by Lyn Benedict
Wales lit the Hand, a single illuminated point of flame streaming out to catch the thumb. Then the flame hopped side to side, until the entire Hand streamed flame toward the ceiling and took the color out of the world, turning everything shade grey, corpse white, rot black. A figure stepped out of Wales’s shadow, a transparent ghost with hollowed eye sockets. Black tears stood out on his cheeks, etched in ink, vivid against the ghost flesh.
“This is Marco,” Wales said. “He was hanged in his cell five years ago, his hand cut off, his spirit enslaved. I didn’t ask for it. Neither did he.” “Who would?” Demalion asked, revulsion in his voice.
“You’d be surprised,” Wales said. “Some old-time thieving families planned on it—a legacy for their kids.”
Demalion shuddered; in the ghost light cast by the Hand, Demalion’s skin—pale-washed and shimmering—echoed the shudder, one step out of rhythm, one moment too late. Wright’s spirit, clinging fast to his body, Sylvie thought, and feeling the horror a single beat behind.
“Fascinating,” Sylvie said. “I don’t care about the history. What about the rest of your collection? I count eighteen Hands here, Ghoul. You didn’t ask for them either? They just . . . came to you?”
“Same situation. Different names. I took them away from those who made ’em. They might have been felons, bad men while alive, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to be sentenced and bound to a prison after their death. Our government thought they did. I disagreed. I won.”
“The ISI did this?” Sylvie asked. She shot an accusing glance at Demalion, forgetting for a heartbeat of time that he was no longer her rival, and dead besides. Seeing Wright’s body instead of Demalion’s felt like a jolt of electricity.
“CIA and Texas jailers. ISI’s real? The secret Secret Agency? I thought they were propagan—” Wales followed her gaze, frowned at Demalion. “Are you a spook, spook? There’s something off about you.” He squinted closer, his ghostly companion whispered in his ear, and Wales’s expression got tight. “You’ve got a ghost of your own bound to you. You’re haunted.”
“Never mind about him,” Sylvie said. Wales’s attention refused to be drawn away. A hobbyist faced with a new species, he wasn’t about to let Demalion’s puzzle remain unsolved.
“There’s lots of types of ghosts,” the Ghoul said absently. “Shouldn’t be surprising. Dead will always outnumber the living, after all.” He circled Demalion, Marco following him like a pale shadow. “But I’ve found they fall into three categories: intangibles, tangibles, and takeovers.”
“Can we spare the lecture for some time when I’m not holding a body part?” Sylvie asked. Now that she’d seen Marco, she kept getting nervy twitches of realizing there was a ghost attached to the Hand of Glory she held also—unseen, inactive, but there.
Wales ignored her, still pacing circles around Demalion, his narrow face abstracted, Marco his faithful shadow. “Intangibles,” he said. “Common as dirt. Covers ghosts who are images on repeat, voices in the dark, cold spots, apparitions. Common, easily dismissed. No big deal. They barely recognize us at all.”
He stroked through the air near Demalion’s face, and Demalion and Wright’s pale shade shied away.
“Tangibles, on the other hand . . . well, they’re tangibles. Where the trouble starts. They can see us, and they can touch us. Poltergeists throwing lamps, things that alter the world—houses that run blood out of electrical sockets, that kinda thing—and ghostly servants like the Hands of Glory, who open doors and attack witnesses.” He broke off, which was all to the good, Sylvie thought, since her flesh was beginning to crawl. She knew the dead shouldn’t interact with the living; she didn’t need a list of how many ways they could.
Wales stared at Demalion, suspicion in his eyes. “Did you kill him? Is that why you’ve got his ghost stuck to your skin like a burr?”
“No,” Demalion said.
“The third type?” Sylvie said. She didn’t like Wales’s attention on Demalion, on Wright. Didn’t like the anticipatory look on Marco’s ghostly face that suggested Wales might sic Marco on them if he felt inclined. She itched for her gun, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wished she could just force the words out of his throat. She’d been a fool to let Wales light that Hand; he’d gained control the moment he did.
Wales studied her a moment; he knew she wanted to divert his attention, and he turned back to Demalion with a flicker of a smile. “Takeovers. Rare. Deadly. Liches, dead spirits yoked to living flesh, created by magic, sent out as assassins. Possessing spirits—the desperate dead who’ll steal your flesh for their own—”
He looked at Demalion again, studied Wright’s pale overlay, and stiffened. “That’s not your body. You’re not the haunted. You’re the haunt.”
Demalion growled, “I don’t think you’ve got the moral grounds to complain. I’m sharing this body. Temporarily. You’ve got a roomful of trapped spirits.”
“Possessing spirits,” Wales said, “are dangerous and delusional. There’s no reasoning with ’em, no matter how sweet they talk.”
Demalion stared steadily back at him. “You’re wrong.”
“Hard words from a necromancer,” Sylvie said. “And I don’t recall asking your opinion.”
“You came to me,” Wales said. “I’m telling you things—”
“No,” Sylvie said. “You’re making us a part of things. You’re flaunting your powers, your unnatural ally, and you’re making judgment calls you’re not qualified to make. And you’re still the most likely suspect I’ve got for passing out Hands of Glory to teenagers.”
“I wouldn’t,” Wales said, shifting to defensiveness. “I’m not a necromancer. I’m a researcher, a . . . curator, at worst.”
“A curator with a booming gift shop.”
“Damn you, no!” he snapped. Marco drifted forward, stood before her with a considering expression. He leaned closer, and his lips moved, showed teeth as grey as needles; cold air bloomed and faded on her skin. I killed bitches like you. The words crystallized in her mind, bypassing her ears entirely, as icy cold as his presence.
The little dark voice roared through her, Never like me.
Marco retreated like an icy fog, leaning into Wales’s side once more.
Sylvie didn’t like that at all; it argued a symbiosis between the living and the dead, made Wales more dangerous, made her look at all the Hands dangling stiffly and imagine their ghosts active and malevolent.
She and Wales studied each other a long moment, and Wales caved first. “I wanted you to see behind the Hands. So you’d understand. But if you care so little for words—” He strode to the door, opened it in a clatter of locks, and Marco slid into the hallway like killing frost. Sylvie jerked to her feet. “What are you—”
“Better look, or I’ll have to send him out twice,” the Ghoul said, his expression bleak. “The guy in 2C comes home every night this time, comes home to count the cash he took off of people at gunpoint. I take the cash from him when I can. I don’t live in luxury, but still, I’ve got expenses.”
Demalion said, “You can’t—”
Wales overrode Demalion’s complaint, and Sylvie heard the faint footfalls weaving up the stairs between the junk. She opened her mouth, but had nothing to say—call out a warning to an armed man who’d probably shoot first? Ask Wales nicely not to do . . . whatever it was he was doing? She didn’t even have the vocabulary for that.
“When I light the Hand, I direct the ghost’s action, but he gets paid, too.”
The robber stepped into the second-floor hallway, a machine pistol tucked precariously into his belt, and Marco swarmed him. Even as the man fell, Marco leaned in like a vampire, pulling at the falling man’s chest.
“When the Hands put you down,” Wales continued inexorably, “it’s nothing so benign as sleep. It’s a type of shock. It’s what happens when a ghost takes a bite of your soul.”
17
The Hard Lesson
“NOW THAT YOU SEE, NOW THAT YOU KNOW . .
. TELL ME, SHADOWS. Do I look like the kind of man who would perpetuate slavery and soul shock? Do I look like I’d pass Hands out to teenagers?”
Sylvie studied Wales, the grubby little room filled with dead men’s Hands, the way the ghost, Marco, slunk back beside him, the hellish light the Hand gave off, the tightly drawn fear on Wright’s face—Demalion’s mind—and let loose. “You just fed your . . . pet a soul snack. Hell yes, you look the type.”
Wales actually had the audacity to look bewildered, flustered. He sputtered, “No, no. That was just for illustration! So you’d see . . . and he’s no good anyway, a real bad guy—”
Sylvie shrugged that off—she and Demalion were too jaded to be able to argue that point effectively—and said, “Well, we’re not. Soul shock and slavery, and you thought it was a good idea to take us down instead of just answering your door. Thought it was great idea to expose us a second time?”
Demalion’s breath seemed loud and rasping, as if he’d caught the rhythm of her stuttering heart. The room felt tight and close, dusty with the scent of mummified flesh. She felt choked on it, on her rage. Zoe had gone to someone like this. Walked into a room stinking of black magic and taken home a souvenir. Put her soul at risk for the promise of cold hard cash.
Wales stiffened; his lanky shape grew more angular. “You came to my door, gun drawn. I was justified. I do what I have to, to survive. You’re no different. Neither’s your dead friend there. I might feed Marco on occasion, but I don’t body snatch for him. I’ve got the moral high ground here, Shadows.”
She hissed in a breath, and Demalion said, “Sylvie,” again. Not a plea this time, but a flat-out command not to pick a fight, not to be herself.
“Prove it,” she said, instead. Her voice was rough, hostile, but it wasn’t a shout. “If you’ve got the moral high ground, offer me your help.” Her fingers tightened on the wrist stump of the Hand she held, nails digging into the flesh. Disgusting and gruesome, but the only outlet she could allow herself.
She didn’t trust him, but like Val, he seemed more than willing to talk about magic, feed her information she needed. While she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it, he could have hurt them; hell, just leaving them passed out in this part of the city would have been a form of passive murder. Instead, he’d brought them in, bound them gently, wakened them with a potion whose contents he willingly listed.
Those actions were discouraging, created doubt in her breast. Wales might be telling her the simple truth. He wasn’t the one passing Hands out to kids. And if that were so, if he were the guardian he claimed to be . . .
“We need your help.”
That shocked Wales rigid in a way all her previous bluster and rage hadn’t. He sidled away from her, all nerves now, no poise. “I don’t get involved with other people’s problems. Not anymore.”
“Sometimes you don’t get a choice,” she said. When his pale face went as ashy as Marco’s ghostly one, she gestured with the Hand she held. “What? You thought you’d show me a little dark magic, and I’d be ready to flee? You’re going to help us. You say you’re not the problem here? Not the necromancer I’m hunting? Fine. Then you’re the help I need.”
Demalion said, “Shadows is a black-and-white woman. You’re either part of the problem or part of the solution. I’ve been on both sides with her. It was better on the solution side.”
That made her heart hurt. The solution side had gotten him killed. But he met her eyes squarely and nodded once. A knot that had tied itself around her heart eased: Like her, Demalion would have done nothing different. Relief made her sound friendlier than she felt when she said, “Helping us out would go a long, long way to making me forget that you just sicced your ghost on your neighbor. As an illustration.”
He sighed. “What d’y’all want, then?” Wales asked. He hunched a shoulder, turned his head away from Marco’s whispers.
“First? Put your buddy Marco back in the box or wherever he goes when he’s not looming over you. I’m getting a cramp holding on to Thing here.” She had about reached her limit for grossness, was one step from her fingers betraying her and dropping the loathsome thing.
Marco scowled, but Wales only nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” He carried Marco’s Hand past them, Sylvie and Demalion pivoting to keep watch. Wales puttered about the open kitchen—really not the nesting sort, Sylvie thought; his kitchen consisted of a cardboard box that looked suspiciously full of cereal cartons, a battered cooler, and a spray bottle beside the sink.
The spray bottle yielded a fine, stinking mist that sizzled and spat as it made contact with the Hand of Glory. The hellish flames sank back to a sullen glow, then went out.
Marco disappeared like a screen projection shut off. Wales set the bottle down, the Hand, and refilled the bottle with a carton of milk from the cooler. Farm Stores brand, she noted absently. That fitted. Somehow she had a hard time imagining Wales walking down brightly lit Winn-Dixie aisles, all twitchy-eyed, with a Hand in his wallet pocket.
“Milk douses the flame,” he said.
“So you’ve said. Nature versus unnature.”
“Birth and death,” Demalion contributed, tag-teaming.
“You’re stalling,” Sylvie concluded.
He blotted Marco’s Hand against his shirt, pocketed it again. Sylvie felt her lip curl, her fingers uncurl, letting the Hand she’d held drop to the floor.
“If you let go while it’s active,” she said, “what happens?”
“Marco knocks me out and eats my soul. Not a nibble, the whole damn thing. Like any slave, he’ll turn on his owner if given the chance.” Wales cocked his head in thought, then added, “Well, maybe Marco wouldn’t. We’ve been through a lot together.”
Sylvie scrubbed her fingers down her jeans repeatedly. Demalion was doing the same.
“Soap?” she asked.
“No running water,” Wales said. “There are Handi Wipes under the sink if you’re squeamish. They’re pretty inert, bacteria-wise, you know.”
“No, I don’t.” Sylvie shifted farther away from the dangling Hands. “That’s why we came to you.”
Wales hesitated. “I’m confused. I assumed you wanted me to find your ghost friend a body of his own.”
“Can you?” Demalion asked.
“No!” Wales said.
Sylvie didn’t like Demalion’s eagerness, said, “Yeah, like even if that was our plan”—and hey, it was the first thought that ended with both Wright and Demalion alive—“we could trust you. We came to do a show-and-tell with Hands of Glory.” She sought out the promised wipes and scoured her fingers; fake floral-scented alcohol had never smelled so good. She tossed the container to Demalion, and he did likewise.
“I’ve shown, I’ve told. You’re still here.” He shifted his hands, crossed his arms above his chest, uncrossed them, hooked fingers into his pockets, shifted again, visibly restraining himself from seeking out Marco’s Hand in some bizarre comfort.
“Not your Hands, our Hands . . . My briefcase. Where’s my briefcase?” It had slipped her mind entirely; surrounded by Hands of Glory, she hadn’t missed the two she’d brought to this party.
“In the hall,” he said. “I didn’t want to mess with it. It looked iffy.”
“Iffy,” she muttered. She took three giant steps—all it took to cross the small living room—griping the whole time. “I’ll tell you what’s iffy. Your future if it’s gone.”
“Sylvie,” Demalion said. “Take a breath.”
“What, you’re on his side? He thinks you’re a squatter looking to move in permanently.”
“How about we all play on the same side?” Demalion asked, but without a lot of hope. He seemed tired, still resting in the chair where he had been bound as if his bones were too heavy to let him rise. Sylvie took another glance, thought he looked grey in Wright’s skin, and shut up. She wondered how long Demalion could hold on to the body—this was the longest she’d seen him manage—wondered if Wright was fighting to recover it.
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The front door was crusted with locks—three dead bolts, two chains, all no doubt illegally installed, all sticky with salt-milk brushed over them. The walls, up close, shimmered with a salt wash. She supposed it was hard to lock up properly when you had a roomful of tools designed to open locks.
The last chain slithered free, and she jerked the door open, annoyed when it came at her so fast she nearly clocked herself. All those locks and the door was cheap-ass hollow-core. Made her edgy, especially with 2C still lying sprawled in the hallway. Wales was courting disaster. Magic wasn’t proof against bullets.
The briefcase was still there in the gloom—battered duct tape, the scarf stuffed in between silvery tape, the lumpy crust of salt seeping free, the smell, rotten milk—Sylvie paused in collecting it, her thoughts veering. Zoe’s Hand had been soaked in milk. Zoe wasn’t as clueless as Bella. Hell, Zoe wasn’t as clueless as Sylvie had been. Sylvie wasn’t sure whether this was good or bad. Good, because it meant Zoe was less likely to be affected than Bella. Not soul sick. Bad, because Zoe’s messing with magic made Sylvie’s teeth hurt.
She dragged the briefcase into the room, breaking the staring contest Wales and Demalion were having, and slapped it down on the counter. “Someone is selling Hands of Glory, and there are a group of teenagers using them to play burglar. If it’s not you, then who?”
“Probably no one,” Wales said. “There aren’t a lot of necromancers in Miami. Think it’s the heat. Bodies rot too fast to be used for anything but a splash-and-dash kinda spell.” At Sylvie’s frown, he said, “Uh, splash and dash is a blood harvesting and summoning; happens fast and—”
“I know what it is,” Sylvie snapped. “You’re telling me you think the kids just developed the ability spontaneously? I don’t think so.”
Demalion frowned, started to say something, but shivered instead, fell back into silence.
“Look,” Wales said. “They’re teenagers. They don’t have any access to the real thing, and a lot of little bodegas sell knockoffs, guaranteed gross, but harmless. I think they’re dog paws, partially defleshed.”
