by C. E. Murphy
Amused, I turned to each of the four cardinal points of the circle and offered awkward bows in each direction before kneeling in its center. “I didn’t bring any gifts,” I said aloud, trusting that Melinda either wouldn’t hear or—more likely—wouldn’t think I was batshit insane for talking to an empty room. “I wasn’t really planning on dropping in, but I remembered that I promised I’d do better, so I thought I should strike while the iron was hot.”
I wet my lips, wondering if spirit guides worked in metaphor, then wondered what the hell else they could possibly work in. “I could use some help, if you’re in the mood to provide it.” It wasn’t graceful, but at least it acknowledged that my guide was autonomous, which was a lot smarter than trying to make demands.
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, I’d have been deep inside the spirit realm talking to my mentor, Coyote, when I asked for help. Chances were he’d have been six kinds of useless, offering up little more than cryptic advice for me to sort out on my own. That was one of several million problems with being a shaman: they dealt with, and often were, tricksters who never gave straight answers to anything. But Coyote had died months ago, leaving me with achingly little wisdom and even less surety as to the path I was on. The closest thing I had to a saving grace—aside from Billy and Melinda and Gary, who were angels from on high as far as I was concerned—was somewhere in the heart of the spirit world, a raven had befriended me and become my guide. Billy was alive because of that bird, and I wondered if I’d ever really said thank you.
Stung by the thought, I closed my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest. The circle’s power lines glowed against the back of my eyelids, much more strongly than before. Sometimes the Other was like that, easier to see when I wasn’t looking in the real world. “Actually, nevermind. I can probably get through what’s going on now on my own. Let me just say thanks for last time, instead. I wish I knew how to do this properly. Do spirit ravens like shiny things as much as real ones do?” I closed my fingers around my silver necklace, smiling at the idea of a raven trying to steal it. “Maybe I’ll find you something else.”
An approving klok! echoed, the big popping noise ravens made when they were interested in or scolding something. It sounded real, like it had happened in the room instead of in my head. I opened my eyes, bemused, to find a raven standing in front of me. He tilted his head and I tilted mine the same way, mirror image to a curious bird.
He was white outlines, like he’d grown up from the power lines of Melinda’s circle. I could see individual feathers etched in shining light, and I could also see right through him, to the concrete and paint beneath us. He’d looked that way before, in the darkness of a spirit animal quest, but mostly when I’d seen him he’d looked like a proper raven, glossy black-blue and startlingly large with a ruff of sharp feathers at his throat. He preened, stretching one translucent wing out to its full length, then tucked it back in and peered at me.
At a loss for what else to do, I extended a hand and said, “Hello, Mister Raven,” and only afterward considered the possibility that not everyone called animals “mister,” or worse, that my guide might somehow be offended by the human appellation. I frequently greeted animals that way, though, and evidently he didn’t mind, because he hopped forward, said klok! again, and nipped the sleeve of my sweater until the copper bracelet I wore was exposed.
He bit that even harder, hooked beak bouncing off beaten metal and scraping into the etched animals that encircled it. I pulled back, squelching the urge to thwap his beak. “Hey. That’s mine. No eating it, even if it is shiny. I’ll bring you tinsel or something, next time.” What possible use a spirit raven could have for tinsel or, in fact, any tangible object, I didn’t know, but at least I now had it confirmed that he liked shiny things. He went quaarrk and settled back, tilting his head again, so I tentatively scratched him under the beak, like he was a cat. His quark was softer this time and I smiled before mumbling, “So, thank you, anyway. For helping me with Billy. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
For a bird, he looked remarkably self-satisfied. I chuckled and rubbed his jaw harder, and he leaned into it, making little raveny sounds of contentment. I felt my own shoulders relax and only just then realized how tired I was. 2:30 A.M. wakeup calls were not my friend. I exhaled a long breath, and half-consciously watched it bead on the air like frost.
It wafted over my raven, making him sparkle briefly, and when it passed, he looked like a normal raven, gleaming black with bright eyes. He hopped into my lap and we both watched the remnants of my breath extend over the lines of Melinda’s power circle. Shadows made of light shifted in the paint, then drifted up, reaching for the matching circle above me. When they touched, brilliance flared, then faded again, leaving me feeling rather safe and warm and cozy in a wreath of active power.
“Ah,” I said a bit distantly. “Reached one of those altered states of being, have I? This is nicer than being hit on the head.” There were dozens of ways to reach power and other worlds: sleep deprivation, drugs, unconsciousness, drumming and simple practice were among them, and so far the only one I hadn’t tried was drugs. Drinking myself into oblivion and waking up with a god-infested mortal didn’t count. I tipped my head to peer at my raven. “Can you talk now?”
He said, “Nevermore,” then looked incredibly annoyed.
I couldn’t help it: I laughed, then more carefully rubbed the top of his feathery head. “Sorry. My subconscious probably made you say that, if it’s possible. What’s going on?”
He made a popping sound, his own breath steaming, and all around me Melinda’s sanctuary fell away.
Desolate snow and ice rose up in its place. A howling came with it, so high and sweet and sad it took a long time to understand it was the wind shrieking over frozen wastelands. Once I understood, I felt it, cutting through my sweater and into my bones, making them as cold as the spaces between stars. The Bigfoot print I’d seen under the snow had felt that way when I’d touched it, so icy it was almost beyond words.
A figure appeared in the blowing wind and snow, gray in the brightness. It walked erratically, pushed by the elements, and stumbled often, as if it had very little strength to carry on. I jumped to my feet and saw a blur of wings, the raven a singular midnight-colored spot in all the white. He latched on to my shoulder, digging in with powerful talons, but the pain was a comfortable thing compared to the cold bisecting me.
A second figure, then a third, joined the first. Other shadows made silver spots in the snowstorm, too indistinct for me to be certain they weren’t mere mirages. They all moved in different directions, though if I was close enough to see all of them, they had to be able to see each other. I waved a hand, shouting, and heard my own voice swallowed up by the wind. Anger burgeoned in me and I braced myself, drawing a deep breath and shouting from my diaphragm.
One of the figures hesitated, then turned a shadowy face toward me. I yelled in relief, waving madly, and it stopped where it was, then looked around as I bellowed, “Over here! Come on, over here!”
Instead, it swung around, suddenly purposeful, and strode away through the storm. I let out another yell, this time of frustration, and flung myself after it. Snow reached up and grabbed my thighs, my hips, and then gobbled me whole, ice and snow collapsing over my head.
I screamed, clawing for the surface, and the raven tightened his claws in my shoulder again. Inside a breath I was on top of the snow again, bullied by the wind and floundering with exhaustion. My compatriots were gone, leaving me alone on the ice field with only a raven as company. I ran a few feet, then fell to my knees, panting for air that was too wild to run smoothly into my lungs. “Where are we? Who are they?”
Quoth the raven, Nevermore, and this time he didn’t sound irritated by it. I craned my neck, trying to see the bird on my shoulder clearly. “They’re dead? This isn’t the Dead Zone. And I can’t see ghosts.”
As soon as I said it I knew I was wrong. I could see ghosts, when the raven was on my sho
ulder. I thought it was something to do with a raven’s transitory state between life and death, with its history as a beast found feasting after battles and its mythology of riding the shoulders of those who ushered the living into another world. “They’re ghosts?”
Ravens didn’t have lips to curl, but he did a fine job of curling his lip anyway, thereby relegating me to my usual position of being a day late and a dollar short in terms of esoteric knowledge. “If they’re not ghosts and this isn’t the Dead Zone—” Which it wasn’t; that much, at least, I was sure of. What I referred to as the Dead Zone was a bleak nothingness about half a meter smaller than eternity. This frozen landscape had bleak written all over it, but it also had the personality of a storm. The Dead Zone had no such thing. “—then where are we?”
The raven dumped me unceremoniously back into Melinda’s power circle.
———
I had not been lying on my back when I went under. I was now, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Melinda in the doorway, Caroline in her arms and a curious expression on both faces. With Caroline, it probably meant gas. With Mel, it probably meant she was trying really hard not to ask why I was flat on my back in the middle of her sanctuary. “Do you have any spirit animals, Mel?”
She, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “Yes….”
I fluttered a hand in reassurance. “Don’t worry, I’m not rude enough to ask what they are. Just, do they ever effectively coldcock you and leave you sprawled on the floor?”
The corner of her mouth quirked. “I’m afraid not.”
“I didn’t think so. I don’t get no respect.” The raven was no longer visible, though I could feel his weight on my chest, like he was staring at me. Waiting for me to get my act together, presumably. “I think I jump-started your power circle. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You shouldn’t have been able to, but it’s okay.”
“Really?” I pushed up on my elbows. Light still glimmered around the edges of the circle, stronger than the residuals Melinda’d left for me to study. I suddenly got the idea she was outside it because she wasn’t allowed in, which wasn’t good on two levels. One, it was her circle, so it seemed like she should be able to breeze right through anything I did. Two, and possibly more important, I didn’t know how to take it down. It felt nothing like the healing power I’d become reasonably competent at drawing on; that came from within, and the circle’s power seemed to be outside of me. Its strength had come from somewhere else. The raven, maybe. I squinted the Sight on to give him a hard look, but the little bastard disappeared and left me to deal with my own problems. “Really on both counts? It’s really okay, and I shouldn’t have been able to?”
“Really on both counts. If I didn’t like you, it wouldn’t be okay at all, but if I didn’t like you, I think you probably wouldn’t have been able to. I hope.” Melinda frowned, giving me the uncomfortable sensation that I was out of her league, magically speaking. I mean, I knew I was, according to what she and Billy kept telling me, but knowing it and feeling it were two different things.
“We’ll go with me not being able to. I’m not even sure I opened this one. Did you see a, um, bird on my chest?” I didn’t want to define my spirit guide as a raven any more than Mel wanted to confess to her own totem animals. It was irrational, but I felt strongly about it, and Mel didn’t look surprised as she shook her head.
I whooshed air out and put my head on my knees for a moment. Memory crept over me and I peeked up again, the Sight in place once more.
Breath only showed up in cold air, and Melinda’s sanctuary was nice and warm. But I still saw the particles of my exhalation dance across the power lines, shaking down the magic that had grown up. I stared at it, flabbergasted. The only other time I’d opened a power circle, it’d been with a blood sacrifice—not, in the grand scheme of things, the best way to go. It struck me that the breath in my lungs was just as important a component of what kept me alive, and, as far as offerings went, seemed pretty profound. “I think you’ve got to teach me how to deliberately awaken a power circle, Mel.” Before I did something critically stupid and woke up dead from attempting it someday. My raven guide probably wouldn’t have let that happen just now, but I didn’t like to think what could’ve happened if I hadn’t already entreated him.
It also struck me that breath was, in its way, incidental. Once it left the body, it became part of the air again, always in transition. That might have accounted for the disconnect I felt with the magic powering the circle.
I suspected that on a fundamental level, what I’d just accidentally done was extremely dangerous. I scrambled up out of the circle and did my best to hide behind Melinda, who was at least seven inches shorter than I was. “Soon,” I added. “Maybe now would be good.”
“Not unless you’ve got a babysitter in your pocket. The kids would be too much distraction.”
I felt my pocket. “I have a cell phone. That’s almost as good.”
Melinda laughed. “Cell phones are notoriously bad at watching three-year-olds. They have no defense system.”
“But Gary does! Maybe I can get him to come over when he gets off shift.” I pulled the phone out and it rang, surprising me enough that I nearly dropped it. Caroline giggled and waved her hands, apparently delighted by my antics. I gave her a finger to hold and, charmed by her smile, picked up the call without looking to see who it was.
“Walker,” Morrison said tightly. “Get to the morgue as fast as you can. Something’s happening to the bodies.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Charlie Groleski had shriveled into a husk.
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he was an ice-age corpse, the kind that occasionally turns up in glaciers. His skin had that same dried brown leathery look to it, with his hair matted and stringy by turns, and his fingers clawed as if great age had withered them to nubs. He had a faint odor of decay, the smell of something so long dead that it’s given up stinking and is just a few hours away from collapsing into nothing. Part of me wanted to give him a prod and see if he would fall in on himself and become nothing more than a dust shadow on the cold morgue slab.
I resisted, based on the certainty that it wouldn’t win me any friends, but I really wanted to. Billy, as if suspecting the direction of my thoughts, edged between me and Groleski’s body, and pointed toward Karin Newcomb’s.
I’d been avoiding looking at her, a little afraid I might recognize her after all. I didn’t; either we’d never crossed paths in the months we’d lived in the same apartment building, or she’d become one of a blur of college-aged brunettes who’d lived there in the seven years I had. Either way, she deserved better. Whether she deserved better of the world at large, or me in specific, though, I wasn’t sure.
Unlike Groleski, she hadn’t had time to freeze, but like him, she was falling in on herself. Taken together, they looked like separate stages of a horror film special effect, with Groleski the advanced decomposition. “Know what it reminds me of?”
Billy gave me a pained look. “If you make a joke, Walker…”
“No, I’m being serious.” I crouched, studying Karin Newcomb’s deteriorating form. “They’re falling apart the same way Ida and the girls did, but more slowly. Like they weren’t just frozen, but they were being held together with magic, too.”
“Huh.” Billy put his arms akimbo and stared down at the dead people like he was trying to find fault in my comparison. Apparently he didn’t find any, because after a moment he said, “Think we’ve got another banshee on our hands?”
“I love how you say that like it’s normal.” I glanced up, looking for rubber gloves, and waved at the box when I found it. Billy handed me one and I did my best proctologist’s snap putting it on, then risked poking a finger into the dead woman’s ribs. The flesh dented like an ancient Peeps, with a soft rain of marshmallow cascading over my fingertip. Only it wasn’t marshmallow. I withdrew my hand and stared into the hole I’d made. It didn’t look like something that coul
d happen to a human body. “Billy, those women who died back in March…did anybody notice anything like this happening to their bodies?”
I stood up, not wanting to look into the dried-marshmallow effect in Karin’s ribs any longer, and caught Billy’s quick shake of his head. “They’d all been eviscerated. Cause of death was pretty obvious. And they all had ID on them, so I think the bodies were released to the families pretty fast. I don’t remember anything like this. I guess we could get a court order to have them exhumed, if you think we need to.”
A shudder made hairs rise on my arms. “Let’s not unless we’re sure we have to. How about our other victims, has this been happening to them?”
He shook his head again. I stripped the rubber glove off and pushed my fingers through my hair. “What’s the date?”
“December twentieth, why?”
I’d known that. I’d known it very clearly, because tomorrow was the first anniversary of my mother’s death. I’d only asked in order to buy time. Sadly, the second and a half it took Billy to answer wasn’t nearly as much as I’d hoped to buy, and it didn’t give me any way out of proposing a supernatural hypothesis. “Tomorrow’s the solstice. These things tend to get stronger around the pagan high holy days.”
Pagan high holy days. Like half of them—more than half—weren’t marked in some way by the modern world and practitioners of most modern religions. Easter fell suspiciously close to the spring fertility festival of Beltane, midsummer meant a weekend of partying while the sun didn’t go down, and I didn’t think there was much of anybody fooling themselves about Christmas lying cheek-by-jowl with the midwinter solstice. Mardi Gras, Halloween—they were all tied in with ancient holy days, even if we didn’t always consciously draw the lines between them. I snorted at myself and shook it off; it didn’t really matter who celebrated them or what they were called. The point was, certain times of the year had natural mystic punch, and we were on the edge of one of those days today. That didn’t exactly comfort me.
