Grave Sacrifice

by Russ Linton

  Took me a beat, but Caleb was being serious. “Shakespeare, I guess?”

  “Half-human fish monster guy in The Tempest. He was the son of a witch, treated like a slave.” Caleb got reluctant again when he saw my interest spike. “Not a super sympathetic character. Kind of got rapey...not that he deserved to be a slave.”

  “Relax,” I said. “You got my attention with fish monster and witch.” Either this Caliban liked old plays, or maybe, just maybe he knew something about the magic scene. “Use a female name from Shakespeare. Get his guard down.” My high school might’ve skipped the classics, but college had tried to spit some dead white people verse my way. “Titania?”

  “Nice,” Caleb said and started creating the new account. I grabbed my jacket off the stool and shrugged into it. “What do I say?”

  “Ask for a vacation.” I tugged my jacket over my shoulder holster.

  “Why not just contact him with Kitterling’s account?” Caleb called as I went toward the door.

  “Because I don’t know what happened to Kitterling and this guy does. Might raise less suspicion with a new client.”

  “But where are you going?” he asked. I hadn’t stopped moving for the back door which led out to the garden and the pathway to the garage.

  “To talk to the last person I know who saw Kitterling.” I smiled at him from the half-open door and raised my eyebrows. “Sheila.”

  Caleb gave me a knowing look. “My man! Get it, yo!”

  I let my smile evaporate and sternly shook my head. Caleb sheepishly lowered a hand raised for some kind of across the room Jedi high-five. I let him off the hook and laughed as I closed the door.

  Get it. Indeed, my good chap, it shalt be got.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sheila officed out of a building right off the historical quarter. Even a shorter distance from Kitterling’s than Tish Adelaide’s Olde Chicken truck, I had less of a reason to take Bubonic. But I did anyway.

  Before I’d settled my differences with the hearse, I’d been self-conscious about my ride. But we’d been through a lot lately. The stares this time had less sting. Jealous haters, morbid gawkers, they could eye all they wanted. Plus, there was the sword.

  Using a couple tons of steel for a sheath? I’d get to fixing that one day.

  I turned down the brick alley beside her office and stopped to let a group of pirates cross. A wench with her barely-restrained tankards walked between two men giving off more of a carnie swag than terror-of-the-high-seas. Their costumes were on point though. Both wore swords.

  Walking the streets with the demon slayer on my hip could be that easy. All I’d need was an eye patch, a skull and bones hat, and a frilly coat.

  Demons might have to kill me first.

  I rolled into the lot and took up a handicap spot near Sheila’s office. Sure, driving a hearse got lots of looks, but people kept their questions to themselves. Lugging around a corpse? Sufficient handicap.

  Restoration and building codes had brought a colonial hood meets the Spanish mission theme to the neighborhood. But this building was bland and new with only a coat of stucco to blend in. I pushed through the glass front doors and got held up by a raised index finger.

  “Yes, we’re aware how much you’re paying us. No, that doesn’t mean you can call me sweetheart.”

  The middle-aged woman behind the reception desk looked harried. She had on a starched white shirt, the sleeves scrunched up past her elbows. Her blond hair had escaped in stray wisps from a loose bun held in place with pencils. She wore makeup, but in a quick, exasperated way that made clear she did it because other people wanted her to.

  The foyer had just her desk, a collection of plush armchairs, and a coffee table with a few neatly spread magazines. Past her desk was a set of double doors. A boardroom. Maybe Sheila’s office or both.

  “We will most definitely communicate with you outside of the billing cycle, Mr. Gardino.” She unleashed a one-handed burst across her keyboard. “I see you have a deposition in two weeks. I also see you haven’t returned the client packet. Once we have the information, we can more easily discuss your case.”

  Sheila’s unassuming office looked like a two-woman show, but Gardino was big money. Real estate magnate and hotel property owner, he had a hand in about every aspect of this tourist town. I started to take a seat in a plush armchair, but a glare and that index finger stopped me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gardino. And ‘sweetie’ is just another way of saying ‘sweetheart.’ Uh-huh. Yes. I understand. But you hired a shark, not a personal assistant.”

  I clamped my mouth and let loose a muffled rumble of appreciation as she hung up the phone. I already knew Sheila took no prisoners. She definitely hadn’t tried to find an assistant to cover her diplomatic deficiencies. Phone call done, notes taken, the receptionist turned to me.

  “We already have private investigators who we contract with. Leave a card, we’ll call you later if we need your services.”

  Direct and insightful. “No, I’m here to see Sheila.”

  She’d already started arranging the pile of papers on her desk. Her eyes flicked to her screen and back again. “No appointment. You are?”

  “Ace Grant.”

  She stopped what she was doing and I could tell I had her full attention. “Caleb’s friend,” she said, not able to hide the annoyance.

  I’d almost forgotten. He’d flooded them with research and phone calls. A highly energetic character witness and expert in the field whose expertise they never really asked for. But it’d kept him busy. I’d hoped my little assignment would keep him away from Natchez, but that didn’t quite work out either.

  “Yeah, Caleb got all the persistence, I got all the patience.” I settled into a chair under her watchful eye. “I’ll wait.”

  She started into a protest right as my ass hit the cushions, then the doors behind her opened.

  “Carol, will you get me the Sampson file, I—” Sheila’s concentration broke as I got to my feet. The smile that softened her determined gaze had me feeling weightless. “Ace!”

  Sheila crossed the room, a folder clutched in her hand, and gave me a quick hug. I closed my eyes and let myself have that moment. We’d last been this close pulling away from Mordecai’s surprise party. Little choice, I’d been hanging on a thread. She’d been the one to cradle me against her. And she was ready to do it again despite the lack of urgency. My turn to smile.

  Thoughts of Keandra were never far when it came to the ladies. I had to play it cool. At the same time, Tina mimicking my late wife with her magic, trying to seduce me, break me, had sparked the opposite effect of what she intended. That torture had triggered a self-defense mechanism. Given an incentive to convince me the Keandra I knew only existed in my memories.

  Five years ago. Maybe it was time to move on.

  “Carol, I’m going to lunch.” Sheila’s eyes hadn’t left me as she left the folder on the reception desk. Neither had Carol’s who watched the whole bit of intimacy with a helping of shade.

  “You’re due in court in an hour,” Carol said.

  Sheila nodded, bending down to grab a purse from behind the desk. I tried not to admire the view. I thought I saw her assistant’s thin lip quirk upward as we hit the door together.

  “Not sure she likes me,” I said.

  “Carol? She’s been at this longer than I have. I rescued her from the last law firm I worked at. A bunch of suits who liked their women more compliant.”

  I moved ahead to get Bubonic’s door and she missed a step. Her gaze went distant. There. Bad memories of our ride that night.

  “We can walk,” she said briskly.

  We crossed the parking lot and over the brick alley. An open patio restaurant, La Cocina, was nestled up the street behind a screen of palm trees and ferns. The waitress led us to a table toward the back. I pulled out Sheila’s chair, wondering if I’d get bit for the gallantry. She hadn’t shaken off those memories yet and offered a polite, tight-lipped smile a
s she sat. I slid my seat off to her side, facing the gabled patio entrance.

  “How are you?” I asked. No way to avoid that question.

  She took a deep breath, the unornamented front of her sapphire blue dress rising and falling, eyes low. Absently, she played with the rolled-up silverware. “Good. You?”

  “I’m not in prison. That’s a thing.”

  “It is.”

  The waitress came back with water. “Would you like something else to drink?”

  “Vodka rocks.”

  Sheila goin’ for the liquid lunch. I shook my head. “I’m good.”

  I watched Sheila as the waitress walked away. My eyes went to her shoulders where I’d last seen Kibaga’s Cloak. I hadn’t even known I could pass it to others. Hadn’t known it wouldn’t come back...

  Naw, I wasn’t here to obsess about magic. I was here to see Sheila.

  After witnessing the forces of hell get stomped and melted by a revenge-thirsty Alchemist, I worried she’d been too shook. Likely she had, but instead of getting lost in the crazy, she’d come back and buried her troubles in work. A good short-term solution. Not the way to go long-term. But I wanted to make sure she didn’t have any lasting troubles.

  “No, really,” I said, “how are you? That isn’t a thing you can unsee.”

  She tapped a finger on the table right about where she’d want that drink. “I’m fine. Fine. We’ve got a few details to go over with your case. The state’s paperwork might have been sketchy or misplaced, but we need to make sure everything is cleared in the courts. No surprises.”

  Down to business, sure enough. We’d deal with the spirit world encounter in time. But if we were going to be close, I couldn’t make any guarantee she’d never be exposed again.

  “I’ll sign whatever,” I said, brushing aside the work. But while we were talking shop. “Hey, you know where Kitterling went?”

  She finally made eye contact, puzzled. “He isn’t back in town?”

  “You expecting him?”

  “We didn’t have much interaction. He cut a check and left. I remember a phone call.”

  “When?” I scooted forward, too intense.

  This was going all wrong. I’d meant for us to clear the air then decompress. Talk about what happened maybe after the vodka. But once I’d caught scent of a trail, I couldn’t let it go.

  Smiles I’d seen at the office were gone. “I can get the exact date and time from Carol. I want to say it was right before your transfer. He asked if it would be okay if he left town. I told him as far as I knew the police had no interest in him. He sounded nervous though, like they might. So I didn’t ask for details.”

  The waitress came back with the vodka. Sheila drained the glass and tapped the rim, the same impatient motion she’d subconsciously given earlier. I hoped she hadn’t found other ways besides work to forget about Natchez.

  “Did he say where?”

  She shook her head.

  It all lined up with what I’d found. When the transfer came, when Kitterling knew Mordecai was moving me closer, he’d bailed. Wasn’t the police he’d been concerned about, but the demon. I’d yet to figure out if he’d intentionally gone looking for the Shaw Sword knowing who his client was. If so, he had plenty of reasons to be afraid. Mortals don’t double-cross demons and walk away free. But all this hinted at something deeper. Another long-standing relationship Kitterling had kept from me.

  Sheila was staring into her empty glass, rattling the ice cubes. “You think something happened to him?”

  She meant to ask if I thought he’d had his skin flayed off and been turned into a Boo Hag. Maybe had his soul devoured. I touched the back of her hand.

  “I’m just trying to find him, that’s all. He got smart, went in the wind when the heat came.”

  She stared where our hands had touched. “Can you even hide from those...those things?”

  This had gone bad, fast. I covered both her hands with mine around the glass. “Don’t matter, I won’t let them get to you.”

  She slid her fingers out from my grip leaving me with a chilly tumbler. “You think you gotta save me? I can handle my damn self.” The words were heated, but her tone, distant.

  “I don’t doubt you can.”

  Seeing me, my ride, it had brought the heavy thoughts back too hard. I’d started the line of questioning, an interrogation, and not a friendly visit. Maybe we couldn’t make this work. I could make peace with that.

  She accepted the next drink with a smile. I let the silence hang while she swirled the fresh glass, not as quick to drain it this time. Conflicted, she hadn’t been broken. I could see her sharp mind working through the ramifications as the vodka swirled. Determination slowly stilled her thoughts, probably diving back into her work and her upcoming courtroom appearance or whatever.

  “I just wanted to check in with you. Told you I would,” I said, shifting to the edge of my seat, ready to stand. “We can go over court stuff later.” She put on a brave smile, her eyes still low. I got up. “I’ll call you.”

  She stopped me as I turned away. “Ace?” she asked, her determined gaze fully back in the present. “Can we try this again? Some other time? Away from work?”

  “Damn straight,” I said, relieved. “I’ll—”

  “I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Saturday night?”

  Wasn’t my job to convince her of what she wanted. She knew. Maybe swimming with the sharks isn’t half bad.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nobody home at Kitterling’s. Just me, the taxidermy safari in the drawing room, and a slowly emptying fridge. Caleb left a printed note on the storefront counter. He’d already heard back from our mysterious travel agent. We had a meeting tomorrow night, seven o’clock at the Chesterfield.

  But question was, did I bother?

  Kitterling didn’t get out much, but I knew he frequented the pub. They had craft beer and a whole separate tearoom where he could dangle his pinky and school folks about how best to take their tea. I’d had the bad luck of being a target more than once.

  “Ass am?” I’d said to him, eyeing the tag dangling from his gilded Staffordshire bone china cup. “Want me to put some lemonade in there for you? Even out that bitter ass taste?”

  Kitterling had stared back in horror. “You might as well put jam in caviar. Camellia sinensis is a timeless delicacy imported from the Far East.” One sip and he’d already recovered his demeanor, back to lofty and unconcerned. “The lack of refinement of the American palette never ceases to amaze me. Is there anything you won’t put sugar in?”

  “Beer.”

  He’d known where this was going. Kitterling wasn’t above buying a pint with fruity flavors. Instead of giving a haughty little “touché,” he’d reminded me the porch railing needed a fresh coat of paint.

  In so many ways, I’d be better off if the old snob never turned up.

  When business was slow, he had me doing odd jobs around the house. As bent as the implications were, I accepted them. His attitude was what made it tough. He leaned way too far into the idea of having a butler, or servant. Then again, he treated everybody like peasants and he was their king.

  Pretty sure the dude was from Cleveland. For real.

  I stepped out back onto the brick patio. One place he never asked for help was the garden. Kitterling had filled the cramped walled space to bursting with flowers and shrubs he kept meticulously shaped and trimmed. Pastel-colored blooms spilled over meandering walkways. They all came together by a fountain under a pergola draped with vines, perpetually green in the Florida sun. Kitterling drank his afternoon tea there.

  I walked the brick path, the trickle of the fountain lost in the street noise right over the high walls. No tea service in sight. I wished I’d grabbed a beer.

  Water sprayed from the replica fountain. It was a smaller version of some famous sculpture probably in jolly old England somewhere. Perseus rode a bucking winged horse while driving a spear into the mouth of a monster coiled around the
hooves. A woman, some other mythological figure I couldn’t name, stood off to the side, hand extended as if to say, “Bitch, please, we don’t need no monsters here!”

  I took a seat at the table. The trickle of the fountain drowned out the street noise. I suppose, if you wanted, you could sit your ass back here and imagine you were behind a cottage in the English countryside.

  But what this stuffy garden needed was a barbecue. Monster burgers, hot dogs, whatever — grill it up and serve it with tea and shovels full of sugar.

  That, and this little oasis or whatever needed Kitterling.

  His handiwork marked every stem and limb. The grounds, the house, the business; I couldn’t just take over here and pretend this was mine. It wouldn’t be that easy.

  I stared at the snarling monster, scales and fins and sharp fangs. I couldn’t take over Kitterling’s business. And I couldn’t leave him to demons.

  I sighed and watched the fountain trickle, water shooting from the beast’s open maw. I’d go find out what sort of trouble Kitterling had gotten himself into. But we were adding a grill to this partnership negotiation.

  THE CHESTERFIELD HAD two paned picture windows on either side of the entrance. Above hung an old-fashioned placard. The gilded name included the phrase “publick house” gilded and topped with a crown.

  Stodgy wards. Dead ass wards. In other words, a place I’d never, under any circumstances, normally set foot in.

  I could see the wood and brass bar through the window on the right. Swank, even the stools had high-backed wooden seats. Wine glasses and champagne flutes hung in a constellation above the bartender. Probably fifty taps arched across the back wall, carved handles claiming some form of high art. Customers lounged in leather couches and armchairs.

  Businesses with period spellings in their name who weren’t in on the joke bothered me. And the old English spelling gave a mixed message. Did people come up in here and drag their tongues across the bar?

  The lack of smoke stains and grime bothered me too. Naw, this wasn’t a bar.