Haunted
Page 38
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 ménage à… uh, a threesome."
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 ménage à 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.
"Sony 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 séances."
"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."
" Séance Sluts III: Naughty Necros Caught on Film."
She grinned. "Probably. Okay, let's try again. And this time, we're checking ID."
Chapter 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, voice 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."
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 ménage à… uh, a threesome."
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 ménage à 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.
"Sony 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 séances."
"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."
" Séance Sluts III: Naughty Necros Caught on Film."
She grinned. "Probably. Okay, let's try again. And this time, we're checking ID."
Chapter 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, voice 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."
