by M. D. Massey
“Oh?” I queried, leaving my response open to interpretation.
“Yes. I can tell that by the charms and spells you’re carrying. And—never mind.”
“‘Never mind’ what? Please, I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
She blinked a few times and swallowed, then she met my gaze. “There’s a shadow hanging over you, Mr. Colin. You’ve been cursed, and not by some hedge witch.”
“So you do actually have some magical acumen.”
She tilted her head to acknowledge my comment. “I do. Don’t let the trappings fool you. The Circle employs me as a sort of disinformation outlet, to keep members of the public who are curious about supernatural affairs away from real magic.”
“Ah—you’re in psy ops. Clever.”
“It is. The fewer mundanes who know about the world beneath, the better. So, if I can steer the bulk of them toward beliefs and practices that are mostly harmless, it saves the entire supernatural community a ton of headaches. And potentially may save some lives as well.”
I sipped my tea; it was quite good, in fact. I stirred some honey in, taking my time as I considered her work. I didn’t know how I felt about bilking the public out of their money while selling them false hope, but it beat fae death squads and Circle interrogations.
“Well, I’m not here to criticize the Circle’s motives for setting up this operation. I’m really here to find out what you know about raising zombies.”
She cleared her throat. “Real zombies, or vodoun zombies?”
“I’ll bite—what’s the difference?”
“Well, vodoun zombies aren’t really undead, you see. In Haiti, vodoun priests and priestesses act sort of like tribal intermediaries for interpersonal disputes. They also enforce the law when the system fails to deliver justice, for whatever reason. The way they do that is to turn evil people—those who have committed serious crimes and escaped the law—into zombies.
“But these aren’t real zombies—at least not the undead variety. Instead of killing the offending party, the priests and priestesses use a powder that contains pufferfish toxin and some other ingredients to put the intended target into a death-like state. Then, they allow that person to be buried alive. Hours later, they come for them at the graveyard in the dead of night, digging them up and keeping them in a drugged state. The victim believes they have died and been brought back as a zombie, and the vodoun priest keeps them in a zombie-like state from then on. Typically, these ‘zombies’ are placed into forced labor in the fields.”
I shook my head. “That seems—drastic.”
She shrugged. “We’re talking about a third-world country where local government is often corrupt, where police and magistrates can be paid to look the other way. The vodoun priests and priestesses act as a sort of backup system, to ensure that people who are powerless are not taken advantage of by those in power. Because in Haiti, everyone fears the wrath of the Houngans and Mambos.”
“Okay, fair enough. Maeve thought you might also know about the other kind of zombie, and how to raise them.”
She nearly choked on her tea. “Wait a minute—you think I can raise the dead and make zombies?”
I’d obviously offended her. “Um, no? The truth is, I’m not sure what you can do. I simply need the advice of someone who knows more about necromancy than I do, because I think we have a necromancer on the loose here in Austin.”
“Oh, I doubt that. See, in vodoun there do exist dark priests and priestesses who practice necromancy, but it is forbidden. We Mambos and Houngans are taught to recognize it, and we kill them on sight. I haven’t heard of a true necromancer being active in all the time I’ve been a priestess.”
“Okay, but for the sake of this discussion, humor me for a moment. If there were a necromancer on the loose, and they were raising zombies and ghouls, how would I go about stopping them?”
She rubbed her chin and considered my question. “According to what I was taught, like most magic users, necromancers need a focus for their power. Typically, that’s where they store the energies they take from animals or people they sacrifice in their dark rituals, along with power they get from evil loas. That energy is then used to animate corpses to create true zombies.”
“That sounds sinister. Would a necromancer carry this focus or phylactery on their person?”
“Maybe. I would think they would need it close by to perform magic. However, because of the unique signature that necromantic energy leaves, I doubt they’d want to have it on them all the time. That would give them away to any non-evil magic user, and they’d be hunted and destroyed immediately. No—I’d say they’d have it near, but not necessarily on them at all times.”
I downed the rest of my tea and stood. “Janice, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
She stood and extended her hand. “My pleasure. Besides, I owe Maeve a favor—one that she won’t ever let me forget, it seems.”
I smirked. “You too, huh? She must have her claws in everyone in this city.”
Janice sighed. “My advice to you is to get out from under her thumb as soon as you can. You give the fae an inch, and they’ll take a mile. At least, that’s what I’ve found.”
I laughed humorlessly. “Way ahead of you on that point. Way, way ahead of you.”
Chapter Twelve
Lacking any truly pertinent leads to follow up on, I took a long shot and headed back to the abandoned house near the cemetery. Figured there might be a bit of evidence I’d overlooked, or perhaps a neighbor who might have seen something. I was grasping at straws, but the house was all I could come up with. For now, it’d have to do.
Fortunately, we now had Gunnarson’s blessing, which put the Circle’s intelligence resources at our disposal. At the moment Belladonna was looking up known necromancers in the Circle database. But unfortunately, there weren’t as many necromancers as we might have thought—at least, not in the records. Janice the vodoun priestess had been on the money when she’d said it was a very small community, if you could even call it that. Apparently necromancers kept to themselves, what with the fear of being killed on sight and all.
Necromancers were universally despised by anyone who gave a shit about that sort of thing, which was pretty much everyone in the supernatural community. Nobody wanted ghouls and zombies showing up in their backyard; it was bad for business, bad for keeping a low profile, and generally bad for everything. So, necromancers always operated on the sly. Except this one. Damned if I couldn’t figure out why this person was causing such a stir.
I parked my scooter in front of the house and pulled a clipboard and pen from my bag. Years ago, I’d learned that carrying a clipboard made you look like you belonged. And besides, no one wants to talk to someone with a clipboard—carrying one was almost as effective as a see-me-not spell if you wanted to go unnoticed. Today it would serve a different purpose, giving me an excuse for questioning the neighbors.
I walked to a neighbor’s house and knocked. No one home. I tried the first house across the street, an older home nearly identical to the abandoned home, albeit in much better condition. It was a narrow, single-story cottage, painted bright pink with light blue trim, and well-maintained.
Before I could even knock, the door opened and I was greeted by an elderly Hispanic man.
“What do you want? I’m not selling, if that’s what you’re asking, no matter how much you offer. Pinche buitres. Now, get off my porch.”
He began to shut the door in my face.
“Wait! I’m not here to try to buy your home. In fact, I’m taking a survey of homeowners for the Save Our Austin Neighborhoods alliance. If you might answer a few questions for me, it would be a big help.”
His scowl softened slightly. “Save Our Neighborhoods, eh? Bueno, I suppose it can’t hurt. Ask your questions—but be quick, my telenovela is on.”
I smiled and pretended to read from my clipboard.
“May I have your name?”
“Nope. Next question.
”
I nearly laughed. I was really starting to like this guy.
“That’s okay, you can answer anonymously.” I proceeded to ask him innocuous questions about how long he’d lived here, increasing taxes, and so on—pretty much all the hot button issues longtime local residents were in tune with. Then, I got to what I really wanted to know.
“Sir, have you noticed any strange people or activity around lately? Anything that might indicate that your neighborhood has changed for the worse?”
“Lots more gringos moving in, if that’s what you’re asking. Driving the property values even higher. I can barely pay my taxes now. Pendejos. But at least they increased the police presence since the whites started moving in the neighborhood.”
Now that was interesting. “Really? How so?”
“Well, it used to be that the only time the law came around, it was to bust a drug dealer. Couldn’t get them to patrol for nothing. But lately, I’ve seen more cops around. Unmarked cars mostly. One cop in particular keeps checking on the house across the street. I figure he’s looking for narcos or something.”
“That’s good to know, sir. That’s the end of my survey. Thank you for your time.”
“That’s it? You made me miss seeing Jorge catch Maria with Alfonzo. Thanks for nothing. Pinche gringo.”
He slammed the door in my face, departing with a muttered string of obscenities in Spanish. I understood most of what he said; a year of working the junkyard had expanded my Spanish vocabulary considerably. I didn’t take offense to any of it, because in my opinion you earned the right to be a curmudgeon once you hit your retirement years.
The thing about the cop stopping by the house across the street piqued my curiosity. If a cop was working with the necromancer it would explain a lot, including why they’d fingered Hemi for that murder. Hemi’s skin color automatically made him an easy target for a frame up, at least to a dirty cop. But what if a cop was the necromancer? If so, they could cover their own tracks by losing evidence or misdirecting any investigation that might blow their cover.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I hopped on my scooter and drove around the corner so I could sneak inside the house for another look. I triggered my see-me-not cantrip and took the same route as before, catching my pants on a loose nail and falling through the window on my way in. Thank goodness I was working alone, because Bells would never let me live that down. Once inside, I used my phone as a flashlight, shining it in every corner in search of something I might have missed.
For the most part everything was as I’d left it, except for where Finn had cleaned up after me. If you looked closely, you could tell the floorboards in that room had been pulled back. But there was no sign that a decomposing corpse had been there—not even a lingering whiff. The old man was good at covering evidence, that was for sure. I made a mental note to have him teach me the spell he’d used. I’d been working on something myself since I’d first stumbled on this whole necromancy thing, but his way seemed a lot less messy.
I continued to search the house, opening cupboards and pantries, checking closets—the works. After leaving the room where the ghoul had been, I entered the ritual room. No one had disturbed the area since we’d been here last, nor had anyone attempted to repair the runes and markings that I’d destroyed. I sniffed the air, if only to see if I could detect the stench of necromancy. Nope, still wasn’t getting it. Weird.
I shifted into second sight and examined the area via the magical spectrum. There was a lingering shimmer of dark magic, but nothing new. I went back into the hallway searching high and low, hoping for anything that might give me a lead in this case.
There.
I saw a flash of something, shining silver and bright amidst the trash and debris. It carried just the tiniest mark of a magic user’s energy. I zeroed in on it, finding it hidden under a scrap of paper. An empty blister pack, the kind that over the counter medicine came in. I picked it up and examined it closely in the light.
The writing on the foil said Nicotine 4mg gum.
Bingo. Got you, you son of a bitch.
I hoofed it back to my scooter and called Belladonna.
“Bells, can you look something up for me?”
“Thanks to your smooth Irish tongue and ginormous balls, the vast resources of the Circle are at your disposal. Shoot.”
I shook my head, knowing that a punchline was coming. “Please, no double entendres regarding my tongue and balls.”
At that very moment a fit and attractive, twenty-something woman jogged past with her dog. Her jaw dropped, nostrils flaring as her eyes shot daggers at me.
“Pervert!” she cried with a sharp intake of breath, and hurried down the street.
I pointed to my wireless earpiece. “No, I wasn’t talking to you—I mean, I wasn’t talking to myself either—”
Too late. She was gone, and I felt like an idiot.
Belladonna’s husky laugh echoed in my ear. “I have to say, Colin, you certainly have a way with women. Now, what do you need me to look up?”
“Thanks for that, Bells.” I pursed my lips and took a deep breath. “Can you see who the detective was that took Hemi in for questioning?”
I heard typing in the background. “Got it. Two detectives, a Sergeant Erskine and a Detective Klein.”
“Hmm—can you do an asset search on them both? We’re looking for anything suspicious—a recent large deposit, or maybe a purchase that wouldn’t make sense on a cop’s salary.”
“Yep, give me a sec—” I waited for what seemed like an hour, but in reality it only took a minute or so. “Nope, they both look pretty clean. Hang on, though—Erskine is listed on the secretary of state’s website as being principal owner of an LLC. Looks like a shell company. County property search says the company owns a warehouse on the East Side, not far from downtown.”
“That’s it. Give me the address, and meet me there in twenty ready to rock and roll.”
“You got it. And Colin?”
“Yes?”
“I fully expect to get a taste of that silver tongue before this case is finished.”
She hung up on me before I could respond with a witty reply. Yeah, that’ll be the day. I ignored the rush of blood hitting my cheeks and punched another number on my speed dial list.
“Sal here.”
“You know who this is, Sal. Stop trying to be coy. I need some info.”
“Gah, druid—I told you that we were done wit’ the old man. Far as I’m concerned, that means we’re through with you, too.”
I chuckled humorlessly. “Not by a longshot, Sal. I still have those photos of you and Nutmeg.”
“Cinnamon. The girl’s name is Cinnamon.”
“One spice or another. Fact is, if Mrs. Sal finds out you’re screwed.”
“You’re a heartless prick, you know that, McCool?”
I yawned. “Cry me a river. Now, tell me what you know about a detective by the name of Erskine.”
Sal paused. “You sure you want to know?”
“Sure I want to know. Why do you ask?”
The red cap laughed long and loud. “Because, some cops aren’t exactly honest, and those kind don’t like pricks like you sniffing around their business. Do you really want that sort of heat?”
I rubbed my forehead in frustration. “Just tell me what I need to know, Sal.”
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Erskine is dirty—has been for most of his career. But he hides it well. Doesn’t flash cash around, lives like any other shmuck cop, and keeps all his dealings quiet. Rocko’s had him on his payroll for a while now.”
Interesting. “My sources tell me he owns a warehouse on the east side. Know anything about that?”
“Look, I told you the guy is dirty already. But I ain’t no rat.”
“Cinnamon looks awfully bored in this picture, Sal. But you, on the other hand—you look like you’re giving it your all. Your wife would be so proud to see you like this, hard at wo
rk.”
Sal growled, but it lacked conviction. “Fine. He uses that warehouse to store things. Stolen merch, drugs, cash—pretty much anything he needs to hide until he can offload it or send it through the cleaners.”
“Have you been there? Notice anything strange about the place?”
“Been there once, running an errand for Rocko. But did I notice anything weird? No, not unless you think crooked cops is weird. To me, that’s just scenery.”
“Thanks for the info, Sal. You’re a real pal.”
“Go fuck yourself, druid.”
A few minutes later, I pulled up to the address Belladonna had given me and sat on my scooter, waiting for her to arrive. I pretended to be looking up something on my phone, but instead I was casing the place. Each time my eyes swept over the building, the urge to look elsewhere was overwhelming. Someone had spent a lot of time or a lot of money putting a see-me-not spell over the entire property. So, either Erskine was clued in and had hired a proper wizard to do the work, or he was our guy.
Once I focused, it became easier to check the place out. The best I could say was that it was nondescript; it looked just like a million other cinder block and metal buildings in the area. Good place for a hideout—or to stash drugs, money, and stolen property.
Just the fact that Erskine owned a warehouse here was suspicious. Real estate values in this area were increasing by the week, with properties snatched up left and right by developers. These places would be torn down to become loft apartments and condos for young professionals who liked living close to downtown, but who found the new high-rise developments on the other side of IH-35 out of their reach. A million-point-five for a two-bedroom condo did seem kind of steep, come to think of it. But the views were probably breathtaking.
The throaty sound of Belladonna’s Harley hauling ass down 5th Street broke me from my reverie. She pulled up behind me, stepping off the beast and tossing her hair around after she pulled off her helmet. As usual she looked stunning. Her long black hair, dusky skin, and exotic features were magnified by her exceptional figure and sultry, cat-like grace. How she managed to avoid helmet hair was a mystery to me, but I suspected she’d paid some wizard at her work to spell her helmet to prevent it. I resisted the urge to check the magical spectrum to confirm my suspicions—a girl had to have her secrets, after all.