Now it was Kincaid’s turn to smile. “I got it. I promise to knock you out if I need to. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”
“Ah—you’re a real card, aren’t you?” She hefted a crate of her own and followed him to the bay door. “I already like you, Kincaid. I sure do hope you don’t get scared off. Or even worse, killed. That doesn’t happen much, but still, I’d rather you not quit or die. Or just quit.”
As they loaded the wagon with a half-dozen crates—what Mel described as Strangelight projectors and lanterns, spectral containment devices, lumitype image recorders, and other devices he didn’t yet understand. This apparently included “dissuasion screens” used to try to affect the movements of restless spirits to protect innocent bystanders, if necessary—she filled him in on a scattering of details. He didn’t bother interrupting her to tell her he hadn’t agreed to participate in whatever it was the Strangelight did. But he could not help being curious, and the more curious he became, the less he thought it likely that he would take his toolkit and go home.
The Majestic Playhouse had reported earlier this day a haunting that was more than just a ghost problem—it could easily financially ruin the theater. (“I saw the play Minions of Menoth there last year,” Mel confided. “It was terrible—shut the place down, I say.”) Tickets had been sold months in advance for the current play, and the manager, Mel had heard, was extremely frantic to resolve this haunting as quickly as possible. If word spread about an aggressive spirit, audiences would avoid the theater en masse.
“We’re only going to get one shot at this,” she said. “They can miss tonight’s performance and make some excuse, but by tomorrow night, the gossip will start. And I think there’s a nasty landlord involved here and a lease to be paid. Spirits, you might not know, do not care about bills.”
“So, you’ll get rid of this ghost?” Kincaid asked.
“Would you disassemble an engine if you hadn’t even tried to repair it yet?” Mel scoffed; he was pleased that she didn’t notice his failure to include himself in his word choice for who would deal with the ghost. “We’ll try to resolve it first. Strangelight Workshop is built on research first, extermination second.”
“When it comes to ghosts, seems backwards to me.” Kincaid put the last box on the back of the wagon. “So, you do this on purpose, looking for things that go bump in the night? Most folks would go roaring in the other direction, I would think.”
“It’s just the next step after life. Some ghosts aren’t looking to cause trouble—they just got caught in between. Trapped, you know? It’s the spiritual equivalent of being alone on a deserted island or being a prisoner is some tower. We try to help them move on, if we can. Sometimes they just need a little push. Or to have their troubles listened to. That’s what Elliot does.”
Kincaid paused, considering. He looked up at the expanse of sky above him and sighed. “Now what?”
“Now we go back to the others. Abigail will ride with the equipment and meet the rest of us at the theater.” Mel hauled herself from the pathway up onto the dock then turned and reached down, extending her hand to Kincaid. “Come on up. They’ll be waiting.”
Once he was back in the bay, he stepped to the left side of the large metal bay door and took hold of one of the chains to lower it again. On the other side, Mel did the same. She looked over at him.
“By the way,” she said as they rolled the door back down, “you did mean to say we will get rid of the ghost, right?”
Kincaid didn’t answer, and he chose not to meet her eyes.
• • •
GRIMES AND THE UNHEALTHY-LOOKING YOUNGER MAN whom Mel identified as Elliot Foss were huddled in one corner of the great hall together, checking each other’s equipment with the speed and efficiency of squirrels, Kincaid decided. Neither of them looked his way until the woman Abigail summoned them to gather as a group for introductions.
“Kincaid,” she said, “this is the team. Team, this is our new bouncer, Kincaid.”
“What happened to Weldon?” Elliot asked.
“His common sense kicked in,” Grimes answered, and everyone made appreciative noises. “Good for him. He wasn’t cut out for it.”
Abigail finally gestured them to silence. “All right, that’s enough. Kincaid, you already met this sarcastic gentleman, but to refresh your memory his name is Duncan Grimes. He’s our jammer—that means he’s the hands-on man when it comes to containing spirits. He’s also our veteran, so if he gives you advice, you should listen.”
Mel added, “He’s also a bit paranoid, but that’s not a bad thing in our line of work.”
Kincaid glanced at Grimes, and the black man nodded. “So, here’s my first advice to you: leave your common sense behind. Gets in the way of survival. Expect the worst, and prepare for it. Be happily surprised when nothing bad happens.”
Again, they chuckled, more uneasily this time—Kincaid was beginning to suspect the fear that had led to the previous bouncer fainting and then bailing on the job wasn’t just an unexpected weakness. In looking around at the others, Kincaid was willing to bet they’d all been close to that same reaction at one time or another.
“Are your eyes all right?” he asked.
“You see enough of what I’ve seen,” Grimes answered, “and sometimes you’ll wish you were blind.”
Yeah, he’s a riot, Kincaid thought.
Abigail indicated the young pallid man. “His partner holding the ghost hood is our caller, and you can likely guess what it is that Elliot calls. Elliot, this is Kincaid. Would you like explain to him why you do what you do?”
“Of course.” Elliot nodded at Kincaid. “Suffice to say, Mr. Kincaid, that I either guide restless spirits along their way to where they belong in the afterlife or I guide them into the arms of Duncan here for safekeeping for the sake of our operation.”
“He’s bait,” Grimes said flatly. “I’m the net.”
Elliot appeared about to argue, but Abigail cut him off. “No theological debates right now, gentlemen. We’re pressed for time.”
To Kincaid, she said, “You’ve already met Melanie Collins here. She’s our mechanik, of course. And I’m Abigail Thorpe, the investigator for the team.”
“The brains of the group,” Mel said.
“The eyes and ears,” Elliot chimed in.
“The neurotic accountant,” Grimes added. When Elliot scowled at him, the jammer said, “Don’t give me that look. I know a little bit about how coin counters think, I can tell you that. And accountants are the only ones who like doing all that paperwork.”
“I’ve never said I like it. I’m just the responsible adult among us.” Abigail turned to one of the tables, where most of the equipment had been added to the team’s personal kits, and picked up a thick, dull-brown club with a wrist strap at the end of the handle. She extended it butt first to Kincaid. “For you. Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”
Kincaid hesitated. Well, he thought, until a month ago, you could’ve called me 71490, and I’d have answered. I subscribe to the belief that behind every rich man is a crime, and I wanted to be rich. And despite three years in prison, I’m still no more opposed to dishonest work than I am to honest work, so long as it pays better.
He said, “I’m a repairman for a small business owned by a man who I think is older than religion. And I’m interested here, but I’m not sure this is something I’d be in for in the long haul. Sounds like your last bouncer or bodyguard or whatever you call it high-tailed it out of here for a reason. I’ll come along for the ride, but I might be better off one and done.”
He politely stepped back from the wooden baton Abigail held out to him. Like the rest of them, she froze for a moment, clearly put off by the partial rejection. He swallowed and kept from meeting her eye.
“Hang on,” Mel said suddenly. She stepped up and took the baton from Abigail as she turned toward Kincaid. “That wasn’t what we talked about while we were loading the wagon. He’s just getting cold feet.”
>
Kincaid was about to protest this falsehood when the mechanik took him by the arm. She was surprisingly strong. To Abigail, she said, “Give us just a minute, boss.”
Pulling him along behind her, she led him to his toolkit by the radiator, where the portrait of Strathmoore seemed to stare down at him disapprovingly. Once there, she let go of her grip.
“Listen, I don’t know you or even give a crap-and-a-half about your non-existent career as a furnace repairman, but I know someone who’s ruining my reputation by backing out at the last minute.” She poked him in the chest with one finger, hard enough to convey her frustration. “That’s really how you want to make some money?”
“It’s an honest living,” Kincaid muttered.
“Yeah, but you’re not an honest man.” When he started, she indicated his right hand. “When I helped you up onto the bay platform, I saw the tattoo on your wrist. That’s the kind of thing worn by prison gangs. Did you do your time in Ceryl or somewhere else?”
Kincaid resisted the snarl that came unbidden to his face. “Here. Three years.”
“You know, even if you’d told her your full name, she wouldn’t have looked up your history.” Mel looked back at Abigail, who paced. “She doesn’t care. I vouched for you, and she trusts me.”
“I’m not trying to change that. But I gotta think about what happens to me if I go with you on this little jaunt of yours and lose my job for skipping out the rest of the day. When you work for the embodiment of a grouchy old man, you learn to cover your assets, especially when it’s the only job you can get.”
“I get it. I’ll tell you what: when we’re done today, if you want out—and if you survive, of course—I’ll introduce you to my cousin. He’s a foreman at the Engines West here in town. He won’t care at all about your past—not if I’m vouching for you. See, people trust my judgment when I vouch for somebody. My way of saying thanks for the help.”
Kincaid considered. “So, it’s full-time work, either way? Let’s assume I survive.”
“Yes.” She grinned. “But only part-time if you die.”
“And what’s the kickback to keep your cousin from turning me in to the city watch for some made-up crap?”
Mel stared at him, her grin slowly fading. Finally, she said, “There’s no kickback. That’s not how it works. Unless maybe that is how it works with this old man you’re working for right now. You tell me.”
“All right,” Kincaid said, “I don’t know if this is the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll try it. Once, at least.”
He took the baton from her, and smiled back at her as he ran one hand up and down the smooth wood. It had been sanded to perfection, he decided. “I’m afraid to ask how many different bouncers have carried this. Sounds like maybe you run through them pretty steadily.”
She turned back toward the group, her grin returning in spades. “You’re one of the lucky ones. Most of the time, we don’t even bother with introductions. It keeps us from getting attached to the ones who don’t make it.”
Kincaid shook his head, but his own smile held firm. “I can see I’m among such nice people. You’re really not good at selling this as a full-time job.”
• • •
ABIGAIL THORPE RODE IN THE WAGON with the equipment—she told Kincaid it was so she could review her notes uninterrupted by the team as a teamster drove her to the theater, but he suspected it was more likely she was obsessed with inventorying every little box of their gear. He’d known her type before: there were those who thought a robbery began with drawing a pistol and those who thought it started with drawing a map. He preferred the latter, and that was Abigail Thorpe. He already liked her. Abigail told the rest of them to take an Omnibus car to the theater, where she’d catch up with them. Mel warned her that her equipment had better arrive intact, which made them both laugh.
The estate was located just a short stint from Ceryl proper, and before long they had passed through a small gate in the northern wall, one that saw a lot less traffic than the main one to the east. They were soon passing down Ceryl’s clean streets with the others. It was midday; the sun lit up the city as if its buildings were made entirely of white stone and crystal. They had come in at the higher elevation of the city, among the hills where its larger estates and buildings towered, and from here the streets sloped sometimes steeply down toward the docks on the other side, visible below. The steep angles on some of the streets were enough to give a man pause. Kincaid imagined the driver of the wagon would have to be careful about his route lest they lose control and see it racing out of control to smash into one of the towering white-walled buildings.
When he’d first come here, he had expected to find a classic port city—dirty and host to parasitic vagabonds who sailed in and, once they were out of money, never left. Instead, he had found a bright, relatively clean urban sprawl that appealed to his sense of entitlement, due mostly to its vulnerability. Ceryl was famous for its wizards, being home to the Fraternal Order of Wizardry, and he had been certain that if he could steer clear of crossing paths with any of their kind, he’d do just fine here. His optimism hadn’t lasted long. Ceryl wasn’t exactly a city without law, of course, nor were those who enforced it stupid. For a time, he’d had too high an estimation of his own abilities.
He’d discovered that the hard way when the law had finally caught up with him. The years he’d spent successfully avoiding it seemed like a long time ago now.
He followed the others on foot to the trolley terminal, closing his eyes and breathing in the light of the city. He suspected they wouldn’t be chasing ghosts in a bright field of poppies. Dark dungeons and dank tombs seemed more likely. He shook himself. Just the same, the next time he relished sunlight, he’d have a pocketful of coins and a job recommendation in hand.
As they boarded one of the city’s famous blue-grey Omnibus rail cars—Mel paid for the lot of them—he told himself again this was one and done. When it was over, he’d have enough gold to find company with a couple of morally ambivalent girls, and then he’d go to work for the foundry. Regular hours, regular pay. Nothing like what he’d done to earn those years in a small cell with a fat ogrun killer.
“You still with us, Kincaid?” Mel said some twenty minutes later, raising her voice. The Omnibus car was packed tight, passengers hanging off the rails that ran along both its longer sides, and their collected voices drowned out any normal conversation. She leaned to one side to talk around a seven-foot-tall, muscle-bound blue-skinned trollkin carrying a lunch bucket smaller than one of its hands.
Her hands, Kincaid corrected himself mentally. The trollkin had an ample bosom he normally would studiously ignore for fear of getting punched directly in the face.
“Lost in thought,” he called back.
“Unfamiliar territory?” Mel asked.
“Funny.”
“What?”
“I said, funny.”
Mel tried to shoulder her way around the trollkin, who looked down at her as if noticing her for the first time. Mel looked up and smiled winningly. “Just trying to get closer to my friend.”
The trollkin didn’t move.
“She’d like to stand next to me,” Kincaid said, slipping automatically into Molgur-Trul, the trollkin’s native tongue. “She won’t take much space.”
Grunting acquiescence, the trollkin raised her free hand and shoved the man to her right. The tide of the other passengers rippled all the way to the front of the trolley, allowing the trollkin to shuffle a step in that direction, and Mel slipped by to press shoulders with Kincaid. She grinned thanks up at the trollkin again then turned to Kincaid.
“Thanks. You’re pretty useful, aren’t you? It must be pretty valuable to speak troll.”
“Trollkin,” he said, glad it looked like the one in question hadn’t heard her. “Never call them ‘trolls’ unless you want to get hurt. They’re related, but they’re completely different races. And their language is called—”
“Hold that
lecture, professor. I don’t need a lecture to follow instructions. Just the same, you seem to know more than I would have expected.”
“You just said I was useful. Now you’re mocking me.”
“No, really. You speak another language, you know about other races—that’s all impressive. I can’t believe you went to prison.”
Kincaid shrugged. “Educated people still go to prison. It isn’t just stupid people who get caught. All it takes is a small lapse. One little mistake.”
“Is that what happened to you?” Mel asked. Kincaid thought she was just making chitchat, but he thought it possible she’d been assigned to uncover his background.
“Basically,” he answered. “I got away with the breaking and the entering, but I didn’t get away with the exiting. Didn’t feel like my fault at the time.”
The trolley jostled up a hill, and the rattling passage gave him justification for looking around for a handrail to grab. Three-quarters the way up the hill, a junky laborjack blocked one lane of the street as two short grey-green gobber mechaniks clambered over it with tools in hand. Most ’jacks Kincaid had seen rarely effected human mannerisms like impatience or annoyance, but this particular automaton stood with its thick iron fists on its hip joints, its featureless face cocked and to the side as if it were fastidiously ignoring the two gobbers trying to repair it. When one of them laid back its long green ears and jabbered something at the laborjack, it reached up, plucked the gobber by the back of his shirt, and dropped him into the street as if the diminutive mechanik were an annoying insect. When the gobber approached it again, the ’jack placed one hand atop the gobber’s head and held him at bay.
“We mechaniks get no respect,” Mel said, watching the scene play out as the trolley passed the ’jack, “unless you happen to work for Strangelight Workshop. Our gear is what keeps us safe, and without a mechanik, you can’t trust the gear. Last thing you need is a lantern going out when an angry ghost is coming for you.”
Relieved to be changing topics, Kincaid asked, “So, why do you do it? You catch a ghost or a spirit or what have you, and then what happens? Is Blackwell Hall like a ghost sanctuary? Or an orphanage? Or what, maybe a petting zoo?”
Wicked Ways: An Iron Kingdoms Chronicles Anthology Page 3