Otherworld Secrets, page 24
“Don’t bother, buddy,” Mort said to the other ghost. “She may be a necromancer, but she needs some serious remedial training.”
“Actually, I hear she’s very good. Comes from a long line of powerful necros.”
“Yeah? Well, it skipped a generation.”
“I have a name,” I intoned, eyes half closed. “Is there a Belinda in the audience?” In seat L15, if my sources were correct.
“See?” Mort said. “She doesn’t even know we’re here.”
“Oh, she knows.” The frat boy’s voice carried a burr of condescension. “Don’t you, Red?”
“Do I have a Belinda in the audience? Hoping to contact her father?”
A bingo hall shriek as an elderly woman—in L15—leapt up. I made my way over to her. Mort stomped back to his afterlife. The frat boy stayed.
After the show, I strode down the backstage hall, an icy water bottle pressed to my cheek.
My assistant, Tara, scampered along beside me. “We have a ten a.m. tomorrow with the Post-Intelligencer, then a two o’clock pretape with KCPQ. Friday’s show is totally sold out, but you can plug the October one in Portland.”
“Will do. Now, can you find Kat? Let’s see if we can’t get that sound system fixed before Friday.”
I slipped into my dressing room, closed the door, and leaned against it. A slow clapping started across the room.
The frat boy slid off my dressing table. “Okay, show’s over. You done good, Red. Now it’s time to get to work. Be a real necromancer.”
I uncapped my water and chugged.
“Cut the crap,” he said. “I know you can—”
“—hear you. Yes, I can.” I mopped my sweaty face with a towel. “But a dressing-room ambush really isn’t a good way to get my attention.”
His full lips twisted. “Oh, please. You think I’m going to peep at you undressing? You’re, like, forty.”
“I meant it’s rude.” I tossed the towel aside and grabbed my hairbrush. “If you’d like to talk, meet me at the rear doors in twenty minutes.”
“Um, no. I’m going to talk to you now and I’m not leaving until I do.”
Rule one of “how to win favors and influence necros”? Never threaten. I’d say if you’re lucky enough to get one to listen, you should fall on your knees with gratitude. But that might be pushing it. A simple “okay, thanks” will do.
I’m not heartless. In fact, in the past few years I’ve made a real effort to listen to ghosts, and I’d had every intention of hearing this one out. But he was fast blowing his chance.
I turned to the mirror and brushed out my hair, pins clinking to the floor.
“Don’t turn your back on me,” the ghost said.
“I’m not. As I said, I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
He walked through the dressing table, planting himself between the mirror and me. “Fine. How about this?”
He shimmered, then shot back, clothing drenched with blood, stomach ripped open, safety glass shards studding his intestines. A brain-splattered metal rod protruded from his ear. One eye bounced on his cheek.
“Oh my God! No, please,” I mock-pleaded. “Not the death body. I’ll do whatever you want!” I reached through his intestines for my cold cream. “Do you really think you’re the first spook who’s tried that? I’ve seen decapitations, burnings, drownings, bear maulings, electrocution . . .” I leaned to see my reflection past the rod sticking from his head. “A couple of years ago, there was this one ghost who’d been cut almost in half. Industrial accident, I guess. That one did give me a start. But car accidents? Pfft.”
I met his eyes—or the one still in its socket. “Did you see that segment on E! last month? About celebrities addicted to plastic surgery? They talk and it’s like watching a ventriloquist’s dummy. Only their mouths move. That scares me.”
I went into the bathroom to wash my face. The ghost followed. He’d changed back to his regular body, and stood behind me, arms crossed. Now, I’ve played this game before, and I could usually hold out longer than any ghost. But then my cell phone rang.
Even without the special ring tone, I knew it was my boyfriend, Jeremy. He always called me after a show to see how it went and he always timed it perfectly, giving me a chance to wind down but catching me before I headed out for a postshow talk with my staff.
The call also reminded me that he was coming to Seattle after my Friday show. Our schedules allow only weekend visits every couple of months, and there was no way in hell I was spending this one with a ghost in residence.
So I told Jeremy I’d call him back, then said to the ghost, “What do you want?”
“My cousin died in the same accident as me. I want you to open his coffin.”
“I’m not a grave digger.”
“He isn’t in the ground. Our family has a mausoleum.”
“And why would I want to open his coffin?”
He looked down his nose at me, not easy when he was no more than my five foot six.
“Because you’re a necromancer. You serve the dead. I’m dead. So serve.”
Of course, I said no, in increasingly descriptive ways. Of course, he didn’t let it go at that.
The problem with refusing a ghost’s request is that you can’t say no and walk away. Wherever you can go, they can go. At my staff meeting, Frat Boy stood between me and them and shouted the Pledge of Allegiance. When I called Jeremy back, Frat Boy mocked and mimicked my conversation. In the rented limo, he sat on my lap and switched in and out of his death body.
Being unable to touch anything in the living world squashes a ghost’s threat potential. But they can be damned annoying. And this guy was a pro, making me wonder how many other necros he’d hit up before finding me.
When it came time for my shower, I declared war. I’ve had enough ghostly Peeping Toms to get over any modesty. But Frat Boy would do more insulting than ogling, and as healthy as my ego was, I didn’t need a twenty-year-old studying me for signs of sagging and cellulite.
So I filled a censer with vervain, set it alight, and banished him. A temporary measure that worked until 4:10 a.m., when the herbs burned up and I woke to him screaming the Pledge in my ear. I added more vervain, and went back to sleep.
When I woke, there was no sign of Chuck. I had no idea what the ghost’s name was, but he looked like a Charles Willingham III or something equally pretentious—he reeked of money and privilege, too much of both, the smell as strong as BO and just as offensive. If he was a Charles, I’m sure he’d be Chas. I’d call him Chuck.
I hoped he was gone for good and naming him was premature. The last bit of vervain still smoldered, though. When it disappeared, he’d be back.
I added another pinch, and noticed I was getting low. That happens when I’m on tour. There’s a limit to how much dried plant material you can take on a plane. Even if I explain I’m a spiritualist and produce documentation, a satchel of dehydrated herbs begs for a trip to the little white room and a cavity search.
Half of my remaining supply of vervain gave me time to dress and escape. But as I walked into the TV station that afternoon, Chuck found me. I spent the next half hour with a ghost prancing naked between the interviewer and me. Though I kept my cool, I knew my distraction would show—eyes a little too round, gaze darting a little too often, laugh a little too shrill. That wouldn’t do. Part of my appeal is that, yes, I can be spacey, but in a ditzy, C-list-celebrity way, not one that screams, “I just got my day pass.”
Afterward, sitting in the cab, listening to Chuck do a stand-up routine of sexist jokes, I envisioned him harassing me through my Friday show and into my weekend.
I can take abuse. But there are two things no one interferes with: work and Jeremy. The warning shots hadn’t scared this guy away. Time to haul out the howitzer.
Normally, my “big gun” comes in the form of a sword-wielding, ass-kicking spirit bodyguard. Eve is a half-demon and a part-time angel, proving even the afterlife has moved to nondiscriminatory hiring practices. But Eve was on a celestial stint, and incommunicado.
So I had to do this myself. That meant the heavy-duty banishing ritual, one that required a lot of time, effort, and ingredients. The last was the sticking point. Vervain wasn’t the only herb I was low on. So I placed a call to my west-coast supplier.
Paige Winterbourne is a witch who lives in Portland and has everything a spell-caster or necromancer could need. She doesn’t sell the stuff. She’s just better organized than me . . . or anyone else I know.
It was still late afternoon, and Paige never went home early, so I called the office.
“Cortez-Winterbourne Demon Hunters,” a voice sang. “Get ’em slayed before you get flayed.”
“That’s new.”
“Yeah, needs work, though. The rhythm’s off.” A pause and a double thump, and I imagined Savannah leaning her chair back, feet banging onto the desk. “So how’s the celeb necro biz?”
Savannah was Eve’s nineteen-year-old daughter and Paige’s ward. From the way she answered the phone when she recognized my number, I knew Paige wasn’t there.
“Lucas is off in Chicago defending a client,” Savannah said. “Paige and Adam are in San Fran with Cass, checking out a vamp problem. Guess who’s stuck behind answering the phone? I told Paige that’s why God invented voice mail. But now I have a feeling my week is looking up. So what kind of trouble are you in? Kidnapped again?”
“Ha-ha. No trouble. I just need ritual supplies from Paige. Do you have access to her stash? Or does she still keep it under lock, key, and security spell so you don’t blow anything else up?”
“Ha-ha. The shed was an accident. So what’s the ritual for? Summoning or banishing?”
“Banishing.” I listed what I needed.
“Ooh, big-ass banishment. What did your spook do to deserve that?”
“The usual. Tormenting me. Insulting me. Blasting me with the Pledge of Allegiance.”
“Allegiance assault? The bastard.”
“It’s probably the only thing he’d ever memorized. Anyway, if you could courier the stuff to Seattle—”
“Seattle? You’re just around the corner.”
“A hundred and fifty miles around the corner.”
“I’ll be there by seven.”
“No! I appreciate that, but really—”
“Staying at the Olympic, as usual?”
“Er, yes, but—”
“Seven it is. Don’t eat without me.”
Savannah arrived at 7:20, bearing pizza and beer. I wasn’t asking how she got the beer. With Savannah, I’m better off not knowing.
She kicked off her knee-high boots, peeled a slice from the box, and folded her long limbs into a chair, pulling her feet up under her. “So, what does he want?”
“Who?”
“Your spook. Does he have a name?”
“I call him Chuck.”
“So Chuck presumably asked you for a favor. You couldn’t do it. He’s making your life hell. You need to banish him. Which is why you shouldn’t let them ask in the first place.”
“It was more of a demand, really. But I have been trying to listen more often, help with little things like passing on messages.”
“Uh-huh. How’s that working out for you? Though I guess that”—she jabbed her pizza slice at the burning vervain—“answers my question. About Chuck, though. What does he want?”
I took a beer and sat on the sofa. “He and his cousin died in a car accident. They were interred in the family mausoleum. He wants me to open his cousin’s casket.”
“And . . .”
“There is no ‘and.’ Apparently, as a servant to the afterlife, it’s not my place to question the will of the dead.”
“Asshole.” She chugged half her beer. “If he’s got a mausoleum, that means he’s got money—or his family does. I bet there’s something valuable in that casket, and jerk-wad is just too stupid to realize it won’t do him any good, being dead. So, if we did find something, we’d keep it.”
“No, I’d give it back to his family.”
“Shit. Jeremy’s rubbing off on you, huh?”
“I’m sure there’s no treasure in that casket.”
“Then why does he want you to open it? Aren’t you curious?”
I wasn’t. Another necromancer lesson: never stop to question. There are too many opportunities. Like the residual in Savannah’s house—a woman forever watching out the window. I should wonder what she’s looking for, why it is so emotionally powerful that the image of it is seared forever within those walls. But necromancers can’t afford idle curiosity. They’ll go mad chasing questions whose answers don’t really matter. That doesn’t keep me from feeling like I should be curious, though.
“It is odd . . .” I said finally.
“Good.” Savannah smacked her bottle down. “Let’s go take a look and get rid of this spook, so you can skip the nasty banishment ritual. You don’t want to be wiped out when Jeremy’s here, right?”
I hadn’t thought of that. One problem, though . . . “If I do it, he wins. I’ll have ghosts lining up to scream the Pledge of Allegiance at me.”
“I’ll handle that.” She tamped out the burning vervain with her fingertips. “Yo, Chuck!”
After a moment, he appeared. “Who the hell is Chu—?” He saw the pizza and beer. “A party for me?” His gaze moved to Savannah. “Whoa. You even brought party favors. Sweet.”
Savannah’s gaze followed mine and fixed on a spot near the ghost. “Sit down, Chuck. Grab a beer.” She sucked back the rest of the bottle, eyes rolling in rapture. The pizza came next, dangled over her mouth, twisting the cheese strands around her tongue. “So good. Want some?”
His eyes slitted. “Teasing little—”
“He appreciates the offer,” I said. “But respectfully declines.”
She set down the pizza. “Come here, Chuck. I have a proposition I think you’d like.”
Hope glimmered in his eyes, then guttered out as he remembered his noncorporeal state.
“We’re going to open your cousin’s casket. No, you didn’t wear Jaime down. I’m curious, so I talked her into it. Give her any grief, though, and she has the shit now to do a full banishment. And if you ever come around again? Or tell anyone we did this for you?” She recited a spell. A fireball appeared at her fingertips. “I’ll replace your balls with these.”
“Bitch.”
“He agrees to your terms,” I said. “And thanks you for your help.”
She pulled on her boots. “Off to the graveyard we go, then. My first mausoleum break-in.” She paused at the door. “Actually, my second, but if Paige asks . . .”
“It was your first.”
It wasn’t the first mausoleum break-in for me. Or the second. A practicing necromancer needs “artifacts of the grave” and the easiest way to get them is from bodies in crypts.
Between grave robbery and graveside summonings, I’d been in enough cemeteries to write a guidebook. I could also write a security manual for cemetery owners. I rarely encountered more than floodlights and an hourly rent-a-cop drive-by.
This cemetery had taken the extra step of locking the gates after dark . . . a gate attached to a fence with gaps you could ride a horse through. They’d splurged on lights, too; from a distance, the place looked like a runway. But all the lighting in the world doesn’t help when you’re outside the city limits, a mile from the nearest house.
As we drove up in Savannah’s car, I suspected Chuck had played us—this cemetery looked too small and new for family mausoleums. Apparently, though, it’d been designed by someone with a background in real estate, creating “mixed-dwelling” communities. Here, you had your apartments (columbaria), single-family dwellings (graves), and McMansions (mausoleums). The latter targeted families with too much money, too high an opinion of themselves, and too little time to actually check out the product before plunking down the cash. The buildings were little more than faux Graeco-Roman sheds.
Savannah picked the lock and we stepped inside to what looked like a summer-camp bunkhouse, stinking of damp wood, the walls lined with berths and a few coffins.
“So which—?” I began.
Chuck motioned for silence and made me relay it to Savannah.
“Um, okay,” she said. “But someone should tell him ‘waking the dead’ is only an expression.”
And, it seemed, we were the only ones supposed to stay silent. Chuck kept up a running commentary as we cast our flashlight beams around. When Savannah approached his cousin’s casket, he got louder.
“Do you hear that?” Savannah asked.
“I can’t hear anything with Chuck yapping.” Which I began to suspect was the point.
“Something’s in here.” She bent to open the coffin. “Are mice scavengers? If so, I think we have a nest of them chowing down at the body buffet.”
My “Wait!” came out like the squeak of a mouse, which must be what she mistook it for, because she threw open the lid. The corpse leapt up like a jack-in-the-box, shrieking and gobbling, fingers worn through from battering the casket, bone tips clawing the air, flesh tatters waving.
I’d seen this coming, but I still fell back. Even Savannah did, uttering a “Holy fucking shit!”
At the sound of her voice, the zombie went still. His head swiveled toward her. Then, with the grace of a landlocked hippo, he lurched over the side of the casket. Savannah stepped back and the zombie, his internal bits and bones out of whack, hit the floor, limbs sprawled.
“Dude, chill.” Savannah brushed a stray bit of flesh from her jeans. “Do we look like grave robbers? Your cousin brought this nice necromancer here, and I’m guessing he wanted her to help you out of your predicament.”
The zombie looked around but, of course, couldn’t see Chuck, who’d taken a seat in an empty berth and watched, arms crossed, waiting for me to get on with my job.
