“They’ve all appeared in theater eight—same story each time. Whispered sounds, disembodied hands, you know, the standard fare.”
“Sounds like a great movie-going experience.”
“I know, right? Do you think it’s a Thinning?”
“We don’t have enough details yet, but it could be. Four hauntings in one place does have me wondering… perhaps the veil between the worlds just needs a little touch-up there—just like nine tenths of the state—nice work, though.”
“Thanks, listen I’m sorry about the Imp, I just—”
I waved it away with my hand. “You didn’t mistakenly give him a name and officially bind him to you, right?”
“I didn’t, I promise.”
“Good, cause then I’d have to banish both of you.” I gave him a wink then pulled the Demon box out of the back seat. “Oh, and I’m keeping the hoodie.”
“But it’s one of my favorites—”
“Good night, Adam.”
I hadn’t made it halfway up the driveway with the sleeping Imp before the garage door started opening. Heels, curve-hugging dress, arms crossed, beautiful head cocked to one side—my brunette bombshell had remembered date night even if I hadn’t. “You’re late. Oh, and where’s your car?”
That is becoming my anthem.
“I had to leave the car with Rob, and I had a thing at the office,” I said, holding up the hoodie-covered box.
“What is that?”
“Remember those scratches the other night?”
“Yeah…”
“Well I figured out what they were from.”
My wife frowned. “I don’t want to know, do I.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“Do we need to cancel?” Porter tucked her clutch under her arm and pulled a stray hair away from her face. This had the immediate effect of making my heart race just a touch faster. We’d been together for over ten years and that woman could still get my motor running.
“No!”
“Well what are you going to do with… it?”
That was a really good question. One I hadn’t figured out the answer to yet.
“I’m going to leave it in the garage,” I said, beating a path to my workbench. It wasn’t one of those crafty-dad sort of workbenches with their custom files and precision hand tools laid out in pristine harmony, so much as it was the place my family liked to shove things they didn’t know what to do with.
I pushed a few broken toys in dire need of gluing out of the way, along with the microwave Cathy had busted last year when she forgot to take the foil off her lunch burrito, and found a spot for the Imp box.
“Who’s babysitting?” I asked, tightening up any loose hoodie edges.
“Cathy.”
At the sound of her name our daughter burst in from the house. “You’re home!”
That was the first excited greeting I’d gotten from her since she was Kris’s age—you’d almost think she wanted something from me. That’s right, she did.
“She’s been like this all afternoon,” Porter said, then pulled the car keys out of her clutch. “I’m gonna back the car out.”
“Hello, Catherine,” I said, watching Porter’s stunning legs climb into the car.
“Dad, it’s so great to see you. How was your—wow, what’s under the blanket? Is it something Magickal? Is it for me?”
“No.”
“No, it’s not Magickal? Or no it’s not for me?”
I tightened the hoodie—she was right, though, it did appear large enough to be a blanket.
“Cathy, please don’t touch this,” I said, knowing full well I’d basically just put a neon ‘please, touch this’ sign on the Minor Demon box.
“I won’t.”
Sure you won’t.
“Good, because the last person that did had all their hair fall out.”
My daughter giggled. “Sure, very funny, Dad.”
I pursed my lips and picked up my work bag.
“You’re kidding, right?”
I let my fingers pantomime hair falling out as I handed her the bag.
“Dad? You’re kidding?”
Just keep a straight face…
“Dad?”
Porter beeped the horn.
“Keep an eye on your brother. We’ll be home in a few hours.”
Porter and I backed out of the driveway as the garage door closed, with our daughter on the other side giving the Imp box a wide berth and checking her ponytail.
20
Coffee Talk
A small jazz band played in the corner of the dimly lit bistro, filling the room with the wailing notes of a trumpet and a sultry young crooner’s baritone pipes.
The sparse crowd did little to fill the restaurant’s limited seating, but we weren’t surprised; once we’d had kids we’d quickly joined the early bird set. Still, even after two curtain-crawlers and a few gray hairs, ‘Date Night’ was high holiday, and all but mandatory.
Our college-aged waitress ran down the specials as I sipped at a glass of chardonnay. We knew what we were going to order, but that was no reason to have the young girl skip her prepared speech.
“—in a crushed-pepper cream sauce.”
Porter nodded. “We’ll just get the salmon.”
“Certainly,” she said with a hint of disappointment.
I waited for the waitress to move on, then practically squealed with excitement. “We found it.”
“You found what?”
“The spike.”
“What spike?”
I unrolled my napkin and laid it across my lap. “Honey, we found John Henry's final rail-road spike—the last one, the Magickal one Plant and Flagler fought over.”
I waited for my words to sink in, but judging by my wife’s face, they were more in danger of floating away than sinking.
“I don’t understand.”
“Mallory Lane.”
My wife’s face darkened, and she squeezed her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. “Gene, you said you weren’t ever going back there—it’s too dangerous.”
“It is too dangerous, but that’s why I have to go back. It has to end.”
Porter frowned and curled up her lip on one side; it was clear she wasn’t convinced. “Don’t you think you’re taking on a bit much?”
“How so?”
My wife shook her head and let her hair caress those strong shoulders. “Well, let’s see. You’ve been attacked by New Dead once—”
“—twice, actually.”
Porter glared at me. “Twice? When did that happen, and when were you going to get around to telling me?”
“This morning.”
My wife slammed her glass down. “With the kids in the car!”
“They were fine, I’m fine. The car needs some work, but none of that matters—the spike is here, in Tampa, and I’m going to get it.”
My wife’s fingers tightened against her glass. “Are you listening to yourself? You’ve become obsessed.”
“But you don’t understand—”
“I do understand,” Porter said, her voice raising ever so slightly. “You’re losing perspective. You’re missing what’s really important here. You’re aware your daughter is coming into her Magick, right?”
How did she know that?
My wife could undoubtably see my surprise and continued before I had a chance to respond. “You don’t have to be a Magician to check your daughter’s phone—she’s used the same passcode since forever. What I want to know is why you thought you should hide that from me?”
“I…”
I didn’t want you to worry.
“How’s everything tonight?” Our waitress said, returning at the exact inopportune moment.
“Fine,” we said in near perfect unison—at least we were on the same page with one thing.
“We’re supposed to be a team here, Gene.”
She’s right, you idiot.
“I know—”
“W
ell then act like it. I don’t want to be left in the dark on these things anymore. Cathy’s my daughter too, and I want to know when I’ll have start worrying even more about both of you.”
A busboy swung by the table and deposited a small wire frame basket of bread. My wife stabbed a petite loaf out of it with viper-like accuracy.
“I’m sorry.”
Porter chewed on the bread before responding.
“Good. Let’s start again. How was your day, dear?”
I took a long sip of wine before answering.
“What have I told you about Old Dead and Minor Demons?”
Porter and I were finishing up the last of our salmon when the waitress came back to see if we wanted coffee.
“Yes, I think so,” my wife said, in a much more relaxed tone of voice.
We’d spent the past hour going over the entire day, and while she’d started out more than a little concerned, we’d been game-planning for a while now and had a decent set of options.
“And for you, sir?”
“Sure.”
Our waitress left us to walk through the plan one more time while she procured the coffee. By now the restaurant was filling up with young couples, forcing the band to compete with the ambient crowd noise.
“What about the New Dead?”
I folded up my napkin and tossed it on the table. “That’s got me stumped. I’m convinced there’s something going on at the renovated theater, but I haven’t figured out what. So far, though, it’s been minor.”
“I don’t know. We’ve never had an issue like this before.”
I slid my plate over to make it easy for our waitress to collect it. “Maybe, but we did have that poltergeist at the Old Tampa Hotel, remember? During that charity event?”
Porter nodded. “That’s not the same. This is different.”
I wasn’t going to argue with her, because technically she was right—a lone poltergeist wasn’t the same as what certainly appeared to be a targeted effort.
“So far it hasn’t gone beyond individual events, and I’ve been fine.”
My wife pounded her hand on the table. “Fine! Like opening a gate to Hell fine? Like narrowly avoiding having your throat ripped out on the highway fine?”
“All things we can handle.”
My wife tossed her napkin on the table next to mine. “You keep saying that, but at some point you’re going to be wrong. At some point it’s going to be too much for you, and then what? What happens to the kids, Gene? What happens to me?”
“You’re protected.”
Porter yanked her ring off her finger and slammed it on the table. “Protected? Damn it, Gene, you don’t understand. I’m worried about you! I don’t want to see my kids growing up in a world without their dad, as frustrating as he can be sometimes.”
“Porter, please put the ring back on…”
Our waitress chose that moment to return with the coffee; she set mine down, and then leaned over to give my wife hers. Those hands hadn’t traveled a few inches before someone bumped the young woman from behind and the scalding-hot coffee splashed on to Porter’s silky dress. “Ah!”
The young girl grabbed a napkin and tried to dab at Porter’s chest. “Oh my God, are you all right? I’m so sorry.”
“It was an accident. I—wow that hurts. I’ll be right back.”
The waitress rushed off to replace the spilled coffee cup while my wife pushed upstream toward the ladies room against a young and increasingly raucous crowd.
She had just disappeared into the darkened hallway past the bar when the telltale stench of New Dead hit me square in the face.
That was the moment I realized Porter’s best and only line of defense lay sparkling on the table in front of me.
21
Unmade
It happened fast.
The pleasant smell of exotic Tapas had been replaced with a burning rot that practically leaked from the walls—it radiated from everywhere, making it next to impossible to narrow down an exact source. To make matters worse, the band switched to a more high-octane set, and the lights dimmed for the younger and decidedly more hip crowd around the bar.
I scooped up my wife’s ring. Its Deep Magick hummed in my fingers. Porter might be pretty tough, and downright terrifying with a softball bat in her hands, but against the New Dead she was a lamb to the slaughter.
Shit.
A growing crowd of millennials mixing in front of the bar blocked my way to the restrooms. I pulled my phone out and fired off a quick text.
New Dead. I’m coming.
I hit send and climbed out of the booth, only to hear the clutch she’d left on the seat buzz. I picked it up only to finding an image of my smiling face and the warning text shining up at me.
Shit!
That stupid purse tucked in my hand, I pushed my way toward the bathrooms. The smell of New Dead was overwhelming, hitting me in waves, but still impossible to place. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, but in the dark and the mass of bodies I couldn’t find a single set of ashen limbs or blackened eyes.
Like the fish we’d just consumed, I found myself swimming upstream against a powerful current of youth and vitality. The formerly subdued band now hit the power chords and rocked their audience with high-intensity sound. This only got the crowd going harder; young men and women blocked my path and danced to the rolling beat. For a brief instant my wife’s silken mane appeared in the space between the bump and grind.
“Porter!”
She turned to face me, and for a narrow moment her eyes stared back at me, ringed with fear and uncertainty. I lost those eyes for a just a second behind the crowd, but when I caught them again, my heart froze—black pools of a near infinite hatred greeted me from beyond the crowd.
A dress that just moments ago exposed hints of beautiful skin now gave me an eyeful of newly ruined flesh—smoldering and falling away like cigarette ash on a windy day.
New Dead possessed the love of my life.
“Porter!”
The dead thing riding shotgun smiled, showing me charred teeth and cracking gums, then headed for the door.
It has Porter…
I tried to shake off that thought, but it beat on my skull like a bass drum—I had to break the possession before she got away. I scooped the salt shaker off the nearest table and pushed my way after her. In hindsight that’s when I should have noticed it. The New Dead are often lone wolves, but can work together if properly motivated. A pack of them is a scary thought, and I had now firmly planted myself in exactly that—a pack.
I wasn’t ready for the first punch, it caught me off guard and blasted into that soft spot just below my ear. The restaurant spun sideways. I lost the purse, and my balance, falling over only to be caught by the hands of our young waitress—her burning, ash-covered hands.
The she-dead slammed a bare knee into my man parts and ejected what little air there was still left in my lungs. I crumpled onto the hard tile, gasping for breath with one hand on the salt and the other on my wife’s ring.
That’s when the kicking started.
Dress shoes, heels, boots—my attackers landed blow after blow with wild fury. I scrambled for the table, but our waitress-turned-demon-child slammed a tray across my hands and broke the top off the salt shaker. I tossed the salt at her feet, my blood mixing the fine white granules into a pinkish powerhouse of dispelling Magick.
“Relinquo,” I said through bloodied lips, letting the Magick flow from my bruised fingers.
The circle wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. The New Dead roared out of our waitress and up into the air, no doubt headed for a new host. The young woman crumpled like a spent balloon and I dragged her with me beneath the table.
I still held the ring in my hand, squeezing it tight between my fingers and letting the Deep Magick I’d invested in it wash over me. It was useless, the enchantment had been designed for Porter—it wouldn’t help me any more than her dress would have fit my ill-inspired
frame.
The New Dead were everywhere—too many to count. There wasn’t enough salt in the bar to contain them, and I didn’t have the strength for a gate to Hell big enough to haul them away. Mercifully the booth table was bolted down, but that didn’t stop the hands from clawing at us, nor did it stop the kicks and stomps.
The waitress’s eyes fluttered. “Eugene…”
Her voice wasn’t the voice I remembered telling us the specials; this was a soft voice, barely audible over the screams of the New Dead—this was the House.
“Not now,” I said, tearing a burnt hand off my wrist.
“I don’t suppose you want to hear the specials?”
Large arms shot in under the table, followed by an equally massive body that wielded those arms like steel tongs to wrap my neck and squeeze.
“No—” I said, using what little air I had left.
The waitress frowned and brushed her hair out of her face. One of the New Dead grabbed her arm to pull her free from under the table, but she crushed its bones like I’d crumple a beer can.
The strangling New Dead pushed its way under the table and on top of me, pinning me down with tremendous force. The waitress adjusted her apron and lay down beside me, the bruises on her face healing beautifully. “So, is this fun or what?”
“Not… what… I—”
“All this excitement. New Dead! In Tampa! I knew if I was just patient it would all work out, I just knew it—and here we are again, Gene. It’s like old times. Now, are you sure you don’t want to hear the specials?”
I pounded on the undead hands crushing my neck, but they didn’t budge, instead pinning me to the ground like rebar.
“Ah—”
“Excellent! First, we have the seared and sundered Magician, it’s a house specialty. It comes with a side of possessed wife and pureed child souls. We’re running a double side for free on that one. I won’t say it’s a favorite of mine, but who knows, it might be your favorite.”
My vision dimmed, the edges fading away like burning paper. One by one those distorted faces melted until all that was left were the hands crushing my throat and the waitress’s smiling face.
Dead Set Page 10
