Club 66 Omnibus

by C. C. Mahon

  “The usual,” said the harpy. “I quit smoking.”

  Barbie quit smoking on average once a month. She would quit quitting after a few days, much to the relief of the rest of the team. Deprived of tobacco, the harpy was always in a dog-like mood.

  “You seem very cheerful for someone in withdrawal,” I said.

  “It’s only been a few hours. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  16

  THE ROOM WAS tidy, the money in the safe. We were about to go back up when the intercom rang.

  “Boss,” said Eupraxie, “someone is asking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “A Susan? She says you met her last night at the morgue. What do I do?”

  “I’m coming up.”

  Susan had put on clothes since the day before, but I recognized the old woman who had been shot by an overly nervous cop. On the sidewalk, under Eupraxie’s watch, Susan seemed very frail, tired, and desperate.

  “No one wants me anymore,” cried the old woman.

  I laid my hands on her thin shoulders in a futile attempt to comfort her. But she seemed inconsolable.

  “Marcellin said we’re not zombies. We had to leave again. So I went home. But my daughter freaked out when she saw me, she kept crying, and my son-in-law kicked me out…”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Marcellin gave us this…”

  She handed me one of the club’s business cards.

  “Did Marcellin tell you to come to me?”

  “He said you were going to take care of us. I didn’t want to bother you, but since my daughter doesn’t want to see me anymore…”

  She burst into tears right there, at my club’s door.

  “Come on, come on, don’t worry about it. Do you want to come in?”

  I backed away to let her come in. She crossed the threshold, and the Guild’s protection spells emitted some sparks. I barely had time to wonder why when the poor woman collapsed at my feet.

  “Susan?” I called.

  No reaction.

  I checked her pulse, couldn’t find any, and wondered if that was normal for an undead woman.

  I asked Eupraxie, who knew no more than I did.

  “I don’t want to upset anyone,” Johnny said behind my back, “but the poor lady looks more dead than undead.”

  “What happened?” Barbie asked.

  “She came in, and she collapsed,” I said.

  “There were sparks when she came in,” Eupraxie recalled.

  “The protective spells,” I said.

  “Quite a spell you have there!” said Johnny.

  “They’re not supposed to be dangerous,” I said. “They are mainly used to deprive clients of some of their powers to prevent fights from escalating.”

  “Why did it deprive this poor lady of her life, then?” asked Johnny.

  I looked at Susan’s body at my feet. I had a good idea of what had just happened. But I needed a sorcerer from the Guild to confirm it. Or the closest thing to it in my address book. I called Britannicus.

  “The protective spells broke the link between the body, life, and the soul piece,” Britannicus confirmed.

  I had pulled the wizard out of bed, but when he appeared at my door, he was as neat as he always was: three-piece gold-embroidered suit, manicured nails, impeccable manners.

  I had sent my employees home. Eupraxie had left without being asked twice, apparently exhausted by the first night’s work of her long gorgonian life. Johnny and Barbie had stayed. Johnny seemed particularly saddened by Susan’s fate.

  “Kicking the bucket once is no fun, but twice in a row…!”

  “So it wasn’t a zombie,” I told Britannicus.

  “No. This is another type of undead.”

  “Resurrected by a necromancer?”

  He nodded.

  Barbie lit a cigarette. No one commented.

  “Do you have those at the Guild?” I asked.

  “Necromancers?” said Britannicus. “Are you joking? The Guild would do a lot of things for money, but its members are not about to take that risk.”

  “When you talk about risk,” I asked, “do you mean sacrificing a piece of soul? Is it that dangerous?”

  “That would be difficult to quantify. I guess the first time one would get away with it without too much trouble. The problem is that once is not enough. Necromancy is delicate; it takes training before one can master a perfect resurrection.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “I read a lot during my studies. You know how it is. But I never wanted to try.”

  “Why not?”

  With great gentleness, he positioned Susan’s arms along her body and closed the old woman’s eyelids before answering. “I guess I didn’t lose the right person.” He straightened up and rectified his impeccable appearance.

  “You mean you need a personal motivation to get started? Like resurrecting a loved one?”

  “That’s usually what arouses interest, yes. The problem is the timing. Resurrections are like pancakes; the first one is always missed. It is better to train for a few decades before moving on to your loved one.”

  “Is there anything left to resurrect after all this time?”

  “Oh yes, the deceased’s condition is not a problem. We could resurrect a Neanderthal man if we wanted to. Support is necessary, but a mere skeleton would do.”

  “What’s the problem, then?”

  “The problem is that after the decades of practice necessary to master this technique, the necromancer no longer has enough soul to care about the deceased. The once loved one no longer means anything to them.”

  “That’s a shame,” Johnny commented.

  Britannicus nodded. “Indeed. That’s why necromancy has never been very popular.”

  “But someone is practicing,” I said. “Right now, in Las Vegas.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Someone who resurrected thirty people all at once.”

  “A feat,” said Britannicus.

  “I guess the ambient magic helps a lot,” I said.

  “No doubt about it. But it does not replace the lives that must be stolen elsewhere or the pieces of soul to sacrifice.”

  “Why do all this to bring these people back to life?” I wondered. “Before she died…the second time, Susan said her family panicked when she went home. They chased her away. Clearly, they didn’t know about…this.”

  “Who are the other stiffs?” asked Johnny.

  “I don’t know. I’d have to ask Lola. Why?”

  “I was thinking about the other birds and me. The collector—Elsie, she calls herself—had no particular reason to turn us into birds. No rational reason, I mean. She wanted a collection to show that she could do it.” He scratched his head. “I don’t know if I’m making sense.”

  “You mean the necromancer could have resurrected thirty people to show that they were capable of it?”

  “Maybe, yeah. Don’t know.” He looked at Susan again and shook his head sadly. “I can’t believe I’ve been complaining about a few feathers…”

  17

  BARBIE AND JOHNNY went away together, leaving Britannicus and me to look after Susan’s remains. I considered the body of the poor woman, collapsed a few feet from the entrance.

  “Can you still find something examining her?” I said.

  Britannicus shook his head.

  “So I’ll call Lola, have her notify the morgue that we found one of their residents. After that…” I had no idea what to do after that. “The morgue!” I said. “They all had these bodies…”

  “Yes,” said Britannicus. “And now they don’t have them anymore.”

  “No, not those! The others. Yesterday morning, when we went back there, they were supposed to receive about thirty bodies because of a pileup.”

  Britannicus shook his head. “Because of a necromancer,” he said.

  “What carnage. All this to prove that they’re capable of it?”

>   “Or to practice.”

  “Practice for what? Resurrecting a football stadium? What do necromancers do when they no longer have a soul to sacrifice?”

  “They learn to steal from others.”

  “It just keeps getting better and better. So we may have a psychopath/serial killer/soul thief on our hands?”

  Britannicus frowned. “And no one else would have noticed their presence?”

  “Nobody cares,” I said. “Look what happened when Kitty and the others went missing. No one lifted a finger.”

  “You’re not suggesting that Callum Carver is our necromancer?”

  I took a long minute to think before answering. “If he could, he probably would. Just to prove to the world how powerful he is, as Johnny suggested.”

  “But you don’t think he can do it?”

  “I saw him the other day. He seems to be having trouble containing the various magics stolen from his victims. I don’t think necromancy is his priority this week. What about you? Do you know any psychopathic wizards in town?”

  “No, my whole family stayed in Great Britain.” He flashed a mischievous smile. “I’m joking. I’ll find out, all right? The advantage of this magical blockade is that our necromancer can’t go very far.”

  Britannicus went to investigate in unspecified clandestine sorcerers circles, and I made a phone call to Lola.

  “You can tell the morgue that one of their patients has been found,” I announced.

  “Uh? You want to give them back a zombie?”

  “Apparently they’re not zombies, and Marcellin and his bacteria are innocent. Can you come by the club soon so I can explain?”

  “Umph. Okay, but you better make me coffee. Getting people out of bed at a time like this is barbaric.”

  So I locked the door and went back to my loft to make us a pot of strong coffee. Something told me I was going to need it, too.

  When Lola rang the intercom, she still had the pillow mark across her face.

  Before I even let her cross the threshold, I put a giant mug in her hands.

  “Drink,” I said, “before I introduce you to the corpse of the day.”

  She gave me a puzzled look, took a sip of coffee, and said, “It’s okay, I’m ready for duty. Where’s your corpse?”

  I stepped aside to let her in. She immediately noticed Susan’s body, which I had moved along the wall.

  “Is she dead? For good?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “What happened?”

  I explained to her Susan’s arrival, what the poor woman had had time to tell me, and what happened to her afterward.

  “And your ginger Brit is sure it’s necromancy?”

  “Britannicus is the third person to tell me about it since yesterday. I guess it’s back in fashion.”

  “Who else is talking to you about necromancy, if I may ask?”

  “Last night I banned a kid from the club: Chloe. She was selling spells on the sly. Out of curiosity, I asked her if she could revive a dead person. I thought there might be a black market for zombie bacteria…”

  “As for radioactive materials?”

  “But the kid immediately mentioned necromancy then proclaimed she didn’t mess with it.”

  “Does she know who practices?”

  “I didn’t think to ask her.”

  Lola looked up at the ceiling and hid her face behind her mug.

  “I’m not a detective!” I said. “When I talked to Chloe, I still thought we were dealing with real zombies. And everyone tells me that necromancy is a challenging art, so I can’t imagine who can bring thirty people back to life at once.”

  “And why,” Lola added. She contemplated poor Susan’s body with a thoughtful look on her face.

  “Britannicus and Johnny think it could be a show of strength,” I said, “or a question of status.”

  “You think there’s a necromancer convention in town and they’re having a contest?”

  “What other reason could there be to bring back thirty people who have nothing in common except being in the same morgue at the same time?”

  After a few moments of silence, Lola admitted that she had no idea. “In the meantime, I have twenty-nine undead running around my city?” she said.

  “Not necessarily. Susan came here because her family rejected her. Maybe it’s going better for the others.”

  “You mean they’re going to go back to their lives like they’re not dead? Can they do that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have the list of people involved? We could go and see for ourselves.”

  Lola pinched her nose, frowned, looked at Susan again, emptied her coffee and finally nodded. “But first, morgue employees have to come and get Susan,” she said.

  “It’s a little early to call them, isn’t it?”

  “The night technician can bring someone in. That’ll teach them to let necromancers make a mess of their morgue.”

  Thirty minutes and three coffee mugs later, two poorly awake stretcher-bearers rang the intercom.

  “It’s her,” one of them stammered as he discovered Susan. He was holding a thin file with a picture of Susan pinned to it. “What the hell is she doing here? Who dressed her?”

  “That,” Lola intervened, “will be up to us to establish. In the meantime, if you could pick up your charge…”

  The two men shook their heads incredulously, went back to get their stretcher, and loaded Susan on it. The poor woman didn’t weigh much, and the operation was carried out smoothly.

  Once Susan’s fate was settled, all we had to do was look for her companions in misfortune.

  18

  THE LAS VEGAS police station sparkled in the first rays of the morning sun.

  “Are you sure I have the right to go home with you?” I asked.

  “You do,” Lola said. “Your sword, on the other hand…I have my doubts.”

  Lola pushed open the heavy glass door and preceded me into the large entrance hall.

  The building was modern, made of glass and polished stone. The hall was cool and quiet. A half-sleeping cop was watching over the few comings and goings.

  I looked at the metal detectors facing me.

  “Um, Lola…” I said. “I don’t think I’m going to go through this.”

  Lola looked at the metal detectors, turned around, and frowned. “Why? Are you claustrophobic?”

  “My wings,” I whispered.

  In public, I maintained a charm that concealed my wings from view. But they were always there, invisible but cumbersome.

  “Okay,” she said, “come with me.”

  She went to the policeman who managed the gates. “My friend is claustrophobic,” she explained.

  In a tray, she placed her keys, badge, and gun. Then she spread her arms, and the other cop passed a portable metal detector all around her. A nod and Lola got her things back.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  I held my sword in my hand, hidden from view as my wings were. But the metal detector would not be so easily fooled. This was not the time to panic.

  I pulled my keys out of my pocket then pretended to look for something else in my other pocket. I projected the image of a second set of keys and superimposed it on the sword. I laid down the two sets—the real one and my sword in disguise—as Lola had done and then moved on to submit myself to the examination. The cop waved at me to get my stuff back and come by.

  “Do you need a visitor’s badge?” he asked Lola.

  “It’s okay, we’ll be back in thirty seconds, way before the big kahunas arrive.” She dragged me through the hall. “Tell me you can take the elevator,” Lola whispered.

  “It depends on the size of the cabin. What floor are we going to?”

  “Fifth.”

  “And here I thought cops should be fit!”

  Lola glared at me and slanted towards the stairwell. I heard her grumbling all the way up.

  A fire door separated us from the vast open space. At this early hour
, the offices were deserted. I followed Lola between the tables overloaded with paperwork to a workstation that nothing distinguished from the others. Lola sat down in front of the computer and pointed to a chair. I turned it over and straddled it.

  Lola frowned. “Your wings in the way again?”

  “Yes. There is no provision for Valkyries.”

  “Are they even functional?”

  “You mean, can I fly? The day of the explosion, when I got them, they allowed me to fly a few yards.”

  “And since then?”

  “I tried it at home, but I pulled a muscle. What? This is new to me, and Dale didn’t provide instructions for use. Stop snickering and find the list of our undead.”

  A printer crackled a little further away. Lola turned her computer screen towards me, and I discovered a picture of a young man. Short black hair, vaguely angry at the lens, he was sixteen years old at the most. I recognized the kid who was swinging back and forth in the morgue parking lot the night before.

  “Jeffrey Brown,” said Lola. “Shot dead in the street as he was walking his girlfriend home.”

  “Why start with him?”

  “If you were him, what would you do?”

  “I’d go to my girlfriend, and I’d seek revenge?”

  “That’s right. Two opportunities for us to find Jeffrey and a reason to get to him as soon as possible.”

  “And if he’s already killed his killer, what will you do? Legally, Jeffrey is already dead…”

  “That’s why I prefer to keep the deceased in the morgue.”

  She got up and went to get a bundle of paper from the printer. “Well, are you coming?” she said without looking back. “We’re not spending the morning here.”

  19

  BEFORE HIS DEATH, Jeffrey Brown lived with his parents in the suburbs, more than twenty minutes by car from the Strip. Houses without fuss, on a single level, scattered at the gates of the desert. Lola’s car slowed down, and she parked on a street identical to the others. I stopped my bike near Lola’s vehicle, and my friend pointed to a house a few yards away. “The Browns live there.”