Phantasm

by Phaedra Weldon

  The Dekalb County Coroner’s Office was old—age-wise. Dingy in places, with new tile decorating the front offices, spit-polished to a high gloss nice enough to eat off of. The front receptionist was packing up for the day—it being close to five before the three of us got there. The boys rode with me in the Volvo, opting to leave their trucks at Miller Oaks. Dags had whipped out some card to the head nurse, and she’d assured them their trucks wouldn’t be towed.

  The wind picked up when we walked in, and the receptionist took a quick glance at Joe’s badge and waved us through.

  We hit the double doors and the environment changed. The polished tiles gave way to dingy, cracked, and broken tiles, circa 1971. The walls had been washed until the paint no longer had any gloss. The ceiling tiles were brown with water damage, and some were only half there. A few lights in the hall flickered, giving me an instant headache.

  And the smell?

  Oh God.

  Mr. Clean meets Mrs. Ammonia in the arena of germ-killing battles.

  I think it was a draw.

  Dags and I followed Joe around the winding hallways until we ended at a battered set of dingy, silver double doors. With a glance and a grin, Joe pushed forward against the doors, and we followed.

  It was like stepping into the future.

  Literally.

  Gone was the bad floor, replaced by a freshly painted one, complete with silver drains set up periodically around the room. Sparkling, shining examination tables with silver hoses lined the center of the room—and, to my dismay, every one of them had an occupant.

  Luckily, they were all covered from the shoulders down. The smell was crisper, cleaner, and there was a hint of lemon. I could also hear music—something instrumental—playing in the background.

  A tall, handsome guy in a white lab coat and what looked like a welder’s plastic mask was bent over one of the bodies. He straightened when we walked in and held up what looked like a saw. I thought of the saw the doctor used to cut off my cast when I was eight. I’d thought he was going to remove my whole arm and was quite surprised when it didn’t cut flesh.

  But I didn’t think this one was that friendly.

  He lifted up the front of his plastic faceplate and a grin lit up his dark face. “Halloran!”

  Joe moved forward as the man set the saw down and removed his gloves. The two shook hands, then did that strange hug thing with the backslaps. “Hey, Ben—how’s it going?”

  “Just fine. Busy. So you back again? I heard you transferred to Vice.”

  “For a while. Back in Homicide. Any strange deaths like before?”

  Ben shook his head. “Yeah—Lex’s got you one in the back. She’s waiting on you.” He looked from Joe to me and Dags standing by the door. “Ah—you bring friends to see me?”

  “Yes and no.” Joe turned and gestured for us to come closer.

  I followed Dags—I wasn’t trusting the saw.

  “Ben, this is Darren McConnell and Zoë Martinique. Guys, this is Ben Caillou.”

  Ben offered his hand, and we shook it. It was soft and warm but strong. He was a handsome man, with a prominent chin, angled nose, and almond-shaped eyes. His eyelashes were what caught my attention first—they were long and curled. And his skin was a dark, rich mocha. His hair was cornrowed and pulled back into a ponytail at his neck.

  “Zoë, this is the guy that makes my special soup.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Soup?”

  “The stuff I shot you full of that brought you back to your body—that night in the morgue?”

  Oh. Yeah. I’d nearly forgotten about him shooting me up with something.

  Wait. I touched his sleeve. “So if his soup can pull someone back to their body—”

  He shook his head, following exactly where my thoughts were going. “It can’t bring Nona’s soul back to hers, Zoë. Ben’s soup only works for astral walking. I’m afraid Nona’s condition is a bit more . . . serious.” And then he told me the truth. “And I already tried it.”

  I socked him on the arm with my fist. Jerk.

  “Oh, so which drug knocked you into the astral?” Ben focused his attention on me. His eyes were dark brown and very intense.

  “No drugs,” Joe said. “Long story. You said Lex’s in the back?”

  “Yep. In the”—he held up his hands and made quotes with the index and second finger of each hand—“special room.”

  Joe nodded and motioned for us to follow him. We moved past bodies and went through another door. This new room was much smaller, but still new. What differentiated it from the other room wasn’t so much the polished chrome or the clean floor, but the huge-ass pentagram painted on the back wall.

  It also smelled different in here—much more woody. Like damp dirt.

  In the middle of the room sat one of those tables with the drain and the water hose. And on that table was a body shrouded in a white sheet. On the opposite side of the table was a black-topped workbench and enough medical equipment to make the props crew on E.R. very happy.

  Seated at that table, bent over a laptop, was a slim woman in a white coat. Her hair gleamed blue-black beneath the lights, and it was pulled up into a twist at the back of her head. She turned at our approach and revealed a slim, angular Asian face.

  My God . . . she’s beautiful.

  Then she stood up.

  And fucking tall!

  Joe moved past the table with the body and headed straight for the giant woman in the back. “Lex.”

  She smiled, showing a dazzling smile, and held her hands out to embrace Joe. “Ah—Halloran. I was very happy to hear from you. We don’t get to spend as much time together anymore.”

  They hugged.

  Dags leaned over to me. “Geez . . . that woman is a good head taller than Joe.”

  I glanced at him sideways. “Make you feel kinda small there, Dags?”

  I was a bit thrilled when he gave me a smirk back. “No. I like tall women.”

  And then I was a little uncomfortable. More so at how I was feeling at his retort than what he might be thinking.

  Joe did introductions. Lex Takashi, one of the city’s leading criminal biologists. Pathology was simply her hobby. The afterlife was her passion.

  “What is that smell?” I finally blurted.

  “Patchouli,” Lex said as she pursed her lips at me. She was sizing me up, and I didn’t particularly like it. I felt like a slab of beef. “So you’re a Wraith?”

  I glared at Joe. Exactly how many people had he told? Was I some freaky sideshow for him? A conversation piece for Cop Shop Talk? Jerk.

  He jumped in. “She was—is—we’re not sure. That’s another problem we’re dealing with at the moment.”

  Lex nodded. “And she has tremendous afterlife abilities?”

  I crossed my hands over my chest and glared right back at her. I called her tall, but in truth the closer she came to me, I realized she wasn’t that much taller than me. Maybe an inch? She just seemed tall. Yeah—and if I had my Wraith self, I’d suck your bitchiness out like spinal fluid.

  Unfortunately, that bit of thought didn’t go unnoticed by Dags. He cleared his throat as he gave me a rather terrified look. “Like Joe said, it’s another issue right now.”

  When she focused on Dags, I saw the claws come out. She was past me—practically pushing me out of the way—and had her hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes. Dags looked scared.

  “You . . . I can feel you. The moment you walked in. I thought it was Joe at first . . . but you . . .”

  Joe was on Lex fast, putting his own hands on her shoulders and yanking her away from Dags. When she’d released her hold, Dags moved to stand behind me.

  My hero.

  “Lex, I didn’t bring them here for your enjoyment. What I need is to see Boo Baskins’s body.”

  Lex looked from Joe to Dags to me. It appeared as if she was coming to a decision. “Beatrice Nell Baskins is here.”

  Dags spoke up. “Can we see her alone?
”

  Joe held up a hand and stopped Lex before she could protest. “Please, Lex. Just ten minutes. Okay? I owe you on this one.”

  There was an odd, tense moment before the tall coroner nodded and moved toward the door. But I noticed her gaze lingered on Dags before she glanced back at Joe. “Yes . . . you do. And I will collect.”

  Once she was out the door, it felt like the room’s temperature rose a good five degrees. I expelled a breath of air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Joe moved to the table and reached out for the sheet. I grabbed his arm and nodded to the door. “What the hell was that?”

  “That,” he said as he looked at me, “was Lex. Don’t mess with her, Zoë.”

  “What the hell is she?” Dags said in a low voice, as he moved to stand on the opposite side of the body. “Is she human?”

  Joe shrugged and pursed his lips. “That is still up in the air. Just don’t cross her.”

  “What do you owe her?” I asked.

  “We’ll figure that out later.” Joe looked at us. “Ready?”

  We nodded, and he pulled the sheet back from the head.

  It was Boo all right—but her face was frozen into a scream. I took a step back and gasped. So did Dags. He didn’t gasp though. “What the hell?”

  “Whatever it was she saw before she died,” Joe said. “It wasn’t pleasant.”

  Dags shook his head. “It’s completely empty.”

  Joe said, “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I can call the girls, but they’ll say the same thing.” And as if on cue, Maureen and Alice appeared on either side of him. They looked down at the body and shook their heads.

  “Her soul is gone,” Alice said. “Not even a trace of her is left.”

  “Is this a Symbiont death?” Dags asked as a formality. Though we all assumed the answer was yes.

  “No.”

  ???

  All three of us looked at Alice. Dags spoke. “What do you mean no?”

  Maureen took a step back.

  Alice answered. “There’s no Symbiont signature. There’s not even a hint of the portal where the Symbiont takes a soul. It’s just a shell. As if there’d never been a soul in the body at all.”

  Joe and I glanced at each other. “So what the hell causes that?” he asked.

  I glanced over at Maureen. She was now a good couple of steps back and away from the body, her eyes wide. And her color was a little gray.

  “I’m not sure I can say—”

  Holy shit, TC said abruptly.

  I nearly yelled out. TC had been quiet so long I’d forgotten he was in there, so his voice startled me. “Geez, don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Joe said.

  I waved him quiet and waited for TC to continue.

  Then, It can’t be . . .

  Be what?

  “What is it?” Joe asked Alice.

  I was watching Maureen as I listened to TC’s words.

  He sent a—

  “Horror—” Maureen yelled out as she pointed to the body.

  —a Horror, TC echoed.

  “A what?” I said out loud. “What does that mean?”

  It means, TC said from inside of me, that we’re all dead.

  12

  Late Tuesday, nearly midnight You can’t make me—

  THE three of us—with TC in silent tow—left the coroner’s office and drove in silence back to the shop. Alice had pretty much echoed what TC had said in my head—that we were all going to die.

  And Maureen had freaked out so badly, she’d disappeared and refused to come back out—and as a physical reaction, Dags’s left hand and arm had gone numb.

  But what I hadn’t gotten yet was what a Horror was or how it connected to anything that was happening.

  Though—of course TC hadn’t stopped talking in my head, and the internal dialogue was incredibly annoying.

  —so much. Yes, I’d always sort of gone around the edges, skirted the actual rules to sample more of the physical plane. He’d tell me to reclaim a contract, and I’d lure them into a false sense of security—you know—yank their souls and have a little fun with the body. No, he wasn’t always happy. And then you came along, and I thought I was just going to enjoy the spoils—how was I supposed to know what would happen? And then there was the Cruorem—

  Will. You. Shut. Up!

  I put a hand to my head as I watched the traffic on I-20. The constant droning of that asshole’s voice had drilled a hole in my brain.

  “You okay?” Dags said from the passenger’s seat.

  I nodded. “Yeah—I’m just—” I’m just what? Possessed by the Symbiont that made me a Wraith and stole my mother’s soul—and I’m scared he’ll kill an innocent bystander if I—

  “Zoë,” Joe said from the back. “I know you don’t want to hear this—but we need to call—”

  I didn’t have to hear the rest. “No.”

  “Look, we don’t know what the hell a Horror is—”

  “No.”

  “She would know about this—”

  “NO.”

  You can’t win against a Horror, lover.

  “Would you both just shut up!” Oh God, that made my head hurt even worse. I whipped the Volvo to the right on the Moreland Avenue exit. Just a few more miles, and I’d be home. And normally I’d go straight to Mom and put my head on her shoulder, and she’d fix me some tea.

  You really are a mama’s girl, aren’t you?

  I hated that Symbiont.

  “Both?” Dags said. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Damnit—I was going to need to stop referring to TC out loud.

  Both men were quiet—well, TC too—as I slowed down and followed the traffic signs to Little Five Points. Two turns and I was pulling into the driveway of Mom’s shop. The lights were on, and a white candle burned in the window—Jemmy’s sign that all was clear. No oogies in the house.

  The three of us entered through the back door behind the kitchen. I stopped in the kitchen and checked the electric kettle I’d bought a month ago. It still had water in it, and I turned it on. I loved those things. Instant hot water without having to heat up the kitchen.

  Jemmy shuffled in and pulled me toward her. I faced my mom’s neighbor and best friend. Her eyes were sort of yellow on the edges, and I’d noticed she’d had a wheezing cough lately. I wondered—just briefly—if I could still see the death mask, would I see one on her?

  “You go get changed and get comfortable. I’ll finish the tea. Headache?”

  I nodded and gave her a hug. I really did like this woman—even though she’d threatened to shoot me once. And I knew she really cared about my mom.

  After changing into loungers and a long-sleeved thermal shirt, I slipped on my killer bunny slippers (complete with pointy teeth), scooped up the tea, and headed to the botanica, not caring if Joe or Dags had stayed or not. But they had—and they were waiting on me.

  “I’m going to call her,” Joe said. He was on the sofa. Dags stood by the fireplace where the Soul Catcher had once sat. Before it was broken. Jemmy was seated in the straight-backed chair to Dags’s left—one of the ones Jemmy had brought over after rescuing them from a garage sale.

  I moved past Joe and curled up on the papasan. “No.”

  “We don’t know what a Horror is,” Joe said. “I even asked Jemmy, and she’s not sure.”

  Sipping my tea, I saw the big Book of Everything on the coffee table next to a copy of Pagan Weekly. “You look in the book?”

  Dags nodded. “I did. The only thing it says on a Horror is see Abysmal, Phantasm.”

  “That’s more than we knew before,” I said. “Maybe we can just work from there.”

  “No, we can’t, child,” Jemmy said. “We need more information on this—we go to Rhonda. Souls are precious, wondrous things, and if there is a creature out there that doesn’t just absorb them but consumes them so thoroughly as to leave the body uncorrupted”—she shook her head—“we have to stop that sort of thing, Z
oë.”

  “Stop it?” I leaned forward and set my tea on the coffee table. “And how exactly can we stop it? We? Me? I can’t do anything. I can’t even see Tim and Steve, and I know they’re in here, right?” I looked around the room. No one spoke, but I didn’t need to hear them. “What good am I?”

  “You’re the Wraith,” Joe said. “It’s not just the Horror we have to ask her about—we need to talk to her about you too. Why have you lost all your abilities? Why are you suddenly bounced back to mediocre.”

  “Mediocre?”

  Joe smirked. “Did that bother you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to force you to call Rhonda?”

  “No.”

  “Nuts.”

  “Just as fucking pigheaded as your mama,” Jemmy said. “Rhonda wasn’t no spy the whole time, and she sure as hell didn’t stay one if she was. That girl cared about you, and about Nona.”

  “That girl betrayed me,” I said to her. And then I looked at Joe. “And where the hell were you? I called and called, but you never came. You never fucking came to check on me, or on Nona. You—” I wanted to scream at him: You kissed me like that and just ran away?

  But I didn’t.

  I knew TC heard it, but he was unnaturally quiet.

  I could sense he was afraid. And he was thinking.

  Joe leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Zoë, I never got a call from you. Nothing. If I’d known you’d called, I would have answered. What number did you try to reach me at?”

  “How the hell should I know what number? It was in that damned phone that psycho bitch gave me.”

  Well, that brought the new character of Dead Silence into the room. Joe sat back and looked wildly uncomfortable. I sighed and slumped my shoulders. “Sorry.”

  “No, no.” Joe held up his right hand. “That’s quite all right. I mean—I knew you were mad at her, I just didn’t know you’d sunk to name-calling.”

  Oh please.

  “And if it’s any consolation, if it’s the number I programmed into that phone myself, I got rid of that number a week after the whole event at Knowles’s house. It was an L6 pager number anyway.”

  I stared at him. “So you never got any of my calls?”

  “None. Which I thought meant you were mad at me too. I mean, we knew you were mad at Rhonda, so she’s made a point of leaving you—I think she put it ‘the hell alone’—to be safe.”