by Jana Oliver
“No, I’m not.”
“Damn, girl, don’t make me call the Scotsman again.”
“You don’t have to. I’m staying at Saint Brigid’s, in your bolt hole.”
“What? Oh. Why didn’t ya tell me that right off?” he grumbled.
“Because you’d just bitch at me about something else.”
She had him there. “Well, then, that’s all good,” he said, pleased he’d not have to pull guard duty outside of her apartment again. Last night hadn’t been that much fun, not with his fever and feeling like death warmed over.
“Now do me favor: get out of Demon Central!” she ordered. “And don’t you dare go down there until someone is watching your back.”
“I’m fine with—”
“If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call Stewart on you. I swear,” she threatened.
He grinned at how neatly Riley had turned the tables on him. She was worried about him.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m outta here. Say hi to Mort for me.” He flipped his phone closed before she said good-bye. He’d always hated that word.
Beck adjusted the strap of the duffel bag and headed for his truck. “Why the hell didn’t I think of her stayin’ at the church?” he muttered. It was the obvious solution to the problem. Stewart hadn’t thought of it, either. “Too much goin’ on. We don’t have a handle on this, and that’s not good.”
But for now, he’d gladly follow Riley’s advice: The best therapy he knew was a few games of pool and some ice cold beer.
NINE
Little Five Points sat east of the city, a strange mix of head shops, tattoo parlors, and retro clothing stores. Unlike Five Points, its downtown cousin, L5P’s natives wore cruelty-free cotton, adored health food, and sported dreadlocks or emo garb. They spoke of auras and ley lines and cosmic karma. Riley liked this part of town. It felt good here, like there was positive energy running under the streets.
Unlike downtown Atlanta, horses were welcomed here. Like keeping a horse fed and stabled was somehow cheaper. Of course every practical idea had its downside, and in this case it was the outlandish coaches. It was a status symbol thing: The more money a family had, the more ornate the coach. There was even a television show that went around the country showing the transportation choices of the rich and famous.
From the looks of the open-top coach in front of her—solid white with gold accents—this family had serious bucks. The gold had to be paint; real gold was too expensive to waste on a wagon, but the effect was almost the same. The coach came with a uniformed guy in a blue velveteen coat, short pants, white hose, and ruffled shirt. He even had black shoes with big brass buckles.
That has to be embarrassing.
Two girls trotted up, and after helping them to the plush burgundy seats, the uniformed servant placed their packages inside the coach. Riley drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in anticipation. This was the first parking place she’d found in the last ten minutes, and she wasn’t about to let it escape.
As she waited, she checked out the passengers. They appeared to be about her age, but their clothes were definitely not secondhand, and the plethora of brightly colored bags at their feet spoke of a monumental shopping experience. One was showing the other a new pair of heels, the four-inch, ankle-snapping kind. They were brilliant orange. Four inch heels weren’t her thing, but Riley felt envious anyway. How long had it been since she could shop and not worry about every penny?
Not since Mom got ill.
Her mom’s cancer treatment sucked up every spare dollar, and when that money was gone, her dad had taken out the huge loan to cover the bills. For Riley that meant no more new clothes, no more new shoes, at least until the old ones didn’t fit any longer. Every penny was hoarded, and it hadn’t changed now that her father was dead.
It’s so not fair.
Riley winced, the envy waning quickly. Cool shoes and new clothes would be really nice, but she’d trade all of it to get her mom and dad back.
The coach rolled out of the parking spot, the fine black horse clopping its way down the street as the fashionistas engaged in purchase worship, extracting clothes from the bags and comparing them. Riley pulled into the parking place and sighed in relief, happy the fashion show was over.
It wasn’t a surprise that Enchanter’s Way was different from any of the other streets around it. For one thing, there was a copper archway at the entrance, and it was adorned with the symbol of the Summoners’ Society—a jagged lightning bolt striking a granite tomb. Underneath it were these words:
Memento mori.
“Remember that you must die.”
Riley puzzled on that—not because of the depressing Latin phrase but the fact the copper was still there. Why hadn’t someone stolen it? Any piece of metal that could be cut down and sold for cash was history. Curious, she touched the archway and immediately yelped in pain, snatching her hand back. The copper was scorching hot, like it’d just come out of a blast furnace, though there were no burns on her fingers. A queer prickly feeling skittered up her arm and across her shoulders, making her muscles twitch.
Magic.
If someone tried to tear it down, it’d make them believe their flesh was roasting off their bones. Apparently summoner magic wasn’t just for stealing corpses.
Enchanter’s Way was paved in cobblestones, and dried ivy clung to the brickwork in twisted brown ribbons. Doorways lined either side of the street, and some displayed the distinctive summoner’s seal. Just ahead, on the right, was a café with stained-glass windows and a menu taped to its open door. A little farther down the street, on the left, was a weathered sign—“Bell, Book, and Broomstick.” She’d always wondered where the witch’s store was located, the parent of the stall at the Terminus Market. The closer she got to the store, the better she felt, the prickles of magic no longer dancing across her skin. Was that some kind of witch thing?
As she moved forward the street narrowed until a solid brick wall blocked her passage. It was dotted with metal mailboxes, which were set at random intervals ranging from only a foot off the ground to near the top. Half bricks stuck out of the edifice like a climbing wall. Apparently the higher-level boxes required their owners to ascend to claim their junk mail.
Bet the postal dude loves that.
Every box was different. The one for Bell, Book, and Broomstick had an iridescent fairy perched on the top holding a miniature wand, while another box had a black-and-white cat with a wooden tail and gleaming yellow eyes.
Riley rubbed her temples to try to ease her growing headache, then took a swig from her water bottle. Any other time she would have enjoyed this weirdness, but she wasn’t in the mood. As she sucked down the liquid, she pondered the twin alleys that branched on either side of her. Right or left? Mort’s card didn’t indicate which one. Riley had just decided to ask for directions at the witch store when a dead woman stepped out of the left passageway. She had silver hair, curled neatly at the collar, and was dressed in a pale ivory shell and navy blue slacks.
The woman paused, then she moved forward, her pumps clicking on the uneven stones. She popped open a mailbox with a pinwheel on top and extracted the contents, but as she turned away, a slick magazine escaped her grip and landed on the cobblestones. Riley picked it up. It was a Summoner’s Digest. The label said its owner was Mortimer Alexander.
Found you.
The deceased woman attempted a smile when Riley handed her the magazine, but the effort failed as the facial muscles just didn’t work right. At best, Deaders were half-imagined copies of their real selves. Some of their personalities carried over, but none of the joy.
Dad’s like this now.
Riley waited a few moments before she followed the woman to a bright purple door near the end of the alley. To the right of the door were two plaques: the Society’s lightning bolt symbol and one that read: “Mortimer Alexander, Summoner Advocate of Atlanta.”
Screwing up her courage, Riley knocked. Eventually the door swung open
and the dead woman peered out at her.
“Yes?”
“I’m Riley Blackthorne. I need to talk to Mortimer about my dad,” she said, displaying the business card the man at the market had given her.
The dead woman waved her inside.
Now I just have to convince him to help me.
Because of Mort’s appearance—he was short, wide, and wore a trench coat and a fedora—Riley had always assumed he was unmarried and lived with his elderly mother. This place didn’t have a silver-haired-mom feel about it. The entryway featured a gleaming white tile floor, a black ceramic umbrella stand, and an old-fashioned wooden coat rack. Mort’s coat and hat dangled from it.
“This way,” the woman said, moving noiselessly down a hallway to the left. As she followed, Riley’s imagination fired up. A summoner’s place should have all sorts of arcane symbols on the walls, huge oak bookcases full of ancient leather tomes, and at least one black cat skulking around. Maybe even a cool wand and a pointy wizard hat.
Which wasn’t what she found. The room they entered was totally round, at least twenty-five feet in diameter, with painted white brick walls that rose to a vaulted wood ceiling and a series of skylights that offered a dramatic view of the sky. From somewhere nearby water ran in a delicate trickle, but Riley couldn’t find the source.
The space smelled faintly of wood smoke. Not fresh smoke, like something you’d expect out of a fireplace, but an aged scent, like it’d been baked into the bricks.
I could so live here.
A redwood picnic table and two benches sat in the very center of the room under the skylights. On the right side of the table sat an ink pot and a black pen, the old kind that you had to fill yourself. A neat stack of books sat to the left. A quick scan of the titles revealed that Mortimer liked C. S. Lewis and books with German and Latin titles.
Her escort made her way to a dark wood counter that curved around one portion of the room, filled a kettle from a faucet, and plugged it in to an electrical outlet. Then she left. Riley took the hint and stayed put, tapping her fingers on the side of her messenger bag to burn off nervous energy. Near the picnic table she noticed smudged chalk marks and rusty brown splotches dotting the plank floor. The rust spots reminded her of dried blood.
He’s probably a serial killer. The nice ones always were.
“Riley?”
She turned and stared in astonishment as Mort seemed to pass through the curved brick wall.
More magic. Riley didn’t appreciate the joke, but she needed his help.
“You should see your face,” he said, exhibiting a mischievous smile. Mort wore a crisp white shirt and blue jeans, not at all what she’d expected. He seemed thinner somehow, like the trench coat had added thirty pounds.
“I’m so relieved to see you’re in one piece,” he added. “When I heard about what happened, I was afraid you were gone.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” To change the subject, Riley gestured toward the odd pieces of furniture. “Why do you have a picnic table inside?”
“It’s easy to move when I want to do a ritual,” he explained. “Big desks require strong backs, and my people aren’t that sturdy.”
People? “You mean the Deaders?”
Mortimer grimaced. “I prefer ‘reanimates.’ Deader is so disrespectful.”
“Sorry,” she said. He shrugged like it was no big deal, but she could tell it was. “I’m here about my dad. He was reanimated without my permission.”
“I heard. Word travels fast in our community.”
“Then you know who took him.”
Mort shook his head, then gestured for her to sit. As she settled on a bench seat, a shrill sound filled the room, causing Riley to jump. Then she felt really stupid: It was the teakettle.
Mort dealt with the kettle and returned to the table with a tray containing two china cups, a matching teapot, and a plate full of goodies. “Cookie?” her host asked, offering the plate.
Riley took one to be polite, wondering if all murderers gave their victims treats before they sliced out their livers. She took a test nibble. Then a bigger one. The cookie was really yummy, homemade and chewy, the best kind.
“This is so good,” she said, around bites.
“Emalee makes them. She stays in the kitchen most of the time because she’s rather shy. Right now she’s working on strudel.”
He has dead people baking for him?
“About my dad…” she said, hoping to get something out of this meeting besides the image of a dead woman puttering around a kitchen in an apron.
Mort didn’t reply until he sat on the bench opposite her and poured the tea. “I don’t know who summoned your father. Nobody’s talking, which is odd, because if I’d pulled off that reanimation I’d be bragging up a storm, at least to my fellow summoners.” He took a thoughtful sip from his cup.
“Could it be Ozymandias?” she asked.
Mort shuddered at the name, making his tea slosh in the cup. “Maybe.”
“So why would Mr. Creepy want him?”
Her irreverence caused a faint smile to appear. “Lord Ozymandias doesn’t bother to tell us lesser mortals what he’s up to. In general he treats us like we’re annoying pests. It’s very irritating.”
More than irritating, if the death grip Mort had on the cup handle was any indication.
“Why would a summoner want my dad? Is it so he can trap demons?” she queried.
“I don’t think so. Master trappers have certain demonic knowledge that would be of interest to a summoner who doesn’t keep on the straight and narrow.”
“Huh?”
“A summoner might require a master’s expertise if he intends to call forth a demon.”
“Whoa. Get out of here. You guys summon demons, too? Are you crazy?”
“I don’t go there,” Mort said flatly. “Too much downside. Most of the time the summoner ends up being the fiend’s lackey, not the other way around.”
Riley shuddered. “But Ozymandias does?”
“There are rumors to that effect.” Mort offered her another cookie, and this time she took it without hesitation. Oatmeal. With a hint of cinnamon. Nom. Even if a dead lady made them.
“How do you guys do a summoning?”
The necromancer seemed to be weighing his answer carefully. “Unless you are at the level of someone like Lord Ozymandias, spells require preparation. He can do them on the spot, but then he’s not like the rest of us.”
“So how do you do it, the summoning spell, I mean?”
“I collect something of the deceased’s—hair, clothing, a favorite book, some part that I can focus on. If I can’t obtain an item, it’s harder. Then I do a ritual invocation and request that the dead person arise to rejoin the living.”
“Request?”
Mort looked chagrined. “Well, I request. Most just order the deceased to comply, which I think lacks respect.”
Respect was a big thing for this guy. Riley leaned an elbow on the table, intrigued. “Which is why you only do legal summonings?”
“Exactly. It’s bad enough to lose a loved one and then have a pirate come along and rip that person out of their grave. As you well know, the heartbreak is unimaginable.”
The passion in his voice told her this was personal. “It happened to you?”
Mort’s eyes lowered to his teacup. “My wife. She was only twenty-five when she died, and within a week she was serving as a maid at a rich household here in Atlanta. I would see her sometimes, on the street.” He took a tortured breath. “Then they moved to New York City, and I couldn’t afford to follow them.”
“Can my dad’s owner do that?” she asked, horrified.
“It’s not against the law to transport reanimates across state lines, at least not yet. Or sell them to someone else, for that matter.”
“Were you able to get your wife back?”
“Not until her year was up,” he replied, his voice torn with emotion. “By then she was just a … hu
sk.”
God. It was hideous enough to bury someone you loved, but to see them like that and have no way to help them pushed Hell into a new dimension.
“It’s why I became a summoner,” he admitted. “In the case of your father, I will file a report with the Society of an unauthorized summoning,” he said. “Unofficially I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows who raised him.”
“If I can get him away from whoever bought him, can you put my father back in the ground?”
“Break a summoning?” Mort executed a low whistle. “That’s asking for serious trouble. We had a magical … feud a few years back when two summoners interfered with each other’s reanimates. It was a really bad deal.”
“So all you can do is ask questions?” she demanded, sharper than she’d intended.
“There is only so much I can do, Riley. Your father has no civil rights,” Mort explained. “When the time comes for him to be inhumed, we will need his summoner’s assistance to reverse the spell. If that summoner is angry at you…” He spread his hands.
“What happens if my dad isn’t returned to his grave after a year?”
“The body disintegrates while the living consciousness is still in it. That’s not what anyone wants to endure—him or you.”
The cookies in her stomach were no longer playing nice. “So you’re saying I’m pretty much screwed?”
“No,” he replied, sighing. “I’m saying you don’t have many choices, but that shouldn’t keep you from trying to find him. If whoever has bought him has compassion, they should let you visit him during his term of service.”
“Like he’s in jail or something,” she said. That was a depressing thought. “Is there somewhere they sell them, besides at the market?”
“Yes,” her host said. He toyed with the half-eaten cookie in front of him. “I’ll go to the vendue and see if he’s there.”
“The what?”
“The vendue. It’s from a French word meaning ‘auction.’ The next one’s on Friday night.”