by Jaym Gates
Only her grandmother would want to console her for the loss of her partner when she’d just been battered by demons.
“We can talk about my problems later.” She scooped up her bag and held aside the tent flap for her grandmother who looked about as fragile as a tank. “Tell me everything.”
#
“I know you can handle this, Costa Barros,” came Wellesley the Weasel’s response to her detailed summary of her grandmother’s dealings with, at the very least, a pack of minor mazzikim and possibly worse. “It’ll be a good way to ease back into things.”
Gabi bit back a strangled scream. Twenty-four hours ago she’d been on indefinite compassionate leave. Now she was back in the field without so much as a psych how-do-you-do?
“Just let me know if anything comes up.”
“I am letting you know, sir!” she all but shouted. Fortunately, or unfortunately, her boss at DSO had already rung off. Gabi growled and jerked irritably at her ponytail.
“I’m sure they know what’s best, meu bem,” Avó soothed from a rocking chair on the porch of a generously called “inn” in the nearest town.
“DSO doesn’t know dick!”
Her grandmother barely batted an eyelash at the language, but somehow Gabi still felt like she’d been hauled to the headmistress’s office. Perversely, she elaborated, “Fine. They know slightly less dick than most people.”
Amused, her grandmother lifted an eyebrow over her unbruised eye. “I wonder … maybe that should be more dick?”
Snorting back a laugh, Gabi paced the length of the porch and then went inside to exchange her euros to Turkish lira. Since she’d been on compassionate leave, she didn’t have a fully-stocked exorcism kit with her.
When she returned, she knelt at Avó’s side and scanned her face for signs of fear. Before she could say anything, Avó poked her in the shoulder with one very pointy finger.
“Go on. I’ll be fine.” She held up her cell phone.
“You didn’t call me before.”
“You’d have asked questions.”
“So why didn’t you at least tell Papai that you’d been hurt?”
“Oh —” Avó waved dismissively. “You know how your father is. He’d have insisted on coming down here.”
“And he could’ve dealt with the mazzikim, too.” Gabi gave her grandmother a pointed look, but she knew better than to expect an answer to the question: So why did you insist on me?
#
She’d come no closer to an answer when, as she walked around the picnic bench that had fractured her grandmother’s radius and ulna, an invisible force rushed past her, catching an arm and spinning her around. The small bells braided into the ends of her hair tinkled faintly and the pressure on her arm ceased.
Invisible. Capable of physical contact but moved like the wind. Probably mazzikim.
Gabi raised her hands and turned them outward to display the hamsas inked in black, and all important blue, on them. Since the fingers of the design mapped to her own fingers, the tattoos effectively turned her hands into the powerful ancient symbol used to ward off everything from the Evil Eye to crib death — and from the deepening shadow of the tent opposite Avó’s, the being responded in a whiny wail.
“Knock it off,” Gabi commanded, and compelled by the power of her blood, her faith, and the color blue, it stopped. “Tell me your name.”
The shush-shush-shush of a subtle body of air and fire shaking its head was the only answer.
“Fine.” Worth a try, but the mazzikim, the pickpockets and sneak-thieves of the demon world, traded on their wiles.
So did Gabi. She poked around in her pack while she hummed a little Miranda Lambert, “Gunpowder and Lead.” Neither of those were effective against spirit bodies, but it sounded the right kind of badass. “Hm. Salt, indigo ink, parchment …”
“Noooooo!” it wailed again.
“Well …” Got you. “Okay. You tell me why you’re harassing Dr. Da Costa, and I won’t bind you.”
“Truly, you are righteous.”
They had such ingratiating voices. Even knowing they could do immense damage if motivated, Gabi had a hard time taking them seriously. She gestured with one hand, hiding the hamsa to allow it to move.
The demon didn’t take that bait, but it did answer, “Dybbuk!”
… fuck.
Gabi drew a slim blade from a sheath in her bag and pricked the tip of her right forefinger. She squeezed it until a drop of thick crimson welled up and then smeared it on the bench, something the demon had touched. “By blood and by faith, I adjure you: Leave this place forever and pay Dr. Da Costa and her people no further heed.”
“LIES!” the mazzikim screeched. “LIAR!”
“I didn’t lie.” Demons thought like lawyers. And if you didn’t keep your word, they didn’t have to keep theirs. “I said I wouldn’t bind you, not that I wouldn’t banish you.” Gabi took a long breath and began again. “By blood and by faith, by truth and by will, I compel you …”
The demon keened its fury. From the rush of wind, Gabi knew it had propelled itself upwards.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. First get rid of any more mazzikim. Then worry about the —
Don’t think about it.
“I heard a scream.” The postdoc she’d spoken to before, minus his sketchpad and plus a healthy five o’clock scruff trotted between two tents from the hillside Avó had ‘tumbled’ down. “Are you all right?”
How could she be? Piotr had been killed by a dybbuk.
#
“Did you push Dr. Da Costa down the hill?” Gabi demanded of the student who’d just introduced himself as Omer Ital Barzani, but I prefer Ital.
“What?” His expression shuffled like a CD changer looking for something to play. It settled on wide-eyed, appalled indignation. “No!”
No, outright. Said once only. Uncertainty without looking away: multiple emotions, not fabrication. Good.
Gabi’s expression, on the other hand, never wavered. As far as she knew, she didn’t even blink; something she got from her grandmother. “Are you lovers?”
His long slender nose seemed to curl along with his lips. “No.”
No need to be offended, jerkface. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had a much younger man. Were you jealous of someone?”
“No!”
No hemming, no hawing. Straight-up denial. Also good.
“Are you sure you didn’t have some reason to want her out of the way? Advancement? A failing —”
“No.” Jerkface pinched his brows together so hard it looked like it hurt. “Listen. I don’t know who you are. I don’t actually care. But for your information, Dr. Da Costa is one of the finest scholars of Middle Eastern archaeology in the world. I’m honored to work with her. She’s been nothing but supportive of me and my work-”
“Just what exactly is your work?”
“Combat archaeology if you must know,” he said, obviously peeved to have been cut off before clearing his name.
It didn’t need clearing any more, though. She read people. It was her thing. One of three skills responsible for her being solicited by DSO. “So you’re interested in weapons and tactics, how to cause maximal damage with minimal effort?” Now she was just goading him.
Before she could profile the calculation in his eyes, he’d caught her around the back of her neck and his mouth crashed down over hers. His tongue pushed into her mouth —
Her fist connected with his jaw.
“Ow.” He sounded like a man who’d just bitten the hell out of his tongue.
Gabi flipped open her badge. “Special Agent Costa Barros, Department of Supernatural Operations. What the hell were you thinking?”
“That a pretty woman would be easily distracted by sexual attentions,” he oozed.
Just the tone made her feel like she’d kill for a bath. It sounded nothing like the cultured, polished Arabic they’d been speaking a moment before.
Gabi blinked
.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She reached for the bloody blade still resting on the picnic bench. “What do you want, dybbuk?”
“I thought we’d established what I wanted.” More oozing. She was surprised he didn’t slither right onto his ass with all that oil and smarm.
“Not from me.” Her mouth felt drier and more inadequate than all the beige in Göbekli Tepe, and if it didn’t slow down, she was going to vomit up her own heart. “Here. With the doctor.” A jerk of her chin was pure bravado, especially since everything else had turned to salt crystal (she knew she shouldn’t have looked back on Piotr).
The dybbuk tilted its head, almost birdlike, in curiosity; Ital was clearly no longer in charge. “Why do you care?”
Care. Her? No.
Except it was a clue. It wanted to be heard. It wanted her to care. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re here. Helping her.” It cast its hand out toward the dig, well outside her field of vision even if she dared turn her head. “Helping them.”
Gabi took in a long breath and then released it, easing the tension out of her body the best she could. Hopefully, the dybbuk didn’t have her profiling skills. “Helping them with what?”
“Helping them get out!” The dybbuk roared, like a lion in pain.
Maybe she could pull its thorn. Get rid of it without having to hurt Ital. “The Syrians?” she asked, almost gently, almost as though she cared.
The dybbuk flinched; Ital’s proud, straight carriage all but imploded.
“I’m not helping them.” Gabi shook her head and took a step forward, even attempting a smile. “Like I said, I’m with the Department of Supernatural Operations. Syrian refugees aren’t my concern. Dybbukim are.” Carefully, carefully. “How can I help you?”
“You would do that?” Suspicion joined the vocal slime.
“As long as it doesn’t involve hurting them myself,” she assured it and then sat down on the bench, making sure to leave the smear of blood between her and the dybbuk. “Come tell me why you’re here.”
Cautiously, gaze sliding to her blade, the dybbuk moved Ital’s body forward to the bench.
Telegraphing every move, Gabi shifted the blade to her outer hand. “If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you.”
The dybbuk scowled but sat, then scooched away from the blood like it burned.
It might, actually, but now wasn’t exactly the time to ask. She kept her gaze steady on what had been a handsome face with its owner in control.
“They blew me up,” the dybbuk finally said.
“The Syrians did?” Not impossible. There was a war going on. Or three.
It nodded.
“Why?”
“I don’t know!” If it was possible to whine while shouting, the dybbuk did. “I was just a barista!”
As tempting as it was, Gabi held off asking its name. Too soon and it might bolt or turn on her. Then this exorcism would get messy. Instead: “Where?”
“Golan Heights.”
Ah. “You’re Israeli.”
It nodded and folded its hands in its lap.
She almost felt sorry for it. Almost. “Did you know them?”
A shake of its head this time.
Even as disembodied spirits, dybukkim possessed some level of intelligence. Once in a body, it would have sought answers. “They were never caught?”
“No.”
Gabi forced herself to brighten, smile, and hold out a hand to it. “Then I can help.”
Another birdlike head-tilt made the former-barista-in-the-scholar’s-body seem childlike, almost. Clearly not as intelligent as Ital, anyhow. “How?”
“I may work in Supernatural Operations, but I have access to everyone’s databases. Interpol, Israeli security, Saudi security …” Technically true, though she rarely needed it. “If there are records, I can find them.”
Now the dybbuk straightened up, pulling Ital’s shoulders back into a semblance of the scholar’s strong posture. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Why would you?”
“Would it stop you from pushing helpless old women-” Snort. “Down embankments for employing Syrian refugees?”
The dybbuk started to speak but then paused to reconsider.
“Wouldn’t you rather have your real killers punished instead of hurting people who have nothing to do with it?” Like they did to you, she left unsaid, rather than risk pissing him off.
He seemed to hear it anyway. “It would be better. An eye for an eye, instead of an eye for any eye.”
“Exactly.” Now Gabi did offer a smile. After all, dybbuks were people, too. Sort of. “So, I help you, you stop hurting people who had nothing to do with how you died?”
He nodded. “Deal. What’s next?”
“Just tell me your name so I can search the records.” Casual. Super-casual. Doesn’t mean anything. Totally irrelevant. Ho-hum. If Gabi could whistle tunefully, she would have.
“Eitan Ben-Reuven,” he answered almost cheerfully.
Gabi bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crowing. “Hello, Eitan Ben-Reuven. I’m Gabi.” She reached into her bag, hoping Eitan would think she’d gone for a notepad or a tablet.
“I’m not sorry I kissed you,” he said while she rooted around for what she needed. “You’re nice. And pretty. Ital doesn’t have a girlfriend, so there’s been no knocking boots since I died.”
“I’m not sorry you did either, Eitan Ben-Reuven.” Gabi produced a flask, a white candle, and a lighter which she very quickly put to use. She brandished the lit candle like a villager’s pitchfork. “I wouldn’t have known you weren’t Ital if you hadn’t.”
Eitan hissed and pulled back, fury darkening already dark eyes and drawing strong brows into vicious slashes.
“I command you to leave the body of Omer Ital Barzani and trouble him no more.” The pure force of Gabi’s will wrapped around the possessed body, holding both Eitan and Ital in place.
“The deal is broken!”
“No, it’s not. I said I’d help you get justice and I will. After you give Ital back his body.”
Eitan’s skill with head-whipping might’ve given Linda Blair a run for her money, but Gabi flipped the hand with the unstoppered flask and her hamsa ended the agitation. “I adjure you, Eitan Ben-Reuven, to leave that body at once. It doesn’t belong to you.”
The flame guttered on a blast of spirit-wind. A chill crept over Gabi’s hands and arms. She shook her own head until the bells on her ponytail tinkled. For a timeless instant, the world seemed to hold its breath —
The flask glowed red.
“I will find out who did this to you, Eitan,” she promised softly. An exorcist’s strength came from her will and her belief in her own righteousness; of course she would.
A tear trickled down Gabi’s cheek as she stoppered the bottle and put out the flame.
Piotr.
“Who are you? And why does it feel like I ran into a left hook?” came a cultured voice at her side.
“Right, actually,” she said to no one in particular.
Ital had already passed out.
#
“I really kissed you?” Jerkface asked a few minutes into her recitation of the events leading to his collapse.
“It wasn’t you.” Gabi pulled open the ice chest in her grandmother’s tent in search of something cold to put on his jaw.
“You don’t have to sound relieved.”
Not dignifying that with an answer, Gabi whipped a bag of semi-frozen peas across the tent.
Jerkface — he was back to Jerkface because he apologized for making her cry and it had nothing to do with him — caught them one-handed.
“He was a nice guy for a male chauvinist pig of a dybbuk.” And Israeli, unlike Jerkface.
“Who threw your grandmother down an embankment.” Jerkface winced as he pressed the peas against his jaw. “What was he even doing in Turkey anyhow?”
Gabi shrugged as she sat
at the small table where Avó did her notes. “Dybukkim aren’t long on logic. He probably attached himself to the jacket of the first Syrian he found or something and ended up here when it got passed to one of the refugees.”
“So why me?”
Another shrug. “You knew the incantations for summoning mazzikim.”
“So does your grandmother.”
Instead of asking how he knew that — it was probably an article she’d written — Gabi pulled out the glowing red flask Eitan inhabited. “Male chauvinist,” she muttered, but the strength of her voice had fallen away and the flask had taken her heart with it. Its match rested more than a thousand miles away in a locked desk drawer, where it would stay until she found enough forgiveness to deal with it.
“It’s not your fault.” An ice-chilled hand squeezed her shoulder.
Startled from her reverie, Gabi glared up at him.
He stood his ground. “You did what you had to do.”
“What would you know about it?”
“I was there, remember?”
You did the right thing, Gab.
How would you know?
I was there, remember?
Lips pressed tightly together trembled against the onslaught of the grief that had sent her on compassionate leave. “She shot him.”
Jerkface crouched beside her but didn’t ask any stupid questions.
So, slowly, haltingly, Gabi told him the whole story, the real story that wasn’t anywhere in the files.
Shiri had been killed in a drunk driving accident she’d caused after her boyfriend confessed to having a gay affair. She’d come back to “avenge” herself. Smart, driven, and in the body of a Parisian police officer, she’d proven near impossible to track down until Piotr had gotten the bright idea to pose as the ex’s lover. The meeting took a bad turn, and Gabi knifed Shiri’s host just as she shot Piotr. Gabi had cast the dybbuk from the fallen officer and called for an ambulance. Anne-Marie survived, but Piotr bled out in her lap, his last words that it wasn’t her fault.