I started a new thread, detailing the more unusual points of the case without revealing enough that anyone would guess my client’s identity. Not that anyone of the Dead Club was local. To the best of my knowledge, Rianna and I were the only grave witches in Nekros currently and the next closest lived more than a hundred miles to the east in Atlanta. But I still kept the finer points and the exact nature of Kingly’s suicide vague to protect my client’s privacy. I went ahead and added a line or two about the medical abnormalities discovered in autopsy, as well as the peculiar weight loss. With our affinity for the dead, some grave witches went into fields dealing directly with bodies. If I was lucky, I’d find another medical examiner who’d seen these same oddities paired with memory loss.
But I wasn’t lucky.
The boards were crowded, so my thread received ample attention, but most of the responses were more question than answer. Unfortunately, they were all questions I’d already asked myself, so not much help. Some users offered theories, and while I appreciated their out of the box thinking, the ideas were clearly not fully thought out. Such as the user who suggested that my client had died that first night, at the time of the memory loss, but his body had been guarded from collectors for three days until his suicide was staged and the soul allowed to be collected.
At first blush, not a terrible theory. If killed inside a circle or inside a cemetery or some other place a collector couldn’t traverse, a soul could get stuck inside a dead body until the body decayed so far the—usually already faded—ghost popped free without the assistance of a collector. But for the theory to work one would have to overlook the fact that Kingly had definitely jumped off the top of the building, not been a dead body tossed over the side. And the memory loss? A soul trapped inside a body still recorded what was happening. Being dead it couldn’t see or hear, but it would be aware of the body decaying around it. Kingly’s shade hadn’t recounted anything like that. From what he’d said, he’d died from the fall. Besides, Tamara would have noticed if the body had been several days dead before hitting the roof of that car.
Sadly, that theory was the most plausible suggested. And it was impossible. I left the thread active, just in case, but logged off for the night. Then I collapsed onto my bed, still fully dressed.
It was after two, and I was tired, but the conflicting and seemingly impossible details of the case buzzed around my mind. The fact Kingly had jumped off that building was undeniable. But was it suicide or murder? Had something happened in the three missing days that would have driven the man to kill himself? It was possible. Seemingly more possible than murder as not even the darkest blood or death magic could overpower one’s sense of self-preservation. And what about the memory loss? I’d heard rumors about agents whose knowledge was so classified that each carried a spell in his or her body that would obliterate the shade in the event of death. No shade meant no way to extract secrets postmortem.
But Kingly was a norm—would he have considered the fact that whatever happened during that missing time wouldn’t die with him? The timing of the missing memories was highly suspect as well. Not so much when the memory loss began, but when it ended and the shade started recording again. If Kingly had acquired some charm or potion to erase his own memory, the logical time for him to activate it would be on the roof, or after he jumped as he might not have remembered he wanted to jump if he activated the spell too early. The shade didn’t remember the roof. Or the fall. No, the memories started again after hitting the car. According to Tamara, medical death had occurred on impact. So medically, Kingly was dead before his soul started recording again.
Then there was the fact I hadn’t felt any magic at the scene. Granted I hadn’t gotten very close and the Quarter has its own ambiance of never-ending magic that numbed my sensitivity. But Tamara hadn’t felt any trace of a spell either, and a spell that could do what was done to Kingly? It had to be huge, which should have made it hard to miss.
Unless it wasn’t a spell.
What was it Conan Doyle’s fictional Baker Street sleuth had said: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
What if I wasn’t looking for a solution in witch magic at all, but one in fae magic? Though he was dead, I knew of at least one fae who could steal bodies and walk around in their skin. Of course, when he stole a body he ejected the body’s soul, taking its place. Kingly’s soul had been inside his body until the end. Unless it was removed and then reinserted? But was that possible? And if it was, wouldn’t Kingly’s ghost remember the missing three days? And wouldn’t the body have started decaying as soon as the soul was removed?
Again I wished I had a way to contact Death. He may or may not answer my questions about whether a soul could be removed and returned, but at least I’d have someone to talk to and bounce ideas off. I’d heard Caleb and Holly return hours ago, but I hadn’t dared go downstairs. So now, completely alone aside from the dog snoring lightly on the pillow beside me, I reviewed everything I knew again, tried to examine it from different angles. Any way I looked at it, nothing fit.
I frowned at my ceiling. Maybe I was making this too complicated. Witch magic could explain the memory wipe but not the compulsion to jump, but maybe fae magic could overcome self-preservation? I’d never heard of anything like that, but folklore was filled with stories of fae tricking mortals to their death. Of course, they usually made things that weren’t there appear through glamour, like a guiding light hanging several feet past the edge of a cliff.
I stopped. Could that be it? Could Kingly remember being at the bar and then being dead because he was experiencing a glamoured illusion of the bar? Maybe the days weren’t missing. I just hadn’t asked him to recount the correct events. If he’d been trapped in an illusion, he could have thought he was climbing off his barstool or walking across the room when he “jumped” off the building. Except, if that was the case, where was he during the missing days?
I had no idea. But I knew someone who might.
I dug the business card out of my pocket and flipped it over, staring at the number. He did say to call about trouble involving fae. I couldn’t be positive my case did, but I finally had a legitimate excuse to contact Falin.
Chapter 10
I checked that I’d entered the correct number three times before I tapped the CALL button, my heart thudding hard enough I felt it in my throat. It rang once, twice.
I hit END. My breath fast for no good reason.
What are you doing, Alex? I was just calling him about business, right? It had nothing to do with the fact I wanted to hear his voice. Yeah, even I can’t convince myself of that.
It would be smarter not to call. To avoid all contact until I forgot about him. Not like that would be easy with the weekly raids or him leaving roses on my pillow. I glanced at where the rose sat in its chipped glass on my bed stand and a shiver of excitement tingled through me. I closed my eyes, my body reacted to the memory of our last kiss, my skin tightening and my breath catching, even though I didn’t want to remember.
And of course, thinking about the fact I didn’t want to think about it only made everything worse. My heart raced, encouraging the giddy feeling in my chest and my palms dampened with nerves. What, was I fourteen again? This was pathetic.
There were two men I was currently interested in. And the fact of the matter was that I couldn’t have either of them. So get over it, Alex, and make the damn business call. At least Falin had a phone. Short of a suicide attempt, I couldn’t call Death.
I hit redial before I had a chance to change my mind again. The call was answered on the first ring.
“Andrews,” a deep voice, rough with sleep, said as way of greeting.
“Falin?”
There was a pause, then, without a hint of the earlier grogginess, “Alexis.”
My name, my true name, was a whisper from his lips, as if he barely dared to believe I’d called, and as if the one word were so much more. I used to h
ate my given name, used to hear my father’s disinterested or disapproving tone in each syllable. But Falin made my name sound intimate, like a caress.
I shivered, though it was warmth, not a chill, that flushed my skin. On the other side of the phone I heard him move, most likely to sit up, and I imagined the sheets falling away to pool at his hips. Okay, yeah, he was naked in my imagination. So pathetic. And not conducive to finding out the information I needed.
Right. Kingly. The case. Focus on that.
But when I opened my mouth, regardless of my intentions, what I blurted out was, “I got the rose.”
Smooth.
And worse? The phone was silent. He’d hung up.
Damn the queen and her edict.
I hit REDIAL, too angry to bother thinking it through.
“This better have something to do with the fae,” he said without a word of greeting. The warmth present in his voice when he’d first said my name was gone. Now his tone was hard, professional.
It stung. Even if I knew why. The rule was no fraternizing. Shop talk only.
So I got down to business and told him everything I knew about the events surrounding Kingly’s death. Falin stopped me a few times for clarification, but mostly he just listened. When I finished, he was silent long enough that I checked to make sure he hadn’t hung up again.
No, we were connected.
“Falin? Are you there? Could a fae be behind this?”
He answered my question with a question. “The police are not looking into this as anything more than a suicide?”
“Since the shade can’t say he was murdered, no, they won’t open an investigation.”
Silence again. Thick, and heavy, even through the phone. Moments dragged, as if he were putting off what he didn’t want to say. And I soon understood why—it certainly wasn’t anything I wanted to hear.
“There is no reason for the FIB to get involved in the case.”
“But—” I started.
He cut me off.
“If the FIB opens an investigation, even discreetly, it would imply we believed the fae or fae magic was involved. Even if an investigation proved otherwise, the humans would be suspicious of the next suicide and many more after that. Do you know how many people attempt suicide every hour in this country? It reeks of a potential political nightmare.”
My free hand curled into a fist, my nails biting into my palm. “So because no one is questioning Kingly’s death, it’s okay to let a murderer go free so that it doesn’t create bad press for your queen.”
“This is not an FIB matter.” Cold. Hard. Matter of fact. There would be no arguing.
And it hurt. Sticks and stones my ass. It wasn’t even the words, it was his tone that could cut.
“Fine,” I sounded defensive. I could hate it, but I couldn’t help it. “Can you at least tell me if there are any fae in the city capable of the kind of magic it would take to force a mortal to commit suicide?”
“Ask your green man.”
“I can’t. Caleb is currently pissed and threatening to evict me because of your raids.”
The silence was different this time. Sharper, with an edge of surprise. Then he sighed and I could imagine him running his fingers through his long blond hair the way he did when lost in troublesome thoughts.
“Some fae can intensify emotion, turning irritation into rage or sadness into despair,” he finally said. The hardness had left his voice, in its place what could be described only as weariness, but not actually friendship. “And as you guessed, some fae can create illusions so flawless a mortal could walk into their death while seeing something benign. But force a man to jump from a building using compulsion?” He paused. “No, our magic could no more do that than a witch’s could.”
I wanted to thank him. I opened my mouth to do just that. Then I closed it again. It would be reckless and foolish to create a debt over a bit of information. Falin belonged to the Winter Queen. If I was indebted to Falin, she was the one who could call it in.
“Okay.” The word was flat, not showing the appreciation I wanted, but I was tired. This conversation, this game we were playing—it was too hard.
“Anything else?” he asked.
Yes. I had so many questions. But none pertained to the case. “No.”
He paused a long moment, then said, “Sleep well, Alexis,” his voice once again warm, soft.
I tried to savor the kindness in that tone. To let it take away the sting and the awkwardness of our conversation, to let it remind me that he wasn’t avoiding me on purpose.
It wasn’t enough.
And yet, I’d call again if I could. I knew I would.
“G’night,” I whispered.
Too late. He was already gone.
“That sounded tense.”
I whirled toward the direction of the voice. Roy sat in the corner of the room, slowly and deliberately picking up one block at a time.
“How much did you hear?”
The ghost shrugged and a green block with the letter B on it slid through his fingers. He let out a string of curse words that made my ears burn.
“Leave them,” I said. “I’ll gather your blocks and take them to your broom closet in the morning.”
“You mean my office.”
Nope, I’d meant broom closet, but I kept my mouth shut. If he wanted to call it an office, it would be an office. Stretching my arms over my head, I yawned, and my jaw popped. Clearly I’d been gritting my teeth too much lately. Though if that was Ryese’s fault or the fact the case kept leading me in circles, I couldn’t be sure.
“I’m going to bed,” I told the ghost, which by long-standing agreement, signaled that he had to leave. “Wish me a solution to this puzzle in my sleep as opposed to good dreams, will you?”
“Case not going well?”
“Understatement.” Though in truth, I didn’t have a case. Not yet at least. I’d been hired only to perform a ritual, but I was invested in this mystery so I hoped Nina Kingly would hire me to continue the investigation.
“Anything I can do. I am a private investigator, after all.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d given him an office and now he was a PI? “Roy, you know you have to have a license to be a PI in Nekros, right?”
“So what, I need to take a test?”
I yawned again, my eyes momentarily tearing from exhaustion “Yeah, a test. And about forty hours of classes, which, as the teacher wouldn’t be able to see you, you would be hard-pressed to prove you attended.”
“That’s discrimination.”
“Well, you could gather a bunch of ghosts and protest discrimination against the corporeally challenged. Unfortunately, no one would notice.”
He frowned, but the look wasn’t just unamused, it was…frightened?
I’d been headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, but that look stopped me. It also made me remember how Roy had acted around James earlier in the day.
“You don’t get along with other ghosts, do you?”
“You wouldn’t either, if you were dead.”
“You’re right. Ghosts are intolerable,” I said, giving him a pointed look. I was tired. It was time for bed.
His frown didn’t change, if anything, it etched itself deeper in his face. “A better word would be insatiable.”
Huh?
“You ever see a ghost fade?” he asked, wrapping his arms around his chest as if holding himself together.
I nodded. Most cemetery haunts were so faded they no longer remembered who they’d once been.
“Yeah, well, there’s only one way to keep from fading, and that’s to maintain a certain level of leftover life force. By whatever means necessary.”
I had the feeling I didn’t like where this was going.
“I’m guessing not too many ghosts attach themselves to planeweaving grave witches who pump them full of power?”
Roy stared at me, the unmistakable “duh” written across his face.
I swallowed, forgetting ho
w tired I was. “So ghosts cannibalize each other for their life force?”
He nodded.
That was…well, I had a lot of deplorable words to describe it, but what made my skin crawl was much more personal. I saw a soul being sucked dry in my nightmares. And not my soul, because I was the cannibal. The scary part was that the nightmare wasn’t just a bad dream. It was a memory. Yeah, there was a reason I had blood on my hands when I visited Faerie.
“So when you and Kingly were sizing each other up…?”
“Hey, I’ve got you,” Roy said. “I was just making sure he wasn’t going to jump me. Something’s obviously been sucking on him. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he’d been dead years, not a week.”
Interesting. “Can you be more specific?”
“Not really. Might have been another ghost, but I’m thinking something nasty from the waste. Everything is energy in the land of the dead, and most of the really bad stuff hangs out in the wastelands.”
I’d read that last bit in school years ago. It was why grave magic should be performed only in a circle.
“So what makes you think something ate part of our ghost?” I asked, leaning against the bathroom doorjamb.
“Are you kidding? He’s newly dead so he should be at the strongest he’ll ever be unless he starts hunting and draining other ghosts. Instead he looks like someone stuck a straw in him and sucked out a chunk of his core. Kind of weird though. It’s like he’s fading from that one section outward. Sort of like how rot spreads.”
I stared at Roy. Well, maybe he does deserve his own office. I certainly hadn’t noticed anything odd about Kingly’s ghost. Granted, what he’d said only added one more question to my already long list, but maybe if I knew the right questions to ask, I’d hit the right answer.
Chapter 11
Grave Memory: An Alex Craft Novel Page 10