Possession (20 page)

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered.

“You won’t have any say in the matter.” I backed away from him, my face feeling stiff with a lack of warmth. “I’ll see you later.”

He just looked at me a moment, then shrugged—not a truly insouciant shrug, just a faked one—and turned away.

I wanted to cry or scream, but I wasn’t going to. Sometimes you have to let your other half be a stubborn fool. He’d let me do it often enough.

I shook my head with disgust all the way back to the Land Rover—weaving a little as the Grey flitted in and out of my vision—and decided I was too keyed up to go home yet. Work was about all I had to distract myself and since it was night, now might be the time to visit a haunted bar. . . .

THIRTEEN

_P
ike Place
Market is creepier at night. Even if you can’t see the shades of the dead among the wiry lines of energy that rush off the bluff like a waterfall, the buildings and arcades take on a menacing air when empty. Sounds echo across the road and along the alleys. Awnings flap in a breeze that is always cold, raising monstrous crow shadows lit by the neon clock over the main entrance. Clouds had begun to roll in again, covering the stars and drowning the moon. The bars and restaurants attract just enough people to emphasize the emptiness rather than fill it and I found the sound of my rubber-heeled boots too loud as I walked along the tilted streets toward Post Alley. It didn’t take long to realize someone was following me.

For a moment, I thought it might be Quinton, keeping an eye on me in case his patriotic psychotic father was stalking me, but a quick check of the Grey revealed nothing like either man’s energy signature. Instead, something tangled in red and black with trailing tentacles of cold white light lurked just beyond any easy view, as if it knew exactly how to stay out of my normal sight. Not quite vampire-like, but not something I knew. It plainly wasn’t normal, whatever it was, and I hoped it wasn’t part of the conspiracy of ghosts that were plaguing my client’s sister and the other patients I’d seen. If it were somehow connected to Purlis, well . . . that was a different problem altogether. It couldn’t keep tabs on me without showing itself once I went into Post Alley, however, since there were no cross alleys in the stretch where Kells Irish Pub was. And it couldn’t assume my destination, since two other bars or restaurants had doors onto the alley, too. It would have to close up a bit. . . .

I got all the way to the tavern’s door before I caught a fleeting glimpse of something human-shaped beneath the distinctive aura. I paused and considered trying to catch the tail, but a small band of pub crawlers came noisily around the corner and sent my observer back into deeper shadow. I hoped I’d have another chance to “chat” with it when I came out. For the time being, I was going inside to see what ghostly things might be lurking about in the former mortuary.

The first room was the classic low-ceilinged pub with dark wood and tiled floors. The tiles might well have been original, since my Grey-adjusted vision saw the room as it must once have been—filled with cold slabs on which the bodies of Seattle’s dead were embalmed. I shuddered and passed through a short doorway to the other half of the bar, where the ceilings were higher and the decor more modern. The paranormal setting, however, was much worse: I’d found the former crematory.

To me the room was uncomfortably warm and a storm of spirits rushed through it, swirling like ash toward the back of the space, where a storage room or refrigerator now occupied what had been the oven. I cringed and turned aside, stumbling into the edge of the bar that was hidden by my Grey vision on that side.

The bartender looked up at me with a touch of alarm. “You all right?” he asked.

“Just dizzy,” I croaked back, fighting to put the sight into literal perspective and shut down the double image of the past and the present.

“It takes some people that way,” he said.

I got myself onto a barstool. “What does?”

“This room. Some people find it uncomfortable. Even frightening.”

“Former funeral home. Yeah, I suppose they might.”

“You know the story, then?”

“No, but I have heard the general outline.”

“Do you like ghost stories, then?”

My desire was to say “not particularly” but I would never get any information if I did that, so I said, “Maybe. Are they true stories or just hogwash and hokum?”

The bartender laughed. “It’s hard to say sometimes, but this being a former funeral home, some of ’em are probably true. They say the original owner used to have hearse races so he could beat the other mortuaries to dead people. Might even be true.”

“I heard this place was connected to a certain doctor. . . .”

“Dr. Hazzard? Oh yes. She used to have her patients cremated here and the owner would give her somebody else’s diseased organs to show to the distraught relatives to prove the patient had died of something other than starvation. Quite a racket, eh?”

Judging from the phantoms of the emaciated dead rushing through the room, it wasn’t just a racket, it was an industry. I nodded, still a bit queasy.

“And there’s the little girl some people claim to see here. She stays near the back and she likes the dancing. The theory is that she died of influenza and was cremated here. It’s quite likely true. When they were renovating, they found shelves full of tiny urns with no names on ’em, just numbers. Child-sized urns.”

“Down here?”

“No. Upstairs. The bar’s owners are turning it into a space for catering parties. Used to be the sales room and the chapel.”

“What is the attraction of bars in former funerary chapels?” I asked.

“Not sure. Spitting in the face of death, maybe?”

Something tinkled and scraped and the bartender spun around just in time for a bottle to launch itself off the shelf behind him and crash to the floor. “Ah, Christ. There they go again.” He glared at the back bar and whispered at the bottles, “Didn’t I tell you you could help yourself so long as you didn’t break anything? Now, was that nice?”

The mist-shape of a woman oozed out of the racks of liquor and wafted through him to me. She put her incorporeal hand on the bar beside me and then dissolved into the howling storm of other spirits. A small button remained on the bar where her hand had been. As I stared at it, an old-fashioned key dropped onto the bar beside it as if it had fallen from the ceiling. And then the stub of a pencil. Each object was shrouded in trailing blackness. Another phantom woman came toward me from the outside door. She glared at me and her face flickered from fully fleshed to a naked skull. It was the woman who’d lingered in the market office earlier in the day and she exuded malicious intent. All the other ghosts in the room seemed to pull back from her, leaving a clearing around the two of us.

Her face seemed to melt, as if she, too, were starving into a living skeleton before my eyes. For a moment, what stood before me, clothed in only the raging energy of hunger and fury, was nothing that had ever been human. It glared at me and then seemed to turn that baleful expression inward. Then the moment’s horrible vision faded.

I felt a burning pain running up my arms where I thought the woman’s ghost had touched me earlier in the day and I winced, looking down to see if some creature had snuck up onto the bar to bite me. But what I saw was blood.

I gasped and yanked at my sleeve, but the narrow cuff hitched up and stopped me. I got to my feet and whirled, heading back into the short hallway between the two bars to get to the washroom. Inside a narrow stall, I yanked off my jacket and pulled off my shirt, expecting my clothes to be ruined, but the blood was an illusion. The words burning onto my arms were not. “Tribute does not feed the servant. Leave us be, until your time.”

I’d never been warned off with tricks of this sort before. Most ghosts who wanted me gone were more direct, though the phrase “until your time” made me think they had some plan for me I hadn’t sussed out. I stared at the words and saw more slowly crawling across my belly. I felt each letter forming as if pushed up from inside my skin. The sensation sent me retching to the toilet.

I got hold of myself eventually and put my shirt back on. I was rinsing my face with cold water when the hostess from the first section of the pub came into the restroom. “Are you all right?”

I nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Do you need a cab? I can call one to the hotel at the end of the alley if you do.”

“No. Thank you. I really am all right. Bad food. Not drink.” I hated maligning the dinner I’d had, but “ghost poisoning” is not the clever explanation you want to offer for barfing in a bar.

She nodded, but her eyes were narrowed and I was sure she didn’t quite believe me. I washed my face and hands again and killed a few more minutes until I felt steady enough to venture back out. The ghosts had reconvened, so I hoped that meant the intimidating phantasm had gone for the time being. Before I could escape the room, the bartender flagged me down. Reluctantly I walked through the ectoplasmic storm to the bar.

“Did you want these?” he asked, pointing to the objects on the bar. There were more of them now.

“No. They fell from the ceiling. They don’t belong to me.” I should have taken them—I was sure the ghosts had left them for that purpose—but I didn’t want to touch them at the moment on the chance that they were . . . hers. “Maybe you could put them somewhere in case the owner comes back for them?”

He peered at me as if he, too, was gauging my sobriety and then swept them into a small container, which he put beneath the bar. “All right. If you change your mind, though . . .”

“Yeah. OK,” I said and got out as quickly as I could without appearing to run.

Outside, the terrifying phantom woman with the melting face was waiting for me, looking even more skeletal and less human than before. “You cannot take them from me,” she said, her voice sighing through the alley on a wind that stank of death. “Tribute is given. It cannot be taken away.”

I didn’t have a ready reply, though she seemed to expect one, studying me as she was through empty eye sockets with her head cocked slightly sideways. I slid a step backward on the old brick alley floor, my boot soles picking up grit and emitting a slight grinding sound. The revenant lurched toward me and I ducked to spin away. . . .

Something cold and vicious struck me hard from the left—my blind side, knocking me into the railing over a sunken courtyard on the far side of the alley. I fetched up hard and tried to dig my feet in, but there was only hard brick and empty air. I felt myself tipping over the railing and I scrabbled to get a grip on it, or loop my arm around it as something scraped at my face and neck.

I started to scream, but the shout was choked off by an ice-cold hand that clamped over my mouth. But one hand busy meant one less to grapple me with and I hunkered down, pulling out of the remaining grip on my shoulders and wedging myself under the rail. Tucked into the metal bars, I kicked out at the man-shaped thing that attacked me and hit it hard in the knee. It staggered, then turned to take a second swing at me. . . .

Suddenly it spun and bolted away at inhuman speed—it looked like the vampire-ish thing that had followed me to the alley. A second black shape trailing an aura of blood and pain pursued it up the alley and everything Grey fled ahead of it, leaving a vacant eddy of mist and empty ghostlight for me to stand in.

I crept to the nearest bench attached to the railing I’d nearly toppled over and sat down, huddling into myself and shivering as if it were midwinter instead of the first week of July. The melting-faced horror was gone, as was the vampire-like man—if it wasn’t the one that had followed me into the market, it was something of the same type.

I breathed hard, catching my startled breath and calming the instinct that urged me to run far and fast as the darkness that had pursued my assailant returned. . . .

Some things never leave your memory; this stomach-turning smell and oppressive clot of dark energy were indelible in my mind. Even though he made no sound and my vision was a mess of Grey overlaid on normal like so much static on a television picture, I knew when he stopped next to me and I raised my head. “Hello, Carlos. Thanks for that.”

It’s a bit difficult to describe the relationship between Carlos and me. We’re friends of a sort, but our history is tangled with unsavory details like death, madness, and vampire politics. I hadn’t seen him—or most of Seattle’s vampires—in quite a while. Not that I minded: Vampires literally turn my stomach and they always have an angle. They’re a frightening lot, but Carlos was much worse than most. He was also a necromancer and he worked as the chief advisor to Seattle’s top vampire—a former client of mine. Carlos and I had done some horrible—if necessary—things together and our secrets bound us in silence and uneasy respect.

“Thanks are unnecessary. I didn’t catch him.” His quiet voice resonated in my chest.

“Maybe that’s as good a reason as any to be grateful.” I hated to imagine what Carlos might have in mind for any member of the uncanny who’d offended him. He, after all, was a creature who killed for power.

“No. It was he I was stalking. Driving him off you was not what I’d had in mind. But Cameron would not like to hear you’d been injured by one of ours—even if that one has gone rogue.”

I shook off some of my discomfort and studied his face. It wasn’t just his dark hair and beard that made Carlos difficult to read—his expression is subtle and chilly at the best of times. “You have a rogue vampire on the streets?” I asked, taken by surprise—it hadn’t quite looked like a vampire in my Grey sight, but I didn’t know everything about that terrible species. Between them Carlos, Cameron, and his inner circle don’t miss much and it seemed unlikely that they’d have no idea of it if one of their community was turning against them. “How did that slip by?”

“Not a slip. A theft. My assistant was foolish and fell among evil companions.”

I raised my eyebrows. It’s hard to imagine companions much more evil than vampires, but given what Quinton had said about his father, I didn’t doubt it was true. I chose to address the less frightening half of the statement. “You have an assistant now? Well, I suppose Cameron did sort of graduate out of that job. . . .” I hadn’t taken time to wonder how that situation had been resolved, but obviously it had. Cameron had, technically, still been Carlos’s protégé when the vampire hierarchy came tumbling down and Cameron stepped into the void.