Vermilion, page 3
“It’s no good, sorry. As I was telling Lieutenant Siegert, souls rot, same as everything else. You tell me you’ll leave him be, but sooner or later your feelings about that’ll change. Maybe you’ll get bored of never going anywhere, and start thinking about hopping inside his skin so you can go for a walk on a fine day. Maybe you’ll start thinking about doing other stuff, too, like—”
“I won’t,” said the ghost, sounding panicked. “Please—I won’t, I promise! I just want to live a little longer, I mean… be here a little longer.”
“Mrs. Siegert,” said Lou. “It’s too late. I’m sorry. I am, really. I’ve heard stories like yours before, worse even sometimes. The thing is… I work for the living. Even if they’re assholes.”
“But I’m dead because of him,” cried the ghost of Mrs. Siegert.
Lou crouched down and reached inside one of the chalk circles she’d drawn, closing her fingers over the pitch pipe. Mrs. Siegert had retreated to the edge of the parlor, but her eyes kept returning to the buzzing bee. That was, of course, its purpose—the sound held her, transfixed her, kept her where Lou could get her. Lou felt the stirrings of regret, seeing the desperate way Mrs. Siegert wriggled and squirmed in her desire to be free, but steeled herself against compassion.
“You can’t stay here,” said Lou firmly. “The questions I asked you were a courtesy to you, so you could feel okay moving on—but you’re moving on whether you want to or not. I won’t add insult to injury by lecturing you about balance, making sure the worlds aren’t contaminated by one another, that kind of thing. You just gotta accept it.”
“You’re a monster!” Mrs. Siegert was writhing now, abortively pulling away from what held her in place.
Lou had heard the same allegation out of countless spectral mouths. It stung every time, but she could not allow herself to sympathize with the dead. Reluctant spirits would say or do just about anything to keep from passing into the world of the dead, but it meant bad news for the living the longer they remained.
“It’s nothing personal,” she promised.
Before Mrs. Siegert could speak again, Lou blew on the pitch pipe. The note hung in the air even after Lou stopped blowing, and Mrs. Siegert screamed and clawed at her ears, rooted to the spot.
“Just go along with it,” advised Lou as she snatched one of the yellow papers from the stack and stepped toward the ghost. “It’ll be worse—for you, I mean—if you resist.”
Unfortunately—but unsurprisingly—Lieutenant Siegert had been lying about how long he’d been allowing his wife’s ghost to haunt him. The shade succeeded in freeing herself from the vibrations with a great rending sound, and launched herself straight at Lou, screeching.
Lou tripped over the edge of the coffee table in her haste to get out of Mrs. Siegert’s way, and grunted as she fell flat on her ass. Too dizzy to attempt a further retreat, she lifted the pitch pipe to her lips a second time, but it was too late—before she could sound the tone, Mrs. Siegert grabbed Lou’s left wrist.
Lou hollered as spirit-fire burned her arm. Footsteps pounded on the floor above as she grabbed her gun, and she heard Lt. Siegert clattering down the stairs before she shot the ghost point-blank between the eyes.
The blast was deafening, and Lou felt rather than saw Mrs. Siegert let go her wrist; the thick cloud of smoke produced by the revolver obscured the spirit momentarily. Lou was on her feet quick as she could manage and sidestepping the miasma saw the ghost clawing at the bullet now lodged in her ethereal head. She was backing away from Lou—but slowly, as if through deep water.
Lou’s arm still felt like it was on fire, but she ignored the pain as she leveled her gun again.
“Sorry, ma’am,” she said through gritted teeth—and fired on the ghost a second time.
The bullet hit Mrs. Siegert where her guts used to be, freezing her completely this time, mouth open, fingers at her face.
Lou exhaled, relieved, as Lt. Siegert burst into the hazy room. He stared at Lou, one arm curled against her chest, the other still holding the smoking LeMat. He opened and closed his mouth stupidly a few times. Lou would have laughed if her arm hadn’t hurt so goddamn much.
“Sorry for the ruckus,” she said. “There won’t be any bullet-holes, I plugged her with both shots.”
“Uh?” said the lieutenant, still gaping.
“Just sit tight. I’m almost done.”
After tucking her gun into its holster, Lou took up her tongs. Clasping Mrs. Siegert by the arm, she dragged her toward the door in the floor. When Lou had wrangled her directly over the portal, she lowered the ghost carefully, feet first. She pressed firmly against the slight resistance and watched the spirit sink into the flat flowing blackness like a bison falling into a tar pit.
When Mrs. Siegert’s head disappeared beneath the surface at last, Lou grabbed the edge of the door with her tongs and laid it back over the portal into the beyond. Green light seeped through the edges again.
Lou stepped away from the door and withdrew from her waistcoat pocket the object that looked like a silver pocket watch. It was not a timepiece, however; when she flipped it open, the face looked more like a compass—only the needle didn’t point to magnetic North. It was her father’s antique skiameter, and had there been any sort of undead presence in the house, the needle would indicate where it lurked. Earlier it had pointed straight to the couch, where Mrs. Siegert had been sitting. Now, it spun lazily around and around the face. Satisfied she had completed the nekuia, Lou closed it again. The hard part was over.
“What the hell happened?” asked the lieutenant.
“You really let her bide for a while, huh?” Lou shut her mouth and retched. Now that the excitement had passed, the spirit-burn on her arm ached hot and cold, just as if she’d burned it under far less uncanny circumstances. “Closer to two, three months, I’d warrant.”
Lt. Siegert didn’t say anything. Lou shook her head but didn’t give him any more crap. The ghost might be gone, but her work was not yet done.
Out of her bag she pocketed a spool of psuilver thread and a piece of felt with a shimmering needle stuck in it. With no more ghosts hanging around Lou replaced the pink lens in her goggles with another blue one. Once the edges of the door came into better focus, she painstakingly whip-stitched it shut. She slapped a yellow ward over the area, just to be safe.
“The rug should cover that,” said Lou. She rose and almost stumbled—she was completely exhausted. “You don’t have to keep it there forever, just a few months.”
Lt. Siegert had apparently had his fill of asking questions. “All right,” he said. “So you’re done? We can clean up?”
“All taken care of.” Obvious relief brightened Lt. Siegert’s eyes, but he still looked testy. Lou wondered what was coming next.
“And?” he asked.
“Oh.” Lou realized what he was after. “Right. Turns out she always hated roses. Go dig ’em up, or she might come back.” That part wasn’t true, but she had promised the ghost, and in spite of everything Lou had still liked her more than her husband. “Go buy some tulips and daffodils.”
“Damned nuisance even after she’s dead,” muttered Lt. Siegert. “Fine, fine. Well, just one other thing. I was curious…”
Lou, busy replacing all of her materials, glanced up at him and knew his question before he asked it. She’d seen the look before, and she’d see it again.
“I think if you’ll look at the contract we both signed, you’ll see I don’t discuss the afterlife,” she said. “I send them on their way because I have to. It’s not my business what happens to them. Now, I do know a few preachers who’d be willing to talk with you, though I can’t vouch for the accuracy of their predictions. Only have their word on the matter, of course.”
Lt. Siegert nodded once, tersely. He told her to wait a moment, disappeared into another room.
Once he left, Lou collapsed into an armchair. She felt awful, chilled to the bone, weak, and stomach-sick. She’d grab some food on her way back into town; that would help. She was close to the Bear Market, and as her favorite chili-vendor was citified enough not to hibernate she could get herself a cheap bowl of hot stew. This thought cheered her significantly—until she saw Lt. Siegert emerge, not with a wad of bills or a check in his hand, but two shovels.
“Uh,” said Lou.
“You’d come along with me to dig them up, I thought. It’s in the contract we both signed,” said Lt. Siegert, looking pretty pleased with himself. “All sundry duties related to the successful completion of the nekuia. I just checked. You said it wouldn’t take if we didn’t, so…”
Damned if she’d let on how truly inadequate she felt to the task. With a nod Lou got to her feet, consoling herself with a promise that first thing when she got back to the office she’d demand Vilhelm remove that particular clause from the standard contract.
Chapter Two
Lou felt pure, unadulterated joy when she spied Uncle Bjorn through a cloud of rich, spicy steam, still selling bowls of hot stew to the bears, men and women going about their evening shopping. She was beyond weary; hacking roots out of iron-hard gravedirt with a wobble-bladed shovel and only an ornery veteran for company had taken all the remaining starch right out of her.
“You all right, Lou?”
“Huh?” Lou realized she’d been staring at the two pots for a while, and deciding between rabbit stew and venison chili shouldn’t take so long. “Sorry, Uncle. Just tired. Gimme a bowl of the chili, unless you think the rabbit…?”
“Go for the venison.” He ladled her out a hearty serving, then reached for a small bucket of fat white maggots. “Grubs?”
“No, thanks,” said Lou. The sight of the writhing larvae didn’t help her lingering nausea. She looked away quickly. “Any news?”
Some would call Lou a cheapskate; she described herself as thrifty, which was why she’d gotten her meat and mushrooms at the Bear Market for years now—long enough that most of the stallkeepers trusted her enough to gossip with her, or at least freely grumble about whatever recent trumped-up charge some local bear had gotten saddled with to spare some human the shame of justice. It was easy enough for her to believe; the same sort of bullshit was spread calf-deep around Chinatown, too.
“Nothing directly involving any of us. Some muttering about some mauling up north. Obviously wolves, but you know how it is. See a claw mark…”
“Yeah,” managed Lou, after burning the roof of her mouth on her first bite. “All right. Well, think I’ll check out the Wanted board, see if there’s anything that catches my eye.”
“You’re lookin for love in all the wrong places, Lou.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said, and, after acknowledging Bjorn’s request that she bring back the bowl, spooned meat and sauce into her mouth as she ambled away, cutting in among stalls and dodging shoppers as she headed toward the sheriff’s office.
There wasn’t much. All the crimes had apparently been committed by villains of the usual sort. There was a notice for a prospector who had sold his silver claim after getting treated for what he said was coyote-bite, and was now wanted on suspicion of being a werewolf, and a woman had fled town after giving birth to a halfsquatch, possibly headed towards the San Bernardino range to the south. Both were jobs for monster-hunters rather than psychopomps.
Cruising the Wanted posters wasn’t something most psychopomps did, but Lou had made some decent cash off of bounty-hunting when contract work was slow. Thankfully, there had been plenty of regular work for her of late.
Realizing she’d been doing more sucking on her spoon than actual eating, Lou headed back towards Uncle Bjorn’s stall. She’d only been able to force down a small portion of her meal. Sheepishly, she returned the bowl to Uncle Bjorn, explaining her stomach’s unruliness when he raised what passed for his eyebrow to see so much food left over. At least the stew didn’t go to waste, he scraped out what remained with his paw and gulped it right down. Lou tipped her hat to him and took her leave.
Food had helped, but Lou knew she was in a bad enough way to need a cab. She hailed the first one she saw, and angling her hat down low as the driver slowed, grunted a Post Street address. She spent the ride trying to stay awake as they rattled into the center of town.
It had been a long day. Six jobs was a lot, even without any as irritating as the Siegert haunting—but she’d done more work for less money. Tonight she’d relax, take a hot bath, eat a good dinner… and as for after, Lou thought she’d left a little whiskey in the bottle, and she had the bulk of Buffalo Bill, King of the Border Men left to read.
“C’mon now!”
“Buh?” said Lou, wondering where the hell she was, as it certainly wasn’t in her bed with a bellyful of Old Monk and a dime novel falling from her hand. Someone was shaking her shoulder roughly and shouting at her. She looked up blearily at the cab driver as she pulled away from his grip.
“This ain’t no damn hotel. You speakee English? Pay up and get out, or I’ll—”
“Oh shit,” said Lou, genuinely apologetic when she realized where she was and what had happened. “Sorry—didn’t mean to—”
“Lazy goddamn chink,” muttered the cabman. “Shoulda got a better look at you ’fore you hopped in. This ain’t no garbage cart.”
Lou was too exhausted to do more than just pay the man—though she stiffed him on the tip. As he counted the coins she stepped down from the cab and onto the sidewalk without a backwards glance. A volley of cusswords followed her up the stairs to the Merriwether Agency’s shiny black door; Lou flashed the driver her brightest smile, waved in a friendly fashion to his obvious irritation, and ducked inside before he could think of anything else to shout after her.
The office was deliciously warm, and the tinkling of the silver door-bell sounded friendly and cheerful, as always. Hanging up her hat and overcoat, Lou noticed the chair behind the great wooden desk was empty of its usual occupant, but she heard Vilhelm messing around in the kitchenette. She called out a greeting so he would know it was just her and not a client.
Curious, Lou sniffed the air. It smelled like lemon oil, the dusty-sweet scent of books—and tea. Glancing at the ornate green and gold mantle-clock that squatted atop one of the bookshelves she saw it was indeed teatime, a ritual still considered sacrosanct by both Lou and her business partner even though its high priest had passed on. Cheered by the prospect of a revivifying cuppa, Lou retrieved the money she’d earned that day and knelt down behind the desk to lock it into the strongbox.
“Hey, you,” said Vilhelm, poking his head out as she stood. “Come help me set up the tray. Tea’s almost ready.”
“Tray?” asked Lou, and entering the kitchenette she saw a paper packet of meat sitting beside her father’s antique blue and white tea service. Vilhelm was buttering thin slices of bread with efficient, practiced movements.
“Fancy,” she said. “What’s the occasion?”
“I ran out for tarts and some cold sliced beef when the rain let up,” said Vilhelm over his shoulder. “You had a busy day, and a wet one, so I figured you could use something hardy.”
“Thanks.” Lou was plenty used to long hours and wet weather, but as Vilhelm layered some cress on top of the buttered bread, she had to admit high tea was a nice treat. Not that she was particularly inclined to eat more at the moment.
“Can you grab that box—the one on the second shelf? They’re raspberry jam.”
Lou fetched the pink pastry-box from the cabinet and brought it over, but she let Vilhelm arrange the tarts as he saw fit while she washed up in the little sink. The pleasure of hot water on her chapped hands was almost dizzying; the amount of grime that sluiced away down the drain, disgusting. Afterwards, she followed Vilhelm into the front parlor.
“Very nice,” he said, stepping back to admire his efforts. “I used some of the gold tips. All taken care of?”
“The tea?”
“No, the jobs,” said Vilhelm.
“Oh. Yeah,” said Lou, settling into a chair with a groan. “That last one was a doozy.” She eyed the repast, but knew the beef sandwiches were beyond her power. The tea on the other hand looked wonderful, and she inhaled the delicate steam gratefully after accepting a cup. A few sips strengthened her enough that she felt able to retrieve her tobacco pouch so she could roll herself a cigarette. She spilled a lot of shag. Her hands were shaking.
“Not hungry?” Vilhelm was as surprised as Bjorn had been.
“Just tired. This last ghost tried to take me with her. Got me real good on the arm. Just look at that.” Lou rolled up the cuff of her sky-blue shirt, revealing a mark, neither bruise nor burn, in the shape of a clutching hand.
“Christ, Lou,” said Vilhelm, standing quickly. “Put some salve on that!”
“In a minute,” said Lou, motioning for her partner to sit back down. “It’s nothing to get all excited about.”
“Don’t be stupid, it’ll suppurate if you don’t treat it,” said Vilhelm, striding to the back of the office.
“Not instantly,” argued Lou, as Vilhelm retrieved a jar of ointment from a cupboard. His hand-wringing both amused and irritated her. She was no newcomer to psychopompery; she’d begun assisting her father when she was fourteen years old, and had been working full-time at the Agency even before he got sick. Since his death nine months ago, she’d handled everything—meaning, she knew what she was doing.
Vilhelm set a fat jar down in front of her. “You can’t neglect yourself.”
“You told me to come help you in the kitchen,” said Lou, ignoring the salve.
“‘First thing, take care of yourself,’” quoted Vilhelm piously.
Lou scowled at him, annoyed to hear her father’s wisdom flung at her. Vilhelm, immune to her ire, took off his brass-framed pince-nez and peered across the low table at Lou.
“Sorry you had a hard day,” he said gently.
“Eh.” She’d had worse. As far as professions went, psychopompery wasn’t the easiest. The active portions of the job required intense concentration, physical stamina, and quick reflexes. Even preparing the necessary materials for banishing ghosts and shades carried their own risks, mercury poisoning being one of the worst. Frequently handling vermilion was dangerous enough, to say nothing of inhaling the dust from grinding it at home. But she’d known all that when she got into the business.
