My gaze slid to the ghost, who’d sunk to his knees beside her and was carrying on a rambling monologue about how he loved her and their baby and how he would never have killed himself. She couldn’t hear a word of it, but I could. Not that he knew that. I looked back at his widow.
“Your husband has been quite insistent about the fact he had too much to live for and wouldn’t leave you and the baby.”
Her lips pursed and the muscles around her jaw twitched as she clenched her teeth. “Ms. Craft, I have no interest in what platitudes you think I might want to hear. I suppose next you’ll tell me you can feel my husband’s presence and he’s close by, watching over me. I shouldn’t have come here. You’re nothing more than a charlatan profiting off the grief of the weak-minded.”
It took every ounce of self-control in me not to reach out and make her husband’s ghost visible just to prove how very real my magic was. But as tightly wound as she was, I wasn’t sure what that kind of shock would do to her. She looked about to pop, and I didn’t want to send her into premature labor because I sure as hell didn’t know how to deliver a baby. Instead I settled for saying, “I assure you that I am fully OMIH certified in grave magic.”
She gave a huff under her breath.
“What exactly is it you want me to do for you, Mrs. Kingly?” Because surely she hadn’t come to the office simply to insult me.
“The police have written off my husband’s death as a suicide. Whether you are a fraud or not, it seems the two of us are the only ones convinced he didn’t jump off that building, regardless of what witnesses saw or what evidence the police think they found. If you can truly prove that his death was…” She stopped and this time the tears that had been threatening trailed over. She flicked them away without a word and I dutifully ignored the tears.
To fill the silence while she regained her composure I said, “I can raise his shade and find out what really happened on that rooftop.” Or I could just talk to his ghost, but if she needed proof for her insurance company, only a shade’s recounting of the event would be legally sufficient. While the court system was still working out the validity of allowing shades to testify in their own murder cases, insurance companies had acknowledged the validity of shades’ claims for nearly fifteen years. A ghost could swear and promise as much as they wanted, but just like when they were living, ghosts could lie. Shades couldn’t. They were just recordings of a person’s life. If I raised James Kingly’s shade and he said he jumped, that would be the end of it. If he said he tripped, the insurance company would have to rule it an accidental death and pay out.
“Normally I would encourage you to join me at the gravesite, but I imagine your husband’s funeral was closed casket and you don’t need to remember him as he died.” Because the shade would look exactly as it had the moment the soul left it—which would have been after Kingly hit the roof of the car. I hadn’t taken a close look, but I’d seen enough to know that no one needed to see her loved one in that condition. “You can send your lawyers and insurance reps to the graveyard to meet me—”
“This has nothing to do with insurance.” Mrs. Kingly’s words were all but a shout and if she could have shoved herself out of the chair and stomped out, she may have done so in that moment.
“I…” I caught the apology before it left my lips. I had too much fae in me to offer false regret and there was no reason to incur a debt over something like this. But I couldn’t leave the sentence at just “I” so I finished by saying, “I didn’t know.”
She could have frozen a lake with her glare. Again I wondered if she’d walk out, but after a moment she said, “And James isn’t buried. He’s still at the morgue.”
I blinked and counted backward to figure out how many days he’d been there. Medical examiners usually tried to get bodies back to their families as quickly as possible, but James had been there over a week. If the police were so certain he’d committed suicide, why wouldn’t they have released the body by now? I repeated as much aloud but Mrs. Kingly gave me only a grim shake of her head.
“I’ve called in every favor and used every bit of influence my family has to encourage the police to investigate James’s death, but despite everything—even my threat to not donate to the annual police ball this year—they are still releasing his body to Sweet Rest Funeral Home tomorrow. His body can’t be allowed to leave the morgue. If it does, they’ll never prove he was murdered.”
“Murdered?” I was assuming there had been an accident. I’d certainly seen no sign the man had been murdered. Granted, I hadn’t arrived until after he hit the car, but the police had looked into the matter. If there were indications someone had pushed him over the edge of that building, they’d have continued looking into the case. “You’re convinced it was murder?”
“There is no other explanation.”
I disagreed but kept my mouth closed.
“James shouldn’t have been on that roof, and he shouldn’t have been anywhere near the Magic Quarter. We’re Humans First Party. We don’t support magic or its practitioners.” She lifted her chin, as if daring me to say anything about that last bit of information.
I almost groaned, but I should have guessed she supported the Humans First Party, an anti-fae/anti-witch political group. The ring, the attitude—it all made sense. Except that she was here. And one other thing.
“Do you know what a sensitive is, Mrs. Kingly?”
She gave a sharp shake of her head, but the fact she didn’t meet my eyes betrayed the lie. Not that it mattered.
“A sensitive is someone who can feel magic,” I said, and not only did she continue to avoid my eyes but a flush of color filled her cheeks. I continued: “As well as being a grave witch, I’m a sensitive, which means I can feel the charm you’re wearing. It’s a good one. A medicinal grade charm to help with your pregnancy, if I’m not mistaken.”
She didn’t try to deny it, nor did she lift her gaze.
“You look very young, Ms. Craft.” She wrapped her arms under her belly as if cradling the child within. “James and I were so focused on our careers when we were younger, we didn’t even think about starting a family until I was in my late thirties. We were established then. It seemed like the perfect time. But we had trouble conceiving, and once we did…” She paused as the words caught in her throat. “I miscarried. Twice. When we got pregnant a third time, we decided to give this baby the best chance we could. That’s the only reason we turned to magic.”
I sighed. I couldn’t help it. The Humans First Party members tended to be extremists, but from what I’d seen, her attitude was typical: magic and its users were dangerous and needed more regulations and restrictions, unless, of course, a party member wanted to secretly utilize that magic. Unfortunately, they were extremists who were gaining seats in Congress. Even Nekros had a Human First party governor, but then, he was actually a fae in deep hiding—and my father—so that was a different and entirely screwed up situation.
I didn’t know what to say to Mrs. Kingly. I wasn’t going to turn her down as a client simply because she was a hypocrite—I’d worked for worse. The real problem was that I doubted I could get the results she wanted. I might be able to prove her husband’s death was an accident, maybe, depending on what the shade said. But murder?
I glanced at the ghost of James Kingly. He cooed sympathetic reassurances to his wife—which she couldn’t hear and were no help to me in figuring out what had happened to him. I wished I could get him alone for a moment and ask him some questions, but I didn’t see how without alerting Mrs. Kingly to his presence, which would have probably made his day but was likely to push her over the edge of what she could accept.
“He wouldn’t have killed himself, Ms. Craft,” she said in a small voice. One that lacked the edge she’d brandished since walking through my door. “And he wouldn’t have run off. He wanted this baby.”
“Coming to the Quarter isn’t an indication he was running off. Maybe he was looking for another charm for the baby?�
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She shook her head. The tears had finally won, cutting paths through her makeup and making her mascara run. Oh yeah, I definitely need to get some tissues for my desk. The ghost pushing to his feet drew my attention from my living client.
“I didn’t. I swear to you I didn’t,” he said, his shimmery hands curling into fists and then flexing again. He paced behind her. “Why would you say I ran off? I never left.”
Okay. Now that was odd.
I looked at my client, whose bravado had completely crumpled under her grief. “When you say he ran off, what exactly do you mean?”
She scrubbed the tears from her eyes with the base of her palm, further smearing her makeup. “He…” She broke off to sniffle. “He called me after work, about four days before…before it happened. He said he had to take some clients to dinner, which wasn’t unusual except that he hadn’t told me about it beforehand. That was the last time I heard from him. I reported him missing the next day. When the police showed up at the door”—she sniffled again—“I knew it was bad news. I couldn’t think of any reason he wouldn’t have come home if he were okay. I just didn’t expect…I didn’t expect them to tell me it had just happened. Or that they suspected he’d jumped.” Another sniffle. “You said you have a bathroom?”
I showed her to it, but grabbed the ghost’s arm before he could follow her inside.
“Hey,” he yelled, staring at my hand on his arm. “You, you can see me?”
No, I randomly grabbed at air and happened to catch the arm of a ghost. Of course, I really didn’t expect any other response. The question was practically obligatory. Grave witches were the only people who could see ghosts, and we weren’t exactly plentiful. As far as I knew, I was the only grave witch who could also touch ghosts. Still, I wanted to avoid a scene directly outside the bathroom door. The wood wasn’t thick and me having a one-sided conversation wasn’t likely to instill much confidence in my client. So I pressed my finger over my lips and dragged the ghost back to my office.
“What really happened on that roof?”
The ghost stared at me wide-eyed for a moment before saying, “You really can see me? And hear me? You have to tell my wife I love her and that I didn’t jump.”
“Right, I got that already. Now, the roof. What happened?”
The ghost frowned. “I’m not sure.”
Seriously? “How can you not be sure?”
“I…I don’t remember going up to that roof. One minute I was in Delaney’s, a little Irish pub between work and my house, and then I hit a car and some guy was pulling me out of my body.”
That “guy” would have been the collector, though since both Death and the gray man had been there, I wasn’t sure which one, but that wasn’t the important part of the story.
“Let’s go back to the beginning. You were with some clients at the pub and then what?”
“And then nothing. Just pain and the feeling of my head caving in and my bones snapping.” The ghost shivered with the memory of his quick but gruesome death.
That would mean he was missing a little more than three days—which could happen, I’d lost hours and days in Faerie before—but he hadn’t said he’d gone to the Eternal Bloom, Nekros’s only fae bar. “Okay, so you were at the Irish pub. Who are the clients you were with?”
The ghost swallowed. “Uh…” I could almost see the thoughts circling around in his head, trying to decide how to answer, how much to admit to. He’d never taken clients to the little Irish pub. I could see it all over his face. But he was still trying to decide if he should tell me as much.
And that was the problem with ghosts. They could lie.
Chapter 5
By the time Mrs. Kingly emerged from the bathroom, her makeup was once again perfect—as was the cold chip on her shoulder. Aside from the fact he’d lied to his widow during their last conversation, I hadn’t learned anything useful from James, and of course, I went back to ignoring him as soon as the door opened and Mrs. Kingly reappeared. James didn’t want to talk about whatever had happened during those unaccounted for days. I’d have to wait until I questioned the shade to get any real answers.
“You can do the ritual tonight, right?” Mrs. Kingly asked, and I hesitated, my hand halfway across the desk with the blank contract for hire that Rianna and I had drawn up as well as several OMIH regulated forms.
Tonight? “I don’t do nighttime rituals.”
“You don’t need darkness and moonlight and all that?”
I didn’t groan at the stereotypical—and completely incorrect—assumption but my “no” was perhaps overly terse. I ended up blind enough in broad daylight, doing rituals at night would be downright stupid.
“But you can do it today? His body will be picked up tomorrow and you need to prove it was murder before he leaves the morgue.”
Her insistence was on the side of frantic and I had the feeling that she was one breath away from either yelling or a repeat of the earlier waterworks. Neither appealed to me, so I aimed for a placating smile and tried to keep my voice calm as I said, “I can raise the shade this afternoon, but I can’t give you any guarantees that his death will be decreed a murder. It all depends on what the shade says.”
“It’s murder.” The words were matter of fact without any room for question as she signed and dated a consent form to grant me access to her husband’s body while in the morgue.
I wished I could be half as sure.
“And find out where he was those three days he was missing. I’m assuming kidnapped by whomever killed him, but I need to know.” The smallest tinge of doubt crawled into her voice with the last, as if some small part of her believed what everyone kept telling her—that her husband’s death was a suicide.
Well, I’ll know soon enough.
I went over the contract with her but she stopped me when I reached the portion about paying a retainer fee upfront.
“How will I know you’ve really performed the ritual? What if something goes wrong? Am I just out that money?”
“You’re more than welcome to accompany me,” I said and the color drained from her face.
“You could maybe, record it? In audio I mean. I don’t want to see…”
I nodded, not making her finish the sentence. Since I’d be performing the ritual at the morgue, making a recording wouldn’t be an issue. Hell, when I consulted for the police, the ritual was always recorded. The fact that all the equipment needed was already set up for autopsies helped. I’d just record the ritual and then detach the audio file for Mrs. Kingly.
We were finishing the last of the paperwork when the chime on the door sounded. This time I did recognize the tingle of magic—Rianna. She popped into my office, Desmond at her side, but backed out again when she saw the client at my desk. She smiled, but curiosity peeked through her expression. I wasn’t surprised when her eyes flashed with an inner light as she opened her shields. Her gaze landed on the ghost of James Kingly and that smile widened as her eyebrows raised in an expression I recognized well from our academy days. I could almost hear the unsaid “I told you so.” I wanted to roll my eyes—just like I would have when we were younger, but I didn’t think Mrs. Kingly would find that half as amusing as Rianna. I waved my hand, the movement more shooing motion than greeting.
Once Mrs. Kingly left, I grabbed my purse and headed across the lobby. “I’m off to the morgue.”
Rianna looked up from a paperback—a mystery novel, no doubt. “You’ll be back in time for dinner?”
She needed to be inside Faerie during sunset and sunrise as those were the times between, when day and night changed and Faerie’s magic was at its weakest. If she strayed in the mortal realm without Faerie’s magic supporting her, all her years would catch up with her. I’d seen it happen to another changeling and it wasn’t a pretty way to die.
“If it looks like I’m running late, go on without me. Holly and I can meet you there.” After all, Rianna didn’t need me to get into Faerie, and with signs of fall all ar
ound, the sunset was earlier each evening. Holly, on the other hand, needed an escort who was on the VIP list.
Rianna nodded, but her expression dropped slightly before her eyes returned to her book. I waved at Desmond as I passed him. The barghest ignored me, which was pretty typical.
I’d just reached the front door when I paused.
“Oh yeah, by the way,” I said, my hand hovering over the door handle. “I forgot to tell you. Roy moved into the broom closet.” And with that, I left.
“She’s roped you into this wild-goose chase too, huh?” Tamara, the lead medical examiner and one of my best friends, said as she wheeled a sheet-covered gurney out of the morgue’s cold room. “I mean, it’s a terrible, tragic thing, and I pity her having to deal with it in her condition, but she needs to come to terms with the fact her husband jumped.”
“So you don’t think there’s a chance this is anything other than suicide?” I asked, but I was only half paying attention. Grave essence was wafting out of the now shut door of the cold room, and despite the fact I once again had my shields locked as tightly as I could possibly maintain, I could feel its cold but seductive touch. I could also feel the fact she had nine bodies in the room, and the gender and approximate age of each—way too much was getting through my shields.
Tamara didn’t notice my distraction, that or she was accustomed to me acting a little odd in the morgue. “Not a chance. This guy didn’t just jump, he dove off that building, and judging by the injures I found—and almost as important, those I didn’t find—he didn’t attempt to brace himself or break the fall.”
Then why is the ghost so insistent? I glanced at the gurney. The lumpy form the sheet covered was too flat, the outline wrong for an adult man’s body. But it was a body, and from my interaction with his ghost, I could tell without a doubt it was Kingly’s body. I was glad that sheet wouldn’t have to be removed, but I wasn’t looking forward to seeing the condition of his shade.
Grave Memory: An Alex Craft Novel Page 5