“Then you’d think those jackasses would go on home,” Andy said. “Hate to see ’em get some kind of stroke.”
“Now, now, those people are exercising their perfectly legal right to assemble and their right to free speech,” Lyons said. “Those people got convictions, and they’re not afraid to stand up for them. I respect that. I’d think you’d respect it, too.”
“In my time, men of conviction ran the risk of taking a beating, or a bullet,” Andy answered. “Ain’t got no room to respect liars, and fools who believe ’em. As far as I can tell, your world’s got no consequences for telling lies and making threats, and that’s toxic, mister. It lets cowards be bullies, and make no mistake, that’s what these folks are. Bullies. I’ve known heroes. They damn sure ain’t heroes.”
Lyons studied Andy for a moment, sipping his iced tea. Then he turned to me. “Is that how you feel about it?”
“I think someone stirred up a mob, maybe even using magic,” I said. “And put them to work to drive the witches out of Austin. And I think that someone is probably you, Mr. Lyons.”
The smile slipped, like a greased belt on an engine, and for a second I saw the cold, calculating man behind the good ol’ boy mask.
And I saw the power.
Witches aren’t superheroes; we don’t have Spidey sense or any ability to detect things beyond our particular specialties. But from time to time, some things are so powerful they make themselves known, regardless. Even a regular, normal person would feel it.
And Andy and I both knew, in that cold second, that what was sitting there sipping iced tea pretty as you please was not a human being at all. Not in any sense we could have named it.
I expected Andy to make a grab for the shotgun, but he was smarter than that. A shotgun wouldn’t do squat in this moment of revelation. Something like Pete Lyons sneered at mere human violence. We were small before him. Small and very fragile.
The smile came back. “Good iced tea, Miss Holly. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“What are you?” I asked.
“Your city councilman,” Lyons said, perfectly calmly. “I got elected earlier in the year on a platform of clearing out corruption, you might recall. Well, I found some. I’m getting rid of it, and making this city safe for decent folk.”
“I know what you are,” Andy said. His eyes were slitted and dark, and he was as tense as Lyons was relaxed. “Seen something like it before, back in the wars.”
“The Zombie Wars?” Lyons shook his head and laughed. “Old West romantic nonsense. Like you, Mr. Toland. Fables like that are the reason we don’t need witches and their filthy ways. Corpses killing innocents? Horrifying nonsense.”
I knew the story of the Zombie Wars, from the Old West time when Andy had originally lived and died; corrupted resurrection witches had tapped into power that nobody truly understood to launch that war, and the good witches of the time had sacrificed their lives to stop it. Andy had been the last, and he’d died ending it.
“Is it?” Andy asked. “Holly Anne, you ought to know, some bits of that war didn’t make it to the history books. Like where those original bad witches got all that power from. Was a man by the name of Hattan—Joshua Hattan. He was a demon-raiser.”
I felt a jolt, because there weren’t many witches who truly practiced anything like dark magic—magic that was in and of itself completely evil. But demon-raisers . . . they were the blackest of the black. That was a power that could not be used for good; it would taint any action, no matter how pure it seemed. It was the power of rot and ruin, decay and doom.
“I killed Joshua Hattan,” Andy said. “But it ain’t easy to dispel a demon once he’s in this world. Clings on like a stench to anything once owned by the witch that raised him up. You a collector of old things, Mr. Lyons?”
“Why, yes, I do happen to love those bygone days, Mr. Toland,” Lyons said. “Pity about the knife. I thought you’d pick it up. I suppose someone did, eventually.”
The knife. The old knife, driven through the photo, pinning it to the lawn.
“Forensic technicians,” I said. “Using rubber gloves. It’s toxic, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Well, that all depends on your definitions, I suppose. Let’s just say it opens a window that’s very hard to close. Never mind. I have other things.” He stroked the turquoise hunk in his bolo tie fastener—a massive piece of intense blue-green stone, shot through with thick black veins. It almost looked . . . organic.