Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us (9 page)

Paul said, “I’ll be ok.”

Katherine nodded. “Me too.”

Ramirez led them into the room with the gurneys. When Paul stepped through the door the smell hit him like a bucket of sewage in his face. He gagged, choked and coughed, struggling desperately to hold his breakfast down, leaned against the wall and almost did puke.

“What’s wrong?” Katherine asked.

Paul’s mouth watered profusely and he swallowed hard several times. Colleen put a hand on his shoulder. She glanced toward the morgue technician before whispering, “Demon stink.”

They had all paused and looked at Paul oddly. The young technician smirked knowingly. Ramirez looked at him and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll call you when I need you.”

The kid’s smirk disappeared. He slipped out of the room quickly and closed the door.

“It stinks in here,” Paul said. “Really strong smell, like we’re in a sewer.”

“It’s not a smell,” Colleen said. “We call it demon stink, but it’s really not a smell. Your arcane senses are apparently opening up, and you don’t know how to interpret them so your mind thinks it’s picking up a smell, a particularly bad smell.”

She looked at the rest of them. “And I think he’s probably more sensitive than the rest of us.”

Ramirez and Stowicz frowned, while the rest of them nodded. To reassure them Paul said, “Don’t worry; I’m not going lose my breakfast.”

They gathered around Monica’s body and Paul was thankful her foot wasn’t sticking out of the green sheet with some sort of identification tag wired to one of her toes. The tag was probably there, but at least he didn’t have to look at it. Ramirez folded back the sheet just enough to expose her face. She had blonde, shoulder-length hair that needed washing, and since her eyes were closed he didn’t have to look into her pretty blue eyes. He said a silent prayer of thanks that she didn’t look like Cloe. She was about the same age and size, and like Cloe she had a skinny-little-girl kind of body, but any resemblance ended there, though Cloe had also been a blonde, but a darker shade of blonde than Monica. As Paul looked at poor Monica lying there his thoughts returned to the last time he’d seen Cloe, lying on a similar gurney in a similar morgue, and he realized then that any little girl he saw lying on a stainless steel gurney would look just like Cloe, no matter how different her features or skin color or race might be.

He turned to Katherine and whispered, “I keep seeing Cloe. I can’t do this.”

He turned away from the gurney, spotted a flat bench seat against one wall, walked over to it and sat down. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to put the image of Monica-Cloe out of his mind.

Mr. Paul
, a tiny voice said to him, and something tugged on his sleeve. Paul opened his eyes and looked down on Monica seated next to him. She wore a gray pinafore over a pale-blue dress, with white knee-high stockings and shiny black shoes, her hair in pigtails. She looked quite dead; there was no life in her open blue eyes, and she looked up at him with a worried frown on her face. She really only looked a little bit like Cloe.

Mr. Paul
, she pleaded. Her lips moved, though no real sound emerged.
Y’all gotta help the little Mexican girl. He wants her, and y’all gotta help her.
She had a strong Texas accent.

Paul reached out and took her hand in his, patted it gently and said, “I don’t know what to do.”

Y’all gotta help Alice,
she pleaded.
Please. And y’all gotta help the little Mexican boy too.

~~~

Katherine’s heart lurched when Paul turned to her and whispered, “She looks just like Cloe. I can’t do this.”

As he turned and walked away Stowicz gave him an angry look. Katherine didn’t know what Cloe had looked like, but this must be really hard for Paul. Her father, Colleen, Stowicz and Salisteen were having a rather animated conversation over the little girl’s body, while Ramirez stood patiently in the background. Katherine couldn’t focus on their words, could only stare at the little girl’s lifeless face.

“Katherine,” a deep baritone voice said, and she looked up to see a tall man with coal-black skin standing behind her father and Stowicz. She knew a three-thousand dollar Armani suit when she saw one.

“Come,” he said, nodding to one side. “Let’s talk.”

Katherine couldn’t have resisted him if she’d wanted to, while the others stood frozen like statues made of stone. He stepped away from the group surrounding the gurney, carrying something long and thin wrapped in some sort of canvas. She joined him and stood facing him.

“I am Dayandalous,” he said, carefully unwrapping the bundle. “And you are the bearer. Remember that.”

He finished unwrapping the bundle and handed her a sheathed sword. The sheath was over four feet long, and the hilt protruding from it could easily support a two-handed grip, with a simple cross-guard. She accepted the sword, and felt an overwhelming desire to look upon the blade, so she held the sheath in one hand and wrapped the fingers of the other about the hilt. But Dayandalous reached out and rested a hand on hers, stopping her.

“You are not the wielder,” he said. “You are the bearer. You are his strength, his resolve, and with you at his side he will remain steadfast.”

“Sure, and we’re going be having some fun now,” a small voice said in a thick accent.

She looked down to see the leprechaun Boo’Diddle standing beside her. Then she looked carefully at the sheathed sword in her hands, wondering how she’d come across a sword, and why she now stood off to one side with the leprechaun. Then she sensed something evil enter the room, and instinctively she turned toward Paul.

~~~

You have to help her, Mr. Paul. Please help her.

“Who is she?” Paul pleaded, holding the little girl close, his arms wrapped tightly about her. “Help me find her and I’ll try to help her.”

She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes.

“Don’t be looking in her eyes, you daft fool,” Jim’Jiminie said.

Paul started, looked away from Monica to find the leprechaun standing in front of him, wearing his signature green leggings, a brown doublet over a purple shirt, with bright orange-red hair spilling out from a floppy, red, felt hat perched jauntily on his head.

Mr. Paul.

Paul looked back at Monica, looked into her eyes, and deep within he saw pain and sorrow and fear. And then her eyes flared blood-red, and in their goat-slitted pupils he saw evil and hatred. He drowned in her eyes, felt his soul plunge deep into hers, knew it was up to him to purge the malevolence he sensed there, knew she’d have no peace in the afterlife if he didn’t help her now.

“I told you not to look in her eyes.”

The evil within her had wrapped itself tightly about her soul. He pulled on it, knew he must be hurting the little girl terribly, but better that than leave her soul imprisoned for eternity. She leaned back, arched her spine painfully, opened her mouth and cried out, and from her lips a black stain emerged, coalescing in the room like smoke from the fires of hell. It took on a vague undefined form that left the impression of taloned claws and serpent scales, a mouth filled with razor sharp teeth drooling maggots. The only thing he saw clearly and solidly were its blood-red, goat-slitted eyes as it reached down, gripped him by the throat, lifted him off his feet and tossed him across the room. He landed on the tile floor tumbling, smashing his elbows and knees and head painfully.

“Paul,” Katherine screamed, and the monster turned on her, flowed slowly toward her like smoke drifting on a gentle breeze.

The leprechaun standing next to her shouted, “He needs the sword, girl.”

Katherine back stepped as Paul scrambled to his feet. The monster had her cornered, and as it closed on her and the leprechaun Paul charged at it, limping on a painfully twisted ankle. He reached it a second before it reached her, felt the emotionless hatred of death, a cold so deep he shivered as he passed through it and slammed into her. They tumbled into the leprechaun and the three of them hit the floor in a sprawl of tangled arms and legs.

Boo’Diddle grunted. “Clumsy idiot!”

Paul tried to stand, wobbled precariously as he staggered up onto his feet. Katherine moved faster than him, hooked a forearm under his armpit and pulled him away from the monster. The leprechaun scrambled to one side on his hands and knees. As the apparition drifted almost casually toward them, Katherine stopped, turned to Paul and held out, of all things, a sheathed sword. “Here,” she screamed, offering him the hilt. “Do something with this.”

“A sword?” he demanded. “A fucking sword? What the fuck am I going to do with a fucking sword?”

Eyes wide with fear, Katherine shouted back, “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with it. Just fucking use the fucking thing.”

At that moment the apparition enveloped them, wrapped itself about them like a death shroud, wrapped them in a cold so intense Paul saw Katherine’s breath. It squeezed them together almost in a lover’s embrace, the sword pressed between them, its hilt rising just above her shoulder. It lifted them both off the floor as Katherine swooned and her eyes rolled back. Just beyond her shoulder Paul saw the blood-red, goat-slitted eyes smiling at him, and he screamed, “Nooooo!”

He gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands, slid it clear of the sheath and lifting it high over his head. Then he shouted, “Fuck you, asshole,” and plunged the point into the blood-red eyes.

~~~

By the look on Salisteen’s face, Colleen and she both sensed it at the same moment.

“What the hell!” Walter snarled, clearly sensing it as well, while Stowicz erupted with a string of profanity.

Colleen turned and scanned the room quickly. “Paul, Katherine, where are they? They’re gone.” Paul and Katherine had completely disappeared.

All five of them were looking toward the bench where Paul had retreated when something in the room popped. Paul materialized seated on the bench; Katherine and two leprechauns materialized standing in front of him. Paul and Katherine were both bloodied, their clothing torn. Katherine stumbled on a broken high-heel and collapsed.

~~~

Katherine struggled to her hands and knees, shivering uncontrollably in the intense cold. Paul sat on a flat bench against the wall, blood flowing freely from his nose, a nasty gash on his cheek adding more blood. He’d turned slightly to one side, had his arms wrapped about something she couldn’t see. She opened her arcane senses fully and her
sight
blossomed. He had the indigo and violet aura of a strong practitioner, but intertwined with his primary colors were the black threads of a necromancer. His aura had blossomed outward and engulfed something seated next to him on the bench. Katherine could make out a faintly human shape but saw no details, just a hazy shimmer within Paul’s extended aura. There was no sign of the monster they’d just fought.

Katherine got back to her feet and stumbled on a broken high-heel, so she kicked her shoes off. She approached Paul slowly, moving carefully, the two leprechauns at her side. She looked down at Jim’Jiminie. “How do I help him?”

The little fellow shook his head. “You don’t, girl. This is what he does.”

She saw Paul speaking softly to the human-ish shape wrapped in his aura, a tiny shape no larger than a child, and she realized who it must be.

He put his arms around the shape, pulled her close to him and patted her on the head as he rocked back and forth. “It’s all right, Monica,” he said. “It’s all right.”

A breathless hush settled over the room, and Katherine heard the footsteps of the others as they gathered behind her. She heard Colleen hiss, “Leave them alone. The two of them can handle this.”

She squatted down in front of Paul. He continued to rock back and forth. His eyes were open and she saw anger smoldering there. The pain and fear and sorrow emanating from the presence in his arms slowly dissolved, and Katherine felt a calm lethargy settle over the spirit, like the relief one feels when pain medication finally takes hold. And then the presence dissipated and was gone.

Paul leaned back wearily and sighed. “She said we have to help a little Mexican girl and boy. The bastard that killed Monica wants the little girl now; I think her name is Alice.”

Paul’s aura churned, and Katherine felt anger radiating from him like heat from a raging fire. “But I’m going to find the son-of-a-bitch first and kill him myself.”

~~~

“No,” he pleaded. “No. Alice isn’t ready yet.”

But I am diminished and I hunger, I need.

“But she’s not ready. And the little boy is in the way.”

Then someone else. Now! Tonight!

“But there’s no one else ready. It’s too dangerous. If we’re caught they’ll banish you and it will all end.”

But I need, I hunger.

“I know. But you’ll have to be patient. I’ll accelerate preparations for the little Mexican girl.”

Hurry.

“Yes, I’ll hurry. Just be patient.”

Chapter 6: The Secret Uncovered

Simuth stalked warily up the stairs of the old fortress in the non-aligned territories. His suspicions had grown for years, and it had taken careful planning on his part to trace the movements of the Winter Princess. One moved cautiously in such matters.

The fortress was ancient, had been abandoned long ago and had decayed little by little as the centuries passed. He’d searched the lower floors methodically, but nothing had been out of place. He’d gone through dozens of chambers and rooms, all strewn liberally with the detritus of past ages. On the upper level he found more rooms filled with the debris of neglect and decay. He was beginning to doubt his own suspicions as he turned toward the north wing, the only portion of the fortress he had yet to search.

How could he have been so wrong?
he wondered. He’d found nothing in the rest of the fortress, and with growing certainty he knew he’d find nothing here. He was about to turn back and abandon the search when he recognized the subtle influence of the spell; doubt, uncertainty and misgivings induced by the delicate application of understated magics. It was well done, extremely well done, crafted by a powerful mage, but with restraint and control.

He stepped back out of the north wing, spent some minutes crafting a counter-spell, then returned and released it. The debris in the hallway disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dust still carpeted the floor, and the signs of age and decay remained, but someone had gone to some trouble to clean this portion of the fortress. And the farther he penetrated into the north wing the more confident he grew that his suspicions were correct.

Instinct led him to a large, oaken door at the far end of the hall. It appeared to be ancient like the rest of the fortress, but it swung open easily on beautifully maintained hinges. And beyond it he found a suite of rooms arrayed with the most elegant of furniture and tapestries. There was a small, intimate dining chamber, a grand sitting room, and most importantly, a bed chamber that reeked of the scent of his prey.

The sheets on the large bed were tousled and tumbled in disarray, but among them he found a beautiful, silk scarf he recognized. He lifted it to his nose, and was not surprised to find the arcane scent of Taal’mara. And most damning of all, mixed in with her scent was that of Anogh. He threw his head back and laughed . . .

Simuth watched Anogh report to Ag and recalled that day more than six centuries ago. He enjoyed evoking those memories and the events that followed, for it had been a great personal triumph over his most hated enemy.

~~~

“Conklin,” Katherine shouted, standing in the middle of Salisteen’s kitchen, holding a broken high-heel in one hand and pointing an angry finger at Paul. “You are absolute hell on a girl’s wardrobe.” She turned and stormed across the kitchen, hair in wild disarray, her expensive suit torn in several places, walking unevenly because she refused to abandon the one high-heel that wasn’t broken.

Paul leaned over the sink while Salisteen administered to his bloody nose and the cut on his cheek.

Stowicz demanded, “What the hell happened back there?”

Ramirez had quickly hustled them out of the morgue before anyone started asking questions they didn’t want to answer.

Paul said, “How the hell should I know. One minute I’m sitting there comforting poor little Monica, and the next she pukes up some monster, and it’s trying to kill me. If Katherine hadn’t given me that sword, I don’t know what we would have done.”

They all turned to look at Katherine with a mixture of distrust and anger. In a more subdued tone McGowan asked, “You gave him a sword?”

Katherine stopped her angry pacing and frowned thoughtfully. “Ya,” she said, shaking her head as if trying to recall some lost memory.

“Where did you come up with a sword?”

She continued to shake her head, her frown deepening. “I don’t know.”

“And where is it now?”

“I don’t know.”

Stowicz gave Paul a look of intense distrust and growled, “I don’t like this. What are you pulling here? How do I know you didn’t bring a demon over?”

Colleen said, “Charlie, you saw the little people.”

“Ya, so?”

“You know full well they wouldn’t help Paul if he trucked with demons.”

Holding a wet towel to his nose Paul sat down in a chair at the kitchen table. He couldn’t get the poor little girl out of his mind, kept seeing her lifeless body lying on the stainless steel gurney. And every time he thought of her he saw Cloe lying there, and he couldn’t get her out of his mind, and his hands shook with anger. But he just didn’t know who to be angry at.

Ramirez towered over him. “Buck up man,” he growled. “Show some cojones. We’re depending on you.”

Katherine stormed up behind Ramirez, grabbed his arm and spun him to face her. “Back off, asshole.”

She stepped around Ramirez and spoke softly. “It’s Cloe, isn’t it?”

Ramirez demanded, “Who the hell’s Cloe?”

Katherine spun back to him. “His daughter, you jerk. Killed about a year ago. About the same age as Monica.”

Ramirez’s shoulders slumped and he deflated like a balloon with a bad leak. “Ah shit!” He shook his head. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

Katherine didn’t let up, “I just did, asshole.”

Colleen stepped between them. “Everyone calm down. Let’s try to reconstruct what happened. And let’s do so without all the shouting.”

Ramirez turned and stormed out of the kitchen. Katherine sat down opposite Paul, reached out and took hold of his hands. She spoke carefully. “Tell me what you saw.”

Her hands were warm and soft, and his stopped shaking as he carefully put all thought of Cloe out of his mind. “I saw Monica. Dead Monica.”

Ramirez marched back into the kitchen carrying a bottle of bourbon just as one of the male-model servants put a cup of coffee in front of Paul. “Sorry, man,” Ramirez said as he pulled the cork on the bottle. “I didn’t know.”

He poured a healthy splash of bourbon into Paul’s coffee. “This’ll help a little. This’s got to be hard for you.”

Colleen sat down next to Katherine and held her coffee out toward Ramirez. “I could use a wee dram of that too, darlin’.”

They passed the bourbon around as Paul took a sip of his coffee and Katherine said, “You were telling us about Monica.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Paul said. “She looked pretty normal, except her eyes were dead, no life in them at all.”

“What did she say?”

“She tugged on my sleeve and said I had to help the little Mexican girl and boy. She said he wanted her and I had to help her. She called her Alice. Then she opened her mouth and something like black smoke came out. But it was a lot nastier than just smoke.”

McGowan made Paul and Katherine describe in considerable detail what they remembered. “I don’t know where I got that sword,” Katherine finished. “But when I saw that monster it was just there, and I knew Paul needed to use it to stop that thing.”

Throughout the retelling of the events Stowicz had stood silently at the far end of the kitchen. He stepped forward, coffee cup in hand. “You said she said
he
wanted her. She didn’t say
it
wanted her.”

Paul thought about it for a moment, tried to reconstruct the few brief words she’d uttered. “No, not
it
. She definitely said
he
.”

Salisteen, McGowan and Stowicz exchanged a rapid sequence of surprised looks, while Colleen just stared into her coffee cup and nodded.

“What is it?” Katherine demanded.

“My dear,” she said. “Information you get from a spirit can be quite obtuse. But in some respects they’re very precise. If Monica had been killed by a demon, and if it was a demon loose on the Mortal Plane stalking this little Mexican girl, Monica’s spirit would have referred to it as
it
, not
he
.”

Paul asked, “So what’s that mean?”

Colleen swirled the coffee in her cup, continued to stare at it as she said, “We’re not merely looking for an emergent loose on the Mortal Plane. We’re looking for some sort of human killer that somehow feeds like a demon, or is maybe working in concert with a demon.”

She looked up and her eyes bored into Paul’s. “And it makes me wonder if that means we’re looking for another necromancer?”

~~~

Anogh spurred his steed into a gallop as they approached the seat of the Unseelie Court. For a diplomatic mission of this nature, he wore the full regalia of the Summer Knight—the hereditary armor, the masked helm—and he was accompanied by a retinue of twelve twelves of Seelie warriors, all arrayed similarly.

The invitation from Ag had been vague, which was not unusual, but it nevertheless required the appropriate response. It might be some trivial issue Ag wished to discuss, possibly some slight he had imagined. They would discuss and dispute the matter for several days, eventually come to a resolution, then Anogh and his retinue would return to the Seelie Court to debrief Magreth. If nothing more it would be an excuse to see Taal’mara, though only from afar. They dare not meet in secret under such close scrutiny.

The gates of the great Unseelie castle stood open for them. Simuth sat astride his own steed waiting just outside the castle’s mote, backed by a similar troupe of Unseelie warriors. At a discreet distance Anogh raised his hand and brought his troupe to a halt. Then, as required by the ancient formulas, he and Simuth both rode forward at an easy canter and met half way between the two forces.

“Brother Knight,” Simuth said. “By what warrant do you traverse the Unseelie territories?”

Anogh bowed his head lightly. “I come in peace, Brother Knight, by invitation of your sovereign.”

“And you bear the proper warrant?”

It was an ancient formula established in a far distant past. Anogh reached into his tunic, saying, “I do, signed personally by your king, and it bears his seal.”

He retrieved a parchment and handed it to Simuth, who pretended to read it, for of course he had known of this visit and the invitation well in advance. Simuth nodded, “Then do accompany me, Brother Knight, as my guest.”

With the formalities complete, Simuth turned and nudged his mount toward the castle. Anogh and his retinue followed.

In the castle yard their horses were taken in hand by grooms. Anogh must first present himself to the king, so Simuth led him through the halls of the Winter Court, though having followed this formula many times through the centuries Anogh well knew the way.

When he stepped through the massive entrance of the great throne room he paused, and waited while the chamberlain announced him to the waiting throng and the king. It took some seconds to speak his many titles and his full name, but when the chamberlain finished Anogh marched forward, his pace carefully dictated by protocol. Taal’mara stood beside her father on his left side, dressed in a gown of pale green brocade, her hair piled high atop her head and decorated with gems of all colors. But as Anogh walked the length of the great room, while his thoughts could not turn away from his heart’s desire, he was careful to keep his eyes on Ag seated upon his throne, to give no hint of his love for the Winter Princess.

Simuth climbed the dais and took a position at Ag’s right hand. Anogh stopped at a discrete distance from the bottom of the dais. He bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty, as you requested I have come, and I bring the felicitations of my queen.”

“Rise,” Ag said. “Face me, Summer Knight.”

Anogh stood straight and tall and looked up to the Winter King. Ag regarded him carefully as he lifted a glass of wine to his lips. His eyes locked on Anogh over the rim of the goblet as he sipped delicately. When he lowered the glass he raised a silken scarf and lightly dabbed at his lips.

Taal’mara’s eyes darted to the scarf, and with a look of surprise and horror all color drained from her face.

Simuth smirked openly.

The scarf was not the kind of thing one would ordinarily use as a simple napkin, more an elegant thing of beauty to be worn by a courtier. But Anogh couldn’t understand why the sight of it brought such fear to Taal’mara’s features. It was just a scarf, one that seemed slightly familiar, but still just a scarf.

Slightly familiar! Anogh had seen it before and he dredged through his memories to recall where: draped delicately over Taal’mara’s shoulders as she joined him in their hidden love nest. They had chatted briefly and tried to restrain themselves, but it had been many months since he’d last experienced the taste of her skin, and once his restraint had faltered, it had vanished quickly. He’d personally removed the scarf from her shoulders, dropped it to the floor of the bed chamber, the first of many articles of clothing he removed from her.

“Yes,” Ag said, smiling unpleasantly. “I can see by the look on your face, Summer Knight, that you have now gleaned the purpose of this meeting.”

Taal’mara dropped to her knees and bowed her head. “Your Majesty. Please, we have done nothing.”

“Now, now, my child,” Ag said, reaching out and patting her gently on the top of her head. He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “You have done quite a bit, haven’t you, daughter?”

Anogh stepped forward and said, “But, Your Majesty—”

Ag looked to Anogh and screamed, “Silence!”

He turned back to Taal’mara, and again he spoke gently. “You have allowed the Summer Knight to seduce you. You have allowed him to pluck the most delicate flower in the Winter Court. You’ve sullied yourself with base lust and desire.”

“I’m sorry, father, but we’re in love, a beautiful thing between us.”

“A beautiful thing, is it?”

Again Anogh stepped forward. “Yes, Your Majesty. I would gladly wed her.” He struggled to find some reason for Ag to forbear his wrath. “It would be a powerful union, joining both Sidhe Courts as never before. I would do anything to prove the honor of my intentions.”