“Sure,” she said, and I noted the relief in her voice. Shutting the door, I stepped back so she could get to the Bloom. She wasn’t exactly cutting it close, but it was closer than she liked.
I waved at the blur that was my car before letting myself into the offices of Tongues for the Dead. Only the smallest amount of the evening sunlight filtered through the front window, which pretty much left the lobby pitch-black to me. I sighed, feeling along the wall for the light switch when a crash sounded from farther inside the office and a shimmery head popped through the door of the broom closet.
“Hey, Alex,” Roy said, stepping though the door once he saw it was me. “Where have you been? Someone stopped by the office while you were gone.”
Just my luck. “Do you know who it was?”
“She left a note. I put it on your desk.” The accomplishment in his voice at moving a piece of paper from one room to another was so thick that I couldn’t help smiling.
“Good work,” I told him and the ghost beamed.
“So are we on the same case? What can I do?”
“Yes, to the first and as to the second, I’m not even sure what I can do,” I said, my smile falling away as weariness from a day filled with two rituals, a visit from a militant official, and too many questions without any answers settled on me once again.
The ghost’s glowing happiness evaporated. “Oh, well, I guess if you need me I’ll be in my office.” He floated back through his door without another word.
If I could have thought of a single thing I needed that he could accomplish, I’d have gone after him, but I had nothing, so I retreated to my own office. As Roy had promised, a folded note sat in the center of my desk. I picked it up and found it contained a name, Kelly Kirkwood, followed by a phone number and the words please call me in all capital letters.
I woke my computer and squinted to make out the time on the screen—it was quarter till seven. After business hours for sure, but not actually late. But am I up to talking to the widow of a man I identified this morning?
Not really, but it wasn’t like I had much else to do while I waited for Caleb and Holly.
I dialed the number provided. It was answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” the female voice was hoarse, and the single word had the slightest hitch in it, as if the speaker would break into tears at any moment.
“Hi, this is Alex Craft, I’m calling for—”
“Oh, thank goodness. I’m Kelly,” the woman said, cutting me off. “You identified my husband, Richard, today.”
I couldn’t tell from her tone if that was a good thing or a bad one. I mean, sad, obviously, but some people got rather pissy when grave witches raised their loved ones without permission. As I didn’t know which way Kelly Kirkwood would swing, all I said was, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Why did Rick do it? Did he tell you? The medical examiner wouldn’t say, but I have to know. Please.”
I cringed at her please as much as the plea to know why, which I couldn’t answer. Or could I? Didn’t she deserve to know that her husband hadn’t killed himself?
My hesitation wasn’t long, but I also wasn’t the one anxiously waiting an answer. She was.
“I’ll pay you,” she said, “even if the police already paid you, I’ll pay you your normal rate for the ritual you already performed. Just tell me what he said.”
“Mrs. Kirkwood—”
“Kelly.”
Okay. “Kelly, when I raised your husband’s shade today, it was for more reason than to identify a John Doe. He came to my attention in connection to another case I’m working.”
“Are you saying Rick did something illegal? Is that why he thought the only option was…” She trailed off, and though she didn’t make a sound, I was sure she was crying on the other end of the line.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I paused, uncertain. But if it were me and someone I cared about, I’d want to know. “I’m investigating a chain of murders. Your husband—he was one of the victims.”
“Murder? The police said it was suicide. Are you certain?”
I couldn’t give her all the facts because I didn’t have them. Actually, I had almost no facts. Just a lot of questions and a couple of guesses. “There are certain similarities in several supposed suicides.”
“And? What similarities? If Rick was killed, who did it? And how? When the police first thought that they had found him, I read up on the burn victim. I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that Rick would kill himself, especially not like that. It was too horrible. Then when the dental records didn’t match…” She trailed off. “They never told me why the dentals didn’t match. The officer I spoke to said it might have had something to do with the fire. Do you know?”
“I don’t know why they didn’t match,” I said, not lying because they should have matched. I had no idea what had happened in the missing days that changed his teeth so drastically. “As to your other questions, I can’t really discuss the case.”
“What if I hire you to investigate Rick’s death?”
I frowned, which she, being on the phone, couldn’t see. “As your husband’s death is almost certainly connected to the other cases, once I find the who and the how for my other client, your husband’s case will be solved as well.”
“Yes, but if I hire you, you’ll keep me informed.”
A good point, but she seemed too anxious, too eager. “Mrs. Kirkwood, while I hate the idea of turning down clients, you called to find out why your husband killed himself. I tell you that I believe it is murder, and you offer to hire me to investigate—”
“And you want to know why I believe you,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“Are you married, Ms. Craft?”
“No.”
“A boyfriend, then?” she asked.
That was a loaded question. Thankfully she didn’t wait for me to answer.
“If he vanished one night, and then you were told he’d killed himself in a horrific way, who would you believe: the person telling you the man you know and love killed himself without any warning or the person who told you he was murdered?”
Both the men in my life had a tendency to vanish, and I wasn’t going to touch the love part, but in my gut I knew she was right—I’d never believe Falin or Death would take their own lives.
“Okay. Come by in the morning to sign paperwork. Also, it would be good to have a recent picture of Richard, so bring that with you tomorrow,” I said, and then I told her about the shade’s missing three days and the rapid weight loss. I didn’t mention the contents of his last meal or the change to his teeth, nor did I tell her who the other victims were or my suspicions on how the victims had become infected.
“What could do this?” she asked, and this time the tears were obvious in her voice. “I have a little talent for magic, but Rick was completely null. Half the time the charms I made malfunctioned if he tried to use them. So if it was magic…” She broke off.
So he really was a null. Well, at least we knew Tamara’s Relative Magic Compatibility machine was functioning.
“I’m not ready to speculate yet on the cause, but I’ll keep you updated.” I paused. “There is one other thing you can bring that will help us track Rick’s movements while he was missing. Could you bring a record of his bank and credit card purchases for the first three days he was gone?”
“I haven’t received the statements yet, but I can print them online,” she said, and I heard the unmistakable click-clack of her typing. She gasped, the inhalation sharp even over the phone. “This can’t be. His cards must have been stolen.”
“Do the charges stop on the Tuesday he died?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the charges include five-star restaurants?”
“How did you—? Your other case. Did that case also have the hotels and the…the…” Her voice broke, her pain audibly raw as she said, “It’s printing. I’ll see you in the morning.”
A moment bef
ore she disconnected I heard a single, aching sob. Then the line went silent. I stared at my phone for several heartbeats wondering what her trail of “the’s” had led to that she couldn’t bring herself to say. I guess I’ll find out in the morning.
But I wouldn’t know if the other victims had the same charges, not unless I saw their statements as well. Or if it is something I can track another way. I’d have to wait and see because I seriously doubted I could convince Nina Kingly to share information about her husband’s financial transactions. She already treated me like a charlatan half the time.
I woke my computer and glanced at the time. It was nearing eight. Either Holly and Caleb had abandoned me, or it was one of the days the doors to Faerie had decided not to give us extra time. I just hoped the time in the Bloom wasn’t moving at a fourth the time as mortal reality—I really didn’t want to be stuck at the office until midnight. I couldn’t call, not while they were inside the Bloom; since I’d already asked for a ride, I couldn’t take a cab home and not be there when they arrived. Which meant I was stuck for the duration.
I opened my browser. I hated the idea, but now that Kirkwood was officially my client, I needed to watch the video I’d seen linked to one of the articles about his death. It was saved in my bookmarks, so finding it was no problem. Convincing myself to click the button, now that took a minute. Was it just this morning I’d seen the end result? It seemed like days ago, but thinking about him brought back the grotesque image of the blackened and split skin. And the smell, suddenly my entire office stank with the remembered smell of burnt hair and charred flesh.
Okay, Alex, you’re not doing yourself any favors here. Just get it over with.
Easy to think. Hard to do.
Taking a deep breath, I let it out slow and loaded the video.
It had obviously been shot with a cell phone, the person holding it moving so the frame shook. But as a whole, the footage didn’t start out too terrifying. Kirkwood was already engulfed in flames, but he just stood there, like a statue. People I couldn’t see gasped, cursed, and even cheered.
“Dude, are you getting this?” someone off camera asked. “This is so hard-core. What kind of charm do you think he’s using?”
“Hey, you smell that?” another voice asked.
“Ulgch, yeah.” The first voice again, and then yelling. “Hey, mister, I think something’s going wrong.”
Other people had realized it too. The cheering had stopped and people were yelling. Some at the burning man, who still stood perfectly still, others to people outside the video’s frame.
In the poor quality of the recording, I couldn’t see much more than the darkening of Kirkwood’s skin beneath the lapping flames. No, it wasn’t his skin. I stared as something dark poured out of Kirkwood, like a miasma of black that reflected the orange flames back in a prism of color. Whatever the darkness was, it wasn’t quite a figure, at least, not a humanoid one. The last bit flowed out of the burning man.
Then Kirkwood screamed.
His arms flapped at his sides as if the movement would help extinguish the flames that were consuming him. He made it three steps before collapsing in a burning heap. A man appeared in the space behind Kirkwood and my breath caught at the sight of the familiar form. Death. In the back of my mind I’d known the video might catch an image of the collector, even if the boys shooting it couldn’t see him. But Death’s sudden appearance caught me off guard, and for a moment all I could see was the grainy image of the man who’d always been the one constant in my ever-mutable and chaotic life—until he’d vanished. A fresh wave of loss washed over me.
Then the black T-shirt pulled tight across his chest as he reached into the burning heap in front of him, and the full horror of Kirkwood’s murder crashed into me again. In the background the boys making the video were speaking, and somewhere someone retched, the sound ugly and raw. I sympathized but I didn’t dare look away from the computer. Death pulled back a clenched hand. Without opening my shields, I couldn’t see souls, at least, not unless they transitioned from pure light to the land of the dead as a ghost. So Death’s hand looked empty, but I knew he clutched Kirkwood’s soul. He flicked his wrist, sending Kirkwood on to wherever souls went. Then Death stood, staring at the dark miasmic form on the edge of the screen. The video quality wasn’t good enough for me to read his expression, but his stance radiated anger. Despite that, he didn’t move, didn’t go after the figure.
“What is that thing?” I asked the grainy image of Death.
He didn’t answer. Not that I expected him to.
The boy holding the phone ran toward Kirkwood, and the screen bobbed in jolty, vertigo-inducing motions. I tried to focus on Death and the other figure, but as the amateur cameraman couldn’t see either, he aimed the phone only at Kirkwood. Death and the dark cloudlike figure were shuffled toward opposite edges of the screen as the boy moved closer. Then the miasmic creature shot off screen in a blur. To Kingly?
I wanted the boy holding the camera phone to turn, to follow it. He didn’t.
Death vanished a moment later.
Other people rushed into the frame, carrying coats, drink bottles, blankets—anything to try to help extinguish the burning corpse. They were too late, but they couldn’t know his soul was already gone. Somewhere a witch created a glob of water, and it jetted like a fountain from off the screen.
I glanced at the progress bar. The video went on another fifty seconds but I’d seen everything I needed. I turned off the sound and backed the video up to where the thing poured out of Kirkwood. It’s like it was riding his body, directing it. Kirkwood didn’t regain control until that rider left. And Death could see it. I was sure he could. So why didn’t he do anything about it? It wasn’t natural, that was certain. I wanted the video to end differently this time. But, of course, the rider rushed off the frame in one direction and Death vanished to wherever soul collectors went.
I needed to talk to Death. He’d seen it. He had to know what it was, maybe even how to deal with it. Except even if he were speaking to me, in all likelihood—since the rider suppressed its host’s soul—it would fall into the enormous category of things the collectors couldn’t discuss.
I sighed and backed up the video again. I magnified it, trying to get a better look at the rider. Enlarging the image didn’t help; it just caused it to pixilate.
How likely is it that what I saw was a spell vacating and jumping bodies? I shook my head, dismissing the possibility. I hadn’t seen a face in that darkness, but I was positive that when Death stared at it, the thing stared back at him. That made it cognizant, a being.
A fae?
Not one I’d ever seen before, but that didn’t mean much. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my recent contacts. I had no trouble finding the number I wanted—in truth, I didn’t even need to scroll, I’d memorized it long before I ever dialed it.
I clicked the video back on again as the phone rang.
“Andrews.”
Falin really needed to learn the word “hello.” Not that I bothered with it either.
“This is business,” I said before he could ask. “I’m looking for a fae who can jump from body to body without a ritual. It basically overrides the soul, taking control of the host until it sucks them dry. Outside of the body it’s just a formless mass. Dark, but also iridescent.”
Falin was quiet for so long, I feared he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, “There are certain fae who can feed on human energy, eventually draining them with extended exposure—night hags and anything in the incubi family come to mind—but they all have solid forms. Does it look like the wraiths the shadow court uses as guards?”
I considered the shadows given form that I’d seen when I visited Faerie last month. “Those were more substantial than this thing. This was more like—” I froze, a sick realization hitting me. This thing riding mortal bodies. It wasn’t like a fae.
It was like a ghost.
“I have to go,” I said, hanging up.
> On my screen, Death was staring at the malevolent thing that had poured out of Kirkwood.
“I wish you were here,” I whispered at his image.
“I do hope you’re talking about me,” a deep and wonderfully familiar voice said.
I tore my gaze from the screen. There, in my doorway, stood Death, his thumbs tucked casually into the loops of his faded jeans and an easy smile on his face.
I jumped to my feet and then froze because my heart felt like it might leap across the room before me. And I did want to run to him, to touch him and make sure he was real. But if he vanished on me, the crush of disappointment might break every bone in my body.
“Are you really here, or am I finally having a good dream?”
His face turned serious, those intense dark eyes searching me as if looking for a wound he could bind. “Still having nightmares?”
“This is not a social call,” another voice said, and the gray man popped into existence in the room, his cane twirling like a baton.
“Which is why he shouldn’t have come,” a female voice said as a third soul collector, one I’d dubbed the raver because of her white PVC pants, orange tube top, and neon dreadlocks, appeared in the room.
I sank back into my chair, my insides too heavy for my legs to support. “If I’d known there’d be a party tonight, I’d have brought drinks,” I said to none of the collectors in particular.
“Trust me, this is no party,” the raver said, her long nails tapping against the plastic of her pants. “This is an intervention.”
An intervention? She had to be kidding. But when I glanced at Death, his face was serious and he gave me a single, solemn nod. Damn. An intervention of what? They’d already inserted themselves into my relationship with Death to the point this was the first time I’d been in the same room with him in a month.
“You need to drop this case, Alex,” Death said, and I gawked at him.
I couldn’t drop the case. The police didn’t believe the victims were murdered. If I didn’t gather enough proof to convince them of the truth, who would? And then there was the firm’s budding reputation to consider. I couldn’t drop my first case. Though I had to admit, when someone whose primary occupation involved collecting the souls of the dead told me to drop something, I couldn’t ignore the warning. The case wasn’t worth dying for, but then, they hadn’t said it would come to that.
Grave Memory: An Alex Craft Novel Page 17