Chapter 2
High, piercing wails shook the air, and my hands flew up to cover my ears. What the—
I stumbled back as the shade clawed free of the body.
A gaseous head and shoulders emerged from the body bag. The screaming never dampened. Her face twisted, as if the agony of her death had reached beyond the grave.
I gasped, still plugging my ears. “Bethany?”
The shade didn’t respond to the name. I searched her face. The sharp chin and high cheekbones were on an older face than I remembered, but the hard, almost cruel beauty of her features, as if she were distantly descended from court fae, was hard to miss. It had to be her.
I turned to John. “I know her.”
John’s mustache tugged down toward his chin. “You can ID her? Who is she?”
“Her name is Bethany Lane. We went to academy together. She is—was—a wyrd witch.” I frowned. I’d never before raised a shade of someone I’d known in life. Not that I’d known Bethany well. But even in a city like Nekros, witches made up a small percentage of the population, and wyrd witches—those witches who, instead of needing to be taught to reach the Aetheric plane to gather magical energy, had to be taught not to use magic—were an even smaller percentage. “She was a touch clairvoyant, able to see the past, and sometimes the future, of an object when she touched it.”
John opened the file clenched in his hands and jotted something. He winced as Bethany’s screeching rose an octave. Glass would shatter soon. “What’s wrong with her? Make it stop screaming.”
“Be quiet,” I commanded the shade, but the wailing didn’t drop in volume. I gritted my teeth. My magic gave her form, made her visible, audible. She should have had no choice but to obey my command. Apparently no one had ever told her that. Okay, time for a different approach.
“Tell us your name.”
Bethany’s shade continued screaming. Her hands moved to her face and began digging at her eyes. I grabbed the vaporous wrists, tugging them down. She flailed in my grasp.
“Alex?” John stepped closer.
The edge of the circle trembled as he crossed it, and a shiver of power crawled down my skin. It was meant to keep out magic, not John, who was a null and as magically dampened as could be. He probably didn’t feel a thing. I felt the disturbance down to my bones. I held my breath, unsure if the already weak circle would hold.
I swayed, and the thrashing shade wrenched her wrist out of my grasp. She lashed out, her jagged nails slicing through the air like a scythe.
I jumped back. The crumbled cement under my boots shifted, throwing me off balance. John caught me before I hit the ground, and the shade’s next slash passed through him, grazing my shoulder.Three shallow trenches split open.
“The hell?” John flipped around to grab her.
A futile effort. His hand passed through her wrist.
She lunged again, and I stumbled back. This is so not normal. I cut off the stream of magic giving the shade form, and her eyes bulged. The cold wind washed backward through me, but she didn’t fade. I shoved with pure power. Bethany’s scream kicked up a notch, then cut off with one last lingering note as the shade vanished. The sudden silence rang in my ears.
I gulped down air. When had I lost my breath? The cuts on my shoulder burned, and I pressed my palm against them. Damp. I dropped my hand back and stared.Three thin lines of blood dotted my palm.
Beside me, John let out a deep breath. “What made it do that?”
Crap. “I don’t know. Shades aren’t supposed to lash out.They aren’t that real, that … emotional.” I shook my head.“They’re just memories. No will, no pain …” Or at least that was what I’d been taught. I looked at the black bag. It was perfectly still, silent.
I wiped my palm on my jeans. Tonight I’d send some e-mails. Maybe someone over at the Dead Club discussion board would know what went wrong, but I’d surely never heard of a shade screaming. I turned to the other body.
Or at least I thought it was a body, though it certainly didn’t feel like one to my senses. I squinted. It was the right shape. An icy drop of sweat trailed down my spine.
I reached with magic, my hands hovering over the sheet.
My power slid around the body—or whatever it was—not touching it.
That is just weird. I bit my lip and probed with the sense that drew me to the dead. Nothing.
The power level of my circle surged, lifting goose bumps on my skin. My head shot up as the ghost bounced off my barrier. He turned and slammed his shoulder into the edge of my circle a second time, flickers of green and blue light exploding in the pale barrier. Not what I needed right now.
I drew on the small well of magic left in my ring and channeled a thin line of energy into the circle. The barrier quivered but held as the ghost hit it a third time.
He jerked as if stung, his form more transparent than before.
“What is it?” John asked, stepping closer to the gurney.
I forced my attention away from the ghost. If he hadn’t broken the circle yet, he probably wouldn’t. I had other things to worry about, like the sheet-draped form on the gurney. “You’re sure this is a body?”
John pulled the sheet back, and the skin on my arms crawled. Coleman’s face was pale and expressionless in death—and completely free of decay.
I blinked. Crumbled cement crunched under my boots. Rust covered the gurney. My grave-sight was functioning, but … “He looks exactly the way he did on TV.”
John nodded.“Pretty good for a two-week-old corpse, huh?”
I frowned. I’d seen two-week-old bodies before. Hell, I’d smelled them too.Without being embalmed and with the heat index hitting 104 on cool days, Coleman should have been a mess. Instead, he would probably have an open-casket funeral.
“What were the autopsy results?”
John pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “One of the bullets perforated the spleen. That was the kill shot. His body poisoned itself. No indication how the body was preserved this long without signs of decomp.”
He shook his head. “When the media gets hold of this, they’re going to spin it with him being some sort of saint. Incorruptible body and all.”
Great—just what the world needed: a sainted witch hunter. I let out a sigh, and my strength rushed out of me with my breath. Between Baker and Bethany, I’d been in touch with the grave too much today. I needed to wrap this up, get Coleman talking, and get paid.
I studied his unmarred features. Even if he wasn’t outwardly decayed, he should have been desiccated in my grave-sight. Everything natural decayed in my gravesight.
John lifted the sheet to cover Coleman’s face, but I held up a hand.
What is that?
Leaning forward, I motioned John to pull the sheet down farther. Thick blue and green lines curved over Coleman’s shoulders, filling the hollow of his collarbone.
“Are those tattoos? Let me see his chest.”
John frowned but folded the sheet down to Coleman’s hips. Vivid patterns decorated the governor’s arms and chest in a swirl of colors and shapes. The curving lines were like nothing I’d seen before, as if an artist had taken liberties in depicting characterized runes or ancient tribal art.
I leaned closer. “Not exactly something I expected to see on a public figure.”
John stared at me, not the corpse, and my stomach twisted.
“You can’t see them?”
He shook his head.
Oh crap. The patterns were undisturbed by the Y incision from the autopsy—a regular tattoo would have been ruined. I turned and looked at the marks from the corner of my eye. In my peripheral vision, I could almost make sense of the twisting patterns, but if I focused on them, they jumbled toward random. Magic glyphs?
“Did Tamara check the body—or whatever this is— for spells?”
John nodded. “She did a full workup. Nothing.”
I swallowed, and the fist in my stomach clenched tighter. Tamara was a natural bloodhound for rooting out spells. I’d never found anything she’d missed before, especially something this big. Not that I had a clue what the spell did.
Behind me, a door banged open.“What the hell is she doing with my body?”
My head snapped up, and I whirled around.
A man stormed into the room, his steps thundering through the sterile space. In my grave-sight, he was a blinding silver blur, his soul shimmering below the surface as though his skin could barely contain it.
“Damn,” John swore.
He shoved Coleman’s gurney back toward the cold room, but the spell on the body caught on the edge of my circle. Energy tingled over my skin, and the clenched fist in my stomach thrust upward, choking me as the circle fought to hold the foreign magic inside.
“John, no—”
Too late.
John shoved again, and the circle shattered. The backlash tore through me like spikes ripping through my veins. Bile filled my mouth. Oh, this isn’t good. My knees buckled.
Gravel bit into my palms, and I found myself blinking at the broken linoleum. John and I were going to have to have another chat about magic circles. I pushed off the ground.
Cold wind raked over me, through me. I shivered. Oh no. The grave essence from the other bodies in the morgue—it was reaching for me. Papers rustled in the gathering wind, and the equipment on trays rattled.
“What the hell is she doing?” the stranger yelled.
I ignored him. There wasn’t enough time to recast my circle. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on my outermost mental shield. I visualized a wall of vines growing around me, blocking the grave essence. The wind calmed, becoming a light breeze, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. Most witches formed shields of stone or metal, but I’d long ago learned that visualizing living walls protected me better against the dead. I turned toward the remaining gurney.
My hand trembled as I extended my arm and reached both physically and magically for the life force I’d stored in the corpse. It rushed into me, burning a wellused route to my core. My vision dimmed, my gravesight faded, and the chill gripping me retreated. Goose bumps lifted on my skin. The heat I’d regained was only enough to emphasize how cold I’d been while filled with the grave.
My shoulder itched, and I rubbed at the scratches before fumbling the shield bracelet out of my pocket. I hated this part.The charm bracelet’s silver clasp snapped closed, and the last of the grave essence reaching for me vanished. The psychic disconnect left me shivering and blind.
“I’ll have your badge for this,” the unfamiliar voice yelled.
I cringed. Well, we’d certainly pissed someone off.
Now if only I could see who. A wheel squeaked at my side, and I blinked furiously. Stupid adjustment period.
I squinted, but I couldn’t make anything out. My postritual vision was worse than normal, probably because I’d used my grave-sight twice today. Impatient, I knelt and groped for my purse. Under my fingers, the linoleum was once again solid, smooth. Where is that bag?
The shadows crawled apart, and I made out a blotch of red to my right. My purse. I snatched it from the floor and dug out my glasses case.
“This is an open investigation!”
I turned, willing my bad eyes to focus. The stranger leaned over Coleman’s gurney as if checking to see if we’d tampered with the body. A shock of platinum hair fell forward over his shoulder, and he brushed it back with a swipe of his hand. He looked up and straightened as John wheeled Bethany into the cold room.
He jerked the front of his suit jacket closed, stepping around the gurney and into John’s path. I frowned. The fitted suit showed off an impressive swimmer’s build while marking him as someone higher up in the police food chain than a beat cop. While I certainly didn’t know all the homicide detectives in Nekros, I thought I knew all the ones important enough to have pulled Coleman’s case.
John’s knuckles flared white where he gripped the metal gurney, but his gaze didn’t lift above the black body bag. I slung my purse over my shoulder. Now might be the time to make a discreet exit. John could sort this out.
I headed for the door.
“Witch, stay where you are,” the detective barked behind me.
I flipped around. Busted.
What was the name of the cop Tommy had been worried about earlier? Andrews? This had to be the same detective. I hadn’t meant to get John in trouble.
The detective balled his hands on his hips. His suit jacket gaped, exposing an expanse of pristine oxford shirt and the dull black butt of his gun.“If your pet magic eye compromised my investigation, I—”
Magic eye? He did not go there.
Thoughts of fading into the background fled from my mind, and I marched into his personal space. “Detective Andrews, is it?”
He turned, his jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer. He also didn’t back down.
I was tall, and in my ass-kicker boots I was pushing six feet, but this close, I had to look up to meet his eyes.
Intense eyes at that—frost blue, but right now burning hot with outrage. I jutted out my chin, matching his glare.
“Detective Andrews?” I asked again, and received a grunt in reply. Oh, yeah, he’s a real conversationalist.
“I’m Alex Craft with Tongues for the Dead.” I held out my hand, letting it hang in the narrow space between us. We were much closer than we needed to be to shake, and his gaze flicked to my outstretched palm before he grasped it.
For a shocked moment, I didn’t understand the press of material against my skin. Gloves. He wore gloves.
The handshake started firm and grew to painful as he squeezed the bones in my hand.
I smiled at him. I wasn’t male, and I wasn’t interested in an immature squeezing game. I had my own childish game.
I thinned my shields, visualizing the mental vine wall uncoiling, creating small holes between my psyche and the land of the dead. I was still wearing the charm bracelet, but I sidestepped its beneficial defenses by actively reaching for grave essence. I siphoned enough chill to lift the hair off my neck, for it to crawl down my arm, over my hand, and into the detective’s hand.
His blue eyes flew wide as the unexpected touch of the grave wound up his arm. He jerked his hand from mine, falling back a step.
My smile never slipped as I slammed my shields back in place. “Since I’m just a hack magic eye, perhaps you can explain why Coleman’s body was never alive, yes? No?”
He blinked, but I didn’t wait for a reply. Turning on my heel, I marched out of the room.
He didn’t stop me this time.
John caught up with me outside the elevator. The shiny bald spot in the center of his head glowed red, but his gaze dragged the floor. “That wasn’t smart.” His whisper was hoarse, as if he was choking down what he really wanted to say.
I tossed my visitor’s badge on the front desk and rounded on him. “Why isn’t this your case?”
He didn’t answer. A cough sounded behind me. A shoe squeaked. Crap, I was yelling. I took a deep breath as the heavy metal doors of the elevator slid open.
I waited until we were inside the elevator and the doors were closed before speaking again. “Why didn’t you just tell me it wasn’t your case?”
“I’ve got my own curiosity, and you’re lucky he didn’t arrest you.” John frowned but looked up to meet my eyes. “I see you finally started wearing the glasses.”
My fingers moved to the thick black frames. “I’m a fan of seeing. I just need them the first hour or two after using grave-sight.” I paused. He’d changed the subject.
Twice. Did I really want to push it? Yes, I did. “Who is this Andrews guy?”
John slipped between the doors before they were fully open and set a quick pace to the police station lobby. He reached the front door before pausing. “Falin Andrews transferred into the department a week and a half ago. You want to know how he got this case? Ask the chief. Now, are you coming to dinner?” He glanced over his shoulder, and his mustache twitched. “Maybe Maria will let us snag some of her upside-down cake before the meal.” He winked and rubbed a hand over his expanding middle.
I smiled despite myself. Leave it to John to go from angry to thinking with his stomach. I had to admit, though—cake sounded divine. My steps were lighter as I walked to the door. Cake might actually make this whole day better.
I got a good look out the window in the door, and my optimism died. Outside, reporters crowded the steps.
News vans lined the road.
“Should we try to sneak out the back?”
John shook his head. “I’m parked out front. You remember the magic words?”
“Yeah. ‘No comment.’ ” And since the press got wind of my part in Amanda Holliday’s trial, I’d had a lot of practice saying them. But walking into an onslaught of microphones? Not exactly my idea of fun. John waited, watching me. I made a last-ditch effort to smooth my unruly dishwater blond curls and forced what I hoped was a camera-worthy smile. At least I had on a halfway decent outfit—my favorite pair of black leather hiphuggers and a red lacy tank top—so I wouldn’t look terrible on camera. “I’m ready.”
He pushed open the door, and the reporters surged forward.
“Detective Matthews, are there any new developments in the Coleman case?” A perky redhead shoved her mic forward.
John stepped around it without a word.
“Are the police seeking magical consultation on the governor’s death?”
A mic appeared in my face, and the dark-skinned man holding it asked, “Were you able to talk to Coleman’s ghost?”
They were guessing, just digging. I wasn’t going to be the one to give them anything. I shoved the mic aside.
“No comment,” John barked, guiding me down the first set of stairs.
The reporters made only a marginal path for us. Microphones cut between us, stranding me several steps down from John. I glanced back, but our goal was to reach the bottom. He’d catch up. More questions cut through the air, mics and cameras popping out of the crowd.
I was halfway down the stairs when the air behind me dropped ten degrees and corpse-cold fingers landed on my shoulders.The hands shoved, hard. I plummeted forward, throwing out my arms to break my fall. My wrist popped as I landed on it, but that didn’t stop me. Momentum hurtled me ahead, and my skull cracked on the next step. My knee bounced off the cement. I rolled the rest of the way down the stairs and landed on my ass just in time to see a bullet sail through Death’s incorporeal chest.