Grave Sacrifice

by Russ Linton

  “Listen,” I said, moving in close enough to curl the walkie antennae she still held between us against my breastplate. “They don’t send in the SWAT team with the hostage negotiator. I’ll go dirty myself with consorting or whatever and you can bust in and save my ass. This can be our SOP. Maybe that’s how this partnership works. I’ve been in the other kind, where my partner carried all the sin. Maybe this time, you leave it on me.”

  She slipped into a low whisper. “That isn’t how it works.”

  “You only knew how to get me out of that prison because you listened to me talk up Ida, right?” She wouldn’t make eye contact as she rolled her neck. “If you come in with me and see demons or undead or necromancers right now, can you promise not to start throwing knives and grenades and shit?”

  Araceli took one more look at the sky. “Take this,” she said, offering me one of the walkies. She took up a position beside the door, arms crossed, head held high but looking at the driver, not me. “If you call, that door comes off the hinges and I go to work.”

  “Very well,” the driver replied, calm and sedate, not a damn bit surprised about the argument. He went back to hoisting the body over his shoulder.

  I wagged the antenna at Araceli. “How hurt are the guards?”

  “Sleeping it off,” she said and slipped on her goggles.

  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you, Jeeves.”

  I heard an internal motor whir as I approached the door. An unmarked security camera on the wall panned toward me. I keyed up the walkie. “Knock knock.” The lock inside clicked.

  Whoever was in the building had to be one confident motherfucker. A guy with a magic sword, a girl who just wrecked the first line of security, and they’re inside popping open the locks.

  The stairwell on the other side ended at another door. A pair of sandals sat on the landing like momma had asked them to take off their shoes before coming inside. My Timbs? Those were staying on.

  I opened the door to a broad hallway. Carpet had been styled after a fancy Persian rug. My boots left prints on the soft fibers. One other set of footprints was there. Five toes, maybe a size ten. The lack of claws or hooves, or any other freaky shit was encouraging.

  The long hall ran to the other side of the building and ended at a floor to ceiling window. About midway, the left side branched off. Two rows of columns styled to look like giant urns ran down either side, stopping at a sunlight flooded view. A couch and two armchairs sat facing the window, the only furniture in an otherwise wide and empty space.

  “As-salaam ‘alaykum, Mr. Grant. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

  The speaker gazed out over the rooftops of the historic city. A patchwork of history, you could almost see the seams of each century lined up against the ocean.

  I moved closer, sword in one hand, walkie in the other. No guards, no crouchy magic tingling up my spine, the only thing to be intimidated about was how low this dude was dragging.

  He wore a white thawb, like a long nightshirt, down to his bare feet. More white draped his head, a keffiyeh, secured with a band made of real gold — the only bit of style on his blank canvas of an outfit.

  I stepped up behind the couch. “Nice view.”

  He regarded me with one of those billboard smiles and gave the sword an appraising glance. “Apologies for any inconvenience this might have caused. I had hoped to plan better for this occasion. Please, sit.”

  When I ignored his offer, he smiled again, genuine, but like it hurt for him to do it. He had bright eyes set in a round face. A beard grew dense and ebony on his jaw and chin, but wispy on his cheeks and mustache. It made it hard to guess his age.

  “You know me, I don’t know you,” I said, not budging from behind the couch.

  “I am Jabir.” He eased into a chair and crossed one leg on top of the other like he was demonstrating then indicated the couch again. “The Chaldean.”

  Right. Sykes’ client. He’d been by the deceased’s office to get the body and noticed the missing files.

  “What’s your business with me?”

  “Everyone has business with you, Mr. Grant. If you hadn’t noticed.”

  Had I noticed? This guy for real? Too damn many people in my business. Armageddon and spiritual turf wars and local cops...surveillance cameras.

  “You’re with MiRA?”

  We locked eyes. His smile got twisted, a joke I wasn’t in on. Neither of us budged even as the driver came crinkling into the room with the corpse over his shoulder. We continued the staring contest while Sykes was laid at Jabir’s feet.

  “Prepare the chalice, Wilson.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wilson, the driver, bent stiffly at the waist and left the room.

  Human, I’d give him that. I’d seen enough undead now to know the difference and he set off no alarms about the Above or Below. The only air he had was one of pure wealth and maybe a touch of that Middle East royalty. That could be more dangerous than a legion of demons.

  He pointed again at the couch. I came around and sat.

  “MiRA is a service available to those of us who can afford their unique offerings. They are our eyes, our glimpse into the future.”

  “So who are you then to have such pull?”

  “I thought my pale horse, the one you rode in on, might have given it away.” He smiled bigger. “I am Death.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I sank into the plush couch and flung my arm along the back. The leather had baked in the sun almost to the point of being uncomfortable, but I paid it no mind. Death? This dude was crazy, that’s all. I didn’t feel worried as I eased my grip on the walkie and pointed the antenna his direction.

  “I’ve met Death,” I grinned. “You ain’t it.”

  “The Gallu,” he said without missing a beat. “No, I and the ferryman don’t see eye to eye.”

  All my chill left. I scooted forward, adjusting the sword and brushing one hand reassuringly against the hidden breastplate. “What do you know about the Gallu?”

  “Ferrymen of souls,” he offered, his eyes going to Sykes’ corpse, an offering on the sumptuous carpet sealed for freshness. “They aren’t pleased about your continued existence either.”

  “How so?”

  “You should be dead. But here you are. It has changed many plans.”

  “Probably changed mine the most.” The conversation had gone sideways fast and I wasn’t having any of it. “You need to start talking before I decide you should meet this Gallu stalker of mine.”

  Another tired smile. “I have contingency plans in the event of my demise. They can exercise limited control over some undead.” He stopped mid thought and pressed his hands together, a finger tapping at his chin. “But allow me to explain first. I am one of the Manzazuu. Lady Araceli has mentioned us, correct?”

  I had to think back over the chaos of the past few days. She’d dropped the name in reference to the tome Sykes had on his desk. “You’re a necromancer.”

  “We don’t encourage use of the term, but yes.” He spotted a navy blue carpet fuzz on his white robe and plucked it, holding his arm out and letting it drift to the floor. “Death is but a temporary condition which we would like to eradicate. Evolve beyond.”

  I got to my feet. “Man, don’t you think I’ve been through this bullshit before? No deals.”

  “I know you have,” he said, keeping his seat. “Mordecai’s offer for a cure wasn’t entirely a lie.”

  I recalled being laid up in the hospital bed, strapped down and pumped full of chemicals. Physical pain had been my enemy, the one I’d fought. But Mordecai’s cruddy offer had hit like another knife wound.

  A cure? Where else had I been able to find one? The flighty Deer Woman? Kibaga who’d handed me over to Death earlier today? Pressure built in my chest. I found myself settling back into the couch.

  “Keep talking.”

  “There is indeed a cure for your condition. I, of course, have other means of ensuring your continued existence.” His gaze wander
ed toward the hallway. I checked over my shoulder to see Wilson returning with a chalice on a silver platter.

  Only one cup this time. Good thing. I wasn’t down with any more teatime.

  Bronze with silver and gold gilding, the big mouth chalice had a rounded bulb connecting the fat conical base. Portraits of saints, maybe the Big J himself, decorated all sides. A Latin phrase encircled the bottom edge. Kitterling’s handed down obsessions got the best of me.

  “Sixth century,” I said out loud. “You really going to take a swig out of that?”

  He took the chalice from the tray and swirled the contents.

  “What did your alchemist tell you about necromancers?”

  “Sick, twisted folks who experiment on people trying to become immortal.” I didn’t see any reason to spare this clown’s feelings.

  “A common misconception,” he corrected. He gave Wilson a nod. The driver set the tray on a table and knelt beside Sykes’ corpse, slowly unwrapping it in the burning sunlight. “You could say these are experiments. If so, Ida was one such attempt, though not by any measure a successful one. Mrs. Flagler had ambition but not the proper grounding in the classics.” He directed my attention to the unwrapping. The plastic had come off the pale face. All the blood had dried into a vomited stream of black, Sykes’ eyes glazed and shrunken. “Mr. Sykes here? He is a victim of his own incompetence, but useful still. We had to bring back knowledge lost for thousands of years for this to work. I’d be happy to share.”

  “I’m not here to make deals. I’m here for answers. Why have you and this MiRA group been tailing me?”

  “Seers and narns and mímir, they’ve had many guises throughout history, MiRA is but their latest. In the classical world, they were known as the Moirai. The three sisters who spun the thread of a person’s life and cut them free when they had finished their journey through the weave.”

  I found myself staring at the clump of fuzz on the carpet. Moirai. I’d heard the name before and couldn’t remember where. Had it been in lock up?

  “MiRA has an interest in you because you aren’t among their threads. Your’s has been cut. Nobody walks this world after being pruned.” He swirled the cup again and stared inside like he’d found something new. “Almost nobody.”

  I was catching up, my anger lagging behind. “You’re responsible for what went down at Fortune’s.”

  “Yes, the trap you sprang, the rabisu. We knew you would go there but the outcome was only a probability. This is very disconcerting for the Moira. They are accustomed to more certainty. The pervasive use of technology has given their prophecy a specificity and accuracy like no other time in history. But you, you continue to confound them. They asked for my assistance because I’ve found ways to defeat their threads as well. We needed to see what happened when one unmoored thread met another. I’m pleased it worked in your favor.”

  Jabir here had been the one to bring that ancient monster back to life, the one Araceli said had been extinct. I should’ve been angry. This clown damn near killed us both. But I wasn’t. I’d left all my anger at the door with Araceli. Lies or not, somebody was finally talking and I was in a mood to listen. He could tell.

  “This isn’t the moment where you kill me, Mr. Grant. The seers may be blind to your actions, but not so about my mortal fate. Timing is everything. In life. Death.” He gestured toward the floor.

  Wilson had finished unwrapping the top half of Sykes’ corpse. The former Purveyor of Lost Things lay in the open folds like a rancid, unholy bouquet. Jabir casually hiked up his robe so he could lean forward and dribble the contents of the chalice into Sykes’ slack mouth.

  Blood clumped out, coagulated and thick. It added a fresh crimson coat on the dried black. Just as I thought his mouth might overflow, his neck twitched. Collar open, I watched a thick lump massage its way down his throat.

  My stomach turned despite all I’d seen.

  “Damn. Really? I mean, really?”

  Wilson had taken off his sunglasses and stared blandly out the window. Jabir raised the cup and the driver whirled to take it, his eyes avoiding Sykes. Balancing cup and tray on one hand, Wilson removed a bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket and squirted a dollop into his master’s waiting palms. Jabir rubbed them together, slow and calculated, never taking his eyes off the corpse.

  Sykes blinked. A slow blink, like a newborn, uncertain, ripped from the only world he’d known. Then his eyelids fluttered and he thrashed in panic. Eyes torn open in terror, they fixed on the cloudless sky. He started to scream and screech. Wilson shifted uncomfortably. Jabir’s attention went to me.

  “Ace? Ace?” The walkie went off with a squelch. Araceli. I could barely hear her over the screams.

  Long, pointed fangs had replaced Sykes’ canines. The freshly consumed blood sprayed and strung between his lips. Damned terrifying, but more than that. Pathetic. Sykes, the bumbling wannabe necromancer, was in pain.

  “How will you deliver him, hmm?” Jabir eyed me. “Darkness or light?”

  I got off the couch and drove my sword through the thrashing medium’s heart.

  He went rigid. The screams stopped and a soft sigh escaped his lips. Soon, he looked exactly like he had — long dead. I ripped the sword free and put Jabir in my sights.

  “Any reason why I don’t kill you next?”

  “Remember, I have contingency plans. I look forward to my Death and the form I will assume. Besides, removing me will change nothing.”

  “Might just stop this Day of the Dead festival you’ve got going on.”

  “Mr. Grant, I wish I could lay claim to this sudden explosion of necromantic energies. But it isn’t my doing. It’s yours.” He saw my sword hand falter and plowed on. “You tore down the King of the Sunset’s pillar of power. You did that. Impressive, make no mistake. But in any magical ritual, if one aspect is compromised an imbalance is almost certain. Surely even your informal training has taught you as much?”

  I took a step backward. I knew what he said was true. This was on me.

  I hadn’t exactly been taught magic, more tossed in the deep end and left to sink or swim. Everything in my life had been like that. Parents did what they could in the trenches, but some days even a walk to school meant life or death decisions. Some days you remembered what your father told you. Some days, you just had to start swinging or start running, or pull out your piece and show the world you weren’t scared to join the war raging all around you.

  “Ace!? Damnit, I’m coming in!” Araceli on the walkie again.

  Jabir might not be lying but I’d be damned if I let him off the hook.

  “If you kicked off this necromancy part of the Armageddon ritual, you can stop it.”

  “My predecessors and I have made sure there is no way to end what has begun,” he said calmly. “The work of our ritual is completed by billions of devotees across the globe, day in and day out. An endless weave of death and consumption fueled by the very blood of the Earth. How do you stop traffic? Convince people to walk away from their nine to five commute?”

  “Driving? That’s what powers your ritual?”

  “The End is here,” Jabir said, getting to his feet. “Thanks to your intervention however, it will be on my terms. No negotiations with gods and demons. Above? Below?” He snorted and waved his hand. “Your actions have freed us from those who would enslave us beyond death. But why surrender to death at all? I will remake the world with true immortality, an immortality of the flesh. We will all be gods.” An explosion shook the room. Jabir snapped his fingers at Wilson who nodded gravely and made for the hallway. The Chaldean looked to the floor where Sykes had started to twitch. “Want to live forever, Mr. Grant?”

  Sykes hadn’t turned to dust like the others. I watched him jerk, the plastic crinkling.

  “You think I want that?”

  “As I said, he’s a victim of his own incompetence,” Jabir said with disgust. He brushed away my sword and stooped to cover Sykes’ face. “He was working from an ol
d grimoire. I’ve already secured better results for myself. I could share those with you. Or I can tell how to find your cure if mortality suits you better.”

  Cure? Yeah, right. I need to tell this man right here, right now, where he can shove his Tuskegee bullshit. But his confidence has thrown me. His directness. The man isn’t lying, I know, when so many others around me have been.

  “Why are you willing to help me?”

  “You are our rogue variable in this grand experiment. I want you kept content.”

  Content. Contained. No, his experiment was crazy. Wasn’t it? This talk about using traffic as the basis for power of his ritual, crazy.

  But the trance of the road. A burnt offering. A sacrifice. Could this guy be for real?

  The claim added one more piece to this crazy puzzle. Atofo had mentioned seeing rituals in cellphones way back. The overseers had hidden their power source in plain sight under a private prison. Why not rituals on the cruise to work?

  I had no way to stop that.

  But I could stop my own slide.

  See Izaak for myself.

  Get a little more time with Sheila.

  I heard a shout in the hallway. A solid impact followed like a body slammed against the wall. A few more sudden thumps. Silence.

  “You can hook me up with this cure?” I whispered. “No strings?”

  “Absolutely. I am a partner with Ganzir Pharmaceutical. They have cures for every known pestilence and plague. None of it will ever reach the public, but I can arrange for you to be part of their trials.”

  “Sounds like you two should team up and finish off the world.”

  He frowned. “Too much damage. Ganzir wants to see humanity waste away. The dead brought back with their bodies too far gone are only echoes, much like the specters you’ve faced around town.”

  “Then maybe instead of sending me off to be an experiment, if you want to help, you can tell me why these undead here keep coming back.”