Ritual Magic

to the younger boy, the one with sandy hair. “And you’re Pat, right? Again she held out her hand.
    This one didn’t hesitate. He put his hand in hers and pumped it like a politician. “Yeah, and you’re an FBI agent? For real? I guess you’re investigating the dead guy, huh?”
    “I am.” No magic here, either. At least none to worry about. He had a tiny trace of a charisma Gift, but that was all.
    “Cool.”
    “I didn’t let him see . . . it.” That was the dark-haired Ryan, assuring her that he’d done his duty by his younger brother. “I got him away from there.”
    “I did, too, see! You kept getting in the way, then you dragged me back to the bikes, but I saw the singing man and—and the other man.”
    And maybe now he wished he hadn’t, but pride would not let him admit this. Lily looked from one young face to the other, then up at their dad. She gave him a small, reassuring smile and a nod to let him know his sons were okay. His face sagged a little in relief. “Mr. Springer, boys, I think we’ll be able to let you go home pretty soon. I’ll need to talk to you first, but before I can do that, I have to have a word with the man who was singing.”
    “‘The Old Rugged Cross,’” Ryan said.
    “Pardon?”
    “That’s what he was singing, which was pretty gross. Considering.”
    He was right. It was pretty gross, considering. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. You need anything?”
    “They said they didn’t have any Coke,” Pat said hopefully. “The police officers, I mean. Just water. Do you . . .”
    “I’m afraid I don’t have any Coke, either.”
    “Stupid,” Ryan informed his brother as Lily turned away. “As if FBI agents carry Cokes around with them everywhere.”
    His brother said hotly, “You know who’s really stupid? People who don’t even bother to ask!” Their father was shushing them as Lily reached Erskine.
    “They’re clean,” she said. “Where’s Hardy?”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Ninety-five percent. To be one hundred percent, I’d have to touch them everywhere, which would be scary and intrusive. But magic tends to—to spread or leak or something like that when it’s in a living organism. Even if only one part of the body is affected, there’s almost always some trace of it on the skin.”
    “Almost always,” he repeated. He glanced over at Springer and the boys.
    “Best I can do.” They needed Cullen. Seeing magic was better than feeling it for some things, but Cullen wouldn’t be available for hours, maybe days, depending on how hard covering Sam’s security arrangements hit him. And that made her think about what Cullen was doing right now, and what Sam was doing, and how much longer it might be before they knew if it had worked. Her stomach knotted up in a sick lump. She forced those thoughts back down. Buried them nice and tight. “Hardy?”
    “In Delacroix’s squad car.” He nodded at the black-and-white at the end of the row. “We put him in there so we could take the cuffs off. He behaved himself once we got him away from the scene. Didn’t want to leave it, though. Got pretty agitated, according to Crown. That ‘person of interest’ notice you people issued said this guy can’t talk.”
    “Brain damage, I’m told. Something that affected the speech center. Music is stored differently than speech, so he can sing, but he can’t put together a sentence.”
    “Well, we tried getting him to write something out for us, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t do that, either. Seems to understand us when we talk to him, though.”
    “Hey!” shouted one of the uniforms.
    The thin woman had slipped between two of the patrol cars while the uniform wasn’t watching. She trotted up to Lily. “Special Agent, why is the FBI involved? Was this a ritual murder? Is there a connection with the amnesia victims you’ve been visiting?”
    Well, damn. Looked like the story had broken after all. Lily recognized the reporter now. Milly Rodriguez was young, ambitious, and pushy as hell. That was her job, but she hadn’t figured out how to push without crossing the wrong lines. “Ms. Rodriguez, if you’ll wait where you were told to, I’ll speak with you as soon as possible. If you won’t, you go on my list. The list of reporters I do not take questions from. Ever.”
    The woman considered briefly, then nodded. “Fifteen minutes.”
    “No guarantees. As soon as I can.”
    “I won’t wait forever,” she warned, but she