Broken (14 page)

Jeremy went in search of hidden books or ones hiding in plain view. Most reference texts on the supernatural don’t need to be hidden—anyone who stumbled on them would just think you had unusual reading tastes.

The file duties were split between old-fashioned and new—paper files and computer ones. I got the computer. While I knew how to recover files from the recycle bin or the “deleted” folder on my e-mail, when it comes to things like cracking encrypted data or finding files that have been wiped clean, I was lost. I read through Shanahan’s e-mail and hard drive files, finding nothing useful. Clay saved me from further digging by announcing that he’d found paper-based files on Shanahan’s collection.

“Where?” I asked, swinging around in the computer chair.

“Right here.” He pointed at the file cabinet. “Bottom drawer.”

“Out in the open? Are they written in code?”

“Don’t need to be. He found an easier way. They’re all listed as fakes—curiosities, not artifacts.” He lifted a folder and flipped it open. “One Baphomet idol, reportedly taken from an unnamed Templar castle in Britain. Later discovered to be a late eighteenth-century forgery.” He thumbed through a few pages. “It goes on to describe the significance of Baphomet in the persecution of the Knights Templar.” He handed me the file. “The usual stuff. How they were accused of worshipping Baphomet, presumably a Pagan deity of some kind. Problem was that no one’s ever
found
a Pagan deity called Baphomet.”

“So an idol of it would be significant.”

“And valuable, if only from a scholarly point of view.” He frowned and glanced at the doorway. “Where did you say he kept his collection?”

“Uh-uh. No side trips. We have work to do. You can’t get into that room in human form, so you’d have a heck of a time getting a good look at it.” I paused. “Though I could see a few things from the doorway. Remind me to show you when we’re done.”

He nodded his thanks.

I waved the file folder. “So they’re all written up like that? Purported fakes?”

“All the ones I’ve skimmed. Good idea. Most of them, like the Baphomet idol, are historically significant and widely believed to either not exist or not to have the supernatural powers attributed to them. They’re written up as such—a collection of supernaturally-themed curiosities.”

“And the letter?”

He bent to the drawer again. “Still looking. Tried P for portal, L for letter, J for Jack. Nothing yet.”

“Here, hand me a bunch.”

He did. Jeremy joined us about twenty minutes later and took a share. His book search hadn’t revealed anything. Seems Shanahan wasn’t much of a reader. The only hidden stash Jeremy found was a half-empty bottle of rye whiskey, presumably belonging to the housekeeper.

An hour later, we’d gone through every page in every file, and found no mention of the
From Hell
letter or anything related to Jack the Ripper.

“He’s detailed everything,” Jeremy said. “It’s unlikely that the letter is the only undocumented artifact.”

“Don’t forget,” I said. “It
was
stolen.”

“So was his copy of John Dee’s
Necronomicon,
” Clay said. “According to the pages copied into the file, it went missing in 1934, from Oxford. Shanahan just says he inherited it from his grandfather’s collection.”

“So, chances are, there is a file for the letter. Either he took it or he destroyed it.” I looked around the office. “Does anyone see a shred—”

“Here,” Clay said, heaving to his feet and walking over to it. He took off the top. “Recently emptied.”

“Damn. What about the recycling box? He could have put the pieces in there.”

“Or burned them in the fireplace,” Jeremy said.

Clay nodded. “Or stuffed them in the garbage.”

“Everyone can check out the place they suggested,” I said.

“Excellent idea,” Jeremy said, and headed off to the fireplace as I grabbed the recycling box.

Clay looked over at me and at Jeremy’s quickly retreating back, then stalked out, grumbling.

Marked

IF SHANAHAN HAD SHREDDED THE FILE
,
HE
’
D TAKEN THE
pieces with him. By the time we’d confirmed that, it was late enough to hunt down the second portal escapee.

When we left Shanahan’s house, I checked my voice mail and learned that Robert had called while we’d been inside. We called him back from the hands-free setup in the Explorer.

“I believe I have some good news for you,” Robert said.

“You know how to close the portal,” I said.

“You were already on the right track and halfway there. To close a dimensional portal involving human sacrifice, all you need to do is return the sacrificed souls to the other side.”

“In other words, kill the zombies.”

“Precisely. Better yet, you aren’t even doing them a disservice. Instead of returning to that dimensional portal, they’ll go to their normal afterlife.”

“That one we dispatched earlier today might not be so happy about that, considering he seemed pretty handy with that knife of his. He probably didn’t much like where he ended up.”

A light laugh. “True enough. But I’m sure this other poor woman will go someplace better.”

“So that’s what happened last time—someone killed the zombie and the portal closed?”

“Well…not exactly. In that case, the portal was opened shortly after it was created. That meant that the sorcerer who created it was still alive and had control of the zombie. To kill the zombie, they needed to kill the controller.”

“Like with one raised by a necromancer?”

“Somewhat. Both types, if under someone’s control, cannot be killed. Had yours been raised by a necromancer, a lethal blow simply wouldn’t have been lethal.”

“Like in the movies. You keep hacking, they keep walking.”

“Precisely. But dimensional zombies with a controller—” He stopped and gave a small laugh. “Sorry. Talia’s making faces, telling me that I’m veering far from the topic and probably confusing you. You don’t need to know about controlled zombies, because that clearly isn’t what you have. To contain zombies from the nineteenth century, your portal had to have been made around the time the letter was written. Only a sorcerer can create a portal, and they have normal life spans, meaning whoever made this one is long dead.”

“Hence any connection is already severed,” Jeremy said.

Clay nodded. “So all we need to do is kill the second zombie.”

“Thereby returning the portal to a balanced state,” Robert said. “Opening the portal allowed those souls to cross dimensions. That causes imbalance. Return them to the other side, and anyone who wandered into the portal will be released. Balance is restored. The portal closes.”

We were counting on the woman being easy to find and at the end of an unbroken scent trail. Even after twenty-four hours, that wasn’t as improbable as it might seem. She was from another century, and unlikely to have hopped on a GO train and headed for the suburbs.

The bowler-hatted man had adjusted to modern transportation quickly enough, but carjacking was probably little different from commandeering a horse or buggy, and I suspected he’d had some experience at that. He’d figured out that cars were the modern equivalent of a coach-and-four, grabbed one and let the driver do the tricky part.

As for how he’d tracked us, we assumed it had something to do with the letter. As for why he’d wanted it—that puzzled even Robert. He could only guess that he’d tracked us like a domestic dog following a rabbit’s scent—only because instinct told him to. To avoid the problem this time we’d left the letter in the car, hidden in a place that would require werewolf strength—or a hydraulic jack—to access.

We began the hunt in human form, starting a block from the portal site where I’d picked up the woman’s scent earlier that day. I tracked it for five blocks.

When the trail hit an industrial area riddled with abandoned or semiabandoned buildings, it meandered, as if she’d lingered there. Eventually it led into one of these buildings—where she must have rested—then snaked out of the neighborhood and over to a busier street, still rife with industrial buildings and warehouses, but many converted to lofts and nightclubs. It continued down the street of nightclubs, past lines of people waiting to get inside.

“She crossed the road here,” I said.

We only got a few steps when I picked up the smell of rot again, stronger and fresher.

“I’m getting it too,” Clay said. “She’s close.”

Halfway across, I stopped as a fresh wave of the scent came over on the breeze. I looked up to see a short, sturdy figure under a dim streetlight. She wore a hooded cloak of some kind, high heels and a short skirt. Her back was to us.

A car honked. Clay grabbed my elbow and hurried me across into the alley. I peered out, then ducked back around the corner.

“So how do we handle this?” I whispered.

“Mercifully,” Jeremy said.

“No questioning then?”

“Don’t need to,” Clay said.

Jeremy hesitated, and I knew he was thinking it would be nice to question her. Personal curiosity, of course, but it could be concealed under the guise of education, wanting to add to the supernatural world’s knowledge of portals.

After a moment, he shook his head. “Quickly and mercifully is best. Clay? Go out and ask her into the alley.”

Clay looked at Jeremy as if he’d just been told to dance the rumba on a public thoroughfare.

I bit back a laugh. “Just walk over to her and point at the alley. Maybe say…I don’t know…something like ‘fifty bucks.’ ” I looked at Jeremy. “Does that sound right? Fifty?”

His brows shot up. “Why are you asking me?”

“I wasn’t—I just meant, as a general…” I threw up my hands. “How am I supposed to know how much a hooker costs?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

I sighed. “Fine, fifty bucks sounds good. It’s not like
she
knows what the going rate is anyway. Just say that and nod at the alley. She’ll follow.”

Clay continued to stare at us in silent horror.

“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re ready to break her neck but you can’t—”

“I’ll do it,” Jeremy said, then shot a look my way. “Not that I have any more experience soliciting prostitutes than Clay does.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

A mock glare, then he headed out.

I’m sure “fifty bucks” and a nod to the alley would have been enough, but Jeremy chatted to her for a couple of minutes first. Then he led her into the alley.

When she saw us blocking the other end, she stopped. Jeremy, at her heels, moved fast, intending to snap her neck before she knew what was happening. Quick and merciful. But we’d tipped her off too quickly and she ran—right for me. I feinted left and pulled back my fist, ready to swing…only to see her wide-eyed and cowering.

One look at her expression, and I knew she’d run to me for protection. I reminded myself that killing her was a mercy—it would send her to a decent afterlife. But I couldn’t do it.

I looked over at Jeremy and Clay, but they were both caught off guard. So much for quick and merciful.

When no one moved, she bowed her head and started to sob. What I’d originally thought was a cloak was a shawl, pulled up around her face, so she could stay hidden in its shadow. That was probably the only way she could ply her trade in Toronto. From the glance I’d had at her face, she could have passed for sixty—and a hard-drinking, hard-living sixty at that.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Clay shot me a glare. I returned it. As long as we were standing here, working on plan B, I might as well ask some questions. Not like anyone else was doing anything.

She gave a snuffle and wiped her nose on her gloves.

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t remember. I was…someplace awful. For so long.” Her shoulders bent with a stifled sob. “Purgatory, it were. That’s where ’e sent me. I might not ’ave led a Christian life, but I didn’t deserve that.”

“It was a mistake that will be corrected,” Jeremy said, and looked at us as if to say, “Well, go ahead. Correct it.”

Clay stepped forward, but I shook my head. His idea of mercy would be a quick death, but he’d let her see it coming, reasoning it would be over before she had time to think about it. I could do better. I motioned for Jeremy to ask her another question, so I could get behind her without her noticing.

“You said ‘he,’ ” Jeremy began. “You were murdered?”

As he spoke, I slid to the side, but her head whipped around, eyes following me.

“Almost due, ain’t you, luv?” she said with a gap-toothed smile. “Such a pretty girl. You’ll have a beautiful baby. Handsome and ’ealthy. You want me to tell you wot it’ll be?” She stepped toward me, her hands out. “It’s an old midwife’s trick, but it always works.”

“Um, thanks,” I said, “but I’d rather be surprised.”

“Humor me, child,” she said, still coming toward me. “It’ll only take a moment. I just lay me ’ands—”

Clay leapt between us. The woman stumbled back. Jeremy jumped to catch her. The shawl fell away. Clay yanked me away so hard I saw only a split-second flash of the woman’s face, covered with a red rash and dotted with lesions.