Jeremy had me press Stan for details on Botnick's attackers, but he could give little. And whatever Eve was doing to him, it meant he couldn't lie.
All three had worn dark boots, pants, jackets and balaclavas. They'd ranged in height from about five foot six to six feet. Their clothing had been too bulky to determine weight. They spoke in whispers, and little of that, communicating only brusque commands, never using names. From the timbre of the voices, he guessed all had been men.
One of the three had brought a leather mask and the helmet from the storeroom. They'd wordlessly decided on the helmet. Botnick regained consciousness as they were putting the helmet on him, but the biggest of the three had restrained him. One of the others had done some "magical mumbo jumbo" as Stan put it, and Botnick's struggles had turned to twitches, his stifled cries to whimpers.
I questioned Stan further on the "magical mumbo jumbo." Being a nonsupernatural, the finer points of spellcasting eluded him. According to him, the person had "said foreign stuff and blown something on Eric."
Eve recited a few lines in the most common spellcasting languages--Latin, Greek and Hebrew. He thought Greek sounded right...but Latin was close too. Jeremy tried French and Spanish, but I doubted Stan would recognize the language even if the exact lines were repeated. He was more a "foreign stuff" kind of guy. Likewise for the "blown stuff." It had been powder, maybe gray, maybe white. In other words, anything from ash to cocaine to dust. Eve knew of no spells requiring such a thing.
Nor had she heard of anything like the "weakening" spell. As she said, there was no point using something like that if you had a binding spell. Meaning whoever used it didn't have a binding spell.
Once Botnick was subdued, they'd taken him downstairs. There, the tallest of the three had done all the talking. Interrogating, I should say. Not much different than what we were doing to Stan now. They'd wanted to know all about the "visit" we'd paid him.
Botnick had described us only in the broadest terms--a couple in their late thirties, dark-haired man, red-haired woman. They'd pushed for details, but, like Stan, Botnick wasn't an eagle-eyed observer. He'd gotten the best look at me, but his only description was that I was "a real looker."
Jeremy had been behind him most of the time, and he'd only gotten a glance at Jeremy's back as he'd followed me into the tunnel. Apparently not being one to check out a guy from the rear, Botnick could say only that he "wasn't a huge, brawny guy," thus supporting his belief that Jeremy's strength was preternatural.
They'd questioned him a lot on that--Jeremy's strength. Had I displayed any uncanny abilities? No. Had Jeremy displayed any others? No. What had we asked him? He told them. Where did we go? He told them.
Like Stan now, Botnick had been almost falling over himself to respond, probably thinking he was being tested and working hard to impress.
Once they'd been certain Botnick had nothing more to tell them, they'd killed him. Then they'd staged the scene and left. Stan hadn't bothered to follow them, having no interest in secret societies that didn't involve sex.
IV
She glanced up at the bat. Its desiccated eyes stared back from its perch on the shelf overlooking the tiny concrete room. Beside it was a legless terrier--one of their earlier experiments, along with the other mammals and reptiles on the shelf ringing the room, dating from a time when they'd hoped animal sacrifice would be enough.
The remains now served a dual purpose. When they performed a human sacrifice, they had only to glance up to be reminded of why they'd needed to take this difficult step. The other reason was purely practical. While they'd taken every step to hide and secure this room--by both normal and magical means--if it was ever found, the animal corpses would serve as a valid explanation for its existence, making them seem guilty of nothing more heinous than animal sacrifice and dissection.
She knelt under the watchful eyes of those preserved beasts, waiting as Don explained to the group what she was about to attempt.
"This spell is far more ambitious than any we've tried before, but we've been working on it for months and finally, in this past week, we've seen a glimmer of success."
Her gaze slid around the circle, studying and evaluating each expression. Everyone was here. Under the circumstances--the promise of stronger magic--it should have been no trouble getting full attendance. But Brian had tried to duck out, claiming a pressing work deadline. And, to her surprise, Tina had also wavered, saying her in-laws were in town.
Murray's death three weeks ago had shaken them more than she'd anticipated. She'd given them time to bounce back, and now she needed to follow the slap of his death with a reward. Reassure them that the prize was worth the price.
"We insisted you all be present today," Don continued, "in hopes that this will provide the boost we need to successfully cast this spell. All of us here, our combined life energy in this place, where the power has been harvested many times and where vestiges of that supreme power may still remain."
Don lied with the fervor of a true believer--convinced that what they were doing was right and, more than right, to his benefit. That's what set him apart from the others and what had made her choose him years ago as her confidante. Well, her confidante in most things...
Here, in this room, they'd killed six children, slitting their throats as they slept, drugged, on this floor. Here they'd watched a young man burn to death, the spell making him too weak to do more than mewl and rasp, his screams pouring from his eyes instead. Here they'd stabbed Murray in the back, watched their longtime fellow and, yes, friend slide to the floor, his lifeblood trickling down the drain.
And here, in this same place, they would now be reminded of what they were striving for. Here they would witness a breakthrough into the world of power they dreamed of. Or so Don hoped. She could see the anxiety in his eyes, the sweat beading on his bald pate.
She smiled reassuringly. She didn't tell him all her secrets.
"I'll need a volunteer to test this on," she said. "Brian? Would you be so kind?"
"Depends on what you're going to do."
A whoosh of laughter from the group, more tension relief than real amusement.
"It might hurt, but not too much." She smiled. "I hope."
More laughter. Brian took up the position she indicated, in the middle of the floor, standing over the drawn symbols.
"I ask you all to be patient with me," she said. "I'm sure this will take a few casts."
She adjusted the cue card on the floor. She'd memorized the spell, but there was some reassurance in having the words close by. Sometimes even she needed reassurance.
She took a moment to mentally prepare. Getting "into the zone," as her personal trainer would say. Then she reached into the open jar, took out a generous pinch of ash and laid it on her palm. She closed her eyes, sinking deeper into that zone. Around her, no one even shifted position, however uncomfortable the cold concrete beneath them. Silence and concentration were paramount.
When she opened her eyes, she saw only the mound of ash on her palm, all her attention on that focal point. One deep breath in. She let it out slowly, the human remains fluttering from her hand. Still exhaling, she began the incantation.
With the last words, she flung her hand toward Brian. The unexpected movement startled him and his mouth opened to say something. Then he jolted sideways, knocked off balance, almost tumbling to the floor. As he recovered, she cast again, faster now. And this time, the moment she flung out her hand, he jerked, as if struck by something. His eyes went wide, then closed as he slid to the floor.
Around her, everyone had gone as still as Brian. Finally, Don found his voice.
"He--he's just unconscious. It--it worked."
She tried to look surprised, as if it hadn't worked for her when she'd tested it on derelicts, no one the wiser when they slumped to the ground, presumably passing out drunk.
Don remembered his lines. "Our first truly defensive spell. Imagine how it could be used. No more fear of muggings or carjac
kings or home invasions. One spell, and your attacker falls to the ground, unconscious." He cleared his throat, then gestured at Brian's still form. "This is what we've been working toward. Magic truly worth the price."
She looked around the circle and knew, finally, that they were one again.
DEATH BODIES
ONCE STAN WAS GONE--Eve and I made sure of it--we left too. Interrogating Stan had only confirmed what we'd already suspected, but I suppose that was progress. Botnick had been killed, not by the Disciples of Asmodai or random customers, but by members of the group we were seeking. And they had magic.
While Eve stood guard outside, Hope, Jeremy and I looked around the store and made sure there was no trace of our visit--far more important now that it was the site of a murder, not just a break-and-enter.
"Thanks for coming by," I said to Eve as we headed back to the car. "Your timing was perfect."
"Actually, I arrived a few minutes before that, but thought I'd give you a chance to handle it on your own. I liked 'loitering at the scene of an unauthorized occult gathering.' Had him going for a minute. Trouble is, when you try to bluff, you tip your hand. We'll have to work on that."
EVE ACCOMPANIED us back to Hope's apartment, arguing her case for drawing out our prey instead of tracking it down. After her help, I couldn't refuse to listen and she knew it, making herself almost as much of a nuisance as Stan.
As we walked from the parking lot to Hope's place, the debate slid into a two-way discussion between Eve and Jeremy, with me there to "interpret." Hope stayed out of it from the beginning--being her first prolonged ghost encounter, she probably found it unnerving.
"Fine, you're right," Eve said to Jeremy. "Minimal press exposure, to protect everyone involved and keep things from getting out of hand."
As I relayed her message, I dropped change into a street musician's guitar case.
"I hope you're paying him for music lessons," Eve said. "Or, better yet, to stop playing."
I shook my head and glanced at Jeremy, but he was busy scanning the street. I thought he was thinking until I saw his nostrils flare.
"Jeremy?" I said.
He inhaled again. Then a nod.
"What do you smell?" I asked.
He shook his head.
BY THE time we reached the apartment, we'd made a decision. If we didn't find anything in our search of Botnick's house, we'd take that next step tonight. We'd try to find a body in the garden...but not using necromancy.
BOTNICK LIVED in an old two-story working-class house in a working-class neighborhood. His was little more than a cereal box--long, rectangular and very narrow. Hardly the Gothic mansion one expected of a sex cult leader.
The interior was generic. Off-white walls throughout. Interior decoration by IKEA. Functional, contemporary furniture, all matched sets. Even the art on the walls looked like it came from the Scandinavian company. Maybe Botnick had gone through the IKEA catalog, found a sample page for each room and ordered everything off it.
After we knew the layout of the house, we split up. Hope would randomly scout for vibes. Jeremy would take the office. I'd look for secret areas--locked closets, trap doors and the like--the sort of hidey-holes Botnick seemed to like.
The only Gothic thing about the place was the ghosts. Three of them. That was a lot for one place. Botnick seemed to attract them. Not surprising. People pursue magical answers to their problems even after death. While humans try to find a back door into the afterlife--to gain the knowledge of the ages by communicating with the dead--ghosts are busy trying to find a back door out, to leave eternity and exchange the divine for the profane. The "grass is always greener" syndrome.
Now this trio of ghosts, who'd been hoping this cut-rate occultist would show them the path, had hit the jackpot. There was a necromancer in the house.
At first they only whispered among themselves. To nonsupernatural ghosts, necromancers are the stuff of legend. Like spotting Elvis in the afterlife. Everyone says he's there, they know how to recognize him if they see him and some have even met him. Most, though, will go through eternity and never encounter the man. So it was with necromancers. These ghosts recognized my "glow," but wanted to be sure they weren't mistaken. So they followed me.
The apparent leader was a woman in pioneer gear: a shabby dress with a yoke and apron. I guessed she was at least sixty--with iron gray hair and sunken, leathery cheeks--but on second glance, I wondered whether she was really any older than me. The second ghost was a young woman in a high-collared Victorian dress, her hair pulled so tight it acted like a face-lift. The third was a man in modern working clothes. Big and shambling, he lagged behind the women like a faithful dog.
They "tested" me, trying to determine whether I could see or hear them, and I willfully failed every time. Got away with it until I was checking an interior wall that seemed larger than normal--perhaps hiding some secret compartment. I tapped along it, listening for a change in tone, intent on my task--
"Hello!" The pioneer woman's face shot through the wall right in front of me.
I jumped.
"Ah-ha!" she screeched. "You can see us."
I tried to cover, looking around as if some noise had startled me. Then, fearing that wasn't enough, I faked a hiccup, as if that had made me jump. I overdid it with the hiccup. Tipped my hand, as Eve would have said.
I kept examining the wall while all three ghosts tried their hand at "spooking" me. Finally I gave up. The ghosts hadn't appeared when the others were around, so I found Hope in the master bedroom.
"Hey," I whispered. "Getting any bad vibes?"
"There's something here," she said. "I can't tell whether it's just his S & M stuff. Maybe a less-than-willing partner. Hard to pick up, though."
"Hey, pretty lady," the male ghost whispered in my ear. "Got something I think you'd like to see."
I kept my attention on Hope as she closed her eyes to pick up the vibe or vision. The ghost stepped between us.
"Here," he said, leering. "Take a look at this."
He reached--predictably--for his fly. Not like I hadn't been flashed before.
His zipper whirred. Then he reached inside and...his torso fell back, intestines spilling out, the top half of his body nearly severed.
I stumbled backward. The ghosts roared with laughter.
"Gotcha," the man said, his head nearly on the floor, walking toward me, insides quivering, his upper half held on only by his spine.
"Jaime?" I heard Hope say, her voice distant.
I lifted my hands to wave her off and murmured something like "I'm all right"--words that didn't penetrate the pounding of blood in my ears.
The bisected ghost cavorted in front of me, his intestines bobbing. I took a deep breath to steady myself. This was his death body. He'd probably died in some industrial accident and could now revert to that "form" at will. Knowing this, though, didn't make the sight any less gruesome.
"Jaime?" Hope said again.
"Sorry," I said as the ghost pranced between us. I forced my gaze to Hope. "Are you getting anything?"
"I think so. Weak, though. Just random images. Blood, crying...It's faint, which could mean it's old--"
The pioneer woman leapt through Hope. Her scalp was ripped off, bloodied skull exposed over empty bird-pecked eye sockets. I slapped my hand over my mouth as I shrieked.
Hope caught my arm to steady me.
"Just ghosts," I said before she could speak. "I shouldn't have interrupted. Go back to what you were doing."
As I hurried away, the ghosts pranced and darted around me in their death bodies, the Victorian woman wasted and naked--a dancing skeleton sheathed in gray skin.
"Not bothering you, are we?" she trilled. "Shall we stop?"
"Yes," lisped the pioneer woman, her tongue half gone, her empty eye sockets turned my way. "Shall we stop?"
She mimicked the younger woman's proper accent. The man joined in and all three circled me, chanting, "Shall we stop? Shall we stop?"
&nbs
p; "Jaime?"
I turned to see Jeremy in the office doorway.
He strode over, his hand going to my arm. Then he looked around, his face hardening. "Ghosts?"
I nodded.
The pioneer woman circled Jeremy. "Oooh, look, a proper gentleman. Isn't he a fine one?"
"Very fine," the younger woman said. "Very proper. Too much a gentleman for the likes of this whore."
I wheeled on her, then chomped my lip hard enough to taste blood.
Don't give them the satisfaction, Nan always said. Let them see they're getting to you, and you've lost.
Jeremy said something, his head leaning down to mine, hair in his eyes, lips moving. Asking me what I was seeing, what I was hearing. I knew I should tell him--get that distance by sharing it, laughing it off. But all I could hear were the damned ghosts.
"She does look like a whore, don't she?" the pioneer woman said, coming close, her eyeless sockets studying me. "All fancied up with her colored hair and her painted face, acting like she's quality, but she's wearing pants tighter than riding breeches, her shirt's half undone, giving any man who wants it a good view of her titties. Like the fancy ladies at the mining camp. Act like they're something special, but give 'em a dollar and they'll spread their legs fast as any street whore."
"I got a dollar," the man said. "Think she'll give me a ride?"
"Course she will. And being dead you don't have to worry about catching anything."
They all cackled.
"Did you bring your banishing mixture?" Jeremy asked, his voice finally penetrating.
"Forgot."
"Isn't he worried about catching the pox?" the pioneer woman said. "Your fine man?"
"Fine men like that don't think of such things," the Victorian woman said. "They don't know better...until it's too late."
The pioneer woman snickered. "And he finds out her cunny's so well used it's like fucking a bucket."
"I'm going outside," I said to Jeremy. "Get some fresh air. See if I can lose them."
"Oh, you won't lose us, pretty lady," the man said.
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