A breeze came up the path. It grew into a wind in one fitful gust. The air smelled clean and fresh. You hoped the beginning of time smelled like that; like fresh bread, clean laundry, childhood memories of spring. It probably smelled like ozone and swamp water. Reality almost always smells worse than daydream.
Dorrie stopped and turned back to us. "The trees across the path are just illusion. They're not solid."
"What trees?" Larry asked. I cursed silently. It would have been nice to keep the ointment a secret.
Dorrie took two steps back towards us. She stared at my face from inches away, then made a face like she'd seen something unclean. "You're wearing ointment." She made it sound like a very bad thing.
"Magnus did try to bedazzle us twice. Nothing wrong with being cautious," I said.
"Well, our illusions won't matter to you, then." She took off at a faster pace, leaving us to stumble after her.
The path led into a clearing that was nearly a perfect circle. There was a small mound in the center with a white stone Celtic cross in the middle of a mass of vibrant blue flowers. Every inch of ground was covered with bluebells. English bluebells, thick and fleshy, bluer than the sky. The flowers never grew in this country without help. They never grew in Missouri without more water than was practical. But standing in the solid mass of blue surrounded by trees, it seemed worth it.
Dorrie stood frozen nearly knee-deep in the flowers. She was staring open-mouthed, a look of horror on her lovely face.
Magnus Bouvier knelt in the flowers on top of the mound, near the cross. His mouth was bright with fresh blood. Something moved around him, in front of him. Something more felt than seen. If it was illusion, the ointment should have taken care of it. I tried looking at it out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes peripheral vision works better on magic than straight-on sight.
From the corner of my eye I could see the air swimming in something that was almost a shape. It was bigger than a man.
Magnus turned and saw us. He stood up abruptly, and the swimming air blinked out like it had never been. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth.
"Dorrie..." His voice was soft and strangled.
Dorrie clawed her way up the hill. She screamed, "Blasphemy!" and smacked him. I could hear the slap all the way across the clearing.
"Ouch," Larry said. "Why is she mad?"
She hit him again, hard enough to sit him down on his butt in the flowers. "How could you? How could you do such a vile thing?"
"What did he do?" Larry asked.
"He's been feeding off Rawhead and Bloody Bones just like his ancestor," I said.
Dorrie turned to me. She looked haggard, horrified, as if she had caught her brother molesting children. "It was forbidden to feed." She turned back to Magnus. "You knew that!"
"I wanted the power, Dorrie. What harm did it do?"
"What harm? What harm?" She grabbed a handful of his long hair and pulled him to his knees. She exposed the bite marks on his neck. "This is why that creature can call you. This is why one of the Daoine Sidhe, even a half-breed like you, is called by death." She let go so abruptly he fell forward on his hands and knees.
Dorrie sat down in the flowers and cried.
I waded into the flowers. They parted like water, but they didn't move. They were just never exactly where you were stepping.
"Jesus, are they moving out of the way?" Larry asked.
"Not exactly," Magnus said. He walked down the mound to stand at its base. He was wearing the white tuxedo from last night, or what was left of it. The smear of blood on his shirtsleeve was very bright against the whiteness.
We waded through the flowers that were moving and not moving, to join him in front of the mound.
He'd shoved his hair back behind his ears so his face was visible. And no, his ears weren't pointed. Where do these rumors get started?
He met my eyes without flinching. If he was ashamed of what he'd done, it didn't show. Dorrie was still weeping in the bluebells like her heart would break.
"So now you know," he said.
"You can't bleed a fairie, in the flesh or not in the flesh, without ritual magic. I've read the spell, Magnus. It's a doozy," I said.
He smiled at that, and the smile was still lovely, but the blood at the corner of his mouth ruined the effect. "I had to tie myself to the beastie. I had to give him some of my mortality in order to get his blood."
"The spell isn't meant to help you gather blood," I said. "It's to help the fairies kill each other."
"If it got some of your mortality, did you get some of its immortality?" Larry asked. It was a good question.
"Yes," Magnus said, "but that wasn't why I did it."
"You did it for power, you son of a bitch," Dorrie said. She came down the mound, sliding in the strange flowers. "You just had to do real glamor, real magic. My God, Magnus, you must have been drinking its blood for years, ever since you were a teenager. That's when your powers suddenly got so strong. We all thought it was puberty."
"Afraid not, sister dear."
She spit at him. "Our family was cursed, tied to this land forever in repentance for doing what you have done. Bloody Bones broke free last time someone tried to drink from his veins."
"It's been safely imprisoned for ten years, Dorrie."
"How do you know? How do you know that nebulous thing you called up hasn't been out scaring children?"
"As long as it doesn't hurt any of them, what's the harm?"
"Wait a minute," said Larry. "Why would it scare children?"
"I told you, it's a nursery boggle. It was supposed to eat bad children," I said. I had an idea, an awful idea. I'd seen a vampire use a sword, but was I absolutely sure of what I'd seen? No. "When the thing got out and started slaughtering the Indian tribe, did it use a weapon, or its hands?"
Dorrie looked at me. "I don't know. Does it matter?"
Larry said, "Oh, my God."
"It might matter a great deal," I said.
"You can't mean those killings," Magnus said. "Bloody Bones cannot manifest itself physically. I've seen to that."
"Are you sure, brother dear? Are you absolutely sure?" Dorrie's voice cut and sliced; she wielded scorn like a weapon.
"Yes, I'm sure."
"We'll have to have a witch look at this. I don't know enough about it," I said.
Dorrie nodded. "I understand. The sooner the better."
"Rawhead and Bloody Bones did not do those killings," Magnus said.
"For your sake, Magnus, I hope not," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Because five people have died. Five people who didn't do a damn thing to deserve it."
"It's imprisoned by a combination of Indian, Christian, and fairie power," he said. "It's not breaking free of that."
I walked around the mound slowly. The fleshy flowers still moved out of the way. I'd tried watching my feet, but it was dizzying, because the flowers moved yet didn't, like trying to watch one of them bloom. You knew it did, but you could never watch the actual event.
I ignored the flowers and concentrated on the mound. I wasn't trying to sense the dead, so daylight was fine. There was magic here, lots of it. I'd never felt fairie magic before. There was something here that had a familiar taste to it, and it wasn't the Christianity. "Some kind of death magic went into this," I said. I walked around the mound until I could see Magnus's face. "A little human sacrifice, perhaps?"
"Not exactly," Magnus said.
"We would never condone human sacrifice," Dorrie said.
Maybe she wouldn't, but I wasn't so sure about Magnus. I didn't say it out loud. Dorrie was upset enough already.
"If it's not sacrifice, then what is it?"
"Three hills are buried with our dead. Each death is like a stake to hold old Bloody Bones down," Magnus said.
"How did you lose track of which hills belonged to you?" I asked.
"It's been over three hundred years," Magnus said. "There were no deeds back then. I wasn't a hund
red percent sure the hill was the right hill myself. But when they raked up the dead, I felt it." He huddled in on himself as if the air had suddenly grown colder. "You can't raise the dead from that hillside. If you do it, then Bloody Bones will be loosed. The magic to stop it is complicated. Truthfully, I'm not sure I'm up to it myself. And I don't know any Indian shamans anymore."
"You have made a mockery of everything we stand for," Dorrie said.
"What did Serephina offer you?" I asked.
He looked at me, surprised. "What are you talking about?"
"She offers everyone their heart's desire. What was yours, Magnus?"
"Freedom and power. She said she'd find another guardian for Rawhead and Bloody Bones. She said she'd find a way for me to keep the power I'd borrowed from it without having to tend it."
"And you believed her?"
He shook his head. "I'm the only person in the family who has the power. We are the guardians forever as penance for stealing it, for letting it kill." He collapsed to his knees in the blue, blue flowers, his head bowed, hair spilling forward to hide his face. "I'll never be free."
"You don't deserve to be free," Dorrie said.
"Why did Serephina want you so badly?" I asked.
"She's afraid of death. She says drinking from something as long-lived as I am helps her keep death at bay."
"She's a vampire," Larry protested.
"But not immortal," I said.
Magnus looked up, strange aquamarine eyes glimmering out through his shining hair. Maybe it was the hair, or the eyes, or his being nearly covered in the strange moving, not moving flowers, but he didn't look very human.
"She fears death," he said. "She fears you." His voice was low and echoing.
"She nearly cleaned my clock last night. Why's she afraid of me?"
"You brought death among us last night."
"It can't be the first time," I said.
"She came to me for my long life, my immortal blood. Perhaps she will go to you next. Perhaps instead of running from death, she will embrace it."
The skin on my arms twitched, marching in gooseflesh up to my elbows. "She tell you that last night?"
"There is a power involved, hurting her old enemy Jean-Claude, but in the end, Anita, she wonders if your power would make the difference. If she drank you up, would she be immortal? Would you be able to keep death from her with your necromancy?"
"You could leave town," Larry said. I wasn't sure which of us he was speaking to.
I shook my head. "Master vampires don't give up that easy. I'll tell Stirling that I won't be raising his dead, Magnus. No one else can do it but me, so it won't get done."
"But they won't give back the land," Magnus said in his strange voice. "If they simply blow up the mountain, the result might be the same."
"Is that true, Dorrie?"
She nodded. "It could be."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
Magnus crawled through the flowers, peering at me through the shining curtain of his hair. His eyes were swirling bands of green and blue, whirling until I was dizzy. I looked away.
"Raise a handful of the dead. Can you do that?" he asked.
"No sweat," I said. "But will everybody's lawyers agree to that?"
"I'll see that they do," he said.
"Dorrie?" I asked.
She nodded. "I'll see to it."
I stared at Magnus for a moment. "Will Serephina really rescue the boy?"
"Yes," he said.
I stared down at him. "Then I'll see you tonight."
"No, I'll be well and truly drunk again. It's not foolproof, but it helps drown her out."
"Fine; I'll raise you a handful of dead. Keep your land safe."
"You have our gratitude," Magnus said. He looked feral, frightening, beautiful crouched in the flowers. His gratitude might be worth something if Serephina didn't kill him first.
Hell, if she didn't kill me first.
33
I called Special Agent Bradford late in the day. They hadn't found Xavier. They hadn't found Jeff. They hadn't found any vampires that I needed to kill, and why the hell was I calling him? I was not on this case, remember? I remembered. And yes, the two youngest victims had been sexually assaulted, but not the same day they were killed. I probably should have brought Magnus in, but he was the only one who understood the spells on Bloody Bones. He wouldn't be any good to us locked up. Dorrie knew a local witch she trusted. I'd thought that maybe Bloody Bones was our killer. I'd never seen a vampire hide itself so completely from me as the one that killed Coltrain. I'd added it to my list of suspects, but hadn't told the cops. Now I was glad I hadn't. The sexual assault had Xavier written all over it. Besides, explaining that a nursery boggle from Scotland was committing murders on the ethereal plane sounded far-fetched even to me.
The sky was thick with clouds that glowed like jewels. They shimmered and stretched across the sky like a gigantic gleaming blanket that some great beast had shredded with massive claws. Through the holes in the clouds, the sky peeked through black with a few diamond-chip stars bright enough to compete with the gleaming sky.
I stood on the hilltop staring up at the sky, breathing in the cool spring air. Larry stood beside me, looking up. His eyes reflected the glowing light.
"Get on with it," Stirling said.
I turned and looked at him. Him, Bayard, and Ms. Harrison. Beau had been with them, but I'd made him wait at the bottom of the mountain. I'd even told him if he so much as showed his face up top, I'd put a bullet in it. I wasn't sure Stirling believed me, but Beau had.
"Not an appreciator of nature's beauty, are you, Raymond?"
Even by moonlight I could see his scowl. "I want this over with, Ms. Blake. Now, tonight."
Strangely enough, I agreed with him. It made me nervous. I didn't like Raymond. It made me want to argue with him, regardless of whether I agreed. But I didn't argue. Point for me.
"I'll get it done tonight, Raymond; don't sweat it."
"Please stop calling me by my first name, Ms. Blake." He made the request through clenched teeth, but he had said "please."
"Fine. It'll be done tonight, Mr. Stirling. Okay?"
He nodded. "Thank you; now get on with it."
I opened my mouth to say something smart, but Larry said very softly, "Anita."
He was right, as usual. As much fun as it was to yank Stirling's chain, it was just delaying the inevitable. I was tired of Stirling, of Magnus, and of everything. It was time to do this job and go home. Well, maybe not straight home. I wouldn't leave without Jeff Quinlan, one way or another.
The goat gave a high, questioning bleat. It was staked out in the middle of the boneyard. It was a brown-and-white-spotted goat with those strange yellow eyes they sometimes have. It had floppy white ears and seemed to like having the top of its head scratched. Larry had petted it in the Jeep on the drive over. Always a bad idea. Never get friendly with the sacrifices. Makes it hard to kill them.
I had not petted the goat. I knew better. This was Larry's first goat. He'd learn. Hard or easy, he'd learn. There were two more goats at the bottom of the hill. One of them was even smaller and cuter than this one.
"Shouldn't we have the Bouviers' lawyers present, Mr. Stirling?" Bayard said.
"The Bouviers waived having their attorney present," I said.
"Why would they do that?" Stirling asked.
"They trust me not to lie to them," I said.
Stirling looked at me for a long moment. I couldn't see his eyes clearly, but I could feel the wheels inside his head moving.
"You're going to lie for them, aren't you?" he said. His voice was cold, repressed, too angry for heat.
"I don't lie about the dead, Mr. Stirling. Sometimes about the living, but never about the dead. Besides, Bouvier didn't offer me a bribe. Why should I help him if he doesn't throw money at me?"
Larry didn't call me on that one. He was looking at Stirling, too. Wondering what he'd say, maybe.
&n
bsp; "You've made your point, Ms. Blake. Can we get on with it now?" He sounded reasonable, ordinary suddenly. All that anger, all that mistrust, had had to go somewhere. But it wasn't in his voice.
"Fine." I knelt and opened the gym bag at my feet. It held my animating equipment. I had another one that held vampire gear. I used to just transfer whatever I wanted into the bag. I bought a second bag after I showed up once at a zombie raising with the wrong bag. It was also illegal to carry vampire slaying stuff if you didn't have a warrant of execution on you. Brewster's law might change that, but until then... I had two bags. The zombie was my normal burgundy one; the vampire bag was white. Even in the dark, it was easy to tell them apart. That was the plan.
Larry's zombie bag was a nearly virulent green with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it. I was almost afraid to ask what his vampire bag looked like.
"Let me test my understanding here," Larry said. My words fed back to me. He knelt and unzipped his bag.
"Go ahead, " I said. I got out my jar of ointment. I knew animators who had special containers for the ointment. Crockery, hand-blown glass, mystical symbols carved into the sides. I used an old Mason jar that had once held Grandma Blake's green beans.
Larry fished out a peanut butter jar with the label still on it. Extra-crunchy. Yum-yum.
"We have to raise a minimum of three zombies, right?"
"Right," I said.
He stared around at the scattered bones. "A mass grave is hard to raise from, right?"
"This isn't a mass grave. It's an old cemetery that was disturbed. That's easier than a mass grave."
"Why?" he asked.
I laid the machete down beside the jar of ointment. "Because each grave had rites performed that would tie the dead individual to the grave, so that if you call it you have a better chance of getting an individual to answer."
"Answer?"
"Rise from the dead."
He nodded. He laid a wicked curved blade on the ground. It looked like a freaking scimitar.
"Where did you get that?"
He dipped his head, and I would have bet he was blushing. Just couldn't see it by moonlight.
"Guy at college."
"Where'd he get it?"
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