“Here’s our Vicky, then,” he said, grinning, like he’d been expecting me any minute. “We was wondering when we’d see you.” He noticed Jenkins behind me, took down a glass, and pulled a pint, filling the tilted glass with amber-colored beer. As he poured, he spoke to me in Welsh: “Noswaith dda, geneth. Sut wyt ti?”
Good evening, lass. How are you?
“Hi, Mr. Cadogan,” I replied in English because he always teased me about my terrible Welsh pronunciation—in a good-natured way, but still. “I’m fine. I’d have come in sooner, but I’ve fallen asleep right after dinner most evenings. Still getting over my jet lag, I guess.”
“Oh, jet lag.” He handed the pint to Jenkins, who took a long drink and smacked his lips. “Terrible affliction. When the missus and me flew to the Costa del Sol, it took us nearly the whole blasted week to recover.”
Spain’s Costa del Sol was one time zone away, unlike the five I’d had to cross to get here from Boston, but I wasn’t going to challenge him to a jet-lag duel. “How’s Mrs. Cadogan?”
“She’s down in Cardiff, visiting Owen. Be back Monday.” He rubbed his hands. “Now, Vicky, what’re you havin’ to drink?”
“How about a glass of seltzer?”
“Pshaw. That’s no kind of homecoming drink. I’m givin’ it to you on the house, now, miss. Don’t insult me.” He reached for a glass large enough for me to bathe in and started filling it with lager.
“No, really, Mr. Cadogan. I could never drink all that.”
“I’ll take it,” said the farmer who stood at the bar.
“You’ll take it and you’ll pay for it.” The publican straightened the glass to put a head on the beer, then set it in front of the farmer.
“How ’bout a nice perry, then?” Mr. Cadogan asked me. Perry, a hard cider made from pears, was a local specialty. He found a half-pint glass and filled it with a liquid the color of ginger ale. “Half a perry for the lady.”
I took a small sip. It was fizzy, with a light sweetness followed by enough of a kick that you wouldn’t forget it had alcohol. Mr. Cadogan watched me anxiously as I tasted it. “Good,” I said. He mopped his brow with exaggerated relief and grinned again, then refilled his own glass with the same beer he’d pulled for Jenkins.
I looked around. Besides a young couple at a table by the fireplace and those of us at the bar, the pub was empty. “How’s business?” I asked. “I read about the Cross and Crow in a magazine article.”
“Oh, you saw ‘Britain’s Most Haunted Pubs,’ did you? Nice photos, I thought. Hasn’t brought in many customers, though. It’s the bleedin’ economy.”
“It’ll pick up in the spring, maybe,” Jenkins said. “Who comes to north Wales in the middle of winter?”
The three men stared gloomily into their beers.
“How is Spooky Lil, anyway?” I asked.
Mr. Cadogan frowned. “Don’t talk to me about our Lil. Had it up to here with her.” He held his hand a good half a foot above his head to show how fed up he was. “Weren’t enough for her to scare the tourists upstairs. No, she had to start carryin’ on in the pub, too. It’s all very well when she bangs around a bedstead and moans a bit, but she soured two kegs of beer!” He said it with so much righteous anger you’d think Lil had been gobbling up the village children. “An’ she throwed the missus’s pots and pans around the kitchen. Broke a rack of new pint glasses.”
Mr. Cadogan had been busy making up new stories to entertain those anticipated throngs of tourists.
“It all got to be too much,” he said, leaning forward. “So I had the cellar dug up and found her bones. Gave her a proper churchyard burial—cost me a fortune, it did. And how d’you think she thanked me for it?”
His eyes bugged as he waited for my reply.
“How?”
“She up and brought her old bones right back here! The very day after I buried her proper, I flipped on a light switch upstairs and blew a bloody fuse. So I went down to the cellar to change it, an’ I tripped over her bones in the dark, right where we’d dug ’em up. Nearly broke me poor old neck.”
He glanced at Jenkins and, without changing his indignant expression, snapped a quick wink. Jenkins smiled into his pint.
“So what does our Vicky think of all that, then, eh?”
“I think the tourists will be spellbound by your stories, Mr. Cadogan.”
He guffawed and slapped the bar. “She don’t believe me! Every word is true. I swear it on me dear old mum’s grave.”
“Your dear old mum doesn’t have a grave,” the farmer objected. “She’s living in a retirement home in Llangollen.”
“She does, too. She’s paying for a burial plot on the installment plan.”
“It’s bad luck for both of you if you swear on it,” the farmer insisted.
“Now, Tom, you know I’m just—”
Now would be a good time to make my calls. Pulling my phone card from my back pocket, I left them arguing and went over to the payphone, which hung on the wall by the rear door. As I lifted the handset from its cradle, Mr. Cadogan called out to me.
“That reminds me, Vicky. Anna—you haven’t met our Anna yet, she’s the new cleaner. She took a coupla messages for you. I found ’em mixed in with a stack of bills. Just came across ’em this afternoon, else I’d have sent ’em out your aunt’s way with the postman. Now,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his apron and scratching his bald head, “where’d I put those?”
He dug around behind the bar. Then, with a triumphant yelp, he held up two crumpled, beer-stained pieces of paper and waved them at me.
“Thanks,” I said, taking them. I looked around for a table where I could sit and read the messages. The pub wasn’t busy, but the layout of the old building made it impossible to find a seat where I could keep an eye on all the room’s entrances. I chose a bench along the rear wall under one of the windows. Cold air poured in through the skewed frame, but from here I had a good view of the room—unless something decided to crash through the window behind me. I sipped my perry and decided not to think about that.
I spread the crumpled message slips flat on the table. There was no date on either. The first one read
For Vicky. Call Cain ASAP
. An eight-digit number followed. Eight. Too long for a regular phone number but too short for the number plus an area code. And it didn’t bear any resemblance to either number I had for Kane—his cell phone or the D.C. law firm.
I put the message aside to read the other, which was from Daniel. Anna wrote,
Vicky. Everything’s OK. Daniel
. I took that to mean no more zombies had died. I hoped it also meant that all was well at Daniel’s job, that Hampson hadn’t found out he’d leaked information to Lynne Hong.
I wondered what else Kane and Daniel might have said. “Our Anna” wasn’t exactly proficient at taking messages.
I checked my watch. Ten past ten, ten past five Eastern time. Daniel was probably on his way home from work; I’d try Kane first. I looked at the slip again, wondering when Kane had called. I wished Anna had bothered to write down the date.
ASAP.
I hoped there wasn’t a problem. Knowing Kane, if it was anything truly urgent, he’d have called back a couple more times—or six or seven. Unless Anna had filed those messages under a pile of dirty bar towels.
As soon as I stood to make the call, I felt it. Something was wrong.
The room was quiet, but it wasn’t a normal silence. It was heavy, stifling, like someone had stuffed the room with cotton balls. Colors bled away. And I was alone. The publican, Jenkins, the farmer at the bar, the couple by the fireplace—they’d all vanished.
“Mr. Cadogan? Jenkins?” I could barely hear my own voice. It was like trying to call out underwater.
I slid Mab’s bronze-bladed knife from its sheath.
A spark shot from the fireplace and landed on the wood floor. Smoke snaked upward.
Gripping the knife, I went over to stamp out the still-glowing spark. Whatever was going on, there was no point in burning down the pub.
I crossed the room slowly, alert for any movement. There was too much smoke pouring out of that one little ember. It massed into a vertical cloud about five feet tall. Then the ember quit glowing, and the cloud began to form itself into a shape.
I stopped—watching, ready—my fingers tense on the knife’s grip.
The shape was human. It wore a dress with skirts that swept the floor. A woman. She was semi-transparent and looked way too much like an eighteenth-century barmaid. Dark, bruiselike spots marked her throat.
I stared at Spooky Lil herself, in the flesh. Or whatever it is ghosts are made of.
24
SPOOKY LIL’S EYES LOCKED ONTO ME. SHE LOOKED SAD, abandoned, lonely. It can’t be easy to wait hundreds of years in a cold grave for a lover who’s not coming. I tried to remember something—anything—about ghosts and how to deal with them. But I never believed in them, so I hadn’t paid much attention.
Ghosts don’t know they’re dead. That was true, wasn’t it? It was their whole problem, the reason they hang around long after their bodies have decayed. I thought of Mr. Cadogan’s story about bones in the cellar. If I showed Lil her bones, maybe she’d understand she was dead and pass peacefully into the next realm.
It was the only plan I had, so I decided to go for it. I set the knife down on a table and raised my hand in a calming gesture. “Lil, I mean you no harm. I want to help you move on to where you’re meant to be.” Mr. Cadogan would kill me for exorcising his moneymaking ghost.
She tilted her head and regarded me with milky eyes. She moved a step toward me—except it wasn’t a step, the way she floated over the floor—then stopped and drew back. She looked scared. I smiled, hoping to encourage her.
Lil glided a few inches closer. She raised her hand in a gesture that mirrored mine. The corners of her mouth lifted in a timid smile.
Good, we’re making progress.
The smile widened. Lil’s lips peeled back to reveal two rows of razor-sharp teeth.
A shock of energy blasted the room and knocked me on my ass. Claws sprouted from the fingers of Lil’s outstretched hand. She shrieked—the sound was muffled by the room’s strange atmosphere, but it was clear this ghost meant business. She rose into the air and dived at me.
I rolled under a table, feeling a rush of air as Lil swept past. Too close. I grabbed the table legs and pulled, yanking the table over sideways and putting a barrier between me and the ghost.
Could ghosts pass through solid things, like walls and tables? How the hell should I know? Ten minutes ago, I’d have sworn they didn’t exist.
But Lil didn’t charge at me. She flew up to the ceiling, hovering between two beams. Energy glowed around her clawed hands. She cupped her hands and made circular motions, shaping the energy into a ball. When it was the size of a softball, she hurled it at me.
I ducked under another table just in time. The fireball exploded against the tabletop, sending flames and a scalding wind blasting past me. Hot air singed my throat and lungs, and I scrunched up as small as I could to avoid the flames.
This wasn’t souring beer and tossing pots and pans around. Lil was serious.
Above me, the ghost made another fireball. She swooped toward the floor and rolled it under the table. I lifted my legs, and the fireball passed under them. It hit the back wall and erupted into heat and flames. Pain hit my back, and I smelled burning flesh. My sweater was on fire. I shot out from under the table, rolling to extinguish the flames. It felt like passing over red-hot coals as the burning fabric pressed into my back. Burns hurt like hell, and hurting makes me angry.
Another fireball streaked toward me. I changed direction and grabbed a chair by its legs, flinging it between me and the fireball. The chair shielded me, taking the brunt of the flames, so this time I didn’t catch fire.
But I was still angry.
I scrambled to my feet, then grabbed another chair and held it like a lion tamer would. When the next fireball streaked toward me, I threw the chair to meet it. Sparks shot out in every direction as the chair burst into flame.
The pub was an inferno, fires burning everywhere like a sneak preview of Hell. If I didn’t get proactive, I’d go up in flames with it.
I don’t know what ghosts are made of, but flames are flames. I dodged another fireball and ran toward the bar. In one leap, I vaulted the counter and got behind it as fire exploded across its surface. I counted to three—the time it took Lil to create a new fireball—then popped up holding the spray nozzle. A stream of seltzer intercepted the fireball that blazed toward me, hitting it dead-on. The fireball sputtered and sizzled into a clump of ashes and fell to the floor.
Lil hovered over the bar, molding energy into another ball. I squirted seltzer at it. The fireball fizzled in her hands. Some of the water sprayed Lil, sending puffs of steam from her body. The ghost screamed and batted at the wet spots. Her ectoplasm—or whatever it was—ran like blood where the seltzer hit her, and I remembered hearing somewhere that ghosts can’t cross water. Now I knew why.
The water trapped Lil against the ceiling. I gave her a good soaking, moving the stream from her head downward, across her shoulders, along her arms and torso, and down both legs all the way to her toes. Stinking steam filled the room as Lil dissolved in midair, falling like rain into a puddle on the floor. I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. The pub reeked with a gag-inducing bouquet of rotting flesh, wet ashes, and sulfur.