Greywalker

by Kat Richardson

  I shrugged and wrote the name down. “What do you mean, ‘play it safe’?”

  “I’m probably being paranoid, but some ghosts are attracted to their names. I don’t think we want this guy looking over our shoulders, do we?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I would have laughed at our nervous glances, if I wasn’t so damned scared myself. Albert haunted the doorway, as clear and solid to my Grey-sensitive sight as Sergeyev had been. Mara looked at him and made a sparkling, circling motion with one finger. Albert vanished.

  “Albert will keep an eye out for us, I’m sure.” Ben coughed a tight laugh behind his books. “I hope so, but I’m afraid I’m not as convinced of our ghostly boarder’s valor as you are, Mara.”

  “Now, be nice, Ben. You remember what happened the last time he got upset.”

  I looked at both of them.

  “Turned Ben’s desk upside down,” Mara confided. “Terrible mess.”

  We both snorted relieved giggles.

  Ben glanced at the paper I’d given him and started to chuckle. “What’s funny?” I asked.

  “This guy’s a sly little revenant. Generic Russian name. Basically the equivalent of Greg Stevenson. Not quite Ivan Ivanovitch, but close.”

  My brain was running in all directions. “It’s got a Swiss bank account attached. Maybe he… stole it, somehow.”

  Ben whistled. “Clever. Damn, I wish I knew what he had up his sleeve.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have time, if you’re right about that thing.”

  “You’re right. You’re right. I don’t have any suggestions, though. Now we’re starting to tread into the realm of magic, and that’s Mara’s sphere.”

  We all got quiet for a while.

  “Look,” Ben started again. “We know he wants to gain control of the organ and that can’t be good. He’s a revenant, and although he’s got access to a big store of power, he can’t just go flinging it around. Every time he does anything, he draws power. If he has plans for the dark artifact, he’ll want it fully charged, so he’s not going to do something until he’s ready to play his cards. He already blew some at your office, so I’d guess you have forty-eight to seventy-two hours before he’s going to do anything more.

  “In the meantime, be extremely careful, Harper. If you wear yourself down too far, you won’t have reserves to oppose him with, and we don’t know what the purpose of that… thing in your chest is. I’m afraid our help has been inadequate.”

  I put up one heavy hand. “Ben, stop. Without you and Mara, I think something would have eaten me by now. You haven’t always been right, but that doesn’t mean you’re always wrong. But I’ve got a question. If the organ is drawing power from the nexus and everything else nearby, why isn’t it draining this house, too? The house is as bright as ever.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mara smiled at me. “It’s got its own nexus, remember? It’s off the grid, so to speak. Can’t get to us from there.”

  “The grid,” I whispered. “The energy structures Wygan showed me—that I can still see—they’re the power grid of the Grey. I think he… wired me into the Grey.”

  Mara blanched. “If you’re attached to the grid which is feeding the organ, then it’s feeding on you, too.”

  I screwed my eyes shut and felt the world pitch. I remembered the draining touch of the tentacle.

  Mara continued. “And whatever happens to that nexus will also happen to you and everything else on that quadrant. It must be drawing you down all the time. That thing has to be gotten rid of before it kills you.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have this house, and I shall be very careful about touching magic outside of it. Shan’t be pleasant, but I’ll survive.”

  Eyes closed, still shutting out the overlapping worlds, I asked, “What about the dark beast?”

  Ben checked. “The guardian? What of it?”

  “You said it would attack a threat. Why isn’t it attacking me or Ser—him? Or the organ?”

  Ben’s voice was gruff and ragged. “The artifact is just a storage device. The guardian won’t notice that. Remember the hierarchies of threat. The threat may need to be more immediate, more active. Maybe you or he need to be doing something to draw the beast to you, like a spider down a twanging web.”

  I nodded, opening my eyes. “I’ll try not to be a fly. That… beast is more than I can handle right now.”

  Ben gnawed his beard, and the glare he turned at no one in particular was ashen black. “Be careful,” he repeated. “Theory says most Grey things shouldn’t be able to harm you physically, but—they have. I’m afraid I’m letting you down because we’ve left theory behind, and theory is all I know.”

  I glared back at him. “Don’t. Leave blame for later. Let’s just get through this.”

  Ben looked away, chewing his lip.

  I got to my feet, feeling ninety years old. “I need a nap or something, if I don’t unravel first. I’ve still got a lot to do.”

  Mara went down the stairs with me, glowering the whole way.

  She stopped me in the hallway. “You’re not ready for this sort of thing. I could just strangle whoever did this to you.”

  “I don’t think you’d have much luck. I don’t know what to do about this,” I added, tapping my chest, “but I have other things to do first and I’ll do them, so long as I can.”

  “You must be careful, Harper. You’re a stubborn, hardheaded, scientific practicalist, and all of this seems like a nightmare to you that you hope will simply evaporate when you wake up. But you don’t wake up from this.”

  I snorted. “I’ve learned that already. I just have to figure out how to get through without getting killed.”

  “What about Cameron? Are you going to quit his case?”

  I sighed. “It could be moot. And please don’t try to persuade me.”

  “I shan’t. But there is something you should know. Because a vampire can lay a geas, he can also be put under one. You can bind them to a promise in the Grey. Do you understand?” “I’m not sure.”

  She sighed. “Think on it. If you must deal with them, you may need to try. Do take care, though.”

  “I will.”

  I drove home and went to bed. My sleep was tossed by fragmented dreams and nonspecific discomforts. I woke as the sun was going down. Just like a vampire.

  I sat on the living room floor and contemplated the unlit TV. Its blind, dark eye stared back. Chaos jumped into my lap and nosed her way under my sweater as I sat and thought.

  I had no choice, since I wasn’t smart enough or coward enough to give up. Rest and the quiet of the Danzigers’ house had helped ease my exhaustion, but I still felt achy and itchy and ill, and I wondered if that was doom. I played with the ferret in a desultory and desperate way until she insisted on napping. I put her to bed, then put on comfortable clothes and went out.

  The first place I went was Adult Fantasies.

  Carlos was downstairs, glowering at the unfortunate Jason while a firestorm of black fury whirled around them. Jason cowered, drawing in on himself.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…,” the boy whined. I cringed.

  Carlos’s reply dripped scorn. “Yes. You are. Just clean it up and keep your wretched hands to yourself or I’ll tear them off at the wrist.”

  Jason looked near to gagging on fear. He stumbled backward and bolted for the stairs as Carlos released him from his glare. Then the vampire turned it on me. It struck like a stone, ringing through my ribs, and I started to fold my shoulders inward. He raised his line of sight to my face and cut the intensity, cocked his head and flicked an eyebrow.

  “Blaine.”

  I forced myself forward. Revulsion and the residual pain in my chest urged me to draw away.

  “I’d like to speak with you.”

  He nodded and waved me toward the office. Passing him sent cold shudders through me.

  The pierced Goth girl was rummaging about in some boxes.
She looked up as we entered.

  “Leave that,” Carlos ordered.

  She shrugged. “OK.” I envied her lack of sensitivity. We watched her geisha-like shuffle as she left, apparently impervious to the effects of Carlos’s presence.

  “Sit down.”

  I sank into a chair. Carlos settled himself behind the desk, then raised his eyes to mine. They had no light in them, and I shivered as he waited for me to speak.

  “I need to meet with Edward. Can you help me do that?”

  Carlos sat back, his face blank, just glowering for a while. At last he said, “Yes.”

  “When and where?”

  “On Wednesdays, he holds court at the After Dark.”

  “That’s in Pioneer Square

  , isn’t it? I’ve never been there.”

  A cruel humor flickered in the blackness of his eyes. “Not many daylighters have. He’ll see you. I’ll take care of it.”

  “What time?”

  “Never before ten.”

  “I need as many of Edward’s enemies, malcontents, or neutrals there as possible. Can you accomplish that?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Thank you. I have an unrelated, professional favor to ask you also.”

  Again the silent gaze pierced me. I sympathized with Jason.

  “There is an object I’d like you to look at, as a specialist.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A specialist in what, do you believe?”

  “Necromancy.”

  His brows drew down and the force of his personality bore on me like a toppled column. He growled deep in his throat and my body began to quake, the vibration of his fury beating against me. I swallowed hard and began to talk fast through my constricted throat.

  “I need the services of a necromancer and you’re the only one I know of. No one told your secrets. I guessed from what you told me before. I swear it.”

  He drew back a little. “And you need one for what?”

  “I need to know the history and source of a dark artifact—necromantic, probably. Interested?”

  He sat back and withdrew his fury, though a press of darkness remained. “You’re a fool.”

  “I have no choice,” I confessed, and hoped I had not made a bad guess about the Byzantine workings of his mind.

  “Are you desperate enough to submit to me? I might demand a price you would prefer not to pay.”

  I was shivering. “You might. Do you intend to?”

  He fell silent and stared into me. Streamers of light and darkness wove between us and brushed over me and I let them, though my insides clutched in fear. They slid over the knot with a chill pang of curiosity and withdrew.

  He narrowed his eyes with the specter of a curious smile. “Not this time. When and where?”

  “Tomorrow, at the Madison Forrest Historical House. We’ll need to discuss your information with a friend, too. A witch.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A true witch? Not one of those soft, powerless, New Age idiots?”

  “A real witch.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  I said nothing.

  He lowered his head in a half nod. “After sunset, tomorrow.” I stood up and so did he. I didn’t offer my hand. “Thank you.”

  He stepped closer. I wanted to recoil, but didn’t dare. He leaned over me. “Something of power is turning in you. Yet you seem ill.” He reached out and swept something from my hair and shoulder, drew his hand down the line of my sternum without touching me. He brought a writhing piece of darkness to his face and breathed in the scent of it. “You reek of dark powers mixed with light. Have you touched the artifact?”

  “No, but you could say it touched me.”

  He rubbed the slip of shadow between his fingers. “Disturbing. This can’t be as it is.” Then he wadded the shadow up and tucked it into his pocket, as before.

  “I’m not pleased with it myself,” I answered.

  “Be wary, Blaine.”

  I lifted a cynical eyebrow. “And trust you at the same time?” I turned the topic. “How will we find you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll find you.” His eyes glittered. He grinned at me and I felt as if those savage white teeth tore into my flesh. “I’ll always know the smell of you now.” I shuddered.

  I was glad to leave his presence. I walked through the night, straight toward Alice.

  She narrowed her eyes as I approached across the bar and smiled furious hunger. Sparks of violent yellow and red danced around her. “You have played far too close. I’ve had to expose myself in covering you. I had better not come to regret it.”

  “I’m too tired to fence with you. If you want to exploit the opportunity, be in the After Dark Wednesday night about nine thirty.”

  “Who told you about After Dark?”

  I smiled with all the cold in my heart and didn’t answer. Her icy acid hate slashed a storm against me, ringing off the beating Grey thing within. My knees trembled, but I stood it, somehow.

  “When I’m done,” I said at last, “you’ll have your chance. If you move too early, you’ll tip your hand, so be patient.”

  “Patient? I have been nothing but. And if you are double-crossing me—”

  “What good would that do? I won’t have a single friend in the room. In fact, you’ll be the only one there who doesn’t already have reason to take my head off.”

  I paused and turned a bit away. “Maybe I shouldn’t bother. I can probably stay far enough away from you to live to a reasonable age. And I can’t trust you, anyhow. You’ll probably be first in line to exercise all those threats you’ve made.”

  I started to walk. Alice snagged my arm, sending heat and black ice through me. “Are you backing out now?”

  I wrenched my arm from her grip, surprising us both. “Why not? What’s to stop you?”

  “I’ve said I wouldn’t harm you if you did as I instructed.”

  “And I have, but all you’ve done is complain about how I haven’t. So I’m screwed, aren’t I? Forget it.”

  Alice growled.

  I turned back to her and stared her in the eye, pushing against the Grey as hard as I could, hoping I had it right. “All right. Then promise—that you won’t harm me if I help you get to Edward. So long as I stay out of your way, you leave me alone. Promise me that.”

  Infinite cold bore through me as she stared. When she spoke, her voice had dropped low and resonant. “I promise I won’t harm you so long as you help me get to Edward, and stand aside.”

  I smiled at her and turned away again before she could reconsider.

  She stared at me as I left, and I felt it all the way down my spine.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tuesday started out raining. Even though I felt weak and calcified, I ran until my chest hurt from something purely physical for the first time in days. My body was fine but I was falling apart in all other ways. I ran on, amazed that I could, considering how often I had thought of simply stopping over the past few days. And I got furious with myself for my self-pity and self-doubt. I was still afraid, still weak and unsure and in the midst of the unknown, but if I stood still, there was only one possible end. At least, going forward, I stood a chance, however small.

  I ran. Sweat and rain washed away my stupidity and despair. I wanted to stay in the clean downpour until everything washed away, but I had made a choice and I would stick to it.

  From the office, I called the curator of the Madison Forrest House and persuaded her I needed to see the organ that night. She agreed to let us in at nine, though she was not pleased. With another phone call, Mara agreed to come, too.

  I chased down some more prosaic business, keeping my mind busy, and was interrupted by a call from Will.

  He sounded tired. “Hey, Harper. I checked up on that Tracher organ some more.” “That was quick.” “A lot of the records have been computerized over the last few years and I know the right people to call in Europe. Anyhow, I don’t know what your client wants it for, but that or
gan is a fake-up.”

  “Totally fake? It looked old.”

  “Parts of it are too old, actually. The frame and action numbers didn’t match. There’s some additional paneling behind the mirror and over the pipes which is older than the case and shouldn’t be there at all. According to Tracher, the frame came from an instrument that was damaged in a fire in Amsterdam in 1923. The case was written off by the insurance company and sold to a furniture jobber. He probably installed the action, which came from another organ built in 1902. But there’s no way to tell.”

  “Which part is the ‘action’?”

  “In this case, just the keyboard—the rest wouldn’t have fit. Whatever your client told you about the instrument, it’s probably not true. The organ disappeared for a while and finally turned up again in a Swiss estate auction in 1957, where it was bought by the last owner of record, a G. Sergeyev of Bern. I tried to track him down, but the best I could do was a news article about his death in 1960. He doesn’t seem to have had any relatives to inherit the organ, so I don’t know what happened to it between 1960 and when it was shipped out of Oslo.”

  My ghostly client’s clothing and speech predated the 1950s, so he certainly wasn’t the man from Bern.

  “Did the obit say what the last owner died of?”

  “It was a news item, not an obituary. He was crushed by a trolley. There’s not a lot else, except a partial provenance on the organ from the estate auction, but it’s completely bogus. It claims the family—Mandon was their name—was the original owner, but they only had it thirty-three years, at the most, and that hardly makes it an heirloom. And there’s one creepy thing: the Mandons died of asphyxia from a gas leak in the house. That’s, what, five owners who all died in accidents.”

  I wondered how many more of its owners had met unexpected deaths. And what had happened to the organ during its lost years?

  Will broke my silence. “Harper? Are you there?”

  “Yes My mind was wandering. Thanks, Will, that’s helpful.”