As they moved through Agnes's clinic, the Nix basked in the fear that swirled about, thick as the foundry smoke down by the river. In the corner, two vagrants whispered about a shadow they'd seen in Hobotown, a monstrous shadow that had twisted up from the very earth itself, butcher's knife in hand. Two younger men in hobnailed boots swapped "secret" details of the mutilations, each trying to outdo the other. A young mother gathered her two children closer and tried to stop up their ears, her eyes dark with fear.
Agnes was oblivious to the chaos she was causing, intent only on her day's appointments. Cure them by day; kill them by night. The fact that Agnes failed to see the irony--the perversity--of this only made it all the more delicious to the Nix. Of course, it would have been better if Agnes could share the irony with her, instead of trudging through the killings with all the joy of a factory worker putting in a twelve-hour shift. The Nix had held out every hope of converting Agnes, of introducing her to the joys of death and grief and chaos, but she knew now it would never happen, and if she kept pushing, this would be the first time she was evicted by her living partner. She wasn't ready for that--there was still much feasting to come. So she kept silent.
Agnes was in search of victim number thirteen...or so the Nix hoped. They'd finally found the decapitated man and woman Agnes had left in the East Ninth Street dump. At last, the city was in a true panic. To the Nix, there was no question what Agnes should do now. Strike again, while they were still reeling from the last killings. Make this one the worst yet, the most horrific, and she would not only have their attention, she'd own it.
Agnes didn't see it that way. Now that the city had noticed, she wanted to sit back and see whether they understood her message. For two days, they'd been arguing about this. Finally, the Nix had convinced Agnes to take this walk.
As they headed off the street, the Nix saw a shape flicker through the shadows.
"Over there," she said. "To your left. What's that?"
Agnes's gaze swept left so quickly the Nix saw only the flicker of a shadow. Frustration washed through her. For two days she'd been telling Agnes they were being followed. The hunter kept to the shadows, but the Nix had noticed that he failed to cast a shadow himself, which could only mean one thing--their stalker was a spirit. Probably an angel. One had followed her before, and she'd dispatched her easily enough, but the Nix wasn't fool enough to ignore the threat another would pose.
An angel had taken her to that supernatural hell dimension, where she'd spent two centuries, and could do so again with another swipe of those damnable swords. As a demi-demon she'd been impervious to the Sword of Judgment, but she'd lost that immunity when she'd taken over a human form.
But Agnes had shrugged her off with a nonchalance that still sent waves of fury through the Nix. So long as the stalker wasn't coming for her, Agnes didn't care. This only confirmed the Nix's suspicion that she'd outlasted her usefulness to Agnes.
Agnes picked her way down a trash-strewn hill, then paused and inhaled.
"Smoke," the Nix murmured. "Something's burning over by Hobotown."
Agnes hurried forward, stumbling over piles of tin cans and scraps of lumber. When they rounded the next building, the sky turned orange. Distant flames lit the night sky.
"No," Agnes whispered. "No."
She rushed forward. Hobotown was afire, ringed by fire trucks. The firemen were just standing there, leaning on shovels, sitting on upturned buckets, watching the shantytown burn.
The Nix strained to hear the shrieks of dying men. For agony, there was nothing like burning alive. Yet all she heard were the shouts of the police and firemen, laughing and calling to one another as they enjoyed the spectacle. Finally she picked up the sweet sound of sobbing, and traced it to a line of police paddy wagons. Men were being loaded into the trucks.
A young man in an overcoat strode out from the line of paddy wagons. Eliot Ness. The Nix recognized him from the articles Agnes pored over.
"Burn them to the ground!" he shouted. "Leave them no place to return to. That will solve the problem."
"No," Agnes whispered.
She swayed on her feet. The Nix felt a sharp pain. Agnes clutched her chest, gasping, and sank to the ground.
"No!" the Nix said. "Get up!"
Agnes lay on her back, mouth opening and closing, eyes wide and unseeing. The Nix let out a howl of frustration as she felt Agnes's life slipping away. Involuntarily, the Nix's spirit began to separate from Agnes's body. She tried to throw herself free but couldn't. As Agnes died, the Nix was trapped there, tethered to Agnes's earthly form. As she struggled, a figure stepped through the building beside them. A dark-haired, handsome man.
"No!" the Nix shrieked. "I will not go!"
She struggled harder, but was held fast. The man stopped, head tilted, studying her face. As she looked into his eyes, she realized, with a jolt, that he wasn't an angel.
He walked closer and hunkered down beside her spirit form.
"You appear to have a problem, pretty one," he said in Bulgarian.
The Nix snarled and writhed.
"I've been sent to capture you," he said. "And promised a nice reward for your return. All I have to do is call my angel partner, and it's over." He smiled. "Unless you can make me a more attractive offer." He lowered himself to the ground. "She appears to be taking a while to die. Shall we discuss my terms?"
16
I FELT A PANG OF GUILT AT HAVING LEFT THE JAIL BEFORE I could find the little boy and say good-bye. Too late to go back now. I hadn't left a marker, so it'd take me hours to walk there again. I'd return and see him when this was all done.
I found Kristof in my house, and told him what had happened.
"Why not just kill her?" he said when I'd finished.
I threw my hands up. "Exactly. Why isn't this dead obvious to everyone but us?"
He put his legs up on the ottoman, resting his feet a hairsbreadth from mine. "This Janah told you to find the latest partner. Is that because she's the only one you can use?"
"No, I think that was just because she'd be the easiest one to find. With the others, who knows if they're still alive..." My chin jerked up, eyes meeting his. "I see. If I don't need to use the latest, then I can check out one who's already passed over, and test my theory, see whether they're connected to the Nix when she's on this side. I'll just need to visit the Fates and get myself a visitor's pass to a dead partner's hell dimension." I looked over at him. "Want to come along?"
He smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."
"No," the eldest Fate said, not even pausing in her spinning long enough to look at us. "You cannot go flitting about the other dimensions, bothering ghosts in purgatory."
"We can't bother ghosts in purgatory?" I said. "What the hell is purgatory for, then?"
The middle Fate took over before her sister could answer. "Most wouldn't speak to you anyway, Eve, and those that did would only try to lead you astray with lies and half-truths."
The youngest Fate cut in. "What about--?"
Her sisters cut her short, and the three of them flipped past as they discussed something. Then the middle Fate returned.
"We have a possibility," she said. "Someone who may be inclined to help you, and who will be truthful. However, like the others, she's not a supernatural, so she isn't within the realms we govern. We must make arrangements for you to speak to her, and this may take some time. Leave it with us."
The Fates sent us to my house. I stood on the front porch and looked at the pair of wicker rockers. I'd picked them up shortly after moving in. They conjured up images of lazy afternoons whiled away sipping mint juleps and reading trashy novels. And just as soon as I had time for lazy afternoons, mint juleps, and trashy novels, I'd use them. For now, though...
I looked over at Kris. "The Fates and Trsiel think this is all about following clues like tracks in the snow. But to catch your prey, you need to understand it."
"You want to better understand the Nix."
"Exactly." I w
aved him to the twin rockers. "I need to speak not to a partner, but someone else who was there, who saw what was happening. Someone who'd have a reason to talk to me. Maybe a victim..."
"Possibly, but outside of movies, I doubt many killers share their thoughts and motives with their victims. Those women the Fates showed you both had male partners. The first man is still alive, but the later one died in prison about ten years ago. From what I dimly recall of the trial, he and his wife didn't present the most united front. After his sentence was read, they dragged him out cursing her name."
I grinned. "So he might be up for a little tattletale pay-back?"
"Let's hope so."
Jaime lifted her eye mask to peer at me. "The first night off I've had in two weeks, and you're asking me to spend it in a cemetery five hundred miles away?"
I dropped onto the armchair and pulled my legs under me. "Forget the graveside version, then. Let's go for the long-distance ritual."
"You mean the one that will zap my powers for a week, and knock me flat on my back for three days? Even if I cared to do that--which I don't--the long-distance ritual never works on anyone who isn't in a normal afterlife dimension."
"Well, there is an alternative."
"Good."
"We could contact the ghost of Amanda Sullivan's five-year-old daughter, ask her if she noticed anything strange about Mommy before she drowned her."
Jaime glowered at me, then plucked off her mask and tossed it across the room. "I'll pack."
It took me a couple of hours to get to the cemetery, first transporting as near as I could, then walking the rest of the way. While I waited for Jaime to arrive, I laid a marker and returned to the ghost world, to check on the Fates' progress. The wraith-clerk receptionist assured me the Fates were working on my request, but couldn't provide an ETA for results.
I popped over to Portland to check on Savannah. She was at school, poring over a math test. Math has never been her best subject, and I hovered there for a few minutes, trying to mentally communicate the answers, but the truth is that math was never my best subject, either. If I succeeded, I'd probably only guarantee her a failing grade. I kissed her for good luck, and went back to the cemetery to wait for Jaime.
It was a dark and stormy night...
Actually, the skies were crystal clear and, with the three-quarter moon overhead, it wasn't even that dark, but if you're going to conduct a graveside seance, you have to set the scene properly.
I'd been sitting on a grave marker for over an hour now. It was one of those double headstones, for a husband and wife...only the wife hadn't died yet, so the stone just bore her name and date of birth. Downright creepy, if you ask me. The woman's husband died twenty years ago. Every time she came by to tend his grave, she had to see her name on a tombstone, that blank date-of-death space just itching to be filled in. Talk about a memento mori.
At least they had a tomb. I was buried somewhere in a forest in Maine. The upside to that, though, is that no necromancer could contact me unless they did it the hard way, which, as Jaime said, was damned hard, and rarely successful. So far my afterlife had been interference-free.
At the stroke of midnight, a cowled figure leapt over the cemetery fence. Well, okay, it was probably closer to twelve-thirty, she was wearing a full-length coat instead of a cape, and she more tumbled over the fence than leapt, but I'm really trying for atmosphere here.
Jaime spotted me and strode over, coat flapping. Under it, she wore a black bodysuit. It would have been a great disguise...if not for the flaming red hair that flashed through the darkness like a firebrand.
"Oooh, love the coat," I said as she drew closer. "Is that lambskin?" I looked down at my jersey and jeans.
"Hmmm, underdressed as usual."
"I don't think you need to worry about being seen, except by our ghost."
"Ah, but that's the problem. If our ghost sees me dressed like this, he'll know right away that I'm a spook. Better not give him any clues."
I closed my eyes and changed into an all-black outfit--a turtleneck, snug-fitting jeans, cropped biker jacket, and knee-high boots. If you have to skulk around a cemetery, at least you can look good doing it.
I'd found Robin MacKenzie's grave earlier, so I led Jaime straight there and waited while she set up, then spent another hour waiting while she coaxed MacKenzie out. The Fates and their ilk keep a pretty tight lock on the nastier areas of the afterlife.
Finally, a ghost popped through. In my vision, I'd only seen MacKenzie from the back. This spook fit: average size, sandy brown hair, scrawnier than I remembered, but I guess a decade in prison took its toll.
"Robin MacKenzie?" Jaime said.
He looked around, deer-in-the-headlights stunned, then saw Jaime. He gave her a slow once-over, grin broadening by the second. Then his gaze slid to me and his grin widened.
"Hell-o, ladies," he said, running his hand through his hair.
"Robin MacKenzie?" Jaime repeated.
"Uh, yeah. Right." He shook himself and stretched. "Sorry if I'm a bit slow on the uptake. Never been called out by a necromancer before." He paused. "That is what you two ladies are, right? Necromancers?"
Jaime nodded.
"Sweet." He gave us each another once-over, his grin returning. "Very sweet. So...what can I do for you ladies? Looking for a little incubus action?"
I slipped off my tombstone and strolled over to him. "Is that what you think you're here for?"
"Well, heh-heh, let's just say it's what I'm hoping I'm here for. A little ghostly menage a...uh, a three-some."
I kicked him in the back of the knees. As he crumbled, I grabbed his collar and threw him face-first into the dirt. Kind of blew my cover, but it was a bit late to worry about that.
"Let me give you a hint," I said, leaning down to his ear. "This isn't foreplay."
He let out a gurgle, and tried to rise, but I ground his face into the dirt. He writhed and coughed.
"Stop faking it," I said. "You're dead--you can't choke. But there are a few other discomforts I can dream up. Any more menage a trois notions, and we'll put my creative abilities to the test...right before I toss your murdering ass back down to hell. Got it?"
He sputtered, eyes saucer-wide. "Murdering...? Look, ladies, I don't know who you're looking for--"
I glared at him. "You aren't Robin MacKenzie, are you?"
"Shit, no. I saw you ladies hanging around, trying to get hold of this Robin dude, and I figured if he doesn't want to answer, I will. I mean, shit..." His gaze traveled over me. "Can't blame a ghost for trying, right?"
I hauled him over to Jaime's altar, bent over her bowl of vervain, blew the smoke into his face, and watched him fade away. Then I turned to Jaime, who was sitting there, head in her hands.
"Sorry about that," I said.
When she lifted her head, she was sputtering with laughter. "Oh, that was too good. I need you around on all my seances."
"It might help if I looked more like I was trying to contact a spirit, and less like I was trying to pick one up." I closed my eyes and changed into a plain black T-shirt and pants. "There. Better?"
"Doesn't matter. Believe me, I've tried. I could shave my head and wear sackcloth and still attract a whole lot of ghostly wrong numbers. Makes me wonder whether there's some kind of ghost-necro porn industry down there."
"Seance Sluts III: Naughty Necros Caught on Film."
She grinned. "Probably. Okay, let's try again. And this time, we're checking ID."
17
AFTER ANOTHER FORTY MINUTES OF INDUCEMENTS, hell finally spit out Robin MacKenzie, and dumped him, sweating and shaking, on the ground. It was another fifteen minutes before he'd recovered the strength to hear our questions. Seems the hell dimension had been a bit rough on the guy. And I felt so bad about that.
For confirmation, we asked his wife's name. From the way he snarled the answer, I knew we had Robin MacKenzie.
He could only manage to rise onto his elbows. "Is she dead?" he asked, voic
e hoarse from disuse. "Please tell me she's dead."
"She is," I said.
His tongue slid across his cracked lips, eyes feverish.
"Did she suffer?"
"We'll get to that," I said. "Not very happy with the missus, are you?"
"Do you know what she did to me?"
"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"It was her idea, all of it. Everything we did, she thought of it first. But when they caught us, she cut a deal. She told them I did it. That she was just another victim. The abused wife, forced to go along with everything I said. And they bought it. They bought it!"
"Of course they did. No one wants to believe a woman is capable of things like that."
He pulled himself upright. "That's it exactly! The evidence was right there, on the tapes, her laughing, egging me on."
"You got played," I said. "But I'm here to offer you a chance at another round. See, your wife is dead, right? But she's not in hell."
"What?"
"A serious injustice, I know. But you can set that right."
"You want me to prove she did it? I can--"
"No, we've already established that. What we need now is more detail, to give the celestial court a better picture of the defendant, her state of mind at the time of the crimes."
"State of mind? She was fucked-up. Crazy. Obsessed with that Scottish bitch--"
"What Scottish bitch?"
"Suzanne Simmons. She killed some kids back in the sixties."
Now, that sounded familiar. "This Simmons. Did she have a partner?"
"Yeah, her husband or boyfriend. They killed a bunch of kids and buried them out in these grasslands or something."
"And Cheri was interested in this case."
"Interested? She was fucking obsessed. Wouldn't stop talking about it. She'd always been into that kind of stuff, serial killers and shit. We both were. But then, all of a sudden, she starts going on and on about this Scottish chick, telling me all about her. It was spooky. Almost made me think maybe she was some kind of reincarnation of this Suzanne Simmons, but I looked it up, and Simmons was still alive."
"So Cheri talked about those murders."