Alex might be dead, but Boudreau isn’t. He scatters like dust, reforms in front of me. Raging, screaming wordlessly. His shock is so overwhelming he loses control of his spell. I fall to the ground, gasping like a fish. My vision is going black around the edges.
I can feel him now, get hold of him. I pull out all the stops. Every ounce of power I can draw in, every bit of my own. All the rage, hatred and hurt.
I learned something when I destroyed what I thought was all of him upstairs. Understood another power Santa Muerte had given me. Tearing him apart, having the Dead eat him, neither one of those stuck.
So this time I eat him myself.
Chapter 27
I hear the memorial service was closed casket. After all, nobody wants to see a body lying there with a ravaged stump where his head used to be.
The police investigation was a mess. Took weeks to get Alex’s body released to Vivian. Some anonymous tips, a little misdirection and a couple of Obi-Wan “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” tricks later and the police closed things up with a story of a mafia hit gone horribly wrong.
Explaining things to Vivian was a lot harder. I stand by the mausoleum a long way off from the funeral, watching. Alex is going into a plot at Forest Lawn, out on the grass, under the sun.
He’s quite the draw. I count almost a hundred people. Of course he would be a pillar of the community. Local boy does good, owns his own business. Some of the people are his customers, some of them are from the magic set. I recognize a few of them.
I haven’t spoken with Tabitha since it all happened. The first week she texted or called every few hours, then every couple days. And now I don’t hear from her.
A breeze blows past, bringing a smell of roses and smoke. I hear cloth brushing against grass next to me.
“Was wondering when you were going to show up,” I say. I haven’t seen Santa Muerte since that day in Mictlan. I haven’t gone back to her church, either.
“I grieve for you, Eric Carter,” she says.
“That’s the first thing you said to me when we met,” I say.
“It makes it no less true,” she says, “husband.”
My stomach clenches when she says it. I’ve been trying to forget that. Trying to scrub that out of my mind. Tried booze, pills. Downed a bottle of Xanax with a fifth of Old Grand-Dad. Should have killed me. Not surprised that it didn’t. Muerte’s got too much invested in me to let me go that easily. Something tells me I’m going to have a hard time dying.
After that I threw out the rest of the booze I’d bought, the pills I’d gotten my hands on. Suicide’s not for me. I know that. I have something to live for now.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that? And good. Holy fuck are you good. I’ve known grifters, but man, you really take it.”
She cocks her head to one side, bone scraping on bone. “What do you mean?”
“You can drop the act,” I say. “I know. I saw it in Boudreau. You can learn a lot from a guy when you eat his soul.”
I watch the funeral break up, people exchanging hugs, walking off to their cars. I wonder if anyone can see me up here talking to empty space.
“And what did you learn?”
She moves around to face me, blocking my view of the proceedings, her skeletal hand on my shoulder.
“He didn’t kill Lucy. Didn’t know a goddamn thing about her. I wasn’t even on his radar. I would have figured it out eventually. Started to. There were too many holes. He acted all surprised when I first saw him. He didn’t know I was even in town.”
She says nothing, stares at me with her empty sockets. I pull off my sunglasses and give as good as I get with the pitch black eyes she gave me.
“You killed her. You knew how to brutalize her so badly she’d only leave an Echo. Possessed somebody? One of the ghosts I talked to said the killer had pitch black eyes. One of your followers, maybe? That guy running your church?”
She says nothing so I keep going. “You wanted Boudreau gone because you were worried he would become stronger. Turn into competition.”
She doesn’t admit to it, but she doesn’t deny it, either. She doesn’t need to. We both know it’s the truth.
“What I don’t understand,” I say, “is why me?”
“You are more than a pretty plaything, or a useful lapdog,” she says after a long pause.
“Good to know I’m held in such high esteem.”
“You are. In very high esteem. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else. One of the Loa, perhaps. A god less kind than I.”
“Kind? This is kind?”
“You don’t know your own power,” she says. “I have given you some of mine, yes, but you have barely touched the surface of what you can do. I didn’t kill Boudreau, and very little of what you did that night was because of me.”
“I’m getting that,” I say. “Wish I’d figured that out sooner.”
“That’s why I did this. It is a gift. My aid unlocked more of your potential. It was a waste what you’ve been doing with your power.”
“A gift? Murdering my sister is a gift? Setting me up as a patsy to do your dirty work is a gift? Horseshit. You wanted to fucking own me. Congratulations, now you do.”
“I’m glad you understand that.”
“I know what I signed up for. Do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can deny any request you make of me. That’s part of the contract. You want me to do a job for you, you can go fuck yourself.”
“The blade cuts both ways,” she says. “Yes, you can deny me, but you cannot interfere should I will it. I wonder how well Vivian can protect herself.”
And there you have it. I was wondering when she was going to play that card. I knew it was coming. Knew that it trumps everything I’ve got in my hand.
“One of these days I’m going to kill you,” I say, putting my sunglasses back on. “That’s my purpose in life, now. To see you gone.”
She reaches up with a hand, caresses my face. Instead of cold bone, it’s a feel of soft skin. “Yes,” she says. “I think some day you might.” The smell of roses and smoke grows as she fades from view in a gray haze.
Vivian steps through her fading form. I manage to get out a surprised, “Viv—” before she hauls off and punches me. She knocks my sunglasses off and I don’t want her to see my eyes. I pick them up from the ground and shield my face.
“How dare you,” she screams. “How fucking dare you come here.”
“Vivian, I—”
“No,” she says. “Shut up. You don’t get to talk.” Tears are streaming down her face, mascara running into the collar of her black dress. “This is all your fault. All of it. You fucking murderer. Alex died because of you. He died for you. Everything you touch turns to shit and you leave everyone else to pick up the pieces.”
“Vivian, I’m sorry, I—”
She punches me again. “Stay away from me. Never talk to me again. Never call. Never look me up. Go be with all your dead people, all your corpses. At least you can’t hurt them anymore.” She turns on her heel and heads back toward the funeral. Surprised onlookers heading to their cars stop to watch this brief exchange.
I watch as she stalks down the hill toward the cars. I wish I could give her what she wants. But that’s not possible. Not with Santa Muerte holding that threat over her head. I left before and look what happened.
I won’t do that again.
Click here for more books by this author
Also by Stephen Blackmoore:
CITY OF THE LOST
r: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
Dead Things Page 23