The Voodoo Killings (19 page)

“Thank you,” I said, and buzzed myself through the double doors. I headed straight to the Middle Eastern section and did a cursory search on the computer for texts concerning ancient Arabic and Otherside. No luck. Lee was right, it didn’t appear that any existed. I widened my search to include paranormal and the Middle East, and added Jinn to the mix.

One title caught my eye. It was a translation of an account of King Solomon’s Jinn, written a little over a thousand years ago. I retrieved it from the shelf along with two other interesting texts on the legends of Jinn and headed to the study table situated by the glass doors.

I opened up a bottle of water I’d grabbed on my way in, took a big swig and began to read. Despite what Lee and Randall thought, I did listen to decent advice…most of the time.

CHAPTER 12

SEANCE

Saying King Solomon was a bit of an asshole would be putting it mildly.

At one point in his rule, he had over a hundred enslaved Jinn at his beck and call. On paper it said they’d been bound as guards for the king and his councillors, but considering how many Ifrit, or fire-wielding Jinn, he’d created, I got the distinct impression they were less guards than jailors. I’d come across Fire, Air and Earth Jinn by the time I was halfway through the text, but still no Manids, or Water Jinn. You’d think, living in a desert, those might have come in handy.

There was no mention of the inscriptions or bindings used to create Jinn, not even a reference to another text. The only hint was an entry on an Ifrit named Assam, who had been punished for burning one of the cooks: “His disobedience has been carved into his soul for all eternity.” I figured that meant they’d added another layer of bindings to prevent him from torturing any more kitchen staff. It was more interesting to note that eternity hadn’t been all that long for Assam, given the Jinn hadn’t survived.

I leaned back in the library chair, stretched and yawned. I checked the time: 6:15. I closed my eyes to give them a break….

Something buzzed in my pocket and I sat up with a start. I pulled my phone out to see
Jawbreaker 29
flashing on the digital call programme. Nate. Had something happened with Cameron? Then I noticed the time: 6:50. Shit.

I answered. “Nate?”

“Jesus Christ, K. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m sorry, I fell asleep, I’ll be right down and grab you.”

“Whoa, hold on a sec.
You
fell asleep?”

I closed the books. “Yes, Nate, I fell asleep. It happens to the living, remember?”

“Are you telling me I’m the responsible one this time?”

I threw my jacket on and picked up my backpack.

“I mean, there’s hell freezing over, pigs flying, and then there’s me and responsibility.”

“Nate, get off my computer and back into the mirror. You can ridicule me later.”

He sighed. “Fine. See you.” The line went dead.

I glanced down at the pile of books. Hmmm, I wonder…I carried Solomon and a text on the paranormal history of the Middle East to the front desk.

“I don’t suppose I can take these with me?” I said to the librarian.

She glanced up from the computer. “I’m not sure. Let me check.”

I passed the books over and she scanned each bar code then stared at her screen. “Not a problem, Ms. Strange. We’ll need them back by Friday.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. “Friday it is. Thanks.” I shoved the books into my backpack and headed downstairs to grab Nate before she realized her mistake.

Then I discovered that the elevator was already locked down for the night, so I headed back to the desk to ask for a key card.

There was no one there. I looked around, but it was as if the librarian had vanished into thin air….Then I noticed a sign that I’d missed on my way in: Closed for Weekends until Further Notice.

I rolled my eyes. Goddamnit, I hate ghosts. Never know when to stay on their side of the barrier. The ghost librarian had probably worked here while she’d been alive and was taking advantage of the staffing shortage.

The exit stairwell was just around the corner, but when I tried the door, it caught. I jiggled it again and still it wouldn’t give.

I was just about to head back to the desk to do a thorough search for the elevator key card when I caught the reflection in the door’s port window: the ghost from the mirror. It flashed me what I could only describe as a vicious smile before vanishing. The air around me chilled and letters began to scroll in the fog on the window.

We need to talk
.

I took a step back. This was impossible: ghosts can’t set their own windows and mirrors.

Unless I was dealing with a poltergeist.

But poltergeists don’t write notes on glass; they throw any heavy object they can find.

Another message began to etch its way across the window.

This is a warning, Kincaid. I’m not to be trifled with. I believe you have something of mine
.

The only ghost I knew who owned anything was Nate, and his hold on the PlayStation was tentative at best. I remembered the books in my bag; could they be what he was talking about? Not likely. He’d been following me around since last night.

The words in the window vanished, followed by the chill in the air. I tried the door again and jumped when it opened. The stairwell was empty.

I shook my head. Setting windows, locking doors, writing on glass…I don’t scare that easy. The best way to handle problem ghosts is not to feed into their cycle. I gave my reflection in the window the most bored expression I could muster. “Is that all you got?” I said, then shrugged. “Not impressed.”

There was no answer.

Still, I took the stairs two at a time. When I reached the main
floor, I ducked into the washroom to grab Nate. I had a seance to worry about, not a crazier-than-average ghost.

—

University parties were not my favourite gig, but the students weren’t done blowing their student loans yet and I couldn’t afford to be picky. October would be dead until Halloween, when the requests flooded in—theme parties, spooky graveyard visits, the obvious stuff. Then there would be another dry spell until the end of November, when the Thanksgiving and Christmas seances kicked in, or the season of guilt as I liked to call it—guilt over not spending more time with the relatives you couldn’t be bothered talking to while they were still alive. I drink more whisky sours than I care to admit during Christmas. I used to make my real money raising zombies—not “Please clarify that you really did mean to leave everything to the cat/mistress/maid/fish” but “Bring me back as eternal living dead.”

I glided my bike into the residential area of campus. Now where was that street? It had to be around here somewhere.

“Nate, not now,” I said for the second time. Why the hell had I agreed to let Nate ride along? I could just as easily have pulled him out of a mirror at the frat house.

“What? What did I say?” Nate asked for the third time since we’d left the library.

I didn’t respond, hoping he’d take the hint.

“No, seriously? All I said was, ‘What would it take for you to consider getting back together with Aaron?’ I mean, I know you’re pissed at him, but he keeps calling you. Clearly he’s still into you.”

Birch Street, Oak, Elm—

“Okay, I’ll go first: I hate Mindy, but I’d consider getting back together with her if she pushed my ex-drummer off the back of my yacht. There. See? Easy. Your turn.”

Vine Street—that was it! I turned left. The frat kids had said to keep going until I reached the end, so that’s what I did.

“Look, Nate, I don’t want to play this particular game right now.”

“Come on. It’ll help you get closure, which, by the way, you suck at.”

I took a deep breath. There was no point explaining why I was upset to Nate. Finding out from Randall that Aaron really had been given an ultimatum by the department was one thing, but to know that Aaron had taken them up on the offer…

I spotted the house: 2135 Vine. “Nate, let’s just get through tonight, okay?”

“Fine.”

I shook my head. Ghosts.

I parked my bike at the side of the house where it was out of the way and locked it. I trust drunken university students around my Hawk about as much as I trust Nate in the Sony online shop. I took my helmet off and headed to the front door.

Nineties grunge music filtered out to the street and coed voices carried from around back. Beta Kappa Phi was a mansion-sized, colonial-styled white house with a decent-sized lawn and a backyard that eased onto the university green space. It was what you’d expect from a frat house: not in fantastic shape, but not ready to be condemned either. One of the windows had been broken and taped up and the house needed a good coat of paint. At least the lawn was free of beer cans and bottles.

“Time to make rent, Nate,” I whispered.

As I stepped up to the front door, I hoped these guys had remembered to get the right stuff. Nate was a princess when it came to guitars. Before knocking, I said, “All right, Nate, you know the drill?”

“Yeah, Kincaid, just like the last time.”

I frowned. The last time had been almost a month ago. Ghost short-term memory isn’t foolproof. They don’t form new memories well, though they think they do, which leads to its own special set of problems.

“If you forget something,
ask
this time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you feel the need to play beer-keg funnel or to
streak around the block, or anything else in that realm of behaviour, ask me first.”

Nate snorted. “It’s called a beer bong.” Then, after a pause, he asked, “Did I really streak around the block last time?”

“No, you disappeared all your clothes and jumped into the neighbour’s pool.”

“Hunh…Figured I’d remember something that fun.”

There was a note taped to the front door with my name on it. I read it out, mostly for Nate’s benefit. “ ‘Come around back. We’ll be on the porch. Ask for Kelvin.’ ”

“Kelvin? What kind of name is Kelvin?” Nate said.

I shook my head and walked around the house, following the noise. “Nate, you’ve got five seconds to stop talking.”

“Don’t you think you’re misleading them a bit? You aren’t actually summoning me.”

“I do summon you, I just don’t summon you here.”

“Slippery slope, K.”

I reached the eight-foot wood fence, the kind that’s near-impossible to climb unless you are a varsity athlete. Now where the hell was the catch to open the gate? I felt along the edge and found it.

“You know what I think? I think…” Nate trailed off as the gate opened into the backyard. For once, he was speechless.

I just stared at the scene in front of me. “Holy shit,” I said finally.

“I think they’ve got Woodstock back here.”

“Not Woodstock…just…” I shook my head.

This was not a frat keg party with a hundred or so students. Yes, the backyard backed onto the university green space, but between the backyard and the campus forest was a sports field. No back fence. The food and beer tables were set up by the back porch, but the crowd stretched all the way to the tree line.

“Damn, there has to be over five hundred kids here.”

“Twice that. Easy.”

“I should have asked for more money.”

“No shit. Sweet Jesus and happy birthday to me—do you see the stage?”

Past the swimming pool and hot tub was a decent-sized stage with sound equipment set up and ready to go. Three guys hovered over the guitars.

“Nate, I think that’s supposed to be your band.” One of Nate’s rules for working frat parties was no bands and no concerts.

Nate was still absorbing. He hadn’t seen a crowd this size since he’d been alive.

“Nate, I’m sorry. They told me it was a keg party.” I glanced around. No one was paying me any mind. “Look, Nate, we can sneak out, no one will be any the wiser—”

“Are you kidding, K? I forbid you to leave this party.”

“I thought you said no concerts. Not ever, no way—”

“Yeah, but this is different. It’s not commercial—it’s just a crazy, out-of-control house party. Seriously out of control.
This
is what I started out doing.”

For a second I debated mentioning that if he played here, film would probably end up on the Internet, and then his old bandmates would come sniffing around Seattle….

But then a lanky student wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and khakis standing behind the nearest beer table began jumping and waving in my general direction. He had a mop of brown hair reminiscent of Nate’s. Damn.

“Nate, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

“Stop me if I climb up on the roof and start screaming ‘I’m a golden god.’ No, scrap that. I could totally do that since I can’t die or squash anyone.”

Hawaiian Shirt bounded up to me with a big grin, hand extended. “Hi, you must be Kincaid Strange. I’m Kelvin. We spoke on the phone?”

I shook the outstretched hand. I didn’t have much of a choice. “Yeah, Kelvin, hi. Quite the party you’ve got going here.”

“Yeah, awesome turnout. Amazing what you can do with social media. Well, that and Nathan Cade.” I didn’t think his grin could widen any more than it already had. I was wrong.

I glanced at the stage and Kelvin jumped in before I could say a word. “Look, I know you said no band, no big productions, but I had a really great group of guys from the student centre volunteer
—huge
Nathan Cade fans—and then word got out.” He ducked an empty beer cup that sailed overhead. “You know how it goes.”

I crossed my arms and stared him down. “So you expect me to believe this turned into a concert bowl by
accident
?”

Kelvin’s smile didn’t falter for a second. His phone buzzed with a text message and he glanced down at it. “Whoa, can you wait just a sec? Problems with the lighting. I’ll be right back, Kincaid. Just don’t go anywhere. I promise you we’ll sort this out.” He bounded off towards the stage.

“Nate, I’m getting us the hell out of here.”

“Come on, K. It’ll be fun.”

“Nate! He conned us into a concert.”