Grave Memory: An Alex Craft Novel (18 page)

I knew all about that. Until yesterday, I’d been the one stuck. We’d been open only four days, but it was already clear we needed to find a solution to one or the other of us having to be present during business hours.
What we really need is a receptionist.
But that wasn’t exactly in the budget. Yet, at least. I could dream, right?

I filled in Rianna on everything I’d learned at the morgue.

“This is a lot bigger than Kingly,” she said, her voice hollow with shock.

“Yeah, and Kingly is still the focus, but tracking this thing back to its source is part of finding out who killed him.”
And how.
The spell seemed to spread by witnessing suicide, or really, murder disguised as suicide.

That thought made me stop, my stomach souring. “So far, every victim saw the previous die. When Kingly jumped…”

I didn’t have to finish the sentence. We could both guess that someone on the street that day was infected and going to die—if they hadn’t already. In the cases we knew about, the cycle took only three to four days.
How many bodies does this thing have to its name?

And why?

“It acts more like a parasite than a spell, doesn’t it? Using up bodies and then jumping hosts,” I said thinking not only about the emaciation but also the damage to Kingly’s ghost.

“Unless everyone who witnesses the death is affected, or infected, or whatever.” Rianna’s hand dropped to Desmond’s head, her fingers scratching behind his ear absently as she spoke.

“Wouldn’t we have heard about a sudden spike in suicides?” Of course, I hadn’t heard about Kirkwood, and his method of death had been extreme. What if the other suicides were less public or didn’t succeed? It was definitely something to look into. “If it’s a spell that spreads like a pathogen, we could have an epidemic of suicides.”

We were both silent for a moment. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Rianna broke the silence first. “But why?”

She’d moved so that her legs pressed against Desmond, the barghest’s touch clearly a reassuring warmth for her.

I shook my head. “Some sort of life cycle? In nature, there are parasites that infiltrate the host’s brain and force them to act suicidally stupid. Like fish flashing to attract
birds or ants climbing to the tallest blade of grass so they’re eaten by a cow. It’s all part of the parasite’s cycle of life.”

Rianna’s eyebrows lifted, and heat burned in my cheeks.

“Roy’s been watching the nature channel a lot,” I mumbled, then cleared my throat. “But whether we’re talking about some sort of parasite jumping hosts or a spell crafted to spread, the cycle involves suicide. I’m going to look for more victims, and I need to track down next of kin for Daniel Walters. Or at least figure out where he’s buried.”

Rianna nodded, and then, surprising the hell out of me, she smiled. “That’s all computer stuff, right? I mean, you’ll be searching obituaries, archived articles, and stuff here in the office?”

It was my turn to cock a skeptical eyebrow, but I nodded. Her smiled brightened.

“Great, then I’ll grab James Kingly’s photo and head to the Irish pub he remembers being at last. Maybe he left with someone or at least told someone where he was going.”

Divide and conquer—I liked it.

We said our good-byes. Then I booted up my laptop and settled into the task of locating Daniel Walters as well as any other recent suicides. I seriously hoped Daniel was the only one I found.

My senses buzzed with foreign magic as soon as the door chimed. Not that people carrying magic was unusual—especially in the Quarter. From vanity charms to shields to idiosyncratic spells, everyone except the staunchest Humans First Party members and complete nulls utilized household grade magic. Occasionally I’d sense some heavy defensive charms, and once in a blue moon I’d pick up on a weaponized spell. Though, typically only when I hung out with officers from the Anti–Black Magic Unit because carrying fully prepped offensive spells was illegal without a license.

But whoever had just stepped into the lobby was carrying an armory’s worth of spells—more than any ABMU officer I’d ever met—and I had about thirty seconds to decide what to do.

As I had no offensive magic, my best bet would have been to jump into a circle and hope I could hold it against a full-on magical assault. Except I hadn’t etched a permanent circle in the office yet.
Definitely need to remedy that.

Not that I had time now.

That wave of magic was almost to my office door. I pushed back from my desk in case I needed to duck for cover. The desk might have been a thrift store find, but it was real wood and would make a decent barrier, at least for a couple of seconds. Then I drew my dagger. The fae-wrought blade pulsed in my hand, anxious to be wielded after what it considered too many weeks of disuse. It clearly didn’t understand that with the kind of firepower I felt in the lobby, if I needed the dagger, I’d probably be dead before I lifted my hand. Still, I felt safer having a weapon. Though that didn’t mean I needed to provoke my heavily armed visitor by brandishing a blade when they walked through the door, so I concealed the dagger in my lap and waited.

A shadow fell over my threshold. No, not over, it crossed through it.

I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus on the woman who’d entered my office. She hadn’t made a sound as she moved, and she offered no greeting. Because of my eyesight, I kept every corner of the room bright, but the woman wore a cocktail of charms that not only made the eye want to move away but also gathered darkness around her. The fact she wore black-on-black leather and had her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid certainly didn’t hurt the whole clinging to shadows thing. Even her eyes were such a dark brown they appeared black. If I hadn’t been a sensitive and she practically leaking magic, I might not have noticed her.

My dagger throbbed, its not quite cognizant presence pressing against the edge of my mind, urging me to go on
the offensive before this very potent threat made the first move. I loosened my grip on the hilt, hoping that would quiet the blade. Right now I needed all of my concentration to watch the stranger.

She sidestepped away from the door, the movement graceful and silent. She was working hard on not being seen, which made me more than a little nervous. The dagger liked it even less. It had saved my freedom and my life before, so I didn’t take its urges lightly. Though when it came to the dagger, moderation was important. It had a compelling urgency in its desire to fight, to cut, to wound, and it would guide my body if I let it, which made it both a great weapon and a tempting liability. For years I hadn’t carried it for just that reason, but with the way my life had been going the last few months, I never went anywhere unarmed.

The woman took another step sideways, her gaze locked on my face. I forced my eyes to stay with her, to ignore the magic trying to redirect my attention. She frowned as she watched me track her. Then she dropped the perception charms and stalked forward, her movement predatory and confident.

“Are you Alex Craft?”

“Yes?” I didn’t mean to make the answer a question, but nervousness made my voice waver.
Way to keep control of the situation, Alex.

I opened my shields, just enough that I could get a better look at who—or what—I was dealing with. The woman’s soul glowed an unmarred yellow below her skin, which meant she was human and despite the exorbitant amount of offensive magic she carried, she didn’t dabble in the dark. And speaking of magic, she was armed to the teeth with it. Spells were worked into her clothes, gathered in pouches around her belt, and contained in small vials lining a tactical bandolier slung across her chest. But all the spells I spotted in my quick scan, while lethal, were bright in color, so legal—assuming she was licensed.

I slammed my shields closed. Even though my peek across the planes lasted no more than five seconds, the
room dimmed once I pushed the planes away. I blinked, just once, to let my sight readjust.

I opened my eyes to a crossbow leveled at my face.

I froze, my breath dying in my chest. I wasn’t familiar with the liquid spell I sensed encapsulated in the crossbow bolt, but it definitely felt like it would turn incendiary on impact. Of course, at this range, I’d be dead before the spell had time to activate.

Even the ever-eager dagger didn’t like our chances. I dropped it in my lap and lifted my hands, palms open in surrender.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice ragged with fear I didn’t bother hiding.

She didn’t lower the crossbow. “Your eyes flashed.”

I gave her a cringing smile. “The light?”

It wasn’t a lie, it was a question.

Her stare cut at me, as if she could peel back the truth by studying me. I’d been holding my breath too long, and my lungs burned, competing with my heart on which would burst first. Then, as suddenly as she’d aimed the crossbow, she lowered it. With a quick bend of her arm she returned the weapon—still loaded—to wherever she concealed it behind her back.

My breath rushed out in a whoosh that tasted of stale fear.
What the hell have I gotten into?
I sank lower in my chair as the woman pulled a wallet out of the inner pocket of her jacket.

“Briar Darque,” she said, flashing her MCIB badge as well as her certification and a license I’d never seen before.

Magical Crimes Investigation Bureau?
I’d met one or two inspectors in the past and I’d always gotten the impression they were the magical equivalent of IRS auditors, not GI Jane.

“I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” I said, my voice thready. The hand locked around the hilt of my dagger shook. Working to regain my composure, I cleared my throat and sat up straighter. “I’m the one who called the
OMIH. To investigate the gray magic wafting from the shop up the alley?”

“I don’t give a damn about a couple of love spells,” she said, stepping forward. “The MCIB sends me when magic goes seriously wrong. You’re alive, so I’m guessing you fucked up and didn’t report it. I’m here to fix the problem.”

A problem she clearly considered to be me.

I
t said something about my life when a heavily armed official accused me of causing magical havoc and I had to wonder which incident she meant. That being the case, I didn’t bother to guess. If being the daughter of the most devious manipulator I’d ever met had taught me anything, it was when to keep my mouth shut. I wasn’t about to volunteer information she might not already have.

I’m not sure what response Briar Darque expected, probably that I’d deny involvement before I even knew what I was being accused of, or perhaps she thought I’d throw myself at her feet and beg the OMIH and MCIB’s mercy. Whatever she anticipated, silence clearly didn’t fit. Or impress.

Scowling, she stalked to the edge of my desk, and putting her palms flat on the surface, loomed as she leaned into my personal space. “You have nothing to say?”

She was so close I either had to lean back or crane my neck to look at her. If I leaned back she’d see the dagger in my lap, so I didn’t have much choice but to meet her challenging stare head-on. So that’s what I did—besides, I hated when people loomed. I’d guess Darque was on the tall side of average and her biker boots gave her another inch or two, but if I stood up, I’d be taller. Not by much, and I had
no doubt she could kick my ass from this side of the Quarter to the other, but I still hated the cheap intimidation tactic.

“Are you charging me with something, Inspector?” My tone was flat, neutral. I think even my father would have been proud.

Darque’s lip curled as she straightened and reached into her jacket. She pulled free a folded manila packet and flipped through the contents before dropping a sheet of paper in front of me.

I glanced at it. A good half dozen newspaper clippings had been taped to the page, dates scrawled in a quick hand beside each. The oldest was from a little over three weeks ago and was a very short report about graves being disturbed in the graveyard south of Nekros. The writer dismissed the event as a juvenile prank. The clippings proceeded chronologically and mentioned disturbed graves in other cemeteries across Nekros. The most recent was from last week. Several bodies had gone missing from the Fairmount, a small cemetery I’d visited only once or twice as the suburban area around it—and thus most of the graveyard’s tenants—were of the Humans First persuasion. A reward was being offered for information that led to the return of the bodies and the capture of those responsible.

I looked up at Darque. “Grave robbing? You think I have something to do with this?”

She cocked an eyebrow and dropped another piece of paper in front of me. It was another newspaper article, but not a back-page piece, this one was the lead article from yesterday. I was vaguely familiar with the story—I’d seen it earlier when I was looking for information on Richard Kirkwood. Now I read it more carefully.

A pair of teenagers had driven off the road just south of the city. The car had been found wrapped around a tree, but most of the couple’s injuries appeared to be from an animal attack, not the accident. The girl had been DOA, but the article listed the boy as being in intensive care.