by Emby Press
“Why did this woman want to raise this man from the dead?”
“Also not my concern. But ask yourself this; why does anyone do what they do? Is your woman raising the dead out of love? Revenge? Hatred?”
“You could just tell me who the woman is.”
“For the third time—”
Maybelle raised a hand. “Not your concern.”
The Libertine slumped in his chair. “I have gone past bored and into near comatose. I am leaving now.”
“Go on,” Maybelle sneered. “But Nocturne is off limits. You ever come back and I will wipe you out.”
The Libertine’s handsome, pale face stared right at her before busting out into a gale of healthy laughter.
*
Reflecting on The Libertine’s words led Maybelle to a few conclusions. And while there were arguments to be made for any of the emotions the creature cited, there was one he did not, something that was playing into her theories. Something Arthur Prescott had mentioned in passing.
Money.
Which was why she was lurking outside the offices of Houston and Sippo. A simple glamour made her invisible to the naked eye. Lee Sippo was the lawyer for Cavanaugh Prescott, and she suspected the final pieces of this puzzle could be found within his files. Maybelle stayed behind a rather tall houseplant near the elevator bank nearing ten o’clock at night. Her battle coat was filled with different kinds of materials, all designed to enhance her stealthiness. There was a little electric feeling in her gut, but she did not know if this was due to excitement or apprehension.
Much later than she expected, Maybelle heard the lock turn on the Houston and Sippo door. She cast a simple masking spell that made her invisible to the senses of normal humans and moved toward the office. When the door opened, revealing a portly, well-dressed man with a pock marked face and elegantly coiffed dark hair going grey at the temples, she slipped through into the darkened reception area. In one smooth movement, she sat up on the teakwood reception desk and waited until she heard the man’s footsteps recede and the elevator doors open and close. She listened to the silence for ten minutes until she was sure she was alone before getting to work.
A dozen words She muttered a dozen words and her hand glowed with a soft, emerald fire. Maybelle moved beyond the reception area into a long corridor. On either side of her were long metal storage cabinets squeezed in between the various offices. Her fingers ran across the labels until she found the cabinets that would contain Cavanaugh Prescott’s files and pulled out the drawer.
There it was—financial records, legal manuverings, and one other thing.
As she read through it, it all came into place.
*
Once more, she saw the younger Prescott in her so-called office. The young man came to see her in a state of disarray. An unappetizing mixture of cigarettes, alcohol and stale perfume was coming off the man, making it clear why he looked like a scarecrow with its stuffings falling out. Maybelle smirked as he settled down in the chair opposite her.
“What is this all about?” he sniffed.
“You never told me why you decided to bludgeon your father to death.”
“I would think that was obvious.”
“I’m not sure about that. The vehemence with which you did the deed makes me think there’s something in particular that made you choose this gruesome form of execution.”
“Well, I must have hated him, wouldn’t you think?” Arthur tried to adjust his jacket, an action that looked all the more ludicrous considering how scruffy he looked.
“Or it could have something to do with the money you were going to inherit,” Maybelle countered, producing a small sheaf of papers she had to duplicate using one of the new machines from Xerox the lawyers had in the back of their office.
“Wha…I…I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arthur sniffed in his rat-like way.
“I beg to differ.” Maybelle rifled through the papers until she found the right one. She handed it to her client. “It seems that daddy didn’t like your spending habits and had his attorney Mr. Sippo take away your allowance. I’m thinking he was hoping you’d find a job and blaze a path on your own to your own riches, maybe even make you into a better man. Instead, you decided to murder him and hide the body, then fake a death at sea for him. That way you could receive the very generous benefits of your father’s will.”
“Lies,” he muttered, his voice making it clear he was a very poor liar.
“The thing is,” Maybelle continued, “you didn’t know your stepmother was planning something. Little Maureen Prescott, nee Lefkowicz nee Leewell, wasn’t happy with her small portion of the death jackpot. When I was doing my investigations, everyone agreed that the person looking to zombify Cavanaugh Prescott was female. It was obvious that her beauty was fading, and she….and when your job is to be beautiful, wouldn’t you worry the most about how you look?”
All Maybelle had to see to know her suppositions were true was the way Arthur’s expression changed. His face became a mask of contempt that became more intense the more she explained. “My guess is she went to Tio LeGrande for a compulsion spell…and that’s when she learned her husband was dead. That’s why LeGrande was reluctant to tell me her identity; she most likely paid for the spell and, when she couldn’t get it, tried to get the bocor to zombify your dad. When LeGrande was unable to raise the man with a simulation of sentience, he sent her to The Libertine.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying,” the younger Prescott said.
“What you need to know,” Maybelle answered, “is that Maureen Prescott will use your zombified father to alter his will. My guess is she’s going to cut you out completely and claim that percentage for herself. The good news is that I can solve your problem simply. Once Cavanaugh Prescott realizes he’s dead, he will return to his grave, and you can go back to finding a way to declare him dead and getting your blood money.”
Arthur Prescott rose, adjusted his collar and smoothed the wrinkles out of his flashy but cheap suit. “Then do it. I’ve already bribed a few people to make his tragic death at sea happen.”
He started to walk away. His hand was on the doorknob when Maybelle muttered, “You don’t deserve to get away with this.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he sneered. “You gave me confidentiality.”
“I am aware,” Maybelle shot back, trying her best to conceal her rage. “I promise you, I will not tell anyone of what a horrid, reprehensible man you are.”
The younger Prescott laughed contemptuously and left.
*
One of the benefits of being Colin Palmersdale’s paramour was that doors opened quicker for her than for others. Which was how she got a private meeting with the still walking, still talking corpse of Cavanaugh Prescott.
She was pleasantly surprised to find that the elder—albeit undead—Prescott had a similar design sense to her own. The office was all stark lines and simple furniture, the walls unassuming wood, the only decorations photos of his wives. Maybelle lingered on the display; she found it interesting that the photos of his first wife, the mother of her ‘client,’ who was a handsome woman with lustrous dark hair and an enigmatic smile, were displayed more prominently than those of Maureen.
It was when she was contemplating the photos that Cavanaugh entered. He approached her with a deceptive energy for one so recently, horribly dead. It was only because Maybelle was looking for some signs of his zombification—the glassiness of his eyes and the stiffness in his limbs—that made his fate apparent.
He shook her hand. It was cold to the touch in spite of the warmth of the room. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Palmersdale. How is your husband?”
Maybelle bit back the urge to correct him. She needed his trust to do what she had to. “He’s doing well. Thank you for seeing me.”
He motioned towards a simple leather chair before taking a seat behind the even simpler, almost humble desk. “Given what you both have done for this city, it�
��s a pleasure to make time for you.”
“Thank you. I have a delicate situation you can help me with,” she said as she lowered herself into a chair.
“I will do whatever I can.”
“I’ve been tracking the theft of some mystic artifacts and I suspect one of your employees may be involved. The items involved are very dangerous and I need to recover them as soon as possible.”
Cavanaugh Prescott frowned. “If someone who works for me is a thief, I want to know about it.”
“Thank you.” Maybelle smiled and reached into her battle coat. “I’d like to show you an artifact from the collection that was burgled. If you could tell me if you’ve seen an employee with something similar, that would help.”
And with that, she pulled out the fetish designed for her by one of the white bocors of LaRouse. The silver frame and feathers bound with leather ties turned, the light glinting off the metal. She poured some of the ambient magical energy into the fetish, causing it to glow with a soft, blinking golden light. Slowly, Cavanaugh’s face changed. His expression slackened as he transitioned from the simulation of his living self to the zombie that Maureen Prescott had made him.
Once she was sure the dead consciousness of Cavanaugh Prescott was on the surface, she put the fetish away. “Do you know what you are?”
“I…am…dead,” Cavanaugh said. His voice was halting and sounded garbled, as befitting a man who was decaying.
“Do you know where you belong?”
The zombie nodded its head.
“Before you return there,” Maybelle said evenly, “there is one thing you need to do.”
*
One of the few advantages of being the so-called ‘super-hero’ Dreamcatcher was that Maybelle had a number of contacts in the police department. While Detective Munchen was the more or less the official police contact for the Shadow Legion, she preferred to deal with Detective Wynoski, who aided her with several cases she took on her own.
She made it a point to be at the police station visiting with the older, white haired detective at 9pm that night. She knew Wynoski pulled the night shift, and she happily was happily discussing their respective children when a commotion broke through the busy workplace. As one, the mystic and the detective moved to the front of the station, where the desk sargent held court.
The smell hit them first. This was not surprising; freed of his illusion of life, Cavanaugh Prescott’s decay had begun again. Flies hovered around his body like planets revolved around the sun. He was stumbling toward the front desk, his limbs now so stiff it made movement difficult.
Maybelle made sure her face was an immobile mask. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone you killed your father, she thought to herself.
“I….was…murdered,” Cavanaugh Prescott announced.
But I never said he wouldn’t.
TRACE
DJ Tyrer
“Mr Starling? the voice on the phone. It was a woman’s voice, but he didn’t recognise it. For a moment, he thought maybe it was a sales call, but they usually tried harder to be friendly, familiar.
“Yes,” he responded, almost making the word into a question, nudging his rimless glasses up his noses as he spoke.
“My name is Rebecca Goldman, Mr Starling. I am the personal assistant to Steven Mountjoy. Mr Mountjoy requests your immediate attendance at his office. I have taken the liberty of despatching a car to collect you; it should be with you in ten to fifteen minutes. You will, of course, be well compensated for your time.”
“Um, yes, okay.”
“Good. The car will be there shortly,” she concluded.
Paul remembered Mountjoy. He was a venture capitalist. Paul hadn’t seen him in nearly two years, not since the murder of their mutual friend, James Hawthorne, on Hallowe’en 2012. They had barely communicated at all, although, given Mountjoy’s casual interest in the occult, Paul was aware of some of what the man had been up to and guessed he was probably aware of some of his pursuits. That he wanted Paul’s help meant something in their field of mutual interest had clearly come up. That the request was out of the blue, urgent and impersonal made him think it wasn’t a social call.
He didn’t need to change – Paul made a habit of wearing the same crumpled grey suits whatever he was doing. Arabella often teased him about that – not that she tended to change her style much, but then she had been dead for fifteen years, so the limitations of physical necessity didn’t really apply to her. It also meant that she was free of the necessity to travel with him; if he needed her later, she could reach him with ease. He remembered a line from somewhere – the dead travel fast. She certainly did.
Where Arabella would remain forever youthful, Paul had aged and was now fifty-one. His thin nose and lips were little changed, although his tussled brown hair was definitely thinning. Paul still had a slouched posture that did nothing to conceal his height, although his movements were stiffer than in his youth and he found his joints ached all the time: a life that was largely sedentary with occasional bouts of frenetic activity had done his body no good down the years. Vague thoughts of retirement niggled at him.
He heard the car pull up outside. Looking out the window, he saw it was a large one, a Rolls Royce, he thought. He wasn’t exactly surprised to see it, but was a still a little flattered to discover he rated such a quality ride. It was certainly an improvement over his old Vauxhall Astra. Given the increasingly parlous state of his finances, he couldn’t help hoping the promised compensation would be a decent amount. Paul wasn’t one to focus on making money, an increasingly small personal income allowed him some leeway to pursue his interests and do the odd good deed, but he couldn’t help but hope his situation might be eased a little.
The driver got out to confirm his identity and place the small travelling case Paul always kept ready for such situations in the boot of the car. Getting in, Paul was impressed at the cool of the air conditioning. He didn’t engage in any conversation and there was a tinted division between him and Paul. All Paul could do, as he was driven down from Buxton to London, was gaze out of the tinted windows at the countryside as it flew past.
The final leg, through congested London streets, was the shortest, but seemed to take as long as the drive down, but, at last, they drew into the car park beneath the soaring office block in which Steven Mountjoy had his office.
Stepping out of the car, Paul was surprised to find a woman waiting for him. She was conservatively dressed with her blonde hair cut in a neat bob.
“Mr Starling, hello. I am Rebecca Goldman. We spoke on the phone. Please, come with me; you can leave your case here for now.”
She led him into a lift and they shot up to the top floor of the building. She led him through a wide atrium, where two uniformed men sat at a desk, to a pair of black-oak doors. They swung open as they approached and they passed through into a spacious office.
“Paul, good to see you,” called Mountjoy from behind an enormous desk. Although his tone conveyed relief, his voice wasn’t that of a friend glad to see him. The man looked worried. Beside him stood a red-headed woman in a plan but clearly expensive black dress. From the way her hand rested on the back of his chair, Paul guessed she was probably his wife. She, too, appeared worried.
There was a bulky man of about Paul’s age with a severe buzzcut standing beside the desk. Probably ex-military. He was dressed in a perfectly-pressed grey suit that Paul imagined cost many times that of the crumpled one he wore.
“It’s good to see you, too. But, I don’t think you called me down here for a chat. How can I help you?”
Mountjoy didn’t answer him directly. “This is my wife, Carla,” he gestured at the red-headed woman. “Rebecca, you’ve met. That,” he nodded towards the severe-looking man, “is Driscoll, my head of security.”
The man gave a slight nod to Paul, but his gaze was appraising and not very impressed. Paul suspected Driscoll didn’t believe in the supernatural.
Mountjoy took a deep breath and said, “It
’s my son, Jerry.” He trailed off, but his wife nudged him and he continued, “He’s gone missing, Paul, and I need you to find him.”
“I’m not a private eye – surely you can hire a detective.”
From the way Driscoll looked at his boss, Paul had the impression the security man had similar feelings.
“Look, we’ve had my men and hired detectives out looking for him,” Mountjoy said, “and his disappearance has been reported to the police, but we’ve had absolutely no luck in finding him.”
Driscoll had the decency, at least, to look away.
“Well, I can attempt to locate him. Objects retain a link to their owner that can be used to trace them.”
“It’s more than that. I didn’t just think you might be able to track him using magic. The thing is, I think his disappearance is connected to the Occult Underground.”
That was the nebulous community of those who dealt in magic and the occult, in particular those who had entirely slipped through the cracks of mundane society. Paul was on its fingers, but there were cultists, wizards and those left broken by their brushes with the supernatural who were entirely submerged within it.
“You’d better tell me what happened,” Paul told him. He noticed that Carla Mountjoy gave her husband a look that, he thought, indicated she blamed him for whatever had befallen their son.
“Well, as you know, I have a passing interesting in the occult. After James was killed, I found that my interest was kindled further. It sounds a little perverse, but that’s just how it was. Anyway, I guess I probed a little deeper than I should. I also got Jerry interested in it. He seemed to have a certain knack for finding interesting objects. Well, you know how kids are with the internet, these days. He could ferret out things through the occult net.”
“And?” Paul prompted.
“He was on the track of a wand said to have belonged to the notorious Essex Magwitch.”