“Yeah, it wasn’t in his history that he’d gotten trapped in the mountains in winter. The group he was with turned to cannibalism when one of their members died from the cold. Cannibalism in life is on the list with people having psychic ability or magical ability, voodoo practitioners, witches, sorcerers, devil worshippers, murder victims, and clergy. Because any one of them can come back as a flesh eater. They look good at first, but unless they eat the flesh of the living, they start to rot.”
“You told me his time in the mountains was a deep secret that he and the men with him never shared with anyone. You could not have known, ma petite.”
“I know, but damn it. We were just lucky he didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Are you sure he was reduced to ashes?”
“And bigger bones. I mean, the flamethrowers couldn’t get hot enough to turn the bigger pieces to more than charcoal, but that’s dead enough for a zombie. I treated him like a master vamp and put some of his ashes in different bodies of running water. Thomas Warrington is as dead as I could make him, Jean-Claude.”
“But there were larger bones left?”
“Stop pussyfooting around and just tell me what you’re hinting at, please? I’m out of patience for your usual soft delivery.”
“If his skull and a few other bones remained intact and he was a powerful enough vampire, then there might remain enough power for him to reach out to someone addicted to his power.”
“First, he wasn’t a vampire, he was a zombie. Second, no, they went to a crematorium and were turned to ashes, then those were scattered in water.”
“Did you see the bones burned to ash?”
I stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“If you did not see it done, ma petite, then perhaps someone took a souvenir rather than do their duty.”
“Are you honestly telling me that if the skull and some of the skeleton survived, it could reach out to Justine like this?”
“Not without help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Magical help.”
“Are you seriously saying that just the bones of this guy are draining Justine’s life away?”
“It is possible.”
I stared down at Justine Henderson dying in front of our eyes and realized that her mother was right: I owed them one.
* * *
—
I’d gotten enough ashes back from the crematorium to make up a body the size of Thomas Warrington, so how did I prove that it hadn’t been his ashes? They were scattered in a stream near the original cemetery and in two different rivers, so even if it had been possible to get DNA to prove identity, it was too late, the ashes were gone. If we’d had more time, I’d have reported my suspicions through normal channels and an investigation would eventually start. Justine didn’t have “eventual” in her time frame. If we were going to save her life, it had to be now.
I needed another cop that I could trust implicitly, and I needed supernatural backup. The cop was easy. Sergeant Zerbrowski was my unofficial partner when I worked with the Regional Preternatural Investigation Taskforce. It had been the Regional Preternatural Investigation Squad then, but they’d changed it recently to reflect how many cross-state-lines and multi-agency cases they’d been handling for years. They were handling supernatural cases before the government had forced the U.S. Marshals Service to have a preternatural branch. Taskforce covered what they did a lot more than squad or team had.
Zerbrowski had also been at the graveside when I had to roast Thomas Warrington’s zombie. He’d seen how dangerous the zombie was, and how different it had been from any other zombie we’d seen. All I had to do was tell him, “Remember the flesh-eating zombie that we had to roast at the graveside?”
“Hard to forget that one.”
“Someone may have done a switch at the crematorium and kept some of its bones. I think someone is using them for black magic, and if we don’t stop it, a woman younger than I am is going to die.”
“I’ll clear my dance card, just tell me when and where.” See, the cop part was easy, and once I thought about it, so was the supernatural backup. Nicky Murdock had been one of the guards that helped us fight and finally kill the zombie. Zerbrowski would accept that I’d want someone with me that knew what we might be up against, and he and Nicky got along, which wasn’t true of all of the guards on Jean-Claude’s payroll. Besides, Nicky was one of my lovers and a blood donor for Jean-Claude, so it meant he got along with all of us. The older I got the more I valued that in a partner, whether romantic or police. Why didn’t I take Jean-Claude with me? It was daylight and all the vampires had to be a snooze in their coffins—or bed, in Jean-Claude’s case.
Nicky and I pulled into the parking lot of the crematorium to find Zerbrowski waiting for us in his new car. I wondered how long it would take him to trash the interior of it under fast-food wrappers and other debris. I knew for a fact that his wife, Katie, made sure he was neatly dressed when he left the house, but he got out of his car with his tie crooked and a food stain that I could see from feet away. His short curly hair was almost completely salt-and-pepper now, which made his silver-framed glasses blend in more and his brown eyes stand out, as if they and his eyebrows were the only dark colors left on his face.
“Hey, Anita, hey, Nicky.”
I said, “Hey, Zerbrowski.”
He grinned up at Nicky, who towered above me and looked massive even beside the detective. “Jesus, Murdock, did you put on more muscle?”
“No, I just look bigger standing next to you.” Nicky gave the line completely deadpan. He was one of the few people I’d ever seen get the better of Zerbrowski’s constant teasing. The only people he didn’t tease were the ones he hated, and he didn’t hate many people.
Zerbrowski grinned and patted his belly. “Hey, it was doctor’s orders that I get smaller. My cholesterol is in the normal range now. I get to eat junk food once a week.” He rubbed his stomach as if just thinking about it made him happy.
“Congratulations on the lower cholesterol and the cheat day,” I said, and smiled.
“Thanks. How do you want to play this?”
“You be nice cop, I’ll be cranky cop, and Nicky will be scary cop.”
“He’s not a cop.”
“No, he’s a special consultant that I’ve brought in for this case. As a U.S. Marshal with the Preternatural Division, I can do that.”
He looked up at the bigger man, taking in the short blond hair and the one blue eye. “Glad you got rid of those club kid bangs, hard to see to shoot people when your hair is over your eyes like a shaggy dog.”
“Not ‘eyes,’ Zerbrowski, just ‘eye,’” Nicky said, again totally serious.
“Yeah, I see you rocking the eye patch, never seen you in one of those.”
“It’s new.”
Zerbrowski looked at him as if waiting for more, and when it didn’t come, he let it go and turned to me. “Okay, I’ll ask nicely who would be in charge of emptying the ashes into containers and giving them back out to people.”
“You be nice until it’s time to not be nice, and then it’s my turn.”
“And what will scary cop do when it’s his turn?”
“When Anita gives me the signal, I’ll tear off my eye patch and let them see the scar. If they don’t piss their pants, I’ll think of something else.”
Zerbrowski looked up at him as if not sure whether he was serious, then nodded, trying not to smile. “You could always yell boo when you rip off the eye patch.”
“Great idea,” Nicky said, and even I couldn’t tell if he was serious.
* * *
—
Not only did Harold Ramon clean the crematorium but he was the go-to guy for putting the remains in containers for loved ones and the police. He worked late and alone, a lot. He had to be our guy.
He was fr
iendly, shook all our hands as if he was really sincere about working his way out of cleanup and into customer service. His eyes flicked to take in the serious muscle development that no amount of clothes could hide on Nicky, but I couldn’t hold that against Harold. Nicky’s size made a lot of people nervous.
He denied everything, until Zerbrowski took a step back and made a small, go-ahead gesture at me. It was my turn at bat.
“The woman in the hospital, who’s dying, is named Justine. She has a baby and parents who love her. She’s their only child.”
“I’m sorry that she’s sick, but I did not do what you’re accusing me of.”
“If you help us find the remains and stop the spell before she dies, then maybe all this goes away, maybe you don’t even get written up for abuse of a corpse.”
“I did not . . .”
I held my finger up and went, “Shhhh, but if you don’t help us and Justine dies because we couldn’t stop the spell in time, then you will be as guilty under the law as the practitioner who cast the spell. Do you understand what that means, Harold?”
He frowned at me, eyes darting around the room. He’d stopped wanting to make direct eye contact somewhere in my little speech. His hands were clutching the chair arms, and he was leaning back in the seat because I’d moved forward to invade his personal space.
“I . . . I don’t know. I’m innocent. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It means, Harold, that if Justine dies because of this spell, then I’ll have a warrant of execution for the magical practitioner, or practitioners, that cast it or caused it to be cast. That includes anyone that sold them illegal ingredients for the spell, like illegally obtained human body parts.”
“I’m just plain ordinary human, you can’t kill a human being like you can a monster or a witch. I know my rights.”
“Normally, you’d be right. If you were the owner of an herb shop, or a new age store, and you sold someone books or crystals or what have you, then you’d be safe under the law, but it’s illegal to sell human remains outside of very special circumstances. It’s also illegal to fuck about with the remains of people’s loved ones. It could mean that this entire place gets closed down, all because you got greedy.”
“I didn’t . . . I would never . . .”
“Would never what, Harold?” I asked, voice almost a whisper, leaning so close that our faces almost touched.
His eyes got frantic for a second, and I thought he was going to tell us the truth, but then something harder and more stubborn filled his eyes, and I knew I’d lost him.
“I do my job, that’s it.” He sounded angry.
I sighed and stepped back. “We don’t have time for you to be stubborn, Harold.” I motioned Nicky forward like I’d given up a partner on the dance floor so he could cut in.
He moved like the mountain of muscle that he was, and almost growled, “My turn.”
Harold stayed stubborn and firmly innocent, until Nicky put his face next to his and ripped off the eye patch. Harold made a yip sound.
“I can smell that you’re lying,” Nicky growled, and meant the growl now. The warm, prickling energy of his inner lion trailed off him and made me shiver.
“I didn’t do anything illegal.” Harold’s voice was a little high pitched, but he was standing firm.
The heat of Nicky’s beast ramped up, spreading through the room like invisible bathwater, hot and ready for a soak. I had to take some deep breaths to keep my own inner beasts from rising to the surface. We didn’t have time for my metaphysics to get out of hand.
Harold screamed.
His boss stood up from his chair behind the big desk. “What did you do to him? Even if he’s guilty, I won’t let you abuse him.”
“I didn’t touch him,” Nicky said in a voice that was almost too low to understand. “Not yet.”
“Get him away from me! Get him away from me! I’ll tell you who I sold it to, I’ll tell you everything, just don’t let him hurt me.”
“No one is going to hurt you, Harold, I’ll see to that,” his boss said, all indignant.
Nicky stood up and looked at the other man with an eye that was pale gold with an edge of orange around the pupil. “Sweet Jesus, what are you?” the boss asked.
Nicky opened his mouth to show the very beginnings of pointed teeth to match the eye. Boss Man screamed and put his chair between them, as if that would help.
Nicky gave a little bow and let me step up and take Harold’s information, while he found a bathroom so he could get himself back together. Eyes go first for most shapeshifters, but sometimes when the teeth start to change it’s harder to stop the process. Nicky would be fine, but teeth meant the bones started to reshape, and that can be a little weird to watch the first time. No reason to scare the civilians.
Harold told us everything we needed to know and more, and none of us had laid a finger on him. Let’s hear it for teamwork.
* * *
—
We thought Zerbrowski would have to stay behind with Harold to make sure he didn’t warn anyone, but when Zerbrowski called for backup, a uniform showed up in moments. Maybe luck was on our side, or maybe it was on Justine’s side. I said a quick prayer of thanks and for her to hold on. Right now I owed the Hendersons a debt I could pay; if she died, I’d owe them forever.
The address Harold had given us was only a few blocks away from the Fabulous Fox Theater, where Broadway traveling companies dazzled audiences, but on the street we drove down, nobody’s name was up in lights. There weren’t even many working streetlights, but lucky for us there was daylight and we didn’t need them. There were boards on some of the windows and bars on others, along with graffiti that might have been gang tags, or it might have just been wild art running free across the buildings, the canvas of urban artists. We’d driven past the building that matched the address Harold had screamed at us. It didn’t look any different from the rest of the block. Nothing made it stand out.
We parked a block away from it so no one in the building would see us put on our body armor, which for those of us outside the military is usually just the vest. I readjusted where I carried my sidearm and switched up to the .45. I was too short and too curvy to wear it concealed, but once I put the vest on, concealment was over, so the .45 got a drop holster on my thigh. I had a 9mm Springfield EMP, which had become my usual concealed carry at the office when I had to wear girl clothes, because it concealed better than anything else I’d found, except for the Sig Sauer P238. I kept the little .380 as a backup, because I could conceal both it and the Springfield under female office attire with a reinforced waistband on the skirt at least. Today, I didn’t have to hide anything, so they were as visible as the .45. I got the AR-15 rifle with all the customization for my shorter reach and preference for close-quarters fighting. Nicky’s rifle was customized for his very different needs. We both had the rifles on tactical slings so if we needed to switch weapons, we could let it swing out of the way but not lose it. Nicky had handguns strapped to him, too, just bigger ones for his larger hand size. We both had knives; I just had more of them.
“I suddenly feel inadequate,” Zerbrowski said. He had his vest and his handgun, but that was it.
“Do I say, ‘It’s not the gun’?” I asked, smiling.
He grinned. “Katie loves me anyway.”
I laughed. “Yes, she does.”
Nicky shook his head at both of us, and we started the block walk to the building.
“Always the awkward part. Do we knock and announce, or just bust the door down?” Zerbrowski asked. “I mean, we don’t really have a warrant yet.”
“I’ve got a request in for one, but magical malfeasance is harder to prove than vampire or shapeshifter attacks, so it takes more time to get a warrant issued.”
“Does the girl in the hospital have enough time to wait for the warrant?” Zerbrowski asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“If only there was a metaphysical equivalent of smelling smoke,” he said.
“Anita, can you sense it?” Nicky asked.
“Sense what, the bones?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t do just bones.”
“They are the bones of the most alive zombie you’ve ever raised; wouldn’t your magic linger on them?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“How do you know until you try?”
I started to argue some more but finally shrugged and tried, because if I could testify to sensing evil magic inside the house, then it could be the magical equivalent of smelling smoke, or hearing screams, because a police officer can enter a home without a warrant if they think lives are at risk. I could have lied later and just busted down the door, but Zerbrowski might get in trouble, and he was here as a favor. Why wasn’t I worried about getting in trouble? Because I was part of the Preternatural Division. It would take a hell of a lot more than busting down a door ahead of a warrant to get me in trouble. The people that say we are basically assassins working on American soil with the government’s approval aren’t entirely wrong.
I opened my metaphysical shields just a bit, like opening a window just a crack to see if you can catch a breeze. I caught something, but it was too faint to be certain. I thought about opening my shields more, but if we were about to go up against an evil practitioner of some kind, I didn’t want to lower my shields, because it would be very much like lowering a shield in battle. You can see over your shield better, but so can your enemy, who will happily plant an ax between your eyes.
If I didn’t want to drop my guard, what else could I do?
“Try using your necromancy,” Nicky suggested.
“I thought that didn’t work in daylight,” Zerbrowski said.
“If I was trying to raise a zombie that could think and answer questions intelligently, then you’re right, but I’m just trying to sense the dead, or the undead, or maybe Nicky is right and the bones will have some sort of power signature that I can sense.”
Fantastic Hope Page 36