The Rising: A Badlands Novel

by Morgan Brice

  Simon’s cut cock stood proud and leaking against his pale skin. Vic’s dusky member left a sticky trail of pre-come when he pulled it free from his briefs. He wrapped his hand around both of them, and they both began to thrust against the friction.

  “So good,” Simon murmured, letting his fingers brush across Vic’s short hair as their lips met, as his other hand joined Vic’s around their stiff cocks. Vic pulled Simon closer with a grip on his ass that might leave fingerprints, even through the material. Vic returned the fervor in Simon’s kiss, and Simon understood that Vic said with his body the things words often failed to convey.

  Later, there’d be all the time in the world to edge each other to madness and take their time with satisfaction. This was “I was scared for you” and “I love you” and so much more, as their bodies found a rhythm that drove them both higher. Simon gave a choked groan and spilled his release over their hands. Vic followed seconds later, adding his spend.

  They collapsed against each other, held up by the counter, wrapped in each other’s arms. Simon ducked his head to rest his forehead on Vic’s shoulder, and Vic buried his face in Simon’s hair, breathing in the smell of sweat, shampoo, and sex. Simon tightened his grip, too overcome to bear meeting Vic’s gaze for a moment. I love you…don’t ever leave me…please always be here.

  Before Vic, sex with other partners had always just been about getting off, making the other person feel good, having a good time. There hadn’t been intimacy, the way even a hand job with Vic stripped away Simon’s walls and left him vulnerable. He’d longed for that to happen with previous partners, but he craved it with Vic. He hungered for those moments when it felt like they were joined body and soul. Vic’s harsh panting told Simon that maybe he wasn’t the only one who felt shaken.

  “I’ve been thinking about doing that ever since you left the apartment building,” Vic confessed, resting his cheek against Simon’s hair. “I’ve always heard about ‘fighting and fucking,’ like they go together. I guess they do.”

  “When I got there, and I saw the fire and the body, I was so afraid,” Simon confessed, safe in the circle of Vic’s arms, tucked against his chest. “I should have trusted my Gift to know you were all right, but for a moment—”

  “Yeah. Ross and I weren’t even close—across the street. But when it went up in a fireball, and the pieces came raining down, all I could think about was making it home to you,” Vic said, his voice no more than a whisper.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Simon replied. Vic stepped back, and they moved apart to tuck themselves back in and clean up. By the time Vic finished in the bathroom, Simon had dinner on the table, along with glasses of Australian Shiraz.

  “So far, tracing the bomber is a dead end,” Vic admitted after Simon had told him about the call with Travis and his newest vision. “But my gut says it’s connected to the mess here, not Bradley’s past.”

  “So now what?” Simon savored the roast and washed it down with a mouthful of wine.

  “Now, we go back to pounding the pavement, old school,” Vic replied. “Somebody somewhere has to know something, and we’re going to find out what they’re hiding. Today, this shit got real personal.”

  10

  VIC

  “I’ve read so much about these guys, I feel like I know them.” Ross tossed a folder onto the table and leaned back in his chair. He drained the now-cold coffee in his cup and grimaced.

  “Yeah. Same here,” Vic agreed and glanced up at the whiteboard scribbled full of notes.

  “All the forced suicides are from the area, from families that have been around here for a long time,” he recapped. “We know there was brine residue on the clothing of all of the latest victims, but no one was looking for that on the first bodies.”

  “The families weren’t all wealthy, but they often had members who were prominent in some way—mayors, judges, military officers,” Ross added. Vic and Ross often found that reviewing aloud made familiar material new again, helping them gain insight.

  “And the Socastee Manor folks—the Dunwoods—were a real piece of work,” Vic said with a sigh. “Crooked as all get out, but no one ever made it stick. Smuggling, blockade running, rum-running. They were wealthy enough that people had to put up with them, but no one seemed to actually like the family. Can’t blame folks—the Dunwoods were big into duels and lawsuits.”

  “Don’t forget the charges of art and relic misappropriation in later years,” Ross reminded him. “Sounds like when you come from a family of high-class thieves, some habits die hard.”

  “It’s like something out of one of Simon’s ghost stories, but I don’t know how all that connects to Jacob Platz’s murder or the dead diver, unless they stumbled onto contraband that someone else didn’t want found.”

  “Nice theory, but we don’t have said contraband to prove it,” Ross pointed out. “And if it was just a matter of running across a hidden stash, then why the gardener and the diver? The two men wouldn’t have had reason to be in the same places. I really doubt Platz was diving the wreck in his spare time.”

  “Speaking of which,” Vic said, “Josh Williams has had a few run-ins with salvage law.” He handed a printout to Ross. “Just came through this morning. But from what I see, the disputes all got settled in his favor. So he’s probably legit.”

  “Or he has a patron with enough pull to get charges dismissed,” Ross added cynically.

  “That, too.”

  “Hargrove said he heard from Jonah Camden, the developer behind the Socastee Manor renovation. Apparently the guy is hyper to have us close the investigation ‘before it hurts resale value.’” Ross’s voice took on a mocking note on the last few words. “I imagine to a guy like him, that’s what matters. After all, it was ‘only’ the gardener who got killed—no one important.” He’d gotten downright bitter on that last observation.

  Before Vic could respond, his phone buzzed with Simon’s ringtone. He took the call, surprised because Simon usually only texted during work hours unless it was important.

  “They’re all connected to the Gallows Nine,” Simon said, sounding a little breathless.

  Vic frowned, completely lost. “Who? What?”

  Simon paused, and Vic could imagine him taking a deep breath to quell his excitement. “The hanging suicides. All the families of the dead men were somehow involved in condemning the Gallows Nine pirates from the Annabelle to hang, back in the day.”

  “You think the suicide hangings have something to do with an execution over two hundred years ago?”

  Ross’s head came up, as he followed Vic’s side of the conversation. “Hold up—I’m putting you on speaker, so I don’t have to repeat it all to Ross.”

  “I got a list of the people who played a prominent role in the Gallows Nine execution,” Simon went on. “From the Horry Area Museum. And I’ve spent all afternoon matching names and looking up genealogies. Some of the families involved died out, and others moved out of the area. But of the families that are still here—yeah. The dead men were related.”

  Vic and Ross exchanged a glance. “Do you know which families that are still here haven’t had a death yet?” Vic asked.

  “Emailing you the list,” Simon said.

  “How the fucking hell do we warn people not to let themselves get possessed by a pirate ghost that wants to make them hang themselves?” Ross wondered aloud.

  “Er…I hadn’t figured that out, either,” Simon admitted. “But if we can stop the ghost, we can stop the killings, and then we don’t have to explain it to anyone else.”

  Vic sighed. “That part’s up to you. Good lead on the families—I’m just not sure what to do. We can’t exactly put them in protective custody against ghosts.”

  “Working on it,” Simon promised. He hesitated as if he might have something more to add, then said, “I’ll let you know if I find out anything else,” and ended the call.

  Vic stared at his phone. “He knows something he’s not telling.”

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nbsp; Ross gave him a warning look. “Do not apply cop intuition to your significant other. That way lies madness…and sleeping on the couch.”

  “But—”

  “He’ll tell you when he’s got it worked out,” Ross said. “You’ve got to trust him.”

  Vic slumped in his chair. “I do trust him. But if both cases really center on something ghostly, then it all rests on Simon, and I don’t know how to help.”

  “Take a look at the email he sent you,” Ross advised. “We’ll come up with the names of possible next victims.”

  “Because that won’t look suspicious as fuck.”

  “I didn’t say we had to show it to anyone. But we work the angles we’ve got, and see where it goes.”

  Vic was silent for a moment. “What year was the Gallows Nine incident?”

  Ross ran a search, then looked up. “Would it be a big surprise that in two days, it’ll be the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary?”

  Vic thumped his fist on the table. “Fuck. So what if the suicides date from when the hurricane unearthed the Annabelle? Betcha they do. It’s probably building toward a big ugly climax. And there’s a storm coming in.”

  “Situation normal—all fucked up,” Ross agreed.

  Vic’s phone rang again, another familiar ring tone. “Mom?” Vic answered, exchanging a confused look with Ross.

  “We’ve been hearing about the big storm,” Bernadette D’Amato said. “I’ve been worried.”

  Vic managed a smile. “Nothing yet except rain,” he replied. “Not supposed to get bad for a couple more days. And you know how the forecasts are near the ocean—everything could change in an hour. I’m not going to worry about it until we know for sure.”

  “Mrs. Johnson and her husband canceled their trip because of the storm, and the Schmidts are going inland to Savannah.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Vic told her. “But I’ll be on duty here if it does get bad, and Simon helps out at the shelter. We’ll be okay.”

  “I worry,” she replied, and he rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t help appreciating her concern. “I also wanted to tell you that Uncle Stu is back in the hospital for his gallbladder, Aunt Maggie is doing rehab for her hip, and Mrs. Caudle from across the street said to tell you ‘thanks’ for the recommendation you wrote for her son. He got into the police academy.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Oh. And one more thing. The Internal Affairs investigation did not go well for Nate. The decision just came down last week. He’s been fired, and he’s out on bail pending trial. Your father thinks Nate’ll do time.”

  “Shit.” Vic ran a hand back through his short hair. Nate might have been a crappy boyfriend, but there had been a time when Vic trusted him to be a good cop. When he and Simon had gone to visit Vic’s family over Christmas, he’d seen another side of his old partner. Nate had attacked Simon, and they’d uncovered hard evidence that he had thrown investigations to satisfy powerful friends. Nate deserved to go to jail, but Vic couldn’t help feeling a pang of misplaced guilt for playing a role in sending him there.

  “I didn’t want to tell you, but your father said you should know.” Vic’s dad—and his brothers and uncles—were cops.

  “No, that’s okay. I needed to know. It’s just—”

  “I understand.”

  Vic rubbed his eyes. “Okay. I’ve got to go. I’m working a case. Don’t worry about the storm. We’ve been through worse. Just take care of everyone up there, and give them my best.”

  “Give Simon a hug for me, and think about coming up for Easter,” Bernadette replied. “Talk to you soon.” She ended the call, and Vic let his head fall back, eyes closed, as his hand with the phone dropped to his side.

  “Something wrong?” Ross asked.

  “Nate’s being charged. She didn’t say, but I’d bet obstruction of justice, falsifying and destroying evidence, lying under oath…it’s not going to go well.” Vic sighed. “How did I not know he was a dirty cop?”

  “Because he was a good liar,” Ross replied. “Those kinds always are. If he’d been easy to spot, he’d have had his ass handed to him long ago.” He leaned forward. “This is not your fault.”

  “I turned him in.”

  “Because you’re a good cop. Nate made his choices. Ever think that might have been the real reason he wouldn’t leave town with you? Or kept you at arm’s length? He knew you wouldn’t go along with what he was doing.”

  “Maybe. Yeah. It’s just…fuck.” Vic didn’t understand the tangle of feelings in his chest, so it wasn’t surprising he didn’t have the words to explain. He’d left Pittsburgh under a cloud because something supernatural had put him in a difficult position during a hostage situation. Vic had been cleared of wrongdoing, but that wasn’t the same as having people fully believe his side of the story. He’d jumped at the chance when an old friend put in his name for a job with the Myrtle Beach PD, but it wasn’t until he met Simon that everything finally clicked. Now, he was happier than he’d ever been, and he knew that Nate could have never given him what he needed. But he’d never wished for Nate to come to harm.

  It seemed Nate hadn’t needed any help with that.

  Ross got up and stretched. “Go ahead and pull up that email from Simon. I’m going to get us more coffee, and then we can go over Simon’s list. You know what Cap says.”

  “Work what you’ve got, and you’ll find what you need,” Vic answered, knowing Hargrove’s catchphrases by heart. “I’m on it.”

  11

  SIMON

  After he called Vic with news about the link between the Gallows Nine and the suicides, Simon felt restless. Cassidy hadn’t called him back, and Simon’s instincts told him that he didn’t have time to waste. The shop was empty, and he and Pete had finished all their regular chores as well as all the monthly to-do list. They had even filled and stacked sandbags at the shop’s front and back doors, and got the storm shutters ready in the storage room so they could be put up quickly when the weather turned.

  “I’m going to see if I can connect with a ghost who might know something about this whole mess,” Simon announced, setting aside the book he’d been trying to read. His concentration was crap since he couldn’t get his mind off the case.

  “I’ll watch the door,” Pete replied, looking up from his phone. “It might do tricks.”

  Simon headed to the back corner, where a table and chairs awaited customers who wanted a private psychic reading. He pulled the thin curtain to screen off the area from the main shop and settled in on his side of the table. Simon took several deep breaths, trying to relax. Spirits tended to approach more readily if he wasn’t tense.

  He slowed his breathing and ran through a memorized meditation that always helped put him into a light trance. With the heightened impressions of the trance state, Simon could feel the protective wardings on the shop and see them in his mind’s eye like ribbons of white light. When he felt receptive, he reached out into the ether, hoping to connect with Dante’s spirit.

  Even here, within warded walls, Simon remained cautious. He wore protective charms in addition to the many ways he had used magic to safeguard the shop, and he stayed alert, knowing that all kinds of entities were attracted to any show of mediumship. Usually, spirits came looking for Simon, not the other way around. They were easy to find, eager to be heard. Now, he was trying to contact a spirit from more than two hundred years ago. It would have felt like a needle in a haystack, except for Simon’s certainty that Dante’s ghost had recognized him in the visions.

  “Dante Morris, if you can hear me…I’m kin. The crew of the Annabelle is still causing problems. I need your help.”

  He waited, remaining open to the spirits, listening for a particular voice among the garbled background noise of thousands of restless ghosts. Simon didn’t pretend to know how ghosts “got the message,” he just knew that sometimes a general summons attracted the spirit he needed, and other times, the call went unanswered.

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sp; Simon shook out his shoulders and arms, rotated his neck, cracked his knuckles, and tried to relax. “Dante Morris. I need your help.”

  He felt a stirring in the gray cloud of souls, his imagination’s way of providing a representation for the unknowable. Simon caught a flash of dark eyes, windswept black hair, and the stubborn set of a jaw he remembered from his vision. The years had faded the spirit’s substance, and Simon had the feeling that the ability to reach across time rested in Dante’s willful refusal to be denied.

  The Wilton Stone, a voice carried across the void. Should have been destroyed.

  Simon felt certain Dante’s spirit intended to say more. But before he could continue, another entity burst into Simon’s mind. The dark energy threw itself against the shop’s wardings, growing increasingly angry when it could not breach the protections to get to Simon.

  Simon drew back, although the threat wasn’t actually physical. He trusted the magic that secured the store, but he had rarely tested it against such a powerful foe. Simon redirected his concentration, grounding himself and drawing on his Gifts to reinforce the wards and help drive back the entity.

  Unlike Dante’s ghost, this intruder didn’t use words. The impressions were primal. Rage. Fear. Frustration. And a hunger for revenge that chilled Simon to his core.

  Simon clasped his gris-gris bag with one hand and pressed the blessed silver of his bracelet tight against his skin. He spoke the words of the banishment spell, then cycled through an invocation against evil. The litanies might not have the power of the Rite of Exorcism, but they still seemed to weaken the spirit’s energy, or perhaps it had spent itself in its futile assault against the protective white light encircling the store.