Spells for the Dead

by Faith Hunter

  “It’s called Sterling Silver,” Occam said, as its fragrance filled the space between us.

  John had brought me wildflowers, but never anything so magnificent. Something bittersweet and urgent and needy flooded into the fireflies within me.

  Tears caught at my eyes; my chest twisted into some impossible spasm of delight. My words shuddered when I said, “I love you and I know you love me.”

  “With all I am and all I ever shall be. With all my heart and soul. With my claws and fangs and with my human body. With your leaves or without. With thorns, like this rose, or smooth-stemmed like an oak. To the full moon and back.”

  “Oh. My,” I said, the strange tears spilling over. “So. Cat-man-who-loves-me. Where are T. Laine and FireWind?”

  “Busy,” he growled. “At least an hour behind me.”

  I had thought my question and his answer were an invitation, but he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything else. But then, he had placed our entire relationship at my feet, in my hands. And . . . we had an hour. A whole, entire hour. Alone. I got up and walked to him, touched his chest with one hand and touched his hand, holding the rose, with my other. His skin was cat-man heated. He smelled of hotel soap and shampoo and I curled my fingers around his. Pushed him gently into his room. I shut and locked the door to my room, the one I would share with T. Laine. Slowly, I spun us and pulled him after me, crawling up onto his bed, and patted the plump pillows. “C’mere, cat-man. I got some making up to do, and I plan to do it in this here bed.”

  Occam purred, a full-on throat-vibrating purr. He pulled off his Henley. Balled it up and tossed it across the room.

  FIVE

  FireWind texted us to gather in his suite for an EOB—end-of-business—debriefing and dinner, as soon as he and T. Laine had a chance to shower off the death stink and change. When we got there, we found pizza boxes with the logo for Bellacino’s Pizza & Grinders. The four of us fell on the pies as if we were starving and the pizzas took a hurting in just minutes.

  Maybe it was the fact that I’d only eaten donuts, coffee, and my protein bars all day, but I was pretty sure this was the best pizza I had ever eaten. Maybe the best meal I had ever eaten. In my life.

  “So good,” I said midway into my third and last piece. Even my leaves, trying to curl into my hairline, were happy.

  FireWind took a slow bite and chewed as he watched us eat, his gestures formal, a ritual, as if eating take-out pizza was a ceremony of breaking bread. Maybe in his world it was. Maybe I should ask that. Maybe I should have already asked. Had I insulted him? I concentrated on my slice, trying to figure out the proper social words. I settled on something that Mama might have said to the senior wife of a church elder. “I thank you for the meal, the drinks, and the cheesy goodness. It’s delicious.”

  T. Laine and Occam chimed in with thanks and FireWind inclined his head, still formal but a bit less distant. “You are welcome.”

  JoJo and Tandy, back at HQ in Knoxville, were on the Internet with us, their faces on FireWind’s computer screen in the middle of the table. It was PsyLED’s version of FaceTime but with added security. They were eating salads and grilled salmon with some kind of fancy sauce, and I didn’t know whether I was covetous or not. Considering my pizza-swollen belly, I decided envy was out of place.

  I asked, “Why’s Tandy not here to help with the interrogations?”

  “Dyson did the preliminary questioning of the victims sent to UTMC,” FireWind said, using the law enforcement SOP of last names only, which I still wasn’t used to, “and he experienced a negative reaction to the presence of the death working.”

  I looked at the screen in surprise. The last time magic had affected Tandy he had misused his gifts to sway the thoughts of others. I wondered if that had been a problem this time. He shrugged uneasily and slid his eyes to JoJo, saying, “I had no ability to read emotions. It’s nice to not have other people’s emotions pressing on my mind, but it made me no more effective than a human.” JoJo’s expression didn’t change at all, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that.

  “Death and decay energies,” T. Laine said, correcting her boss. “It’s not a witch working. All we know for sure is it’s directed paranormal energies.” She was using a tone of voice my mama woulda called sassy and swiped my bottom for using.

  FireWind didn’t react to it, merely gave a single slow nod. “Interesting distinction. When Ingram returns to Knoxville, and the death and decay energies have been neutralized, Dyson may be joining us here, for a limited time, in situations where he isn’t negatively affected. I want two people available at HQ at all times.”

  I didn’t look at Occam, but I figured that meant we’d have no more hotel alone time. While we were still finishing up the last bites of pizza, T. Laine opened the EOB by calling on Clementine to record and transcribe the meeting. Clementine was the software that saved us from having to take meeting notes, but it was confined to HQ and only available now because we were essentially live.

  T. Laine gave the time, the date, and the names of all present, repeating to the group that she had been on the road to Bowling Green for a read when FireWind redirected her to Stella Mae Ragel’s property. Using one clean fingertip to page across the notes on her small electronic tablet, she walked us through the events of the day, and caught us all up on the condition of the transport vehicle that had been taking the body of Stella’s housekeeper to UTMC in the cooler. “It’s still stalled in the middle of I-40. The death and decay is working much faster in the vehicle than at the studio, probably because the concrete floor of the house is more substantial. The energies have eaten through the cooler, the floor of the vehicle, and the asphalt underneath it.” She licked tomato sauce off a finger and tucked her hair back behind an ear with it. “Traffic is backed up for a good seven miles and has been rerouted to back roads, which are bumper-to-bumper. The Nashville coven is heading to I-40 now to set up a circle around the transport vehicle and try to neutralize, or at least contain, the energies. I don’t think the vehicle can be salvaged. Frankly, I think it’s a total loss. The county will have to replace the transport unit and the state will have to repair the interstate, that is, if we can find a way to neutralize the destruction.

  “For now, the coven has the worst of the energies at the house shielded and they aren’t leaking into the water table. Come dawn, Astrid and a few of her younger witches will be back at Melody Farm to see if the T-shirts and the thing we think might be a trigger for the death and decay are clean after being in the null room all night. Overall, the North Nashville coven is working well with the locals, so that’s a good thing.”

  “I’d like a cost-benefit analysis of purchasing twenty portable null rooms,” FireWind said, watching T. Laine with the steady gaze of a hunting cat. “We currently have twenty PsyLED units throughout the contiguous states, and are getting ready to open one in Alaska and one in Hawaii. The cost of the null room at Unit Eighteen HQ was twenty-seven thousand dollars, inexpensive because all we had to do was insulate the walls properly so the Richmond coven could apply the working. However, we are limited by its permanent location. It seems wise to provide a portable null room for each unit, if the cost can be included in next year’s budget.”

  “Witches make them, you know,” she said, her tone aggressive, staring back at him, her eyes seeing something I was clearly missing. “Including witches at Spook School. You should ask the Spook School coven for a price. But one thing to keep in mind. The trailers have to be tuned up periodically. Like, every time they’re moved. And it takes a coven of at least three to do that.”

  FireWind said, “Tune-up,” sounding faintly amused. He used a paper napkin to clean his already meticulous fingers. When he was done, there was no grease on the paper. At all. Had the big boss just used a stalling technique? “I would prefer to keep this outside of the witch covens in Richmond and Baltimore. And away from the Seattle coven as well.” />
  “Really,” T. Laine said, her tone too cold to be called deadpan.

  “Yes. All three of the major covens have benefited financially and politically from their relationships with the military and federal law enforcement. It’s time to expand PsyLED’s contacts with other covens in the paranormal world.”

  “Past time,” T. Laine said. Something in her tone suggested that she had said these same words recently.

  “I have recognized the benefit of consulting with covens in each city where a PsyLED unit is located. Would you be willing to fly out with each portable null room delivery and give a tutorial to the PsyLED units in the use and upkeep of such a tool?” He was staring at T. Laine, watching her, evaluating. “And, while there, would you consider negotiating with local covens who might be willing to consult with and partner with the human units, providing assistance with the trailers when they are moved?”

  T. Laine had gone very still as he talked. “Sure. Bet that would make the entrenched old dudes on the units happy,” she said, her tone saying the opposite. “Is this just chitchat or is this a real thing?”

  “I have sent a report with an urgent needs request to the director of Homeland. I’ll need to provide an additional protocol and budgetary request for the twenty portable null rooms and coven consulting fees. Yes. It’s a real thing,” he said, his voice taking on its first emotional content.

  T. Laine sat back, her jaw forward, pugnacious as ever, but her body language looser. It was quite clear that something very unpleasant had happened between the two while I was off the last two days.

  “You read my report,” she said, accusing.

  “I did. It was passed along to me by Soul. In future, I would appreciate being apprised of any reports before they are sent up-line to the assistant director of PsyLED.”

  My eyes went wide. It sounded as if T. Laine had gone over his head with something and FireWind was ticked off.

  “Happy to,” she said. “But just so you know and so you can get your tail feathers out of that twist, that report and letter went to LaFleur and up-line to the assistant director before you were appointed to your current position.” T. Laine leaned in to FireWind, holding his eyes with hers. “I didn’t go behind your back or over your head. Sir.”

  An uncomfortable silence built in the room, and I was aware of Tandy’s and JoJo’s interest. They weren’t even tapping on keyboards. “And next time you want to reprimand me for something you think I’ve done, let’s talk in private first, so I don’t have to bust your balls in the middle of a unit meeting.”

  FireWind blinked. T. Laine didn’t.

  Occam drawled, “I’da brought popcorn if I’da known there was gonna be entertainment.”

  “I just stuck a bag in the microwave,” JoJo said from HQ. “This is fun.”

  FireWind sat back in his chair. T. Laine didn’t. “I think that is a fair way to proceed from this point,” he said.

  “Uh-huh. And I accept your apology,” she said.

  FireWind smiled, one of those rare, wide, truly happy smiles I had seen maybe twice in all the months we had worked from the same office. “I didn’t offer an apology,” he said, amusement heavy in his tone.

  “Should have.”

  FireWind chuckled. “Yes. I suppose I should. Please consider it simply late, and not a lack of social graces. I apologize for the incorrect assumption and for not discussing this in private first.”

  T. Laine remained unmoving, leaning forward for several seconds, before she sat back in her chair. She was wearing an oversized gray shirt and sweatpants and bright pink socks. She still looked tired and pale. “JoJo,” T. Laine said, continuing the meeting. “Update us on the lab work I collected on that green stuff on the bodies, please.”

  The realization hit me. T. Laine had taken charge of the meeting. It should have been FireWind in charge. He had baited her and she had baited him back. The undercurrents in the room were as tangled as any in the Nicholson home back at the church, and surely had more causation than the back-and-forth I had just seen. These two had been in an argument, or something worse, and everyone in the unit knew about it except me.

  JoJo said, “The substance is a complex mixture of proteins, sugars, tissue breakdown products, and enzymes, none of which are normal for living humans or in decomping humans. I sent the values to everyone with the comparable healthy living values. I sent samples to the CDC lab for bacterial and fungal cultures and possible virus identification involved in the tissue breakdown. But for now, all we have are the chemical lab values.”

  I opened the file on my laptop, glad to focus on something other than the undercurrents in the room. There were things like glucose, BUN, sodium—dozens of chemicals. None matched the normal values in live humans. But then the people had been dead so maybe that was to be expected.

  JoJo talked a lot more about chemistry, not a lick of which I understood. When she finished with test results, she said, “As soon as you can transport any bodies safely, the paranormal forensic pathologist at UTMC is ready and waiting. She’s seen the pics with the green-tipped fingers and she wants a look-see inside the bodies, especially as the hospital has live patients to treat. So far the hospital is just treating their symptoms. The hospitalists want answers and a way to devise a more comprehensive treatment plan.”

  “The decomp is so fast, I doubt they’ll get to see bodies from this scene,” T. Laine said. “Probably just more sludge. But we’ll know more tomorrow, after we get them out of the null trailer.”

  JoJo said, “What do we know about Catriona and the FBI guy, Macauley Smythe?”

  T. Laine lifted her head from her laptop and spoke to FireWind. “Sir.”

  FireWind took a swig of his cola and crossed one ankle over the other knee. He said, “Catriona Doyle asked for an attorney and has refused to answer questions. Macauley Smythe plans to charge Doyle with three counts of first-degree murder by magical means, and multiple counts of attempted murder. He intimated to the sheriff that he may ask for a grand jury with the intent of charging the Nashville coven for multiple counts of attempted murder by magical means since she’s a member there.”

  “That’s stupid. It’ll never hold up in court,” T. Laine said.

  “I don’t think he cares,” FireWind said. “As several of you have pointed out, he intends to parlay this short-term renown into a secure job future when his twenty-five are up. The new national FBI director is not returning my calls, though I have spoken with his staff about the imprudence of such charges without sufficient evidence. I do not believe that Catriona Doyle is a death witch. However, with several people in the hospital, and the beginning of a national antiwitch, antiparanormal hysteria, it would be wise to do everything in our power to find the perpetrator and wrap up this case quickly. Jones,” he said to JoJo, “you contacted the paranormal ward at UTMC and offered them the null room at HQ and any assistance we might provide. What was the response?”

  “The person I spoke with said they had the patients stabilized but they’d let us know if they needed to bring anyone to the null room,” JoJo said. “She was not enthused at the prospect, but she said thank you.”

  FireWind said, “You were on scene all day, Occam. Thoughts on the suspect’s methodology?”

  “At this point,” Occam said, “I think someone got into the house and set the trigger into a box of shirts—assuming it was a trigger—with the intent of killing whoever opened the box.”

  “Not Stella Mae specifically?” FireWind asked, leaning forward and holding Occam’s gaze.

  Surprised, I said, “Why would anyone think Stella would open a box of swag?”

  “An assistant or a grip or a low-level flunky would open boxes,” Occam said, agreeing. “Stella was the star, not the paid help.”

  “Hmmm. Indeed.” FireWind sounded surprised. “And the shirts?”

  “Somehow missed or simply not
taken on tour because the buses were full?” Occam suggested. “I talked to the driver of Stella Mae’s personal RV. He said every square inch of space in both vehicles was packed the day they left. He said he saw several boxes still in the swag room.”

  “Everyone I spoke with said the shirts look like real tour tees, not some fake batch put there just to load up a spell or a curse,” I said. “And with the construction, the trigger had to be set in the last two weeks.”

  FireWind propped an elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his chin.

  I swiped through the still shots of the swag room taken by the first LEOs on the scene. “There were open shipping boxes containing promotional material when the deputies got there. Two had been open long enough that there was dust on the contents.” I pointed to a photo indicating dust. “The tape on the box of shirts was freshly cut. Monica Belcher had been putting away things, opened the T-shirt box, grabbed some shirts, and fell.” I pointed at a photograph I had taken and said, “I didn’t notice it until later, but that looks like the handle of a box cutter in Monica’s hand. It’s mostly hidden by her body, but it’s the right shape.” The others leaned as I expanded the image to show a rounded handle.

  “The tape could have been cut at some point previous and reapplied when the witch trigger was set,” T. Laine said, leaning to get a better look at the photo of the box, “assuming it was a witch trigger, assuming this was a murder, a designation we have yet to officially make.” Her face said she was tired of dancing around making this a murder scene, was prepared to call it a witch trigger and start looking for suspects. “But FireWind didn’t call it that at the five p.m. press conference and”—she looked at the big boss—“you kept the sheriff and chief of police from doing so too. That was some impressive dancing you and the press did, by the way.”