Grave Matters

by Lauren M. Roy

  That one, he knew. She was the Mesopotamian goddess of the underworld, a counterpart to—or perhaps the inspiration for—Persephone in the Greek pantheon. Both represented the change of seasons; both had come to their positions by being dragged away from their lives in the world above. Though for Ereshkigal, that was only one version of the story, an older one. Many others had the goddess as the sole ruler for a long time, until she was forced to share the throne with a god of war and plague and took him, eventually, as her husband.

  Elly had always chafed at that story, at the goddess being forced to share her power.

  He couldn’t remember a servant or a godling by the name of Udrai, though, which was only fair if he was reading it in a book of forgotten names.

  More research, then, but here was where his collection tapped out. It might be worth another trip to the Clearwaters’, but he didn’t want to go alone. The wards they’d set this morning would work just fine, but that didn’t mean he was going to tweak fate’s nose and tell it to test them out while no one was there to watch his back. Night Owls was out for now, too, at least until the sun set. Chaz would let him into the back if he asked, but Cavale was way too damned tired to deal with Mr. Sarcasm.

  That left one other place, if he wanted information right away. He’d have to go in to work today, after all.

  * * *

  HE CATNAPPED FIRST, half an hour on the couch to recharge, followed by a travel mug of the highest-octane coffee he could brew. It was one step down from chewing the grounds, but it did the job. Over the years, his body had acclimated to his inconsistent sleep schedule. Val called it being in your twenties, and warned him he’d probably pay for it in a decade or two, every part of his body going fuck this all at once, but for now, Cavale was able to function on a few hours’ sleep when he needed to and make up for it in long bouts later.

  They weren’t terribly surprised to see him when he strolled into the occult shop. With Halloween encroaching, there was plenty of business to be had. Gage, the manager, kept several card readers on the schedule, adding extra shifts in October as the season of spooks and spirits drew extra customers in. Although it was technically Cavale’s day off, he wouldn’t be turned away if he commandeered one of the privacy booths and slapped his nameplate up on the magnetic strip. Reducing the wait time for walk-ins was good business.

  And oh, were there plenty of walk-ins. Hecate’s Cabinet was nestled in between a florist and a consignment shop on a busy stretch of mom-and-pop stores in Granville, on the other side of Edgewood from Crow’s Neck. Three local routes converged in the middle of town, and Granville’s public planners had taken good advantage of the fact. Not only did travelers passing through get an eyeful of all the cheery storefronts as they drove along at a stately twenty-five miles per hour; they saw ample free parking and wide sidewalks. Stretch your legs, the message went, grab a bite, take a stroll.

  Spend your money here.

  It worked on locals, too, not just out-of-towners. Most of Cavale’s frequent clients were from Granville itself, or Edgewood, or other surrounding towns. He saw some familiar faces browsing the shelves, hefting healing crystals, sniffing incense sticks, reading the labels on different aromatherapy oils.

  Gage was at the front, appointment book open before him. He was in his early fifties, his hair gone a salt-and-pepper that he refused to dye back to black. It was the only place his age actually showed, though. His medium brown skin had no wrinkles, not even crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. He glanced up as Cavale approached, a smile lighting his face. “Cavale! Clocking in some extra hours today?”

  “If you don’t mind,” he said. He couldn’t help but feel a little weak-kneed around Gage. Twice his age or no, the man was easy on the eyes.

  “Sure thing. I’ll send someone back to you in a few.” He slid a second logbook out from beneath the register and passed it over. When the card readers were scheduled, they received hourly pay in addition to a percentage of the reading price and tips. If you came in unscheduled, Gage considered it as freelance work—the house took a cut for providing you with reading space and customers, but it stayed off the books. Or went on them in a different way. Cavale had never asked about the accounting.

  He signed in, took his name card, and headed to the back of the store. On his way, he paused in the book section and grabbed a few volumes that touched upon Mesopotamian mythology. Research between readings.

  Before it was Hecate’s Cabinet, the space had been a clothing store. The old dressing rooms were the perfect size to be turned into reading booths. Take out the hooks and corner benches, add some soundproof padding, a few coats of paint, a bistro table and chairs, and voilà—a space intimate enough to read tea leaves or tarot cards without feeling cramped.

  Once he was settled in, there wasn’t much time for research. Gage sent a steady stream of clients back to him, leaving only five or ten minutes between readings to flip through the books. By two o’clock, he realized he needed to get home, get some sleep, and plan to stay in that night to study uninterrupted. Gage had worked a break in for him, and he was ready to head up front and say he was done for the day when a woman tapped at the door and stuck her head inside.

  “Cavale? Gage said maybe you were free for one more?”

  “Trina, hey!” His plan to sneak out evaporated. Trina was a regular. She’d been coming to him monthly since he’d started here at Hecate’s. Other times, he might have pawned her off on one of the other readers, but she’d lost her husband over the summer and he couldn’t in good conscience send her packing. Not with the still-haunted look in her eyes. “For you, I’ll always have time. Come on in.”

  She sat down, shrugging off a jacket that was far too big for her. It took him a minute to realize the snaps and fasteners were on the wrong side for a piece of women’s clothing. It’s probably her husband’s. James’ death had been sudden, a hit-and-run accident that killed him instantly. Trina had said she was glad he hadn’t spent days hanging on, that she couldn’t have taken it. He was forty-five, leaving Trina a widow at forty. She was handling it as well as Cavale imagined anyone could; she had friends who stuck by her, men and women who popped up in her readings so often that Cavale felt like he knew some of them.

  “How are you doing?” he asked. This was one of those times he really felt the lack of normal socialization he and Elly had grown up without. They’d never made long-term friends. The funerals they’d attended had been more about making sure the deceased stayed in the coffin than being there to support the bereaved. So he didn’t know exactly what to say to Trina.

  Then again, he was fairly certain no one knew the right words for a woman who’d suffered a loss like that.

  “All right,” she said. “Better, I guess. I hear it’s a relative term.”

  He nodded and reached across the table to hold her hand. Her skin was cool and smooth, the kind of soft you got with a regular application of hand cream. She’d had her nails done, orange, with black cats and white ghosts on alternating fingers. She followed his gaze to them. “Oh those. Jill took me out for a girls’ day yesterday. I couldn’t say no.” She hesitated. “Is it too soon, do you think? Too . . . bright?”

  “No. It’s not the eighteen hundreds, Trina. You don’t have to go around for a year wearing mourning clothes.”

  She nodded, relieved. “I like them. And James would have, too.”

  “There you go, then.” He pushed the cards over to her. “Go ahead and shuffle for me, and tell me what we’re asking about today.”

  She took them. As she shuffled, the dim light caught the orange polish. “General outlook, I guess. My finances coming up. Lots of bills are kind of in the air right now.” When she was done, she handed the pile back and rested her chin on her hands. Cavale liked doing readings for her, the intense way she watched him flip the cards, the questions she asked.

  He laid them out in the Celtic Cross patte
rn, a spread that told a good story and looked at issues from several angles. He saw what he expected in the first few turns—she was hurting, on the cusp of starting to rebuild her life but not quite sure she was ready. James came up in the card representing the past—the Knight of Cups. It didn’t surprise Cavale to see him there now. The insurance payments would come in; the bills would get paid. It was a decent reading, for a woman in mourning.

  Until he pulled the Seven of Swords.

  There it was again, the Thief card, popping up as the external influence on Trina’s current situation.

  It’s her reading, not mine. It’s not the same thing.

  “Someone unethical,” he told her, “someone who doesn’t have your best interests in mind, or might try to take advantage of your grief.” The air-conditioning kicked on, a sudden blast of cold that made the lit candles gutter. The hell does Gage have that on for? It’s October. The gust pushed the cards out of formation, laying the Thief over the Knight of Cups.

  That was when he remembered there weren’t any vents here in the back. In summer, they hooked fans up to move the cool air in from the front of the store. Last winter, they’d pooled their cash and bought space heaters for the booths.

  He looked up at Trina. When she exhaled, he could see her breath. “Cold in here,” she said, and pulled James’ coat around her shoulders.

  The table started shaking.

  “Earthquake?” Her dark eyes were wide with fright. “Do we get those in Rhode Island?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know.” But he did know. He knew from the thrumming of the table beneath his fingers, the temperature drop that made mid-January feel tropical, and the sudden taste of grave dirt filling his mouth.

  They weren’t alone.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He snatched up one of the quartz crystals he kept on the table: half for its calming properties, half for pure decoration. “Trina, here, hold this,” he said, and she reached for it.

  But she didn’t get to take it. “What’s it f—” Her head snapped back so fast he heard vertebrae crackle. A shudder racked her whole body, set her vibrating at the same frequency as the table. Cavale tried to get up to go to her, to hold her still, but no matter how hard he shoved against the chair, he couldn’t stand. Phantom hands clamped on his shoulders, holding him pinned.

  Then the rattling stopped, and Trina’s head dropped back down. Cataracts filmed over her eyes; her skin had gone grey.

  It was a textbook possession.

  Might as well get some answers. “Who are you?” Cavale asked. Any second now, he expected one of the other readers to poke their head in to see what the commotion was. Guilty as he felt not expelling the spirit right away, some old teachings died hard. He wasn’t quite as cold as Father Value, didn’t think of Trina as an interesting anomaly, but as he’d told Val this morning, neither did he believe in coincidence. The Thief card was up and a spirit was in control of his client. The two had to be related. “What do you want with me?”

  When she opened her mouth, all that came out was static.

  That’s what happened with Elly’s ghost. “I’m sorry. You’re not getting through. Can you . . . can you nod if you can understand me?”

  Trina’s head bobbed, once.

  “Okay. Good.” He looked down at the Knight of Cups, made the leap. “Am I talking to James?”

  Nod.

  “Are you, uh. Are you here alone?”

  Nod.

  “James, have you been with Trina this whole time? Since your accident?”

  Her head turned side to side, but the dark shadows in the middle of those filmy eyes never left Cavale’s face.

  “No, okay. So someone brought you back. Recently?”

  Nod.

  “Within the last few days?”

  Nod.

  “Do you know why?”

  Head shake.

  “Do you know who it was? Was it someone you knew?”

  Shake. Hesitate. Shake again.

  “Let’s talk about where, then. Have you been at home or with Trina?”

  Shake.

  “With the person who called you?”

  Nod.

  “Do you know where they were holding you?”

  Nod.

  Cavale tapped his lips. Twenty questions was going to take forever. He almost wished he had a Ouija board back here. Or a map. Pen and paper. Anything. My phone. He slid it out of his pocket and woke it up. “Can you spell the place out for me on this?”

  Trina—no, this is James—thumped the table to get his attention. Those pretty hands came together, thumbs hooked, fingers splayed. They fluttered like wings.

  “A bird?”

  Nod. Then they unhooked, and her right hand came up jerkily to tap at her collarbone. Moved up an inch.

  “Throat. No, neck. Crow’s Neck? They’re holding you in Crow’s Neck?”

  Nod.

  When Trina’s hand dropped back into her lap, a smudge marred the skin of her throat. It twisted, becoming less and less a smear. Cavale watched in horror as it squirmed into lines that assembled themselves into that damned sigil. “Udrai,” he whispered. “Is that who’s holding you?”

  Trina’s head whipped violently from side to side.

  The temperature was rising. I’m losing him. The necromancer’s pulling him away. He wanted to ask more questions, to glean as much as he possibly could about whoever was controlling the ghosts and ghouls, to find out just what the hell it was they wanted while James still had control. But he only had seconds left now, and maybe Father Value hadn’t taught him compassion, but God damn it, he’d learned it once he got away. “James, Trina misses you very, very much. She loves you. I know she wishes she could have said good-bye. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

  Nod. Nod, and nod, and nod. Tears streamed down Trina’s cheeks, but they weren’t hers.

  One last exhale, and Trina slumped forward. Cavale caught her head before it could smash into the table, easing it down gently. Now he could stand, and he rushed around to kneel at her side.

  She came around after a minute, groaning softly. The tears were gone, her eyeliner not even smudged. Must’ve been ectoplasm. “Cavale? Did I faint?”

  It was easier than telling her the truth. “Yeah. Only for a moment. I thought you were looking kind of peaked when you first sat down. Have you been feeling all right?”

  “I guess I’ve felt a little under the weather,” she said. Amazing how simple it was to get people questioning themselves, with the right kind of nudge. Elly used to say he could be a grifter if he wanted, he was that good. Except he always felt bad when he did it. Not exactly a good trait for the job.

  “Maybe you should take it slow for the rest of the day. Go home and get some rest.”

  Trina nodded. This time the movement was natural.

  “Do you want to sit here for a while, make sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “No. I’m all right.” She stood and slipped her arms inside James’ coat sleeves. “It’s funny,” she said. “I haven’t been able to smell him on this since I’ve started wearing it. But I just got a whiff of his aftershave.” She picked up the Knight of Cups and smiled. “Do you think he knows, wherever he is? How much I miss him?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  * * *

  TRINA HADN’T WANTED time to recover, but Cavale needed a few minutes to regroup once she’d gone. He tidied up the room for the next reader, picking spots of dried wax off the tablecloth from when the candles had sputtered. The necromancer was in Crow’s Neck. They had some tie to Udrai, but Cavale thought it was unlikely a forgotten deity—was Udrai even a deity?—would have dedicated priests or priestesses. James’ accident was only a couple months ago. If he went back and looked at the obituaries, would he find a gunshot victim in the papers around the same time? Wou
ld he find a picture of the ghoul from this morning there as well?

  Judging from the lack of disgruntled faces peeking out from the other rooms, no one had heard a damned thing. Which was a relief—he could convince Trina nothing had happened, but other readers? No, not likely. Though one of the guys a couple doors over claimed he was a medium. His lack of reaction had Cavale seriously questioning that now. He ought to have noticed.

  He picked up his cards and his crystals and carried the books he hadn’t been able to read to the front. Gage let them sign books out, as long as they came back in perfect condition. He made small talk as Gage cashed him out and noted down the titles, but his mind was busy churning over what James had said. Or nodded.

  A man stood outside by the door, handing out business cards. He was bundled up against the chill, coat buttoned all the way, scarf covering his mouth. He was overdoing it a bit, Cavale thought; but then again, he never tended to wear a heavy enough coat for the weather himself.

  “Take a card? Psychic services and spiritual advice,” the guy said. He had a heavy smoker’s voice, and collapsed into a cough to go with it. At least he hacked into his elbow, like the public health posters suggested, rather than into Cavale’s face.

  “Sorry, buddy, I’m all set.”

  “First session’s free, though, so you know it’s the real thing.” He went for the ballsy, obnoxious move of sticking one of his cards in the top book like a bookmark. “You hold on to that and think about it, maybe.”

  Cavale sighed. This wasn’t all that unusual, people standing outside Hecate’s Cabinet trying to poach their business. Gage was protective of his stable of readers, so he didn’t allow the competition’s flyers up in the store. He also didn’t hire just anyone to come and take his customers’ money. Most of the people who came in to audition for a spot were turned away. “Barking up the wrong tree, my friend. I work here.”

  “Oh. Uh . . . Oh.” The guy peered at Cavale and his stack of books. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” He backed away, cringing as if Cavale might haul off and hit him. Usually these guys railed on about free speech and public sidewalks when he tried moving them along. It was a refreshing change.