A few more minutes and Ray moves all his diagnosis gear off the table.
“Okay,” he says. “You can get dressed.”
I roll off the table and while I’m pulling my pants on I say, “Did you figure it out? How to put me back together?”
Ray doesn’t say anything. Carlos is with him over at the apothecary table. Both of their backs are to me. I get my boots on and go over.
“What’s the verdict, doc?”
Ray shakes his head and says, “I don’t know.”
Black and wilted flowers shed petals next to bundles of herbs so dry they crumble as we look at them. I pick up one of the shot glasses. Whatever he put inside is laced with tiny pink and purple veins, and has the consistency of curdled milk. I point to the mess.
“It’s not supposed to look like that, is it?”
“I’m afraid your necromancer friend was telling the truth,” says Ray. “You’re dead—half-dead—in the most peculiar way I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ve done necromancy before?”
“I’m not even talking about necromancy at this point. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
He holds up what looks like a crumbling rosebud.
“It’s like your body isn’t just dying, it’s dying in such a way that it’s sucking the life and vitality out of anything around it.”
I take a step back from them.
“Is it all right for me to be here? The last thing I want to do is hurt either of you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ray says. “We’re more alive and a lot bigger than these flowers and nettles. It’s just that I’ve never seen anything dying so aggressively before.”
Ray sets down the rosebud and I watch it crumble to dust.
I say, “Is there anything you can do to stop it?”
He uses his hand to sweep all the dead plants into a little heap.
“No. There isn’t. Not right now. But I can research your condition. The one bit of good news is that if your necromancer used an obscure spell it means someone else has used it before and that it’s going to be in one of my books. The bad news is that it might take me a while to find it.”
“Right now, time is as big a problem for me as dying. I just don’t have much of it left.”
Ray takes a small vial of purple liquid from one of the apothecary drawers.
“But I think I can give you a little more time,” he says. “Drink this.”
“What is it?”
He looks at me.
“I’ll make you a deal. You drink it and I’ll tell you why while you’re doing it.”
“Deals like that make me very nervous.”
“Me too,” says Carlos. “Can’t you just tell him?”
“I can and will. While he’s drinking it.”
I look at the vial.
“I don’t suppose I have much to lose.”
“You really don’t,” says Ray.
I pull out the stopper and start drinking. It’s the souresttasting thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. And it’s slow going down. The vial isn’t big, but the neck is narrow.
Ray says, “It’s a Spanish corpse preservative.”
I almost choke, but when I start to take the bottle away, he puts my hand back to my mouth.
“Keep drinking and I’ll tell you the rest.”
I do it.
“Grandma got the recipe in Barcelona. It’s a preservative for corpses people think might be vampires or shape shifters. It was customary to dismember a body and rearrange the limbs before burial so that the corpse couldn’t reanimate and dig its way out of the grave.”
I finish the potion and hand Ray the vial. Wipe my mouth on the back of my hand.
I say, “But I’m not a corpse.”
“Yes, but you’re close enough that I’m hoping the preservative will still work on you.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
I go back to my clothes and pull on my shirt. I’m as sick of looking at my rotten skin as they must be.
“How long do you think it will give me?”
Ray crosses his arms and thinks for a minute.
“Ordinarily, you could keep a fresh corpse intact for a week with this potion.”
I put on my coat.
“But I’m not exactly fresh, am I?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“So, how long have I got?”
“A day,” he says. “Maybe two.”
I think about it.
“That’s a hell of a lot longer than I had before. Thank you, Ray.”
He shrugs.
“I wish I could have given you better news.”
“You didn’t have to help me at all, but you did. I won’t forget that. For a day, at least.”
I turn to Carlos. He shakes his head, tense and frustrated.
“Relax,” I tell him. “These people were never going to let me off easy.”
He says, “You need to hang around with a better set of monsters.”
“Now you tell me.”
Ray puts a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you going to do with these remaining hours?”
“I’m not giving up. I’m going back to Howard, the necromancer, and see if I can talk him into fixing me.”
“Good move,” says Carlos.
“And if I can’t, I’m going to kill him and as many other Wormwood members as I can before I fall apart.”
They both look at me.
“Sorry. Wormwood are very bad people. Like evil-Terminator bad.”
“Okay,” says Ray. Then, “You know, if you wanted, you could stay here while I research your condition. That way, if I find anything, we can get started immediately.”
“Thanks. How about I go talk to Howard and text you when I’m done?”
“That sounds fine.”
Ray gives me his number. I look at them awkwardly.
“I don’t have anything to pay you back with. No money for sure. I don’t even have time to help you clean up the mess I made.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” says Carlos.
“He’s right,” says Ray. “I’m happy that I could help at all.”
I stand there feeling stupid. Like an anxious kid. I’m out of practice with gratitude these days. I put my hands in my pockets and feel the scroll. Take it out and look at it.
“Let me ask you one last thing. How are you with old languages?”
Ray thinks about it.
“Some of the spells in the old books are in pretty obscure languages. I guess I’m passable at them. Why?”
“I’m going to ask you to do one last thing and then I’m going to get out of your hair. Can you read this?”
I hand him the scroll. Ray unrolls it and a small smile comes to his lips.
“Wow. I haven’t seen this since I was a kid. It’s Tammixlin, a pretty obscure dialect of Enochian script.”
“Then you can read it?”
“Sure,” he says. “It’s pretty simple, really. It’s just a list of names.”
“Can you write them down for me?”
He unrolls the scroll all the way.
“All of them? That’s going to take some time.”
“That fucking word again.” I think for a minute. “Is my name on there anywhere?”
Ray scans the scroll.
“No.”
“Damn.”
I think for another minute.
“How about Pieter Holden or Megan Bradbury?”
Ray runs his finger down the scroll.
“Yes,” he says. “They’re both here.”
“In that order?”
“Yes.”
“How about Franz Landschoff and Jared Glanton?”
He scans.
“Yes.”
“Still in that order?”
“Yes. What does it mean?”
I look at the scroll over Ray’s shoulder.
“It’s a kill list. People a faction of Wormwood wants dead.”
�
��Damn,” says Carlos. “Are you sure?”
“Is there anyone before Pieter Holden?”
Ray nods.
“Barron Sinclair.”
“That’s it. It makes sense. Sinclair was taking fifty pills a day when I was with him. They poisoned him or cursed him, but they fucked up.”
“Is this something that can help you?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s a periodic table on one wall. Taped to the corner is a snapshot of Ray and Carlos in tuxes at some kind of party. They look very happy.
“Tetsuya Shin. Is she there?”
“Yes. Is she another Wormwood person?”
“Yeah. Everyone I just named, except for Barron, is dead.”
“Does that help you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? Give me the next few names.”
“The next name is Thomas Abbot.”
Goddammit.
Ray thinks for a minute.
“Isn’t he Sub Rosa?”
“He’s the fucking CEO of all the Sub Rosa in California.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yeah. He gave me a job once.”
“Do you want any more names?” says Ray.
“I don’t know. Sure.”
“Alessa Graves.”
That stops me cold.
“Are you sure you’re reading it right?”
Ray looks over the scroll again.
“Yes. Alessa Graves. Do you know her?”
“Do you think there might be a lot of Alessa Graveses in L.A.?”
“That doesn’t sound like a real common name,” says Carlos.
“It doesn’t, does it? But it doesn’t make sense. I know an Alessa Graves. She’s pretty ordinary as far as I know. All those other names, they’re big important people. Why Alessa?”
“Maybe ’cause of her dad,” says Carlos. He has his phone. “I Googled her. It looks like her dad is head of a big anticorruption bureau in the DA’s office. Could that be it?”
“That sounds like someone Wormwood would like to take down. Maybe through his kid.”
“What are you going to do?” says Ray.
“Try and stop them.”
He glances back at the scroll.
“You said the necromancer’s name was Howard?”
“Yeah. Jonathan Howard.”
“Jonathan Lee Howard?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might want to check on him.”
Goddammit. This is exactly what I need right now.
Carlos says, “Can’t you just call the cops about all this shit?”
“Definitely not.” I check my pockets and coat for my weapons. Everything feels right. “Cops don’t scare Wormwood. They probably own most of them, anyway.”
Ray keeps staring at the scroll.
“Do you want to know about the other names?”
“No. These two are enough to deal with.”
“I mean the nonhuman ones.”
I go back and look over his shoulder again. Ray points to a few indecipherable scribbles.
“I was just reading you the human names. There are other sorts of names scattered throughout the list. Protective spirits, Orishas, primitive protodeities. All sorts of mystical creatures.”
What was Marcella telling me all the time? The faction is a God-fearing bunch on some kind of holy mission. If she was telling the truth, the mystical names make perfect sense. The faction doesn’t just want to control this world. They want to control or destroy the hoodoo one too.
“I have to go,” I tell Ray. “But do me a favor and write down the next couple of inhuman names. Maybe there’s something I can learn from them.”
“Now you’re saving elves and fairies?” says Carlos. “Go and kick that necromancer’s ass into gear.”
“I will, but think about this. We’re talking about mystical beings. Some of them are going to know heavy magic. Maybe one of them can help me.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re doing your hero thing when you should be looking out for number one.”
“Trust me, I am.”
Ray gives me a piece of paper with a couple of long, complicated names on it in black pen. He holds out the scroll and I put it in my pocket.
“Where are you headed?” he says.
“First to Thomas Abbot’s place.”
Carlos says, “You need a ride?”
“No thanks. I’ve got my own way.”
Before I go I say, “This is probably going to look weird.”
“What?” says Ray.
I step into a shadow.
AND COME OUT by the ocean in Marina del Rey.
But I’m too late.
Abbot’s boat is already on fire. The idiot lives on a yacht in the harbor. It’s surrounded by locked fences and bodyguards, but I’m sure it’s a tempting target because instead of being a normal home where normal people might be able to run away, you can fucking sink this one and kill everybody without even hitting them.
The yacht is only a few yards out from the dock. The fact Abbot didn’t just sail off means the engines must be down. But someone must be alive inside. As the faction killers shoot and throw curses at the boat, people on board are doing the same right back at them.
I step into a shadow at the edge of the dock …
… and come out on the burning deck. I’d intended to slip out in the main cabin, but I don’t know this boat that well, and anyway, the damned thing keeps moving, rocked by the currents and blasts from the curses.
I dive into a kind of fancy sitting area away from the fire and the shooting. The interior is mostly kindling, but there’s carpet inside. When I start to get up, I’m face-to-face with one of Abbot’s bodyguards, and he has a very nice, new Kimber pistol pointed at my forehead. I don’t have any choice. Before he can fire, I punch the dummy on the side of the head and kick him off when he goes limp. I didn’t knock him out or anything, but he’ll be seeing stars and chirping birds for a while. As I go farther into the boat, I drag the guard behind me out of range of the fire.
There are bodies on the floor of the main cabin. Some shot and others fried by curses. Six, maybe eight bodyguards fire back at shore through shattered windows. I leave the punch-drunk guard in a corner and look around for Abbot. He’s at the far end of the place, throwing big balls of white-hot plasma back at the dock. He looks scared and I’m not sure he’s thinking things through. Burning plasma will back off most sensible people, but one, the people outside are Wormwood, so we can rule out sensible, and two, if he keeps throwing hoodoo at the dock, he’s going to set it on fire, and it’s the main escape route for him and his people. Wanting very much not to get shot by the faction or a guard, I hunch over like a damn fiddler crab and run as fast as I can down the length of the room. I don’t get shot, but splinters and shrapnel tear through my coat into my left shoulder and side. When I’m near enough to Abbot, I throw myself onto the floor and crawl up beside him.
“Hell of a night, huh?”
He spins in my direction and raises a hand to start a curse. Then he recognizes me. Freezes for a second. Starts to lower the hand. Changes his mind and raises it up again. I slap it out of the way and grab him.
“Asshole, if I was with them I could have killed all of you and raided the fridge by now.”
“How are you here?” he yells over the sounds of gunfire and hoodoo.
“You mean, how come I’m not dead?”
“Yes. Where have you been?”
“Dead.”
“What?”
I can see that he’s reconsidering feeding me a plasma blast so I say, “It’s a long story and I’ll tell you later. Aren’t you more concerned about not dying?”
“Very much.”
“Then come with me.”
“What about my people?”
“Bring them. Getting crowds through the Room isn’t easy, though, so you’re going to have to hold hands and I’ll pull you out.”
Abbot shouts orders to the few gu
ards left alive and they form a scared-shitless conga line as I grab Abbot’s hand and yank all of them through the nearest shadow.
The smoke in the cabin makes my lungs ache, not because it’s noxious but because I haven’t had a cigarette all day and now it’s all I can think about.
I bring them out in the parking lot, well back from the faction shooters.
The moment we’re clear, a couple of the non–Sub Rosa guards raise their rifles. I reach over and pull the barrels down.
“Leave them alone. Let the boat sink.” I look at Abbot. “Let them think they killed you.”
“He’s right,” Abbot says. “Everyone with a weapon, put it down.”
Reluctantly, the guards follow their orders. I don’t know any of them, but I get the feeling some of them know who I am. The ones frowning want to run. The ones who don’t want to run want to shoot me, despite anything Abbot might say.
I look at him.
“Do you have a car? I can take you to the city through the Room, but you’re going to need to get around once you’re back.”
He points across the lot.
“We have a van over there. Let’s go.”
We duck-walk as fast as we can across the lot to an SUV the size of a freight train. The doors are thick with armor and the windows are two-inch-thick ballistic glass. Of course Abbot has one of these. He’s the Sub Rosa Augur, king high fuck-all, and this is L.A. Cars are sacred objects here. It wouldn’t do for a big shot like him to be seen in anything less than a four-wheeled Stealth fighter.
We slip out of the lot while his burning yacht slumps onto its side, leaking oil and diesel fuel. The water ignites and the damned boat goes up in one big boom. The fireball lights up the whole marina. But swaddled in all this bulletproof glass, all anyone hears is Abbot talking to himself.
“Damn it. I forgot my phone charger.”
WE DRIVE TO a Sub Rosa safe house near LAX. It’s a rusted and half-collapsed metal-frame warehouse just north of the airport. A typical Sub Rosa dump. They pride themselves on selecting places with the shittiest exteriors possible, while the insides are something else entirely.
It looks like the warehouse used to store bathroom supplies. Pipes and U-joints spill from rotting crates. Local kids have used the pipes to smash mirrors and piles of porcelain toilets. The sound of rustling wings echoes down from where birds have built nests along the roof beams.
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