Dark Divide (Cormac and Amelia 1)
Look around, Amelia said. There must be something more here.
He let his vision go soft. He might miss something, so Amelia had to be present, slipping into his eyes, occupying not just his mind, but his body. She had knowledge and skills, but needed physicality to use them. She would see the magic where he might not.
Domingo wouldn’t know the difference. She’d see Cormac standing in the middle of the cabin, turning slowly, studying the walls, the roof beams, the furniture, the floor. She wouldn’t see Amelia looking through his eyes.
Anything? he murmured inwardly.
Let’s try something else.
They’d been doing this long enough that he knew what came next. Before she could instruct him, he drew thread and iron nail from the pocket of his jacket. He unrolled the thread, held the end of it so the nail hung in perfect balance, a compass needle pointing at random. He whispered the words she told him.
Hard to notice at first, if the thing moved or not. The gentle swaying it displayed, shifting left, then right, then back, came from its own natural movements, a draft in the air, or maybe the tiny vibrations of blood pumping through the capillaries of his fingertips. Dowsing alone was inconsistent, unreliable. But then Amelia whispered words that gave the iron purpose. If magic had been cast here, the nail’s point would show the direction it came from.
The thread trembled; Cormac tried to hold his hand especially still, but this was the trouble with physicality: the more you thought about holding still, being quiet, breathing slow, the harder controlling yourself got. Movement amplified.
Vibrations traveled down the thread, shuddered through the nail—which swung to point straight down.
Interesting, Amelia declared. I said it felt like a hole. But this is some kind of vortex. There’s a pull here.
Is there still a danger? he thought to her.
I’m not sure.
He suddenly wanted to get the hell out of here.
What’s next? Cormac prompted.
We need to have a very good look around, said Amelia. Not just here. The whole area. To see if this is happening anywhere else. And to see why anyone would want to target this cabin over anywhere else.
“Could Weber have done it to himself?”
I wouldn’t have thought so—this isn’t the cabin of someone magically inclined. But. . .we can’t discount the possibility.
“You found something?” Domingo sounded hopeful.
Cormac shook his head. “Not sure. Need to look around some more, I think.”
“Will this happen again or is it a one-time thing? How worried do I need to be?”
I don’t know, Amelia admitted.
Maybe this was just about Art Weber. Maybe he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe this was a one-and-done. Cormac’s silence was answer enough—he was worried.
“I’ll call you the minute I have something,” he said.
They stepped back outside, and the sun seemed bright, and the air clean. The death and uncertainty, that creeping primal fear, was closed up in the cabin. Cormac suppressed a shudder.
There isn’t much that frightens you like this, Amelia said.
Frightened might have been a strong word for it. But she was right—he didn’t like it. Usually when he felt something off, he could tell what it was. He could at least make a guess and start hunting. He’d faced down werewolves, vampires, demons, ghosts— This was like water coming through the roof and he couldn’t find the leak.
We’ll find it. Her optimism could be annoying sometimes. She didn’t have physical skin to feel the gooseflesh, or hair on the back of her neck.
As he and Domingo walked back to her truck, another truck pulled in behind them, a basic Chevy pickup ten or so years old. Maybe another Park Service official, Cormac thought, until Domingo groaned with annoyance.
“God, not again,” she muttered.
A man in his forties climbed out of the truck and marched to intercept Domingo, fists clenched and eyes glaring. He was a white guy with thinning hair, wearing a rumpled button-up shirt, khakis, and hiking boots. An outdoors type. He gave Cormac a brief once-over and frowned. All his attention was on Domingo.