Bone Key

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  She couldn't feel his presence. They'd been together for millennia, and only now did she realize that he was always there, not just physically, but mentally and even, bizarrely, spiritually. Demons weren't supposed to have soul mates—mostly by virtue of not having souls—but apparently Alberto was hers.

  And he was gone. She hadn't been aware of this connection between them, but now that it was gone, its absence was all she could feel.

  "He's gone."

  She heard the click of a safety being taken off a pistol. "One down, one to go."

  Whirling around Fedra slammed Dean Winchester into the wall. He kept his grip on the Colt, but Fedra pressed his arm against the wall so that the muzzle was facing the window. Then she looked at Sam, who was making as if to rush her.

  "Take one step, Sammy boy, and Dean fulfills his end of the bargain half a year early."

  Fedra saw fury in both brothers' eyes, but she didn't care.

  Alberto was dead. Someone had to pay for that.

  At first, Fedra was ready to kill these two upstarts out of revenge, but a moment's reflection made her realize that they were not her enemy. Well, not her primary enemy. The Winchester family was fairly high on demonkind's most wanted list, but right now Fedra's main concern was the Last Calusa.

  So she used her meat puppet's mouth to say words she never imagined she'd have cause to say to Sam and Dean Winchester.

  "I need your help."

  THIRTEEN

  "You have got to be freakin' kidding me!"

  Dean said the words, though he spoke for both brothers. Sam stood watching the demon-possessed body of Fedra Fedregotti. Her face was curled in a rictus of fury, and tears streaked down mascara-stained cheeks, coming out of the all-black eyes that were the common symbol of demonic possession.

  Sam wanted desperately to wipe that expression off her face, but as long as she had Dean pinned, he didn't dare risk moving.

  At least not yet.

  "Listen to me," Fedra said. "That—that thing is incredibly powerful. It's not just a single spirit, it's the collective spirit of an entire tribe."

  Needing to keep her talking while he tried to figure a way out of this, Sam said, "The only reason it's incredibly powerful is because of the spell you and Alberto cast."

  Fedra whirled on Sam, and he saw true anguish in her face. "Don't you dare speak his name! We were together for millennia, and he's dead. We were supposed to live forever, and he's dead!"

  "Sam didn't speak his name." Dean's voice was strained, as he was pushing hard against Fedra's power. "He spoke the name of the poor bastard your not-so-immortal-as-you-thought demon possessed. And that's one of about a billion reasons why we wouldn't help you if you were the last demon on Earth, up to and including that girl lying dead on the floor."

  "I cannot defeat the Last Calusa by myself—and neither can you." Fedra looked down at the corpse of Alberto. "But together, we can do it. You're the legendary Winchester boys. Sam was Azazel's chosen one, and Dean, you killed Azazel. If we collaborate... "

  To Sam's delight, Dean continued to strain, and he was actually making some headway. Considering that she had completely immobilized both Sam and Dean before, the Last Calusa had obviously taken a lot out of her. They needed to press that advantage, so Sam kept her talking. "Why would we work with one of your kind, exactly? You aren't known for being the most trustworthy of partners."

  Fedra smiled viciously. "I don't expect you to trust me, Sammy, but we have a mutual enemy—or do you think that the Last Calusa is just going to scare the tourists? He's already killed two humans and one demon, and you know it's not going to stop there. His last words were—"

  "About vengeance, I heard." Sam did not look directly at Dean, instead keeping eye contact with Fedra while Dean struggled.

  His words apparently surprised her. "You understood what he said."

  "Yup." It had surprised Sam, too. The Last Calusa wasn't speaking English, but Sam found that he'd understood everything he said. Presumably, Dean did as well, which meant that the Last Calusa was powerful enough to allow himself to be comprehended despite speaking a language that had been dead for over two hundred years.

  "Then you know that this spirit is probably out to commit murder on a grand scale. Sweet little do-gooders like yourself don't like it when spirits kill people." She tilted her head. "And don't get all holier-than-thou with me about how you wouldn't lower yourself to collaborate with a demon. You've been working with one for months now."

  Sam tensed. Somehow it just figures that she knows about Ruby. Then again, Ruby had gone so far as to help Bobby replicate the Colt's ability to kill demons with a single shot—Sam could see how that sort of thing would get around the demon grapevine. Ruby had also dropped some hints about Sam and Dean's mother that were leading Sam down some disturbing roads—sufficiently disturbing that he hadn't yet shared Ruby's revelations (and his own research) on the subject with Dean. First thing was to get Dean out of his deal with the crossroads demon. The rest would come in time.

  But that was for later. Right now, he just had to say, "I didn't ask for Ruby's help, and I didn't want it."

  Fedra actually sniggered at that. "Oh really? You didn't want her to save your pretty little ass, huh? 'Cause without her help, you'd both be worm food about now. And if I didn't need the two of you right now, you'd both be—"

  "Ooof!" That was Dean, who had finally broken free of Fedra's will, which caused him to fall to the floor.

  From his prone position, Dean raised the Colt.

  "We'll talk later," Fedra said. Then she leaned her head back and expelled black smoke from her mouth toward the ceiling, which then zipped out into the hallway.

  Pounding the floor with one fist, Dean cried, "Dammit!"

  Sam, however, was running over to the woman, who had collapsed onto the floor with the departure of the demonic essence. Her eyes were wide with shock, and she was making gurgling choking noises.

  Kneeling beside her, Sam said, "It's okay. We'll get help."

  She grabbed Sam's arm in an iron grip and stared intently at him, making more choking noises, but unable to speak. "Hkkk—hkkk—"

  Then the grip loosened, and Fedra's head collapsed onto the floor with a hollow thunk. The light went out of her eyes, which now stared blankly at the ceiling.

  Dean had gotten to his feet and walked over to Alberto, and checked his pulse. "This one's gone, too." He got up. "Let's blow this pop stand, Sammy—last thing we want is to be around when Yuri finds out there's three dead bodies in here."

  "Yeah." Sam didn't like the idea of just leaving the Fedregottis or Dean's friend from Captain Tony's to lie there on the floor. But the corpses would prompt questions that "Agents Danko and Helm" were in no position to answer. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine." Dean gave Sam his trademark smirk. "Didn't even really hurt much."

  Sam knew that the smirk usually went side by side with bravado, but he was willing to let it go. They snuck down the back stairs and out a fire exit, dashing to the Impala. "Remember what I said before about not wanting to know what stage three is?" Sam said.

  "Yeah." Dean loosened his tie and climbed into the driver's seat.

  Sam took out his Treo as he approached the passenger door. "I'm gonna give Bobby a call, bring him up to speed."

  Dean nodded as he started the car.

  "Hey, Sam," Bobby said after the second ring.

  "'Fraid I ain't had no luck findin' a spell that'd hype up a spirit like that."

  "We've actually moved past that," Sam said. As Dean inched down Duval, Sam filled Bobby in.

  "Jesus," Bobby said, "the Last Calusa?"

  "You know about the Last Calusa?" Sam repeated the spirit's name for Dean's benefit.

  "I know what it's supposed to be, yeah. It's a spirit that's infused with the life essence of the entire Calusa tribe, and it's out for vengeance on the rest of the world for living while they all died. If the lore's right, this is a majorly powerful spirit."

 
; "Great. And now it's even more majorly powerful."

  "Lemme dig through my books, see if I can find some specifics. I'll call you back."

  "Thanks, Bobby." He ended the call and pocketed his phone. "Looks like Fedra was right—it's a vengeance spirit with a mad-on for anyone who isn't a Native American. Maybe anyone who isn't Calusa."

  "Which," Dean said, "since they're all dead, is everyone."

  "Pretty much. He's gonna dig into it and get back to us. We need to get down to the construction site. That's where it showed up first, and that's where the bones are."

  "We may need to find a barrel of salt," Dean said. "That burn-the-site-down idea is startin' to sound real good right now."

  "I'm not sure it'd work, Dean. It didn't even blink at your rock-salt round, and it's powerful enough to kill a demon. I don't think the usual tricks are gonna work."

  "Then we'll think of some unusual tricks," Dean said with a snarl. "Because I'll tell you one thing, Sammy, there is no way in hell I'm workin' with that demon."

  Smirking, Sam said, "No pun intended."

  "Yeah," Dean said with a snort. "Ruby's bad enough."

  Sam said nothing in response to that. He knew that Dean had thought Sam's working with Ruby was a huge mistake, and the last thing he wanted right now was to get into the latest in a series of arguments about her.

  Within a few minutes, they pulled into the Naylor House driveway. The first thing Dean retrieved out of the trunk was chalk. "Come on. I don't think our lady demon's gonna take 'screw off and die' for an answer, so we better be prepared."

  * * *

  Shannen Bodell had to keep reminding herself that kicking the client in the 'nads was really bad for business.

  Besides, she had worked very hard to get the contract from Kevin Lindenmuth to build a new house on the site of the one that Katrina demolished, and she was damned if she was going to let his attitude jeopardize that.

  Especially since the cops were doing everything they could to shitcan the whole thing anyhow...

  They were standing on the site just after sunset, all the workers sitting around doing nothing, as they had been all day. They were union guys, and they knew they had to show up to work to get paid, even if they didn't actually do any work. It was past quitting time, but Lindenmuth had asked them to stay until he and Shannen could work out their "difficulties." This meant overtime, which the workers didn't object to, and Shannen was perfectly happy to bill Lindenmuth for—as well as hitting him with the electric bill for running the work lights they needed after sunset.

  "So let me get this straight," Lindenmuth said, wagging a manicured finger toward Shannen's face, the gold bracelets on his wrist jangling with the motion. "Two old farts stumble onto the site and have heart attacks, and for that, you have to shut down?" Lindenmuth was wearing a white button-down short-sleeved shirt that probably cost as much as any of Shannen's workers made in a month. He wore pressed khaki shorts and pristine moccasins. It was as close to a business suit as anyone came on Key West.

  "No." Shannen spoke very slowly in order to keep her temper under control. "Two people were found dead under mysterious circumstances and before they died, they discovered some bones buried under the foundation. The cops are looking into the deaths—"

  "I saw those two, Ms. Bodell, and they were two very old people who probably just dropped dead when they saw the damn bones."

  Shannen refrained from pointing out that one of the corpses was one of her twenty-eight-year-old workers, and the other one was apparently only in her early twenties. The whole thing creeped Shannen out, even though she hadn't really liked Tom all that much. His whole revenge-on-his-ex thing had been disgusting enough, but he'd tried to get Shannen in on it. As a woman in a field that was 99.9 percent male, the caveman-like behavior of construction workers usually was like water off a duck's back to her, but Tom was just gross about it.

  Still, he had been a good worker when he wasn't being an ass, and even scummy asses didn't deserve to die like that. Whatever that was. Not that any of this mattered. "Mr. Lindenmuth, the two dead bodies are almost beside the point. There's the bones to consider."

  "Who cares about some old bones?"

  "Well, the families of whoever they belong to, for one."

  Lindenmuth rolled his eyes. "Please, Ms. Bodell. I researched this property intensely before purchasing it, and any bones that might be found are so old that I doubt any could obtain the provenance of them."

  "They're doing pretty amazing things with science these days, Mr. Lindenmuth. Plus—if they're really that old, they might be Native American bones, which means it ain't just gonna be the cops, it'll be the government. They could shut us down for months—or even permanent, if it's a burial ground or something."

  Now Lindenmuth threw up his hands and started pacing. "This is ridiculous! I paid good money for this lot, money I earned with my hands."

  Given how pristine those hands were, Shannen thought it far more likely that the only thing his hands did was sign the checks for the people who actually did the work to earn him that money. She hated rich twerps who tried to pretend that they were like regular people. Hell, even if he'd said he'd earned the money with his brains, she would've respected him more.

  But she said nothing, for the same reason that she didn't kick him in the 'nads. Those hands signed her checks, too.

  Despite the breeze coming in off the Atlantic Ocean, Lindenmuth's hair didn't move until he ran his hands through it. Even then, it hardly budged. "Look, Ms. Bodell, I appreciate that this is a difficult situation, but I need to have this house finished by the summer."

  Shannen winced. "It'll all depend on the bones, Mr. Lindenmuth. But honestly, given how many of 'em there are, the best-case scenario is that we get back to work in the summer."

  "Seriously? That's ridiculous!"

  "I had one job that got delayed by five years." That was farther north in Florida, and the same sort of situation: A hurricane kicked up enough dirt to reveal old Seminole bones. That got caught up in a major political and legal shitstorm, because it turned out that there were all kinds of zoning and building irregularities above and beyond the question of Native remains. Pretty typical for Florida, in truth, but Shannen didn't think that would comfort Lindenmuth all that much, so she didn't go into specifics.

  Pulling a cell phone off a belt clip, he wandered off to the sidewalk in front of the site. "Let me make a few calls. No offense, Ms. Bodell, but this requires a particular touch."

  "Knock yourself out," she said with a sigh. She'd been building houses in Florida for ten years now, ever since her husband Rudy passed and left her the business. She'd been running it ten times better than his lazy, unmotivated ass, too. When she inherited it, it was on the verge of bankruptcy. Now it was thriving under the tutelage of the same woman that Rudy had said "couldn't run no construction bidness, no way, no how." After Rudy's death from a heart attack, which occurred while he was eating an entire bucket from KFC, Shannen dedicated her life to proving him wrong.

  One of the things she'd done was make connections among the politicians both locally and in Tallahassee. She knew exactly which wheels to grease and when to grease them—which was why she knew that there was nothing to be done, especially if these really were Native bones. Riding roughshod over the tribes was a sure way to get yourself mired in a PR disaster, especially now that so many of the tribes had casino money with which to pay good lawyers and publicists.

  Which was why Shannen knew that Lindenmuth's "touch" would do no good. Florida politicos were more than happy to perform illegal acts, but ran like hell from the appearance of performing even unethical ones, and being anything but solicitous of a burial ground would torpedo their chances at reelection and, therefore, more graft.

  Besides, she knew damn well that the "particular touch" he was referring to was his possession of a penis.

  She walked over to her foreman, Chris, who was sitting on a folding chair reading a copy of the Miami Herald sports
section and muttering, "Goddamn Oklahoma," which meant he was reading about the Fiesta Bowl, in which West Virginia beat Oklahoma 48–28. The other sections of the paper were next to the chair on the ground, weighed down from blowing away by a metal coffee mug.

  "How much you lose when West Virginia won?" Shannen asked, knowing that Chris only cared about college football bowl games when he bet on them.

  "It ain't that they won—I didn't make the spread. WV won by twenty goddamn points."

  "You bet on more than twenty?"

  Chris shrugged. "Money was better."

  "If they beat it."

  Again, Chris shrugged, then folded the paper and stuck it under the mug with the other sections. "Pays your money, takes your choice. What'd pretty-boy have to say?"

  "He thinks he can 'make some calls' so this'll go away."

  Folding his meaty arms over his barrel chest, Chris said, "On what planet? He thinks he got suction you ain't got?"

  "Probably not, but it can't hurt to try. Maybe he'll surprise us, and we can get back to work."

  "Yeah. Hey listen, we're holdin' a little thing for Tom at Captain Tony's later. They're lettin' us have the pool pit for a couple hours."

  Shannen nodded. "I'll be there."

  "Missy's probably dancin' a jig."

  The last thing Shannen wanted to do was discuss Tom's personal life. "Anyhow, I think I'll—"

  Suddenly, all the work lights went out, and the site was plunged into near darkness, the only illumination coming from one of the streetlights on South and the crescent moon.

  "You forget to pay the bill again, boss?" Chris asked with a smirk.

  Since the streetlight was on, it wasn't a blackout, so that was a reasonable question. Except, of course, Shannen had paid the bill. So she ignored Chris's smart-ass remark—though she continued to take huge pride in his calling her "boss."

  Lindenmuth was staring at his phone. "My cell's dead," he said.

  Harry, one another of the workers, had his own phone out. "So's mine."

  Another's iPod was equally dead, as were all the other cell phones.

  "Okay," Shannen said, "this is messed up. C'mon, let's—"