I’m not sure I can—
You’ve done this before. Against the demon, against Harold Franklin.
But that’s just it, I knew exactly what they could do, exactly where they drew their powers from. I knew what spells to use against them. This—we only have one chance, and I don’t know the right spell. We still don’t know what the amulet does, only that it exists.
The answer popped into his head—you use the strongest one, of course. Just like you used the most powerful weapon you had, and you hit as hard as you could. Make sure you only need to strike once and don’t give the enemy a chance to stand back up.
Amelia knew what offensive spell was her strongest; he felt her confidence. The storm helped; she could chant a phrase and use a talisman to call lightning out of the overcast sky. Fry Layne where he stood. Cormac sort of looked forward to it. At her direction, he found the right talisman, a Thor’s hammer in his left-hand jacket pocket. She could invoke storm magic from a half a dozen cultures, use the energies already brewing above them to strike a blow.
Remember, he told her, you’re a more experienced magician than he is. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.
But what if he doesn’t have to?
The comment made him pause, and he tilted his head as if listening. Quickly he brought his gaze back to Layne, and wondered what the other man made of the gesture. Only a handful of people knew about Amelia. To everyone else, Cormac had just suddenly become a powerful magician. Part of the legend, right?
The snow remained scant, occasional flakes rather than a real snowfall. Not enough to interfere with his line of sight. But the clouds thickened, billows like cotton batting gathering overhead. His hair stood on end, from static cracking in the air.
Layne stood like a man invincible, who could not fail. He knows something, Cormac thought.
Amelia had retreated into herself, pondering. Cormac nudged her.
What if he doesn’t have to do anything? she repeated. A powerful offense is unnecessary if your defensive capabilities are strong enough. What if, what if …
“I thought you were badass, Bennett! Show me what you’ve got!”
He’s provoking us. He wants us to attack.
It did seem that way. He’d set some kind of trap, and if they attacked him outright, they’d walk right into it. Cormac was raised to be a hunter; he was a patient man. The longer he stood and glared at Layne, the more flustered the man would get. He had time. More important that they figure this out.
Blue and white streaks of light flashed in the clouds, lightning waiting to be summoned. All Amelia had to do was say the word and call down a bolt to smash Layne.
He’s not a magician, Amelia said, her thoughts racing. All he has is the amulet.
That was it. The key to it all.
“I’ve got it,” he murmured, at the same time Amelia realized, I’ve got it.
That was what the amulet was, what it did—somehow, it used a magician’s attack against him. The original Milo Kuzniak didn’t have any magical ability, just smoke and mirrors and a notebook filled with folklore, but when Augustus Crane attacked, he died. And when the younger Milo Kuzniak attacked, he died.
It’s a mirror. The amulet is reflective. I call down lightning on Layne, I’d only be calling it down on myself. I can’t do anything to him, Cormac. Through him, she made a gesture, dropped the Thor’s hammer back in his pocket. The static charge in the air dissipated, the lightning overhead faded. He breathed out like he’d just left a minefield.
Well then, he thought, I guess it’s up to me. He started walking.
Amelia said, We’ll need to take care of those men with guns.
Give them a light show, a flash or a bang or something. Won’t need much to scare them off.
Fortunately, she’d brought along some of her reliable standbys—one of them was a thumb-sized quartz crystal, charged with magic to give off brilliant light. And simple, non-magical packs of gunpowder, good for making noise. Surprising, how much of this was just stagecraft.
Layne’s eyes widened in surprise, and Cormac kept his slow pace forward, his gaze focused. His grin showed annoyance.
One of the henchmen called out, “Layne—Layne what’s going on, you want us to—”
“Just hold it,” Layne called back, brusque and clearly nervous. His hands flexed at his sides, as if reaching for a gun. Regular Old West gunfighter. To Cormac he said, “You better watch it. You don’t want to end up dead like Kuzniak, do you? You watch it, Bennett, wait a minute—”
When he was just shy of arm’s reach, Cormac moved fast, left hand flashing out to grab Layne’s collar while his right hand punched hard into his nose.
Layne choked out a cry and tried to stumble back, but Cormac kept hold of his shirt, keeping the guy upright while he stepped in for a hard knee into the groin that dropped him like a rock. This time, Cormac let him fall. Kicked him in the gut for good measure, then fell on him, putting a knee in his back, twisting his arm to immobilize him.