but even a minor mage can contribute to a group spell. “Thanks, Fremont. We’d welcome your help.”
    He gave me a pleased look, but Cassandra raised her head, her eyes red-rimmed and moist. “Janet, will you quit with the team-leader attitude? This is serious.”
    “I know, which is why I’m trying to come up with answers.”
    Cassandra wiped her eyes as Fremont went back upstairs, probably to check the plumbing. “Do you know what an ununculous is?”
    “An unun . . . a what?” I asked.
    “It’s a sorcerer who is a master of the blackest arts,” Cassandra said. “And when I say master , I mean the best sorcerer in the world, practitioner of the darkest magics. There are mages out there who summon demons to enhance their power, but an ununculous has more power than any demon ever could. Demons fear him . If he summons a demon, it’s to steal all its power and then try out a new way to kill the demon. The Nazis used an ununculous during the war—there was a branch that tried dark sorcery.”
    “Oh, nice. But you keep saying ‘he.’ Are there no female ununculouses?” I paused as my tongue twisted. “Or is the plural of ununculous ununculi ?”
    “There is no plural, because there’s never more than one at a time.” Cassandra’s voice weakened as she spoke. “When he reaches the highest stage of his power, he fights the current ununculous, and only one survives. An ununculous never trains any other mage, because he knows he’d be teaching his own killer. They do their best to murder any mage who shows inclination to study the black arts too deeply. An aspiring ununculous trains in utmost secret, or he or she doesn’t survive.”
    I blew out my breath and scrubbed my hand through my still-blood-caked hair. “And that’s what’s after you?”
    Cassandra nodded. “I won’t name him, in case that calls him. But John Christianson employed the ununculous from time to time, paying him millions, to do things for him and for the ‘C.’ The ununculous took the