Amplified: The Knox Agency Chronicles, #1

Amplified

The Knox Agency Chronicles

Paranormal Suspense Series

Book One

C.L. Roman

Copyright © 2022 C.L. Roman

Brass Rag Press

All rights reserved.

Contents

Delia

The Mage

Family Reunion

Atticus

Charlotte

Clues

The Crime Scene

Soul Stone

Leaving Cassadaga

Seeking Medea

Summon What You Need

The Pattern

Discovery

Cole

Lena

The Library

Research

Suspects

Simon

Break-in

Simon Inside

The Restricted Section

Simon’s Discovery

Fire and Smoke

Opening the Codex

Perjury

Scrying

Bletch

Bad News

Waiting

The Maze

Opening Negotiations

Traps and Tricks

Confrontation

Confined

Cannibal Soldiers

Rescue

Simon and Bletch

Argus

The Jadoo Kanta

Escape

Battle

Rescuing the enemy

Resurrection

Home

Solcruth

Girl in Motion

Golem

Final Battle

Justice

Restitution

Afterword With the Author

A Note From the Author

Dedication

This book is for my parents, who let me know that almost anything was possible, so long as I was willing to give my best to the effort. You taught me strength, courage, and perseverance. Without those characteristics, this work, and all the others, would never have happened. Thank you for encouraging me to follow my dreams, even when they were crazy, even when they were not what you would have chosen for me.

I love you guys, always.

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Acknowledgements

In any artistic endeavor, there is the need for many hands and minds to create the finished work. No one plays this game alone — and trying is sure to land you on the muddy side of sanity.

This book would not have been possible without the assistance of my cover artist and editor, Tracie Roberts. Her input was vital to the finished product and I will be forever grateful for her unique gifts as a graphic artist.

I offer my humble apologies to my beta reader, Erika Rodriguez, for the suggestions I didn’t take, and my thanks for those that I did. You made this a better book, and I appreciate it.

Many thanks to Vic, who cooked when it was my turn, took on extra duty, and supported me through many a plot twist. You are my shining light and I am grateful to you every day.

Delia

HAWTHORNE, FLORIDA: THE KNOX HOME

Delia Knox palmed two more cold capsules and popped them into her mouth, washing them down with the medicinal tea her mother taught her to make. The flu was of a particularly vicious strain this year, sending two of her friends to the hospital. Thank the goddess they were mending well. She’d probably be in a bed next to them if it weren’t for her mother’s tea.

As it was, a hacking cough, fever, and body aches kept her in bed the last two days. And though she felt somewhat better today, taking a cold to a party was considered bad form. Missing the school’s Halloween bash had not been part of her plan, but the universe had its own ideas. Why the board chose to have the party on the full moon, rather than on Samhain, was beyond her, especially since both fell on weekdays this year.

Ten-year-old Char and eight-year-old Lena were crushed about missing the party until their father stepped into the gap. Delia offered the mirror a weak smile. Alistair was a good father and a better husband. She was lucky.

Voices drifted to her from the living room, and she hurried out of the bedroom as quickly as her aching body would allow. She grabbed her smartphone from the nightstand as she passed. At least she could get some pictures before they set out.

Wait, wait, let me see how the costumes turned out. Delia entered the living room and let out a gasp of enthusiastic amazement. Lena was obsessed with superheroes and had chosen her costume accordingly, complete with a red, white, and blue uniform, tiara, golden lasso, and bracelets. Char was, as she had been the previous five years in a row, a witch. However, this year she had put her own spin on the traditional black dress and pointed hat.

Delia took in the dark purple dress and the golden diadem on her adopted daughter’s brow, smiling in approval. You both look fantastic! she told the girls.

How are you feeling, darling? Alistair asked.

Better. I wish I were going with you, Delia replied.

Alistair raised his eyebrows. And bring the flu back to those who gave it to Char, and by proxy, you, in the first place? Ha! The good ladies of Hawthorne PTA would be scandalized.

Scandal or not, I hate to miss the fun.

Mom should go with us, dad. Char turned serious gray eyes on her father. Or I could stay home with her.

Sweetheart, you’d miss the party to take care of me? Delia sat down on the couch, bringing her to Char’s eye level. Why?

Because you take care of us all the time, and besides, it’s my fault you’re sick.

Delia glanced at her husband, then back to the child. It’s not. Germs are everywhere. I could have picked up this bug at the supermarket or work or... anywhere.

But dad said—

Alistair cleared his throat. I was making a joke, Char. I didn’t mean for you to— He glanced at his watch. We need to go or we’ll miss the bonfire lighting. Char, this isn’t your fault. Mother will be fine here for a couple of hours. Come along.

He herded the girls out the door into the fading last light of day. The porch boards creaked under their feet and the air kissed their cheeks with crisp breath. In the yard, the full moon began its ascent from the horizon as the trees stretched barren limbs to the darkening sky. A few stubborn leaves still clung here and there in defiance of fall’s swift advance. Delia could taste winter on the air, and she shivered, gathering her sweater closer around her shoulders.

Delia, for pity’s sake, go inside, Alistair said gently, but firmly. We’ll be back by ten.

Have fun! The car doors slammed and with a final wave, Delia entered the house, shutting out the descending dark with a definitive thud.

From his hiding place outside the back gate, the mage heard voices in the distance, and the metallic crunch of car doors closing. The purr of a car engine receding into the night made him smile.

Delia Knox has taken the children to the party, as planned. Good.

Still, he waited another half hour, until the sun was fully set, to begin. The house was heavily warded, but he wasn’t worried. Eighty years of acquired power was more than a match, even for protective spells cast by a pair of master witches.

Alistair Knox would be his second sacrifice in this cycle, and the mage could almost taste the influx of power this victim would bring. He’d thought long and hard before targeting Alistair. A university president and coven master would be missed. His death would make headlines in the supernatural community — publicity the mage usually liked to avoid.

But Alistair also had enormous power. More than enough to balance the risk. Most witches would never dare to take on someone of Alistair’s natural talent, but the mage wasn’t most witches. He held up his wand, a slim rod of clear quartz, carved with amplifying runes and symbols. Tools like this made him unbeatable.

Using the wand, he bypassed the outer wards easily and crept to the back door. He adjusted his clear-sight glasses, and the golden loops and whirls of a protective barrier sprang into high relief, glowing in the darkness.

These would take time to break, but he was up to the task. Carefully, methodically, he reduced the wards to tatters. By now, the full moon was high, casting the house in shadow. Alistair had probably gone to bed by now, no doubt leaving a single lamp in the front hall lit to welcome the party-goers home, but the rest of the Knox home should be dark.

Perfect for the task at hand.

The ward’s final rune disintegrated under his hand, and he silently opened the door, stepping into the laundry room. As he did, he pulled two articles from his pocket. One was a black compass with a white needle. The other was a skein of shimmering black thread.

Moonlight spilled through the small window above a washer/dryer set, giving him just enough to see by. Shadows lurked in the corners, one slipping out the door without his notice.

He focused on the strange compass held flat in his palm. Alistair Knox, he whispered. The white arrow spun madly against the black base, then suddenly stopped, pointing directly at the wall to his right. It was an exterior wall, which meant that Alistair was not in the house. Outside was the road — presumably going in the same direction that the fading car sounds had taken.

Canned laughter and music drifted to him from his left. If Alistair took his girls to the party, then who is watching television?

The overhead light flared bright, and the mage looked up to see Delia standing in the arched entry, a small calico feline sitting at her feet.

Who in Hecate’s name are you, and what are you doing in my kitchen? Delia asked.

Instead of answering, he flung the thread at her. As it flew, it unraveled into a spiderweb of sparkling black lines. Delia caught it neatly in one hand.

A witch then — and not a very good one, if this is the best you can do. Now. I’ll ask one more time. Who — She glared down at her hand where the threads were busily escaping her grasp and climbing up her arm.

You’d need electrum powder to stop it, the mage said. Which, based on its rarity and the methods needed to extract it, I doubt you have. But relax. It won’t hurt you.

The threads expanded, streaking over Delia’s body no matter how she twisted and tugged at them. In seconds, her hands were tied, and a strand broadened into a gag across her face, sealing her lips closed. A strand looped around her ankles, cinching them tight together, and she lost her balance. The mage caught her by the shoulders and eased her to the floor.

You don’t know me, so I’ll forgive the comment about not being very good. As you can see, I can alter even the most unassuming objects to provide excellent service. Now, I have a question for you.

She mumbled against the cloth over her mouth, and he frowned.

Right. I’ll try to limit myself to yes or no questions. Just nod or shake your head.

She glared at him and shook her head vehemently. Suddenly, her gaze slid right, and he turned just in time to catch eight pounds of feline fury square in the face. The calico spit and scratched, then leapt away, stalking around him in a circle as he wiped the blood from his face.

You little bitch! he said to the animal. Delia gave a muffled laugh, and he scowled at her. Careful. I said the strands wouldn’t hurt you. I give you no such guarantee for myself.

I am no bitch, mage. I am a queen, the cat said and launched herself at him again, claws out. This time, he was ready.

He clubbed her sideways, slamming the tiny animal against the wall. She crumpled to the floor. Delia screamed against her gag, struggling to reach her familiar.

The mage walked over to the still form and poked at her. Don’t worry. She’ll probably wake up. She might even live.

Leaving the cat where she lay, he went back to Delia and sat her upright. You, on the other hand... Well, I wanted your husband, but you’ll do. I can always come back and get him a decade from now.

He dragged Delia into the living room and left her in the middle of the floor while he pushed the furniture against the walls. From a small pack on his back, he took salt, a red glass container, and a small mirror. 

Humming softly, he drew a circle within a pentagram around her with the salt, muttering the entire time. Delia caught enough to understand he was purifying the area and calling the quarters.

Moving carefully to avoid disturbing the salt, he placed the red bottle in the eastern corner, a black stone in the north, a little cup of water in the west, and a red candle in the south. From an inner pocket of his cloak, he produced an ancient black book with a scarlet serpent emblazoned on the cover. The last thing he took from the bag was a roll of black cloth.

When he unwrapped the knife, Delia knew she was in trouble. 

The Mage

GREENWICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK

Simon Blackwell fit the definition of tall, dark, and handsome in several ways. Six-foot-two in his stocking feet, he also possessed dark green eyes and black hair, cropped short in a Cesar cut. His features were chiseled and ascetic, with a thin nose and squared jaw. The look matched his demeanor, serious and powerful.  When he chose to smile, it startled the onlooker, tricking them into relaxing.  After his third and final kill for 2012, he returned to his home in New York City. In his study, he ran gentle fingers over the red bottle before placing it in the cabinet until the next sacrifice. It didn’t do to stare at the ancient decanter too long, since the desire to open it could quickly become overpowering.

Sighing, he leaned back in the richly upholstered Louis the XV armchair he’d purchased at auction last year, and stared at his wand. He’d taken it from the home of his first sacrifice decades ago. He chuckled, remembering how nervous he’d been that first time. It was a minor miracle that he’d managed to make that first kill — proof that he had every right to take what he needed, regardless of the cost to less significant individuals.

Caught up in the excitement and victorious nature of the moment, he’d completely forgotten to absorb Virginia Darren’s life force, but it hadn’t mattered. At twenty-five, he had no need for additional youth or vigor.

What had mattered was her magickal energy and her soul. Those he’d captured neatly, bottling the energy and passing the soul to the Vodnik, so Virginia couldn’t tattle on him in the Summerlands.

The sacrifices of Cristina Petros and Maria Davros went more smoothly, even though in hindsight, they had been riskier. Another miracle that he hadn’t been caught — and more proof of the rightness of his actions. Still, targeting three witches — roommates — on the same full moon had been monstrously reckless.

Partly because of his connection to the wealthy and respectable Coreys, he’d never even been a suspect, though his uncle had looked at him oddly when the story broke in the evening papers. Simon remembered that look still, and it caused him to make necessary adjustments. He’d gained valuable insights and several useful tools from that first endeavor, not least of which was the determination never to hunt in his own backyard again.

He sighed in satisfaction and placed the wand carefully in its velvet-lined oak case for the night. Ninety years later, he’d perfected the process. One set of kills a decade; three totally unrelated victims, sacrificed one month apart on successive full moons. He was a serial killer, certainly, but these days his expeditions were so carefully choreographed, so widely spaced in time and geography, that the authorities had no idea they weren’t dealing with individual murders. Especially in the early days when there was no centralized agency tracking such things, the danger of discovery had been exceedingly low. Now, of course, things were a bit different. All the more reason for the wide spacing and careful planning of each death.

He poured a glass of port from the bar in his elegant, empty sitting room and held the glass up in a toast. To Darla McInnis, Delia Knox, and James Abernathy. I thank you for your contribution to my success. Sipping the contents, he went to the window and stared out at the night.

Over the years, he’d used the harvested life-force and magickal tools to build wealth and prestige, cleverly hiding his fortune behind the facade of a large pharmaceutical company. Now he was a powerful man, one decade short of his final goal. He laughed again, softly.

Ten more years, the mere blink of an eye, really, and he would no longer need the tools he’d appropriated. In the final ceremony, he would uncap the red bottle and absorb a century of reclaimed magickal power, and with it, immortality.

He ran loving fingers over the oak casket. He’d keep the wand, of course, for sentimental reasons.

Family Reunion

SHADOW WOODS, AUGUST

I stood on the boathouse’s front porch and watched my assembled family gather for the reunion. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and the occasional grandparent mingled under Spanish-moss-draped cypress trees while the younger generation manned the paddle-boats on the pond.

Really, the waterway was too large to be called a pond and too small for the lake designation. Caught in the middle somewhere.

I know how that feels.

I tilted my head to the side, letting my white-blond ponytail fall over my shoulder as a tiny smile tugged at my lips. Do ponds have feelings? I shrugged. Most things do.

A flicker of movement pulled my attention to the far end of the porch, where rocking chairs and a low table invited people to gather. An elderly woman sat in one of the chairs. She met my eyes with a knowing grin.

Well, now, Charlotte Knox. Are you going to join me, or stand staring like a loon? The ghost smiled at me as if she had a secret I needed to hear. But then, a lot of them had that look. A byproduct of living in the Summerlands, maybe.

Most people call me Char, I said as I wandered over and took a seat in the rocker next to hers. I’ve been seeing ghosts since I was five, so this wasn’t new, or a scary experience for me. Not that ghosts can’t be scary. They can be terrifying when they’re angry or frustrated. But mostly they just want to talk. I’m good at that.

It’s one reason I went to law school.

Ah, but you’ll find I’m not ‘most people,’ she said and cackled like the loon she’d accused me of being. So I’ll call you Charlotte, and you must call me Gran.

The gentle September breeze drifted over my skin, raising the goosebumps that one expected with seeing a ghost, but that I seldom got. Her comment made me smile as several things clicked into place in my mind.

You’re the famous Neala Delaney, then? She nodded, and I glanced at the table where a book lay, unattended by a living owner. You know we’re not technically related, right?

Fiddlesnaps. You are as much a part of this family as you wish to be, blood or not. Now, to the point. I made Shawn bring me, though I didn’t tell her why, and you mustn’t either, Neala said. I needed to talk with you, and I don’t travel so well without one of the grimoires.

You’re attached to the book? That’s unusual, I replied carefully. Ghosts are almost always attached to the place where they died, though attachment to an object is possible, with enough reason. How did that happen?

Them — but that’s another story, for another time, she replied laconically. Her bright blue eyes dimmed and her face settled into serious lines. I have some information you might find difficult to hear.

A chill rippled down my spine like someone had dumped cold water down my back. Ghosts don’t waste time on good news. I stood up. If it’s all the same to you, I need to go find my sister...

Sit down, girl. Manifesting like this is tiring, as you well know, and I’ve business elsewhere. So hear me out, and I’ll be on my way.

Crap. Just what I need. A bossy ghost. I sat back down. All right. What is it? What do you need help with?

Pshaw. It’s not me needing the help. It’s you. I’ve just learned that Delia has died. But she’s not—

I stiffened, sitting up in the rocker so suddenly that it threatened to dump me onto the decking. My stepmother died ten years ago. This certainly falls under the category of difficult, but it isn’t news.

It is to me, though why no one mentioned it, I couldn’t say, she snapped. Clearing her throat, she sat back in the chair. A child running by skidded to a halt and stared at what, to her, looked like an empty rocker leaning back all by itself.

I flicked my fingers and muttered a quick distraction spell. The girl shook herself and ran off.

Nicely done, Neala said. Now then, where were we? Oh yes. Delia is dead.

I know that. Pain rose up in my chest, pushing tears close to the surface. Ten years, and it still hurt to remember that the only mother I’d ever known was gone, and worse, she hadn’t spoken to me once in all that time. I’d called and called, shouting into the spirit realm until I lay spent and sobbing on the floor. But she hadn’t replied. I couldn’t help but wonder if her silence was because I wasn’t her ‘real’ daughter. She’d never treated me as if I weren’t, had shown me nothing but love and acceptance, but the question still battered my heart like a hammer on an anvil.

There now, I know it hurts. I’m sorry for it, but there’s something you must know. Delia died, but her spirit is not in the Summerlands.

Shock washed through me in an icy wave. She’s... What? She has to be in the Summerlands. My mother was a good person. She didn’t deserve Hell.

Neala rolled her eyes. That’s fairly obvious. Even if it existed in the way you mean, Delia wouldn’t be in Hell. But she is also not in the Summerlands. I’ve looked. Which begs the question: where is she?

Char! There you are! My half-sister, Lena, bounded up the steps. I’ve been looking all over for you.

I glanced at Neala, but she was gone. Of course you are, I muttered. Ghosts don’t hang around long once they’ve delivered whatever message they need to convey. Hanging around takes too much energy once a soul has ascended to the Summerlands.

Char? Lena slowed, approaching me hesitantly. At twenty, she was the gentlest soul I knew. With our mother’s silky black hair and our father’s cornflower eyes, she was also one of the most beautiful. Did you... Are you with a ghost, right now?

Not anymore. Great, great-grandma Neala decided to visit.

Lena’s eyes widened. You’re kidding. Isn’t she tied to the Delaney house in Cassadaga? How did she get here?

I frowned down at the empty table. Well, she came by book, but it’s gone now. I looked around and caught a glimpse of my grandmother, Shawn Delaney-Panteran, disappearing through the trees, the grimoire tucked under her arm.

What did she want? Lena propped her hip against the railing, her eyes avid with a curiosity I wasn’t about to appease. Lena was like a flower, easily crushed and hard to repair.

Oh, nothing much. We hadn’t met before, so she wanted to say hello.

Suspicion darkened Lena’s eyes. My sister was gentle, but not stupid, and she knew me almost as well as she knew herself. Seems like an awful long way to come just to say hey.

Yeah, well, I thought so too, but here we are. Why were you looking for me?

The distraction worked. Lena bounced to attention. Cole and Xavier are here!

Who?

You remember them. The New York cousins? We met them at the reunion in Cassadaga when we were kids. She waited, impatient, for me to recall a meeting that happened when I was about seven. She’d only been five, and I was amazed that she remembered it herself. Proof that having an eidetic memory comes in handy, I guess.

I thought about it, flipping through a series of hazy mental images and finally coming up with one of a pair of tow-headed kids with gap-toothed smiles. You mean the kids who pulled you out of the pond when you fell in?

She beamed at me. That’s them. Come on!

I followed her across the grass to the picnic area. Long plank tables formed the uprights of a U, with the grilling station as the base.

Great-uncle Declan and his daughter, Tricia, were cooking hotdogs, hamburgers, and sausages like it was a competition. Watching their laughing faces, I thought if it was a game, they were enjoying it. They weren’t alone. A scattering of small groups sat at small tables or on