Demon Mistress (Otherworld/Sisters of the Moon #6)

Demon Mistress (Otherworld/Sisters of the Moon #6) Page 30

Chase moaned. “Not grave robbers, too?”

“How else do you think necromancers get their dead to make ghouls and zombies from?” Wilbur seemed to be enjoying himself now. “Martin here willed his body to science. I just happened to work at the laboratory that claimed him. They decided they couldn’t use him and were going to bury his remains, so I volunteered to do the job. Martin was a transient—a bum. No one to care, no one to grieve for him. So I made him my pet.”

“Do you recognize any energy signatures around here? If you do, please tell us,” Delilah said. “We can use the help.”

“And why should I help you?” Wilbur asked. “First you break my ghoul’s neck, then you act like I’m the scum of the Earth—oh, don’t try to lie to me,” he added when Camille started to protest. “I know full well what you three think of me.” He glanced at her again. “Well, the other two. You—you’re an oddball. I can’t figure your energy out, witch. Anyway, give me one good reason why I should help you guys out.”

“Because I said so,” Vanzir said, stepping forward. “I’m a demon. I could slip into your dreams and suck out your life force without blinking an eye.”

“Down boy,” Delilah muttered. Vanzir glared at her. “Sorry—I meant, stop it, Vanzir.”

Before anybody else decided to play jack the testosterone, I stepped in. “Enough. Listen, all of you. We’re facing some dangerous people. First, we’ve got a Karsetii demon roaming the astral, hunting the Fae. Actually, it will prey on anybody who works heavy magic.” I emphasized the word anybody, and Wilbur paled. “Then we find a pack of wild ghouls on the loose. Somebody had to raise them, and according to Wilbur, here, they did a sloppy job in the process. Which indicates either a half-assed necromancer or some imbecile who has no idea what he’s doing. I’m tending to guess the latter, given our discovery over at Harold’s.”

“Harold?” Wilbur asked.

“We have a bunch of stupid frat boys summoning demons and killing Fae and Supe women. I’m wondering if they aren’t responsible for these ghouls, too.” I sidled over to him. “You didn’t by chance go to college around here?”

Wilbur shook his head. “College? I didn’t even finish high school. I spent a number of years in the marines, down in South America. That’s where I learned necromancy. In the jungle.”

Shamanic death magic. He was experienced. If he’d been taught by a native tribe rather than learning the more ceremonial forms of necromancy, chances are he lived closer to the spirit world and had an easier time working his magic. Shamans tended to be far more powerful than most witches or sorcerers.

Morio whistled, low and through his teeth. “Heavy magic, then.”

Wilbur shrugged. “The only kind I’m interested in.” He turned back to me. “You said there’s a bunch of kids dabbling in this? Not a good thing.”

“Any chance you can give us some ideas of why anybody would raise ghouls, other than . . . well . . . for fun?” I leaned against a nearby headstone. Camille and Morio sat on the grass. Roz and Vanzir stood at my side.

Chase motioned to his men. “Take a look through the cemetery. See if we have any signs of desecrated graves. And these remains . . . bag them carefully, and then we burn the whole lot. We do not tell the families about this, just fill in the graves and keep it quiet.” He stood near Rozurial. Delilah crouched at his feet, squatting on her heels.

“Why would somebody want to raise a bunch of ghouls? An army, I suppose—a band of fighters. They make excellent killing machines.”

“Why did you raise your ghoul?” I stared at him. He was one of the oddest FBHs I’d ever met.

“Me? I raised Martin to be my assistant. He can understand rudimentary commands, he’s handy to have around, and he doesn’t talk my ear off.” Wilbur shrugged. “There’s not much use for this many ghouls unless you’re trying to hurt somebody or unless you just want to practice your skills. Could be the result of a magical lesson.”

Camille clapped her hand to her mouth. “Hey, back in Otherworld, down in the Southern Wastes, remember how there are pockets of rogue magic from when the sorcerers warred? Sometimes that happens in places where a lot of volatile spells were used. Do you suppose somebody was out here practicing magic, and the residue spontaneously caused the ghouls to rise?”

Wilbur frowned. “I’ve never heard of that happening before, but then I don’t talk much with other necromancers.”

“It might be possible,” Morio said. “There are some places in the world where magic is part of the land itself. That happens from long and/or heavy use of magic in one area. But why this cemetery? Remember, it’s the one that attracted those dubba-trolls we fought.”

Grateful he didn’t add anything about the trolls coming through a rogue portal—at least not in front of Wilbur—I considered the possibility. “You guys might be on to something. What makes this cemetery so special, though? Is Harold’s place anywhere near here?”

Delilah frowned. “There’s something . . . let’s go back to the cars. I need to check something I left in my backpack.”

Leaving Chase’s crew to clean up, we headed back to the parking lot, Wilbur towing his ghoul behind him. Martin came compliantly, ignoring everything but his master, whom he regarded with puppy dog eyes.

I winced as a thought ran through my head, but I decided not to go there. Not anywhere near there.

When we got to the cars, Delilah dug through her purse, which she’d stashed under the seat, and pulled out a map. She spread it out on the hood as Chase held a flashlight. We all gathered around.

Delilah tapped an ink-stained mark on the paper. “That’s where Harold lives. And this . . .” She sketched a line directly north. “This is where the Wedgewood Cemetery is. If you expand it in the other direction, this line also passes over . . . the Wayfarer.” She glanced up. “I think this cemetery is built on a ley line.”

“Which means there’s a whole lot of energy waiting here to be tapped,” Camille said. “I wonder . . .” She glanced at Wilbur and shook her head. “It’ll save for later.”

Ley lines were invisible chains of energy—a lot like a fault line—that ran through both Earthside and Otherworld. They connected places in a magical line, and any magic performed over a ley line was likely to be far more powerful than anywhere else. And then, as I stared at the map, I knew what Camille had been about to say. Two of the rogue portals were also on this ley line.

Were all the portals connected by a series of leys, or were only the rogue ones popping up on them? And were all rogue portals connected to ley lines? Another mystery to explore, once Wilbur left us alone.

“Which means that Harold and his crew may be coming out here to perform ceremonies. Or that the energy they’re raising is traveling through the ley and stirring up the bodies. Hmmm . . . I wonder. Chase, have your men check the exact whereabouts of the graves that have been disturbed and get back to us ASAP.” I glanced at Wilbur, who looked mildly confused.

“It would seem that Martin might have been pulled here by the energy of the line, but that’s a long way to travel from our neck of the woods.” I frowned.

“I can explain that,” he said. “I was taking him out for a walk, and he got off his leash.” He held up a cobalt blue leash. It was then that I noticed that Martin’s handy steel collar had a ring hanging off the back. The leash’s clasp was bent, and it looked like someone had pulled really hard on it.

“Leash? You walk him on a leash like a dog?” Now there was a visual I could do without. The thought of the dapperly dressed dead man prancing along like a poodle on the end of a bright blue leash made me want to laugh. Or puke. And when you’re a vampire, puking is not recommended.

Wilbur looked at me. “You’re strong. Can you bend this back into shape for me?” He held out the leash.

Feeling like I was in the middle of some surreal Monty Python movie, I silently took the leash, bent the clasp into shape, or at least as good a shape as it was going to get, and handed it back to him without a word. Then I turned and motioned toward the cars.

“Let’s get a move on. We’ve got a meeting with . . . Vanzir’s friend, right?”

Vanzir nodded. “Yeah, but we’d better drop over to the FH-CSI to get his wounds looked at.” He nodded to Chase.

Delilah grabbed Chase’s arm and looked at the bite marks near the elbow where the ghoul had managed to rip through the cloth of his shirt and chomp down on him. No flesh was missing, but there was one hell of a bruise forming around the wound.

“Yeah, it’s already turning red, and red means infection.” She sighed.

Chase cleared his throat. “I have to get back to the station. I do have a job, you know. I promise—I’ll have Sharah look at it the minute I get there. You guys go do what you need to do.” He kissed Delilah soundly on the lips. “Call you later, sweetheart,” he added as he jogged off toward the group of squad cars.

Wilbur flashed us an awkward smile, as if the expression was foreign to him, and said, “I’m headed out, too. I need to get Martin home. It’s time to watch Seinfeld.”

That did it. I tried to clear my throat, but a bubble of laughter broke through, and I let out a loud snort. “You’ve got to be kidding. You and the ghoul watch reruns of Seinfeld together? What the hell kind of freakshow world do you live in?”

Wilbur stared at me, his eyes flashing darkly. “You’re one to talk. You live with your sisters and a bunch of men in one big house, you’re out bashing ghouls in the middle of the night, you run a bar, and you’re a vampire. You drink blood, for God’s sake. Throwing stones ought to be the last thing on your list of to-do items.”

Frowning, I tried to get hold of myself. But the thought of Wilbur and Martin sitting there watching Seinfeld was too precious. “Does he wear his leash while you’re watching TV, or is he house-trained?”

“Menolly,” Rozurial said, a scowl creasing his forehead. “You really shouldn’t be such a bitch. He did help us out with information.”

I coughed so hard that a dribble of blood oozed down my chin, and I suddenly realized what I must look like. As Wilbur silently marched away, leading Martin behind him on the leash, I raced after them.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry—there’s just been so much tension . . .”

He shook his head. “Excuses. Tension’s no excuse for behaving so rudely.”

So our necromancer was cultured, even though he looked like a mountain man and was a dropout. I glanced up at him, deciding to eat crow.

“I apologize. It was uncouth of me to spout off like that. You and Martin . . .” I fought for control and forced a smile. “You and Martin have a good evening, and thank you again for your help.”

He looked skeptical but mumbled something that sounded like a vague acceptance and left, looking mildly disgusted.

“I think we’ll be asking Iris to bake a lot of cookies to send his way,” Camille said, giving me a shake of the head. “Menolly, sometimes you have to learn to keep your mouth shut. I love you, but you aren’t the most diplomatic person in the world.”

“You’ve got that right,” I said, feeling let down and vaguely guilty.

“Can we get a move on?” Vanzir broke in. “Carter’s waiting for us, and I don’t want to make him mad by showing up too late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, heading toward my car. “The last thing we need is for another demon to be angry at us.”

As we headed out of the parking lot, I decided that maybe I should spend some time with Sassy Branson. She was, after all, the doyenne of the vampire set. If anybody could help me learn a few manners, it would be Sally.

CHAPTER 23

Carter’s place was a little basement apartment-slash-shop along Broadway, near where the junkies congregated. A metal railing kept passersby from falling into the cement shaft. I peeked over the rail to look at the steps leading down to the demon’s hangout. I had the feeling that if Carter hadn’t been who he was, the stairwell would have been packed with street-walkers and addicts, using the cover to keep their transactions semiprivate. But a palpable energy buzzed around the steps, warning, Stay away, or I’ll eat you.

Vanzir glanced around, but the walkway on our side of the street was devoid of people. A hooker leaned against a brick building on the opposite corner, dressed in a sequined mini-dress and platform boots. She looked bored, out of some retro seventies go-go act.

I wondered how old she was; she could have been thirty, she might have been fifty. How long had she been at it, and how many times had she tried to get out of the business? She sure didn’t look happy. It occurred to me that we should give her one of Lindsey Cartridge’s cards from the Green Goddess Women’s Shelter. While they primarily focused on helping women get out of abusive marriages and relationships, they also worked in concert with Reclamation, a group dedicated to helping women who wanted out of “the life.”

Three primer-splotched hot rods zoomed past, speeding. Bored teens, no doubt. I glanced at my Jaguar, parked right next to Carter’s place.

“You think it’s safe to leave our cars sitting unattended around here? The neighborhood looks kind of seedy,” I said.

Vanzir nodded. “Yeah, no problem. Carter paid a witch to cast a spell out to—and including—the parking spaces in front of his place. No thieves, no muggers. They get within ten feet of the circle and freak. If you ever see somebody suddenly look really uncomfortable and cross the street, you can be sure they’re up to no good.”