The Reanimator's Heart, page 8
Barlow flinched at the last word but said, “I ask people how they died or what they remember. Then, I let them go.”
“So that’s how you knew about the tigers! You woke him up and asked him.”
He looked away guiltily. “Yes. Tigers, demons, various otherworldly things aren’t too dissimilar, and it isn’t as if I have any specimens of those to compare it with since they turn into goop or ash. I ask about things I cannot prove.”
“And that’s why you bolted after I asked how you knew. But you haven’t asked me anything yet. Why?”
“Because I can tell it was the same as Sister Mary Agnes. Your eyes and cheeks were bloodshot. You said it yourself, it was the same person. There’s nothing to ask.”
Then, why am I still alive? There was that faint tug again as if Barlow was trying but couldn’t muster the conviction to do it. Felipe locked gazes with Oliver even as the other man averted his.
“You don’t have to do this.”
A hysterical laugh escaped Barlow’s lips as he finally stood on trembling legs. “Of course, I do. You’re dead! I can’t let you wander all over the place decomposing. And— and there are rules against long-term reanimation.”
“What rules? Besides, I don’t look very dead, and I certainly don’t feel dead. Maybe you just accidentally revived me, and my powers have fixed me up good as knew.”
“Then, it shouldn’t matter when I break the tether.”
Another tug, this time harder. Teresa, Louisa, and Agatha’s faces flashed across his vision. He would never get to apologize or eat another Sunday dinner or see his daughter again. Would Teresa even be able to stay in school without his extra income?
“Wait! Wait. I have things I need to wrap up.”
“Everyone dies with unresolved things. I can’t keep everyone alive until they get their shit together, Galvan.”
“What if you keep me alive just long enough to figure out who killed me? Right now, the element of surprise is our greatest asset. The murderer thinks they killed me. They may show their hand if we confront them and I’m seemingly alive. Plus, I don’t trust Newman to figure this out, and as much as I trust your judgment and attention to detail, you aren’t an investigator.”
Barlow gave him a wary glance. “Bodies start to go sour after about a day. I’ve never reanimated anyone for more than half an hour, at most. I don’t know if there will be any effect on preservation. If I agree to this, we need to have some parameters in place for when this ends.”
Felipe released a silent sigh of relief as the pressure abated. “That’s reasonable, so what are your non-negotiables for this?”
“Decomposition. If your skin starts to turn or your bowels let go or—”
“That’s quite enough.” The sherry climbed its way up Felipe’s throat, but he bit back the bile with a raised hand. “You’ll cut me loose if I start to stink, got it. Anything else?”
The medical examiner opened his mouth but closed it again.
“Just say it. It can’t be worse than that.”
“You say that, but— If you start to mentally turn, I’m going to end it whether you agree or not.”
“Mentally turn?”
“There are rumors that sometimes the dead can become violent or lose reason. There’s no scientific proof since it’s hard to distinguish whether it’s because their brains are decomposing or if it’s influenced by certain types of necromancy. Most good necromancers don’t revive people long enough to have them become like that.”
And you don’t want to become like that, Felipe thought with a frown. There was some nuanced morality to this he didn’t fully understand, but that didn’t matter right now.
“And this can’t go on for more than a week.”
Felipe’s heart seized. “A week?” he echoed.
“A week, maximum.” Barlow sniffed and bit his lip. “Even if you don’t turn and your body manages to hold together, I can’t keep you alive indefinitely. I mean, I don’t even know if I can maintain this for that long. I would like to keep my promise to keep you alive until we find your murderer, but I don’t know if I can.”
“That’s fine.” A pained smile crossed Felipe’s lips as he tried to give Barlow his best cavalier look. “If we only have a week to figure this out, then we had better get moving. There’s no time to lose.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“To clean up. I can’t go out covered in blood. Can you take a look in the lavatory and tell me if it’s clear? I don’t want to scare anyone.”
Chapter Eight
The Dead Teach the Living
Oliver closed his eyes and tried to keep panic from utterly overtaking him. He had revived someone. He had revived Felipe Galvan, and he had been too much of a coward to break the connection before things got out of hand. How had he let it get out of hand so quickly? Through the washroom wall, he could hear Felipe singing to himself in Spanish, though he couldn’t understand the words. As Oliver started to relax, he jumped at the squeal of the lavatory door. A puff of steam followed by Galvan clothed in only a loose, brick red dressing gown drifted across the threshold. The other man flinched at the sight of Oliver leaned against the wainscotting.
“Christ almighty, have you been out here the whole time, Barlow?”
Oliver’s eyes dropped to the hard planes of Galvan’s chest, following the trail of dark hair to the belt of his robe until they shot back up to the other man’s furrowed brows. Heat rose in Oliver’s cheeks against his will. “I thought you were washing your face.”
“The blood was all in my hair and down my neck. A bath was easier.” Whipping his damp hair over his ear for emphasis, Galvan led him back to his apartment. As he crossed the sitting room, he paused to stare at the rug. “Where did the blood go?”
“Oh. I cleaned it. It isn’t perfect. I think some of it set, but it’s harder to see now.”
Shaking his head as if clearing his mind, Galvan said, “Thank you. What did you use?”
The flush returned to Oliver’s face as he eyed the makeshift bar. “Your carbonated water. I can buy you more.”
“It’s fine. I probably won’t need it soon, anyway. Let me get dressed.”
When the bedroom door closed, Oliver let out a tired sigh. It would only be a week, no one would know. He was fairly certain Galvan wouldn’t go around telling people he was a reanimated corpse, but if they found out— Sinking into the armchair, Oliver put his head between his knees. He was going to get in so much trouble. He was lucky he didn’t live somewhere like England where they had a unified governing body for paranormal law. The United States was a lawless mess in that regard, but at least he was more likely to be fired and run out of town than executed if they found out he was a practicing reanimator. Even if it was accidental. If Galvan did start decomposing, at least he would look ill and there would be less suspicion of his involvement.
“I’m going to have to falsify my records, too,” Oliver croaked aloud.
“You really are overthinking this.”
Oliver sat up to find Felipe Galvan watching him from the doorway with his curly brown hair artfully tousled across his forehead in a way Oliver couldn’t manage without Gwen’s help. It was amazing how, despite his recent death, Galvan still looked ruggedly handsome and put together. Meanwhile, after washing his face with cold water and tidying his hair while Galvan was in the bath, Oliver looked like he had been dragged behind a trolley. His skin was blotchy from crying and his eyes puffy and irritated. From doing chest compressions, his suit was a rumpled mess, but Oliver was exhausted beyond caring.
“I don’t think I am. This is a big deal. A really big deal. This whole situation could get me kicked out of the society.”
“But it won’t because by the end of next week, we will have our culprit and I will go quietly into the grave. We’ll even come up with some logical explanation for my untimely demise. Plenty of middle aged men die suddenly with no nefarious cause,” Galvan said, affixing his cufflinks.
By the glint in his eye, Oliver doubted the man would go quietly anywhere he didn’t want to go. Rubbing his hands across his face, Oliver put his head back down.
“In all the chaos, I never did ask why you came to my room before.”
It all felt so foolish. At least Oliver hadn’t been carrying flowers when he arrived at Felipe Galvan’s door, but now, it seemed so ridiculous to admit he was coming to ask him to have dinner with him. An inconsequential blip in a horrible day. Heat touched the tips of his ears again. Oliver hoped the other man would assume it was just from the blood rushing to his head.
“I... I was going to ask if you wanted to go out to eat. To discuss the case.”
Galvan’s eyes narrowed, but Oliver pointedly ignored his probing stare. “Let’s go, then.”
“Go? Go where?”
“To eat, to talk about the case,” he replied, throwing on his coat.
Panic rose in Oliver like a dirigible. The thought of going out and being surrounded by people all talking at once, combined with the smell of alcohol and food, made him want to bolt from the room. Maybe that’s all he would need to do to break the tether. Maybe he would succumb to his nerves and run far enough to fray and snap it. He really didn’t know how far the tether could reach.
“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to go out.”
“I did, but this has all been a lot.” Oliver didn’t know how to explain that things Galvan took for granted grated on his nerves to the point that it took days to recover. What could he say? “I don’t want to go anywhere we could be overheard talking about this, but I still want to be able to hear myself think.”
“Would you be willing to go somewhere more private?”
“How private?”
“They have a private room for friends of the owner. By this hour, we would probably be the only ones there. I promise, it’s quiet.”
Oliver wanted nothing more than to crawl back to the laboratory and hibernate until Monday morning with his old copies of National Geographic Magazine and the specimens he still hadn’t fully examined. But this wasn’t about him. He had promised Galvan they would find his killer, and he couldn’t waste any time.
“Fine, but it better be private or we’re eating off a night owl cart and coming back.”
“I swear on my life, it is.”
If Galvan saw the withering look that crossed Oliver’s face, he didn’t show it as he opened the door and motioned for Oliver to follow him. Silently sighing, Oliver climbed to his feet like he was going to the gallows. This was not how he expected their first meal together to go.
By the time they arrived at Tam Noodle House, Oliver’s nose ached from the cold, but the long, nearly silent walk had lessened his mental chaos to the point that he was no longer dreading the prospect of a meal out. The noodle house stood on the corner with a sign as bright as anything in the theater district, and through the window, Oliver could make out maroon walls decorated with elaborate wooden panels in the shapes of dragons, characters, and flowers. The tables were filled despite the late hour, the chatter spilling out onto the street. Oliver’s mind lurched at the cacophony of pattern and noise, but the smell wafting through the doorway and the promise of a quiet meal was enough to propel him inside.
“Galvan, what a pleasure to see you again so soon. Twice in one week must be a record for you. Your usual spot?” the man at the door asked with a grin.
Galvan nodded and hooked a thumb toward Oliver. “Though I’ll need two chairs. I brought a friend this time, Tam.”
Tam laughed, the hearty sound filling the small vestibule as he grabbed another menu. “Well, Ma won’t talk your ear off tonight, at least.”
“You know I never begrudge your mother’s company.”
“Your cheeks might appreciate a night off, though.”
Leading them down the hall and up a set of stairs, Tam held back a beaded curtain and motioned Oliver toward a table in the corner. Unlike the room downstairs, this one was smaller and decorated with more sedate wall-hangings depicting cloud-shrouded mountains and rivers dotted with herons and fish. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm pink glow over the room. Sinking into the chair, Oliver let out a relieved sigh as his eyes trailed over the empty tables, apart from the Chinese couple eating quietly in the other corner. Voices drifted up the steps and through the walls, but the upstairs dining room felt far removed from the chaos of the city. Galvan settled in across from Oliver at the white-clothed table, looking very pleased with himself.
“Private enough?”
“Yes, thank you. This is a lot quieter than downstairs. I was worried for a moment.”
“That’s the room for the tourists.”
“And we’re not tourists?”
“I’m not,” he replied with a wry grin. “I knew Tam and his family when they were back in San Francisco. Their food was great there, too.”
Biting his lip, Oliver studied the names of the dishes on the menu. “I’ve never had Chinese food before. Do you have anything you would recommend?”
“Really? But you’ve lived here for years, haven’t you?”
“I have. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. I just wasn’t sure what I would like or what going here would be like, so I didn’t go.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
To you. “So what would you suggest?”
“Let’s get a little of everything,” Galvan said, tapping the menu on the table for emphasis. “Don’t argue. The menu isn’t that large, and I’m paying.”
Oliver wanted to object, but beneath Galvan’s veneer of zeal, he could see the wistfulness tug at his eyes as he took in the empty dining room. This would be a last meal of sorts, and he was sharing it with him.
“That sounds wonderful. I’ll try anything, especially if you like it.”
The words escaped Oliver’s lips before he could stop them, but the subtle hint of surprise followed by warmth rather than disgust was enough for him to not regret it. Before Galvan could respond, the waiter bustled over with a pot of tea and small cups. Galvan chatted with him for a moment before rattling off a handful of dishes Oliver had never heard of. Pouring each of them tea, Oliver held the hot porcelain cup in his hand and breathed deeply. A smile crossed his lips at the earthy aroma. He preferred coffee, but the simplicity and ritual of tea made him feel peaceful.
“Before the food comes, let’s discuss the plan and what we know so far,” Galvan said, keeping his voice low as he scooted his chair closer.
“Sister Mary Agnes was probably murdered inside the monastery through some sort of magical strangulation or suffocation,” Oliver began. “It could be a human or a creature, but there was no obvious ritualistic summoning. I assume Newman would have reported if one of the nuns mentioned her acting strangely.”
“Plus, most demons don’t move their victims. They might drag them off to eat them, but there was no sign of a struggle. I’m also fairly certain I was attacked by a human. I managed to hit them with the poker. It felt like hitting legs. Only two of them, mind you.”
“Can you remember anything about them?”
Galvan deflated and took a sip of tea. “No, they attacked me from behind. They were devilishly strong, though. I could barely move, and there was no way to fight them off. Sister Mary Agnes didn’t stand a chance against them.”
“All right, so let’s assume it was a human with powers. That means it was probably someone within the society or someone who knows someone within the society.”
A chill ran through Oliver at the thought. He wasn’t certain about the specific rules that governed the wards. The Paranormal Society drew in those with extranormal abilities like moths to a flame, but common folk didn’t wander up to the building unless they were invited by someone who worked there. Someone they worked with might be a murderer.
“We should talk to Gwen— Miss Jones tomorrow or Monday about the wards before we start jumping to conclusions.”
“Good idea. We should probably go to the library, anyway. I tried to do some research on suffocation magic and came away with very little.”
“I would assume anyone with an air affinity could hypothetically do it, if they were able to create an air current strong enough.”
Mid drink, Galvan let his hand drop. “Or anyone with telekinesis.”
“It wasn’t Gwen,” Oliver said more forcefully than he intended.
“I didn’t say it was. There are quite a few people involved with the society who have telekinesis. You have to admit, it is a possibility. If you can move objects, you can probably choke someone.”
“I know. But don’t get her in trouble unnecessarily.”
“I won’t, and believe me, I don’t think Miss Jones was involved. Speaking of being involved, we should talk to the priest, too. He’s familiar with the layout of the monastery, he knew Sister Mary Agnes, and he could easily slip in and slip out without anyone paying him too much notice.”
“Powers are highly frowned upon in the church.”
“But people do slip through the cracks or hide who they are,” Galvan replied with a pointed look. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow morning after mass ends.”
Oliver smelled the food before he saw it. His mouth watered at the rich, salty aroma of chicken and pork followed by the sulfurous punch of cabbage and egg. The waiter loaded the plates into the center of the table, laying out chopsticks for each of them. He must have thought better of it because he plunked a fork in front of Oliver before leaving. Running his gaze over the piles of glistening meat and steaming vegetables, Oliver’s stomach growled loudly enough that Galvan raised an eyebrow.
“So what do we have?”
Patiently explaining each dish, Galvan pointed out some Oliver had heard of, like chop suey and chow mein. Others, like egg foo young, wontons, and sweet and sour pork, he had never heard of, but if they tasted half as good as they looked, he would be kicking himself for not coming sooner. Deftly grabbing a wad of noodles with his chopsticks and plopping them into his bowl, Galvan motioned for him to dig in. A nervous chuckle escaped Oliver’s lips as he picked up the fork.
