Grave Sacrifice

by Russ Linton

  All of the books were hardbacks that looked like required reading for college. A few of the spines were made of flaking, aged leather. Any of those could have meaning for him. Which one?

  He kept a game console on a bottom shelf. I knelt and thumbed through the titles. No Madden, no Mortal Kombat, he was strictly a strategy type. Could’ve been useful attacking a castle.

  He’d invited me over before too. I’d have brought some pain on Mortal Kombat if he had it. In college, a roommate had run regular study sessions where beer and fatalities became the academics. Simpler times and man, was I aching for those.

  I regretted not taking Caleb up on the invite. Knowing him better would help right about now. Araceli might’ve had an idea what to look for but we couldn’t track her down on the way here.

  “He’s got makeup!” Atofo shouted from the bathroom. He peeked around the corner, consternation on his face. “You think he’s a Two Spirits?”

  “No, I don’t think he’s a Two Spirits.”

  “Why you in the man’s bathroom anyway?”

  “Drugs,” he said casually. “Enough uhm...” he disappeared into the medicine cabinet and reappeared, rattling a bottle. “Ib-you-proffen and maybe I can contact the spirit realm.”

  “Put that back,” I said wandering toward the kitchen. “And don’t put anything in your mouth unless you ask me first.”

  “Word,” he said.

  I heard the door close and a stream of urine start. Hopefully into the toilet.

  Not only did I need to save two people from some crazy soul sundering, I had to babysit this reverse Outlander. Time to move on here. Find something worth using and get on with it.

  Outside the kitchen was a breakfast nook. He had a big table there, much too big for the space, but I could see he hadn’t been doing any eating on it.

  Miniature figurines covered the tabletop, fighting on a painstakingly detailed battlefield. Plastic molded rivers ran frozen through a village on one side. In the open fields and hills, men in uniform fought using muskets and cannons. I couldn’t tell who they were representing, but the era fit his colonial obsession.

  A tackle box and a tape measure sat in one of the chairs. Fishing? Really? I popped it open and row after row of bottled paints unfolded. Brushes neatly lined the bottom. Maybe one of these little soldiers would work for the spell? He’d hand-painted every last one. Had to take serious time, concentration.

  Man, we needed to talk. Bond. Trade apartment keys. Play with little soldiers, whatever. First, I’d get him out of that damn wall.

  Clean kitchen. He didn’t live like any bachelor I knew. He even had magnets on his refrigerator holding a few notes. Groceries took up one. A list of painting supplies on the other. His Fountain of Youth park ID badge swung from a clip.

  I moved toward his bedroom, knocking on the bathroom door along the way. The stream stopped. I kept moving and it started again.

  Those house plants he’d mentioned were in his bedroom. They covered the windowsill all drapey and green. No ritual or recreational use I could think of.

  “You got a glass in there? Bring a cup of water,” I called to Atofo. “Water.”

  A book sat on the nightstand beside a digital alarm clock he must’ve grown up with because it had been a minute since I’d seen red digital numbers. Posters covered the walls. Not bands, not girls and muscle cars, not even prints of famous paintings; these were vintage posters and reproduction prints. He had a timeline of the U. S. of A. going from The Revolution to modern days.

  I opened a few dresser drawers but didn’t dig. He folded his clothes, even his socks. I didn’t think I’d be finding anything too personal in there. Fashion wasn’t on the list of things important to him. My eyes kept going to the posters. Awkward to carry, but they took up prime real estate.

  Atofo came in with the glass. “You thirsty?”

  I gestured to the plants. “They might be.” I let Atofo check and opened the closet. “Here we go.”

  The shallow walk-in was filled with uniforms from one historical period or another. I recognized British Redcoats and Colonial jackets. Knee-high pantaloons and handmade boots. Most were newer, obvious reproductions, but some had an aura to them of deep history, maybe even a touch of blood and sacrifice. A short dresser at the back held a sewing machine.

  I took one of the uniforms down and a tag on the hanger caught my fingertips. “Revolutionary War Soldier, Continental Army, 1777, Saratoga Campaign.”

  Atofo crowded into the narrow space.

  “Hmmm. I have finally completed my trip through time.” He started shuttling through the outfits making a series of grunts and noises of appreciation. “Does the white boy know what century he’s in?”

  “He knows,” I muttered, the space too claustrophobic. “But acting out the present? Too much truth to face.”

  Atofo stopped his grating shuffle through the wire hangers. “Deep, Chemo.”

  It’s whatever. My experience over the past few months had only heightened my awareness of the troubles faced by me and mine across the same history Caleb celebrated. For all the grief he caused, Kibaga’s unsteady power made me yearn for a time when his people roamed unfettered and free. When magic hadn’t been chained and sold, bottled and licensed.

  Atofo started rummaging through boxes on the floor. “Hey, there’s a box with your name on it.”

  “What?”

  Atofo squatted in the back corner with one of the Spanish conical hats on his head. He reached under the curtain of clothes and slung a box to the middle aisle. The cardboard had been reinforced with wood like an all too familiar crate. I stooped and pried open the unsealed top.

  A folded white and blue uniform was on top. Underneath were rows of narrow-necked bottles, one missing. I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  “Hooch?” Atofo asked.

  I handed him one of the bottles full of water from the Fountain of Youth Park’s spring. Still smiling, I puzzled over the uniform and found a tag like the rest pinned near the collar.

  “Fort Mose Officer, 1740 siege.”

  My jaw dropped. Suddenly, I knew exactly what to do. I dragged Atofo out of the closet, him snatching more clothes as we left. Dropping by the fridge, I snagged Caleb’s employee ID and we dipped.

  I couldn’t stop smiling. Caleb wasn’t even here and he just might’ve saved the day with his geek self. Maybe mine and my friend’s sense of history wasn’t so different after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  We dropped by the Fountain of Youth Park after Caleb’s apartment. Still no Araceli. The park didn’t offer onsite living quarters — she had to lay her head somewhere. We spent the next day looking.

  Much of that day we spent hanging around the Castillo, waiting for her to show up in an alchemical fury and melt it to the ground. We had to leave when concerned citizens called the cops while we were examining reenactors. Atofo might have gotten too handsy.

  For now, Araceli was in the wind. That meant no book. Atofo and I would be left to bumble our way through a ritual to stitch somebody’s soul back to This World while laying siege to a fort.

  “Let me kill some Spaniards,” Atofo said. “Always gets the creative juices flowing.”

  “We will. Soon. Only you can’t kill them. They’re already dead.”

  We hadn’t seen them in broad daylight here at the Castillo. I’d have to draw them and their Colonel out. A siege just might do the trick.

  If we were going to face an army, I wanted it to be at midnight. Jabir and Araceli had given me a better understanding of their power source. During the witching hour, a shaman’s magic would have an edge. These undead were driven to stay in This World. Times when the veil got weak were mine, not theirs. Also — the Castillo would be closed. No civilians.

  My own little bush magic theory. Araceli would be proud.

  We drove to Sheila’s office late the next afternoon. Or, actually, Atofo did. If you could call it driving. I tried to imagine he was Izaak. Mostly so
I didn’t kill him.

  Maybe I’d gone soft finding those bottles at Caleb’s place, thinking about lost opportunities for friendship. Atofo had me rethinking all that nonsense right out of the parking lot. But we survived the trip to Sheila’s.

  Five o’clock, the courts would’ve cleared out. She’d have gone back to do paperwork or whatever. I wanted to talk before tonight. Let her know how I felt. Walking cliché, sure, but I couldn’t keep living in the past.

  Dressing in the past? Now that would take some getting used to. With my old jacket trashed by glass and blades and whatever, I’d found a new one. I stood outside Bubonic, straightening the heavy wool collar in the side mirror.

  “Looking fly, Chemo,” Atofo called from inside the hearse.

  I hadn’t gone all in with the Fort Mose uniform Caleb had stashed with the water bottles. I’d kept my pants and Timbs. No way was I wearing cut-offs and knee-high socks.

  The coat I could make work. Solid white with broad navy cuffs and collar, the jacket looked spiffy over my plain black t-shirt. And it finally gave the sword and scabbard a reason to be dangling off my hip.

  The big shaman had no problem with the knee-high pants. No choice, really. The ones he’d put on stopped right above his knees. Unbuttoned on the sides, they could’ve been a skirt, but anything was better than peekaboo with his little chief. He’d tossed on a coat too; red, probably British, and a black felt hat with one side of the brim pinned up.

  When I barged into Sheila’s office, I didn’t stop at Carol’s desk. On the phone, she tried to jump up and run a block. I juked inside then out, a move she might’ve been able to follow despite her slim skirt and heels. The phone cord though went taut and reined her in. Papers drifted and a pen holder toppled. I gave an apologetic smile as I backpedaled through Sheila’s office door. Carol hurried to end her call as I closed the door.

  “Yo, Sheila, I wanted—” the words died and my hand fell to the sword.

  Jabir sat across from Sheila, legs crossed under his jumbo nightshirt, a pair of tailored pants and dress shoes exposed.

  “Mr. Grant! The new coat suits you.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Sheila went from shock to tight-lipped anger. “Ace, I’m in a meeting.”

  I didn’t acknowledge her. Yeah, her office, her rules. But why this corpse-loving fool was polluting the air she breathed, I had to know.

  “Explain yourself, right now, necromancer!”

  “Ace!” Sheila shot up, palms planted on the desk like she was ready to hurdle the top and drag me out herself.

  “Sheila, don’t,” I said, warding her off with a stare. That only made her angrier.

  “Ace, you got something important? It can wait outside.”

  The door crept open and I saw Carol peek in. Her ready to rumble posture was muted, quietly taking in the scene. All her attention went to the fury building in her boss, a sure sign she’d been witness to it before and had no plans to get in the middle.

  “Please, I can explain,” Jabir offered. He hadn’t bothered to get up. “This is a simple real estate transaction. Paperwork needed to be vetted and while it isn’t Ms. Abraham’s specialty, she comes highly recommended.”

  “By who?” I spat, my eyes still locked with Sheila’s.

  “A mutual acquaintance,” he said.

  She almost blinked at the admission. Undead Sykes. Mordecai. Maybe the Sunset King himself. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t gonna let these forces of evil or whatever drag her any deeper. Before he could stand, I was across the room.

  His shirt snared in my fist, I dragged him to his feet, upending the chair and driving him into the wall. Carol in the doorway gasped and disappeared.

  “There’s no deal here to be made,” I growled, our noses touching as I stared him down. He watched with a detached interest like he was mildly curious what might happen next. I pressed harder.

  “Not today either, Mr. Grant,” he whispered. “But soon. In the meantime, the invitation to the trial is on its way.”

  “You get your ass on your helicopter and—”

  “ACE!” Sheila shouted. Her anger shook me. She kept on, her voice quieter but trembling. “This is my world,” she said, a finger stabbing the desktop. “My domain. I’m Queen Sorceress. You want to rattle your saber? It won’t be here.”

  “Chill on me! You don’t understand—”

  Her finger started wagging and I knew I was done. “Don’t you go confusing your business with mine, do you understand?” Mentioning my business gave her pause. A fleeting memory of the surface she’d only barely scratched and been scarred by. She continued, more calmly. “But I definitely don’t need some white knight barging into my office. You want to talk in here? Make an appointment.”

  So that’s how it was gonna be. I hovered in the doorway, restless, eyes avoiding her. “Sure thing,” I said, hot and angry. “Okay.” My jaw felt tight, the pressure in my chest building. Without another word, I walked away.

  Carol watched me go, the telephone off the hook and in her hand, a finger set to dial. She had one of those “I tried to tell you” looks which didn’t help my mood any as I stormed out of the office.

  I dropped into Bubonic and slammed the door.

  “What?” Atofo said. I just stared, fuming, and a grin split his face. “Oh yeah! That’s your war face! About damn time!”

  “Find Araceli for me,” I said, jamming the shifter into reverse and pulling away from the curb.

  “Me? How?”

  “Use your magic and shit.”

  He cleared his throat, eyes downcast. “My stick doesn’t make the rain lately, you know that. Happens to everybody,” he added quickly. “Why don’t you do it.”

  Why not? My shot clock was already winding down. Spending a few last moments with Sheila wouldn’t be an option anymore. But I’d need all the magic I could spare for the soul stitching ritual we didn’t yet know how to do and a little spell I was brewing on my own.

  I backed off the gas, trying to cool my head, absently scanning cars, checking plates. Old habits died hard. I realized I hadn’t seen Jabir’s limo. The lot, the spaces, wouldn’t really fit that boat. Creeping toward the side street, I caught sight of the ash-colored Bentley stretched along a neighboring alley.

  “Hold up,” I said, slamming Bubonic into park.

  I dipped out, muting Atofo when I slammed the door. Would the limo driver see me coming? Didn’t care. He had nowhere to go. Maybe I wanted him to see me.

  Araceli had put the beat down on Wilson. My guess was Jabir needed fresh blood behind the wheel. A half dozen furious strides and I tore open the driver’s side door.

  “Sykes,” I growled.

  He wore a new suit, the old one a casualty of his twisted ritual. Under the driver’s cap, he wore a mask made from opaque plastic that reminded me of the cocoon he’d emerged from. But it was him. The surprised whimper, the fleshy feel of his body as I collared him and slammed him against the side of the limo.

  “Careful!” he hissed. “Careful!” The sunglasses he wore on top of the mask had been knocked sideways. He reached up to fix them and fussed with the mask.

  I tore the glasses off and threw them in the street.

  “You’re going to do me a favor.”

  He covered his eyes and tried to squirm away. I’d been able to find sympathy for him before, but the argument in Sheila’s office ended all that noise. Whatever he’d become, that was on him.

  “For God’s sake, Ace! There’s nothing I can do for you! I’m sorry about your friends, but the dead, they made demands. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Grow a fucking spine, maybe?” I forced him upright and slammed him against the car again. The burst of violence felt good. Therapeutic. Reminded me of long, grueling shifts as police when you’d taken as much lip from corner boys as you could. “Tell me about the ritual in your book? Can you reverse it?”

  “The Colonel found me first, remember?!? A reaction to my seance. I tho
ught it was just him but then he started bringing in more. He said he was going to draft me. Kill me. I had to be...proactive!”

  This wannabe wizard couldn’t animate a dead rat. He’d even fumbled his own response to the undead threat. Trying to outdo them, he’d become one, saved only by Jabir’s whims.

  What worried me more was the fact this Colonel Garcia Marti had reached out from beyond the grave all by himself and tapped into that necromantic energy.

  Undead don’t stick around unless they’re driven by a purpose. Or fed. Or maybe tied to some phylactery. What was Colonel Marti so hung up about?

  “What did the Colonel want here? Why come back?”

  “He wanted to get even with his betrothed’s lover. You have to understand, he had me searching for a man who’d been dead for four hundred years! I didn’t have a choice!”

  “So you gave him Kitterling?”

  Sykes still wouldn’t uncover his eyes but his head shifted like he was trying to look away. “I didn’t have a choice. After that,” he stammered, “after that, I refused to send him more!” He broke into a crazy grin, rapidly nodding like he’d somehow redeemed himself. “And I used the book to contact dark forces who I was certain could find this lover he sought!”

  Damn. My grip slackened. This was making sense. It all came down to the massive imbalance of magical forces in a world-ending ritual and this weak ass dabbler.

  “So you put in a call to the Gallu?”

  His crazy nodding continued, but slowed. He realized his words weren’t getting him closer to settling his balance with me, but further away.

  This fake ass necromancer had alerted the Gallu. They must’ve found Atofo and sent the Spaniards to capture him. All to get to me.

  That didn’t explain Caleb getting caught up in this. But it didn’t need to. I’d been there. I saw Colonel Marti get bent the minute he saw my boy, Caleb with Araceli, the same girl he’d mistaken for his own lover. Caleb had been pulled into my orbit of bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.