Spells for the Dead

by Faith Hunter

  FireWind gave the evidence bags to me and tipped his head as if in agreement with the statement. “We are working on that. Special Agent Ingram”—he nodded to me—“has asked questions, but if you are willing, I’d like to ask a few more.”

  Tondra gave him a frown worthy of an elder churchwoman but gestured to one of the square tables. Her daughters followed her there, their eyes on FireWind. They took seats at the table, leaving only one. It placed FireWind’s back to the door, deliberately I would assume, by Tondra’s fleeting expression.

  Most law enforcement officers hated to sit with an open door at their back, but FireWind smiled and I felt electric tings on my skin. There was no question that FireWind had some kind of passive magic. It was like a slow breeze blowing over long grasses, rippling them gently. Almost a vampire mesmerism in its overwhelming calming. It practically demanded for the human women to trust him. I didn’t like him using it on them. Not that my opinion counted for anything. He placed a recording device on the table where no one could miss it and turned to me.

  “Jones has sent you the address of the hotel where PsyLED is staying. The ninety-minute drive to Knoxville is too difficult for an every-day commute, and we can expect to pull long days for a bit. You may tell the unit to check in and get settled. We’ll hold an abbreviated debriefing when I arrive.”

  It wasn’t the abrupt dismissal that a vampire might give, but it was thorough.

  He turned his back and took the vulnerable seat.

  I realized for the first time that, with FireWind being a big Stella Mae fan, he intended to run the entire scene. He intended to micromanage (a wonderful and horrible term I had picked up from the unit) the entire case. And that meant FireWind would be staying at the hotel with us, would be here every moment, peering over our shoulders.

  Shaking my head, I carried the evidence bags downstairs. This was going to be a very unusual, high-profile case because of Stella Mae’s stardom and rabid fan base, but for Unit Eighteen it would be especially distinctive, with Ayatas FireWind running things. Rick LaFleur, who was stationed out of Knoxville HQ, actually ran most of the southeastern states, which was why he and Margot Racer, the unit’s sort-of-probie, were in Chattanooga on a crime scene. We’d be without them, at a time when Margot’s reputation as a star interviewer and her history in the FBI would have been helpful. I missed things being run the way I was used to. I might not get along with him all the time, but being healed by Soulwood had changed Rick LaFleur. He was, by far, the more comfortable boss to have around, which was saying a great deal, since I had kicked him in his testicles not long after we first met.

  Downstairs, I discovered that the PsyCSI team had arrived from Richmond and had set up their equipment in the gathering room off the kitchen. They and the Nashville coven were dressing out in spelled unis as I passed by, T. Laine giving them instructions on limiting time in the studio since they wouldn’t have access to the null room until morning. The crime scene team would soon clear the house so they could work through the night, though what they might find was in question since we had trampled through the house and most everything in the basement was decomposing.

  I passed FireWind’s message about the hotel to T. Laine, glad I wasn’t part of CSI, forced to work straight through tonight. I needed sleep—and I had to deal with the situation at home. There had been more calls with voice messages from my sisters. Both sisters. I had been too cowardly to listen to their complaints, but the list of calls showed that the last three had been within minutes of each other, so I couldn’t put it off much longer. I was afraid that Mud and Esther would kill each other if I continued to disregard the war simmering between them.

  While everything was fresh in my mind, I stopped in the kitchen and wrote my reports, sending them to HQ. I also read reports filed by some of the others. I was avoiding the car and the privacy I needed to call my sisters. Cowardice, pure and simple. When I had dithered as long as I reasonably could, I left the house and trudged to my car.

  The house and grounds were brightly lit, patrolled by private security as well as deputies. That was probably smart, based on the numbers of lights, cars, cameras, and generators at the far end of the drive. I didn’t see Occam, so texted FireWind’s message about the hotel, and he text-promised back to be along shortly. I stopped at FireWind’s unlocked car, placed the evidence bags containing photo albums on the passenger seat, and locked the doors.

  As I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of something pale in the darkness. I squinted against the security lights to see FireWind standing in a paddock, his white shirt the pale thing that had attracted my attention. I hadn’t seen him leave the house and wasn’t certain how he had gotten past me. He was utterly still, both arms out to his sides, his head down, his hair loose. A horse, one whose coat was too dark to identify in the night, flowed around him, prancing, tossing his head. As the light caught him, I recognized the lightning-blazed stallion. I stopped and watched.

  The stallion danced, whirled, raced around the paddock, hooves pounding. He reared on his hind feet. A challenge. He pounded down. He snorted.

  FireWind didn’t move.

  The stallion raced again, around the entire paddock. He bucked. Kicked out with his back hooves. He stopped, snorting like a bull, pawing the earth, his head going up and down. Then he charged. At a dead run he raced, attacking FireWind. My breath caught in my throat. The horse stopped fast, sitting back on his haunches. He whirled away, dancing around FireWind. Closer. Closer still. Around and around. Blowing and snorting and making sounds I couldn’t identify but which were scary and mean. The stallion stopped. Man and horse in the same space. A man who . . . who likely didn’t smell like a human.

  Because FireWind was a skinwalker.

  The horse pawed the earth. The man didn’t move.

  The horse tossed his head. The man didn’t move.

  The horse took a step closer. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how curious horses were. Cat-curious. The stallion stepped closer. Kicked out with back hooves. Stopped. Took a step closer. He was within two feet of FireWind’s left hand.

  Stretching out his neck, the stallion sniffed the hand. He breathed on FireWind’s hand. A stillness followed, man and horse holding position. Slowly, the blaze shifted lower, down to touch FireWind’s palm.

  The hand slowly cupped around the muzzle, stroking. The horse blew out, pranced, and moved up to FireWind’s elbow. To his shoulder.

  The two seemed to curl around one another, FireWind’s arm circling around the stallion’s neck. His hands caressing beneath the mane. They stood still, in the dark, entwined. The stallion whickered.

  Feeling as if I was encroaching on something private, an intimate experience, I turned and found my car and drove away. Turned into the street. A memorial of flowers, dolls, and teddy bears had been started and had grown into a long row at the fence line. Cameras and cell phones were everywhere, reporters trying to get a shot of my face through the car windows, and probably succeeding. The press had been joined by what looked like hundreds of cars as Stella Mae’s fans continued to gather, standing in small groups, staring at the entrance and at me as I drove down the car-blocked, increasingly narrow road in front of the horse farm, toward Cookeville. As I drove, I called JoJo Jones at HQ. She answered, “Hey there, country hick chick. How you holding up, girl?”

  “I’m more a plant person than a baby chicken, but I’m doing good.”

  She laughed and I updated her on the case.

  JoJo told me about the media frenzy over the death of one of America’s best-known country singers. “I spotted y’all in a few of the aerial shots,” she said. “You’re famous.”

  I groaned. She laughed again. And some of the weight I had carried all day began to lighten. It was half gossip session, half debrief, as if she knew I needed the reprieve from the death and decay of decomping bodies.

  JoJo told me all about last Sunday d
inner with her mama and grandmama and great-grandmama, and had me laughing and commiserating with the multigenerational complaints and arguments of a bunch of women in JoJo’s tiny, ultramodern kitchen. Talking to her was a little like home, and somehow made me feel ready to talk to my sisters.

  * * *

  * * *

  PsyLED had booked rooms for us in the Hampton Inn, off I-40. I remembered my reaction to the first hotel I had walked into, back when I signed on as a consultant. I had never seen such fancy carpeting, shiny stone floors, ornate décor. I had changed, or I was just exhausted. I didn’t hardly look at the place as I checked in, instead going straight to the elevator and up to our rooms, carrying my gear gobags and the potted rooted sprig from the vampire tree. I carried it with me because when I had to read the ground deeply, it let me do so safely. It seemed to keep other plants from trying to root and grow into my body, which was strange and complicated. The tree back home and the potted mini vampire tree were both sentient or near enough not to matter. Not that the tree or I had shared that secret with many people. Tandy knew, but Tandy would never share that.

  On our last big case, the tree had named itself the Green Knight, and had chosen a job—to protect me. It also had to be fed occasionally, and it wanted living creatures—mice, squirrels, birds. Also not shared. I wasn’t used to keeping lies straight, so I managed by not talking about anything much at all. But it was getting hard to keep it all silent.

  JoJo had booked three rooms, one a large suite for FireWind with a king bed and a work area, and the others two regular hotel rooms with two queen beds. If we double bunked, we could sleep four to a room. I hoped the CSI team would be put elsewhere. I didn’t particularly enjoy bunking with strangers.

  I chose the room farthest from FireWind’s corner suite and fortunately my room had a south-facing window for the tree. I tossed my bags onto the bed closest to the window. The view was not much a nothing, but the tree would be happy come morning. I stuffed my death and decay–stinking clothes into a large zippered plastic bag, showered fast with my strong-smelling homemade lavender soap, and groomed my leaves—tightly curled leaf buds along my hairline. This was a part of my daily toilette, and if I forgot, the leaves stuck out. I had been classified in Spook School and was listed on my personnel records as nonhuman, paranormal, undifferentiated.

  I dressed in sweats and unpacked my four-day gobag. I didn’t travel with much. A change of pants, three shirts, the sweats (which I wore when working in a hotel room when business attire would be uncomfortable), sleeping clothes that were really yoga pants and a tank top in case I had to be seen in the middle of the night, undies, extra socks, field boots, jeans for field work, a plastic bag of travel-sized toiletries, extra mags and ammo, and a speedloader. Unpacking took all of twenty seconds. I unlocked and cracked open the connecting door between the other room and this one so Occam would know I was here.

  My cell rang. Again. It was Mud’s number. Sighing, I sat on the bed and stretched out, propped by the pillows. I hit the accept button for the overdue call with my younger sister.

  “Hey, Mud.”

  “You’un ain’t called us all day. We’uns been calling and calling and I’da thought you was dead if I hadn’t called JoJo and asked her.” Her voice went up in pitch, echoing in the house around her on speakerphone. “You’uns out of town and I need you! Esther wants to kick Cherry outta the house!” Her voice went louder. “She’s my dog and I say she’s an inside dog!”

  Esther was taking care of Mud while I worked. It had sounded good in theory. It wasn’t working out as planned.

  “Dogs and cats is not inside critters,” Esther shouted. “They belong outside and not in here with people!”

  “I thought that since I didn’t have school today we’uns could go shopping. Instead I been stuck with her! Where are you and when are you coming home so Esther will stop bossing me around?”

  Rubbing my forehead and the headache that throbbed just behind my eyes, I said, “I don’t know.”

  The silence was absolute.

  Then Esther shrilled, “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  My older sister, who was a tree-creature-in-hiding like Mud and me, was a holy terror. She was pregnant and growing leaves and having marital problems with her husband-by-the-church. Meaning she had never legally married him but was church-married, and in God’s Cloud of Glory Church women traditionally had no property, no money, no authority, and no say in anything. She had moved in with us a week past, following a spat with her husband. Daddy and Mama wouldn’t take her in, and my older sister Priss had told us, “Flat-out no,” so that left me, the rebel who had walked away and survived to tell the tale, as the one with a visitor. I had been willing—even eager—to help any of my sisters, and Esther’s watching Mud had sounded great. But Esther’s constant whining and snipping had burned me down to a low simmering anger.

  I closed my eyes tight, took a steadying breath, firmed my resolve, drew on about half the church-speak I needed to make my point, and said into the silence, “You’uns both listen to me.” My heart went hard and my voice went harder. “Esther, there’s nothing I can do to help you with your messed-up marriage, the fact that you’re growing leaves, your relationship with the church, or your baby. Not a dang thing.”

  Mud tittered at my cussing.

  “You have to figure out your life and what you want and how you intend to get there. If you’re gonna fight, then fight, but pick adversaries and battles you think you can win and accept that you may lose. You fight the church, you fight your husband, I’ll be at your side to help, but I cannot fight for you. And. You need to remember this. If you argue and fight with me and Mud, in my home, on my land, then the only ally you have will turn her back on you. ’Cause I ain’t gonna live in misery and disharmony like what you’un and Jed live in.”

  Over the connection I heard Esther take a shocked breath.

  Well, truth was hard to take. Esther had problems, no one was denying that. But some of her problems had been made worse by her attitude. Feeling tired and resentful and worn to a frazzle, I pushed on. “Mud, you have to figure out how to get your sister help, or kick her out, or call Daddy and Mama and have her removed according to church practices. But whatever you do, you need to remember it has repercussions. You help her, you might be stuck with her. You kick her out, you got to live with the knowledge that you made your sister and her baby homeless. You bring in the church, that might get her burned at the stake because she’s got leaves. Lots of leaves, thanks to the baby hormones. That path will drag us all into the church spotlight. And it will prove to the church that womenfolk can’t live without the stern controlling man at the reins.”

  Mud said, “But—”

  “Hush,” I said. “I’m talking. According to the church, you’re a woman grown and capable of thinking and acting like one. Now, I know you’re just a kid, but you ain’t uneducated or stupid or foolish. You got a smart head on your shoulders. You both know how to have a dialogue. That’s one good thing the mamas taught all a us—how to talk through problems.”

  They had fallen silent.

  “I can’t be there to fix it for either one a y’all tonight,” I said. “However, Esther, understand this. That’s my house. The dog and cats live there. Inside unless they been skunked. Let them in. Now.

  “Mud, stop picking at your sister. ’Cause I know you been picking and she can’t take it right now ’cause a the baby. When I get home, we three are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting and it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  A come-to-Jesus meeting meant a meeting that would result in judgment to right the wrongs and change things. It wasn’t a meeting I demanded lightly and even Esther knew it. She said, “But—”

  “No buts.” My voice went hard, cold, and intractable. “My house, my rules.” I hit the end button, wondering if I had just ignited a fuse or put out a fire. And knowing that my l
ast few lines had been the exact sort of thing a churchman might say to churchwomen having an argument.

  Rules. I had just set boundaries, demanded actions and attitude changes. Like a churchman demanded of his women. Shame curled inside my heart. “Well, dang,” I muttered.

  “That was impressive, Nell, sugar.”

  I opened my eyes to see Occam in the open doorway between our rooms. I hadn’t heard him come in. He was leaning against the jamb, ankles crossed, arms loose, damp hair hanging forward and curling under his scarred jaw. He had already showered and changed into faded jeans and a long-sleeved Henley tee in a soft faded purple shade. I always looked at his neatly trimmed nails, and he smiled when my eyes dropped down to his toes. He scratched them into the low-pile carpet, much like a cat might scratch on a post, letting me look. They were so different from my deceased husband’s old beat-up feet and long thick jagged nails. Something in my middle flickered, heated, and spread, bright and quick, like fireflies in the night, calling to one another. My cat-man was here. Feeling light as a . . . as a sprite, maybe, I stared at him, taking in his damp hair, his slightly scruffy face, at the way the Henley conformed to his long, lean chest, committing this image to memory, so I could pull it up again, anytime I wanted. The fireflies in me multiplied and I placed the cell facedown on the bed.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said, “but the door was open. I only heard the last bit.”

  “I was pretty loud. I reckon I didn’t care who heard me.” I looked from the phone back to him. “I love you, Occam,” I said.

  His eyes began to glow the yellow of his cat.

  “I apologize for my jealousy,” I said. “I renounce the church and the fear and the jealousy that made me react to Etain’s interest in you. I also renounce treating my sisters like churchwomen instead of equal partners. Sometimes I’m just all kinds a stupid.”

  He had begun to grin as I listed my sins. It was the kind of grin that said he thought I was cute as a kitten. Adorable. Even when I got all thorny and prickly. One hand had been held at his side, slightly behind his hip. He drew it forward and in his fingers was a single, long-stemmed lavender rose.