Grave Matters: A Night Owls Novel

by Lauren M. Roy

  * * *

  ALL ELLY WANTED to do when she got home was go upstairs, flop onto her bed, and sleep. But she smelled the roasting garlic as she got out of her car, and by the time she opened the door, her traitor stomach was yowling.

  Cavale was in the kitchen, his cookbook propped upright by several spellbooks, a solid chunk of amethyst wedged up against the front to hold his page. One pot bubbled merrily away, and the shiny new pan he bent over seemed to be the source of the garlic scent. There were tomatoes in there, too, and half a dozen spice bottles lined up like soldiers on the counter. They looked new, and mostly full, so she was fairly certain they didn’t come from her stash of spell components.

  Probably not, anyway.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

  “No occasion. Val called to say you were on the way home and I figured hey, hot meal.” He turned from the stove and gave her a tired smile.

  He’s as exhausted as I am. “Long day?”

  “Not as long as yours.”

  “You should be in bed,” she said. “I could’ve heated up leftovers from the party.”

  “Nope.” He tasted the sauce, added more salt. “I wanted to do this. Besides. Garlic. Repels vampires and all.”

  Elly snorted. “You’ve seen Val when Sunny does Italian night, right?” She’d sit there with a plate in front of her, heaped with pasta and sauce and a hunk of garlic bread, blissfully inhaling the scent while everyone else ate. Justin hadn’t quite picked up the habit yet; he was fifty-fifty on whether the smell of food repulsed him or made him nostalgic, though he’d sit at the table and talk, hands folded politely in front of him, napkin on his lap.

  “Point. Anyway, wanna get some plates down? This is about ready.”

  She set the table as formally as either of them had ever learned. That was, plate and fork in front of their chairs, can of soda behind it, paper towels as napkins on the side. Cavale pulled spaghetti out of the pot with a pair of tongs, dumped it into the pan, and tossed. What he set in front of her looked and smelled divine.

  “You going to give up reading cards and become a chef?”

  “I might,” he said. “Why not? Anyone can change their career, right?” He said it too lightly, too clumsily.

  Her fork clattered to the plate. “What’s this about, really?”

  He winced. “Elly—”

  “No. Spit it out.” Her appetite was gone, replaced by a sour churning. The same sick feeling she used to get when Cavale and Father Value had their rows. ‘Whatever you’ve been storing up to say all day, just say it.”

  He set his own fork down, wiped his mouth with the napkin, folded it neatly. When he looked at her, she didn’t see the storm in his summer sky eyes like she had with Father Value. Now they were only sad. And afraid. “I think you should stop working for Ivanov.”

  “Why.” She said it flatly. Not a question but a challenge.

  “Because he’s going to get you killed, El. He doesn’t give a shit about you beyond your value as a tool. He’s got you involved in his turf war and you know that’s bad news. If you won’t take it from me, take it from Father Value. That was his lesson for us when it came to vampires. His only one.”

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” Elly shoved back from the table so hard her chair tipped over when she stood. “You don’t get to use him against me. You left us. You want to talk about his lessons? How about the one where we stuck together? How about the one where three is better than two, stronger, sturdier, and you fucked off? How about that one?” She was screaming it now, all the hurt of the past few years pouring out in her voice. She wanted him to get up, to reach for her so she could bat his hand away, swing at her so she could swing back, connect, make a mark on that pretty face, make him hurt the way she had. She stood there, ready for it even though Cavale would never hit her, not ever, no matter how hard she pushed.

  And oh, she wanted to push.

  But he only hung his head and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I want to make it up to you but I don’t know how. And I’m scared that—” He glanced up—not at her but at the light, the way you did when you were trying to keep tears from spilling. “I’m scared that Ivanov’s going to get you killed and I’ll never get the chance to fix this.”

  The fight went out of her, fled to wherever her appetite had gone. The fight, but not the rage. If she stayed here, she’d say something irrevocable. She stormed past him, back down the hallway, and snatched up her coat, her duffel bag, her keys. Her car probably hadn’t even had time to get cold. Good. It took for-bloody-ever to warm up.

  From inside, she heard the muffled sound of pottery breaking, and could only think, Good.

  Then she saw the figure at the end of the driveway. “Who the fuck is there?” she asked, reaching for her spike. Maybe she could have that brawl after all.

  But when he stepped into the glow of the garage light, the shadow resolved itself into Justin, and for the second time in as many minutes, she unclenched her fists.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “I thought I heard shouting.”

  The energy needed to go somewhere, this pent-up anger, this need to run until her legs gave out or drive too fast with the music so loud it hurt her ears. No one trusted her. No one thought she could take care of herself, make the right choices, do anything useful. They were all waiting for her to fuck up, to fall apart.

  All of them except Justin.

  Elly closed the distance between them, met him as he drew even with her car. She pushed him back against the door, stood on her toes, and kissed him.

  18

  IN HIS YEARS at the bookstore, Chaz had learned plenty of reliable truths: that within ten minutes of a book being on the news, someone would call and ask if you had that book that was on that show just now, as though you’d spent your shift watching TV; that as soon as you decided Joe Procrastinator wasn’t coming in for the book he’d put on hold three months ago (but not paid for), and sold it to someone else, Joe would roll in and get all pissed off that it wasn’t still there waiting for him; that there was always, always a picture book with a lollipop stuck between its pages, or smears of chocolate on the cover.

  And that, at least once a month, someone would come rushing in five minutes before closing and insist they’d only be a moment. That was the stuff of his recurring bookstore dream, the one where he could never close, where customers kept pouring in despite the sign on the door flipped over to show the sleepy owl with its head tucked beneath its wing.

  Here was tonight’s example, the mousy woman slipping in like maybe she wouldn’t set off the bell above the door, stamping her toes to shake off the cold.

  Chaz paused in his sweeping, winding up with a polite-but-pointed Is there something I can help you find? when she turned, and he saw her face.

  “Marian?” He’d met her in the Jackals’ nest the month before, when they’d taken him as collateral. Seemed it was a common theme with them: take someone you care about, force you to do what you’d rather not. In Marian’s case, she was their pocket Sister, fully trained in the Brotherhood’s healing arts, offering her medic services in exchange for her husband’s life.

  “Shh.” She peeked outside, flipped the sign over to Closed, and did a quick stalk across the front of the store, glancing down each aisle, checking the security mirrors. Satisfied they were alone, she came up to where he stood frozen with the broom, unsure whether to hit her with it or to hug her, if she’d even allow that. Her daughter sure as fuck wouldn’t.

  He had no doubt about it now, under Night Owls’ lights: this was Elly’s mother standing in front of him. They had the same shaped face, the same color hair, though Marian’s was shot through with grey. The same dark eyes that never quite trusted. “How did you get here? Did they let you go? Did you run? Those friends I told you about, I can call—”

  “Don’t. Don’t call anyone, you can’t. They c
an’t know I was here.”

  “Who?”

  “The Jackals.” She cast a glance over her shoulder toward the door, as though naming them would summon one.

  A thrill of fear xylophoned down Chaz’ spine. Sure, Marian knew how to fight them, but she worked for them, albeit unwillingly. The last time he’d tried facing one with a broom—this same broom, in fact—he’d ended up in a choke hold with the asshole threatening to put his eye out with a claw. “We have to go,” he said, drawing her farther down the aisle toward the back. “We can go out the back door, and my car’s not too far, if we’re quiet. And fast.” We don’t stand a fucking chance. It wasn’t daylight anymore; the throws Lia had taught him in case he met up with a ghoul would be utterly useless here.

  Marian pulled up short. “They’re not here,” she said. “It’s all right.”

  “I don’t understand. If you got away, and they still have your husband, we can do something about it. We can get my friends and—”

  “Is a girl named Eleanor one of those friends? Eleanor Garrett.” Marian twisted her gloved hands together, and Chaz couldn’t tell which answer she was hoping for. He thought yes and no stood an equal chance of breaking her heart.

  “Elly, yeah,” he said. He took the risk and touched her, fingers brushing the smooth leather covering her knuckles. “I can call her. She’ll come to see you.” Maybe. Probably not if I tell her the truth, but I can get her here. Tell her there’s a Creep sniffing around. She’d kick his ass for lying to her, and probably be right to do it, but God damn it, this was her mother.

  Marian let out a ragged sigh and shook her head. “I’ve met her.”

  “You . . . what?”

  “Today. She didn’t see my face; I don’t think she knows. How could she? For all I know she thinks I’m dead.”

  “No, she doesn’t. I told her about you. That I thought I’d seen her mother when the Creeps had me. And her brother told her you might still be alive.”

  “Brother? She was our only . . .” Her forehead wrinkled the same way Elly’s did when she was puzzling over a statement. “Oh. The boy, Value’s other ward.”

  “Cavale.”

  “Yes. That’s it.” There was something detached about her, maybe the same thing that had let her give up her daughter to keep Hunting. It wasn’t that she didn’t seem to care, but . . . She shook her head, refocusing them both. “No. I don’t want to see her, not now, not under these circumstances. Do you understand?”

  He did and didn’t. Elly would hate the woman for working for the Creeps—that was what Marian meant. But she’s doing it under duress. She’s doing it because they’re holding someone she loves hostage. Problem was, Elly saw the world in black and white when it came to the Creeps. To her, you took as many out as you could before they killed you, end of story. She’ll think her mother’s weak. Chaz exhaled. “I do. I don’t like it, but I do.”

  “Good boy. You have to keep her away from South Boston. From the Stregoi. It’s bad and it’s going to get worse.”

  “I’m getting that impression from what she’s told us. I don’t know that any of us can talk her out of it, though.” Appealing to her emotions wasn’t going to work, he realized. She was as calculating as Elly could be. Probably more. This is tactical for her, whatever she’s doing. “Convince me, Marian. So I can convince her.”

  “There’s a necromancer,” she said. “He’s holed up a town over, it’s why I’m here right now.” She pulled a scrap of notebook paper from her pocket and unfolded it. Taped to the middle was a strand of long blond hair.

  “Is that mine?” He didn’t remember her yanking any hair from his head when they last met, but at that point he’d been kidnapped and had spent the day witnessing some very fucked-up shit. Probably plenty he’d missed. That, and Val said he shed like a dog; she could’ve pulled it from his shirt when his back was turned.

  “Yes. I tracked you with it. I didn’t think you’d be anywhere nearly this close to where he is, but here you are.”

  Funny, how that sort of coincidence keeps popping up. “We know about this necromancer, but not where he is. Can you tell me which house he’s in?”

  “He moves. The house I saw him in today isn’t the house where he’s based, I know that. It was just . . . shelter from the cold. Nothing in it. Anyway it’s not important. What is, is that he’s working for the vampires. And the Jackals. And God only knows who else. He’s selling himself to any bidder, provided they can pay. I don’t know why. And if Elly stays in Southie, she’s going to get caught in the cross fire.” She clutched at him. “It’s all going to boil over and you can’t let her be there for it.”

  Her fingers were bunched in his tee shirt; there was no prying them off. “I’ll do what I can, I swear, but Elly . . . she has a mind of her own. I can’t exactly send her to her room and tell her she’s grounded. And if I tried to restrain her, I’d only end up in traction.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. Was that parental pride he was seeing? “I got that impression this morning.”

  He couldn’t resist one more try. “Maybe you’d be the best one to convince her, then. Let me call her. Let me take you to her and you can explain.”

  “No.” She let him go and folded up the paper with his hair on it. “I’ll find you again when I can.”

  “What if they don’t let you out of their sights after this? After they’re done with the necromancer?” Or after we take him out? he wanted to ask, but he didn’t quite trust her enough not to reveal that to the Creeps, if they found out she’d seen him. And what business do they have with the necromancer, anyway? “What if they find that on you and take it away?”

  Marian patted his cheek. “Not everything needs to be done with magic,” she said, and pointed at the front window. At the big owl that perched on the words NIGHT OWLS. “I’m sure I can find the phone number for the bookstore.”

  * * *

  ELLY WASN’T ANSWERING her phone. Chaz left the third message in five minutes, a simple, “Elly, it’s Chaz, please call me back,” then got in his car and drove to Cavale’s. Maybe she was asleep. Probably was, even. Val had filled him in before his shift started, and she’d mentioned how exhausted Elly’d looked. Probably just out cold, nothing to worry about.

  But those kids, the life they’d lived, their constant vigilance? They’re light goddamned sleepers. I’d put money on it.

  It might have been easier to call ahead to Cavale and have him wake Elly up. Chaz wanted to be there, though, wanted to tell her himself that her mother had come around with the warning. He didn’t know why; it wasn’t like he understood her any better than Cavale did—or anywhere nearly as well as Cavale did, for that matter. I like her. She’s a friend. That’s why.

  He almost hoped the house would be dark, that both their cars would be in the driveway and he could let them sleep awhile longer. Block Elly’s car in, maybe, recline the Mustang’s driver’s seat and take a snooze himself. She could wake him when she wanted to leave.

  When he pulled onto their street, though, the house at the top of the hill was the only one with lights still on, and Elly’s car was gone. Cavale leaned against the porch rail, bundled up and staring off down the other side of the hill. He stayed that way as Chaz pulled in, only flicking his gaze to Chaz because he moved into Cavale’s line of sight.

  “Hey,” he said, and shifted a bit to see past Chaz.

  “Hey. I, uh, I guess Elly’s not home?”

  “No. She went out a couple hours ago.”

  It was the way he bit off the words, how he wouldn’t look directly at Chaz, the outline of his clenched fists in his pockets. “You two had a fight, huh?”

  Now Cavale looked at him. “The fuck do you want, Chaz?” He sounded tired, resigned.

  “Elly’s not answering her phone, so I thought I’d try to catch her in person. Her mom came to Night Owls. She was the Sister
Elly saw at Ivanov’s, and she was down this way talking to our pal the necromancer.” Chaz paused. “How long have you been standing out here, man? Did you see anyone wandering around down there?”

  “I’ve only been out here a few minutes. Needed some air.” He tossed his head to get a lock of hair off his face. Chaz resisted the urge to ask if he was auditioning for shampoo commercials. “Look, I’m sorry. Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  Yep. I’m an asshole. “Yeah, sure.”

  He pretended not to notice the broken dishes in the dustbin as Cavale poured their cups, or the splatter of pasta sauce on the refrigerator door, missed in the cleanup.

  “She’s not answering my calls either,” said Cavale. He straddled a chair across the table from Chaz. “I thought about scrying after her, but I don’t want to crowd her.”

  The coffee was some aggressive roast, dark and bitter and perfect. Chaz let the quiet drag for a couple sips before asking, “Can I ask what you fought about?”

  At first, he thought Cavale was going to clam up. Tell him to finish his coffee and go, or skip the cup-draining part altogether. They were far from the confessing and confiding part of their relationship. “I asked her to quit the job with Ivanov. He’s going to get her killed, and I said so. It . . . didn’t go well.”

  “Well, crap. I was coming her to ask her the same thing. On behalf of her mom. But . . . on behalf of me, too.”

  “No way in hell she’d listen to her mother. But you . . .” Cavale shook his head. “She likes you. You’ve been a good friend to her.”

  “She’s a good kid. I like her, too.” The girl was squirrelly as fuck, but he liked having her around. “What if you scryed out where she is and told me? I can go find her and have a chat.”