“Let me guess. You are the best, and we should pay your exorbitant fees in the hope you lead us to the killer.” She stuttered at the end of the sentence, probably unsure what to call my line of work.
“I am good at what I do. Some might call me the best.” Well some that actually liked me. The rest of the guild was more likely to spit at the sound of my name. They were an uptight bunch with long memories. I wasn’t the first to go into business for himself, but I was one of the highest profiled. My rates took into account a certain amount of danger. It meant I would more than likely have to launch a full investigation, which would involve a little necro-magic. Dark stuff, but calling up traces of the dead was my true specialty. Humans didn’t trust us. Other warlocks didn’t trust necros. It was lose-lose for me.
“Okay, I’ll see if I can authorize it. When can you get started?”
“As soon as you get it authorized.”
“Right, of course. How do I get ahold of you?”
“You prick your left index finger and splash the blood in the air and say my name three times, then once backwards. I will arrive within moments.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Yes I am.”
She burst out laughing and her shoulders unclenched for the first time since she’d arrived. I wrote down my phone number and she slipped it into her pocket.
“Can I keep the pictures?”
“Mind if I ask what you want them for? Please don’t tell me it’s for some weird occult stuff.”
“It’s for some not so weird occult stuff.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh, I don’t know if you think this is a joke, but people are dying out there.”
“I apologize, detective. I’ve been around death for most of my life and it’s given me a morbid sense of humor.”
She studied me for a moment so I studied her back. Jokes aside, I wondered if it would be worth risking a potion on her. I tossed the thought away immediately. The only thing worse than a woman scorned is a woman fucked with.
“I need them back. They aren’t exactly evidence but they belong in a file.” She sighed and handed them over. “These are copies, but don’t lose them or it’s my ass.”
“Now that would be a crime.”
She sniffed and looked away.
I carefully placed the photos back in the envelope and studied it for a moment. Murders like this weren’t good for tourism and it made sense that they would want to get to the bottom of them as soon as possible.
“Detective, can I ask you a quick question about a different case?”
“If I can talk about it. Sure.” She put her stony face on, which was a real shame.
“I’m helping Thora Whitfield. You may not know the case, but her husband was murdered at Alear Park in Auburn. I went out to find a trace last night but came up blank. Any chance you can do me a solid and tell me what happened? She’s an older lady and I think she might have been confused about some of the facts.”
Andrews produced an actual pad of paper with a tiny spiral ring at the top. She extracted a pencil stub and jotted down some words. I wondered why she didn’t use some kind of electronic device. Were the police more behind the times than me?
“Whitfield you said?”
“Right. Thora.”
“Strange. I didn’t hear about a case. I’ll check the computer for you if you give me a minute.”
“Sure. And I wouldn’t expect you to know every case in King County.”
“That’s just it. I work homicide so I would know about it. Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
It did for me, though. The wrong bell.
I showed the detective out. She didn’t even look annoyed at the fresh deluge that pelted the ground. I held my hand out to gather a handful of water in my left hand, leaned over and blew on it, muttered a few words, then poured the water into my right hand. It was easy when I wasn’t running for my life and had energy to spare.
Andrews stopped and craned her neck upward and marveled as the rain fell in a circle but didn’t touch her. She shook her head and got into her car. The rain haze followed and continued to form a perfectly dry halo. Was I showing off?
Maybe a little bit.
She sat for a few minutes, typing on a computer mounted to the dash.
The detective walked back to my door and shook her head. She left her jacket in the car this time. Andrews tapped the pencil stub on her notebook but kept glancing up at the sky, which continued to rain all around her.
“Neat trick.”
“I have my moments.”
“I don’t know where you heard about a murder because nothing went down at the park.”
“That can’t be right.” I scratched my head.
“Trust me, Phineas. There was no murder at the park.”
“But the woman was so …” So what? so convincing?
“Sounds like someone got a hex placed on them. That’s what they’re called, right?”
“Funny, detective.”
She nodded and handed me a card. It had her name, department, and phone number on the front. I flipped it over and saw an address near Pioneer Square in Seattle.
“I got your authorization for one day. When can you be there?”
“Call it five. You guys like the nightlife, right?”
“Yeah. We like to boogie.”
“Hey, detective. If I give you this woman’s name can you run her for me? You know, tell me if she has any priors.”
“I’m one of the best detectives in Seattle and my skills don’t come cheap, Phineas.” She grinned and turned away.
When she was halfway to her car I reversed the spell.
“Asshole!” She spun and yelled before dashing for her vehicle, but it did turn her shirt into something form fitting. I settled for the cheap thrill.
**
I tried to wrap my head around the case. I knew it wasn’t a demon and I knew it wasn’t a man. Sure someone could construct some claws that would emulate what I suspected, some sick Freddy Krueger shit, but this was made by something less exact. These wounds were done in anger, not for need. Not as part of a hunt.
I flipped the pictures out and looked them over. I lined them up by date and then studied each one, looking for clues. There wasn’t much to go on so I probed deeper, tried to get a feel for the images on the paper. I sought out any hint of a soul, any last residue that might remain after death. It’s better to look at a body up close, to study the wounds and taste the essence of the person who passed on, but sometimes I can fake it.
This was not one of those times. Any residue would need to be extracted at the source.
I gathered them up, put them back in the envelope, and went back to bed. Fifteen minutes later the dog started barking so I had to go rescue it from Bilbo.
**
I buzzed Carlisle before heading out.
“I got a job in Seattle.”
“What kinda job? I didn’t send no job.”
“I know. The cops came to me.”
“Cops! What the hell are you running, Cavanaugh?”
“Would you quit the hardass act and listen to me for a second?”
“Sorry, Phin. I got my reputation and all.”
I shook my head.
“It’s no big deal. Just heading into Seattle to check out a few murders. Probably back before you go to bed at eight. Don’t worry. I plan to cut you in on ten percent.”
“Very funny, and it’s thirty! I make thirty.”
“You make thirty if you send the job my way. You didn’t do shit, but I thought I’d show some respect. Capiche?” I added with a roll of my eyes.
“Fine. Twenty.”
“Carlisle, I am hanging up this phone, and when I hang up you aren’t getting anything. Got it?”
“Fine. Ten percent.”
“Did you hear anything from the Whitfield woman?”
“Her check bounced. You believe that shit? What kind of a world do we live in when you can’t even trust a sweet old lady?”
“That’s because she wasn’t an old lady.”
“What are you talking about? She had grey hair, glasses, and a cane. Spoke real slow – you met her.”
“I met someone. I asked the cop about it and she said there was no murder in Alear Park.
“Lemme do some checking around. See what I can find out on the old … whatever she was.”
“She was working for someone. The whole thing was a setup. Someone left a summoning pentagram and a surprise for me. And when I say surprise I don’t mean a gift. It was a demon.”
“All this occult crap freaks me out, know that Phin? I like you and all but I try not to think about the magic and stuff like that.”
“You’re a wonderful pimp, you know that?”
“Phineas, for the last time I’m not a goddamn …”
“Hey Carlisle. Does this sound like a phone hanging up?” I clicked off.
Chapter Three
Before I left for my trip to Seattle, I took the dog to a kennel for a couple of days. It was the least I could do considering the little runt played some part in the mystery I’d been tricked into and I had no idea how long I might be gone.
If Thora’s story was a bunch of bullshit then who had the dog even belonged too? The best lies were always grounded in some sort of reality, so maybe her husband had been involved after all. Either way I couldn’t just let the dog tear my place to shreds while I was out and about.
Thora would have to wait. Right now I had a good paying job.
The tools of my trade are unique. Each witch or warlock has a particular set but I consider mine to be the most varied. Perhaps not the strongest in each discipline, but I had my moments. When I’d picked necromancy, my guardian, Salazar, told me it was just as good as any other as far as he was concerned. Since the league didn’t like necros, it was my petty way of sticking it to them. I was only nineteen at the time and didn’t know a damn thing. Had I to do it all over again, I probably would have picked something that relied on less digging around in the dirt. You can’t imagine how bad a human corpse can smell after a few days of rotting.
I ran my hand over a hidden glyph on an ornate door in the hallway. It responded by warming to my touch and pulsing, wood expanding, as the passageway became corporeal. The door swung open to reveal my stash.
The closet didn’t exactly exist in this world. It expanded to something like a walk-in closet, with a workstation for quick potions and a grounding stone so I didn’t fry my ass to a crisp when dealing with elementals.
Shelves lined the walls, and on those shelves existed a collection that had taken me over a hundred years to put together. Books, scrolls, vials, wands (don’t laugh, they were in fashion a few centuries ago), stones, and more than a few scarred bones. It was a curio shop for the damned.
I took an etching stone and placed it in a pouch. Charcoal sticks went alongside them and then a large leather worked chest piece with a pair of straps that went over my shoulder and one that wrapped around my waist. I concentrated and imbued it with a heavy spell of shielding. It was no coincidence that the middle plate covered my heart. It was an old and cruel piece of metal that had demons claws etched for each point. No matter how loose I wore it, part of the talons always bit into my flesh and that’s how it became stronger, at my expense.
There is always a price for playing with the best toys.
I took potions from my work shelf, noting each on a slip of paper so I could bill the cute detective an exorbitant fee later on. I took two vials of brimstone. A special blend that I imbued with a little acetyl because it could incinerate just about anything that got in my path.
Moonwater was next. A small dose in case I ended up in the dark. I could rely on my eye salve but this was a tried and true formula that would last for hours. A concoction of virgin blood and soft clay for animal control. Other things, probably unnecessary, joined the vials on my bandolier. I took some lead chunks in case I needed ammo. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a gun, but you never know when a few peppers of hot lead could turn the tide in a battle. Yeah, yeah. I hear the irony in that statement.
I pulled out a vial from the night before and remembered that’d I’d trapped a demon in it. I stared into the depths of the murky fog that occupied the glass container and nearly dropped it when a few eyeballs focused on me. Maybe later I’d take him to my workstation in the backyard and drop him on a binding stone and send him back home. Or maybe I’d leave him there as the world’s greatest watch dog.
I put him on the dining room table so I didn’t forget about his damned soul when I was done.
I was going in ready for a fight because that little voice in the back of my head (you know the one) was babbling quite excitedly.
Armed and armored, I strode to the shed and drug out my giant pitchfork. It wasn’t the tines that made it look old. The wood had been bound by brass straps a couple hundred years ago so it wouldn’t split in wet weather. The device came from a solid maple branch that was too large to wrap my hand around. There was a solid groove around the center where a hanging rope rubbed it raw over a couple of years of use. Those witches back then refused to hide their talents and paid the ultimate price. We have come a long way since then but this was a very rare piece. Not just any hunk of wood will do. It has to meet certain requirements.
Then I grabbed my leather biker jacket, goggles, and motorcycle rider spiked helmet.
Why the helmet? Because I’m a warlock and it looks badass.
The sky was far from clear. I didn’t see a single star in the sky. The grey was so deep it had layers. Rain, clouds, and lack of light were going to make for a very cold and dismal flight into town.
I stumbled over a new molehill and nearly went down. It would be a sad state of affairs if I fell and impaled myself on my own tines. A chuckle greeted me from the woods that hung over the back of my house. They provided a deep canopy of green privacy – except for some of my visitors.
“That you Frank?” I called
A hawk’s thrilling call answered
“Where you going, crazy man?” he called. A shape fell out of the tallest tree, wingspan stretched so wide I thought it was a glider at first.
Frank ‘Two-Feathers’ Black took form before the bird could land. Instead of the talons he had sported a few seconds ago, he landed on two very human feet. The rest of his body became a hazy black blur as he took shape. Before me stood a naked man with long hair that swept his back, some of it falling in front in a perfect cut that looked like he just stepped out of a western.
“Hey Frank.” I greeted and leaned over to draw a quick hex on the little molehill I’d nearly tripped over. Nothing against the mole, he was just doing his job, which seemed to be making my life suck every time I tried to mow this mess of a backyard. I just put a little dissuasion on his latest home so he would go burrow around the green belt.
“Cursing the earth. What will you white men do next?”
“Gee Frank, I don’t know, maybe sell you some fire water.”
He laughed as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard and came to stand beside me. Frank was slim and had grey hair at his temples. His skin was a honeyed brown that looked like he had an all year tan. I bet he never burned. Leave me in the sun for five minutes and I would sell my soul for a tube of aloe. I doubt anyone would take a tanned warlock serious anyway. What next? A supermodel witch with piercing blue eyes and a pair of fake Victoria’s Secret Angel wings? I thought of Glenda and sent the memory back where it belonged.
He was a Makah, an old tribe that settled along the banks of the Columbia River over 3,800 years ago. They were excellent mariners that ranged up and down the coast of the Pacific Northwest. Once a large and proud tribe, there numbers had been reduced to under a thousand by centuries of ‘progress.’
Frank had told me many tales of his youth over the years, including how he came to be a changer. It was an interesting story that combined him soul searching, smoking large amounts of hallucinogens, and f
inding his inner spirit animal. It was all bullshit. Changers just were. They didn’t learn it. Like witchcraft, you were either born with the ability or you weren’t.
There were quite a few natural changers in the world, but most of them kept their secret safe for obvious reasons. Why go out of your way to tell people you are a freak of nature, able to assume an animal form whenever you choose?
When we came out, so did the changers, but I can assure you that there are stranger things in the world than our races.
“Looks like you are going out to raise hell. What has you so worked up?”
“Murders in Seattle. I’m gonna go poke around.”
“Ouch. When you poke around bad things happen. They have to call in entire fire departments. Stock markets crumble. Winged monkeys take flight.”
“Hey, that was a fire imp, and I had nothing to do with the warehouse burning to the ground. It was pure bad luck.” Coupled with a brimstone spell gone awry. I ran across the imp after a couple of drinks and jumbled a word or two. So instead of gathering mist from the air and chasing him off, I accidentally set him on fire, which is sort of like preparing a needle for a heroin addict. He ran around in larger and larger circles, apparently enjoying the way the wind made the flames flare up.
“I heard about the murders. Some tourists got tore up bad,” Frank said.
Frank wasn’t as old as me but there was sadness behind his gaze. His features were a contrast of wrinkles and sun kissed leathery skin. When not dashing around at night, he was often doing work for charities or Native American rights, although he did grumble about the casinos and how he should have invested in one years ago. Frank was a good man and a good friend.
The biggest problem with Frank was that he felt free to walk around naked when he was freshly morphed. “Changer’s don’t carry clothes,” he had told me on more than one occasion.
“This is the Pacific Northwest. Serial killers are a dime a dozen.”
At the Behest of the Dead Page 4