Spells for the Dead

by Faith Hunter

  “Can you tell from which direction?” Occam asked.

  My fingers clutched on the vampire tree’s clay pot. I really, really did not want to touch the ground again. But it was my job. “I need to read twenty feet left and then twenty feet to the right of this spot.”

  “Okay.” He took my elbow. Softly he asked, “Any roots?”

  “No.” I swallowed the disgusting, sour, pizza-based nausea back down. “Just death. Gimme roots in my belly any day.” Which told him how bad the energies were.

  “I want you to stop if you feel leafy or if you get any sensations you might have felt today before you went into the null room.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t sure that I’d know if I got the working on me. He’d just worry. And I would be back at HQ and the null room there by midday tomorrow, so I was good. I hoped.

  I felt nothing to the right. But there was a strong sensation to the left. Carrying the blanket and the pot, I rechecked two other spots and decided that the death and decay had entered on a direct line from the barn. We ducked between the white railings of the four-board fence and approached the white-painted barn. Thirty or so feet out, a spotlight blinked on, blinding us.

  The metallic sound of a lever-action shotgun working cut through the night.

  Occam shoved me to the side, out of the spotlight. Drew his weapon.

  SIX

  A man’s voice called out. “You cops or reporters dressed to look like ’em?”

  “They’re the real deal,” Deputy Stanhope called.

  We heard the sound of the shotgun being unloaded. “Give a man a heart attack, why don’t you.” The light went off and I felt Occam at my side again as he holstered his weapon.

  “Cat reflexes?” I asked quietly. “And shoving the little woman out of the line of fire?”

  “Your hands were full, your weapon in the car. I had to protect both of us.”

  “I wasn’t complaining. I might have a bruise, but I’m not complaining.”

  Occam called, “Mind us looking around?”

  “Maybe ask a few questions,” the voice in the dark said. “I know the drill. Some reason you folks can’t do this tomorrow? It’s after midnight.”

  “We could,” Occam agreed, moving slightly toward the voice in the darkness. “But you’re awake enough to aim a weapon at us. Now seems convenient.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to fire. Obviously I’m not sleeping tonight, since I’m here instead of home, so you may as well ask your questions.” The voice was Tennessee, but there was something in the inflection that suggested other influences.

  I stepped off the grass to the paddock. Without laying the blanket or sitting down, I bent and touched the earth to feel the fine dust of a well-used paddock. No death and decay. “That was easy,” I said.

  “What was?”

  “Now that I know exactly what I’m looking for, I can do a surface scan without sitting. Interesting.” If I could do this with other surface reads, and save the deep reads for truly difficult scans, that might also keep me from becoming a tree again so fast, and it surely would keep the land from sending roots into my flesh. I pressed my middle with the back of a hand and didn’t feel an increase in the hard, rooty stuff in my belly. This could be useful.

  Occam said, “Good to know. Let’s go talk with the shotgun holder.”

  We entered from a side door directly into a small L-shaped office. I couldn’t see into the barn, but I smelled horse, warm and earthy, hay, the sweetness of apples and feed, manure. Hooves thumped in one of the stalls in the dark.

  According to Credence Pacillo’s social media presence, he was half Italian, half Tennessean, his photos showing a dark-haired, blue-eyed man with a narrow beard and a well-sculpted mustache. I hadn’t seen him today, and so far as I could tell, no one had interviewed him yet, which was interesting for someone with such an important job on the farm. Pacillo was fully dressed in unwrinkled clothes and shoes that were clean of the paddock dust covering our field boots. Odd.

  After introductions, Occam pulled out two chairs and we sat across a small table from Pacillo. He looked at the potted plant and the blanket, as if asking why they were with me. I didn’t volunteer an answer and he shook his head slightly as if at the vagaries of womenfolk or cops. Or both.

  “I’m Melody Horse Farm’s breeder and trainer. Or I was. None of us are sure what will happen to the stock or the farm now that Stella’s gone. Coffee? Tea? Beer?” He flipped a hand at the cabinets to his left. A single-cup coffee/tea maker and a microwave were on the counter, and a small fridge was below. The shotgun was nowhere in sight.

  The office had a high ceiling, the rafters casting shadows, a minuscule coffee/eating area where we sat, a sagging plaid sofa against one wall, a dusty desk with a clean center, as if missing a computer or laptop, and a dilapidated desk chair, as well as a wide-screen TV hanging on the wall at a slight angle. The L of the office was created by the position of the small bathroom I had used several times today. It opened from both outside and here, but I hadn’t looked into the barn until now. Occam had spent a lot of time out here today, and I was surprised he hadn’t yet interviewed Pacillo, but it was clear the men hadn’t met.

  “We’re good,” Occam said. “And thank you for talking to us so late.”

  “At least you’re more polite than that FBI agent. He was an ass.”

  “Mmmm,” Occam said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “What can you tell us about today?”

  “It sucked.” Pacillo’s face crumpled. I realized now that he had been crying, his blue eyes red rimmed. He rubbed his face with one hand, the other on the table, open and somehow helpless looking. “My friend and employer is dead, her sisters have been sniffing around the horses like they plan to sell them for dog food, and all Tondra can do is cry. And I had to suck it up all day long, dealing with the delivery of a slightly out-of-season foal on a finicky mare with a first-time pregnancy.”

  “How are they?” Occam asked, sounding interested.

  “They ended up being transported to the vet hospital for an overnight stay, but things seemed fine when I left them.”

  “Walk us through the day?” Occam asked.

  And tell us what you can about the sisters. I didn’t say it. But anyone wanting to sell one of the amazing horses for dog food—if they even did that these days, and his comment wasn’t just hyperbole—was on my personal hit list.

  Pacillo walked us through his day from the moment he woke to now. He’d watered and checked on each horse for signs of lameness, injury, or illness, as he did every morning before sunrise. He’d given the ailing two their meds in a special mash and wrapped one’s leg with liniment. He had released the horses into the proper pastures, separating geldings from mares with foals. Then he had joined Stella Mae on the back deck for seven a.m. coffee. She had been tired and happy and glad to be home.

  “Seven a.m. seems early for a musician who’s been on the road,” Occam said.

  Pacillo’s face softened. “Stella was a country girl at heart. Music was her livelihood and she loved it, but horses were her passion. After being on the road for weeks, all she wanted was to be with the horses, and they start early. And Stella had a gift for resetting her internal clock overnight.”

  “What did you talk about?” Occam asked.

  “We made plans to work Adrian’s Hell together that afternoon. He needs a lot of time on the trails. He’s too energetic, he hates being kept in pasture, and it takes a good fifteen miles three times a week, all on new trails, to keep him interested. And he’s too much for the younger riders to handle. He shies at shadows until you wear him out. We planned to take him and a mare out for fifteen and then work him in paddock.”

  “Adrian’s Hell?” Occam asked.

  “A nine-year-old Anglo-Arab stud, French registry.” Seeing our blank looks he added, “A Thoroug
hbred Arabian cross. Stella breeds, trains, and races endurance horses—” He stopped, rubbed his face again, pressing into his temples as if he had a headache, hiding his red eyes. “Bred, trained, and raced. Because Stella’s gone.” He inhaled on a sob and breathed, obviously searching for control. When he dropped his hands, his face was wet and red, but he was in control. “Previously Stella and I imported semen from a stud farm in France. But she was in Bahrain for a show some years back, and from the moment she saw Adrian’s Hell, she had to have him, even half-wild and untrained. She and Monica, her assistant, turned over heaven and hell to get him to the States and paid too much for a young stallion with no titles or wins.

  “We had to put up a breeding shed and reinforce a stall just for a stallion, because most of them are good for nothing but eatin’, breedin’, destroyin’ stalls, and shittin’.” He looked up. “Excuse my language, ma’am.” He nodded at me. “But Stella was right. Adrian’s Hell settled right down and within six months became the best-behaved stallion I’ve ever seen. His disposition—when he gets enough exercise—is superb. Endurance horses want to move, want to run. It’s their default state.” He smiled as if the last words were part of happier memories. “Stella’s term.”

  “Are the horses insured?” Occam asked.

  “Of course. Seven-figure horses are often owned by multiple partners and have to be insured. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Adrian’s Hell.”

  We followed Pacillo to the closest stall, the biggest box stall I had ever seen, made from black-painted timbers with black iron bars from the top of the stall walls to the ceiling. Standing placidly inside, watching us, was the big bay stallion I had seen when I first drove up, the horse FireWind had danced with, without ever moving a muscle. The white blaze was a brilliant lightning streak starting from his black forelock, zigzagging down his face, dropping to his black nose. Adrian’s Hell’s ears pricked up and he accepted a carrot from Pacillo, cracking it in his big teeth. “Stella’s pride and joy,” Pacillo said. “He’s not yet ten, but he came in second in the Tevis Cup in California, first in the Old Dominion Ride in Virginia, and he’s entered in next year’s European Endurance Championship.

  “Good boy. That’s my good boy,” Pacillo murmured. “You want to go run?” The horse’s ears perked again and the trainer entered the stall, leading the horse out into the central area. The stallion danced sideways, his feet lifting as if he pranced over unseen obstacles. He was solid muscle, his red coat gleaming in the dim lights. We followed farther back and watched as the breeder led the horse outside, opened a gate, and released him into a pasture. Adrian’s Hell bucked, kicked, and raced into the dark, making happy horse sounds, probably calling to his mares, hooves pounding.

  Pacillo indicated the barn and led the way back to the office. “Stella had a good eye. Last year, his sire, Adrian’s Storm, made a huge stir in France and then in Abu Dhabi in a private race put on by the sheikh. The sheikh purchased Adrian’s Storm for stud for an undisclosed sum and all Storm’s issue went way up in value. By that time, we were already breeding Adrian’s Hell. We are way ahead of any other endurance breeder, and even now have some interest for yearlings to train for European events.” Back in the office we retook our same seats.

  It sounded like an extremely expensive business if a sheikh was involved. As if he read my thoughts, Occam said, “You said something about partners. Who owns Adrian’s Hell?”

  “Stella has business agreements with a lot of people. You’ll have to talk to her lawyer and her business manager for particulars on the silent partners.” That sounded like an evasion, but he went on. “We have six yearlings and five foals by Adrian’s Hell, out of Anglo-Arab mares, and if they’re half as good as we think, he’ll remake Stella’s bloodlines—” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, took and released several breaths, composing himself. Tears glimmered in his lashes. “Sorry.” He gave a slight, pained smile, blinking away the tears. “I get carried away talking about Adrian’s Hell. He’s an amazing stallion, and that’s saying a lot from a man who once swore by Rocky Mountain horses and Missouri Fox Trotters for endurance.” He swallowed as if his throat ached and whispered, “And now Stella’s gone.”

  Occam gave Pacillo a moment before he asked, “Back to morning coffee?”

  Pacillo shook his head as if trying to shake away his pain. “Stella seemed fine, tired of course, but happy, which always makes for good horses and good music. The take on the tour was phenomenal, the crew had gotten along well, and . . .” Pacillo seemed to run out of steam and words. He slumped back in his chair, eyes tightly shut again, as if cutting off more tears. He scratched his beard, dragging down his face, creating a grotesque expression of grief.

  “I been meaning to ask,” Occam said softly. “How many employees are there?”

  He had already asked, because I had seen the list in the file, but asking multiple people sometimes resulted in different answers.

  Pacillo pulled himself forward with one hand on the table and breathed some more. He opened his eyes. “Right. Interrogation. The band members are stable, but the backups and roadies change out often. None are technically employees. We have a full-time farm manager, Pam Gower, who is at Myrtle Beach on vacation. She handles rotating the pastures, growing hay and some grain. She checked in and talked to someone. FBI? I think.”

  “Good,” Occam said, but I could tell by his tone he wasn’t happy that Smythe had gotten to her first.

  “The horses are overseen by me. I’m full-time. We currently have five part-time farmhands and always have a minimum of eight part-time riders.” Pacillo paused, staring at his hand on the table. “The house was handled by Verna Upton, the housekeeper, and Stella had her assistant, Monica Belcher, both full-time.

  “But we were more than employees. We were family. You never saw such dedicated and loyal people as the ones Stella gathered around her. Turnover is nonexistent among the band members and all full-time staff.”

  Occam opened a small spiral pad and clicked a pen. “I’d like the names and addresses of all the part-timers and full-timers.”

  I said quickly, “Are there other horses in the stalls right now?” I hadn’t heard any feet stomping or the restless sounds of animals.

  “I turned all of them out for the night. Temperature is good, grass is as good as it will get for the season,” Pacillo said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have a piece of equipment that reads magical energies,” I said, patting my empty pocket as if I currently carried a psy-meter. “I’d like to read the stalls and the central area. And then behind the barn.”

  “Go for it. Read anything you want. Arrest the woman who did this. That’s all I want.”

  I wanted to tell him not all witches were women. “I’ll be doing my readings,” I said instead, frowning.

  “Ingram? Alone?” Occam asked. Because I could get in trouble with that, get all rooty again, and grow closer to becoming a tree. Not in my life plans.

  I held up a single finger. “I’ll be careful.” The gesture indicated that I’d use only one finger.

  Occam frowned. “I’ll check on you in a bit. Like, ten minutes.”

  I gave him a professional smile—not the loving smile I wanted to give—and slipped from the room, carrying my potted plant and the faded blanket. Pacillo’s eyes followed my exit with the plant. I’m an eccentric, I thought. In the South that was not just allowed, it was expected and accepted, a lovely thing to be. I stopped only a few feet from the office and tested the soil in the central area of the barn. Nothing. I glanced back and caught Occam watching. “It’s all good!” I called out.

  He gave me a jaw jut, the kind guys give each other to say they are macho and fine, and turned back to Pacillo.

  All of the stalls read fine. The long central area read fine. The grooming/shower stall for horses read fine. The tack room and feed room read fine. The bathroom we had used all day read fine. The
entire barn read fine, which I did not expect.

  It was much faster work than any group of readings I had ever done. Midway, I realized that I had been carrying the potted vampire tree at each reading—the tiny tree a part of the self-proclaimed Green Knight.

  I could communicate with Soulwood over distances. The tree had learned how to do that too, probably from observing me. The idea of being watched by the tree was a mite chilling.

  I stuck my fingers into the tree’s soil and whispered, “Are you’un watching over me? Making this easier on me? Or are you’un jist spyin’? ’Cause if’n you’un’s doing either, I’ll have to rethink about when I’ll carry you around and when I’m leaving you in the car.”

  The potted plant didn’t answer. Talking trees would be a nuisance and definitely creepy.

  I called to Occam, visible through the open door, that everything was negative and that I was heading out back. He stiffened, suggesting that he didn’t like me going out on my own, but after a moment he nodded, rigid, but accepting.

  I walked behind the barn, away from the house, and let my eyes adjust to the total dark again. Without the security lights it was dark as the devil’s armpit. There were gates in three directions, to three different pastures. Bending under one railing, I stepped into the pasture beyond, one facing the opposite direction from the one Adrian’s Hell had been let free in. A night breeze, damp with a coming rain, ruffled my hair. My curls tightened and I felt a leaf unfurl. Reaching up, I found where it tickled and pinched it off. I didn’t really want to drop my leaves on foreign soil, so I tucked it into my jeans pocket. I walked a short distance and turned my cell’s flashlight on, studying the grass. It looked healthy and rich, and I sensed no death and decay back here or anywhere on the property. But my job meant verifying what I already knew.

  Holding the potted tree upright, the blanket over one arm, I put away the cell, bent down, and pushed through the grass to touch the earth with one fingertip.

  Death and decay grabbed my finger and slammed needles into my flesh. I jerked away, spun toward the fence. Stumbled. Whispering, “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .” over and over. My finger burned as if I’d stuck it into hot coals. The pain was so intense I wasn’t thinking, trying to see my hand in the dark, running night-blind. The stabbing crawled up my finger.