by Angela Henry
“Ruthie doesn’t get many visitors. Are you a relative?” asked the nurse, coming out from behind the counter.
“I’m a friend of her son Vic,” Desi ventured, not missing a beat.
At the mention of Vic’s name, the nurse blushed and really looked at her for the first time. “Oh,” she said, looking away when she’d finally noticed Desi wasn’t hard on the eyes. “Haven’t seen him around for a while. Where’s he been?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but it didn’t work. She had the hots for Vic Buchard, and Desi wondered how the woman would feel if she saw him in his current state, rotting, missing a finger, and craving human flesh.
Be glad you haven’t seen him, Desi wanted to say, but instead said, “That’s why I’m here to see his mother. I need to track him down.”
“Why? Is he in trouble?” She looked genuinely concerned. Desi noticed she hadn’t denied that Ruth Buchard was Vic’s mother.
“The kind of trouble even God can’t help him with,” Desi mumbled absently as she thought about this new development. Vic Buchard and Zander Ptolemy were half brothers. But were they both involved in the creation of the NeCro?
“What’d you say?” the nurse persisted.
“It’s a private family matter. Can you please show me to Mrs. Buchard’s room?”
“Of course; I’m sorry,” she replied, remembering her manners. “I didn’t mean to be so nosy. It’s like I said before, Ruthie hardly ever gets any visitors. Her room’s right down the hall.”
“Not even her son Zander?” Desi asked as she followed the nurse. She stopped at a door at the end of the hall.
“Oh, Zander?” She said his name like it tasted bad. “He’s here every Sunday.”
“I thought you said she hardly ever got visitors?”
“Let me rephrase that,” she replied dryly. “She hardly ever gets visitors she likes.” The nurse knocked loudly before opening the door. “Mrs. Buchard, you’ve got a visitor.”
In the far corner of the narrow room, which was taken up by a queen-size bed, Ruth Buchard sat in a tweed recliner in front of a portable TV dressed for church. Her blue dress with the white lace collar was pressed to perfection, and her white patent leather pumps were polished to a high shine. Her jet-black wig of curls shone under the lights. She even wore white gloves. At first glance and from a distance, she looked like a woman in her fifties. But a closer look revealed the deep wrinkles crisscrossing her sunken cheeks, putting her age somewhere nearer to seventy. Desi thought she might be waiting to be picked up for Bible study until she saw that Ruth was already in church. An overweight TV televangelist delivered a fiery sermon on the screen, and Ruth was riveted to his every word. Every time he stopped to mop his sweaty brow, he’d shout amen. And Ruthie shouted right along with him.
“Amen, praise the Lord!” She held her hands up like she was trying to touch heaven and didn’t even notice Desi and the nurse standing in her door.
“Mrs. Buchard, there’s someone here to see you,” said the nurse again, a little louder so she could be heard over the TV. But Ruth’s only response was to start swaying from side to side with her arms still raised high.
“Yes, Jesus! Yes, Jesus!” shouted the elderly woman. When the tubby televangelist caught the Holy Ghost and spun in circles, Ruth started making jazz hands and stomping her feet. The nurse gave Desi a look of pity.
“Good luck,” she said before walking away. Desi walked into the room and shut the door behind her.
“Mrs. Buchard, I need to ask you some questions about your son Zander.” The woman started clapping. So Desi tried again. “Mrs. Buchard, I need to ask you some questions about your son Vic.”
“Victor?” she said, looking startled. She lowered her arms and reached out to turn the TV off. “You know my Victor?”
“Yes.” Desi felt bad about having to lie to the woman but saw no other way. “I also know your other son, Zander.”
“How do you know Victor? And you better not be here telling me you’re pregnant because my son’s been saved and he doesn’t fool around with heathens,” declared Ruth Buchard with conviction, not even acknowledging Zander’s name. Desi could tell that this was not a woman who suffered fools.
“I can assure you I’m not pregnant, Mrs. Buchard, and only God can judge who is and isn’t a heathen,” said Desi, hoping to get on her good side, although when she thought about having dreams about screwing angels, she figured maybe the old woman might be right.
“Then why are you looking for my son?”
“Actually, I’m looking for both of your sons about a business proposition.”
“Is this about the funeral home? If it is you’re just wasting your time. Both of my sons have to agree to sell, and Zander is a stubborn fool. Been trying to get him to sell it for years. It’s not natural for a man to enjoy being around dead folk more than the living.”
“And how does Victor feel?” Desi decided to go with the flow to see where it took her.
“He agrees with me. He’s a good son. I’ve never had a bit of trouble out of that boy. He’s always been a good God-fearing man. Graduated at the top of his class from LSU.”
“And what about Zander?”
“Zander’s just like his no-good daddy. Always chasing after something he had no business being involved in. Always looking for the easy way out or whatever he thought would earn him a quick buck.” Ruth sucked her teeth in disgust.
“Running a funeral home hardly sounds like looking for a quick buck, ma’am. You have to go to school to become a mortician.”
It sounded to Desi like Ruth Buchard was taking her hatred of her first husband out on their son. It seemed unfair to her, but it wouldn’t keep her from exploiting the woman’s animosity to get the information she needed.
“He learned all that stuff from my brother, Henry. LeBrun’s was his funeral home and since he didn’t have any kids when he died, he left the business to my sons. But Victor wanted something different and got a degree in chemistry. He just got himself a fancy new job at a big company. That’s why he hasn’t been by here to see me in a while. He’s too busy,” she said proudly. “But Zander just sits around waiting for people to die so he can make money. I told him he needed to sell that place and use his half of the money to get him an education like his brother. You know what he told me?”
“What?”
“He said Victor wouldn’t have even gotten his new job if it wasn’t for him.”
“What did he mean?” Desi felt the tingle of excitement she always got when things started coming together.
Vic had a degree in chemistry, which would enable him to develop the NeCro, and the other brother, Zander, was a funeral-home director, which gave him the access to brain matter. And sometime in the last twenty years, after Louis Charles had turned him down, Zander had also become an unlicensed necromancer. Now the only question was why? What could either of them possibly have to gain by creating such a drug?
“Lord only knows what he meant. Zander’s always been odd,” she concluded, shrugging her shoulders.
“Well, since Zander’s so against selling the funeral home, maybe I could convince Victor to change his mind. Do you have a number for him?”
“Not one that I’d give you,” Ruth said huffily. She’d just shared a bunch of her personal business with Desi but wouldn’t give her a phone number.
“I understand. I’d be mad, too, if my mama gave out my phone number to a stranger, but how about his work number? Maybe I could catch him at work.”
“He’s busy.” Ruth looked at the ground and her wrinkled cheeks flushed.
That’s when Desi realized that she couldn’t give her Vic’s contact info because she didn’t have it. She probably only saw her favorite son when he wanted to see her and not the other way around. Desi spied a white notepad sitting on Ruth’s bedside table closest to the door. It had a company logo on it, a black pair of wings, one on either side of the words Necropolis Pharmaceuticals. Vic’s fancy new job was with a drug manufa
cturer. How convenient. Is that where the drug was being made? Desi intended to find out. The wings on the logo made Desi think of her dream, and her dream made her think of Miriam.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Buchard.” The old woman nodded and turned her TV back on. As soon as she was out the door, Desi got on her cell to the EA’s library.
“Hey, Miriam. I need you to do a quick search for me on Necropolis Pharmaceuticals and text me everything you find ASAP.”
“Sure thing, toots. Um . . . did you think about my offer?”
“Do you want to lose your other eye?”
Miriam laughed, and within five minutes, Desi had the address of Necropolis Pharmaceuticals.
****
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but no one by the name of Victor Buchard has ever worked here.”
Desi was standing in the large airy lobby of Necropolis Pharmaceuticals. The building was a modern glass and steel affair located on the outskirts of town. The windows in the lobby reached the ceiling, and Desi felt sorry for whoever had to clean them. A chandelier that looked made of row upon row of glass Ping-Pong balls suspended from varying lengths of silly string hung from the center of the lobby. A glass elevator that resembled a giant mail tube shuttled visitors and employees to the higher floors. The floors were black and matched the black countertop of the receptionist’s station and the receptionist’s shiny black asymmetrical bob. Her silver name badge read: “Megan,” and like the company logo, black wings flanked either side of her name.
“Then how do you explain this?” Desi showed the woman her iPhone screen, where she’d pulled up the link Miriam had sent her of an LSU alumni bulletin dated six months previously, announcing that Vic Buchard had accepted a position as a researcher at the very company they were standing in.
“It says he accepted a position here. It doesn’t say he actually worked here. He could have changed his mind and turned down the job.”
“Can I speak to someone in personnel?” said Desi in frustration. She had no idea they’d deny Vic Buchard had ever worked there.
“Not unless you’re applying for a job or you have an appointment.” The smile never left the receptionist’s face, but her eyes were hard and told Desi she was seconds away from calling security.
She should have known she couldn’t just waltz in off the street and see Buchard. Of course, they’d deny he worked there. If he were strung out on NeCro, they’d have been smart to get rid of him. But why deny he ever worked there? Why not just say he’d been fired?
“Well, what about Dr. Langdon Grace? Is he in?”
“Dr. Grace . . .” she began.
“Is right here,” came a deep voice at Desi’s side, startling her. “How may I help you?”
“Dr. Grace,” said Megan, blushing, “this woman is insisting on speaking with an employee who doesn’t work here. I’ve told her several . . .”
“And who might this employee be?” Grace asked, cutting Megan off. He smiled down at Desi.
He was very tall, blond, and handsome in a polished, cold sort of way. This wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy. Desi couldn’t imagine him spooning after sex. There she went thinking about sex again, and she felt her face flush. But she could tell Grace thought it was because he was hot by the way he smiled at her.
“I’m looking for Victor Buchard. I know he works here,” insisted Desi. Grace’s eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit and Desi knew she had him.
“I’ll take care of this, Megan. I’m sure there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Please follow me.”
He headed toward the elevator, and Desi fell in step behind him.
FOURTEEN
Granger and I were on the highway headed to Necropolis Pharmaceuticals when traffic came to a complete stop. We were still a good five miles away, and nothing was moving.
“I don’t believe this shit.” I slapped the steering wheel in frustration. My traveling companion was too busy staring at me to pay attention to the traffic. Since ingesting the angel blood, my senses were super-heightened. So someone staring at me felt like a chorus line on my nerve endings. “What the hell are you looking at, kid?”
“I just can’t believe it, that’s all. You’re completely healed. You were less than a minute away from bleeding to death, and it’s like nothing ever happened. You don’t have a mark on you.”
“Yeah, and you can shoot lightning out of your palms. We’ve all got our crosses to bear.”
If my super-healing had amazed him, I hated to think how he’d act if he found out I used to be an angel. I’d bet Minx’s tail that Highway to Heaven had been his favorite show. And no, I’ve never actually watched Highway to Heaven. But Michael Landon told me all about it.
“What is this stuff?” Granger held the vial of angel blood, looking at it in awe.
“That’s the third time you’ve asked, and for the third time, stop asking. Our deal was for me to help you track down Vic Buchard in exchange for you helping me find Crystal Sneed. Sharing secrets and braiding each other’s hair wasn’t part of the deal. Got it?”
“Jeez, no need to get snarky.” He shoved the vial into his pocket and turned to stare moodily out the window.
“And if you lose that, I’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said, then added, “Well, can you at least tell me what the plan is once we get there?”
He’d starting oozing that pea-green funk again, and his irritation with me itched like a rash. But I ignored it. Instead, I opened my mouth to tell him there was no plan and I’d think of something once we got there, when a feeling I hadn’t felt in a year slammed me in the gut so hard I doubled over the steering wheel. Images of twisted metal, screaming, and blood filled my head. It was death. I’d been doing a pretty good job of blocking out other people’s feelings and emotions for the past hour. If I didn’t, I’d be paralyzed by sensory overload. But death is different, especially sudden, violent death. The pain, suffering, fear, shock, and anger associated with it packed a powerful punch that was impossible to ignore.
When I was a guardian I could handle it. A swig of fifty-year-old angel blood might be enough to make me able to sense death again, but it lacked the potency to make me immune to its effects. Granger still stared out the window and hadn’t noticed my sweaty face. My limbs were heavy and my heart thumped like a jackhammer. I managed to lift my head from the steering wheel just in time to see death’s black mushroom cloud hovering in the air about half a mile down the road. Now I knew why we’d stopped. There had been a bad accident and people were dying. I wondered which of my former fellow guardian brethren would be handling this accident. Thinking of them brought back what Leticia Moody had told me. That the only way to find out if my Book of Fates had been altered was to approach another guardian, whom I’d be able to see since I’d ingested her blood, and try and get them to help me. But if I were going to do it, it would have to be now, before the effects of the blood wore off.
“Hey! Where are you going?” asked the kid as I got out of the Range Rover.
“Just watch the car. I’ll be right back.” I sprinted off down the highway before he could get another word out.
The good thing about death was that it blocked out everything else, so as I jogged down the highway, past the cars full of hot, angry, tired, and annoyed people, I didn’t have to consciously block their feelings out. Death acted as a giant plug, keeping anything else from getting through, except their auras. Reds, oranges, browns, and greens seeped out of the car windows and mixed together in the air like a giant funky rainbow. I ignored the miasma and focused on the enormous black cloud up ahead. The closer I got, the bigger it seemed to get. Occasionally a bright white orb cut its way through the black cloud and zipped up into the sky, a soul ascending to heaven. Small tremors vibrating in the asphalt beneath my feet indicated the souls that were heading in the opposite direction.
It took me ten minutes to get to the scene. It was a bad one, a twelve-car pileup, including a busload of tourists. Skid ma
rks covered the road, along with blood and broken glass. I stepped over cell phones, purses, luggage, and clothing, and even loose change and false teeth. I made my way around cars with varying degrees of damage, some of them overturned or on their sides, and others so destroyed I couldn’t even tell what make or model they were. But the worst of it were the bodies. Lying among the wreckage were the twisted and broken bodies of the victims, many of them worse off than their vehicles. The acrid stench of burning flesh, tires, and exhaust burnt my eyes and made me cough, while screams and moans floated around me.
The body of a woman lay facedown on the hood of her car, where she’d been thrown through the windshield. A bleeding man sat in the road and sobbed as he clutched a dead dog, its neck flopping with each of his convulsive sobs. An engine burst into flames a few feet in front of me, and I saw that a man was still inside. I ran over and tugged at the driver-side door, but it was smashed in and wouldn’t budge.
“Mister, over here!” shouted a bystander. A middle-aged man in running shorts and a tank top had run over and gotten the passenger door open and was trying to pull the man out from the other side. But he was pinned to the seat by his seat belt, which the other man couldn’t reach.
I used my elbow and broke the already cracked driver’s side window, shattering the glass, and reached into the car. The man started to moan.
“Hurry! It’s gonna explode!” shouted the bystander.
I reached inside a little farther and cut my arm but managed to press the button to release the seat belt. The bystander pulled the man free, and we both carried him to the side of the road.
“Thank you, brother,” said the bystander. The man winked at me, and the irises of his brown eyes were ringed in silver. He was a guardian.
“Wait!’ I reached out to touch him, but he stepped out of my reach and rushed back into carnage to save another life listed in his Book of Fates.
I looked around and saw many such bystanders helping the injured and counted at least three whose shining eyes told me they were guardians. Most of the time guardians work unseen by humans, but if a tragedy is on a large-enough scale, they’ll turn up disguised as bystanders, a flight attendant, or perhaps a seatmate on a bus. Once the person recovers, they always remember the kindness, but their recollection of the face of the stranger who saved their life will be blurry at best.
