Tangled Web

by Gail Z. Martin

  “That’s going to take longer,” Teag said. “Hospital databases are better protected. But I don’t think we’d find a spate of strange deaths.” He looked up and met my gaze. “I believe that the Weaver meant to kill you. I don’t think it was random. Someone sees you as a threat.”

  “So the Seiðr saves you instead of killing you, but another Weaver has it in for me? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Teag took a second muffin and polished it off. “It does if Secona is on our side for some strange reason, and the other Weaver thinks you pose a danger to her plan.”

  “You’re sure the bad Weaver is a woman? Marcella said she sensed both a man and a woman.” I tried to savor the muffin instead of cramming it into my mouth. I eyed the last pastry and then grabbed it, figuring that ganking ghosts had to burn off calories.

  “No. No reason to assume that. What are the odds that two immortal Viking sorcerers show up in Charleston?”

  Slim, I hoped. But knowing our luck, probably not impossible. “I left messages for Sorren about last night, and another one about Secona,” I said, with a mouth full of muffin. “He hasn’t answered, except to tell me that he’s working on things and to keep the spindle whorl with me at all times. I don’t know where he’s been going, but I think he and Donnelly may be up to something.”

  “If he’s with Donnelly, then the question isn’t ‘where’ Sorren is, it might be ‘when’ he is.”

  Archibald Donnelly oversees the Briggs Society, a club for adventurers who find themselves misplaced in time. The building appears and disappears, and apparently travels throughout the centuries, although I haven’t been along for one of its trips. Inside the Briggs Society is a highly “eclectic” collection of relics and curios, many of which are cursed and dangerous. Donnelly takes some of the worst items off our hands at Trifles and Folly, so he’s as much curator and warden as he is the head of the society. The only other person I’ve ever seen in the Briggs Society is Higgins, Donnelly’s valet and bodyguard who looks like a butler and fights like a ninja.

  “I guess he’ll tell us when he thinks we need to know.” I wondered for a moment what it would be like to have a normal job, like Anthony, where the answers existed in textbooks and continuing ed classes. Boring, I answered myself. But a whole hell of a lot safer.

  “What have you told Anthony?” I asked. I put my cup aside and stretched.

  “He knows about my magic, so the idea of weaving spells into cloth isn’t new to him,” Teag replied. “And if you can use something for good, someone else could make it a weapon. I told him about Joan’s shawl, and the scarf you got. So he won’t be opening any strange packages that come in the mail or get left on the doorstep.”

  “Did he have any insights?” Anthony might not have magic himself, but he’s a smart guy, and he wouldn’t be a hotshot lawyer if he wasn’t good at putting puzzle pieces together, something we credited to a spark of intuition mighty close to magic.

  “His first comment is always ‘follow the money,’” Teag said with a laugh. “But I can’t figure out how anyone stands to gain from what’s been going on. Ghosts attacking tourists don’t boost anyone’s business, and neither do black dogs chasing people down the street. The pieces that have been stolen from the museum and the Archive were valuable, but not like a Picasso painting. And the ghouls and zombies? None of it makes sense.”

  I leaned back, knowing I needed to go take a shower and stalling because I wasn’t quite awake enough to face the prospect. “Maybe those aren’t features, they’re bugs,” I mused.

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe some of the things that have happened are side effects, not the Weaver’s main purpose.” I toyed with my coffee cup. “Maybe the Weaver is doing something that throws off extra power, and so calling the ghouls and black dogs or raising the zombies is spill-over.”

  “Maybe,” Teag agreed, sitting back and frowning as he considered the implications. “But why would someone throw around that kind of power? What do they want to achieve? And why the cursed fabrics that affect random people? Other than your scarf, none of the victims appear to be chosen intentionally—or to be part of the supernatural community.”

  “We’re missing a piece,” I said, finishing my second cup and pushing it aside. “I’m sure it makes sense to the Weaver, so now we have to figure out what the puzzle looks like. We’re looking at this wrong.”

  Teag sighed and closed down his laptop. “We probably won’t figure it out right now. Go get your shower. I’ll clean up in the bathroom down here.”

  Teag spends enough time at my place that he knows where to find everything, and he’s got a stash of clothing for emergencies. Baxter followed as I trudged upstairs, and made himself comfortable on my bedroom rug as I showered and dressed for work. When I came down, Teag was already waiting for me.

  “Aw, you shaved,” I teased. “You were rocking that scruff.”

  Teag grinned. “Did Anthony put you up to that? Because it’s a weekend thing, and he’s always sad when I shave on Monday.”

  “Hey, I never said you had to,” I assured him as I made certain Baxter had what he needed for the day, then locked up when we headed outside. “It’s not part of the Trifles and Folly dress code.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Teag replied. “It’s only been in the last couple of years that I could even grow a decent beard, without it being patchy. So maybe I’ll work up to it.”

  The afternoon crowd at Trifles and Folly kept us hopping, so I didn’t have much time to brood. Sorren still hadn’t responded in detail to my messages, meaning he was probably off chasing his own leads. I figured he’d get back to me when he had the chance, but I wanted to know more about Secona, and so waiting drove me crazy.

  When my phone vibrated, I thought it might be Sorren, but saw Kell’s number pop up instead. “Hi Cassidy. What are you doing tonight?”

  I chuckled. “Is this a date or a ghost hunt?”

  “Isn’t it usually a little of both for us?” he asked, and I liked the warm sound of his voice. Not everyone would take the demands and dangers of my life in stride, let alone be supportive and protective. Personally, I thought Kell and I were a good match.

  “Yeah, you’re right. What’s up?”

  “The scarf problem got me thinking, and I realized that one of the sites SPOOK monitors is an old textile mill,” Kell replied. “We check back on ‘hot’ locations every quarter and try to measure how the manifestations or energy readings vary. I thought maybe if you’re dealing with magic that’s woven into cloth, there might be a connection. And, bingo! We did a quick drive-by, and the EMF readings were off the charts. Big change from last time.”

  “And you want to go in and see what’s made it jump?”

  “You bet,” Kell chuckled. “Then how about you bring your team and I bring mine, and afterward, you and I slip off for a drink?”

  Teag overheard the conversation and nodded. Anthony would still be at his retreat, so that freed us both up. “Sure,” I said. We worked out the details and agreed on a meeting place before I ended the call, then I put the phone back in my pocket, deep in thought.

  “You said ‘yes,’ but you don’t look happy about it,” Teag observed as we finished up for the day and said good-night to Maggie.

  “Something’s obviously going on, or the old mill wouldn’t have leveled up its mojo,” I said, heading for the office to grab my jacket and purse. “Maybe it’s spill-over like we talked about earlier—a side-effect of something unrelated. But that could still be dangerous, and Kell’s folks aren’t really equipped for dealing with powerful, malicious ghosts.”

  “They’ve started bringing salt canisters with them, and Kell bought them all iron knives,” Teag said with a grin. “Plus that shotgun with rock salt pellets he started carrying. So they’re not entirely helpless.”

  “None of them have magic,” I countered as we walked out together. “So that might hold off regular ghosts, but what if there’s something like ghouls or zo
mbies? Or souped up spooks? I don’t want them to get hurt.”

  “I’m not arguing,” Teag replied. “And I’m on board with going along. Until we know what’s going on and who’s behind it, I consider ghost hunting to be a high-risk activity.”

  By the time I went home, took care of Baxter, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and changed clothes, it was time to go. Teag drove this time since Kell usually had a car full of gear for a ghost busting session.

  The old Edwards fabric mill sat in a forlorn industrial park that had seen better days. For many decades cotton drove the Southern economy—both growing the crop and turning it into cloth. Then times changed, and a lot of the textile mills moved overseas. The Edwards plant opened in the late eighteen hundreds and modernized through the years, but it couldn’t compete with cheap labor, and finally shut down in the 1990s. I’d heard plans bandied around more than once for what to do with the huge factory, everything from turning it into pricey loft apartments to a big entertainment complex, but nothing ever seemed to happen.

  If the place was haunted, that might explain why the building renovation plans kept falling through.

  Kell and his team were waiting for us in the parking lot. At night the old industrial park looked dark and creepy. Half of the overhead lights had burned out, and the rest looked likely to die at any minute. Crumbling asphalt and faded lines made it clear that the parking lots were long abandoned. A rickety chain link fence made a half-hearted attempt to keep trespassers out of the Edwards plant, but from the way it had been cut, trampled, and twisted, the effort was largely symbolic.

  “Hi Cassidy, Teag,” Kell said as we joined his group. “Take a look at this.” He pulled an EMF meter from his pocket and turned it on. Even though we were probably thirty feet from the mill’s entrance, the meter squealed loudly and pegged the needle, red lights flashing.

  Ghosts give off unusual energy, especially electromagnetic frequencies. And that’s what the EMF reader measures. A reaction like Kell’s meter was showing can be caused by non-paranormal causes—like an electric power surge—but I suspected that the old mill’s electricity had been shut off years ago.

  “Can you localize the disturbance?” Teag asked, eyeing the huge plant. “That’s a lot of square footage to cover.”

  The enormous plant sprawled in every direction. We’d gone around back, to where the loading docks sat unused and empty long after the last trucks packed up and pulled out. The huge glass windows were cracked and broken, some gaping open like empty sockets.

  “We think the readings are coming from the center of the plant, where the machinery would have been.” Calista, a perpetually dour young woman who handled the computer analysis for SPOOK, pointed toward a wing of the mill. Tonight, Calista rocked bright blood-red hair, only partially hidden beneath her black hoodie. Heavy eyeliner and dark nail polish were a nod to the Goth librarian vibe she favored.

  “From what we found online, the plant had a terrible safety record.” Drew, SPOOK’s video and tech expert, often doubled as the group’s historian and main researcher. His jacket seemed to hang on his rangy frame, and the ripped jeans, faded concert t-shirt, and ponytail made him look like a college student. “Back in the early 1900s, a fire destroyed one wing and killed several workers—badly burned a few dozen others. They rebuilt, but the plant was dogged by bad luck. A heavy rain collapsed the ceiling in one area, crushing three maintenance workers. Even by the standards of the time, the mechanical looms were man-eaters. Losing fingers, hands—even arms or legs—in the big looms or fabric rollers was common. And the automated cutting machines pulled more than one worker in and spat them out in little bits.”

  “Yikes,” I said.

  Pete, SPOOK’s sound guy, didn’t chime in, but he was busy fiddling with his microphones and recording equipment. Short and wiry, with muscles like a welterweight wrestler, Pete had a hat jammed down over his unruly ginger hair. All of the team wore hats with action cameras, in addition to the professional grade video cam Drew fussed over. Calista ran everything through a tablet computer when they weren’t staking out a location for the whole night.

  “Oh, and did we mention the big union fight back in the 1930s?” Kell added. “Turned bloody between the striking workers and the scabs. The mill owners brought in private security—bully boys—and started cracking heads and taking names. When the dust settled, four workers were dead, twenty more were in roughed up and jailed, and the strikers lost their jobs and got run out of town.”

  “So there’s plenty of bad mojo to go around,” I summarized, looking askance at the towering dark building.

  “Just the kind of place you love,” Teag murmured.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Here’s the map we made the last time we came here,” Kell said, and we all gathered around him. “I started with what I could find online of a blueprint and then added the new modifications that weren’t on the old plans. If we go in here,” he said, pointing to the docks, “we can cut through the administrative wing, and then into the oldest section of the factory. That had the most activity, although we ran into orbs and cold spots in all of the working areas.”

  I snapped a photo of the map with my phone, in case we got separated. Teag did the same, although I knew we’d all stick close together. Still, better safe than sorry.

  I noticed that Kell’s team wore their iron knives in belt sheathes. Kell had his shotgun, and I checked before we went in that everyone had protective charms. Teag and I came armed with iron, silver, holy water, and salt, as well as the lighters and fluid back in the car. I had my athame plus Bo’s collar, and Teag had his silver whip and a few other surprises that I hoped we didn’t need.

  Graffiti covered the loading docks. The side door had an easy lock to pick, and then we were inside. Kell had passed out the night vision goggles before we went in. Our flashlights barely made a dent in the cavernous space.

  “Wow. They didn’t clean up much when they left, did they?” Pete observed. The huge storage room would have housed crates and pallets filled with cloth, ready for shipment. Now, broken crates littered the cement floor, and mildewed bolts of faded cloth spilled from bins and carts. It looked like everyone walked out and left things where they lay.

  Kell turned from side to side, but the EMF meter remained quiet. “Nothing in here,” he said. “Come on. The last time, we got the hottest readings in the actual factory.”

  I couldn’t help looking around as we plunged deeper into the darkness. I’d always assumed that when companies go under, someone comes along and sells off anything of value. The Edwards mill offices had desks, chairs, and filing cabinets, all covered with a thick layer of dust. Whoever had tagged some of the walls in the loading dock must not have thought the offices interesting enough to vandalize.

  The stone and brick walls held the cold. The offices were in the oldest wing, dating from the original mill back in 1872.

  “Can you feel it?” Kell asked, turning toward me.

  I nodded. Given the level of spirit activity, I figured everyone in the group sensed that we weren’t alone. But I picked up more than ghost vibes. The Edwards mill had enough imprinted tragedy to redline my psychometry like Kell’s EMF meter.

  Desperation echoed down the corridors and reverberated in shadows. Textile workers were often women, children, or immigrants, paid a pittance and exposed to dangerous machinery and chemicals. Even the men who worked in these factories didn’t command the pay of those in the steel mills in the north or other types of manufacturing. The sense of constant worry, of living one paycheck from disaster clung to the bricks and settled into the concrete like a permanent stain.

  I fought to keep from being overwhelmed by the lingering despair, and touched my agate necklace and the spindle whorl in my pocket to ground myself, separating my own thoughts from the resonance all around me.

  “Yeah, I feel it,” I replied after Kell shot me a look that said I’d been silent too long. “We must be coming to one of the areas where there had
been a disaster. The desperation is shifting to fear.”

  Kell nodded. “This is part of the wing that was rebuilt after the fire.”

  I staggered as new impressions overwhelmed me. Teag caught me by the arm, steadying me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw fleeting movement in the shadows and bobbing orbs. Pete and Calista remarked on the strength of the manifestations. I felt echoes of the mortal fear that overwhelmed the workers trapped by the fire, flashes of pain and terror that spiked my heart rate and quickened my breath.

  “Cassidy?” Kell asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “I’ll be fine. Just strong impressions. Keep going.” Personally, I couldn’t imagine how anyone with even a hint of psychic sensitivity could have stood to work in the building. The poor workers who died in the fire had left indelible energy shadows, even if their souls no longer remained behind.

  We opened a set of double doors and stepped into a huge, high ceilinged room as cavernous as the loading dock. But as Kell and the others let their flashlights sweep the area, I saw that the massive industrial looms remained in place, waiting for the next shift of workers who would never come.

  “Those are huge,” Teag murmured.

  I nodded, fighting the growing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach that I couldn’t quite put a name to. Instead, I focused my attention on the looms. Each one was easily the size of a compact car, a complex marvel of levers and jointed metal. Several of the machines still had hundreds of strands of rotting thread leading down to the mechanisms like ghostly webs. The thread hung heavy with dust and would probably fall apart at the slightest touch, but in the stillness of the night, it gave an eerie impression that the looms still awaited their weavers, dead or alive.

  The whine of the EMF meter cut through my thoughts. “Shit,” Drew muttered. “There’s too much going on at once. I need everyone to turn around and let your cap cams pick up the phenomena.”