“Who’s he come for?” Ezra inquired.
Ruby rolled her eyes, “Not you, don’t worry.”
“Ah! Then invite him in!”
Ted found himself seated at Ruby’s parlor table across from Ezra a moment later. The South Wind witch appeared to be in his mid-thirties, though Ted knew that wasn’t true. Ezra had appeared in his mid-thirties for… thirty years? Forty years? It was all the same to the reaper, but he understood the phenomenon was not a usual one. Witches aged just like most mortals, living until perhaps one hundred or one hundred and twenty. What Ezra had done to maintain his perpetually unchanging looks was none of Ted’s business, and it didn’t particularly interest him. What significance it did have was that Ted knew he could relax here, that discretion was a given, and what he was about to say was unlikely to reach the ears of Sheriff Bloom.
“Another soul gone missing?” asked the little Fifth Wind witch as she brought over a hot kettle and another cup for the new arrival.
“Yes, but it’s worse this time.”
Ezra’s eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly before Ted launched into it.
By the time he’d finished and Ruby had taken up her meditation in the corner, Ted was ready for another cup of the stout brew. The first had warmed and calmed him, had cleared his mind. But it’d also stirred within him a bit of carnality… That he hadn’t expected.
He looked from Ezra to Ruby. If he remembered correctly, they had been an item at one time, back when they had appeared to be the same age. He looked down at the dregs in the bottom of his empty cup. Was that some sort of goat weed he tasted in the mix?
What did I just drink?
He looked up again.
What did I interrupt?
But before his mind could focus entirely on the question, Ruby’s eyes popped open. And she looked frightened.
7
Dear Necronomicon,
I don’t know what to do! I fear that in seeking a solution, I’ve only made things worse for myself. Ruby’s vision places me in Joseph Moon’s home. What’s worse, she seems to have seen me kill him! She insists visions are most often not literal and that if I didn’t kill the werewolf, I simply shouldn’t treat the vision as such, but … what if I did kill him?
What other possibilities exist?
Ezra seemed to share this question, and he ushered me out of Ruby’s home almost immediately after she described her vision, though that could have been a result of the arousing tea kicking in, and him wanting a little privacy.
Either way, I fear I’m losing it. The soul juice
* * *
Then he remembered. Soul juice was messy. It got on everything. He’d left the scene of Moon’s murder so quickly to avoid Bloom’s suspicious gaze that he hadn’t followed up on that lead. If only he had a Ghosthound with him, he might be able to track—
He stood with a start, grabbed his scythe from beside the front door, and sprinted toward Medium Rare.
* * *
Grim Goodboy wasn’t a Ghosthound, but he was the closest thing to one in this realm. Nora’s familiar could see spirits, so why not smell them?
Ted’s hunch proved correct, and with the promise of a plate of bacon bonding the grim to him, the pair followed the trail all the way from the Moon estate in Hightower Gardens back to…
The Deadwoods.
They paused at the tree line.
This wasn’t good. The soul juice led back to where Ted lived? He snuck a peek at Grim, questioning if he should ask the hound to go further. What if the trail led right back to Ted’s cabin? Ted didn’t want to implicate himself.
It was ultimately the loneliness that urged him on, the thought of the companionship he’d lost with Florence Knack and Joseph Moon after so many dry months.
Grim kept his big, wet nose to the ground as they proceeded through the dense darkness of the Deadwoods. The turnoff for Ted’s cabin approached just yards ahead. The reaper felt like his heart was pounding in his chest, except he didn’t have a heart. Just nervous energy, then. He did have that, and in spades.
But the hellhound passed the turnoff and kept going. The trail of soul juice didn’t lead back to Ted’s cabin. That was a small relief, but where did it lead instead?
They walked and walked. Grim seemed to have lost himself in the hunt, and Ted didn’t have anything more pressing to do, so the hours passed. Miles and miles through the murky forest.
There’s not far to go before we reach the Murderswamp.
No sooner had Ted thought it than a hot rush of air engulfed him in the scent of sulfur. Grim jerked his head up from the ground.
They were at the edge of the swamp, with the opaque water only a few feet away. Ted stepped out into it, and steam rose from where his booted feet submerged in the acidic bog. Very few organic things could survive in the Murderswamp. Most of the vegetation in the Deadwoods, as hardy as it was, could not, and stopped short where the water began. But the Murderswamp had a tendency to creep, and along the edge of it stood oaks and beeches that had once thrived for thousands of years but were now caught in the throes of death, the water lapping and scorching at exposed roots, adding a rotten and woody tinge to the warning scents of this place.
Ted looked out over the expanse. Here and there warwillow trees protruded from the surface of the swamp, reaching upward as if begging someone in the sky to save them, yet refusing to migrate to more hospitable environments. The warwillows were unique to Eastwind’s Murderswamp; it was the only place where they thrived, and yet they seemed to hate and fight every second of it with their wavy trunks and twisted boughs.
The sky above the Murderswamp was the color of diluted blood. The particular shade of furious orange-pink was one that might be found in a beautiful sunset, but when it was the only color, that was too much of it. Ted shielded his eyes, and gazed up at one of the massive clouds, full of fire. As he’d hoped, a silhouette appeared overhead. He called to it in his loudest shriek, and a moment later it descended.
“Ravagella,” he said, greeting the harpy as she landed in the bog in front of him. She had a standard female body on which she wore no clothes, though her skin was scales, so perhaps there existed no suitable materials for such a thing. The cloth might catch.
Her wings were equal in size to Sheriff Bloom’s, but whereas the angel’s were covered in white downy feathers, Ravagella’s were batlike, ruddy skin pulled over thick bone frames. She was beautiful by harpy standards, and Ted liked her very much, despite the fact that she had tried to kill him numerous times over the years. She always failed, obviously, and always would. No harm, no foul, was his view of it.
“Horrible to see you again so soon, Ted. And are my eyes deceiving me? Is this our long-lost grim of the forest?”
Grim wagged his tail in confirmation.
She nodded approvingly. “Glad to see that witch hasn’t totally domesticated you yet.”
“Ravagella,” Ted said, “I’ve followed a trail of soul juice that led to your swamp. Have you seen any souls pass through?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Are you provoking me, reaper? Do you want me to try to kill you again?”
Ted held up a hand. “Heh, not my intention. I’m just trying to find—”
“I already told you to leave my lands. First you take up residence, and then you bring that soul here.”
Though he did his best to follow along, he was lost. “What do you mean? The Deadwoods are my lands.”
“I’m not talking about the Deadwoods, you foolish blot. I’m referring to that hovel you’ve built near the Sucking Hellhole of Gnash.”
In his utter confusion, Ted almost laughed, but he knew that would do him no good here. “I haven’t been to the Sucking Hellhole of Gnash in ages. Beautiful views, but not exactly a convenient location when all the best reaping is in town.”
“You lie!” she shrieked, though most of her words sounded a little shrieky. “I saw you there this morning. Then you brought the shimmery thing back here, right to w
here you stand now! I ought to kill you for lying!”
“Okay, okay, I believe you. I just…”
So, he was going mad.
He looked down at Grim, addressing the hound. “I don’t know what to say, friend. It’s important to believe harpies. They might be a little brash, but they tell the truth.”
Grim shrugged as much as a canine could, walked over to a smoking bush at the water’s edge, and lifted his hind leg to relieve himself.
“Tell me more,” Ted said to Ravagella. “Tell me more about my house by the Sucking Hellhole of Gnash.”
She clearly hadn’t expected that question, and her wings folded in tightly to her. “What do you mean?”
“Tell me about it. I have no memory of it, though it’s possible that I’m losing my mind. It can happen to reapers sometimes. We don’t die, but we do go mad and then devolve into oblivion. I thought I had more time, but perhaps I’ve lost track of how many millennia I’ve been alive and the end has snuck up on me. So, if you say I’ve built myself a nice little home in the Murderswamp, I’m ready to believe you, I just have no memory of it. But I’d like to. Would you tell me about it?”
Ravagella blinked. “Uh, sure.” Even that sounded a little shrieky. “It’s circular, made from a mixture of bogmoss and slayclay. There are no windows—”
“No windows!” Ted proclaimed. “Why on earth would I fail to build in windows at a location as beautiful as the Sucking Hellhole of Gnash?”
“I don’t know,” Ravagella replied, stroking her chin. “I found it a little outside of what I know about you as well.”
“Go on, tell me more about it. What about the perches for my phoenixes?”
“Perches?” she asked. “There are no perches that I’ve seen. It stands alone, surrounded by the swamp, just north of the Hellhole, on the side where even the warwillows dare not grow.”
“No perches?!” Ted cried, clutching at his head through his hood. “Why wouldn’t I create an inviting place for my dear birds to rest and recharge beneath the scorching clouds? Ach! This madness I seemed to have fallen under is too unkind! It steals me from myself!”
But the harpy only continued to stroke her scaly chin. “Ted, might I ask something of you?”
“Anything, my dear friend.”
“No, no, we’re enemies. But I’ll ask something of you all the same. Would you remove your hood and let me gaze upon what’s beneath?”
He felt himself blush. When was the last time anyone had made such an intimate request? Perhaps it was Ruby’s potent tea that ultimately caused him to consent. “Grim, look away.” But the hellhound hadn’t been looking in the first place; he was marking another bush yards down the water’s edge.
Ted braced himself and pulled back his hood, allowing the harpy to see him. The real him. How would she react?
She didn’t flinch, didn’t even shriek. And though the exposure did cause her to drop a few scales into the bog around her legs, when she spoke next, for the first time since he’d known her, her words were soft and warm. “It’s not you,” she said.
“Huh? No, this is me. I’m me!”
“Of course, you’re you. But now that I’ve seen you, I can tell the difference. The reaper by the Hellhole is not you. It’s someone else.”
He gasped. “What are you saying?” Although he understood, it was plain enough, but he was terrified by the notion.
“The hooded figure who brought the shimmery thing to my banks, he lowered his hood and revealed himself to his companion, and I saw him. Because I’d never seen you before, I’d assumed it was your face. But now I see the difference.”
Ted’s mouth hung open. Another reaper in the realm? This could be disastrous. And what’s more, why would a reaper show himself to one of his wards?
Yet, the relief that had passed through Ted when Ravagella had seen him for the first time answered that very question.
“I have to go,” Ted said, replacing his hood. “I’m forever grateful for your help, friend.”
“Enemy,” she corrected absentmindedly. He called Grim over to him and turned to leave, but before he did, the harpy sent him with these words: “Thank you for showing yourself to me, Ted. Most would not.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Can’t you guess?” the harpy said. “They’re afraid of me.”
“To be fair, you do try to kill a lot of people, and you succeed more times than not.”
“Even still. I think you ought to know that your bravery has been noted.”
Ted didn’t want to jinx this moment of kindness, but he couldn’t help it. “Does that mean we’re going to be friends?”
“No, I’m still going to try to kill you, and frequently. But if you ever feel like you need to be seen, I’ll gladly be your witness.”
“Thanks.” Then his mind scrambled to think of something more articulate to express the emotions that were welling up inside him at that simple offer. But all he came up with was another, “Thanks.”
* * *
Dear Necronomicon,
It seems there is another one of my kind about. Though conflict does not suit my nature, I must eliminate him for the safety of everyone I love.
8
Ted inhaled the rich scent of ancient texts from his spot at one of the long wooden tables of the Eastwind Public Library. He inhaled again and again each time he turned one of the old browning pages and stirred up a fresh whiff. He wasn’t here to pick up his copy of A Fang Glorious Affair. He was working on a plan. He thought he had it, but first, he needed to double check something.
A Hobbyist’s Guide to Eternal Life was a thick tome, but he had a feeling he knew in which chapter he would find the information he needed, the last piece of the plan coming together in his mind. The chapter heading was Phoenixes and The Corporeal Form. He scanned the page, feeling the urgency of the moment upon him.
His eyes landed upon it. Perfect. The trap was all but set. Next, he needed to call upon one of his oldest friends…
* * *
Ted waited on the doorstep of Count Sebastian Malavic’s castle. The vampire pulled open the heavy oaken door and greeted the reaper with a grin. “Ah, Ted! Wasn’t expecting you. Looking for a game of scufflepuck down at Sheehan’s Pub, I suppose?” Pale though Malavic was, the greeting was warm and friendly. Most people in town either didn’t like or at the very least didn’t trust the Count, but Ted thought they ought to get to know him a bit better before making that judgment. Malavic had some good inside him, of that Ted was sure.
But it wasn’t what was inside the vampire that had brought Ted all this way to visit. It was what wasn’t inside him.
“You have no soul, correct?”
Malavic frowned. “Is that how you greet your old friend?”
“Heh. Sorry. One-track mind at the moment. How are you?”
The vampire conjured up another grin, but there was a clear hesitancy behind it. “Oh, not bad, I haven’t had a bite to eat in—”
“Great. You do or don’t have a soul, then?”
Malavic’s smile faded. “Don’t. Gave it up.”
“Perfect!” Ted threw his head back and pumped his fist. “Then I have a favor to ask of you.”
* * *
It didn’t take much prodding to convince Sebastian Malavic to sign on to Ted’s plan. The reaper had expected as much. The only thing more well known about the vampire than the sizeable contributions he made each year to the town’s budget in return for getting to do as he pleased, was that he suffered from chronic boredom. Malavic had seen much in his un-life, tasted all the forbidden fruits, and now there wasn’t much left for him. Because of that, he could be counted on for any plot that might shake things up a bit. Even one as high-stakes as this.
The pair now stood a few feet apart, facing each other in the heart of the dark Deadwoods. “You aren’t going to explode or anything when I do this, are you? Heh.”
Malavic’s eyes flickered to the thick spike of flint in the reaper’s gr
asp. “I certainly hope not. Explode? Why would you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never seen a dead vampire, so I don’t know how it happens. You’re the only one this realm has ever seen, and you haven’t died.”
“Yet.” Malavic pressed his lips into a tight line. “But no, I’ve seen my kind slain, and we simply fall over like all the rest. And you’re sure about the birds?”
“That’s what the book says.”
The count swallowed visibly. “And this is the only way you can think to attract the other?”
“So far. You know, if you’re not up for this, you can just say so. I’ll understand.”
Malavic sighed and rolled his eyes. “What else am I going to do instead? Read a book I’ve already read a thousand times? Have my millionth drink at Sheehan’s while parrying slights from that Fifth Wind Nora and her little boy toy? I think I’d literally rather die.” He grabbed a nearby tree to steady himself and shut his eyes. “Do it.”
Ted paused, the flint spike gripped lightly in his fist. Reapers weren’t supposed to kill.
But perhaps he’d found a loophole.
He reared back and then thrust the stake into his friend’s chest.
Count Sebastian Malavic gasped, his eyes shooting open in what looked more akin to ecstasy than fear or pain. And then he crumpled to the ground.
A cloud of Doom settled over the clearing. If he hadn’t already been here, surely it would have attracted him.
So far, so good.
Ted withdrew into the shadows, which was easy enough since they comprised the entire forest. He put a little distance between his dead friend and himself, hoped this wouldn’t completely backfire, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Whoops, thought Ted. I might have murdered him for nothing.
What now?
But before any semblance of a new plan could form, he heard a rustling ahead, a crunching of leaves underfoot. He tried not to let himself get too excited, because it could be anything—a hellhound, a hidebehind, a bandersnatch—all sorts of things stalked the woods.
Cold Cases and Haunted Places Page 7