Ghosts & Echoes (43 page)

Demalion raised a sandy brow. “Better?” he said.

Wales shook his head, muttered, “If Odalys gets arrested, that won’t stop Strange. She’ll die in the station.”

“And I won’t care,” Sylvie said, curling her palm over the phone. “Don’t waste your time worrying about the bad guy, huh?”

“Better?” Suarez laughed in her ear. He didn’t sound amused, only bitter. “I could use some better. Those damn kids of yours, Shadows. Surrounded by stolen goods, and they bailed out.”

“Christ,” Sylvie said. She put her head back on the dash. “Of all the times . . . Don’t suppose you can get people to keep a sneaky eye on them.”

“Their lawyers are savages,” Suarez said. “By the time the kids were back on the street, I needed a shower to wash off all the mud they’d slung. We’re going to wait for their court date to roll around. My chief made that very clear to us. Apparently, he plays tennis with Jasmyn Tsang’s parents.”

“Fuckin’ rich kids,” Sylvie said. On the line, Suarez echoed her. “The truck? Can you get the information out? Call Alex for all the info?”

Suarez said, “You’re supposed to file a report.”

“This counts, doesn’t it?” Sylvie clicked the phone closed.
Now
what. Now Odalys had one angry ghost on her trail and a body to offer her. Not only that, but she had Jasmyn’s, Matteo’s, and Trey’s Hands of Glory that she reclaimed from Sylvie and Wright, and the kids were out of jail.

“Just a thought,” she said. “If you were teens threatened with jail time, and you knew a witch. Would you give her a call? Ask for her help? Even if you’d been warned off her?”

“They’re out already?” Demalion said. “Damn.” He frowned down at his hands, and she knew he was missing the ISI, missing the way the agency could make people disappear for days if needed.

“Yeah, they’re out, Zoe’s out, and Odalys knows we know all about her. She’s gonna need to tidy up her mess before she can get the hell out of town. That means spoon-feeding the kids to her customers, erasing their souls, and replacing them with murderers.”

“So we find Odalys and stop her,” Demalion said.

“She’s easy to stop. Bullets will do if nothing else will. But the lich ghosts? That’s your department, Wales.”

WALES GAVE HER A SIDELONG GLANCE AS HE STEERED THE COROLLA across three lanes of traffic, making the exit toward Sylvie’s office without needing directions. He’d been researching more than the dead if he knew where she worked.

“I told you what I know,” Wales said. “You’re the problem solver. Problem solve. It’s your sister, your client, and you freed Strange from the Hand’s constraints.”

“Sounds like you’re planning on leaving us,” Sylvie said.

“The very second you’re out of my car.”

“No,” Sylvie said. “We need your help.”

“You’re fucked,” Wales said. His hands kneaded the wheel; the car twitched in the lane. “You kill things to make everything better. Well, these things are dead already. You start spraying bullets, and all you’ll do is make them laugh.”

“Odalys is human,” Sylvie said.

“Yeah, and shooting her won’t slow your ghost,” Wales said. “She’s an independent entity at this point.”

“ISI,” Demalion said from the back. “One phone call, Shadows, and they’d sweep in—”

“Get Zoe killed,” Sylvie said. “Or do you think they won’t take a look at the situation and decide Margaret Strange would be easier to control
in
Zoe’s skin instead of out? You try to call the ISI, and I’ll see you out of that body before we find you a replacement.”

Demalion sank back, mouth twisted tight. “Always your way,” he said.

“I know my motivations,” she said. “I don’t know the ISI’s.”

He kicked the back of her seat, just like a child in a temper, and she stared at him. “You didn’t.”

“You don’t listen to reason, Shadows. Why should I act reasonably around you? Hell, you might listen to me better if I threw a fuckin’ tantrum.”

Wales tapped the brakes, switched lanes again, and said, “Don’t make me pull this car over.”

“Abandon us here, abandon us at my office—what’s the difference?” Sylvie said. She had bile to go all the way around.

The Ghoul gritted his teeth so audibly that she could hear them grind even over the engine.

“I deal in information,” he said. “I don’t interfere.”

“Convenient,” she said.

“Bully me all you want, Shadows, but you won’t get me involved any more than I already am.”

She drummed her nails on the armrest, controlled her breath, and said, “Could you at least leave us with as much information as you can? You said you knew how to stop the lich ghost.”

“Graveyard dirt—”

“Been there, done that, didn’t work real well,” Sylvie reminded him.

“
Her
graveyard dirt,” Wales said. “Even a lich ghost can’t deny recognition of its own grave dirt. Dig down. Dig deep. Don’t be content with shallow scrapings. You want parts of the dirt that have seepage.”

“Disgusting,” Sylvie said.

“Necromancy,” Wales said.

Sylvie leaned back in the car seat, settling herself deeper even as she saw the turnoff for South Beach coming up. Wales might intend to drop and go, but she wasn’t leaving until she had answers to all her questions. Maybe another chance to get his help. Without him, it would be her and Wright playing at defensive and dismissive spells, and Sylvie . . . didn’t like magic. She’d prefer to leave it to the experts. Wales was the closest thing she had.

Wales cast her a sidelong glance, calculation mingled with recognition in his expression. “What do you want?”

“A way to identify the remaining ghosts.”

“You still have the Hands?”

“Odalys reclaimed them.”

He sighed hugely. “Then you’re out of luck. Though I don’t know why she’d want them. They’re dangerous to her just the same as to others.”

“The Hands are vehicles for rich old killers to gain new flesh, new lives,” Sylvie said.

“That’s sick,” Wales said, after a moment.

“Just mercantile,” Sylvie said.

He pulled up to the front of the office, put a foot on the brake, but left the gear in drive, his message clear.

Sylvie opened the door to show willing, but said, “Stick around long enough to help us gather the dirt?”

Wales shook his head though his lips tipped into a reluctant smile. “I know that game. I’m out of here. Ghost activity’s very distinctive. Your town’s going to be hopping, whether you win or lose. I can’t hack that kind of attention. Sorry, but you’re on your own.”

He reached across her, leaning into her space, bringing with him a strange, sere scent like burned flesh, and reminded her that maybe she didn’t want him around all that much, that his advice hadn’t been good, his interests inextricably linked to death. He popped the passenger’s-side door open, and said, “Been fun, Shadows.”

She clambered out of the car, found Alex hovering in the open doorway to the office, face creased in a frown. “Your truck got stolen? Lio called.”

Sylvie took Alex by the shoulders, pressed her up against the door, studied her in the slant of early-evening sunlight, looking at her pupils, her color, her alertness, as if a spell leftover was as easy to diagnose as a concussion. Alex’s fingers curled around Sylvie’s wrists, and Sylvie let her go. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Alex said. “Is Demalion naked?”

Sylvie followed her gaze, and said, “Less than he was.” Demalion let himself out of Wales’s backseat with a worn denim jacket over his shoulders. The people coming down the street, heading for the bar next door, paused to whistle before heading in.

“I’m bleeding, too,” he said, tilting a bare foot up toward her.

Alex’s lips thinned. “Sylvie! Just once, could you bring him back unhurt?”

Sylvie shuddered, but her rebuttal was hard and fast. “Hey, he’s not dead this time. I’d say that’s an improvement.”

Wales gunned his engine and was gone. Demalion limped into the office; Alex slipped Sylvie’s grip, followed the bar patrons into the bar, and came back out a moment later, clutching a sweat suit. She tossed it to Demalion, and said, “You owe Etienne a new set of sweats. Those were supposed to be a gift for his father.”

“Clothes are not the critical problem here,” Sylvie said. “I need to find Odalys. Like, immediately. You good to work?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Alex asked.

“Zoe spelled you,” Sylvie said.

Alex’s lips went tight and flat. “She what?”

“Later,” Sylvie said. “You’re not hurt, right? Odalys first. Odalys isn’t staying at her own condo, and Invocat’s a no-man’s-land now. Odalys likes money, but she doesn’t like to spend it. She’s got Hands of Glory at her beck and call. She could waltz in and out of any house in the city. But capable of doesn’t mean likely to. She’ll want a nice house. A rich house. And there are at least five homes going to waste. Five homes to match five Hands of Glory, five homes that were owned by rich people. Just her speed. And even if the heirs wanted to sell . . .”

“Housing market’s clinically depressed. No one’s got the cash to buy houses. Especially not multimillion-dollar estates that might need upkeep,” Alex said. She slid into her desk chair, pulled the laptop closer to her. “Strange’s estate is a no-go. The bank foreclosed on it, and they’re aggressive about protecting their property. If Odalys was mucking about there, Hands or no Hands, someone would have noticed.”

“It needs to be someplace she can practice necromancy,” Demalion said, slightly muffled as he pulled the grey sweatshirt over his head. “Without the neighbors noticing.” He ran his hand through his hair; the blond spikes tufted up again, and Sylvie thought he was getting pretty damn familiar with Wright’s body.

She shook the worry off, and said, “So Caudwell—”

“No,” Alex said, fingers moving on the keyboard, “Caudwell’s a condo-dweller.”

Sylvie groaned. “Never easy. We’ve got three Hands left, three rich estates to find somewhere in Miami, and no time at all.” Sickness lodged in her throat. Zoe was going to be ghost food. Zoe was going to be someone else the next time she saw her.

Worse,
the little dark voice said,
Strange is going to inherit Zoe’s magical talent to go with her already murderous personality.

Sylvie felt furious tears clog her throat. This was insane. Surely, there was something—

The last was a half wail bursting out of her throat.

Alex grinned up at her. “Ask and you receive. I’ve been working on identifying the Hands ever since you took them from Jaz and her friends. I’ve been making a list. Rich old people who’ve died recently. You want them by property?”

Sylvie laughed in relief, turned on Demalion, and said, “No. You can’t have her,” even as his mouth opened. Then back to Alex. “I want them two ways,” she said. “I want them by address. And I want them by burial site. We’re going to need to do some digging.”

Alex’s lips shaped a giant “ew” that she didn’t voice, but bent to work.

GIVEN THAT THEY LACKED THE TIME OR INCLINATION TO DIG UP DIRT from every grave of every old rich decedent in Miami, Sylvie ruthlessly winnowed Alex’s list, going on gut instinct and pragmatism. Anyone buried out-of-state was right out. Odalys’s business seemed local; she’d need access to the bodies, and besides, a controlling personality like Odalys? She’d make her clients come to her.

The third female ghost was easy enough. Sylvie had seen her during the botched invasion at Odalys’s store. Miami might be a metropolitan city, but rich, Asian, elderly, and recently deceased was enough to pick out one Marianna Li from the slew of local dead.

Marianna Li owned a private island off Florida’s west coast, which ruled out her home as Odalys’s chosen base. What busy necromancer had time for a six-hour commute? Thankfully, Li was buried locally, next to her husband, where her grandkids could visit.

Identifying and finding the men had been more difficult.

Remember yourself, General,
Odalys had said.

Sylvie tossed out all men without military backgrounds, though at their ages, war was a common thread. It was amazing how many people’s obituaries were all about leftover vanity—their photographs showed younger men and women, faces smoothed, smiling brightly at the camera.

It wasn’t helpful, left her looking for lines of familiarity in two dimensions, comparing them to aged and ghostly flesh. Still, she picked one face out of the grim lineup. General Stephen Hughes.

While she was still hunting his address, watching Demalion pace like a caged thing, Alex slapped down another printed-off obit and named the last, unseen ghost. “This one,” she said. “Lieutenant Charles Sorenson.”

Sylvie stared at the blurry image of a smiling young man, checked the birth date, and said, “He was only in his fifties. . . .” Another look raised more skepticism. The obit was so short as to be nearly meaningless. That wasn’t usual for a rich man.