Royal Ghouls

by Alex A King

  Bleeder delivered the verdict. “Let us think about it … No. We like this one. He belongs to us.”

  “He is so pretty,” her friend purred.

  Why couldn’t this be easy? “I asked nicely.”

  “Still no.”

  Fine. They wanted to play hardball. My attention swung back to Leo. I swallowed the bread and took a good slug of water to wash it down. Then I told him everything: about the succubi and how to banish them back to whatever hell they had sprung from. Most likely the actual Hell. Just because the Greek Orthodox Church didn’t believe in a fire and brimstone hell, didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

  He laughed.

  And laughed.

  And laughed some more.

  I calmly munched bread and drank water and waited for him to take a breath. The succubi filed their nails.

  “True story,” I said when he stopped.

  “Succubi?”

  “Two of them.”

  “Don’t they drink blood?”

  “That’s vampires.”

  “That is vampires,” Bleeder confirmed. “Blood is gross.”

  Leo couldn’t hear her, of course. “What do they want?”

  “They collect men. You’re basically part of a collection, like a stamp or a rock.”

  He made a face. Being compared to a collectible was obviously new to him. “What do these succubi look like?” No doubt he was thinking about that same Gary Oldman movie.

  “Like they get paid by the hour.”

  Choker clutched her chest. “I think the human woman just called us putanas.”

  The other one looked less offended. “An expensive putana or a cheap one? Because there is a difference.”

  “Whichever one won’t leave when it’s over,” I said.

  “Ooooh, she’s jealous,” Choker said.

  “I’m not jealous,” I snapped. “I’d just like to have one date without an audience.”

  Choker gave her demonic friend a knowing look. “She is jealous.”

  Enough was enough. These two were cutting into my food and sleep time.

  “My Virgin Mary, just ask them to go,” I told Leo.

  The succubi tittered. “Oooooh, she will not help you, that one,” Choker said. “Terrible hearing and a big ego.”

  Leo raised his eyebrows. “Ask them? Don’t I need a priest or a bucket of holy water?”

  The succubi hissed. For a split second they lost their candy coatings, revealing a glimpse of their icky centers. Underneath, they resembled raw veal schnitzel after a good pounding and a week under the July sun. The bile in my stomach made vague threats about how it would like to come out and spray them. I crammed another bite of bread into my mouth and triple-dog-dared it to try.

  “How about we start with good manners and work our way up to exorcist,” I said once the nausea had abated.

  Leo glanced around. “Where are they?”

  “Standing beside us. One of them is bleeding on the souvlaki.”

  The succubus looked at her wrists. “Sorry. I forgot to stop bleeding.” The wounds vanished. “This is the first time in a thousand years anyone has seen us. We are not used to props.”

  Choker blinked and her pantyhose noose vanished. “They were fun though.”

  So help me, Virgin Mary, it was almost impossible not to roll my eyes at them. On the outside they were women, but on the inside they were teenage girls … and also hideous monsters.

  “Just do it so we can eat,” I told the cop.

  Leo shrugged and turned in his seat. It was clear he was humoring me, but I appreciated the effort. Later, I knew, there would be a discussion about my sanity. When that happened I would take him to meet Betty. “Can you leave, please? Dinner is getting cold again,” he said.

  The succubi huddled together again. “He did say please,” Choker said.

  Bleeder wasn’t convinced. “But how do we know he really wants us to go? He is following her orders. Perhaps she has him in some kind of thrall. The human obviously has some kind of powers if she can see us.”

  For crying out loud, were these two clowns or demons?

  Trick question; clowns are demons dunked in greasy makeup.

  “Nobody wants a pair of demons following them around, watching them sleep and shower and eat,” I told them, because they seemed to be struggling with the decision-making process.

  Leo’s eyebrows took a hike. “They watch me sleep?”

  “We watch him do everything,” Choker said.

  Bleeder nodded. “Everything.”

  “Don’t you have other men to stalk?” I asked.

  “Of course. But we are demons, and we can be in a million places at once.”

  Interesting. One of my few remaining shreds of skepticism took a backseat. “How?”

  “We exist in a pocket dimension.”

  I had questions—so many questions—but I also had dinner. I wanted food more than I wanted answers. Also, the sandman was creeping around, flicking sand in my face. It was already tomorrow and I was out of fuel and patience.

  “He asked nicely,” I said, “so go back to your cozy little pocket dimension and leave him alone. Find someone else to collect. There are lots of nice men out there. The world is filled with them.”

  “We have not decided yet,” the succubi said in one voice.

  They sat on Leo’s small sofa and watched me watching them. Later I’d be hoofing it back to the Cake Emporium, shopping for more cakes and a way to banish these succubi—one without good manners, if that’s what it took. Hopefully Betty would know a way.

  I sighed and cut the spanakopita on my plate with the edge of my fork.

  Across the table, Leo was watching me, fork and bread poised. “Did they leave?”

  “They’re on the sofa, watching us eat.”

  He ate in silence for a moment. He spent the time formulating a question. “Does this happen a lot?”

  “I didn’t know succubi existed until yesterday.”

  “And ghosts?”

  “Ever since I can remember.”

  “How’s the food?”

  “Perfect.”

  “You want to go into my bedroom and make out?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He grinned, slow and sexy. “Crazy or not, I want you.”

  Crazy. The word poured ice cold water over my libido, leaving it soggy and shivering.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “That’s not—”

  Leo’s phone butted into the conversation. He got up to answer, his words low and urgent. When he came back, his physique and face had shifted back into cop mode.

  Our date was over. It was written all over him. Big letters. Practically graffiti.

  “What is it?”

  “They’ve found Eva Vasiliko.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’m billing her for my laptop. She gets a pass on the groceries because probably she was hungry after being in a coma.”

  “You can’t.” Leo paused. His face was grim. “Eva Vasiliko is dead.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I napped for five delicious minutes in Leo’s car. He tried to leaving me behind, making all kinds of excuses about how civilians couldn’t show up to a crime scene; but in the end I reminded him that he thought I was crazy, and crazy people are capable of anything. When I woke up, it was in a blaze of flashing lights. The island’s emergency vehicles were huddled around the dock. We were near the top of the island, down a short distance from Maria Petsini’s falling point but high enough for the drop to be deadly.

  Leo’s face was a smooth cop mask. “Stay here.”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t stay there. As soon as he got out, I followed. The paramedics were loading a bodybag into the ambulance.

  “What happened?” Leo asked Constable Pappas.

  “She jumped.”

  The rocks below were jagged teeth. Real man-eaters.

  “Witnesses?”

  “None. But she left a note and a check.”
/>   I tapped Pappas on the shoulder. “Who is the check for?”

  Leo swung around. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

  “You did, but I’m not good at taking orders I don’t want to take.”

  “For you.” Pappas went to hand me the check.

  Leo snatched it out of his hand. “Evidence. Where’s the note?”

  Pappas passed it over. Leo shone his flashlight over the paper. I craned my neck to peek at Kyria Eva’s last words. They were succinct and penned in a pretty hand. She didn’t poison the bread. She knew who did, but they were already dead, so what was the point of giving up that person’s name? She had jumped because her fact was burnt off, her husband was cheating, and she couldn’t enjoy food. She was sorry about my laptop but had the wine and cakes were delicious, especially the pralines. It had been years since she had last eaten carbs and she had wanted to stuff herself before her big finale. She could work magic with a bobby pin, so breaking in was a snap. The salt circle was to shut the ghosts up while she robbed me of my food. Included, she wrote, was a check to replace everything.

  Kyria Eva had jumped. Suicide not homicide. I knew this because she hadn’t bounced back, begging me to solve her murder.

  And with her note, she’d told me everything I needed to know to crack this case.

  All along I’d assumed the killer left the boat. What if they’d gone down with the ship?

  Greek time moved at any old speed. It didn’t care about things like punctuality or promises or employment. Me, I ran on American time. That meant I did what needed doing, when it needed to be done.

  Sleep could wait. Puffing clouds of steam through my nose and mouth, I jogged to the top of the island, where Maria Petsini was reenacting her murder. She fell and then popped back into position.

  “Maria?”

  She turned around. “You’re back again. Did you contact my family?”

  “You said you had everything to live for. Did that include children?”

  Her features softened. “My baby.”

  “You had a daughter, yes?”

  “Maria.”

  Maria was her mother’s name and it was hers. And it was a third Maria’s, too. It was right there in front of me when I’d dug up information on the missing woman, but I’d failed to make the connection. Maria’s father even told me there had been a recent death in the family. Another failed connection on my part.

  I couldn’t do it, couldn’t tell Maria that her daughter was dead and that there was a possibility she murdered Harry Vasilikos and the other Marias. Not unless I had proof. Why shatter a broken heart?

  I left the ghost to her reenactment, my brain huffing and puffing, processing data.

  The Marias. They had the collective brightness of a broken light bulb. On the outside anyway. But what if I had misjudged one of them? And why, if one of the Marias was a murderer, did she do it? Nobody does murder and mayhem for funsies; there is always a reason.

  Back home, my door was locked. Everything in its place. Nobody lurking behind a door to whack me over the head. The Marias were in front of the television, swooning over an old Alain Delon movie with subtitles. Just for a change, Harry Vasilikos was at the window, watching the night and all its stars.

  “Your sister is dead,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t turn around. “Don’t be. I will see her again soon.”

  “I have good news, too. I think.”

  “What is it?”

  Ignoring the Marias’ protests, I turned off the television, sat on my coffee table, and faced them.

  “One of you killed the rest of you.”

  Now Kyrios Harry was interested. “What? Impossible.”

  “And yet, you’re all dead,” I told him.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Believe it.”

  “No. These women would not do that.”

  Oh boy. “Then get out of the living room because you’re annoying and in my way. Also, I would rather talk to the Marias alone anyway.”

  “This involves my murder,” Kyrios Harry said, all puffed up and pompous.

  “It leaves the living room or else it gets the salt again,” I said.

  He pointed a transparent finger at me. “I will leave, but only because it might help you solve this case more quickly.”

  “Bedroom. Now,” I barked.

  He stormed into the bedroom, huffing and complaining. I closed the door behind him, then went back to the Marias.

  “One of you has a mother named Maria. Raise your hand if you are her daughter.”

  They looked at each other, then they all raised their hands.

  “Not helpful,” I muttered. “Which one of you poisoned the bread? I know one of you did.”

  They lowered their hands.

  Great. This was going nowhere fast. I was tired, I was hungry, I was sick of ghosts infesting my home.

  “I don’t know why or who, but I’m going to figure it out, and when I do there will be consequences.”

  “Is it that time of the month?” one of the Marias said.

  “If you mean the ghost-busting time of the month, then yes.” I stomped into the kitchen and invaded the spice rack. “Who is ready for some salt? I have three kinds, including one with garlic.”

  The Marias scattered. Curse words sprayed the room. They tried throwing things—my things—but they hadn’t learned any tricks or taken their basic afterlife orientation class yet.

  I left them to it. Even scattered they moved in a pack. There was no way for me to break bits off the herd for questioning.

  There was another way to sort the Marias.

  Sam was awake. Insomnia. He always said he didn’t mind because he didn’t want to waste a minute of Greece. Tonight he didn’t grumble too hard when I asked him to run a search on the Petsini family—more specifically Maria Petsini the younger. There were limits to my search skills, especially now that I was missing a laptop. Moments later, I was staring at my phone, shaking my head.

  “I thought you were magic.”

  “There’s a limit to this awesomeness,” Sam said. “I don’t like it any more than you do. You know how many women in Greece are named Maria Petsini? A lot. You know when Greeks have to sign up for an ID card?”

  “When they’re twelve-years-old.”

  “Exactly. You know how long they’re good for?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “You got it. So you’ve got me looking at pictures of kids who all share the same name. You want more, it’s gonna take time and cake.”

  “Cake I can do. I’m not sure about time.”

  “One out of two ain’t bad.”

  I needed a who. I needed a why. There was only one avenue left to getting both.

  Were the Thessaly Police coming to the same conclusions? Probably not. From the sounds of things they had shifted their investigation away from Merope to the Sporades. To them, Merope was a destination not an origin. And they had Johnny Margas, suspect Numero Uno. Maybe we would cross paths at some point; in the meantime, I was headed to the mainland for, I hoped, answers.

  Black slacks. Black boots. Black sweater and coat. Mourning the dead was easier in winter when the black didn’t transform the human body into a sweat machine.

  At this time of year a ferry left for the mainland via Skiathos every morning. I had twenty minutes to spare, so I grabbed my bag and bolted.

  Aboard the ferry, I stood on the upper deck and watched Merope vanish, frigid sea air swirling around me. I wasn’t alone. A handful of ghosts spent their bottomless well of time taking the voyage between islands. They were quiet and so was I. Okay, not the former ferry captain with verbal diarrhea—him I ignored; too much ranting about Poseidon’s penis—but the others were definitely quiet.

  Once Merope was gone, I went inside and shivered for the next few hours, while I tried to figure out exactly what I hoped to get out of this trip.

  Maria Petsini from the cliff had a mother named Maria Pe
tsini and a daughter, also named Maria Petsini. Why was Maria Petsini the younger on that boat, and why did she murder the Royal Pain’s passengers, including herself? Which of the five Marias was she?

  The eldest Maria Petsini and her husband were the only ones who could help.

  Leo called. “Where are you?”

  “On the ferry.”

  His frown traveled through the phone. “Why?”

  “Work.”

  “Doily or missing person?”

  “Missing doily.”

  “How about dinner when you get back?”

  “No …”

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound okay with it.

  “… at least not until I find out how to get rid of your other two dinner guests.”

  “The succubi.”

  I heard feminine giggling in the background, then, “Oooh, they’re talking about us.” My teeth gritted. Betty Honeychurch would be my first stop on the way home. Those succubi had to go.

  “We’ll talk when I get back,” I said.

  At Skiathos I switched ferries and continued on to Volos. From there it was a short bus ride to the village of Agria. Directions to the Petsinis' house came from the sour-lipped mouth of a living rock, who worked in a peripetero—a boxy news stand, conventionally manned by veterans.

  “Are you here for the funeral?” he asked me.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Very sad, that accident. Maria was a good girl. She never made fun of my arm.”

  “Your arm?”

  He raised a stump. “My invisible arm. It matches my invisible leg.”

  “What happened?”

  “I fell out of a tree and onto a Turkish soldier holding a chainsaw.”

  Yikes. Who knew war involved tree pruning? “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You did not push me out that tree. Do you want to see my poutsa?”

  “No!”

  “Good. I do not have one to show you. The chainsaw took that, too.”

  I bought a small block of ION chocolate, thanked him for his help, and set off for the Yiorgos and Maria Petsini’s house.

  The Petsinis family lived in a three-layered house with a flat, unfinished roof. It was surrounded by other houses with unfinished roofs, all of them clinging to a steep hill. Rebar sprang from their tops. Washing lines were strung between poles. Television antennae watched the sky for signals. Like the gardens on Merope, these gardens were largely potted. Yards were concrete. Greeks didn’t have the luxury of grass lawns. The street was capillary thin, the concrete cracked like an ancient sharp of pottery. Not a road for the claustrophobic; the houses felt like they were looming over me, judgmental and moments away from nagging me about how I didn’t have a husband and five children.