Chapter 11

"Does this place give you the creeps?" Carter punched in a code for the cold room. "Or is it just me?"

"It's sterile and smells like chemicals, which is odder to me than the fact dead bodies are in there."

Cozy ambiance was my personal preference, but I went the extra mile for the sake of those who had put their trust in me. Both donors and lessees deserved respect and a comfortable place to spend their time.

"The preservative magic bothers me more," Harrow admitted from behind me. "I can feel it in the air. On my skin. It makes me itch."

That this post-Seattle Harrow was somewhat forthcoming about his magic hadn't ceased amazing me. I couldn't say he looked happy about acknowledging his heritage, but he wasn't denying that part of him or ignoring it like when we were young. Back when I was exotic and mysterious by virtue of embracing my nature.

The few times Harrow had brought me home with him, to prove to his uncle I wasn't evil incarnate, his uncle hadn't been impressed. Lyle recognized me from the food bank. Through his volunteer work, he had intimate knowledge of statistics on indigent teenagers. Maybe he worried I would seduce his nephew into leaving his home to live on the streets with me. Or maybe he worried I would get knocked up and provide two new mouths for him to feed.

I couldn't even blame him for suspecting me. Not when I knew girls who had gone that route for shelter. After two years, I figured I would have earned some credit with Lyle for having a true interest in Harrow.

In hindsight, that might have been my mistake. Sticking around. Proving my dedication to Harrow. Had I been a fling, Lyle might have been more tolerant. There toward the end, I wondered if Harrow might be planning to ask me…

Nope.

Screw the past. It was over and done. I had to keep looking forward, to the future, not back.

"Who should I pull first?" Carter pointed to a giant metal cabinet. "Mr. Minchin is freshest."

I would have chosen the loaner to avoid facing Mr. Minchin. Maybe it was better if I didn't get a choice.

While she pulled out his drawer, I arranged what I needed on a stainless-steel tray like last time. She had the sheet pulled off him by the time I had finished arranging my station, and I fought the burn of tears at how peaceful he seemed in his final death. Like Phelps, he was new enough to his immortality to leave a corpse behind. The realization forced me to ask, "Do you think the killer is targeting newly turned vampires?"

"We think they have a target," Carter drawled, "but it's not baby vamps."

"You've got this." Harrow stepped up behind me, like the question sprang from anxiety rather than genuine curiosity. "You know what you're doing."

"Could you stop being supportive?" I faked a shudder. "It's weirding me out."

Carter, who was giving me room to work, whistled low. "You really burned that bridge, didn't you?"

"Gasoline can in one hand and a flamethrower in the other," he agreed, surprising me with his candor.

Blocking out the spectators, I lit the candles, singing softly under my breath, and called Mr. Minchin.

Flames sparked and spluttered, the wax turning black, but a wavering outline formed above the body.

"Mr. Minchin?" There wasn't enough of him for me to be sure. "Can you speak?"

A cold wind swirled through the room, extinguishing the candles, and scattering the motes.

"No." I grasped for him. "Wait." I couldn't hold on to him. "Mr. Minchin."

Within seconds, he was gone, the candles nothing but ash.

"You saw him?" Carter straightened from her lean. "You were able to summon him?"

"I saw a residual. I couldn't tell if it was him. It didn't speak." I examined the candles. "I lost it."

"Can you try Mrs. Minchin, or do you need a break?"

There Harrow went, being thoughtful again. It was downright bizarre after the way we parted all those years ago. Maybe an alien had body snatched him since then.

"I can manage." I began cleaning up then paused to brush Mr. Minchin's comb-over in place. "Until we meet again."

Carter was kind enough to drape the sheet over him and push him back into his cubby. Two doors over, I got treated to the familiar sight of Bronco. Cait Grover. Not a mark on her. Thanks to preservation spells, she looked the same as when I saw her last.

This summoning went quicker since I was used to working with this donor.

The results were the same as when I attempted to contact Ormewood.

Mrs. Minchin's spirit was…gone.

Again, I collected the ashes, and again I waved off their concerns as I embraced a horrible necessity.

I lit sage and cleansed the body. I placed selenite towers in her hands. I washed her face and the bottoms of her feet with a saltwater mixture. I followed the steps Vi had taught me to cleanse the body so that I was starting with a blank slate. As I worked, I hummed, and when I finished my preparations, I held out my hands, palms up, and coaxed the owner of the body to return to it. "Mortui vivos docent."

The dead teach the living.

Flames danced, but the candles burned true. Motes gathered above the body until they formed a figure. I took her hand, murmuring reassurances, and guided her down into the skin she had shed. "Cait?"

A groan poured from the corpse's lips, and she blinked awake with drowsy languor. "Frankie?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

"Sure." She yawned and turned on her side, resting her head on her arm. "I have a minute."

That struck her as hilarious, and she dissolved into the throaty laughter that had always made me smile.

With Cait animating her body, I had an easier time searching for injuries. There were none from her death, caused by a cerebrovascular accident, which made wounds from the leasing process easy to identify. "Do you feel unusual?"

"Other than being alive again?"

"Yes." I playfully shoved her hip. "Other than that."

"No. Not really." She scrunched up her nose. "I feel like I'm standing in a hall that echoes. Like there's no rug or furniture to absorb the sound of my thoughts or my voice. There's too much empty space."

"There are no unfamiliar residues? The other spirits left nothing behind?"

As soon as a loaner was returned to me, I cleansed it from top to bottom. Spiritually and physically. Did I expect Cait to tell me a hostile remnant clung to her? No. But I wanted to ask an authority on this body to eliminate the possibility.

"I only leased my body the one time." She rubbed a thumb across the stainless steel beneath her. "Death came so fast…" She shook her head. "I don't think I understood what was happening before you summoned me back."

The one time was a month-long grace period to spend with her golden retriever, Buster, before he went to live out his days with her parents, who considered him their grandpup and spoiled him rotten.

"Can you think of anything—anything at all—different this time from then?"

For a long moment, she chewed on her bottom lip, and I was grateful she was thinking it through.

"It felt like coming home then." She flexed her fingers. "Now it's like walking through a model home."

"Sterile?"

"Yes." She tugged the sheet higher up her shoulder. "There's nothing here."

"Thank you." I squeezed her hand. "I won't bother you again."

"I don't mind." Her eyelids fluttered shut. "It's nice to visit. Next time bring a tennis ball, and Buster."

As her chest quit rising, the candles huffed out, but they remained pure white.

"What was with the house metaphors?" Carter touched Cait's hand then jerked back. "She's warm."

"She was a realtor." I hated to move her, but she couldn't stay like this. "Those comparisons were easiest for her, I guess."

Harrow must have had the same idea. Careful not to jostle the body, as if Cait might blink awake again at any second, he eased her flat onto her back. "Do you often return spirits to their own bodies?"

"All my clients receive a month to spend as they choose upon their death."

"I don't get it," Carter cut in before Harrow could counter. "How is she not a vampire?"

"I can't make them." I went through the cleaning routine again. "I've tried. There's good money in it. But I can't make spirits stick to their hosts for longer than a month. I thought that meant I was a failure, but I learned from Madam Fontenot that I have plenty of skill. Just not in making vampires. Whatever the rest of me is made of, I favor that side of the family. Necromancy helps, but it's not at the core of who I am."

Honest curiosity sparked in Carter's tone. "Then why do you label yourself as a necromancer?"

"It's a word people are familiar with. People understand what they are and what they do." I shrugged. "Plus, necromancer looks better on a business card than No Clue What I Am, But Trust Me I Can Do This."

"Fair enough." Carter appeared to consider me. "If you figured out your other half?—"

"Not interested." I shut her down fast. "I care as much about my parents as they cared for me."

"All I'm saying is," Carter kept pushing, "I wouldn't put myself under the Society's thumb unless I had no other choice."

"It would be just another form of survival." Harrow sided with her. "Another layer of protection."

The child in me kicked her feet and shook her fists, screaming a reminder that us Marys had made a pact to never, ever go looking for our parents. They left us in a charnel house where we had been food for…

No.

Not going there. Not now. Not ever, if I could help it.

"I'll think about it," I lied, not caring if I sounded sincere. "Where are you keeping Phelps?"

Holding up a finger, Carter consulted a computer mounted to a standing desk. "He's in 3F."

Harrow beat her to the drawer and rolled out the final obstacle between me and freedom.

For Phelps, I returned to the selenite towers, placing those in his palms. I added Jasper on his forehead and carnelian over his heart. Then I placed fresh candles and began yet another summoning. This time, my hands trembled and a rasp softened my voice. Magic was taking its toll, but I had to push through it.

A whirl of motes reminiscent of fireflies drifted to me, swirling around my head, offering me comfort.

Whoever Phelps had been in life, he was just as kind and perceptive in death.

Catching a bright mote in my hand, one tangling in my hair, I drew the others to me until I held a firm ball of light and guided it sinking into his chest. I still had my hands on him when the body gasped awake. His eyes rolled in his head, searching, searching, searching, until they landed on me. The fight drained out of him when I took his hand, and he turned his head toward me. He smiled with dimples in his cheeks.

"Hello, beautiful." He glanced away from me, cutting a frown over my shoulder. "Who might you be?"

During the summoning, Harrow had crept up behind me, and I elbowed him back to give myself space.

"He's a detective working your case." I squeezed his hand. "That's why I was hoping to talk to you."

"Here's the thing." He lifted his head to rub an ache in his neck. "I'm not Duncan Phelps."

Yet again, I was showcasing my shortcomings in front of Harrow. "Oh?"

"Vi told me to come." His smile was a quick, apologetic flash of white teeth. "She put out an all-call across the area for any spirits who saw what happened to Phelps that night. I was on River Street, and I caught the end. So, here I am. I was waiting on you to go home to speak to you, but then I heard you call the name she mentioned. Phelps wasn't in line waiting or anything. I didn't bump him to be here."

Spirits perceived one another the same as people saw each other. If he said Phelps wasn't there, then he wasn't there. Meaning he was another victim. The fourth one so far. The first one, really.

Before we went any further, I shot Vi a text to check his credentials.

gt;I have a spirit here who says you sent him.

gt;gt;Oh good. He got there okay. It's not much, but I thought he might help.

gt;I owe you one.

"Alrighty then." Sliding my phone into my back pocket, I focused on our witness. "What can you tell us?"

"The guy—Phelps—he was already dead when I got there."

"What did you hear?" Harrow had inched closer. "What did you see?"

Clearing my throat to remind him who was in charge, I elbowed him back a few steps. "What drew your attention to Phelps?"

"There was this guy crouching next to him. With this light around him. Like the sun was setting behind his head, you know? Craziest thing I've ever seen. So, I went to check him out before he left. He was praying for the dead guy, and I heard him apologize for being too late."

First Vi mentioned old gods as possible suspects in the murders and now we had a guy with a halo.

"Too late?" I prompted him. "Any idea what he meant?"

"He looked sad. He was holding the guy's hand. Like maybe he held it while the guy died."

"You think he was apologizing for not being there in time to save him." Carter locked gazes with Harrow, something passing between them, then she focused back on the loaner. "Can you give us a description?"

"He wore slacks. Dark ones. A button-down shirt. Wrinkly. Like he had been outside and got sweaty." He snapped his fingers. "And his shoes. They were black leather but dirty. Like he had been walking through mud."

Any faint hope Kierce wasn't involved evaporated like mist before the coming of the dawn.

"This light behind his head…" Harrow appeared thoughtful. "Any guesses as to what he was?"

"Not an angel, if that's what you're thinking." He chuckled. "The light was dark, if that makes sense."

Not really, but spirits saw clearer than us in some ways. "Can you remember anything else about him?"

"No." He drummed his fingers in a faster rhythm on the table under him. "That's it."

"Did you see anyone else?" Carter's brow dipped low. "Were you alone in the parking lot?"

"You're never alone on River Street," he joked, "but there wasn't anyone nearby that I saw."

"That's all I've got." Carter spread her hands. "Harrow?"

After a moment of consideration, he shook his head. "I can't think of anything else."

"Then," I addressed the spirit, "I'll return you to your slumber."

The candles extinguished as the spirit made his journey home, and my vision swirled like smoke.

"Oops-a-daisy." Harrow's arms locked around my torso, under my breasts. "Let me help you."

Darkness tickled the edges of my consciousness, and a stabbing pain knifed through my skull. Hurt was a constant throb in my temples, making it impossible to wedge my eyes open. The room was too bright and a metallic whine filled my ears that tapered into moans from the rousing dead.

I fought off the inevitable long enough to send them back to sleep and grasp that my knees had buckled. Harrow had caught me before I took a spill, and he was shifting his grip like he meant to lift and carry me outside to let me recover in the fresh air.

That was when I heard the laughter.

Carter, bent over double, had her hands braced on her thighs. "Oops-a-daisy?"

The slight distraction was all it took for me to slide through Harrows arms.

I kept going and going and going.

I was unconscious before I hit the tile.