by Gary Jonas
I looked at the grooves and kept my distance.
“You ready to see her brother?” Martin asked.
“Let me guess,” I said. “More of the same?”
“Exactly.”
“I don't need to see him, then.”
“We tried killing her,” Martin said. “If you look closely, you'll see she doesn't have a heart. One of the orderlies stabbed her trying to end her misery.”
“Decapitation,” I said.
“We tried that with her brother,” he said. “The body kept going, and the head too. The head can't speak, but it can sure give you some fucked-up expressions.”
“Necromancer,” I said. “Strong one.”
“She's still suffering,” Esther said. “It's not right. I can't stay here.” Esther backed out of the room.
“We tried burning them,” Stuart said.
“We tried scrambling up the brains,” Martin said.
“We tried electroshock to burn out the brains,” Dr. Anderson said.
“Ultimately, we tried caring for them,” Martin said.
“By strapping them into some Clive Barker contraption?” I asked.
“They killed four orderlies and two doctors.”
“This is a safety precaution,” Dr. Anderson said.
I couldn't take my eyes off Juanita. No one should have to endure such pain and anguish. She had her own private corner of Hell, and as a spectator, I felt a blend of horror, revulsion, and fascination. How could she even exist? I tore my gaze away and shoved past Dr. Anderson and Stuart to get out of that room.
They joined me in the hallway. Esther looked stunned.
“You all right?” I asked her.
“No.”
“Same here,” I said.
Stuart touched my shoulder and got blood on his fingers. He licked them clean and smiled. “You taste good for someone who doesn't exist.”
“You keep saying that,” Dr. Anderson said.
“I told you, he's the only one who can stop this,” Stuart said. “Him and his friends.”
“It's just me and Esther now,” I said.
“Can you stop it? We'll all help any way we can.”
“The necromancer is killing people,” I said.
“Those are the lucky ones,” Stuart said.
“After seeing Juanita, I have to agree.”
“So what are you going to do?” Stuart asked.
“I wish I knew,” I said.
“But we're counting on you!”
“You set it free,” Martin said. “You need to stop it, and you'd better act soon because every damn day it's getting stronger.”
“Everybody be quiet,” I said. “I need to think.” I paced the hallway. “Okay, first question. Who cast the spell on the lock?”
“Dr. Fletcher brought someone in for that.”
“And where is Dr. Fletcher?” I asked.
“Dead,” Martin said. “He died of cancer back in 1989. His wife died of a heart attack two years later. His sons both worked in the World Trade Center, and died on 9/11.”
I thought back to the picture in Dr. Fletcher's office. “And his daughter?”
“So far as I know, she's still alive. Married an architect back in 2010. Ain't seen her since then.”
“All right, who else can help? You asked about a Dr. Cooper first time I was here.”
“Dr. Cooper is a ghost.”
“I haven't seen any normal ghosts in here. If he were here, I'd see him.”
“That's the problem,” Martin said. “We ain't seen him in weeks.”
“He used to check on the demon,” Dr. Anderson said.
“Necromancer,” I said.
“Same difference.”
Esther moved close to me. “Can necromancers hurt ghosts?” she asked.
“If they're powerful enough, sure.”
“He's powerful,” Dr. Anderson said.
“Maybe I should wait at the hotel,” Esther said.
“Do any of you have cell phones?” I asked.
“We all do.”
I laughed. “Sorry, I'm thinking of you as being from the seventies.”
“We left part of ourselves here to guard the place,” Dr. Anderson said, “but we're still in the real world too. Dr. Fletcher paid some man who claimed to work with wizards to cast the spell, and let me tell you, it wasn’t cheap.”
That told me they’d hired DGI to handle it. “All right,” I said and gave them my cell number. “Someone needs to stay here. You can work in shifts standing guard. If the necromancer comes back here, you call me.”
“What are you going to do?” Stuart asked.
“I'm going to try and recruit some help.”
***
Dragon Gate Industries had their offices at One Penn Plaza in Manhattan. I'd been there a few times because my older sister worked there. I had no clue if she worked there now, but if so, I did not want to see her. Still, I knew that if I wanted to hire anyone at DGI, I'd have to show up in person.
I grabbed a coffee at Starbucks and headed to the elevator banks that led to floors fourteen through twenty-three. Even in Manhattan, most buildings didn't have an official thirteenth floor, and at One Penn Plaza, the elevator banks skipped both the twelfth and thirteenth floors.
Esther was back at the hotel because I didn't want to have to explain a loose ghost who could travel anywhere she wanted. The folks at DGI might be suspicious of that. It was bad enough for me to put in a personal appearance, but unless they attacked me, I could pass for a normal man of wealth and sophistication. Well, at least a man of wealth.
Clad in my best Armani suit, I stepped into the elevator car. I admired the marble walls, the mirrored ceiling with the circular lights, and the two rows of numbers beginning with one then skipping to fourteen. I noted that there was no emergency phone in the cab, and that meant the good folks at DGI had spells set to prevent any undesirables from reaching their floor, and the spells would keep the elevators operational even when the mechanics failed. It might appear to an observer to be a standard traction elevator of the Westinghouse variety, but it was far superior.
I pressed the button for the twenty-third floor. The doors closed, and the elevator began to rise. As soon as the XX lit up on the floor display, I pressed the buttons for fourteen and one simultaneously. Both buttons lit up. Then I hit the button for fourteen again followed by the one. That told the elevator that it needed to stop on the thirteenth floor. As long as DGI wasn't in full stealth mode, the doors would open for me. If they were not accepting clients, I'd be deposited on the fourteenth floor and would have to find another way down a level.
Fortune smiled on me, and the lights for one and fourteen went out as the doors opened on the thirteenth floor. I stepped out into the bank of elevators with their older Westinghouse lanterns glowing on the walls and let the doors close behind me. The elevator continued to the twenty-third floor while I walked across the narrow hallway to the glass doors leading to Dragon Gate Industries, Manhattan Office.
A lovely woman with short red hair sat at the reception desk, which was more of a tall counter. The entire office was enclosed in mirrors. There were no chairs or sofas for people to wait. No little tables with magazines. It was simply a small office designed to reflect your image back to you from all directions. Oddly, the receptionist did not cast a reflection. I didn't believe in vampires, so I had no explanation.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the receptionist said. “Welcome to DGI.”
I approached her with a smile. “Thank you. I'd like to see someone about creating a spell to disperse a necromancer.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Alas, no. Can you find it in your heart to overlook that small detail?”
Her smile didn't waver. She was all about customer service, and to get to this floor, you had to know what you were doing. The cut of my suit didn't hurt. I glanced at the mirrored walls to see myself standing in front of the tall counter desk. As I moved, my reflecti
on shimmered into infinite images then settled back to one per mirror.
“Is there an engineer in particular you'd prefer to handle the project?” she asked.
“Can you make a recommendation?”
“Monica Chastain would be your best choice.”
Well, no, that was not my best choice. “I've heard very good things about her, but I wouldn't want to waste her precious time on a matter this small.”
“Perhaps you can provide me with a few details, Mr. . . .” She waited for me to give her a name.
“Easton,” I said.
“Very well, Mr. Easton. When you say ‘disperse a necromancer,’ that can mean two things. Either you've got a powerful ghost who still retains the abilities of its previous life, or you've got a living person who can control the dead, right down to returning them to life. I wouldn't rate either of those as a small matter. I would think a man of your stature would want to hire the best.”
“What's your name?” I asked.
“Stacey Fitzpatrick,” she said.
I leaned across the counter and motioned for her to lean closer. Then I whispered, “Stacey, I have some history with Ms. Chastain. Let's just say emotions ran deep and leave it at that.” I gave her a wink.
She nodded, clearly thinking it was sexual.
“Discretion would be good,” I said and nodded back.
“In that case, you may want to meet with Brenda Slaughter.”
“I like her last name.”
“Let me see if she's available for a consultation.” Stacey picked up her phone and dialed an extension. A moment later she said, “Hi Brenda, do you have a moment to meet with a client?” Stacey nodded a few times, gave a few “Mmm hmm,” sounds and finally said, “Excellent. I'll send him in.”
Stacey motioned with her right hand toward a mirror on my left. It rotated outward in a semicircle to reveal a hallway to the various offices within the firm.
“Brenda is in room 1327. Down the hall to your left. You can't miss it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Any time.”
As I stepped through the door to the hallway, a light washed over me and a buzzer sounded.
I turned back and Stacey was already right behind me.
“Whoa,” I said. “You're a fast one.”
“I'm very sorry, Mr. Easton, but we can't allow weapons beyond this point.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”
She held out her hands.
I gave her my Glock.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Not at the moment,” I said.
“Come back through, Mr. Easton.”
I stepped back and the light bathed me again, but no buzzers sounded.
“You may proceed,” she said.
I stepped through again, and the light flashed me a third time. No more sounds. I strode down the hall, which was mirrored from floor to ceiling. The floors and ceilings were mirrors as well. I watched my image grow larger as I walked to the end of the hall. A red light flared to warn me the hallway was ending. I turned left. One office halfway down the corridor of mirrors stood open.
I walked to it, watching my image reflected around me. As I neared the door, the number 1327 appeared as though it had been watermarked into the door. If you weren't welcome in one of these offices, you'd never know where it was. Without the red warning light at the end of the hall, you might walk right into your reflection. To say the place was disorienting did not give it enough credit.
A lovely black woman stood as I entered the office. She wore a light blue dress with a leather belt at her waist. “Welcome, Mr. Easton. I'm Brenda Slaughter. Please, take a seat.” She gestured to a leather chair in front of her large desk. The desk held a telephone and a new computer. The large screen glowed. She touched a point on the screen, and it went dark.
“It's nice to meet you,” I said and extended my hand.
She did not shake. Instead, she gestured toward the chair.
“Okay,” I said, lowering my hand. I sat down.
“Please accept my apologies,” she said. “I'm not wearing my gloves, and I won't touch anyone without them.”
“I washed my hands,” I said.
“I'm sure you did, but without my gloves, my touch turns living flesh to stone.”
“I can see where that might be problematic.”
“Before we discuss any services you may require, I'll need a retainer.”
“Of course,” I said. DGI provided magical services, yes, but they didn't do anything for free unless their asses were on the line. “I'd be happy to transfer funds to any account you choose.”
Brenda shook her head. “As you didn't have an appointment, the retainer must be cash.”
I took out my billfold and removed ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Good thing I hit the bank this week,” I said. I handed the bills to her.
She leaned over, opened a drawer, and stuck the bills in her purse. The retainer was hers just for taking the meeting.
“Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Easton?”
I gave her the CliffsNotes version. When I finished, she frowned.
“Let me see your shoulder,” she said and pulled a pair of white gloves from her purse.
I stood, removed my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, and peeled it back to show her the bandage. Blood had seeped through it and stained my shirt.
She pulled on her gloves and removed the bandage. When she leaned closer to look at the scratch, I could smell her perfume. The aroma alone was intoxicating, but I felt something else wash over me. There was magic in that perfume as well. It didn't affect me. Was it some sort of truth spell? She examined the scratch then met my eyes. She stood closer than necessary.
“That's quite a scratch,” she said, her voice soft.
“I've had worse,” I said. I was uncomfortable with her standing so close to me. I wanted to put my arms around her, but that would be inappropriate, so I tried to step backward, which made me sit down in the chair.
She smiled. “Do you find me attractive?” she asked, running a finger along the lapel of her dress.
“What does that have to do with the job?” I asked.
She knelt before me, leaned close. She brought her lips within inches of my own and stared into my eyes. “Do you want to kiss me?”
“I feel halfway stoned just being close to you,” I said. “If I kiss you, I'll be rock hard. I mean, I'll be a rock.”
She laughed. “What makes you think my kiss will turn you to stone?”
“Um,” I said, squirming. “I'm here to hire you, not to make love with you.”
She planted her lips on mine and kissed me hard. Her tongue darted between my lips, and I couldn't help myself. I kissed her back.
She pulled away from me, slapped me across the face, and punched a button on the phone. “Monica, you were right. It's your brother.”
“What the hell?” I asked.
“You should be a statue made of stone right now,” Brenda said.
“What does that have to do with anything? I just want to hire you.”
A voice sounded behind me.
“You've been a bad, bad boy, little brother.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My older sister left home when she turned eighteen. I'd seen her four times since that day back in 1988. First was at our mother's funeral in 1993, where our little sister, Janey, slit her wrists in the cemetery, and Monica was the one who found and saved her. Monica didn't bother to return for my father's funeral in 1995; she claimed she was out of the country. Janey and I moved in with our strange uncle, Arthur Shade, Jr. He was so busy with his magic that watching over Janey was my responsibility.
Janey was in and out of mental institutions, and finally killed herself in ’98. Monica blamed me and, after coming back for the funeral, said she never wanted to see me again.
In 2001, after 9/11, I made a trip to New York because Monica was family, and I had to make sure she was all right. We got along be
tter that time. We were both a little older, and with the nation reeling from the tragedy, we took comfort where we could find it. Family ties and all that.
In 2005 I made another trip to New York because I needed a job, and my sister worked for the Manhattan branch of DGI. I figured she could get me a position. She chose not to hire me, saying she didn't feel I'd be reliable, so I went back to Denver. That was just as well because a few months later, I met and saved Kelly from the asshole wizards at the Denver branch of DGI.
When I turned to face my sister, all those memories rushed through my mind. I always felt like I was never good enough for Monica. I told myself I didn't care, but when I saw her face, I knew I'd been lying to myself.
Monica stood five-foot-eight and wore a gray business suit with a white blouse. A silver ankh necklace hung around her throat, and she'd let her hair go slightly salt-and-pepper over the years. She was forty-five, but she looked fifty-five, and I knew it was by choice.
“Define ‘bad,’ Monica,” I said.
“Space-time continuum bad,” she said. “Your friend Kelly called to tell me you died back in ’07. Then a few weeks ago, some of the wizards here reported what they called an 'event,' for lack of a better word. Imagine my surprise when we commandeered security cameras in a Manhattan skyscraper to see you, Kelly, some model, and a ghost hanging out in an office right before business hours.”
“Nice of you to send a card,” I said.
“Oh, I attended your funeral. I examined your body to make sure you were dead. Seems to me you have some ’splaining to do.”
I leaned back in the chair and gave her a grin. “Hell spit me out,” I said.
“Still immune, I see.”
I knew she meant to magic so I nodded.
Brenda leaned against her desk. “He should be a man of stone right now,” Brenda said.
“Direct magic is useless on him,” Monica said. “You have to go indirect.” She made a motion, and a pen rose from the desk and shot at me. Before I could lean to the side, the pen lodged itself into my already injured shoulder. Monica's aim was magical, so the pen stabbed me right where I'd been scratched.
“Ouch,” Brenda said.
It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I didn't flinch. I reached up, plucked the pen from my flesh, and tossed it back to the desk. “I love you too,” I said.
