by Chloe Neill
“Annabelle’s date range was spot-on,” he said, as I ran an Internet search on the name.
First result: his FBI profile.
“Mickey Riley was a brawler who belonged to Al Capone,” I said, scanning the screen. “He was convicted of grand larceny in 1927 and murdered in prison. His body wasn’t claimed, so he was buried by the county in Almshouse Cemetery.”
There was a picture with the description, a small black-and-white image faded around the edges. Mickey Riley wasn’t an attractive man by any measure I could come up with. His face was square, his chin broad, his brow large and overshadowing small, weaselly eyes. His skin was pockmarked, and the long, thin ridge of a scar bisected the lower part of his jaw. His dark hair was greased back from his forehead, his barrel-chested form tucked into a snug, rumpled suit. In the picture, his hands were crossed in front of him, one wrapped around the brim of a derby hat.
“Is he familiar to you?” I asked.
Ethan leaned in for a closer look, then shook his head. “We were here in the Roaring Twenties. Malik and I and many others. I don’t remember this individual in particular, nor were Capone or the other mobsters interested in us. They didn’t know we existed, as far as I’m aware, and probably wouldn’t have cared if they did, as we weren’t competition for their criminal enterprises.”
I nodded. “The biography doesn’t mention any connection to Cadogan House, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why him?” Ethan asked. “Why unearth his skull and use magic on it?”
I grimaced. “You know better than to ask that. There are any number of disturbing reasons. We just need to narrow it down to the one at play here.” I checked the clock in the corner. “Mallory and Catcher and CPAN will be here within the hour. We can ask them.”
He kissed my neck. “In the meantime, perhaps we can revisit those control issues we addressed last night.”
How was a woman supposed to resist that?
• • •
“Merit found the deceased’s information,” Ethan said when Mallory and Catcher had arrived and we’d escorted them to his office.
“His name’s Mickey Riley,” I explained as we gathered around the conference table and the tablet I’d set up. “Part of Capone’s gang.”
Catcher’s brows lifted as he took in the bio, the picture. “He’s a gangster. Interesting.”
“Interesting face,” Mallory said. “Although that might be overly kind. I don’t like to say this, but he looks kind of . . . evil.”
“Rough around the edges, certainly,” I said. “He was killed in prison in 1929.”
“I polled the House,” Ethan said, “and no one here in the early part of the century knew the name.” That included Lindsey, who’d known some less-than-reputable times during her stint as a New York flapper and moll.
“What’s the latest on your end?” Ethan asked.
“Mr. Riley’s corpse—well, ninety percent of it—is at the medical examiner’s office,” Catcher said. “He’ll stay there in a climate-controlled environment until the investigation’s complete, at which point he’ll be reinterred, hopefully with all of his parts. As to the perp, there aren’t any security cams in the area and a canvass didn’t turn up any witnesses to the incident, the perp, or the car. But the crime scene team will run prints, swab for DNA. We might find some evidence yet.”
He crossed his arms, dipped his chin. I’d come to recognize that as Catcher’s “getting down to business” look. “Your ghost,” he said.
“Annabelle reviewed the video,” I said. “She thinks it’s a ghost but can’t verify conclusively without actually feeling the magic.”
Catcher nodded. “She’s careful. I like it.”
“She also confirmed last night it was possible he followed us home.”
“So you have the summoned spirit of a gangster in the basement of your building.”
“That seems to be the whole of it,” Ethan said. “I’ve lived for many years, and I’ve had an encounter or two with the recently deceased. But this is a first even for me.”
Catcher checked his watch. “What time will CPAN be here?”
Ethan bit back a grin. “Anytime now. Are you familiar with their work?”
“I’m not,” Catcher said, sliding his gaze to his wife. “But Mallory did a bit of paranormal investigating during her occult phase.”
Mallory had explored many hobbies before her magic had bubbled to the surface, including an obsession with the supernatural. “I went on one ghost tour,” she said defensively. “They weren’t the ones that led it, and it was my only involvement with ghost-hunting types.” She smiled. “Back then, I preferred my vampires sparkly and my monsters fictional.”
I gave Catcher a speculative glance. “Has that changed?”
His look was dour.
Mallory bumped his shoulder. “I’m surprised in this day and age you don’t have the equipment—the ghost vacuums and poltergeist scrubbers and whatever else.”
“Poltergeist scrubbers?” Catcher asked.
Mallory shrugged. “I figure the Ombudsman gets all sorts of supernatural-sundries catalogues. You know—your supernatural-wrangling devices, your detective capes and monocles, that kind of thing.”
Catcher rolled his eyes at his wife, but a smile curved his lips, just as she’d planned. Spousal management was an undeniably valuable skill.
“I doubt they’ll bring ghost vacuums or poltergeist scrubbers,” Ethan said, “even if they do exist. They will bring expertise and information. And that’s what we need right now.”
• • •
The members of the Chicago Paranormal Action Network came to Cadogan House with backpacks, tripods, and other equipment on neck and shoulder straps. Roz, Matt, and Robin wore yellow CPAN T-shirts and looked more than a little excited to be walking into a House of vampires.
“Welcome to Cadogan House,” Luc said as they stepped into the foyer. “You’ve got a lot of equipment.”
“Paranormal investigation has advanced a lot in the last few years,” Roz said. “Particularly since vampires admitted their existence. That’s allowed the research to move along more quickly.”
That vampires had “admitted” their existence was probably up for debate. The former Master of Navarre House had basically dragged all of us out of the closet.
“All right,” Robin said, pulling a black padfolio from his gray backpack, also CPAN monogrammed, and flipped a page on the notepad. “You’ve requested our Advanced Assessment package. We’ll be evaluating the scope of your disturbance and recommending a course of action for handling and removal.”
Ethan listened to the recitation without comment.
“And should we discuss payment?” Robin asked, lifting his gaze.
Ethan didn’t look impressed by the question. “We’ve agreed to your estimate. You’ll receive payment when the service is performed.”
“We take this seriously,” Roz said. “We do the work; we earn the money. We don’t like getting jacked around.”
Ethan’s spike of anger put magic in the air. “As you’ve been warned, one of our vampires was injured last night. We also don’t like getting ‘jacked around,’ and we prefer guests to act with some measure of decorum. Do we understand each other?”
Roz nodded stiffly.
“We’re just a little on edge after last night,” Robin said, putting the padfolio into his backpack. “Getting close to something and missing it. We’re not trying to be disrespectful, and we understand each other.”
Ethan’s expression didn’t change.
“This way,” Luc said.
I was last in line and watched them carefully as we walked downstairs, as if their behavior would prove whether or not they were legitimate. Roz looked around, taking in the décor. Matt watched his equipment, and Robin rambled nervously about the weather.
When we reached the door to Tunnel Three, Luc unlocked it, pushed it open.
The air that emerged was moist and cool, but I didn’t sense magic. That was a good start, at least for us. CPAN might disagree.
“Oh, wow,” Robin said, practically skipping into the chamber. “Absolutely spectacular.”
Roz followed, her gaze on the ceiling, on the walls, her dark fingers trailing across the brick as if to test its texture. Matt kept his eyes trained on his sensors.
“I think ‘spectacular’ is pretty close,” Mallory said, eyes wide. “This is pretty damn amazing.”
Robin looked back at us, pointed into the depths of the tunnel. “How far does it go?”
“Quarter mile,” Luc said without further comment.
Robin nodded gravely. He picked a spot a few yards from the door, near the tunnel’s narrowing on the opposite side of the room, put down his bag, and began pulling out equipment.
“Is that a Model 442 you’ve got there?” Luc asked, sidling up to Matt.
“426,” Matt said, giving him a cautious glance. “You know the systems?”
“I dabble,” Luc said. “I don’t own any equipment, but as head of security, I like to keep my options open.”
So he’s a wannabe Ghostbuster, I told Ethan as we watched from the threshold.
It began after he saw the original movie, Ethan said. He was convinced it was based on real-life events in New York.
The captain of your guards is a weirdo.
Ethan pulled my ponytail. On occasion, so is my Sentinel.
I couldn’t really argue with that.
“I’m getting some solid EMF readings,” Matt said.
“Ethan, come look at this,” Luc said, gesturing him forward. “Solid EMF readings.”
“Go ahead,” I told Ethan with a smile. With a resigned sigh, he turned toward Luc and the humans.
“You seeing this, Matt?” Robin asked, waving a wand around the room. “Temperature fluctuations, too.”
I was ready to immediately call the entire thing a sham, since the temperature was precisely the same as it had been when we’d walked in a minute ago. But then I felt it—the sudden chill. Not just a drop in temperature, but a change in the viscosity of the air. Like the space around us had become heavier, the air liquid and weighted with latent magic.
And, by this time, disturbingly familiar magic.
I saw the instant Mallory felt it, too. She went rigid, lips parting with surprise, eyes widening with shock. “Shit” was all she managed to get out . . . because we were not alone.
It moved with the roar and power of a freight train, the same haze we’d seen on camera the night before but only blurred and alternating lines of silver and dark visible because of its astounding speed.
It slammed against Luc, pushing him forward like a linebacker on the blitz. Luc hit the opposite wall, his head making a horrible thud against the brick that seemed to shake the House’s foundations.
Dust rose into the air, and Luc dropped to the floor, his body terrifyingly still.
I wanted to run to him but made myself stand firm. My obligations weren’t just to Luc, but to Ethan and the House. That meant the creature who’d put him on the ground had to be my priority. Unfortunately, since we hadn’t been planning to defend an attack, I didn’t have my steel—my trusted katana or the dagger I kept stowed in my boot for emergencies. Assuming they’d even be effective against a ghost, which I wasn’t sure about.
I kept my eyes on the ghost but caught movement in my peripheral vision: Ethan, running to check on Luc, and Matt, pulling out a camera.
The blur moved back, shook with latent energy. And like pixels resolving into an image, a man’s face began to appear.
I’d seen a ghost in person once before—the night we’d first met Annabelle. That ghost had been an apparition of gauzy lines and filmy shades of black, white, and gray, like the shadows of an X-ray given three-dimensional form.
This one rose, his image wobbling with static like a channel poorly tuned, and moved toward me. He opened his mouth to scream, and the sound that emerged was enormously loud, as stuttering and scratchy as a bad recording, and as heavy as the magic around him.
I don’t recognize him was my first conscious thought. This wasn’t Mickey Riley, the gangster whose grave had been disturbed, whose skull had been stolen, whose mug shot we’d reviewed earlier that night. Riley was a bruiser, with a face to match.
This apparition was tall and slender, with pale skin, a narrow face, and a thin nose topped by small, round spectacles. His hair was dark and pushed back from his face, his goatee neatly trimmed. He wore dark pants with a matching vest and a long overcoat, and looked like a man from a completely different century.
In my time as a vampire, I’d seen eyes both hard and cold. I’d seen hate and spitefulness, distrust and ignorance. But I’d never seen the cold and steely emptiness I saw in the eyes of the man who hovered in front of me. This man cared for nothing but himself.
I glanced at the humans.
Matt still watched his viewscreen. Roz had pulled out a small black device, which she pointed at it. Robin stared at the ghost with wide and hungry eyes, a scientist facing down the object of his obsession.
“Get closer,” Robin told Roz without shifting his gaze. “Use the communication facilitator. See if it will talk to us.”
Communication wasn’t going to be a problem, I figured, since Robin’s words drew the ghost’s attention, his head snapping in their direction.
“Do not get closer,” I said, and put up a hand. “Back away toward the door.”
“Not doing that,” Robin said, chin firm. “You didn’t hire us so we’d run, and we can’t evaluate from out there. We still have to determine the spectral range, perform a temporality analysis—all of it.”
We also didn’t hire them to die in our basement, and Luc was already down. If this thing could take down an immortal with a single blow, the humans wouldn’t have much hope.
“Mallory!” I said, grabbing her arm. “Get them out of here.”
Her eyes were wide and shocked, but she nodded, grabbed their hands, and tugged them across the room.
Take care of Luc, I told Ethan. I’ve got the ghost.
I knew Ethan would object—it was instinctive, protective—so I didn’t give him time to respond. Since I wasn’t entirely sure how to lure a ghost, I went for the horror movie classic.
“Hey!” I said, and waved my arms around, moving to the center of the room to get his attention away from Luc, still slumped on the floor.
While Mallory and Ethan dealt with the others, Catcher moved closer to me. This fight would be hand-to-hand, maybe with a little bit of magic.
“Let me try first,” I quietly said, keeping my gaze on the apparition. “This is a small space for fireballs, and we won’t want to damage the tunnel.” Or the House above it.
Besides, if the apparition was tangible enough to take Luc down, maybe he was tangible enough for me to fight.
The ghost turned toward me, screamed again.
“Do us both a favor,” I said, imbuing the words with as much strength as I could muster. “Go back to your world and leave ours alone.”
That deep pit of rage in his eyes just seemed to get deeper, and he began to move toward me. Not walking per se, as his arms and legs didn’t actually move. But he nevertheless got closer, like I was zooming in on a picture of him.
“All right,” I said, and blew out a breath, rolled my shoulders, wished for a tune I could dance to. “I guess we’re doing this.”
I didn’t wait for him to strike first. Like a sprinter at the starting line, I ducked my head, put one foot behind the other, and pushed off.
I ran toward him, arms pumping, before landing on my left foot and spinning into a side kick. The strike landed, if that was the
word for it. I hit something, although I wouldn’t have called it exactly “solid.” Somewhere between liquid and solid, weirdly cold, and buzzing with magic. Magical condensate, if that was a thing.
His image shimmered, and he yelled his frustration. I couldn’t make out the words, but the epithets that formed on his lips were easy enough to figure.
“It’s rude to insult someone in their own House,” I said, and moved in for a punch. He blocked my arm with his, putting enough momentum into it to send me flying.
I soared backward, hit a wine rack with bone-shaking force. Bottles fell around me as I bounced onto the concrete. I pushed back tears triggered automatically by the sharp pain in my ribs and the slivers of glass that peppered my skin.
I started to climb to my feet, then yelped as sparks suddenly fired inches from my face.
I looked up fast. The ghost, arms outstretched, had nearly reached me, but a fireball from Catcher had sent him skittering across the room. The fireball hit the brick wall before bouncing and shattering into sparks. Those sparks in turn hit the spilled wine, sending small blue flames into the air.
“Wine!” I said, stomping out sparks to extinguish them. “Flammable!”
“Ghost!” Catcher countered, hurrying to join me so we could face the ghost side by side. “Preparing to strangle you.”
“High creep factor.”
“Inarguable.”
The ghost came back fast, ignoring Catcher and aiming directly for me. I waited for the right moment, trying to time the attack perfectly. When he reached out, I dodged to the side, used a back kick to push him hard against the brick wall. But he was faster than I’d anticipated.
He grabbed my leg—fingers like icicles, the chill so strong they burned like fire—and pulled. Cold snaked up my leg, leaving numbness behind. He yanked me off balance, putting both of us on the floor in a tumble, and still didn’t let go. Now he was too close for Catcher to get a shot.
I ignored the tingling pain and kicked out with my free foot, nailing him in the knee and sending a shock of cold up my other leg. He roared another round of cursing, and this time I caught snippets of his insults, which were as old-fashioned as his clothes. This was a man from another era, and time had done nothing to abate his fury.
