by J. R. Rain
“Right.” Well, that’s only partly a lie. Right this minute, I think I’d marry her if I could.
It’s close to dawn by the time I get home. I spent most of that time in the ER lounge, first on the phone with the local sheriff, Hamers, then with Cappy. From the sheriff I get the news that they’d found Gana Kali gagged and cuffed to one of the rear doors of the Mercedes, where Malena had left her. Of Val, however, there was no sign―the only dead bodies the local cops had found in the inferno were inside the cabs of the burnt-out rigs.
So Val is out there in the wind somewhere. And as long as he’s alive, he’ll always be a danger to me.
And to my child. Our girl-child. A moroi, not a dhampyr—he didn’t get the son he wanted.
Because, yeah, I’m pregnant. How do I know? The thing I haven’t mentioned to anyone―and still haven’t really wrapped my mind around yet―is that when Val was raping me, at the very end, there was that thing that Mr. O.K. had told us about. You know, that red mist around us. And I watched Tamara walk right into it. Inside me. And I know it sounds crazy, but I can already feel her in there, curled up and nestling in my tummy, asleep and waiting to be born.
So I’m going to be a mom. Tamara’s mom. I don’t know what she’ll be like in her new life, whether she’ll look like Tamara at all or be born with any of her memories―or whether or not she’ll be undead like me―but I do know that I’ll cherish and protect her. You know, all that tender, practical mothering shit that my own mother never did much of for me.
After I get off with the sheriff, who promises to have somebody from his department pick me up and drive me home, I call Captain Quirk, waking him up at, of all places, his house. Where he’s sleeping beside his wife, who I guess finally forgave him.
“That’s great news, Cap!” I say.
“Yeah, well it won’t last long if you keep bothering me with department bullshit at home.” Which is when I give him a quick summary of what just went down. And that Tamara’s dead body is lying in my living room, murdered by Val, who is still at large.
“Okay, okay,” he groans. “I better take the rest of this downstairs. Jesus, my first shot at a good night’s sleep in months, and you ruin it.”
“I thought you might be happy to hear that your zombie plague is over. I tapped the bitch who was causing it. But Tabori’s still loose.”
“I’ll put out an APB. Man, the commissioner is really not going to like hearing this.”
“Maybe, but he’ll like hearing you’ve covered his ass.” With that happy thought, the Cap agrees to call in Tamara’s murder for me, so that by the time I finally get home, the only thing left of her is a big red bloodstain on the carpet and a thicket of yellow crime scene tape. Along with a note from the local precinct to put in an appearance tomorrow so I can make a full statement. Something tells me I’ll be doing a lot of that lately. I can’t believe SID is already done or that they didn’t at least leave a uni behind to haul me down to the stationhouse, but I guess Cappy told them not to bother. That―or budget cuts.
There is, however, another problem waiting for me at my kitchen table. Bull McGuiness, smoking a big fat cigar and looking both extremely pleased with himself―and guilty as hell.
kay, Bull,” I say to him point-blank. “Wanna tell me just what the hell happened back there?”
Because a whole bunch of things haven’t been adding up lately, and even though I’m bone-weary, as exhausted as I’ve ever been in my life―or death―it’s pretty much now or never. So after I feed a very upset and whining Kitty, I sit down opposite him at the table, Sluggo at our feet.
He has trouble meeting my eye. “It was all Lorna’s idea,” he says finally, blowing out a stream of green smoke. “She’s one sharp cookie, that gal. Honestly, I’m not sure I’d’a had the heart to keep stringing you along, but…” He shrugs.
“That’s just how the cookie crumbles, huh?”
“I guess. She says hi, by the way. And that she’s sorry. She won’t be coming round anymore―we’re buying ourselves one of those big mansions out to Lakeshore, that famous one where the movie star killed himself. Me and the Gimp might open a club―maybe you’d like to swing by, sometimes?” He sounds sincerely hopeful.
“No way in hell,” I tell him. “Just out of interest, how long have you two been stringing me along?” It’s my fault; I should have guessed a lot sooner that it was no coincidence that he’d shown up at the bar that night and offered to help me―Lorna must have already known him and sent him along to buddy up to me as soon as she realized what I was involved with. “Right from the start, I bet. And it was always about the money, wasn’t it? It must have been your idea to set fire to it all along. You had just enough poltergeist juice or whatever to dislodge the lighter from Nancy’s pocket and roll it over to me.”
Bull looks even more sheepish. “To tell you the truth, it was Lorna’s. Look, Lorna still loves you, kiddo―she just never lets anything get in the way of business. If you gotta blame anybody, blame me―she got the idea when I told her about the Maltese and their Money Ship.”
I shake my head. “I blame both of you, Bull. You two got Tamara killed! And all your so-called friendship was just playing me, to get you to the scene of the hijack. Then to light the match for you. How much did you get away with?”
“Gimpy and Lorna are still counting. Looks like about a hundred and fifty million, give or take. Not all of it burned up clean, and we could only carry so much in the truck we rented. Still, that’ll get you pretty far on this side, even split four ways.”
It takes me a minute to get it.
“Wait, what do you mean, four ways?”
“Well, there’s me an’ Lorna an’ the Gimp, obviously. But then there’s you―only fair to cut you in, too, we figured. So we opened up an account for you at First National Savings and Trust. You’re as rich as Croesus on this side. Just to show you there’s no hard feelings. And that, well, we really feel bad about your friend the rabbi lady.”
Great. I’ll have all the money in the world when I’m dead―if I’m ever fully dead―at a bank that’s been out of business in the real world for like a century. Assuming Bull keeps his promise. Meanwhile, I don’t even know how I’m going to meet my mortgage this month.
“I can’t ever forgive you for getting Tamara killed, Bull. Or Lorna.” Although maybe I’m being too hard on him. After all, it wasn’t really his fault that Tamara got killed. He had no way of knowing just how far Val would go. And besides, when push came to shove, Bull did give Nancy a big ghostly one, preventing her from blowing a hole in my head. Lorna, however, is another matter; it will be a cold day in hell before I forgive that sneaky little bitch.
On his way out, I ask, “Did you summon the Soul Eater yourself? Just to scare me into starting the fire?” I think I already know the answer—but I want to hear him say it.
Now he really squirms. “Yeah, but the thing is―there’s no such thing, see. As a Soul Eater, I mean. It’s just a whaddyacallit, a legend. Got some pals of mine in Chinatown to build it for us; it’s kind of a giant puppet or something. All done with rods and levers and strings―Gimp was inside operatin’ it. Got pretty good at it, too. You had no way of knowin’ this, but we play all kinds of tricks here. To scare the newly dead. It’s all the fun a lot of dead folks ever get―that and spying on the living. I’ll be seeing you, toots.”
“Not if I see you first, Bull.”
He looks stricken for a second, then calls to Sluggo. But the little ghost dog just buries his head in his paws and whines, refusing to budge, and after a minute, McGuiness gives up.
“Never had much luck with dogs,” he says. “Or with broads, either.”
I follow him to the front door and open it, to stand staring after him as he disappears into the night. The yard is faintly lit by the first false dawn, and I can see someone approaching through the gloom. The figure comes closer, and I see it’s Wiley Fontenot, my Dream Soldier. I open the screen door and go stand on the stoop, huggin
g myself to keep warm.
“I looked for you everywhere, ma’am. Richelle,” he says, sounding deeply worried. “After you, you know, just ran away like that. I wanted to come in, but that friend of yours, Lorna, stopped me at the door and said you were busy. I wanted to ask…are you okay?”
“I am now you’re here,” I tell him―and open my astral arms wide.
Every home should have a ghost.
e was running like all the hounds of Hell were after him. Muffled by the fog that had rolled in from the river, his footsteps clattered on the bricks of the path leading from the tomb, and his breath came in ragged gasps. A big, compactly-built man in perfect physical shape, a former professional athlete, he was covering the ground at great speed. But he wasn’t fast enough. The thing pursuing him was far faster.
Blazing suddenly out of the darkness like a flaming meteor, it caught up with him on the other side of the trees in a meadow lined with rows of fallow vegetable patches. Its skin and claws and talons were made of stone, and the young man never stood a chance. Shrieking, he was torn from limb to limb. The creature was a firestarter; flames sparked and raced along its stoney flesh and ignited patches of the grass nearby as it writhed in a killing frenzy, ripping the flesh from the man’s bones and devouring the organs.
A dark figure dropped from a tree nearby and, moving with an unnatural speed, emerged from the swirling fog in mere seconds, cutting the fire-creature’s throat from behind with an obsidian knife.
“Tiger, tiger, burning bright,” simpered the newcomer. “Here, pussy, pussy …”
Except killing a Jaguar Baby, as the creature was called, is rarely so easy a matter. It roared and turned, flailing its arms, spattering huge jets of bright blood over its attacker. The two struggled, the man—as quick and strong as the monster, and seemingly practiced in dealing with its kind. With three more deft strokes of the blade, he cut the Jaguar Baby’s tongue out, then one after the other, its paws, stuffing these into the gaping wound of its lower face. The Jaguar Baby collapsed and thrashed in the wet winter grass, then was still. Even now, it was not dead. To kill it, the man knew, would require dragging it over the hill and through the woods to the Potomac, then immersing the corpse in its waters. He had minutes, perhaps half an hour, before the thing woke again and reconstituted itself. Well before then, fires might suddenly explode to life and rage nearby.
Deprived of the supernatural agency that had summoned it, the fog began to thin and retreat, its tendrils wreathing the ground. Soon the security cameras would start working again, and a patrol wouldn’t be far behind. The man glanced down at his ruined, blood-soaked business suit, then cast a single longing glance through the trees in the direction of George Washington’s tomb and sighed. He and the dead man, Deion Braundmeier, had been interrupted attempting to steal the first president’s body from its crypt at Mount Vernon. Now the man, whose name was Crawley, would have to scrap the plan and concentrate on getting away. Where there was one Jaguar Baby, there were generally others; they were a gregarious breed.
He produced a folded plastic Target shopping bag from his jacket pocket, and began to delicately gather up the bloody remains of Braundmeier into it. An eyeball. A portion of the palate with a few teeth. A blackened length of esophagus and what appeared to be pieces of kidney. Another eyeball. A singed fragment of skull.
“Alas, poor Braundmeier. I knew him, Horatio …” Crawley hadn’t started the young man on the treatment yet, but it was faintly possible that under the right conditions he might be able to revive him someday. That, after all, had been his intention with the embalmed and long-dead body of George Washington. Crawley looked up at the sound of howling nearby, then moved briskly away carrying the shopping bag. Time was short. The fourth of July was only months away, and Crawley would now need a new assistant. He would have to notify the General Services Administration tomorrow.
Of course, the way it moved, all he could do was hope the basic bureaucracy wouldn’t prove a greater impediment to his plans than the blasted Jaguar Baby.
Pests, Brags, Tote-guts―Mummified zombies, usually former lobbyists, reporters, or unsuccessful candidates for political office, who follow their victims around continually talking, boasting, or begging favors. There are always a few of these at any DC gathering or bar. ―From The Federal Bestiary (www.magic.us.gov).
t was hate at first sight. That much was obvious from their body language. The two new hires sat uncomfortably on the hard wooden chairs in front of Jefferson Davis Crawley’s cluttered desk, hating everything: hating Washington DC and the weather outside; hating the gray government building and the crowded dusty office they were stuck in, and hating Crawley himself. But most of all, they hated each other.
He smiled. The scenario was perfect.
“Mr. Di Angelo, Miss Farah, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Department.” The capital D was audible. “You’ll find us a bit crowded for space here, I’m afraid; our work isn’t a top priority with the powers that be right now. But we’ve had our successes, as you’ll soon be finding out. With any luck.” He steepled his fingers and pursed his lips.
Jefferson Davis Crawley was a huge man who appeared to be in his late fifties, now running to fat, with thin, graying hair. His fingers resembled well-manicured sausages. His shabby, too-tight pinstripe suit was flecked with dandruff near the shoulders. He had the manner and mellow voice of a stage impresario and spoke with a British intonation, if not an actual accent. He struck everyone who met him as being hopelessly old-fashioned, almost a relic from another century; this he knew and so exaggerated his mannerisms…
“I’m afraid you’ll be sharing an office,” he said. “Sharing a desk, in fact.”
“We’ll be sitting at the same desk?” The young woman, Jasmine Farah, sounded genteelly scandalized.
Crawley pursed his lips even more tightly, until they resembled a giant strawberry. This, though his new employees had no way of knowing it, indicated he was suppressing laughter. “I’m afraid so. As you can see, we’re a bit crowded for space here. And of course, I can’t really make the case for a second desk, since the two of you will be competing for a single position.”
“We will?” Now it was the young man’s turn to look astonished. Whether or not he was outraged, like the young woman so obviously was, was hard to tell. Rocco Di Angelo had light brown hair, grey-blue eyes and the baby-faced, slightly stupid look of a former high school football player from Western Pennsylvania. Which, as Crawley had already noted from his file, Di Angelo was.
“Why yes—I thought you knew. Both of you are here for a probationary period of six months. Then, one candidate will be selected, and the desk will be his. Or hers. Strictly on the basis of merit, of course.”
Farah and Di Angelo stared at each other disdainfully for a moment, and the young woman made a nasty noise. Replacing Braundmeier was turning out to be a lot more fun than Crawley had anticipated.
Jasmine Farah presented herself exactly like what she was; a Lebanese-American beauty pageant queen from Savannah, Georgia, with a Master’s Degree in Geopolitical Studies. She was pushy and ambitious and had large, liquid chocolate eyes, a perfect tan, and frosted honey-colored hair to match. Both she and Di Angelo had initially passed their examinations and group interviews at the State Department and CIA partly on the strength of their shaky Arabic. That—and their new boss’ intuition about them—was what had landed them down here in this little hellhole.
“Any questions before you get to work?”
The two candidates glanced at each other again.
“Yes,” said Di Angelo. “What kind of work will we be doing, exactly?”
Crawley sat back in his chair and spread his fingers across his ample, vested belly. “Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?” he asked innocently. “This is the Department of Magic.”
Neither said a word to this. Fascinating, thought Crawley after the two left his office, baffled and biting their tongues. The air still seemed to vibrate with their frustrati
on. There was magical potential there, yet each was apparently completely ignorant of it. Had he ever been that young and naïve?
Crawley pushed down a pang of regret that he’d have so little time to train them properly before they moved on, like so many of the others had—those who hadn’t resigned outright and gone into hiding. He sighed and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, where he kept a bottle of Longrow single malt whiskey. He was tired of attending funerals.
Especially his own.
“Magic?” hissed Jasmine Farah almost the moment she and Di Angelo were alone together in the room they would, according to Crawley, be sharing for the next six months. She was furious. “He really said ‘magic’, right? I mean he didn’t say ‘Department of Metrics’ or ‘Department of’, I dunno, ‘Mad Libs’ or whatever?”
“I heard magic, too.”
He rummaged around, trying to excavate a second chair buried under an avalanche of old books and papers.
Farah had marched around the desk first and imperiously grabbed the chair behind it, muttering, “Can you believe this place? There’s not even a workstation in here.”
A black telephone that looked like a prop from an old war movie was the only object on the desk.
“There’s no such thing as magic,” she said with finality.
Di Angelo shrugged at her.
“Huh? Seriously? You believe in magic?”
“Let’s just say I’m open-minded on the subject. A job’s a job in this economy.” He dumped a stack of old books onto the cracked linoleum floor. Their titles all seemed to be about urban planning and economics. The Solar City in Times of Precession was one. The Rise of the Subterranean Urban Umbra was another. Most of the loose papers were maps, some yellow and crumbling with age. Like the furniture. The chair, once excavated, turned out to be constructed of plain wood, heavily polished but chipped and peeling. He dragged it over to the desk and sat opposite Jasmine Farah. Her chair was equally ancient but had wooden arms and a black metal wheelbase; it creaked annoyingly every time she shifted position.