“You want to know if something mystical is going on?” I asked, proud of how strong and unaffected my voice sounded. Hamilton cleared his throat and went back to his notes.
“Yes,” he said, one word answer, clipped and precise. We were going to ignore what just occurred. I was relieved.
“The woman was cut up pretty badly. I didn’t look real close. Was something taken?”
Hamilton looked at me with an arched brow, back into suspicious cop mode. “Her heart.”
I shuddered at the thought that she might still have been alive while she was carved open. The killer would have had to be really quick to not only remove the heart but get it into some kind of container and get away. I hadn’t seen anyone else when I had approached the alley, and it had taken me less than ten minutes to follow the scream to its source.
“I don’t do black magic,” I said, as if he needed that confirmed. “But I know the signs. Removing something vital like that, it’s not for something good. Anything that requires the death of another person to be a success is not good.”
“What can it be used for?”
I shrugged my shoulder, delicately leaning my head against the seat rest.
“As I said, I don’t touch the stuff so I don’t know specifics, but I can do the research if you like. I’m likely to get more answers then you will if you try to petition the Council for the information.”
The Council of Wizards did not like sharing their knowledge of any kind of magic with normals, especially knowledge of black magic, because that admitted, on a more public level, that some wizard at sometime had dabbled in it or studied it. They preferred people to believe that all dark magic was the work of demons and other evil, non-human entities. Hamilton nodded as if he understood that.
“What about multiple hearts?”
I sat up in my seat and stared at him. His posture stiffened also; he didn’t like that his question had put me on point like some kind of bloodhound.
“Why would you ask that? Have there been more attacks like this?”
He didn’t answer me. He just flipped through his notes. I thought furiously. If this was not the first victim, why hadn’t they called me in if they suspected a mystical connection? Then it dawned on me: Hamilton was trying to keep this case out of Rourke’s grubby hands. It was exactly the kind of case she would try to snake: high profile, likely to get her noticed and out of the hell she considered PCU to be. Being transferred to the Preternatural Crime Unit was like a death sentence for a police career, or at least that was the way most people saw it. Hamilton coughed, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“Who’s the woman? Do you know her?”
Once again it was time for me to edit the truth a little, although technically I hadn’t really known her.
“I think I saw her at the event we were at. She should have ID or something in her purse.”
“Her bag is missing.”
That was odd. If this were an ordinary killer I might have said he/she had taken the purse as a trophy but they already had a trophy in the heart. The purse had been nice, Gucci or Prada, I thought. It had resale value.
“Think whoever attacked her took it? It would fetch a nice price, but I wouldn’t ever deem this a robbery gone wrong.”
He nodded along with my words.
“The purse would have been a bonus, but it means she’ll have to go down as a Jane Doe until we know…”
“Estelle Gray, she was twenty nine.”
We turned to look at Incarra. She was standing at the mouth of the alley, her eyes set as if she saw something that we couldn’t. Hamilton opened his mouth; I put my fingers up to his lips to keep him silent, then approached my friend.
“Incarra. What do you see?”
“Her,” she said, pointing to the body in the alley. “She’s walking around, watching everything; she’s sad and very angry.”
I put my hand on her shoulder, and she shivered as I used my magic to look out through her eyes. A woman was walking back and forth behind the police gathered around her body, her shirt open, bra torn, a large stab wound to her chest. I sighed a little with relief that the first blow had killed her: she hadn’t felt her heart being ripped out.
It wasn’t like seeing a full living color version; she was pale, almost translucent, and tinged with a blue, liquid look. She was frozen in the moment of her death, so her hair was a mess and she had on only one shoe; she walked around sort of hobbling because of the height difference.
I retreated from Incarra’s mind and took a physical step back. Incarra rounded on me, her eyes wide and full of questions.
“Cassie, what the hell? Why can I see that?”
I bit my lip. “Because you’re an ectomancer,” I said softly, wishing it wasn’t true. It was my fault: she was a sensitive, and I’d brought her into a world where that could trigger a latent psychic talent. Ectomancy wasn’t a popular psychic gift. A lot of ectomancers were drawn from that to necromancy. If they could already see and hear the dead, why not learn to control them?
Vampires in particular hated ectomancers because of their potential to become necromancers—the only beings I’d ever heard of who could control every type of walking dead, including vampires.
Chapter Seven
Having to explain the basic properties of ectomancy to both my friend and a homicide detective had not been the end to the evening I had planned. I was trying to do it in the quietest voice possible, in case there was anyone eavesdropping on us. I wanted to get Incarra back to the normal side as soon as I possibly could, get her away from all this. I drew Hamilton off to the side while Incarra sat deep in thought in the open side of his car, digesting everything.
“So, let me see if I’m understanding this right. Your friend can see ghosts?”
“That’s the long and short of it.”
“Ghosts are all walking around us?”
“Not so much, you get your three basic types of spirits. The passed over, those who die without regrets, pass straight over into whatever lies beyond this. Then you get the ones who die but have unfinished business; they wander from place to place, usually connected to somebody. Those are the ones that bother ectomancers the most. The last kind is like this, those that die a violent death. They are trapped in the place of their death until they are avenged or they give it up and cross over.”
Hamilton looked confused.
“They get another chance to cross over after missing it the first time?”
“From what I’ve read, once a year on the anniversary of their death. Ectomancers can learn to cross them over before then, using their psychic ability to create a bridge, but the spirit has to be willing. Forcing a spirit to cross can be done, but it’s dangerous.”
I chewed on my bottom lip; I didn’t want to tell him how horrible. I had read of a case where trying to force a spirit to cross had ruptured blood vessels in the ectomancer’s brain and still left the spirit wandering around.
“Is it dangerous to leave her wandering about here?”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Yeah.”
“About a three. She died violently and scared. She might eventually be able to channel the strength of those emotions into the ability to affect the mortal world.”
“Like a poltergeist, right?”
I smiled at Hamilton, nodding; I was a little proud because it sounded like he had bothered to do some reading on the supernatural world.
“Yes, which usually merits between a five and a ten; but because of the location, there is very little damage she could do. Might spook a few people if she learns to create cold spots, vague feelings of unease, might start to be able to move things. It’s ghosts in large population centers, where there are lots of nasty objects to been thrown or thrown into, that you get problems.”
There was one such place in Worcester, Bell Square, in what used to be part of the shopping center. A gunman had started shooting people, going into a killing frenzy in reaction to the supernatural emerge
nce into main stream society. The spirit of the murderer trapped all those spirits of his victims with him, stopped them from crossing, and could violently attack anyone who went near the black pear tree that had grown up from the site of his suicide. It was boarded up to keep people out because it was dangerous; the spirit drew you to eat the fruit of the tree. It was like in the Garden of Eden, the serpent calling Eve to eat the forbidden fruit and the knowledge it poisoned her mind with—the only difference was, the black pears literally poisoned you.
“Can your friend give us any more information?”
“She’s given what you need to officially identify her and inform next of kin. Apart from that, I don’t think she can help you, and I don’t even know if the spirit will. Death can be confusing and facts get blurred.”
“Cass,” called Incarra. I turned to look at her. She was staring at me, and she looked a little like she was going to go into shock. I raised a finger to let her know I would be one minute more before turning my gaze back to Hamilton.
“I should take her home. This has been a big shock to her too.”
“All right,” he said, flicking through his notes and shaking his head like he was arguing with himself. “Can I come to your office and talk to you more tomorrow?”
I took out my phone and made a big show of looking at my schedule. I was in fact clear for most of the night, but you never let anyone see that you’re lacking for business.
“I think I could squeeze you in at about eight.”
“A.m.?”
“P.m. Is that all right for you?”
I waited while he thought about it, then added a note to my diary and slid my phone back into my pocket. I told Hamilton I would see him tomorrow and walked over to Incarra, reaching out my hand to her; she took it as I helped her to her feet.
“We can go,” I whispered, sliding my arm around her small shoulder and bringing her close in against my side. She clung to me like a small child, rolling her eyes up to look at me.
“I don’t really get what just happened back there.”
“In simplest terms, you can see ghosts.”
“I see dead people? What am I, Hailey Joe Osmond?”
“Yeah, sort of, but taller and female.”
She gave a glare that on a taller, less adorable person might have actually been frightening. The laughing, bubbly, questioning girl was gone, and I knew that under the glare she was frightened to have this ability suddenly thrust on her. I squeezed her shoulders.
“Hey, don’t worry. We’ll get you back to my place, tuck you in, and in the morning you’ll be back where you should be and none of this will matter.”
She nodded, but not like she understood; she was just agreeing to be led away from the sight of dead bodies to do something familiar and comforting. Thankfully it wasn’t a long walk to get back to my place. Incarra slumped against the cage elevator wall as I slid the door closed and sent it on our journey upwards.
I was surprised when my door slid into view and there was something leaning against it. Incarra hung back while I bent to pick up the box. It was long, white, and tied with a shiny, translucent gold ribbon. I tucked it under my arm and let us into my place.
Incarra dropped down onto the couch while I took off my jacket and laid the box out on the coffee table. I pulled the ribbon loose and flipped the lid of the box off; it crashed onto the floor as I stared at the contents: a beautiful bouquet of red roses in golden tissue paper, the stems tied together with black satin ribbon.
“Wow,” said Incarra, momentarily forgetting her fatigue as she leaned over to inspect them. “Aram?”
“He wouldn’t have had time after…and no florists are open this late.”
“After what?” asked Incarra, catching on my note of embarrassment, and I flushed. It took me several swallows to speak.
“We had a semi-naked encounter in another alley,” I said, lifting the flowers out of the box and looking for a card. There was a small one tucked under the tissue paper. I twirled it over in my hand to read the inscription.
Roses are red.
I showed Incarra the card and she cocked an eyebrow.
“Definitely not from the ex, he seems like the kind of guy who’d take credit for something like flowers. Know any other men who are admiring?”
I thought about it for a minute. Magnus, my ex before Aram, had moved up country to work on a restoration project. Incarra was right: Aram would have taken credit for the flowers. The only other guy I knew that wanted to be on my dance card was DJ Tanner, the werewolf, but I would have put a sentiment like red roses as something above him. He was a nice guy, but I had seen inside his place: the guy liked sports and takeout food. It didn’t exactly scream secret romantic. I twirled the card back and forth between my fingers, thinking through the list of other men in my life, most of whom were either married or had shown no previous signs of interest.
“That wasn’t meant as a stumper. Are you like some sort of man magnet over here?”
“No,” I said, and I felt heat creep back into my face. “Not a magnet as such.”
Incarra let out a screaming laugh. “You little tramp.”
I screwed up my face, grabbed the nearest pillow, and cheerfully beat her with it. She squealed, trying to fend off the blows with her arms, her laughter choked off by the cushion.
“Say you’re sorry,” I demanded, only half serious.
“You’re sorry,” she said with a chuckle.
I slammed the pillow into her belly and, huffing, took my flowers to the kitchen counter to put them into water. Incarra hugged the cushion, sitting Indian style on the couch watching me, as I organized the roses into a vase. Aram had gotten me the vase, along with a large bunch of white roses and baby’s breath, months ago when I had actually been dating another man. Nothing stood in his way when he really wanted something. It was admirable in a way, but I still didn’t believe these roses were from him; as he had before, he would have gotten me white ones.
“Spare room is all yours,” I told Incarra as I put the vase in the middle of my coffee table. She left the cushion on the couch and headed to the spare bedroom. I headed for a hot shower, and hissed when the water hit some scrapes in my skin.
I had never thought myself as that kind of girl, but Aram had a gift for tempting me beyond my ability to resist. Now, after that encounter in the alley, I could either give into it and let him back into my life, or keep trying to hold him off as I had been doing.
I felt like it was a coin toss decision, a reckless time to decide anything.
I dried off, pulled a cotton T-shirt over my head, tugged on my sleep shorts, and snuggled under the duvet in hopes of spending my dreams alone.
Chapter Eight
It was the scream that woke me, and it brought me fully awake, all my senses on high alert. I raced into my spare room to find Incarra sitting up in bed, her eyes fixed on a spot just below the ceiling, as though something hung suspended there. Something that I couldn’t see.
I pushed an arm around her, and she buried her face into my shoulder to blind herself. I stroked her back, hoping it was more comforting than patronizing.
“Inc? Hun? What’s the matter?”
“There’s an old man, he’s just staring at me.”
I looked around the room. It was completely empty, nothing was out of place. Physically it was just the two of us in the room, but I knew better than to wholly trust the physical.
“Tell me, is he clear or gel like?”
She moved her head a fraction of an inch so one of her china blue eyes peeked out, then minutely nodded her head. She was seeing a ghost again. I gripped her shoulders with both my hands and pushed her back so that she saw my face.
“It’s okay, Incarra, I promise. Look at him again and tell me what you see?”
Reluctantly, Incarra turned her head to the chair in the corner; so I knew the spirit had moved. He’d taken a seat, as if waiting for his turn for her attention.
“Well, he’s an old
guy, receded hair, strange spectacles, almost like goggles. Sort of an apron but it’s darker and heavier looking than fabric, could be leather, and big ole boots, like proper Mosher boots.”
I tried to take her description to make the image in my mind. I didn’t want to connect us using magic again, mainly because it might unnerve her if I did so. He sounded like he might be a working man of some kind; the leather apron put me in mind of blacksmiths.
“Is he brawny?”
Incarra shook her head.
“Kinda scrawny, with long limbs and fingers,” she said, and turning her eyes to the chair, inclined her head. “No offense.”
So that ruled blacksmith out, although I didn’t know anyone on this side, outside of the dwarven village, that operated a traditional blacksmith’s workshop. Maybe he was a tradesman of another type.
“Is he saying anything?”
“Help her, save her. I don’t know, it’s not very loud or clear. Cass…” She tugged on my sleeve and gave me a look that was a mix of fear and panic.
“He’s dead, Incarra, he can’t hurt you.” Not directly, anyway, I thought.
“I know he’s dead, but it’s creepy having him here. I just want to go back to sleep! Can’t you do something to make him go away?”
I had no knowledge of exorcism rites. I wasn’t even sure what they did or if they worked. If he chose to continue to pursue her, there was little I could do about it except pray that her ability was limited to this world. I could, however, get him out of the apartment for the night so that she could sleep. I pried myself loose from Incarra’s grip and walked into the living room. I have a canvas print of Monet’s Water Lilies that hangs on the wall near the window; it’s a very beautiful water color that I just love. I slid the painting to the side, jabbed my finger on a loose nail that was in the wall next to it and slammed my hand down on the ward. The room buzzed with energy, and Incarra squeaked as she felt my power shimmer over her. When I walked back into the bedroom, she was noticeably calmer than she was.
“Better now? All gone?”
Silent Doll Page 5
