No Humans Involved (5 page)

Zombie Slaves

IT WAS DURING TAKEOFF that I began to repent my haste. Was flying to Portland really necessary? When I'd called Jeremy and told him, I'd heard the hesitation in his voice, though he'd taken the change in stride and switched his plane ticket to Portland, where he'd meet me for dinner and help me slog through Paige's files.

Exactly how much faster would this route be, when I wouldn't get back on the set before tomorrow? How annoyed would Grady and Angelique be when they realized I'd swanned off—even if it was on a family emergency?

Yet as foolish as I felt, I knew why I'd done it. To prove to myself that I could handle this.

I'd gotten my job as necromancer delegate because, frankly, no one else wanted it. I had zero experience at resolving supernatural problems and, as I quickly realized, no one cared. They expected me to do what the last guy did—answer necromancy questions when called, but otherwise sit back and let the others work.

I wanted to be a full-fledged delegate, doing everything the others did, including the investigative work. So far, they'd included me, but with lots of supervision and safety nets, until I felt like the overeager rookie everyone fears will just mess things up.

Last year, I'd done something just like this—flown to help Jeremy and Elena when a phone call would have sufficed. And even then I'd had to fight for every step I took off the sidelines.

But this was
my
case. And I couldn't bear to call up Paige or Robert and push the research—and maybe the entire investigation— onto their laps. It probably would have made more sense to swallow my pride and call, but now it was too late, and part of me was glad of that.

I STOOD on the sidewalk and tried not to shiver. I'd been so wrapped up in getting here that I was still dressed for Southern California. So I'd go to Paige and Lucas looking like a ditz who couldn't even remember to wear a warm coat to Portland in November. It would be nice to make a different impression now and then, just for variety's sake.

I looked up at the building. Double checked the office address Paige had given me when I'd called from the airport. I wondered whether I'd misheard. The taxi idled behind me, the driver apparently as uncertain as I was.

The building seemed to have been a warehouse or other industrial sort, deep in a neighborhood of industrial sorts. It had no nameplate or other sign, but when your clientele is supernaturals, you don't advertise with flashing billboards.

I waved the driver on. Then I decided to check the street name before knocking on the door. As I approached the corner, a young woman in jeans and a shearling coat hurried across the empty road.

"Excuse me!" I called.

She didn't slow. In this neighborhood, that was probably wise. I trotted another few steps.

"Excuse me! Is this North Breton Road?"

She turned and lifted her sunglasses, features drawn in confusion. I'd seen that "you talkin' to me?" look often enough and my gut sank as my gaze dipped to take a closer look at her outfit—bell-bottom jeans, tie-dyed shirt, fringed purse…

"Uh, sorry," I said. "I thought you were… Sorry."

I turned and marched back toward the building, my heels clacking along the empty road.

"In a hurry, necromancer?" she called from behind me.

I cursed under my breath, plastered on a vacant grin and turned to see the young woman bearing down on me.

"No, of course not," I said. "I was looking for directions and—"

"You didn't think I could provide them? Being dead and all?"

"I didn't want to presume. So is this North Breton Road?"

She kept walking until she was well into my personal space, something ghosts can do much better than people. Her hands passed through my shoulders as she gestured.

"You aren't worried about asking something I can't answer. You're running as fast as you can before I ask
you
something."

"I wasn't—"

"Cut the crap. I've met your kind before. Two years after I die, I'm lucky enough to bump into a necromancer at a KISS concert, and I beg the guy to pass along a message to my kid sister. Just a phone call, no big deal. He gives me this lecture on the
proper
way to approach a necromancer."

"Some necros can get a little touchy, especially at social events—"

"Ten years later, I see another, I try again, and she walks away. Doesn't even have the courtesy to answer me."

"Well, I can't promise anything, but if you'd like me to get in touch with your sister—"

"She's fifty years old! Do you think she wants to hear from me now?"

"I'm sorry you had a bad experience—"

"Fuck you." She wheeled and stalked away.

As I walked back toward the building, I concentrated on the questions I'd ask Paige and Lucas, and tried to forget the young woman. Another day, another ghost. One of hundreds. Hundreds of hopeful, disappointed—

I cut off the thought and picked my way past a ripped-open garbage bag to the front doors. They were full-length dark glass— one-way glass I presumed, so they could see out and I couldn't peek in.

I pulled on the handle. Locked. To my left was a small speaker marked "Deliveries and Visitors." I buzzed.

"Hey, Jaime!" It was Savannah, Eve and Kristof's seventeen-year-old daughter. Not a ghost, thankfully, but very much alive and the ward of Paige and Lucas.

Savannah's voice was so clear, I looked around to see where she was. When she laughed, I spotted a tiny camera lens.

"High-tech, huh?" she said. "We get all the bells and whistles. Very cool… and complicated as hell. I need a damned instruction book for this— Oh, there it is." The door buzzed. "Come on in. We're on the second floor. You'll need to take the stairs. The elevator's card-activated."

In the background, Paige yelled for Savannah—something about boxes—and a male voice cursed. Obviously not Lucas—if he used profanity, I'd never heard it.

As I entered, it was like stepping into an upscale corporate office under construction, the gleaming floors dusty with footprints, the richly painted walls awaiting artwork, cardboard boxes stacked by the gleaming elevator doors. I should have remembered that this was originally supposed to be a Cortez Cabal satellite office. I'd been in one once, and it had been just like this—a grungy exterior hiding plush offices.

As for how Benicio Cortez's anti-Cabal youngest son ended up with an office that was built for a Cabal, I wasn't clear. I only knew that Lucas's father had been building it in Portland and somehow Lucas and Paige ended up buying the unfinished offices instead. That had been over a year ago, and they were just moving in now. A big leap for a young couple, but I guess it was better than having Daddy and his mob move into town.

The stairwell was as silent as the foyer, but the moment I opened the second-floor door, it was like someone had hit "play," the air filling with noise: the whine of a drill, a woman's laugh, the bang of a dropped box, a man's shout. Top-notch soundproofing between floors—another bonus from the Cabal construction crews.

The drilling came from one direction, the voices from the other.

"Don't touch the books. I have a system."

"What system?" Savannah answered. "Dump them all in a pile?"

It took me a moment to recognize the first speaker. Adam Vasic, one of my fellow council members, who was joining his friends in their new venture.

"Just leave the books." Paige's voice, a deep contralto. "Adam, keep bringing up those boxes. Savannah, make sure all the books get into Adam's office, but don't unpack them. They'll need to be arranged in a recognizable system, so we can all find what we need when our librarian isn't here."

"Librarian?" Adam said. "The title is head of research."

"And security guard," Savannah added.

"
Head
of security."

"Right. In charge of all those other librarians and security guards we've hired."

"It's a growth position. Just like yours. Someday, I'm sure you'll be in charge of the entire secretarial pool."

"These boxes aren't moving on their own," Paige cut in as I approached the open door. "I need them all upstairs and sorted into the proper rooms. Then I need Adam assembling the bookcase while Savannah helps Lucas with that alarm system. And when that's done there's—"

"A shitload more," Savannah said. "You know what you really need? Zombie slaves."

"I've got you two. Close enough."

"You don't want zombies," I said as I walked in. "You'll spend a fortune on air fresheners."

Adam was digging through a box of reference texts. He didn't look much like a librarian… unless it catered to surfers. A stereotypical California boy, well built and tanned with sun-bleached hair and a quick smile. He didn't look much like a kid with a demon for a dad either, but that was typical for half-demons. They appeared and acted human, inheriting from their father only a set of abilities, usually elemental or sensory. Adam's power was fire. When he lost his temper, his touch could give third-degree burns. Fortunately, it was hard to piss him off.

Paige was busy on the computer, fingers flying and eyes on the monitor even as she spoke. A voluptuous twenty-seven-year-old with long dark curls, she was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Practical moving-day attire. It was rare to see Paige out of a skirt. A girly girl, as Savannah always teased.

Savannah didn't follow her guardian's tastes in clothes—or much else. One look at the seventeen-year-old—almost six feet tall and slender with long dark hair and perfect bone structure—and anyone who'd known Eve could tell who Savannah's mother was. Only her eyes, big and bright blue, came from Kristof.

Even in ripped jeans, old sneakers and a tight concert T-shirt, Savannah exuded elegance and grace… until she opened her mouth. Paige no longer commented on her ward's language. I guess parents need to pick their battles, and with Savannah, there were far more important ones. As the daughter of a sorcerer and a half-demon witch, she was a powder keg of supernatural power. At thirteen, panicked and trying to contact her dead mother, she'd leveled a house—an incident that I suspected was responsible for her father's death, though even Kristof pretended he'd died in an unrelated accident.

Savannah greeted me with an exuberant hug. Paige started to rise, but I waved her down and leaned in for a hug.

"I guess that lock on the front door still isn't working," Paige said. "I'll have to get Lucas to take another look at it. Poor guy. Really
not
his area of expertise."

"It's working," Savannah said. "I buzzed Jaime in."

"And didn't go down to escort her up?"

"How? You've got us working our asses off while you play on the computers."

"I'm getting the network up. If we don't have everything in place by tomorrow—"

"The earth will stop revolving around its axis. And we might lose our first paying client."

"Which is even more important." Paige looked up at me. "Sorry. Things are a little nuts. We've been slowly moving in, but now we've got a lead on a very big client… who expects to see a fully functioning professional office—tomorrow."

"Well, don't worry. I won't take up much of your time. I just want to run a scenario by you."

"Sure. We'll grab coffee and talk." A glance at the others. "Can I leave you two alone?"

"Please." Savannah turned to me. "Take her for as long as you want."

Paige pulled a face and ushered me out of the office. The drilling down the hall had stopped, replaced by Lucas's voice, quiet but in-sistent. We found him on his cell phone, examining a drill hole in the wall.

He peered at his drill work, his already serious face dropping into a frown. Paige caught his attention, and his eyes lit up.

"No, I don't believe you understand," he said into the phone. "We allowed for leeway on the understanding that if our needs changed and we needed the work completed promptly, it would be. If you cannot provide that…" He paused. "Good. Then I shall expect a crew at…?"

He lifted two fingers to Paige, who nodded. He signed off, then hung up.

"We were coming to see whether you have time for a coffee break," she said. "But I'm guessing the answer is no."

"I'll take one anyway. I could use the air. Jaime, was your flight—"

His cell phone rang. A soft sigh and he checked the number. "Jack McNeil."

"The client," Paige explained to me. "Take it. We'll bring you back a coffee. Jaime can explain her situation then."

WE WALKED to a bakery a block up. Paige swore the neighborhood wasn't as bad as it looked. I put my trust in her hands… and her defensive spells. We were still catching up when we returned to the building, coffees in hand.

"Savannah's working for us this year while she decides what she wants to do about college."

"Is she still leaning toward graphic design?" I asked.

"She is, but she wants our advice and we're really torn. Part of me wants to tell her she's doing the right thing, preparing for a reliable career while she pursues her art in her spare time. The other part wants to say 'forget practicality' and tell her to enroll in a fine-art program."

"Getting a job to fall back on isn't the worst idea. Jeremy worked as a translator for years before his paintings started to sell."

She led me onto the elevator. "I think that's who she's taking her cue from. But I worry that Lucas and I are both too inclined to push practicality and maybe
that's
what driving her decision. Anyway, she has a year to think about it."

We met Adam and Savannah in the hall.

Savannah lifted her hands. "Before you crack the whip, we're heading out for more boxes."

"Take this one instead. Brownies, plus a Coke for Adam, and a mocha cappuccino for you."

"Thanks," Adam said.

"Don't thank her," Savannah said. "It's zombie slave fuel. Sugar and caffeine to keep us going."

"You got it. And sandwiches for later, so you don't need to take off for dinner. Jaime? The meeting room is the first door on the right. Go on in while I find Lucas."

Be Prepared

"I ASSUMED IT WAS A NECROMANCY PROBLEM, but now I'm thinking dark magic," I said after I told them what was happening.

Lucas frowned. "Dark magic? As in ritual sacrifice?"

"Eve would be your best bet for anything dark," Paige said. "But I'm guessing if you're asking us, she's out of contact again. My experience with stuff like this is practically zero. I've witnessed ritual sacrifice." Her face went pale at the memory. "Not intentionally. Some kind of high-level protection ritual."

"That's the primary use," Lucas said. "A life given for a life protected. Ritual sacrifice is very rare. If I encounter it, it's peripheral to a case I'm investigating. When a Cabal passes a sentence of execution they may perform ritual sacrifice as the method of execution. Purely a matter of economics."

Paige nodded. "If they're already killing someone, might as well use it."

"But in all cases, the soul passes over," Lucas said. "It's even written into the Cabal legal code that if an executed victim is used for ritual sacrifice, an independent necromancer must be on hand to confirm that the soul has safely passed over."

"That's the Cabal version of the Geneva convention. They can only torture you until you're dead."

"Huh." I sipped my coffee, thinking. "What about Druidic sacrifice?"

"Rare these days," Paige said. "Even rarer than dark magic sacrifice. Remember Esus? He didn't even try to ask for a human sacrifice. We gave him his pint of blood and he was happy. But even if a Druid was performing human sacrifice, it doesn't explain damaged souls. It's the act that matters. A show of respect for the Druidic deity."

I drank more coffee. Hoped the caffeine would help my brain work faster.

"What
you
have are damaged souls," Lucas said. "Somehow they've been fragmented or drained, and there's no magic we know of that works that way. That doesn't mean such a thing cannot exist— simply that it defies the basic principles of sacrifice. We'll look into it further after we get through tomorrow."

"That's fine. In the meantime maybe you can steer in the right direction and I can run with it. Paige has the council records, right? I can search those, see whether I find anything similar."

"You could, but they're, uh, on a disk, which is… somewhere in this mess. I decided they'd be more secure here than at home. I'll find it for you after tomorrow, though."

"Oh. Well… is there someone I can speak to, then? A contact in dark magic?"

Lucas shook his head. "One needs to be careful with this sort of thing. Expressing excessive interest in dark magic can be extremely dangerous. You should leave this to us."

Even when I showed up on their doorstep, I couldn't get anywhere. Just give us the details, Jaime, and let us do the work. I argued for a while, but it was clear they weren't giving me anything that could get me into any trouble.

SAVANNAH CALLED me a cab, then stepped outside to wait with me. "So, you need to talk to someone about dark magic."

"Eavesdropping?"

"Beats working. I might be able to help."

"Oh? What would you—" I stopped. "Your mom, of course."

"Nah, Mom didn't teach me that sort of stuff. Nothing darker than a chaos spell—and even then, only to protect myself. She kept that part of her life separate."

"I should have guessed that."

"Doesn't mean she was ashamed of it. It's just not the kind of stuff she'd talk about around her kid. But I know someone who
will
talk about it." She took out a BlackBerry. "A dark witch my mom knew. She tracked me down last year, saying she wanted to talk, share some stories about Mom."

"That was nice of her."

Savannah gave me a look. "You think I bought that shit? She just wanted to make contact with Eve Levine's daughter before her competition did. That's one thing my mom
did
teach me. Someone like that always wants something."

"So you didn't meet with her."

She smiled. "Never said that. The corollary lesson from Mom? People like this might want something from me, but I can use that— turn it around and get something from them." She glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. "We've been in e-mail contact, and met a couple of times. She's useful. Paige and Lucas can't get information from someone like this. But me? I just pull some 'confused teenager' bullshit and she's putty in my hands. She'd tell me anything in hopes of winning Eve Levine's daughter as an ally. An idiot, but a useful idiot."

The look in her eyes chilled me.

"So, yeah, I've used her," Savannah continued. "Just to get stuff for Paige and Lucas. Without them knowing, of course. If they found out I was even talking to someone like this, they'd shit bricks… then use them to wall me up in my room for life."

"In that case, I'd better not wave your name around to get access to this woman."

Savannah hesitated. "You're right. But you can use Mom's. Tell Molly you'll grant her an exclusive audience with Eve Levine and she'll give you anything you want."

I shook my head. "Not without asking your mom first, and she's out of contact right now."

"Huh." Savannah fingered her BlackBerry, toying with it as she thought. Then she smiled. "Molly's boyfriend died last winter. Half-demon. They'd lived together for years and when I saw her this sum-mer, she was still really broken up. Let's say you offer to put her in touch with him…"

I hesitated.

"You can offer to
try
. She'll still have some of his belongings and can even take you to his grave, so that gives you, what, about a ninety percent chance of success?"

"Eighty… maybe."

"Good enough. Don't promise, but say if you can't, you'll arrange a backup session with some other dearly departed." She flipped her BlackBerry around, tapping on an address. "She's just across the border in Vancouver."

VANCOUVER, WASHINGTON, was a cab ride from Portland. I checked my watch. Jeremy would be here in about two hours. As much as I wanted to meet him at the airport, I wanted to impress him even more, which I could do if I'd found and scoped out Molly Crane's house before he arrived to help interview her.

I called Elena and asked whether Jeremy had her cell phone with him—the only one in the family.

"I tried giving it to him, but he wouldn't take it. You know how he is. God forbid I should drive home without an emergency line. I told him to buy a prepaid phone. He had no idea what I was talking about, but of course he wouldn't admit it. You'll have to help him. Might have to show him how to use it too."

I laughed, remembering the first time I'd met Jeremy. When Paige introduced us, I'd been hoping, really hoping, for that "Oh, my God,
the
Jaime Vegas?" reaction… and had gotten only a polite hello, prompting Savannah to inform him that I was on TV sometimes—which hadn't changed his expression one whit. Elena had teased Jeremy about his lack of technological savvy, kidding that he didn't know what a TV was. And, perhaps for the first time in my life, I'd realized I was glad. I could make my own impression.

When I told Elena that I'd hoped to get a message to him about meeting elsewhere, she said, "If you don't mind me relaying that message, I can give it to him. He'll find a pay phone as soon as he arrives, to check on the kids."

Of course he would. Perfect. I found a coffee shop near Molly's address as a meeting place, then called Elena back.

NOW, TO prepare for the interview. As hard as the other council members worked to keep the celebrity necro away from anything that might break her manicured nails—or leave her death on their conscience—I'd been taking notes, and I understood enough about interviewing a hostile witness to know one does not blindly walk up to a potential dark-magic contact and say, "Hi, my name's Jaime and I'd like to ask you a few questions about ritual sacrifice." Before it even reached the point of introductions, I should determine the best method of approach, map out escape routes. Be prepared.

Molly Crane lived at 52 Hawthorne Lane. Coming into the area by cab, I'd had a feeling this was going to be the second time today I was surprised by where I ended up.

I was savvy enough know that even if Molly was a dark witch, I was unlikely to find myself in a dingy alley outside an unmarked black-market spell shop. Such a shop might exist, but only in the back rooms of an otherwise normal business. Yet, except for the plaza where I'd found the coffee house, the neighborhood was residential, with row after row of matching houses, all with minivans and basketball hoops, the lawns pristine, kids' toys on the drives. I had the driver drop me off at the coffee shop, then I walked down three streets: Hemlock, Cedar and Hawthorne. Suburbia: a place where they cut down trees and name streets in their memory.

The house at 52 Hawthorne was a tidy bungalow on a street of tidy bungalows. The small house wasn't anything fancy, but in the drive stood a gleaming Mercedes SUV, as if Molly couldn't resist indulging herself a little. The basketball hoop over the garage suggested kids, but there were no toys to be seen. Maybe they were too old for pedal cars. Maybe they preferred spell practice to hoop practice. Or maybe she had no kids, and the net just came with the house—a standard feature like a paved driveway.

I started with a very slow walk past. Noted that the backyard was enclosed by a privacy fence. Noted a calico cat, but no sign of a guard dog… though anything could be behind that fence. Noted a light shining from a window overlooking the drive, a window with kitchenlike curtains.

It seemed safe enough—I was just a nicely dressed forty-something walking down a suburban street. And yet, when the door to Molly's house opened and a woman's figure darkened the doorway, I realized I had a problem.

If I came back later with Jeremy, she'd recognize me and know I'd been checking out her house, which would start the interview off badly. Yet I wasn't ready to question her. So I made a split-second plan. I'd look her way and if she wasn't watching me I'd take a chance and keep walking.

I looked. Our eyes met.

I As I headed up her sidewalk, I got my first good look at the woman, She was probably in her late thirties. Short blond hair worn in an easy-maintenance but stylish tousle. An elfin face with bright green eyes. Small and compact, she was dressed in a designer sweat suit, maybe heading to the gym, maybe just wanting to look as if she was.

"Molly Crane?"

A bright smile, the welcome mitigated by a wary look in her eyes. I searched those eyes for some sign of recognition. With an average American, my chances of being recognized are on a par with any C-list movie celebrity. To those who follow spiritualists or certain talk shows, my face is unmistakable.

In the supernatural community, though, my face-recognition goes up… usually accompanied by either disapproval or contempt. Spellcasters like Molly Crane can use their talents to make a living, but God forbid I should do the same.

I saw that "I know her from somewhere" spark in Molly's eyes, and cursed. I would have been safer using a false name, but she'd realize who I was the moment I mentioned ghosts.

I climbed the steps and extended my hand. "Jaime Vegas."

Her eyes lit up in recognition. "My daughter and her friends tape you on
Keni Bales
every month. Please come in."