by Eileen Wilks
Cullen beamed at him. “Nonsense. I’m officially undamned, and I’ve got the holy water to prove it. My wife insists I keep some with me, just in case. Never know when you might trip over a demon, right? The briefing’s in just a sec, kiddies.” He turned to Lily. “I’ve got a—”
“You’re married?” Deacon exclaimed. “I thought you were a w—uh, a lupus.”
“Oh, I am. I’m also a newlywed. Ring’s still shiny.” Cullen held out his hand, ostentatiously admiring the gold band.
Lily said dryly, “Cullen’s goal in life is to be the exception to every rule.” In this case, he claimed that the Turning provided the exception. There was some reason to think the influx of magic since the Turning would improve fertility for his people, so the ban on marriage could be dropped. Maybe he’d be proved right . . . eventually. So far the birth rate hadn’t changed. “You can congratulate him later. I’d like to get some work done.”
“So driven. So masterful.” Cullen offered her a sly grin, and the rest of them a little bow. “I need a moment to confer with your fearsome leader. Then I’ll tell you my ghost stories.”
He dug in his pocket as he crossed to Lily. “You need to have a word with the Etorri Rhej,” he said much more quietly, handing her a wrinkled scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it. “I called ahead and arranged it. She agreed, but you need to call now. She’s got an appointment in thirty minutes.”
“Thanks. Could you try to act like a grownup for a while? I’d like them to take this seriously.”
“I’ll use visual aids. Everyone loves visual aids.” He turned to grin at the others. “As I was saying, children—the first thing you need to accept is that I do know what I’m talking about. So gather round the campfire, now . . .”
Lily gave up on making him behave and made the phone call. The line was still ringing when he showed what he meant by visual aids. A small blaze sprang up in his palm. It was a pretty little fire, crackling merrily, though unusual—and not just because it was cupped in a man’s hand. It was green. Bright, springtime green.
“Show-off,” she muttered.
“Not usually,” said an amused feminine voice in her ear.
Lily winced. “Ah—Serra.” That was the honorific for a Rhej; they were never addressed by name. “This is Lily Yu. I was watching Cullen play with fire.”
“I see.” The woman chuckled. “He does enjoy that. Now, I hate to rush you, but I have an appointment. Cullen said you’re dealing with one of the scattered dead.”
“That’s one of the terms he used for it. Mostly he calls it a wraith.”
“The memories refer to wraiths as the scattered dead. I’m afraid I have very little for you, but that’s one small point—the name for these creatures in the memories. They’re scattered, not whole. That, and the fact that they eat deaths.”
“Is eating death the same as death magic?”
“Similar, but . . . I suppose it’s like the difference between a farseeing spell and a farseeing Gift. Both a wraith and death magic make use of death as a transition, the power involved when we cross to the next state. A wraith consumes that power, leaving the souls unable to transition fully.”
“Creating damaged ghosts?” With half an ear Lily kept track of what Cullen was telling the others. So far, it was the same as what he’d told her. The two Browns and the deputies seemed to be paying attention.
“Yes. Normal death magic . . . good God, that sounds awful. As if it could ever be normal! I mean that death magic generated through ritual uses a relatively small portion of the energy released by a dying. Such magic is ugly and horrible, but the souls involved are usually able to move on.”
“The wraith is more efficient, I take it. It uses—eats—most of the power released by death.”
“That’s pretty much it, yes.”
“Can these damaged ghosts hurt regular ghosts? The, uh, young medium I spoke to . . . I think Cullen was going to put her in touch with you.”
“Talia, he said. Yes, I’ll be calling her after I get back from the job interview.”
Job interview? Wasn’t being a Rhej enough of a job? Lily banked that question for later. “She said the other ghosts were afraid of the damaged ones. What could harm a ghost?”
“Frankly, I don’t see how a ghost could be harmed, but there’s a great deal I don’t know. They may simply be afraid of what, to them, is a terrifying condition. Those souls are truly trapped.”
“I thought that was true of all ghosts.”
She chuckled. “No, most of them are merely stubborn. The ones who linger, that is. Ghosts are actually common as dirt—”
“Yeah? That’s not quite what the other mediums said.”
“Not many mediums are as good as I am,” she said without a trace of brag in her voice. “Though it may also be a matter of language. Some mediums consider the newly dead to be distinctly different from ghosts. I disagree, but whatever you call them, most of the newly dead move on within an hour of crossing, often within seconds. Those who don’t move on fast enough harden into ghosts. I think of ghosts as souls with memory problems.”
“Memory problems?”
“Sure. They may be fixated on one particular memory, often of their own death. Sometimes they’re hung up on the memory of a wrong they did someone—that was the problem of the haunt at Cullen’s wedding, you’ll remember. Or they may be suppressing a memory, sometimes of dying, sometimes of something else, and they can’t move on until they allow themselves to experience that memory.”
Souls with memory problems. Lily shivered. Was that what would happen when she died? Would she become a ghost? Most of the time she couldn’t remember what the other-her had experienced. “Will destroying the wraith give those damaged ghosts back whatever was taken from them?”
“I don’t know. I pray that it does.”
Now for the big question. “Do you know how to destroy the wraith, or stop it?”
“No. I wish I did. Whoever created it has trapped it in a terrible state. It must be suffering greatly.”
“Hmm.” Lily couldn’t summon much sympathy for the wraith, but maybe that’s because she couldn’t imagine what it was. Did it think, feel?
At that moment Cullen stopped talking to glance at his hip. “Just a moment. I’d better see . . .” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was a snug fit. “I need to take this call. Hey, gorgeous.” Then: “You’re what? Dammit, you were headed home! You said . . . All right, you didn’t explicitly say, but you let me think . . . That’s not the point, dammit!”
Lily grinned. That had to be Cynna calling. Which brought up another, unrelated question . . . “May I ask you something off-topic, Serra?”
“Sure, if it’ll take five minutes or less.”
Cullen was scrubbing his hand through his hair, scowling as he listened to whatever Cynna had to say. Lily watched him as she asked, “Why did you go to Cullen and Cynna’s wedding?”
“You know, you’re the first to ask me quite so directly. Most clan treat us so . . . carefully.” She was amused. “Of course, we’re careful, too. We almost never offer advice unless we’re asked, and not always then. The Lady doesn’t want us directing the clans, so we’re cautious with what we say.”
Cullen strode over and thrust his phone at her. “Here. The crazy woman wants to talk to you.”
“Just a sec. Serra? That didn’t quite answer my question.”
“I suppose not. The realms have shifted, though, haven’t they? The world is changing. It’s possible the clans will decide to change, too. And now I’m going to break my rule and offer one bit of advice. You know that the Lady rarely speaks to us directly.”
By “us,” she meant Rhejes. “Yes.”
“She occasionally gives guidance in one other way—through a mate bond. So that’s my bit of unsought advice. Listen to whatever the mate bond is telling you. And now I’m afraid I have to go. I’ve got your number. I’ll call if I come up with anything that might help.”
The mate bond was telling her something? Not in English, Lily thought as she disconnected and took Cullen’s phone. Or even Chinese.
It had forced the two of them to stay close, though. And the wraith had attacked Rule once, out in the woods. Was the mate bond telling her Rule needed her protection?
She set that aside for later and took Cullen’s phone. “Hi, Cynna. I take it you’re the crazy woman Cullen referred to.”
“Hah! As if he has any room to talk. Did you know there’s a television show about pregnant women?”
“Uh—yes, I think I’ve heard of it.”
“I was channel surfing last night and saw those big bellies. Hooked me right in. Those women had every kind of complication—preeclampsia, prediabetes, pre-I-don’t-know-what-all. I am never watching that show again. You wouldn’t believe what I dreamed.”
“I’m kind of hoping you won’t tell me right now. Middle of a case, cops standing around listening . . . you know.”
“Sorry. Pregnancy hormones have scattered my brain to hell and gone. I only hope I get some of the pieces back after the little rider pops out. Anyway, I just finished talking to that Vodun priestess I told you about.”
“I thought she won’t tell you anything over the phone.”
“Or without an infusion of cash, which is why I flew to D.C.—and flew first class, too, thanks to the upgrade Ruben okayed because of me being pregnant, so there’s no reason for Cullen to be in such a snit. It’s not like I have any edema. But he thinks I’m going to disintegrate or something if I go anywhere without him.” Her voice softened. “It’s kind of sweet.”
Lily studied the pacing sorcerer—who wasn’t burning anything, but he didn’t look close to “sweet.” Not unless you got mushy about explosions. Okay, really sexy explosions.
He was muttering something under his breath . . . cigars? He was muttering about cigars? Lily shook her head. “So what did the priestess tell you?”
“It’s what the Baron said through one of the congregants at the service. She had to hold a service, see, to give the Loa a chance to come through, and the one who showed up was the Baron. Ah, Baron Samedi is one of the Ghede Loa, or maybe the father of them. His favorite offerings are cigars, rum, and sex.”
“Cigars? What could an immaterial spirit—” Lily shook her head. “Never mind. What’s a Loa?”
“The major spirits who act as intermediaries between us and God. According to Vodun, anyway—I don’t agree, but then, I’m Catholic. But the Loa are real, whether you invest them with religious purpose or not. This Baron Samedi is in charge of graves and death, and boy, is he pissed. He did not like it that someone made a wraith. He said you have to get the wraith’s name. Well, actually, he said that if you don’t get the name, you’re in deep shit.”
“Good to know,” Lily said dryly. “He couldn’t help out a little more? Like, for example, by telling you the name.”
“Either he doesn’t know it or he can’t tell. He did have some advice, though I think he considered it orders, not advice. Some of the Loa are pretty bossy. He said to salt the grave once you find it, and when you have the living one who made the abomination—he meant the wraith—you should salt her palms.”
Lily felt questions piling up. “Her?”
“Yes, he said the practitioner who made the wraith is a medium. He used another word for it, but Thérèse says that’s what it means—spirit-talker or medium.”
Thérèse, Lily assumed, was the priestess. The mambo. “What does the salt do? Will it kill the wraith or stop it?”
“Actually, it’s supposed to help the wraith hold together.”
“Not a priority of mine,” Lily said dryly.
“I think you should do it, Lily. This Baron is no one to mess with, and he was clear about the salt.”
“You think it’s better if the wraith is, ah, more together?”
“Maybe it’ll be less likely to kill. I don’t know, but in magic, dry salt is often used as a fixative. Not salt water, mind—that has different properties. But you can use salt to fix in place a circle or a spell. So I’m guessing that maybe the salt will ‘fix’ the wraith to its grave, but I don’t know. It might do something else entirely.”
Great. “I’m supposed to send cops and federal agents out to find graves, armed with saltshakers?”
“It’ll take more than a saltshaker, I think,” Cynna said apologetically. “I’d guess a couple handfuls of salt per grave. Cullen can explain about that. Listen, Lily, the Baron said he’s coming down there to help.”
Lily wasn’t entirely sure what this Baron guy was, but she didn’t think she wanted him hanging around. “You have any idea what that means?” she asked cautiously.
“Not really. Thérèse just laughed and shook her head and said, ‘That Baron, he’s something, isn’t he?’ She’s got a weird sense of humor. Well, she did say something about you having sex at midnight near an open grave, but that’s just her trying to get white folks to do stupid stuff so she can laugh about it.”
“White folks? You tell her my last name? Never mind.” Lily rubbed her face. “Do you think this Baron shares her sense of humor?”
“Well . . . some of the Loa are kind of twisty, but he was straight about catching the wraith. It’s his province, after all—graves and death. He takes this shit seriously.”
“You think I should take what he said seriously, too, then.”
“Yeah, I do. Sorry. I know it won’t be fun persuading some judge to let you salt graves.”
Lily had to laugh. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use, no. I need to go, Cynna. You want to talk to Cullen some more?”
“Has he stopped pacing yet?”
Lily smiled. Cynna knew her man pretty well. “He’s slowed down.”
“Close enough. Hand me over. Bet I can have him grinning in under a minute.”
“You’re on.” Lily crossed to Cullen, told him the crazy woman wanted another word with him, handed him back his phone—and turned when someone cleared his throat.
Deacon stood there, looking grim. “Seabourne says we’ll be looking at people who died on the Turning. That this wraith was created from a death then.”
“That’s right.” A quick glance told her Cullen was still scowling.
“My grandfather died that day. Right when it hit. He was in the hospital, waiting on a heart bypass operation.”
That got her attention, but she shook her head. “If you’re thinking you’re under suspicion, Sheriff, you don’t have to worry about it.” A sharp crack of laughter from Cullen made her glance at him. Sure enough, he was grinning. “I just got some new information. Our perp is probably a medium.”
That drew Deacon’s face in even grimmer lines. “My granny’s a medium.”
DEACON’S granny lived with his parents in a small frame house on the east end of town. His folks were both at work. His granny was tucked up in a hospital bed in the living room, the TV remote in her hand and a troop of kittens clambering around on her.
Marjorie Abigail Deacon was a wrinkled little raisin of a woman with a sweet, toothless smile—her dentures were on the table by the bed—and milky cataracts. She was delighted to see Deacon, and Lily, too, though she thought Lily was someone named Sherry.
Lily was introduced to each of the four kittens and to Harold, Marjorie’s husband . . . the one who died seven months ago. Of course, it was possible that Mrs. Deacon really did see Harold. Her wits might be wandering, but Lily confirmed with a touch that she retained her Gift.
She spoke happily about the garden she’d planted and about her children, who were sometimes grown, sometimes still small and “full of mischief.” Twice she called Deacon by his father’s name. She was obviously too far gone to be capable of the kind of spellwork that might create a wraith, but seven months ago she’d been much keener, Deacon said.
It didn’t matter. She’d been bedridden for the past year, and Lily very much doubted someone that frail could have handled the kind of power needed to cre
ate a wraith. She’d check that with Cullen to be sure, but for now she wasn’t putting Mrs. Deacon on her suspect list.
When Lily got up to leave, Mrs. Deacon spoke to the air on her left. “What’s that? Oh, yes.” She turned that sweet smile on Lily. “Harold wants you to tell your wolf he’s got a might pretty lady. Oh, and he’s to trust her, no matter what, and pull on that robe of his hard as he can.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
IT was a long, muddled afternoon for Rule.
Cullen left as soon as they returned to the house. Lily needed him for the investigation, and it was just as well. Rule needed time to absorb what Cullen had told him, time without his brain hopping on the hamster wheel and spinning, spinning, without going any-damned-where.
He kept busy. He checked Toby’s math, made phone calls and received one, even got some work done. There was solace in the simplicity of numbers, so he focused on the proposal for a company that a clan member wanted to start, with Nokolai’s backing. He also went to the grocery store for Louise, who didn’t keep tofu, soy milk, or fresh basil around. He must have behaved correctly, because Louise didn’t seem to notice anything wrong.
Rule assured her he didn’t mind the grocery run. He didn’t. It gave him a chance to grab a double-meat hamburger. The spinach and tofu quiche she was planning would doubtless be delicious, but tofu was not meat.
But always, always, the question beat against his mind. Could he abandon honor for the sake of his son? Of course, when he tossed the question on its head, the answer seemed obvious: Could he abandon his son for the sake of honor?
No, no, and no. But it wasn’t that simple.
He desperately wanted to talk to Lily about it. And couldn’t. He’d given his word. And perhaps it was just as well, for she was stretched to the limit with her investigation, and she wouldn’t understand, would she? She wouldn’t grasp the repercussions of his assuming leadership of Leidolf permanently. Or of his making Toby heir of that clan.
