Ferryman nodded unhappily.
I went on. “Now, you told me that when a person dies, their soul returns to your realm to be reunited with their shade and become a full spirit again. You also mentioned that physical possession of the soul upon the death of the body is important. What I want to know is what happens when someone other than the Lords of Hell is in possession of the soul upon the original vessel’s death. And why is it such a big deal to you, personally?”
Ferryman let out a long-suffering sigh. I doubted anyone had ever questioned him this closely about how all this stuff worked. To most mortals, it was beyond their care or comprehension. To the Other, it was just business as usual. He dragged his arm across the table, erasing the game of solitaire and gathering the cards into a stack. He shuffled them twice and set the stack to one side. “Ada did warn me that you were persistent.”
“I’m just doing my job,” I said with a spike of annoyance. “And it’s easier to do when clients are honest with me.”
He leaned back in his rickety folding chair and took a drag on his cigarette. “It’s all about contracts. The Lords of Hell, the Avatars of Heaven, and hundreds of other organizations contract with me to store the shades, reunite them with souls, and send the spirits on to wherever they’re meant to go. If a person dies and is still in possession of their soul, it naturally seeks out the shade to be reunited. I don’t actually have to do anything in that case. If they are not in possession of their soul, then the soul must be brought to me by whoever has it.”
“So stolen souls means that you’ve got shades that can’t be reunited with their other half?”
“Exactly.”
I tried to ignore the goose bumps on the backs of my hands. “What happens if a soul and a shade are not reconnected?”
“It’s annoying, but I deal with it. The soul will always end up here eventually.” Ferryman grunted. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Ferryman took another long drag on his cigarette. I could practically see him deciding how much to tell me. “The problem,” he finally said, “is that shades are dying.”
I frowned. “I’m guessing that’s not normal?”
“It’s not. Just like souls and spirits, shades are forever. Immutable. My realm is made up of billions of shades, all waiting to be reunited with their souls.”
“And when a shade dies?”
“It sends my realm into chaos.”
Something in Ferryman’s voice set off alarm bells in my head. I wasn’t the only one. I could sense Maggie’s presence listening carefully from within the ring. “What do you mean?”
“Imagine…” Ferryman picked up a single playing card and tapped it against his chin. “Imagine that you own a home, and the ground shifts very slightly beneath it. Not a proper earthquake, but a definite shift. Cracks appear in the drywall. Pipes come out of alignment. Now imagine that as the shifting intensifies, so does the damage. As the keeper of this place, I’m tasked with maintenance.”
“You’re running around with a can of stucco trying to keep things looking nice?”
“Something like that.” Ferryman gave me his wan smile again. “Now imagine that your house has a mind of its own, and when the maintenance isn’t properly kept up, it likes to lash out against the mortal realm.” He began to lay out a new game of solitaire. “The last time my realm became unbalanced was when it was affected by a war between minor gods back in the fourteenth century. It lashed out in pain. Humanity got the Black Plague.”
My eyes widened. “Didn’t that kill two hundred million people?”
“One hundred seventy-three million, eight hundred forty-two thousand, six hundred and one, to be exact.”
That number was way too specific for my liking. My goose bumps intensified. “You’re saying that if shades keep dying, your realm is gonna murder humanity?”
“Oh, it won’t be anything that large. It’s more likely to be an earthquake or a flu epidemic or something relatively minor. But it’ll still hurt. A lot of people will die.”
I ran through my hair. “That’s a damn lot of pressure you’ve put me under.”
“There’s a reason I didn’t tell you this in the first place.”
“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. I began to pace. “Okay, so what’s killing the shades?”
“All of those two hundred seventeen missing souls should have been processed into my realm over the new year.”
“You mean that all the original owners died?”
“Yes. It’s their shades that are dying.”
A light went on in the back of my head. “It’s because they’re putting the used souls into other people’s bodies?”
“I couldn’t figure it out myself until you brought me the information on Judith Pyke, but I suspect that is the case.”
“And what do we do about it?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re doing it.”
I threw my hands in the air. “You’re Death! Can’t you just deal with this?”
“You of all people should know how important the Rules are. This is as involved as I can get in the mortal realm.”
“Then you should have handed it straight to OtherOps. The actual cops should be doing this this, not me.”
Ferryman snorted. “OtherOps might get results, yes, but they’re a bureaucracy. Those results will come in six months, or maybe a year. That’s not quick enough. And even if I convince OtherOps of the severity of the situation and they move lightning fast, they will let it slip to the public. It’ll cause mass panics, suicides, and humans and Other turning against each other. The Lords of Hell will see their business dry up overnight.”
“This is corporate protectionism?”
Ferryman stared at his newly laid out game. “I suppose it is.”
“You’re a prick.” For once, Maggie didn’t scold me. She floated on the edge of my awareness, still quiet, still listening.
“I’ve been called worse,” Ferryman said as he leaned over his game and began to move cards. “I do think I have time, though I’m not sure how much. A couple of weeks? A month? I’m giving you ten more days before I pull the contract and alert OtherOps.” He looked up, fixing me with those black, galaxy-speckled eyes. “I do have faith in you, Alek. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered. OtherOps may have resources, but you know this world. You know the clients and their customers and the equipment being used. A reaper is a far better agent to deal with this than an entire OtherOps office.”
“Kind of you to say,” I responded wryly. If Ferryman pulled the contract, I would have failed to stop a disaster, and Ada would be pissed as hell over losing out on however much Ferryman had offered her. Millions, no doubt. The two different sets of stakes seemed immeasurably imbalanced. But one would happen to the other people. The other would happen to me.
I took a few calming breaths and tried to pull myself together. Nothing to do now but go through with my investigation. I pointed at the mirrors on Ferryman’s table. “I’m on the right track.”
“It seems you are. As I said before, I am very pleased. You mentioned imps. Do you think they’re behind this secondhand soul business?”
“I know they’re involved. I doubt they’re behind it. Imps are rarely behind anything but petty theft and drug dealing. I think they’re working for someone both bolder and stupider.” I paused, massaging the gums of my lower canines. “The truth is, I need the resources of someone like OtherOps. I haven’t even explored where they’re getting all these souls—how they’re stealing from reaper agencies or the Lords of Hell. Unfortunately, I have a thousand different angles to work, and it’s just me.”
“Keep on this trail of dead imps,” Ferryman advised. “As I told you before, the Lords of Hell have conducted their own investigations and come up with nothing. Searching around in their trash cans isn’t g
oing to help.”
That reminder tickled something in the back of my head. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “That’s… discouraging,” I said. “It’s possible that whoever is running this business has already figured out that we’re on to them. He killed a whole bunch of his imps and tried to destroy some soul mirrors. If I had to guess, I’d say we have a few days at best before he finishes liquidizing his business and skips town.”
“You’d better hurry, then.”
“Thanks for the advice.” I turned around, searching the darkness for the other side of the stepping mirror I’d come through, expecting a glint in the darkness. Nothing stood out. “I’ll try to pick up the pace. In the meantime, make sure that Lucy and her friends answer their damn phones the moment I call.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Ferryman promised.
“Good. Now, how the hell do I get back to my—” I hadn’t finished my sentence when I found myself sitting back at my desk, my fingers still pressed to the stepping mirror. “Office.” I blinked at the bright lighting and sighed, wishing I could go back and undo that whole conversation. My stomach was a knot now, a ball of stress that might just kill me before Death’s realm could lash out at humanity like an angry child.
Answers aren’t always fun, are they? Maggie asked.
No. Definitely not. The thought tickled the back of my brain again. There was something there, just outside of reach.
I do have some good news, Maggie told me. I managed to find out how to put draugr to rest.
At least that’s something. How long until they show up and try to kill me again?
Based on the last time, you’ve got two more days. Maybe less. If we catch them while they regenerate, we might be able to get some information out of them.
I like the sound of that. Okay, tell me what we need, and we’ll go have a talk with our undead friends.
Maggie hesitated. My anniversary starts Friday afternoon.
I know, I told her, feeling a flash of guilt. That’s why I want to get info out of them. If I can’t spend your anniversary with you, at the very least I can give you a lead on who it is that knows you’re still alive.
Chapter 10
It was almost three in the morning when I pulled onto a quiet street just south of Mayfield Road on the eastern border of the Cleveland city limits. I sang along with Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” on the radio, squinting at signs until I found one advertising all-night parking. I got out, shrugging on an unlabeled hoodie and getting a Maglite from the passenger seat of my rental. I looked up and down the street, eyeballing the darkness for cops. The only sign of life I saw was a couple making out beneath a stop sign a block away.
The sight of them caused a stab of melancholy. It happened from time to time, especially when I was working late at night. I leaned on the car door, willing it away, trying not to think about the fact that my last girlfriend had dumped me after three weeks because I worked too much. That had been a couple years ago, and I’d had nothing but the occasional bar hookup since. As much as I liked Maggie, the fact that my only constant companion was a seven-century-old jinn was a tad dehumanizing.
The melancholy finally passed, and Maggie didn’t seem to have noticed. Hey, Mags, are we clear? I could see my breath as a white fog beneath the flickering of the street light.
We’re good, Maggie told me.
You’re sure about that?
Yeah. Closest cop is half asleep, eating a donut three streets over from here.
Oh, come on, I told her. That’s racist.
Cops aren’t a race.
Coppist?
Is it coppist if he really is eating a donut? she asked.
I should ask Justin.
I checked my pocket for a pair of plastic baggies filled with some draugr dust I’d scraped up after our fight the other day. There was more dirt, gravel, and glass from my pickup windshield than there was actual draugr dust in either bag, but Maggie claimed it was enough. I flipped up my hood and walked quickly down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for passing cars.
I crossed Mayfield Road and pulled myself over a seven-foot concrete wall, dropping on the other side to land in an overgrown tangle of vines, discarded stones, and the trees that formed a screen between the road and Lake View Cemetery. I knelt among the vines, squinting through the trees to the open grass and winding concrete paths that made up the cemetery beyond.
I spotted a flashlight bobbing in the darkness off to my left just as Maggie said, Security, and I moved behind a tree until he passed.
Rub a little more of that draugr dust on my ring, Maggie told me.
Kinky, I replied, following her instructions. I could practically feel her rolling her eyes.
Okay, I got it, she told me. They’re both in the same tomb. Head north until I say so.
With Maggie guiding the way, I was able to navigate to the nearest path and follow in the security guard’s footsteps. There was just enough moonlight that I could manage without my Maglite, but I kept it in hand regardless. We passed hundreds of graves varying as much in shape and size as the people within them. Black obelisks towered high above, and shadowy mausoleums seemed to menace me from the darkness. Despite working with loa, vampires, and even Death, cemeteries still gave me the willies.
How much do you think you’d have to be paid to be a security guard at a cemetery? I asked Maggie.
I’m a jinn. I’m not really scared of the dead.
Not even the undead?
Only ghouls. They’re undead jinn.
Oh, that’s a pleasant thought. I considered the small amount of Maggie’s power she was able to use from within the ring and decided I didn’t want to see that in the hands of a vengeful undead.
Mean bastards, Maggie said. I’ve never had to tangle with one myself, but I’ve heard a pack of them can kill even the strongest ifrit. Ifrit were a class of powerful infernal spirits—a type of jinn to which Maggie was closely related.
I was about to reply when I felt her ring nudge me down a side path toward the northeast corner of the cemetery. I dodged another security guard, and within minutes I was standing before a marble mausoleum about the size of a one-car garage. I checked over my shoulder, then risked my Maglite.
The mausoleum was tucked into a space off the beaten path and behind several large trees. It was overgrown with moss and ivy, the lettering above the iron-grate door so worn it was impossible to read. Upon closer inspection, I found the door wasn’t locked or even closed all the way. A chain lay on the ground just inside the entrance, its links snapped rather than cut.
I took a hesitant step inside the mausoleum. There wasn’t a lot of space—just two stone sarcophagi in a dark, damp interior. It looked like something out of a vampire film, except with way less space. An old-fashioned light bulb sconce hung from the center of the ceiling. I couldn’t find a switch to turn it on, so I relied on my Maglite.
The sarcophagi had matching marble lids. One had the name Trevor carved into the top, while the other said Jacob. They were born in 1798. One died 1874, the other 1877.
Twins, I’m guessing, I said to Maggie. I wonder if that made it easier for the necromancer to raise them both. I did a quick examination of the lids and found scratches where lid met base. Definitely the right place. I set my Maglite on one sarcophagus and emptied my pockets beside it: a bag of draugr dust, a wooden stake, a two-pound iron ingot, and a thin piece of sturdy cord. I eyed the assortment dubiously. You sure this is going to work?
Oh, not at all. It’s not like I’ve tried all this shit out before—I found it in a book.
You’re really doing great things for my confidence. I leaned on the lid of the opposite sarcophagus and began to work it open. It scraped and screeched until I’d managed to get it as far off as possible without it falling off the side. I grimaced at the sound and listened carefully for eithe
r Maggie’s warning or the shout of a security guard. Taking a deep breath, I snatched up the Maglite and shone it inside.
The draugr lay peacefully in repose, arms stretched out at its side. It looked like a fairly ordinary corpse at first glance, but a closer look revealed that the flesh clinging to its bones was far too robust, the skin almost pink rather than black with age. An inexperienced eye would claim that the body laying before them had only been dead a short time, not a hundred and fifty years.
It says here, Maggie intoned, that draugr raised by a powerful necromancer are impossible to kill permanently unless you find their resting place.
What the hell are you reading from?
It’s called The Weary Dead, and it’s by some court physician. Fourteenth century, I think. It says that draugr will grow in strength each time you destroy its physical form. By virtue of its master’s magic, it will reassemble itself in its grave and become stronger and stronger each time it does so. By the third time it rises—which will be in a couple of days—its flesh will appear almost human, and it will have access to black magic, including shapeshifting, the force of wind, and control over lesser animals.
Okay, then. We should kill it ASAP.
Stop interrupting; I’m almost finished. The draugr’s fury will increase each time it is destroyed, blah-blah-blah, and it will stop at nothing to accomplish its master’s will so that it may be released to terrorize the world. Huh.
So that explains why they tried to kill me even with Nick being locked up and out of the picture.
Yup.
All right, let’s do this. I leaned over, wooden stake in one hand, and tapped the draugr on the forehead. It didn’t move. You sure it’s not getting up?
Not until we make it.
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