Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1)

by Kerry Blaisdell

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “Not a good idea. I’ve been there a few times on, um, business, and found the government to be a little…restrictive.”

  “But would Madame Leclerc have any problems?”

  “They might recognize me, from a, er, photo they might have lying around.”

  “Ah,” Jason said. “Malta it is.”

  “Have you been there before?” I asked, glad to have the focus off me and my questionable past, and back on Jason. He nodded, and I wished it still surprised me that he got around so much.

  “There are three ports. I suggest we go to Marsaxlokk, down south. It’s a little out of the way, but not as much of a tourist stop as Valletta. We can refuel, stretch our legs, and stock up.”

  “Can we make it that far without stopping?”

  He smiled, looking much more like the Jason I’d always known. “If not, we’ll be close enough to the coast to radio for help. They can send a tug to bring us in. We’ll be fine—trust me.”

  He got up and returned to the wheel, and Geordi went back to staring at the unchanging horizon. I suppressed a shiver, glancing up at the bright stars dotting the oppressive black sky. Something about the dark water below and all around us, with the limitless sky above, made me feel small and vulnerable.

  Or maybe it was the sudden thought I’d had, sparked by Jason’s offhand remark about radioing for help. If we could be picked up by coast guard radar, or whatever aid system the Maltese had in place, couldn’t the demons sense me coming from miles away?

  Call me clueless, but just because I thought Claude and Jacques didn’t give two figs if I lived or died didn’t mean they actually didn’t. What if they were using their demon magic, or whatever it was, right now, tracking me like a blip on their radar? What if the only reason they hadn’t come back to obliterate me once and for all was because they wanted to obliterate the rock first? If I got too close, didn’t it stand to reason they’d come for me after all?

  Come for me—and for my nephew, my friend, my ghostly acquaintance, all of whom were now my responsibility. The sky, the sea, Geordi’s loss, my own, all of it weighed on me. Hot tears slid down my cheeks, and I prayed neither Geordi nor Jason would see as I silently shook, all alone on a boat so small, I had nowhere to go to be by myself.

  ****

  In the morning, as per usual, things looked a little brighter, and we established a routine. Jason showed me how to take charge of the boat in case of emergency, but mostly, he put it on auto-pilot and sat with Geordi near the front, telling him stories about Malta. Of which he knew quite a few. Geordi was fascinated and began to anticipate our first stop with excitement. Who could blame him? A seven-year-old boy trapped for an entire day on a small boat, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do—I’d want to go “’sploring,” too.

  Meanwhile, I managed to surreptitiously check on Eric every few hours. Even though he was dead, I could still sense everything about him, including the smell after he’d barfed dead vomit over the side for the umpteenth time. I mean really—how could a dead guy barf so much? He wasn’t eating anything. Unlike me. I was ravenous, all the time, to the point that we might run out of food before we ran out of fuel. Jason shot me some odd looks as I stuffed my face, since he knows my appetite is generally much smaller. But I pretended to laugh it off.

  “Must be the sea air,” I said, and though I could tell he wasn’t convinced, he let it go. For myself, I assumed being half-dead took a lot out of me. It didn’t explain why I had to eat all the time, but there wasn’t much I could do about it either way.

  Meanwhile, Eric stagnated. When night fell after our first full day on the water, I offered to take the first watch, specifically so I could make a more in-depth assessment of his condition, without fear of being overheard.

  As soon as Jason and Geordi vanished below decks, I rounded on him. “How are you feeling?”

  He gave a half-laugh, which turned into a coughing fit, though no blood or anything came out. When he finished wheezing, he looked at me and lifted an ironic brow. “As well as I look.”

  “That bad?”

  He really did look terrible. Even in the dim light of the battery-powered lantern, he was pale and green at the same time. From what I could see beneath his ripped shirt, his wound was exactly the same. I’m not sure what I expected. Unlike me, he didn’t have a body that could heal. But somehow, I’d thought he’d get “more dead,” and the wound would fade or even disappear.

  Like Lily’s. When Michael led her away, she had no blood on her whatsoever—even a single drop of red would have stood out in that white-white room. And speaking of Michael, shouldn’t he have been at Eric’s death anyway, to guide him wherever he needed to go?

  “Are you a Christian?” I asked, and Eric’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It might explain why you’re still here.”

  “Catholic,” he said slowly. “Mass every week. And confession.” I raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. “I had much to confess.”

  I was right about his eyes. They were gray-green, like old jade, and regarded me now with a slight cynicism. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I scooted close and reached for his shirt.

  “Hé!” He jerked upright, but the wall at his back prevented his escape. Apparently.

  I unbuttoned the torn shirt and pushed it aside—ghost fabric felt as “real” as ghosts did—and I took a look. Then wished I hadn’t. Yep. Big hole in his otherwise very nice chest. Lots of blood and grossness, some of it red, angry, and fresh, other bits black and starting to fester. Ugh.

  I reached out and touched his skin above the wound, and he made a noise like sucking in a breath, then caught my hand and lifted it away. “Mon Dieu—my God, what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  Even with his wound, his grip was strong, and I could swear I felt his warm breath on my face, which was ridiculous, because he didn’t breathe. He became aware of how close we were at the same time I did, but he didn’t let go, just stared at me intently.

  “How is it that you see me? How can I speak to you?” He brought my hand up and, still holding it, brushed my cheek with his knuckles. His voice was low, hoarse. “And how can you feel my touch?”

  Hoo, boy. A bunch of my female parts that hadn’t had much to do in a while suddenly woke up. Way up.

  Bad idea. I was not in a position to get involved with anyone, least of all him. For one thing, he was dead. For another, so was I. But even with his face puke-green, he was still awful-damn cute.

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head, helplessly, then blurted, “Why can’t you fly?”

  His fingers tightened on mine, and he studied my face. After a moment, he released my hand and fell back against the wall. “I do not know. Believe me, I have tried. Something holds me back. It is like a weight, attaching me to the Earth.”

  “But you went through the car. You dematerialized or something. Didn’t you…?”

  He seemed amused by my word choice. “I did. I will not do so again soon. It was…unpleasant.”

  “Oh.”

  I must have looked disappointed, because all at once he smiled. It transformed his face, and his dark, moody eyes lit with laughter. The spark was momentary, though, and he sobered again. “When I first realized you saw me, it gave me hope. I do not know what I thought would happen when I died, but I did not think it would be this.”

  Him and me, both.

  Should I tell him I wasn’t really alive myself? What harm could there be? He couldn’t tell anyone, except other dead people, who, as far as I knew, also couldn’t tell the Living. Then again, just because I couldn’t think of a reason not to, didn’t mean telling him was a good idea.

  Eric watched me, and I wondered what he saw. The circle of light cast by the lantern barely encircled us, giving a sense of intimacy to our conversation. But other than his dislike of boats, he was pretty good at hiding his feelings. I had a sudden urge to lean farther back, out of the light, where my
own secrets would be safer.

  Then he said, “I tried to speak with your nephew.”

  “What? He’s a child—he just lost his parents. He doesn’t need Casper or any other ghosts right now!”

  “Ne te fâche pas—do not anger yourself. I said I tried. I did not say I succeeded.” He lifted a shoulder negligently, making him look supremely French. “For a moment, I thought he heard. But I was mistaken.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, surprising him. “I am. Obviously, I don’t want Geordi seeing dead people. But it must be lonely for you, with only me to talk to.”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “Mais mademoiselle—t’es très belle.”

  I snorted. “If you’re well enough to flirt, tell me how you got your wound.”

  He hesitated, holding my gaze, and I knew he was trying to decide how much to share. At last he said, “Ça ne fait rien. It is not important.”

  “It might help.” Not that I knew what to do for a real wound, let alone an ephemeral one, but it seemed important to try.

  “You will not let it go, will you?”

  I raised my hands, palms out, and he gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “Comme j’ai dit—I was driving when I heard on the scanner that the Dioguardis were near. I stopped to see what was happening, and…here I am.”

  Which told me absolutely nothing new or important. “But why did you get involved? A normal person would’ve booked it the hell out of there when the Dioguardis showed up.”

  He shrugged. “I had to stop. C’est tout.”

  “No, that’s not all.” I tried a different tack. “Why were you in the neighborhood in the first place?” He opened his mouth, and I held up a hand. “Don’t give me any crap about living there. Your car is way too nice for you to live in or visit that slum, without a very good reason.”

  “I was…following up on something.” His expression was carefully blank, and I felt the first twinge of real unease. What, exactly, was he hiding?

  I said lightly, “Don’t like answering questions much, do you?”

  His gaze searched mine. “Do you?”

  Heat crept up my face, and I resisted the urge to look away. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Perhaps we should.” He straightened, looking suddenly more…alive, for lack of a better word. Purposeful. Authoritative. “Bon. Tell me—why were you in that neighborhood, parked behind a BMW registered to l’heir apparent des Dioguardis? Why are you on this boat, carrying a fake passport, traveling with that man?”

  His contempt of Jason seemed to extend beyond a mere manly defense of his car, but I had no time to ask about it, or about how he knew the Beamer belonged to Nick. He leaned closer, eyes gleaming in the lantern light, voice soft, urging me to trust him.

  “Let me help you. Tell me—what is it you are running from…or to?”

  I crossed my arms, unable to keep from leaning back, putting distance between us. “Jeez. What are you, a cop?”

  He froze. Then the tension eased out of him and he sank back against the rail, looking haggard and drained. “Ouais. Until last night.” He inclined his head. “Eric Guilliot, Officier de Police Judiciaire, à ton service.”

  Chapter Ten

  “There is no such thing as death,

  In nature, nothing dies:

  From each sad moment of decay

  Some forms of life arise.”

  ~Charles Mackay (1814-1889)

  Before dawn on the second day, Jason steered us to a quiet area in St. George’s Bay, Birżebbuġa, Malta, which is a little south of Marsaxlokk. We’d picked the area specifically because it’s mainly used by small pleasure craft, and our little boat would blend right in with the hundreds of others tied up to the slips. While Jason hopped off to secure the ropes, I made sure Geordi wasn’t looking, then knelt beside Eric.

  “I’m going to get some breakfast. Will you be okay until we get back?”

  One corner of his mouth twisted in a half-smile. “I believe l’ordre du jour is utterly free of appointments. I am at your disposal and will await your return with bated breath.”

  After his Big Reveal of the night before, I’d beat a hasty retreat to the cabin below. I think I mumbled something along the lines of pleased to meetcha, gotta go, then turned and escaped, waking Jason to take over the watch. I wasn’t sure if the knowing laughter in Eric’s eyes stemmed from any actual intel he had on me, or if he assumed my skittishness was what even the most law-abiding citizens experienced when faced with the cops. Either way, I was too chicken to deal with it at the time.

  I still couldn’t process it—Eric was un flic. I’d unwittingly brought a cop on what was sure to be my most questionable “business venture” yet.

  Okay, he was a dead cop, but still. As noted, les flics and I don’t always see eye to eye, and uneasily, I wondered if he’d ever investigated me. Today he looked incapable of much beyond lying in a heap, and I went back to worrying about his ghostly health, instead of what he’d do when he discovered my moral failings.

  “Tata Hyhy!” Geordi called from the boat’s ramp. “Let’s go! I’m hungry!”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I called back. “I’m, er, looking for something.” I pretended to poke around in a pile of rigging, whispering to Eric, “Seriously—you’ll be okay?”

  He lifted a shoulder, then winced, which wasn’t exactly reassuring. All he said was, “Frais et dispo. Go—eat your fill. I am not going anywhere.”

  Reluctantly I left him, and Geordi and I headed down the ramp to the pier, where Jason joined us. “I asked around. We should be able to find a breakfast place in the commercial district a few blocks north of here, and then a grocery market in the same area for supplies.”

  English is the second language here, so at least that wouldn’t be a problem. We walked briskly in the direction Jason indicated, Geordi’s young legs taking two steps for every one of Jason’s. He badgered Jason with more questions about Malta, and I walked behind them, enjoying his excitement. If not for the whole searching-for-demons thing, we might actually have been the happy Leclercs, out for an early breakfast before touring the country.

  In fact, I gathered from Geordi’s chatter that he wanted to spend some time here before getting back on the boat. I didn’t blame him. The sun was rising on our right over the harbor, the breeze was warm, and it would be so easy to forget about demons, the rock, and everything else.

  And yet, I couldn’t.

  I watched the passersby, feeling their eyes on me. Did we really stand out? Or was it Jason’s reference last night to tracking radar, making me paranoid? At this hour, there weren’t many people out, a dozen or so at most, but I couldn’t decide if I’d feel safer in a crowd, or if I’d just never feel safe again, until I gave the rock to Michael.

  Maybe not even then.

  Jason turned to see why I’d lagged behind, lifting his eyebrows in an unspoken question. I forced a smile and sped to catch up. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”

  “Okay,” he said, then glanced at the rapidly filling streets himself, gaze flicking from one person to the next. Catching my eye, he shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

  Geordi tugged my hand, and we resumed walking. Birżebbuġa is a resort town of about ten thousand residents. The buildings are yellow or tan brick, and the feeling is of a large fishing village that’s mushroomed with the tourist trade. Commercial industry is near the water, as are hotels, parks, and beaches, with residences, markets, and local hangouts farther inland.

  We followed a wide street for two blocks, then turned north, away from the bay toward the heart of town. After a block, we found an open-air café whose owner was just lifting chairs off the tops of the metal tables and arranging them on the ground. He happily let us choose seats with a view of the bay, then bustled off to start the grill. When he came back, Jason and I ordered coffee, while Geordi got hot cocoa. Then Jason flattered the man by asking him to make us whatever he thought we’d like, and he beamed and vanished into
the kitchen.

  While we waited, Jason hailed a street vendor and bought a copy of the Times of Malta. He turned to the World News, handing les bandes dessinées to Geordi so he could color over the comics with crayons from his backpack. I don’t read the paper much, but Jason seemed engrossed, frowning at something on page two. With nothing else to do, I decided to check in with my nephew again. Since our chat on the boat, he was doing better, but he still wasn’t opening up about his grief. In the interest of practicing good parenting, I thought I’d poke around.

  I peered over his shoulder, seeing he’d chosen the crossword as his canvas. He worked quickly with a brown crayon, filling in a series of squares in the shape of a squat pyramid.

  “Whatcha working on?” I asked.

  “A map.”

  “Of what?”

  “The mountain.” He switched to a blue crayon, coloring in more squares starting near the top of the “mountain” and descending its side in a narrow triangle. “That’s the river.” He set down the blue crayon, then used a black one to make a smaller triangle at the base of the blue one, overlaying it so that one blue side was straight, while the other angled to the right.

  “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to it.

  “The river goes in two.”

  “Oh—you mean like a fork?”

  He looked up at me, blue eyes solemn. “Yes. Only it wasn’t always like that. It was big and strong, but the bad men came and tried to stop it. So the other man broke it apart to save it.”

  Ouch.

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t talking much, but he sure was processing. He picked up a white crayon and filled in squares at the top of the puzzle, in a seemingly random configuration.

  “That’s the Cotton Castle,” he said, laying the crayon down.

  This was actually a relief. Good to know it wasn’t all ink blots and Rorschach tests. “That’s a really nice picture. Can I have it?”

  He nodded, and I reached for the page as the café owner returned, bearing platters overflowing with tasty goodness. He set them down with a flourish, then went back for more. It was heavenly. He started us off with cream cheese pies and honey pastries with more cheese inside—and it only got better after that. Dates deep fried in golden-brown dough, two spicy stews, plates of kebabs, and at least four kinds of pasta. I don’t remember picking up my fork, I only remember the tastes exploding on my tongue, rich and varied, thick textures and juicy bursts of cool crispness that both satisfied and made me crave them more.