Unholy Magic

by Stacia Kane

  In fact, she knew it. He turned to say something to Taylor and, in the sleek dark back of his head, she realized she’d seen him before.

  The night before, in fact. His had been the head buried between Kym Pyle’s legs on the couch.

  Taylor trotted off somewhere at Fletcher’s command, leaving her alone with him. Good. Maybe he could tell her more about the Pyles—without the hero worship of the security staff.

  He settled himself in Taylor’s abandoned chair and pulled a sleek gold cigarette case out of his pocket. His eyebrows rose. “Do you mind?”

  Excellent. She shook her head, her smile becoming genuine as she pulled out her own pack and let him light her. She rarely got to smoke at work.

  “So, Mr. Fletcher, do you come out to visit the Pyles often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. And before you ask, no, I’ve never seen anything out of the ordinary here.”

  “But you’re so sure Mr. Pyle is telling the truth.”

  “I know Roger. He wouldn’t lie.”

  She sensed an opening. “Kym? Arden?”

  “Arden is a troubled young lady, but don’t you think she lacks the sophistication to pull off something like this? Roger’s told me some of the things he’s seen, and Kym has seen. It sounds quite terrifying.”

  “And Kym?”

  “Kym lacks the intelligence.”

  “You don’t think much of her?”

  “I didn’t say that. Kym is a beautiful woman.”

  Chess pretended that answered her question. “Do you think there’s someone else, perhaps? Someone who might have the sophistication and the intelligence?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, Miss Putnam. Have you honestly ever seen a fake haunting on the level of what is apparently happening here? Do you think anyone is clever enough to stage such a thing?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  He stood up, his flat smile reflecting a satisfaction that rang alarms in Chess’s gut. “Well, please do say, if you find that person. I’d like to hire him.”

  Two hours later Chess sat once again in the orange and ivory living room, before a cheerful fire, and checked her notes. After she’d had a few quick words with the Pyles she could leave, and not a moment too soon. She wasn’t itching yet, but it would take almost an hour to get home and she wanted to leave herself some room.

  As long as she was checking her notes, she might as well check her phone. No calls. No texts. Nothing. She’d spoken to Lex that morning, but …

  She closed her eyes, shook the thought from her head. This wasn’t the time to focus on anything but work, especially now her mind was clear.

  Two other guards had seen ghosts. All of the descriptions were similar and matched what she’d witnessed herself. The smell—it still seemed to cling to her nose when she thought of it—the man in the loose shirt, another man, the woman she’d seen in the bathroom mirror.

  A murderer and two victims. Only one man—she guessed it was the son—was still unaccounted for, unless he was the figure Roger had seen in the guest bedroom.

  Then there was Oliver Fletcher. Interesting. Obviously a friend of Roger’s and an admirer of his talent. Just as obviously contemptuous of him and his family, no matter how many sex parties he attended at their house. She wondered if he’d flown in specifically for this one or if he had some other reason to be there. He and Roger worked together on the TV show. Was he producing the film as well?

  She’d ask Roger Pyle. Who was just walking into the room, a big grin on his cheerful face. She checked his eyes. A little dilated, nothing big. Come to think of it, she hadn’t found any drugs in the Pyles’ room. Maybe he kept them in the office? Shit, she was going to have to come back with her Hand, put them all to sleep, and get into that room. Especially since another significant episode had occurred there.

  This week was never going to end. Dead hookers at home, a cavernous house full of miserable people here, and not an answer in sight.

  It could have been worse, yes. She knew that from experience. But the thought didn’t seem to help her the way it usually did.

  “How are things going?” Roger asked. “Is everyone being helpful? They’re giving you everything you need?”

  She nodded. “Everyone’s been great.”

  He visibly relaxed. “Excellent. Excellent. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Actually, I was wondering something. Most of the staff members who’ve witnessed the entities report a particular smell. But you didn’t mention it when you told me your experiences. Was there an odor that you recall?”

  Roger’s forehead creased. “Not … No, I don’t think so. I know I felt a little odd, but I assumed that was just because I’d drunk too much coffee. You know, caffeine makes me jumpy sometimes, a little fuzzy. But I didn’t notice a scent or anything.”

  “Was that every time, or just that first time? The night of the attack in your bedroom, for example? You hadn’t been drinking coffee then.”

  “No, no I guess I hadn’t. I don’t … I’m sorry, Miss Putnam, it was just so terrifying, I don’t remember if I smelled anything or not. I was so focused on Kym and her injuries.”

  She nodded, smiled to let him know she understood. “Of course.”

  “Have you read the articles? About the murders, I mean.” Roger shuddered. “I just don’t understand how someone could do something like that. And to think it happened here, on this land. Awful. No wonder they’ve come back.”

  “Well, it isn’t always a matter of—”

  “Do you think if we discover who killed them, they’ll go away? I wondered about that. Like in old books, you know, where they can let go of the trauma because the truth is known. Does that happen?”

  She couldn’t help but smile. He looked so hopeful. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Pyle. It’s been tried, but we’ve learned it really makes no difference. Even if we discover the truth, the dead don’t feel that knowledge. It just doesn’t affect them or get through to them, so they can’t move on. The ones who are trapped by it, I mean.”

  And that was conversation number three on that subject. Surely that wasn’t a coincidence? What was she trying to tell herself there, what was she missing?

  “Have you been to the City? What’s it like?”

  Her smile became fixed. “It’s very peaceful.”

  Terrifying was more like it. Dark and cold and full of spirits. The remnants of life, moving silently through the cavernous space. It was emptiness.

  Apparently she was the only one who felt that way. No one else seemed to have a problem with the City. But for her it was … a nightmare. Someplace so awful it was worth staying alive just to avoid it.

  She changed the subject. “I met Oliver Fletcher. In the security office.”

  “Oliver? That’s great. He’s an interesting man, Oliver. Helped me … Well, I guess he’s been the best friend I ever had, really. I owe my whole career to him.”

  “Now, darling, don’t be so modest. You got where you are by hard work.” Kym Pyle knew how to make an entrance, Chess had to give her that. Today she wore a snug black sweater with a deep V neck and a pair of red cigarette pants, and her blond hair was swept up into a smooth knot on the back of her neck.

  She ran crimson fingernails through Roger’s hair, giving him a smile much warmer than anything Chess would have expected to see. Perhaps she’d worked off all her tension at the party.

  Or perhaps the Pyles had decided it would be less suspicious if Kym didn’t act quite so much like a dominatrix who’d had a bad day.

  Kym turned to her, the smile fading. “Miss Putnam. I thought you’d left over an hour ago, didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “Tell me?”

  “The snow. Haven’t you seen? It’s an absolute storm out there. I thought one of the staff had let you know—”

  Chess leapt from her seat, Kym’s voice fading to a drone in the background. Thick orange curtains covered the broad windows; Chess yanked them apart and gasp
ed. It wasn’t just snow. It was a blizzard, huge fat flakes obscuring everything.

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

  “I should go.” She snatched up her bag and yanked the zipper open. “I’m sorry, but I—”

  “You can’t go,” Kym said. “It’s terrible out there. The roads—”

  “But if I don’t try now, who knows when I’ll be able to get out of here?” Keys, where were her keys? The security room, on the hook. She’d relinquished them when they parked her car.

  “But I don’t think you’ll be able to get out of here now.” Kym settled into a chair. “Arden says it’s been snowing for over an hour. I’m so sorry. I was napping, and I guess with the curtains closed … I can’t believe no one warned you. Roger, I’m going to have another talk with the security staff, they’re not being very attentive. What do we pay them for?”

  “No, I’m—I’m sure it will be fine, I mean, I’ve driven in snow before, so—”

  “They don’t salt the roads out here,” Roger said. “The plows will be along eventually, but not until after it stops.”

  “I’m sorry.” Chess slung her bag over her shoulder, blinking back tears. Oh shit oh fuck how had she let this happen? “I really need to at least try, I can’t impose—”

  “It’s no imposition, don’t be silly. You must stay here, Miss Putnam. Have dinner with us, stay the night. We have plenty of room. It’s so miserable out there, you can’t drive in that.”

  “I’m just going to have a look,” she managed, before escaping from the room and throwing herself down the long bright walkway.

  It was impossible. Snow fell fast and thick, clinging to her eyelashes, coating her clothing. Three or four inches of it already covered the ground; she couldn’t make out the wall at the edge of the property. Everything was white. No landmarks, nothing.

  Nothing to look at. Nothing in her pillbox. Her hands shook as she raised them to her face, jammed her fist against her mouth.

  How long did she have? Two hours, maybe three, before it started, and another couple of hours before it got really bad? There were a few hard candies in her bag, the sugar would help for a little while, but … a whole night?

  Her eyes stung and she swiped at them, trying to will her heart to slow down. It was okay. It would be okay. The snow would stop in a few hours. It could stop any minute, right? And it was early evening. People would be commuting, the plows would come through, she could get out.

  Surely the Pyles had a small plow or something, living out here. Maybe one of the security guys—maybe Merritt—would help her get out. If she could just hold on for a little while, an hour, two, she’d be okay. She’d planned on staying until six or so anyway, right?

  Right. So she would be fine. All she had to do was wait it out, just hang out for a little longer, and she could go home and get her pills.

  Just a little longer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So much fear and misery, so much anger, made humankind vulnerable to the dead, for they ceased to remember the danger posed by the unseen.

  But the unseen never forgets. It never stops looking for its chance to destroy.

  —The Book of Truth, Origins, Article 459

  She had to admit it was interesting. Interesting in the way a man might find his last few hours before facing the firing squad interesting, sure, but still interesting.

  She’d never had a chance to spend this much time with her investigation subjects before. She’d certainly never spent a night in one of their homes.

  Damn shame, then, that in another couple of hours she wasn’t going to be good for anything but hugging the toilet bowl and wishing she were dead. And trying desperately to figure out how she was going to leave in the morning without anyone noticing she could barely stand.

  She wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand and tried to focus on the plate in front of her. Outside the tall dining room windows, snow swirled in the empty sky. Inside, voices chattered around her, discussing empty things. Shopping. Mutual friends. If she’d cared about their world at all, it would have been fascinating. As it was, the only thing she cared about was keeping herself from scratching her arms raw.

  The itch burned like fire on her palms, on her calves and the sensitive skin of her wrists. Her stomach hadn’t joined the party yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  Servants cleared the table silently, removing Chess’s barely-touched chicken and replacing it with some sort of chocolate confection. Chess grabbed her fork. Sugar. Sugar would help a little. It might help enough for her to get back upstairs without anyone noticing something was wrong.

  “So, Miss Putnam, you’re staying here tonight?” Oliver smiled at her from around a forkful of food.

  She nodded.

  He turned to Roger. “Why haven’t you given her my room?”

  “Well … because you’re in it?”

  “But my room is the nicest. Please, I insist.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Fletcher, but it’s fine.”

  “No, you must have mine.”

  “I’m really happy with the one I have.”

  “You can’t be.” His brows drew together as if he was an infant and she’d stolen his pacifier. “Mine is the nicest, you must have mine.”

  “Oliver, I think you’re making her uncomfortable,” Roger said quietly.

  Chess seized on it. “Yes, please, Mr. Fletcher, don’t make me feel guiltier than I already do. I like my room and I wouldn’t feel right about taking yours. Please.”

  Fletcher opened his mouth, his face red. Chess stared back as coolly as possible. It was nice of him to offer, but really, why the insistence? It wasn’t like she cared. She wouldn’t be sleeping in there. She could be about to spend the night in a dungeon for all it mattered.

  “Arden,” Kym said, dipping her fork into the puddle of chocolate sauce around the edge of her plate and slipping it into her mouth, “don’t eat too much of this. You’ve gained enough weight as it is.”

  Arden scooped up a huge mouthful and shoveled it in.

  “Arden! What did I just say?”

  “I don’t care!”

  “If you don’t care, I certainly do.”

  “Let her enjoy her dessert,” Oliver said. He leaned back and put an arm over his chair, the pose obviously calculated to show off the muscular chest beneath his casual white shirt. He winked at Arden, who smiled back.

  “See? Oliver likes me the way I am.”

  “Oliver isn’t your mother.”

  “I wish he was.”

  Their voices scraped across her skin like claws. Why wouldn’t they just shut up?

  The discussion deepened, turning into a fight. Every muscle in Chess’s body cringed. She shouldn’t be here for this, it was like they’d forgotten she was even in the room. Was she in the room? Why was she here?

  Her hand trembled on her fork as she scooped up more dessert. Some kind of pie, covered with whipped cream. The sort of thing she never ate, cloyingly sweet, coating her tongue with stickiness. It was like swallowing lard.

  Almost exactly like it, in fact.

  That was a memory she didn’t want to revisit. None of her memories were ones she wanted to revisit. Too bad. They were all coming, she knew that, hovering like the ghosts that might or might not be haunting the Pyle house, waiting until she was at her most vulnerable before attacking.

  Arden’s screams turned incoherent; every one was like fingernails scraping Chess’s brain. Her footsteps as she ran out of the room vibrated up from the floor and made Chess’s legs tremble.

  Blessed silence fell. Blessed to Chess at least. The others looked embarrassed. “I’ll go talk to her,” Oliver said, dropping his napkin with careful negligence onto the snow-white tablecloth.

  “No,” Kym said. “Nobody can talk to that girl. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with her. There’s a Church-run school I read about, outside Arcadia. They’ll straighten her out. Miss Putnam, don’t you think a Church education is best?”<
br />
  “What? Oh, um, yes.”

  “Do you think they’ll be able to help Arden?” Her steely gaze trapped Chess in her chair like a bug under glass.

  “Nothing’s wrong with Arden but typical teenage growing pains,” Oliver said. “The offer to let her come stay with me is still open, you know.”

  “We can’t impose on you like that,” Kym said. Chess glanced at Roger, who was still sitting in his chair, hardly moving. Stoned again? Where did he keep his drugs? Maybe she could sneak into the office and find them. She’d pulled her transmitter out from under the carpet already, she could lay it out by the office door, maybe there would be something in there.

  And if she got caught? Fuck it. She didn’t care, not now. She needed her pills. She needed something, anything. Even some decent cold medicine might help. Just … just anything. She wiped her forehead again and stood up, her fork clattering against her plate.

  “I’m sorry. The meal was lovely, thank you, but I’m—I’m going to leave you to your evening, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Roger spoke for the first time. “Really. We were going to watch a movie, Oliver’s newest. It hasn’t been released yet. There should be some perk for having to spend the night in a haunted house, right?”

  Her smile felt more like a grimace. “Oh, no, I couldn’t intrude. I’ll just … I’ll just go ahead now. Thank you so much, though.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. If he didn’t stop talking in the next minute, she was going to turn and run for it.

  “Just ring the buzzer if you need anything,” Kym said. “And the blue button will put you through to security.”

  “And if you see a ghost,” Oliver said, “well, I guess you know what to do, don’t you?”

  His lips parted; Chess thought it should have been a smile. It looked more like he was getting ready to eat her.

  She fled.

  The office door was locked. With trembling hands she picked it, her mouth flooded with saliva. He had to keep them in there. Had to. Where else would they be?