Grave Matters: A Night Owls Novel (20 page)

“Trina?”

“Cavale?” His client from Hecate’s Cabinet looked a million times better than when she’d left his station the other day. Probably because she wasn’t coming down from a possession. “What are you doing here? You’re not . . . you’re not here for a viewing too, are you?”

“No. I live up the hill. I was just”—
doing some light breaking and entering
—“out for a walk. What do you mean, a viewing?”

Trina blushed and twisted the wedding ring on her finger. “It’s probably stupid. But there was this guy, outside the shop. He said he could tell I’d lost someone, and he could help. He could arrange for me to see James again. To talk to him. And after that last reading I thought . . . I thought . . .”

You motherfucker.
Cavale glanced around at the houses surrounding them.
Where are you?
The few windows that weren’t boarded up were empty. The rest, he’d never be able to see someone peering out from a gap in the plywood. “Trina, that’s not how this works. Remember that Thief card that came up? Whatever this guy told you, he’s a liar. You need to let James be at rest. It’s the only way you two can both move on.”

But she shook her head. “I’d do anything to be able to see him again, Cavale. You know that. It’s . . . it’s not
fair
.” Her shoulders hitched as she fought a sob.

Cavale moved toward her carefully, reached for her. A few years ago he’d have stood there, not knowing what to do, let her handle her grief by herself. Since leaving Father Value, he’d at least figured this much out. Trina pressed her face into his jacket and cried. He stroked her hair and held her, all the while scanning up and down the street for any movement that might be the necromancer.

When she pulled away from him a moment later, he asked, “What did he look like, this guy? Do you remember?”

“He was shorter than you. Shorter than me, even. I couldn’t really see his face, though. He was dressed more for January than October.”

He remembered the man outside the shop, handing out cards. “Sounded like he smokes a few packs a day, had the cough to go with it?”

“That’s him.”

“Trina, you don’t want to get tangled up with that guy, okay? He’s bad news. He’ll only—”

But Trina wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. She looked past Cavale, up the hill. He turned to follow her gaze.

On the sidewalk, wearing shorts and a tee shirt advertising a restaurant on Martha’s Vineyard, stood James. Cavale had seen him in pictures Trina brought in: brown hair in the same buzz cut he’d had since his army days, tall and muscled, his teeth white and straight and even. He waved at her and blew her a kiss, mouthed
I love you
, and faded away.

“James!” she cried. “James, no, come back! Please!” She ran up to where he’d been, passed her hands through empty air. She turned back to Cavale, tears streaming. “You saw him, didn’t you? You saw James?”

He nodded.

“You said he was a liar, that man. But James was here. Right where I’m standing. You saw him.”

“I did. But that man . . .” He wasn’t, he realized, going to be able to convince her. Not after a spectacle like
that
. Best he could do was get more information before the necromancer could move on to his next stage. Cavale felt his stomach twist at the idea. “Did you visit James’ grave recently?”

“Only every night,” she said. “He was cremated. The urn’s in our house until I can figure out where to scatter his ashes. Why?”

“No reason. Look, you should go. This neighborhood isn’t the safest.” He’d bet James’ urn was a handful lighter than it had been, if anyone had a pool going. Trina came back to him and let him walk her to her car. “What did the man say was next, after this?”

“He said he’d show James to me, to prove he could bring him back. Then he’ll bring us face-to-face, for a talk. He said I’ll be able to touch him, Cavale. How is that possible? I know what I saw just now, but . . . Can this man really do that?”

“Not in the way you think. Trina, he’s going to ask you for money next. Promise me you won’t give it to him.”

“But if he can . . .”

“I could tell you ten ways he might have projected that image. You were far away, enough that if there were any flaws, you wouldn’t have seen them.” He felt awful telling her this, especially knowing that it
had
been James. And that the necromancer, in all likelihood,
could
bring him back to hold Trina one more time. But it was wrong, the way he was doing it.
What
he was doing. “Trina, do you trust me?”

“Y-yes.”

“You know I believe in this stuff? That I know a little about it?”

“Yes. Of course.” She gave him a watery smile. “It’s why I keep coming back to you. You’re the real deal.”

“Okay. I’m telling you I don’t think this guy is. Just . . . if he gets in touch with you again, see if you can get some information out of him for me. His name, his phone number, where he lives. I want to check him out. And if I think he can really do what he says, I’ll tell you. But if he’s full of shit, I’m going to tell you that, too. Sound good?”

She nodded. “I want so badly for it to be true.”

“I know you do. Now go home, have a glass of wine, call a friend. I’ll be in touch.”

As she pulled away, Cavale’s phone trilled in his pocket. Finally, a text message from Elly. But reading it didn’t make him feel any better:

I’m fine. Things are fucked up. Necro can control vamps, pass it on.

17

H
UNTING SEASON.

Val knew the dates mostly out of curiosity. All of the state’s regulations told hunters to pack up by half an hour after sunset at the latest, which meant she ought to be alone in the woods by six o’clock on the first of November. Shotgun-hunting season didn’t start until December; hunters with muzzleloaders—she imagined people with bright orange vests over their Revolutionary War costumes, stuffing steel balls into their muskets—had two more days to wait until they could come after the deer. So it ought to have been just Val and the wildlife. She could avoid any archers on their way out.

She could’ve fed somewhere else, too. Could have grabbed a blood pack and sifted through the Clearwaters’ books stored in her house. Could have gone up to Providence. But she’d woken up hungry, and the texts from Chaz and Cavale, the ones mentioning
necromancer
and
Jackals
and
vampires
, filled her with the need to get out, to run, to
hunt
.

She liked the quiet and the cold. Out here, the early stars winked between the bare branches. If she looked north, she could see the tinge of orange to the sky that was one of the bigger towns. Probably not Providence, but a reminder that civilization wasn’t all that far away.

The deer knew she was about, not from her movements (which were silent as could be), and probably not from her scent (she was smart enough to stay upwind of them), but from that ancient sixth sense hardwired into most creatures that tells them
danger is near
. Val stalked them awhile, nudging them this way and that, letting their uneasiness build. She waited until one got split from the rest by an inconvenient stand of trees, and closed the gap.

It twitched when it caught her scent. It trembled and tensed, but stood frozen. There was no good direction to bolt, and maybe in its (
delicious, tender
) heart, the deer knew it couldn’t outrun her.

Val leapt, fangs out, claws extended.

BLAM.

Agony in her chest. The flash of the deer’s eyes as it bounded away. Smell of scorched cotton and hot blood. Carpet of leaves coming up to meet her.

The hunter’s voice, getting closer: “Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit
oh shit OH SHIT
.”

He knelt beside her and rolled her over. (
Terrible idea, my friend.
) Her cold back grew suddenly warm as more blood leaked out of the hole he’d put in her. Bits of bone ground together where they’d chipped off from her shoulder blade. The hunter shoved a pair of fancy-looking night vision goggles up on his forehead and switched on his headlamp. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Oh God oh Jesus I’m sorry I’m so sorry.” He pulled a rag from his pocket, covered in gun oil and black powder, and pressed it to her chest.

Oh. I’m bleeding from there, too.

“Not . . . gun season. Out . . . after dark.”
Sure, Val, like
shooting a person
hasn’t taught him his damned lesson.

His eyes went wide as she spoke. If he saw her fangs, he was too far into shock to figure out what they meant. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be out here. And the infrared didn’t pick you up. Just the deer. I saw the deer and took the shot and there you were and . . .”

“M’okay,” Val said, but it sounded . . . gurgly. Bubbly.
Punctured lung. Fuck.
“Be fine. Just need—”

Blood, warm blood, frightened blood, HIS blood.

No.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. His
unpunctured
lungs. Calming him down. “Ma’am, I don’t know what you were doing out here either, but you’re not okay. I . . . I shot you. Gonna get you help now, just . . . just lie still and we’ll get someone out here, okay? Just hold on for me, can you do that?”

Sure she could. She could hold on. She could reach up and snake her arms around his neck and
hold on
while she sank her fangs into his warm, warm, veins and
drank
.

No! Stop it.
If she wanted fresh human blood, she could go up to Providence, up to the club where volunteers gave you their wrists or their throats and let you slake your thirst. They had a whole rotating goddamned
menu
up there. Missed the rush of caffeine? They’d slug down an energy drink or sip at an espresso while you dined. Wanted to get a bit tipsy? Buy them your old favorites and they’d drink them down for you. Let you taste it in their bloodstream.

But what they didn’t have on that menu, what they couldn’t serve, was fear.

It had been so damned long since she’d tasted human fear. The adrenaline rush, their cold sweat on her lips like salt on a margarita glass.

She could smell it on him now, beneath the gun oil and her own dead blood and the earthy smell of decaying leaves beneath her. It wasn’t quite the same fear as if he were prey—he was still the hunter; his fright wasn’t
of
her but
for
her—if she died, he’d go in for manslaughter. If she didn’t, he’d probably lose his house, lose his family. But if there was a difference in taste between
Life as I know it is over
and
My life is literally over
, Val doubted she’d know it. She’d never had the chance to develop her palate that far.

I could start now.

She grabbed his shoulders, drew him down.

Groaned.

So close she could count the fine hairs on his neck, see how her breath made them flutter. Flutter like his pulse, his sweet, strong pulse beneath that thin layer of skin.
Rip into it, tear, feel his hot blood on my tongue, yes, so warm, warming me up, oh—

“Get out of here,” she said, every word dragged through gritted teeth. “You came out here, froze your balls off for a few hours, went home. You missed the one deer you shot at, and that was it. Clear?” She wanted to Command him otherwise. Tell him to stay, to lie down beside her and loosen his collar for her. “Go.
GO.
” She gave him a shove, though her shoulder screamed as she did so.

He scrambled backward, his face gone slack with Val’s Command rattling around in his brain. She didn’t know how he’d find his way out of the woods, and right now didn’t much care. What the ability didn’t account for, the human brain tended to fill in. She’d accounted for the spent casing, or the . . . What the fuck
had
he shot her with?

She touched the hole, found it ragged and too fucking big—an inch across? Two? Her last Renfield had been former LAPD SWAT, had taught her a thing or two about exit wounds and what they could tell you about the weapons that created them.
Lead ball,
she thought, maybe. He’d tossed the gun aside as he’d approached her, but she thought she might have seen a ramrod attached to the barrel.

At least he was only a day early.

But still out past sunset. Asshole.

She counted to ten, listening as his shuffling footsteps faded. Then she pushed herself up, hissing with the pain of it. Her body was knitting itself back together, but slowly. Dinner would speed up the process. Fresh blood.
Deer blood,
she reminded herself, ignoring the twinge of disappointment from that darker part of her mind that still wanted the hunter for her main course. She lurched away from him, toward the scent of game.

Good thing there were no state laws on bringing a deer down with your bare hands. Or claws, as the case may be.

*   *   *

V
AL ARRIVED AT
Night Owls at ten, after a trip home to wash off the deer blood and change into a shirt that didn’t have a hole blown in it. Chaz wasn’t there yet; he’d be coming in to close, but after how late things had gone last night and his day spent among the Clearwater collection, he’d asked for—and earned—part of the evening off to get some sleep. She had a feeling he’d be freaking about the warning Elly had sent via Cavale, about the necromancer’s new vampire-controlling trick, but she was all right. She felt just
fine
, thank you very much.

“You have a visitor,” said Jen, the register person on duty. “She went next door to get a coffee, but she should be right back.”

“Did she leave a name?”

“No, sorry. Shorter than me, brown hair to her chin, kind of twitchy?”

“Elly,” she said, and as though speaking her name had summoned her, the girl came into view in the front window, cradling a cup of Hill O’Beans coffee and blowing on the steam. The way she paused before entering the store—glance around the street, glance into the store—reminded Val of Henry Clearwater. He’d done the same, before he was killed. For the longest time, Val had thought he was simply dramatic, or maybe was checking to make sure none of his students were inside, waiting to accost him with questions about papers and quizzes if they spotted him. But no, he’d been Brotherhood once, and Elly had been trained by an old friend of his. Of course her wariness was familiar.

She saw Val watching her and came inside. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. Her nose was red with the cold; dark smudges marred the skin beneath her eyes. “I’m only home for a few hours. I was hoping I could pick your brain before I go back to Boston.”

“Sure.” Rather than guiding her to the couches at the front of the store, she brought Elly out back to the office. The break couch wasn’t nearly as comfortable, but this way they’d have warning if anyone was coming their way. You had to enter a code to get in, and they’d hear the clicking of the buttons long before anyone came through to interrupt.

Elly perched on the edge of the couch.

“You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I feel like it.” She took a long swallow of coffee. “I need to know what you can tell me about the
Stregoi
. About Ivanov and his people.”

“Elly, what’s going on?” She looked . . . not frightened, but
frantic
, her fingers tapping at the cup, her knee jittering out a rhythm of its own.

“Ivanov’s keeping something from me. Or maybe he’s keeping me from something. I don’t know. Does that even make sense?” She didn’t wait for Val to answer that. “The necromancer’s controlling the
Oisín
. I saw it. We got one of them out of commission, and I kept the Renfields from killing her. We shoved her in a closet until Ivanov and Katya woke up. But he didn’t want me there for her questioning. I debriefed him and he thanked me for my work and that was it.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “He’s sending people to go talk with them, and he told me to go home and get some sleep.”

Val frowned. “You’ve been up since last night, Elly. I might have made the same call.”

“No. This is what he hired me for. Guarding his people, watching for . . . I don’t know. Weird things.”

“And how well can you do that if you’re sleep-deprived?”

“When have you known Ivanov to show concern? Real, genuine concern?”

Elly had a point. “Never.”

“He sent me home because I was asking
good
questions, not stupid ones. He wants me back tomorrow, but I can’t help but feel like he’s getting me out of the way tonight. Like there’s something he’s afraid I’ll ask the wrong questions about. I’m missing a clue here, or I don’t have the context. Or maybe the history. I need you to catch me up.”

Val sat back, the squeal of the office chair beneath her a reminder that she’d built something
here
, and Ivanov couldn’t reach southward and take it away. Not easily, anyway. “What do you want to know?

“What do you know about the
Oisín
?”

“The what now?” The word jogged memories, but none related to the
Stregoi
. Her grandmother used to tell stories about the Old Country—a vastly different Old Country from the one Ivanov referred to on occasion—and that word rang a bell.

“The Irish vampires. That’s what they’re calling themselves now.”

Val shook her head. “When I was going up to Southie regularly, Elly, the
Stregoi
were it. There might’ve been Irish vampires among them, but not organized into their own separate coven.”

“Southie’s got a huge Irish population, though. You’d think they’d have more vampires. Even over time, as Ivanov’s people made new ones.”