The rooms were spare and uncluttered, the furnishings simple and of excellent quality. The rooms were also utterly empty of people, though Sylvie nudged Demalion’s shoulder in one of the brightly lit guest bedrooms, directed his attention to the scatter of belongings across the rumpled sheet.
“Think the general liked to feel pretty?” Demalion said.
“Only if he used Zoe’s color palette,” Sylvie said. “Stupid little bitch.”
“The house is empty,” Demalion said.
“No one alive in it,” Sylvie said, both agreement and counter. Her mouth was dry. The house was deceptive in size; rooms unfolded from rooms; the floor echoed in such a way that she thought there might be a rare root cellar. The teenagers could be dead; their bodies discarded anywhere. Zoe among them.
“Doesn’t smell,” Demalion said.
“Hasn’t been long enough,” she said, rejecting his reassurance.
A wash of warm air crept through an opened window down the hall, carried the faint drift of sound with it. A woman’s voice.
Sylvie stiffened like a hound catching scent. She headed for the back door; Demalion scrambling to catch up.
The backyard was brightly lit; lanterns spiked the grass, ringed the illuminated pool, rimmed the eaves of the house, and cast glimmering sparks on the black waves beyond. The pool slanted sharply, one end close to the house and beach, the other spread wide to accommodate limestone tiling and a dining area.
Sylvie gathered all of that in one dazzle, light against the dark sky, but her attention hooked hard on the demented tea party Odalys was hosting. Zoe, Jaz, Matteo, Trey, were trussed neatly to white-painted, wrought-iron pool chairs, tucked closely around the table as if any moment someone would serve a meal. But the meals on offer were the teens’ souls. Jaz and her boyfriends sagged in their bonds, their faces sallow and pained, even unconscious; their Hands of Glory had been returned to them, lay in their laps like hellish spiders. Beyond the table, nearing the edge of the limestone tile, beneath the shadows of gumbo limbo and poisonwood, Zoe, bound and gagged, kicked feebly at Odalys as the woman knelt beside her.
Odalys straightened up, smoothing Zoe’s hair absently. “Don’t fuss so. It’ll all be for the best. You want to be my apprentice, don’t you? I have a plan. Trust is a part of—”
Gun in hand, Sylvie stepped out to greet Odalys. “Trust doesn’t involve tying people up.”
“How dull your sex life must be,” Odalys said. Sylvie really didn’t like her expression, calculation mixed with satisfaction, as if she’d expected Sylvie to make it in time to—what? Play witness? Or something more sinister.
“Step away from my sister,” Sylvie said.
Odalys smiled and stepped behind Zoe, resting her hands on the girl’s shoulders. Zoe twitched, trying to push her hands off.
“I don’t think so,” Odalys said. “Even you wouldn’t shoot through your little sister to get to me.”
Sylvie kept the gun leveled. “You’re a lot bigger than she is. Demalion, untie the rest of them. Get them out of here.”
He moved around her, careful not to step between Sylvie and Odalys. He bent over Trey, seated the closest to the house. Trey’s chin lolled on his chest; his skin gleamed as white as the paint. Demalion straightened, face grim as his voice. “This one’s dead already.”
Sylvie’s attention flickered for a moment, a quick glance in Demalion’s direction, as if she could see the boy’s pulse not beat in the shadows of his throat, and it was all Odalys needed. Her hand came up, the lighter flaring bright, a thrown bridge through shadow, from one circle of light to the next, landing on the Hand of Glory in Matteo’s lap. Sylvie got off a single reflexive shot, jerking the gun skyward at the last, afraid she would hit Zoe; then the ghost lethargy crashed down on her, the ghostly miasma smothering her into darkness.
24
The Quick and the Dead
WHEN SYLVIE WOKE, IT WAS TO PINS AND NEEDLES ALL OVER; HER skin burned and itched, an enormity of discomfort so great that it took her long minutes to realize that things had changed. She had joined the ranks of bound-to-chairs; the wrought iron was savaging her spine through her empty holster. But as befitted an unwelcome guest, her chair had been dragged away from the table, closer to the house. Her gun was gone; her hands were tied, and the cloth bundles of grave dirt were attempting to burn holes through her flesh.
Damned Odalys,
Sylvie thought. Gun versus a lighter, and the woman still got the jump on her.
The little dark voice growled.
You didn’t take the kill shot. Always take the kill shot. Your fault, all of this.
She should have, Sylvie agreed. Forget that Odalys was human; forget that Demalion wanted Odalys alive. Given a second chance, a
third
chance, she’d shoot first.
Sounds of struggling, grunting, caught her attention. Cautiously, she turned her head, neck aching, to see what could be seen. Odalys, hair coming unpinned, skirt smeared with rust and dirt, was manhandling Demalion onto the table itself, having run out of chairs. Wright’s body might be long, might be lanky, but it was muscled. The task was made more difficult by the closeness of the other chairs, of Jaz’s and Matteo’s proximity to the table, and the ghosts pressing in close behind them.
Sylvie blinked. Was that? It was. Her gun lay unattended on the table, bare inches from Demalion’s lax hand.
Wake up,
she thought.
Goddammit, wake up!
She couldn’t understand why Odalys hadn’t killed them both. A glance at the blazing Hands of Glory suggested the answer. They were bait. A sop to Margaret Strange so that she wouldn’t interfere with the other ghosts and their transitions to flesh.
A cold blur at the edge of her vision, and Sylvie turned her head. The general’s ghost, standing beside the dead boy, jabbed an accusing finger at the boy’s corpse; the gape of his mouth shaped words Sylvie couldn’t hear. It didn’t matter; his gesturing was explicit, and Odalys’s response was clear enough.
“He didn’t tell me he had a bad heart. He’s a goddamned kid. I wasn’t trying to palm off a defective body on you. You’re no good to me if you gain the body and kick the bucket at the same time. I’ve been counting on my completion fee. I’ll give you a choice. Either take your lieutenant’s boy—”
The lieutenant’s ghost stepped back from the Matteo as if burned, offered the body to his general. The general shook his head, drifted toward Odalys, scowling. The lieutenant lashed out and began feeding off Matteo.
Odalys put up wary hands. “Okay, okay, not stranding your lieutenant. I get it. Here—what about this one?” She gestured toward Wright, splayed and trussed like some particularly gothic table centerpiece. “This one’s good. Yeah, it’s a little older and it might be a little work to get into; he’s doublesouled. But the body’s got training. Gun calluses come standard.”
Sylvie bridled, bit her lip to smother her shout of outrage. Odalys, the consummate saleswoman, selling things that didn’t belong to her. Selling people . . . Sylvie jerked harder in her bonds, felt the rope pop with the first tiny frayed thread, a small bite into the loops that held her. She couldn’t do anything to help Demalion until she got free. If Odalys found out she was awake, aware, she’d put a stop to that, and Sylvie wouldn’t wake up until it was all done, until there were strangers looking back at her through Zoe’s eyes, through Wright’s.
In her chair, Jasmyn twitched and thrashed as Marianna Li fed off her, the barbed tongue wrapped twice about her neck, sinking into her chest. Marianna Li was going to wake up in a body full of bruises if she didn’t slow down, but the ghost’s hunger for a new life was like a starving dog’s whine; it resonated in her flesh, instantly understood.
Jasmyn thrashed once more and fell back to laxity—slack muscles, slack expression.
Beyond Jasmyn, Matteo twisted and struggled ineffectively; even as the lieutenant’s ghost fed on him, he seemed reluctant to fight back, to cause himself pain. A brute body and a delicate constitution.
Sylvie had no such compunction. She jerked her wrists back and forth, ripping at the rope, tearing her skin, greasing the ropes with human iron, until she was free.
She took a deep breath, began the effort of slipping out of the windings of rope. Though the knot was gone, the rope still fed through the gaps in the scrollwork, pinning her in place.
Marianna Li’s ghost pressed closer, embracing the girl from behind Jasmyn’s lap, then into her skin. The Hand of Glory went out, flame sucked inward. Jasmyn twitched once, twice. Her eyelids fluttered.
Sylvie yanked herself free, one hand already seeking out the dirt pouches. Right pocket, red bag, Li’s grave dirt. She wound up and threw it, fastball, into Jasmyn’s chest.
The cloth bag, porous, loosely tied, exploded as it was meant to do. The ghost erupted from Jasmyn’s body like a volcano plume, like a body blown to ash, burning the skin as she left.
Jasmyn sagged back in the seat, eyes glassy, body utterly limp. Matteo’s eyes bulged over the gag; his struggles doubled. In the shadows, Zoe made some shrill sound behind her gag.
Christ,
Sylvie thought. She’d just killed her. Killed both of them. Jasmyn as well as the ghost.
The girl was dead already, her soul devoured,
her little dark voice said.
You just made it evident.
One more dead on her watch. Sylvie’s throat burned. No more. She was going to save the rest of them. Zoe, Demalion, Wright, even Matteo. And she was going to do it all before Margaret Strange showed up and turned them all into ghost chum.
Odalys spun around at the sound of Jasmyn’s de-ghosting, Sylvie’s gun in her hand. Odalys might be talented at necromancy and running a business, Sylvie thought, hitting the limestone so hard she felt it chip, but she couldn’t aim for crap. The shot went hopelessly wild,
spang
ed off the eaves, splintered wood, and buried itself in the pine mulch around the pool. On her second attempt, the gun jammed, bloodying her hand. She cursed and hurled it into the pool.
“You shouldn’t even be awake,” Odalys said.
Sylvie rose, brushing at her scraped skin, still dark with graveyard dust, still humming with a shield she’d inadvertently applied. It coated her clothes, her skin; hell, she’d probably even breathed some in. That, coupled with her own willpower—she doubted Odalys could put her down again, even with a whole chandelier of burning Hands.
“I learn,” Sylvie said. “I came prepared. Besides, I think my soul’s too damn unpalatable for your ghosts.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Odalys said.
Behind her, there was a sudden breeze, a ruffle of dank, warm air, like a person’s stopped breath. The water on the pool, rippling where the gun had parted its surface, began rippling in another direction.
A peacock shrieked, its cry abruptly cut off, a deadly fade.
“I think Margaret will like you very much,” Odalys said. “In fact, I’m counting on it. The best of both worlds. I get rid of you, and I get to keep Zoe.”
Odalys smirked at her. “I always did want an acolyte.”
She stepped away from the table, stepped into a shadowy area beneath sheltering trees. The ground glimmered faintly in a familiar circle. Protection of Odalys. In the heart of it, a single chair. One where Odalys intended to sit and watch her dead clients come back to life. Priding herself on her work.
“If I pull you out of your safe space, how much do you think she’d like you?” Sylvie said. A choking gasp made her threat meaningless. It wasn’t just her and Odalys here. Wasn’t just a choice between her and Odalys that Strange would make.
It was Zoe. It was Demalion. It was Matteo. Best thing Sylvie could do would be to free them and get the hell out of here. Leave Odalys trapped in her circle, leave her attempting to placate the spirit she’d created.
Zoe kicked, spitting mad, wiggling fiercely in her bonds.
Demalion growled, nothing catlike about it, only a stubborn refusal to scream. The general’s ghost drew back, circled the table, came back again. Sylvie, trying to keep an eye on Odalys, on Zoe, for the unbound ghost of Margaret Strange, who could be anywhere, fumbled through her pockets for the cloth with the general’s grave dirt. Demalion and Wright would have to come first in this soul-saving triage.
Matteo leaned away from the ghost, the lieutenant gone nearly translucent with effort. The ghost was weak, Sylvie thought, a tagalong from the general’s staff.
Sylvie hefted the bag, dirt bound with a blue ribbon, heard Odalys curse, and aimed—and balked. The general was draped over Wright’s body, seeking a way in. She couldn’t hit him without hitting Wright, without expelling his souls. She might take out the general, but Wright and Demalion would be forced out of body, and the lieutenant’s ghost could give up wrestling with Matteo and just step in.
But if she got Matteo’s ghost, saved Matteo, got him out of the tangle of iron and ghosts and flesh—she could have a clear shot on the general. If Odalys didn’t stop her.
She lunged the distance to Matteo’s chair, bent down, let the grave dirt bag fall, fingers working the knots, wishing she carried a knife. “Fight, Demalion. Keep fighting him.”
At least, given Matteo’s lackluster attempts at escaping, the knots hadn’t drawn tight, unmanageable to her fingernails. She got one of his hands free, working fast, murmuring, “Hold on, hold on. It’s going to be all right.” His eyes, when she glanced up, were glassy and wild. Her skin crawled, expecting the lieutenant’s ghost to object to her actions at any moment, but he was growing thinner and paler by the moment. The flames on the Hand on Matteo’s lap were dimming.
Sylvie got Matteo’s second hand free, already saying, “Hurry, run, don’t look back—” and took a fist to the jaw that sent her sprawling.
She tasted blood, her lip split against her teeth, and her head reeled. The table jerked on the stone, Demalion fighting to save himself, Wright, her . . . unable to do anything.