CHAPTER SEVEN

SHAKE THE BONES

I took several steps back, working carefully to stay in the aisle and avoid stepping on anyone else’s plot. When Ethan moved beside me, I gripped his hand, unashamed.

Be still, Sentinel, he said. Those were the first words he’d said to me, and words I usually loved to hear. But here, in this graveyard, while waiting for a necromancer to commune with the dead, I wasn’t loving it.

Annabelle moved to stand at the end of the grave, facing the stretch of grass and gravestone. She closed her eyes, blew out a breath, seemed to center herself.

The earth shook again, the concussion like a strike on a timpani drum.

I cursed Thriller silently again.

Seemingly oblivious to Mr. Leeds’s irritation, or maybe because she was trained to deal with it, Annabelle held out her hands, palms down, over the grass.

“Harold Parcevius Leeds, I am Annabelle Shaw. I am here to help you speak. Please comport yourself respectfully.”

Another tremor.

Eyes still closed, she shook her head, breathed through her nose in what looked like irritated resignation. “Mr. Leeds, I am not interested in taking abuse from you. I am here voluntarily to help you communicate. If you can’t be pleasant about it, I’ll leave you to silence. Neither of us wants that. You want peace, and I want to help you find it.”

She paused, waiting, as Ethan and I stood behind her, watching, and then she nodded.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your cooperation and acknowledge it. I can assist you in momentarily revisiting this plane, which will allow me to hear your claim or your confession. Do you acknowledge?”

Consent, it seemed, was important for all sorts of supernatural creatures. Mr. Leeds consented with another concussion, this one different from the others. It wasn’t made in anger by a pounded fist. It was more like a desperate bellow, the plea of a man who needed to be heard. Pity spilled in to replace my fear, and I unclenched the fingers I’d wrapped around Ethan’s.

Thank you, Sentinel. I was hoping to use those fingers again.

Magic began to shimmer through the air.

“Very well,” Annabelle said as the magic grew around us. It wasn’t painful, but it was unnerving. It was different from Mallory’s or Catcher’s magic—and it didn’t escape my notice that it was also different from the tinny magic I’d felt in Wrigleyville. This magic felt tangible and real, as if our skin were being brushed by hanks of silk. Instinctively, I reached out to touch it, but my fingers grasped nothing more than air.

Electricity popped around Annabelle, magic sparking through the air like forks of lightning. The power grew fiercer, stronger, until the magic seemed to coalesce atop the grass into the outline of a man lying on his back, arms at his sides. His figure seemed built solely of light and shadow, like an X-ray in three dimensions.

I was actually looking at a ghost, and despite my deep-seated horror, I couldn’t look away.

And then he sat straight up, opened his mouth, and screamed.

I clamped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t help. The sound pounded through my head like it had mass, like it was beating through my skull and filling my body with noise. My eyes watered against the sudden pain and pressure, and still I couldn’t look away.

Apparently used to the noise, or maybe immune to it, Annabelle held out a hand, utterly calm and composed. “I’m here, Mr. Leeds.”

When the screaming didn’t stop, Annabelle stamped a sneakered foot atop his grave, sending a wave rippling through grass and dirt as if she’d skipped a pebble across a glassy lake.

“Mr. Leeds.”

Her words sliced through his anger like a honed katana, and the world fell suddenly silent. Slowly, I removed my hands again, my ears still buzzing from the magic or noise or whatever had assaulted them.

“Thank you, Mr. Leeds. I’m here for you, to hear whatever you’d like to tell me. You don’t need to raise your voice. I can hear you. That’s my particular gift.”

The ghost seemed to stare at her, his expression unreadable. And then he clasped his hands together prayerfully and began to speak. The words were fuzzy, garbled, like a distant station on a radio, albeit with the volume maxed out. But the earnestness in his eyes, the pleading in his expression, was clear enough.

“I understand,” Annabelle said. “I can provide a message to them, if you’d like. You only need to tell me what you’d like to say, and I will do my best to find them and see that they hear it.”

He spoke again. This time he was calmer, which made his magic less chaotic . . . and some of his words understandable. “Wife . . . Wrong . . . Unfaithful . . . Wasn’t . . . Wasn’t . . . Design . . . Please tell her . . .”

Tears gathered at Annabelle’s lashes, slipped down her cheeks. But she didn’t take her eyes off the man in front of her.

“I’ll tell her, Mr. Leeds,” she said, voice quiet but earnest. “I’ll make sure she understands. That’s my solemn oath to you.”

And then she reached forward and held out a hand, grasping his translucent one in hers, small sparks of lightning traveling between them. If the sensation hurt, she didn’t show it.

“Let your soul rest, Mr. Leeds. Let your mind and heart calm. Your message has been heard, and will be delivered, and you can depart from his earth and seek your rest. You can sleep now.”

The magic shifted, softened. By listening to this man, by doing that simplest and most important of favors, she’d changed him. Even as he drew his hand away, his image began to fade, the hazy magic diffusing into the darkness. He lay down on the grass again, and drifted away.

Silence fell, and we honored it long enough that crickets began to chirp nearby.

After a moment, Annabelle wiped her cheeks and turned back to us.

“Thank you for sharing that with us,” Ethan said, breaking the silence. “It was . . .” He seemed to struggle for words. “Quite a thing to see.”

“You’re welcome. They aren’t often as visible. He was trying really, really hard to talk.”

“Can we ask what he told you?”

She started to speak, but stopped and pressed her lips together, working to control her emotions. “He died after a car accident. Earlier that day, his wife had seen him with another woman. When he was in the hospital, before he passed, he heard her say she believed he was having an affair. But he wasn’t. The woman was a jewelry designer. Her name was Rosa de Santos, and he was having a special necklace made for his wife. He asked me to tell her all that. To tell her that Rosa has her necklace.”

“Oh, damn,” I said quietly, tears threatening me as well. We worried about our own, our Novitiates, our House, when there were a million tiny tragedies every day. And as Annabelle’s work tonight had proven, a million tiny miracles.

“Yeah,” she said. “I have a lot of nights like this. But I’ll call Mrs. Leeds, and tell her about Rosa and the necklace. She’ll grieve again; it’s inevitable. But now the fog across her memories, the fear of infidelity, will be gone.”

“We’ll let you get to that,” Ethan said. “And we’ll get back to our search.”

“You know,” she said, glancing toward the south, “if there are any maverick supernaturals around here, you might find them in Hellriver. The chemicals shouldn’t hurt immortals, and there are plenty of sups who just don’t care about that kind of thing. Where better to wheel and deal than in a neighborhood like Hellriver?”

“And since the CPD doesn’t risk its officers’ health by sending them into Hellriver,” Ethan said, “there’s protection for them.”

Annabelle nodded. “They do sweeps once a year or so. Usually around Christmas. Charitable types will come around, shuffle any remaining humans into shelters, and the cops will follow, round up any stragglers. But when the holidays pass, there’s not so much goodwill, and temps get cold again, people find their way back into the houses.”

Living on the edge, Ethan said silently to me. Much like Caleb Franklin. He glanced at Annabelle. “How do you know so much about it?”

She smiled. “I come across all types, and I pick up information here and there, file it away. Context is important in my business. You never know what information you’ll need. The folks who request my services aren’t always on the up-and-up. And, frankly, ’mancers like to talk. This job can be dangerous. We try to keep each other aware.”

“Any idea where in Hellriver the sups might be?”

“No, sorry. I stay out of there physically.” She patted her belly, as if her touch would protect her child from the darkness around her. “Especially with Peanut, who is currently again kickboxing my internal organs. Enough already, kid.”

“We’ll let you get back to work,” Ethan said. “If you do hear anything, could you let us know?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile, and we exchanged numbers.

“It was a pleasure meeting you.” Annabelle smiled and offered a hand.

I looked instinctively down, realized the skin of her palm was dotted with hundreds of black dots the size of pinpricks. When I looked at them, she looked down, squeezed her fingers.

“Each handshake with a client leaves a mark,” she explained. “Not all ’mancers do it; they don’t like the permanent reminder of death. But it’s important for me to keep a memento of the ones I’ve spoken to. They trust me, and I take that trust very seriously.”

I had no doubt of that. I took her hand, shook it. “I’m really glad we got to meet you, Annabelle.”

“I’m glad you did, too. Be safe. And stay away from ghouls if you can.”

I intended to, absolutely.

•   •   •

“Where to now?” I asked Ethan when we made our way to the sidewalk again.

“I suppose we should take a look at Hellriver. See if we can find alchemy or other sorcery.”

I nodded, and we walked south toward the broken fence that marked the boundary between Franklin’s neighborhood and Hellriver.

“We’ve discovered something our stalwart Sentinel is squeamish about,” Ethan said. “Dead things.”

“Dead things should stay that way. Present company excluded,” I added at his arch look. “Because you’re the most handsome ghoul of them all.”

He snorted.

“Annabelle seems cool. Very levelheaded for a woman who does what she does for a living. She seems like the type who gets the job done, takes care of her family, fries up the bacon or whatever.”

“Are you casting a sitcom?”

“It certainly sounds like it.”

We reached the chain-link fence that separated Hellriver from the rest of the world, which still bore enormous yellow signs warning of the chemical spill. We walked over a section of fence that had been flattened against pavement, passed a peeling billboard of the neighborhood’s once-famous dogwood trees. FOR BACKYARDS, FOR COMMUNITY, FOR YOUR FAMILY, it read.

Belle River hadn’t made good on the promise.

The houses beyond the billboard were nearly identical—one-story rectangles with overgrown shrubs and attached, single-car garages. Their bright pastel paint had faded and chipped, yards were full of last year’s dead weeds, and the asphalt was pitted and buckled. Streetlights had pitched over across sidewalks. The spill and evacuation had happened during the summer months, and lawn mowers still sat abandoned in the middle of several yards. Their owners had picked up and walked away from their lives.

Much like Caleb’s, this neighborhood was utterly silent, which added to the sensation that we’d fallen into an alternative, dystopian universe.

“Is it just me, or is this just . . . wrong?” Ethan asked.

“You’re not wrong, and it is.”

If there were supernaturals or anybody else currently living in the neighborhood, they weren’t showing themselves. The houses were dark, and nothing but dead weeds in the light breeze.

But there was something else, I thought, as the hair on the back of my neck lifted. There was magic.

You feel that? I asked him, switching to silent communication.

Ethan nodded, coming to a stop. Look, he said, and I followed his gaze to two images stenciled in dark paint onto the sidewalk. The alchemical symbols for the sun and moon—a circle with a dot inside, and a thin sliver of crescent moon.

I didn’t think this was supposed to be part of an equation. It didn’t feel like that, didn’t have the same number of symbols or breadth of magic, of energy. It seemed more like a calling card. The demarcation of territory.

He’s been here, Ethan said.

Yeah. He has.

Annabelle’s instincts had been right. Hellriver was the type of neighborhood for a maverick supernatural. And more specifically, for an alchemical sorcerer. It also meant Caleb Franklin lived only a few blocks away from what seemed to be the sorcerer’s territory. And wasn’t that interesting?

Be ready, Ethan said as we moved forward again.

I nodded, my fingers already on the handle of my katana.

We reached a four-way stop, reviewed our options. Belle River was built to be a self-contained neighborhood. The houses surrounded a small commercial area—shops and diners around a central square. It was supposed to simulate a New England village, like Stars Hollow come to Illinois. Houses stretched to our left, the square to our right.

Right, Ethan suggested, and I nodded my agreement, fell into step beside him.

The square was one block over, with ornate streetlamps and reaching trees around the edge, the remains of a gazebo now a tinder pile in the middle. On the other side of the gazebo was a small stream topped by a wooden bridge, the water still gurgling merrily after all these years. I wondered if it, too, had been spoiled by the chemical release.

The houses might have been empty, or seemingly so, but there was visible activity here—flickering lights in some of the narrow buildings that surrounded the square. Candles, I guessed, unless the users had brought their own generators.

We crept into the square, hiding in the penumbras of trees to stay as invisible as possible. We still hadn’t actually seen anyone, but the sense that we were being watched hadn’t yet faded.

Ethan stopped and glanced up at the building across the street.

It was a slim, three-story building. The windows had been painted black, but slivers of light shone through the glass where the color had been scraped away. LA DOULEUR was painted in gold letters across the sidewalk in front of it.

Well, well, Ethan said.

La Douleur, I said. That’s French for “pain.”

La Douleur is a supernatural bordello that caters to a very particular audience. Sex is one of the tamer things on the menu. It must have moved; it had been in Little Italy.

I slid my gaze to him. And you’re familiar with this particular supernatural bordello with “pain” in its name?

I’m Master of my House, and I’ve been in Chicago for many, many years. It behooves me to be aware of my vampires’ surroundings.

Mm-hmm, I said noncommittally, but was secretly intrigued. If Ethan was familiar with a place like La Douleur, I wondered what else he’d “mastered” before we met.

His eyebrows lifted. Are you implying something?

I smiled slyly at him. Not at all. At a more appropriate time, however, I will be questioning you about the depth of your knowledge of La Douleur. For now, we were on an op and need to stay focused. There’s magic in the neighborhood, I said. A supernatural bordello might be the type of place a sorcerer would enjoy.

Ethan narrowed his eyes at me, probably skeptical that I was really changing the focus. But I was. For now.

Yes, it does, he finally agreed, and we surveyed the building.

They’ll recognize us if we just walk in, I said. There were probably few supernaturals in Chicago who wouldn’t have recognized Ethan as the Master of Cadogan House. And my photograph in the Tribune wouldn’t have helped, either.

Likely. Although . . . , he added, and glanced at me, giving me an up-and-down appraisal. I wasn’t sure I’d like whatever he had in mind.

“Although” what?

I can use glamour.

Glamour was the classic vampiric power, a way of inducing someone else to do or see what you intended. You couldn’t convince someone to do something they wouldn’t otherwise do, but you could encourage them to see things your way. Glamour was, to my mind, one of the primary reasons vampires had been feared throughout history—because they could unlock a human’s deepest desires.

I’d initially had immunity to glamour. Faux Balthasar had managed to knock that loose. Like a hound toying with its prey, he’d terrorized me with my newfound sensitivity.

I’d lost that defense, but I’d gained something, too. Glamour was part of the intimate psychic connection between vampires, and something Ethan and I hadn’t been able to share before. When he was finally able to “call” me, to reach inside with that powerful magic, it had been one of the most stirring experiences of my life.

It had also been one of the few times since Balthasar that I’d come into contact with glamour without panic.

I looked back at Ethan, realized he’d been watching me. Probably working through the same mental gymnastics, and wondering how I’d handle it.

How, exactly, could you do that? I asked him.

He glanced at the building. I believe I’d create a band of magic around us.

I didn’t know that was possible.

Frankly, I hadn’t thought of it before. His gaze narrowed. The Imposter showed it was possible.

That was what Ethan had taken to calling Faux Balthasar—the Imposter. He could rot in hell, by whichever name.

Ethan glanced back at me. Do you think you could handle it?

Maybe. Maybe not. But I wasn’t going to say no. There was too much on the line, and we’d come this far already. Yes.

Ethan watched me, brow furrowed as if he was debating whether I was telling him the truth.

All right, he finally said. If you change your mind, you need only tell me.

Before I could argue that I wouldn’t change my mind, he leaned in and kissed me softly and, with his lips on mine, began to work his magic.

When he’d called me, I felt the pull in my gut, as if he’d reached into my soul and drawn it toward him, tugged on the emotional and biological connection between us. Ethan’s magic had been both a comfort . . . and an enticement.

The point of this magic was different—he sought to tie us together in a cloud of glamour that would fool others—but the effect was nearly identical. Desire grew as his magic bloomed and enveloped us, pushing heat through my limbs and filling my body with need, with arousal and desire for him.

I dropped my head to his chest, clenched fingers into his shirt as the magic burned through me. Ethan.

You’re making this difficult, he said. Even in silence, his voice was hoarse with desire, his body hard with it.

You’re making it difficult, I retorted. It’s your magic.

It’s responding to you. His lips fell to my neck, traced a line against the soft skin there, drawing goose bumps along my arms.

Maybe this is a bad idea, I said, tilting my head to give him better access. We won’t be able to get anything done if we can’t keep our hands off each other.

Considering where we’re going, I expect we’ll fit right in. His lips found mine, his mouth firm and insistent, driving me forward into pleasure, his hands drawing me toward him, closer.

Moved by magic, I slid my hands into his hair. If only we weren’t standing in a creepily abandoned park, in an even creepier abandoned neighborhood, and on the trail of a killer.

Nearly there, Ethan said, and I hoped that wasn’t a euphemism. Not that I’d deny him pleasure, but I didn’t want to be the only one left wanting.

Suddenly, like tumblers clicking into place, the magic firmed and settled. Relief replaced impatience, and the breeze cooled our heated skin. Still, we didn’t move for a full minute.

“I believe that will do it,” Ethan whispered, his arms banded around me, his head resting atop mine. “And as for the rest of it . . .”

“Later,” I promised.

“Oh, most definitely, Sentinel.”

“Did you manage it?”

Ethan squinted into the darkness around us, as if checking the outlines of the zone of magic he’d created. “I believe I did.” There was quiet amazement in his voice. Perhaps there’d been some silver lining from the trouble the Imposter had caused.

“What will they see when they look at me?”

“Marilyn Monroe.”

His answer was remarkably quick. “I wouldn’t have figured you for a Marilyn type.”

“I’m joking. I haven’t changed your appearance. Merely softened it so you’re unrecognizable.”

“These are not the vampires you’re looking for.”

Ethan just looked at me. “I don’t know what that means.”

“For a man we call Darth Sullivan, you know surprisingly little about Star Wars.”

“I don’t know why I’d need to.”

“Yeah, that’s part of the problem.”

“At any rate,” Ethan said, a little bit testily, “they’ll know you’re female and that you’re with me. They won’t know you have a weapon, but to be safe, try not to bring unnecessary attention to it. Unless, of course, I have to drop the glamour. In which case, be prepared to fight.”

I smiled at him. “I’m always prepared.”

“That’s my girl,” he said with no little pride. “And while it will go against every instinct in your body, you’ll need to pretend to be biddable.”

“Biddable?” Every syllable of the word left a bad taste.

At least he looked marginally apologetic. “It will be expected,” he said, “and we’ll attract less unwanted attention that way.”

“Why can’t you play biddable?”

His smile was pure Sullivan. “Because I’m the Master.”

I supposed I had that coming. “So, to review, you want me to play submissive Marilyn Monroe?”

Ethan paused. “That’s a loaded question with several appropriate answers.”

“Let’s focus on the one pertinent to this job.”

“You know what I’m asking, and why I’m asking it. And I’d like your word on it, Merit.”

I knew why he asked for my promise—not because he doubted me, but because he trusted me. Because he knew if someone threatened him, I’d step in.

“You know what you’re asking me to do,” I said.

“I do. And that’s why I’m asking you, instead of ordering you.”

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. I batted my eyelashes, tried to Gratefully Condescend, as archaic vampire Canon required of Novitiates. “All right,” I said. “Anything else, my lord and Master?”

“Yes. Try not to use that tone.”

I couldn’t make any promises about that one.