J.L. Doty - Dead Among Us 01 - When Dead Ain’t Dead Enough (30 page)

Why’re you sad, daddy?

Paul opened his eyes and looked at Cloe. His swollen lips didn’t work so well and his words came out in a mushy drawl. “Don’t worry, munchkin. I’ll be ok.”

Katherine lowered herself painfully to one knee in front of him. “The demon’s gone,” she said. “You killed it. Well, since it was already dead, I guess you annihilated it.”

Amazing
, he thought, said, “And I don’t even know how I did it.”

Katherine looked at Cloe carefully, frowned, then looked at Suzanna. Her gaze returned to Paul and she said, “And now you need to let
them
go.”

She could see them! And if she saw them that meant they were real. And if they were real then they weren’t dead. He reached out and she put her hand in his. “You see them too?” he pleaded.

She grimaced with pain, and he knew that, like him, it wasn’t physical pain that bothered her most at this moment. She shook her head. “No, I don’t see them. But I sense them.”

All his hopes crashed and compressed into a tiny black hole hidden somewhere deep in his heart. “Then they’re not real, are they?” he asked, trying not to cry like a baby.

McGowan stepped forward, said, “It’s not that they’re—”

The hippie woman kicked him and said, “Shut up, old man. She’s handling it just fine without you.”

The Russians looked on warily.

Katherine said, “Paul, look at me.”

She cupped his hand in both of hers as he looked into her eyes. It was the first time he’d really looked at her. Her hair was a frightening mess, her eyes bloodshot, blood trickling from a cut on her cheek, and he could only thank whatever gods existed she’d been there to help him through this night. “Who were they?” she asked.

“Suzanna and Cloe, my wife and daughter. They were killed, but then they came back.”

She swallowed hard and said, “They’re real, Paul. But they’re not what you think.”

He’d known she was going to say something like that. “Demons, huh?” he asked.

She shook her head sadly. “No, not demons. They’re shades of your wife and daughter, summoned by you, a little piece of them you’ve brought back.”

He didn’t want to believe it. “Shades? You mean ghosts?”

Still speaking carefully she said, “You’re a necromancer, Paul. It was visible in your aura when I first saw you, but at the time I didn’t understand what it meant, not until our little friends here told us. You have power over the dead, like no wizard or witch can hope to have. That’s extremely rare.”

“Rare,” he growled, all the fear and frustration of the last few weeks boiling to the surface. “I suppose wizards and witches and vampires and old hippies that throw lightning bolts and  . . .” He almost said,
midgets in clown suits
. “ . . . and  . . . and leprechauns  . . . aren’t rare?”

She gripped his hand tighter. “They’re rare, but not as rare as you might think, though most mundane people no longer believe in such things. But there hasn’t been a necromancer on the Mortal Plane for  . . .” She looked over her shoulder at her father for the answer.

The old man shrugged and said, “Twelve  . . . may thirteen hundred years.”

He could feel her compassion. It radiated out from her. “You have power over the dead, and by just wishing for your wife and daughter so hard you’re not letting them go. You’re keeping them from moving on to whatever comes next. You’re holding them here, and it’s not right. Let them go. Please, Paul, let them go.”

Like the vampire and its victim,
he thought.
I’m no better than that fucking demon.

He closed his eyes, could sense Suzanna and Cloe sitting beside him. When Suzanna spoke, her voice sounded tired and weary.
She’s right, Paulie-boy. It’s time. I miss you so much, but I need you to let us go.

“
I can’t,” he pleaded. “I miss you too.” He tried not to cry, but apparently he wasn’t good at the stoic, macho man thing. And he was damn well not going to lose his Suzanna and Cloe.

She’s right, daddy. We have to go.

No!
he shouted silently.
No, no, no, no, no!
But he knew he had to let them go, just like the soul the vampire held captive. He had to let them go.

Good-bye, daddy.

“Good-bye, munchkin.”

And they were gone  . . .

He looked up, met Katherine’s eyes, and she said, “You did the right thing, Conklin. The right thing.”

The hippie woman helped Katherine help Paul to his feet. “Let’s get you both back to Walter’s house,” she said. “You’re both a mess, and that’s something I can help with.”

Joe Stalin stepped in their way. “He fed on me,” he growled. “He’s a fucking demon. He dies, here and now.” He still held the howitzer in one hand, though it hung limply at his side, the barrel pointed at the ground. But Paul knew it would only take him an instant to raise it and blow a very big hole in Paul Conklin, necromancer-at-large.

McGowan intervened and stepped between them. “He’s no demon. He’s a necromancer. The little people confirmed that, and that explains a lot.”

Joe Stalin growled, clearly torn between his need to kill Paul and his fear of confronting McGowan. Karpov reached out and gripped the wrist of the hand holding the gun, making it clear Joe wasn’t to raise it. “Okay, Valter. He’s not a demon. But there have to be rules. He doesn’t feed. He doesn’t—”

Colleen interrupted him. “What he did is not demon feeding. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not  . . .”

They all started speaking at once, arguing over the rules for Paul’s continued existence. He thought of Suzanna and Cloe and Katherine, and Boris and Joe Stalin trying to kill him, and a rage born of fear and frustration boiled up inside him. When he could no longer contain his anger he shouted at the top of his lungs, “You want rules?”

That silenced them, and they all stepped away from him, their faces marked with fear. Even the two powerful old men hesitated. “I’ll give you rules,” he shouted, and marched up to Joe Stalin, stopped when he could stand face-to-face with the man who’d repeatedly tried to kill him. “You try to kill me, I’ll use any tool at my disposal to stop you, and I’ll kill you first. Those are my fucking rules.”

Amazingly enough, Joe just stood there trembling, then lowered his eyes and found the pavement very interesting. Paul turned to Karpov and shouted, “And if you don’t like them rules then let’s settle it right now.”

Even Karpov seemed frightened.

He heard Katherine approach him quietly from behind. She whispered in his ear, “Paul, you’re pulling a scary amount of power, a big, nasty whole shit-load of it. You could hurt a lot of people right now if you don’t let it dissipate.”

He turned to her and looked in her eyes, and the anger left him. “I don’t know how,” he said.

She nodded carefully and smiled. She was an absolute mess and she was still gorgeous. “That’s better,” she said. “It’s dissipating as your anger dissipates. Just relax and it’ll be gone soon.”

Colleen approached them and stood next to Katherine. “Well now. I think we all understand Paul’s rules. And I for one am perfectly happy with them. And as I said, we need to get you back to Walter’s house, bandage up those wounds, then a good meal and a hot bath.”

McGowan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Take my car. I’ll stay here, and me and my Russian friends’ll clean this mess up. Otherwise the police are going to be asking a lot of questions we don’t want to answer.”

“Why your car?” Katherine asked. Then her eyes widened and she gasped, looked at the smoking ruin of her car. “My Jag!” she cried. “My beautiful Jag!” She rushed over to it, brushed her hand over a twisted fender like petting a favorite animal. “My poor beautiful Jag!”

She whined about the Jaguar all the way to McGowan’s car. As Paul was about to climb in the back seat he noticed the tall skinny Russian standing next to one of the two dark sedans. It was the fellow who’d tried to introduce him to a rather large knife. There were two occupants in the back seat of the sedan. Paul hesitated, took a moment to do a little head count, and suddenly realized who they must be: Belinda and Joachim.

Paul felt nothing for Belinda, understood now his desire for her had been wholly artificial, but nevertheless he needed to see her. Paul started toward the sedan slowly and the Russian tensed. Colleen caught up to him half way there and said, “Paul, what’re you doing?”

“I have to see her.”

Colleen held out an arm and stopped him about ten feet from the Russian. “Wait here,” she said.

Paul waited while she approached the Russian and spoke to him hurriedly. They argued for a moment, then the fellow shrugged and stepped aside. Colleen turned and said, “He now understands the situation, so it’s safe.”

As Paul approached he could see Belinda huddled in the back seat of the sedan, her head resting against the window as if sleeping. Joachim sat on the other side of the seat, his head resting on the other window. Not wanting to startle Belinda Paul opened the door slowly, but she started anyway, and he couldn’t believe his eyes as he looked at the Belinda that looked back at him. Her nose was badly swollen and blood encrusted her upper lip, mouth and jaw. But he’d seen Katherine punch her so that didn’t surprise him. The Belinda that looked up at him through the open door was gray and withered. The skin of her face bore a fine patina of wrinkles, with deep bluish circles under her eyes, and her hair hung limply about her shoulders, no longer shiny and exotic, but streaked with gray. She appeared to be in her eighties.

She smiled at him. “Paul,” she said in a crackly, old voice. “It was fun while it lasted.”

Paul looked at Colleen. “What happened to her?”

Colleen grimaced. “With the demon gone it can no longer maintain her youth.”

“It was all an illusion?”

Colleen shook her head. “No, not at all. As long as the demon lived, it rewarded her with a bit of the life it took from its victims. She was truly young—as long as the demon lived and fed her.”

Colleen took him by the arm and turned him away from the sedan. As they walked back toward McGowan’s car he asked, “What’ll happen to her now?”

“Walter and Vasily will put the two thralls down.”

Paul stopped and looked her in the eyes. “You mean like  . . . putting a pet down.”

She considered him carefully. “That woman fed the demon life after life for God-knows-how-many years. Innocent lives, to feed its needs and her youth. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives over the years. She’s worse than the worst mass-murderer you’ve ever read about in the news. So, yes, I mean putting her down like an animal, but more like a rabid dog. If we don’t, who knows, she might find another demon to help?”

She turned back toward McGowan’s car, didn’t let go of his arm and led him back toward Katherine and the midgets. They stuffed Paul into the back seat and the leprechauns joined him there.

Katherine sat behind the wheel and the hippie climbed into the passenger seat beside her. As Katherine started the engine the hippie turned back and looked at Paul. “Young man,” she said sharply. Her harsh tone got Paul’s attention and he looked into her emerald green eyes. “The name is Colleen,” she said. “Don’t ever call me an
old hippie
again.”

Katherine looked at her, said cautiously, “But dear, you do look just the teensiest bit hippie-ish.”

Colleen’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care about the
hippie
bit, it’s the
old
bit really pissed me off.”

The End

Don’t miss the continuing

adventures of Paul and Katherine.

For a taste of what’s coming

next, read on:

The Dead Among Us

Book 2

Still Not Dead Enough

When the dead refuse to rest in peace, perhaps they just need a helping hand.

by

J. L. Doty

Prologue: Salt, Silver, Iron

“Focus,” McGowan growled. “Try to remember that feeling you got when the spirit of your wife came to you.”

Seated with the older man at the table in McGowan’s kitchen, Paul only made a half-hearted attempt to comply. They wanted him to learn some simple spells—in this case a fire spell—so he could learn control. If he could turn simple spells on and off at will, then he’d have a conscious understanding of what he’d been doing spontaneously, and he’d be able to develop control. At least that was the theory, a theory that didn’t seem too valid since Paul had already had three such lessons without even a hint of success.

He knew he was being stubborn, clinging to a belief—or perhaps it was more a desire—that these wizards and witches were all a bunch of nut cases. Even after his experience at the Secundus’s mansion, he wanted desperately to find a rational explanation for all the irrational events he’d gone through lately. He’d rather just walk away from it all, start rebuilding his life, a normal life where wizards and witches and demons and fairies were great fun in some book. But that wasn’t an option. If he didn’t take lessons from someone, they were all afraid he’d start doing crazy stuff on his own again. And then everyone, including the Mad Queen and all her fairy friends, would start trying to kill him again. So he had to apprentice to someone, and his options were limited to McGowan with Colleen’s help, or that ass-hole Russian. He’d chosen McGowan, and decided to at least go through the motions to keep everybody happy.

“The spirit of your wife didn’t come to you,” McGowan continued. “You brought it with an act of will, maybe a subconscious act of will, but still an act of will.”

Paul had been happy for a while when Suzanna and Cloe had come back to him, a brief while. And he did remember how they’d come to him. His desire to see them again had combined with the pain of losing them, and that had coalesced into something real and solid deep inside him, a hot spark of need.

“Yes,” McGowan said, “I can feel it. Your power is coalescing nicely. Now focus on the paper, feed the power into the paper. And don’t think of it as heat. Remember, fire is an elemental. Think of it as pure fire, an elemental that can consume almost anything.”

McGowan had placed a cast-iron frying pan in the middle of the table with a crumpled piece of paper in it. Somehow, Paul was supposed to light that paper on fire with this magic bullshit.
Play along,
Paul reminded himself.
Play along and keep them happy.

Paul thought about his growing desire for Katherine, and he fed that into the hot spark, and then he focused the spark on the piece of paper in the pan. He could feel some sort of energy swirling about him, a quiet maelstrom that didn’t manifest in a physical sense, and he fed some of that into the spark, though still nothing happened. But the spark responded almost as if it were alive, as if it were a being rather than some form of elemental energy. And he could sense it hungering for more. He reluctantly gave it a little more, and it responded like a little kitten purring happily at being fed.

“That’s it,” McGowan said. “You’re headed in the right direction. I know this is difficult for a beginner, but you’re not strong enough to cause any harm. So focus and give it everything you’ve got.”

I want your all,
the spark said to him, a silent whisper buried somewhere deep in his soul.

“Don’t hold back,” McGowan said. “Push yourself.”

All right,
Paul thought.
Here goes.

He took hold of the maelstrom forcibly, gathered all of the energy he could handle and fed the whole thing into the spark.

A massive ball of fire roared to life in the middle of the table, and a blast of hot air forced Paul to stand up and step back, singing hairs on his face and arms. On the other side of the table McGowan shouted, “Holy shit!” He jumped up from his chair and backed away from the raging flames licking at the ceiling of the kitchen.

The life that Paul had sensed in the spark seemed to have come fully awake, though it was nascent, almost embryonic. Fear clutched at him as he backed further away from it. McGowan said something and waved his arms, somehow manipulated that maelstrom of energy and the spark began to recede. But as the flames died, Paul had the oddest feeling that the life he’d sensed hadn’t really left him, though sooty black smoke continued to rise from the ruin of the kitchen table as a reminder that something had come from somewhere and joined them in the kitchen, no matter how briefly.

Sarah, McGowan’s personal assistant, appeared in the kitchen entrance, feet spread, fists knuckled on her hips, an angry scowl on her face. She turned her anger on McGowan. “I warned you this kind of training should be done in your workshop.”

McGowan said something to her, but Paul had stopped listening, had turned inward and focused on that spark of power within him. It was there, and he had nearly burned down McGowan’s house with it. He, Paul Conklin, had done some magic shit, some very dangerous magic shit. That, he couldn’t deny.

“Salt,” Katherine said, “silver and iron.” Paul and she were seated across from each other at the new kitchen table in McGowan’s home. Katherine lifted a mug of coffee to her lips, blew on it and took a sip. Paul sipped his own coffee as she continued. “Three substances that are very unique when it comes to the Three Realms.”

McGowan’s kitchen had a homey, lived-in atmosphere, unlike the formal dining room Paul had glimpsed earlier. It had taken three weeks to repair the ruin of the kitchen. Paul had melted the cast-iron frying pan into a blob of slag, and it had burned a hole right through the table, would have burned its way through the floor to the rooms below had McGowan not quenched it with his own powers. The ceiling and cabinets had been scorched, the appliances scored and blackened, an amazing amount of damage for such a simple little spell. For anyone else it would have taken a couple of months to gut the kitchen and repair it properly. But money talked, and apparently McGowan had plenty of that kind of talk.

In the middle of the kitchen table was a simple arrangement of salt and pepper shakers, a small basket of paper napkins, and a vase of colorful flowers. Katherine reached out, took the saltshaker, twisted off its cap and poured a small pile on the table in front of her, just a teaspoon or so. Then she pinched a bit of salt between her thumb and forefinger, and rubbing the two fingers together in a circular motion, she sprinkled a fine dusting of white crystals in front of her on the table. She did it slowly, almost absentmindedly.

She’d been like that for the past several weeks, ever since that night Paul had destroyed the Secundus demon, and they’d learned he was a necromancer. Distant. Absent. Whenever Paul was around it was as if she wasn’t there, her thoughts focused elsewhere. Either that or she was in a hurry to be away from him.

“Salt is quite unique,” she said, drawing a line with her finger through the dusting of powder on the table. To a cursory glance one might think she was looking at her finger tracing the line through the salt, but Paul could see her eyes were focused in a thousand-yard stare. “It makes an excellent protective circle, though you can use almost any substance for that, and each has certain advantages. But lay down a ring of salt, push power into it and invoke the proper spells, and you can form an impenetrable circle, a circle no being can cross—mortal demon or fey—a circle through which no magic can pass, through which no physical substance can pass.”

One side benefit if apprenticing to McGowan was that Paul had more opportunity to run into Katherine, purely by chance, of course, as had happened today.

She looked up from the salt on the table and her eyes settled on Paul, though it took them a long second to focus. “Salt can also break a spell, or mute it badly. You saw that happen when we were all dosed with seawater at that Secundus’s mansion. It’s good to carry a little salt on you. If you’re ever spelled, mix a little salt with some water and rub yourself down.”

Paul had come to McGowan’s place for one of his lessons, his ninth or tenth; he hadn’t tried to keep count. He’d run into Katherine, and as soon as she saw him she’d tried to leave, and he had to insist that she sit down and talk to him, had to be almost rude about it. And then she’d managed to avoid really talking to him by turning it into an impromptu lesson.

“Now silver,” she said, “is quite interesting. Soft and compliant here on the Mortal Plane, you’d never think to make a knife or sword out of it because everyone knows it won’t hold an edge. But take that same piece of silver into Faerie, and it’s harder than the hardest steel here on the Mortal Plane. Sidhe warriors carry thin rapiers made of pure silver, and they can easily cut a man in two with such a blade—at least in Faerie.”

She picked up her mug of coffee, held it just below the edge of the table and brushed the salt she’d spilled into it. Then she stood and crossed the room to the sink. Now that her bruises had healed, she’d returned to wearing expensive looking business suits, the skirt cut just above the knees, high heels clacking on the kitchen floor. The suit would fit in any corporate boardroom, but it was cut to emphasize her figure, and somehow, on her, a business suit was something quite sexy. She dumped the salted remains of her coffee into the kitchen sink, rinsed the cup out with a little tap water and left it there. She liked to say she looked good in high heels, and she did, but Paul wasn’t looking at her shoes.

A voice whispered in Paul’s ear, “You’re staring at my daughter’s ass.”

Paul jumped and turned to find that McGowan had snuck up on him, was standing over him frowning unhappily. All he could think to say was, “Uhhhh!”

Katherine said, “Was he now?”

Paul spun back to Katherine. She was still standing with her back turned toward him, but had twisted about to look down at her own butt. “A girl likes to know her best  . . . assets  . . . are appreciated.” Her eyes lifted to look at Paul, and it was the Katherine he knew, no blushing, no shyness. She batted her eyelashes at him. “I’m flattered, Conklin.”

McGowan snarled at her, “Don’t act so slutty.”

She turned toward him and marched across the room, saying, “Oh, don’t act like such a father. I’m a grown woman so I get to act as slutty as I want.”

McGowan rolled his eyes as she turned to Paul. “We can finish talking about salt, silver, iron and my ass later. I’ve gotta go.”

She turned and headed toward the front door. Paul got up to follow her, but McGowan stepped in his way. “You can’t leave. We’ve got a lesson.”

Paul said, “I’ll be right back,” then stepped around McGowan and into the hall just in time to see the front door closing. By the time he got out the front door Katherine was thirty feet up the sidewalk.

“Katherine, wait,” he called.

She hesitated, turned and waited for him, and as he approached her he realized the other, more reserved and distant Katherine had returned. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

She eyed him warily, suspiciously, thought about that for a moment, then said, “You’re a necromancer. None of us really understands what that means, though I think that’s probably a very dangerous thing to be. And I’ve thought about that a lot, and I really don’t need a dangerous man in my life. Been there, done that.”

She started to turn away from him, but he caught her arm. “What does that mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned and marched away, marched like a soldier going to battle, making it clear she didn’t want Paul to follow her.

High Chancellor Cadilus watched Katherine’s image in the scrying bowl. With the Summer Queen standing beside him they both watched her march up the street. As they watched Paul turn and return to the Old Wizard’s house, she said, “I am pleased. You have  . . . unusually adept talent on the Mortal Plane.”

Cadilus nodded respectfully to Magreth. “I’ve spent centuries developing the conduits needed to function there. I’ve set the spells myself, and I’m using some of our mages to maintain their effect.”

She smiled, and he knew by the absence of flames in her eyes she was pleased. “I see you’re driving a nice wedge between the two young people.”

Again, Cadilus nodded. “As you requested, Your Majesty, though I must move cautiously and subtly to be certain the Old Wizard doesn’t detect my interference.”

She turned away from him, saying, “What spells are you using?”

A set of tall French doors appeared in the wall in front of her, and she stepped through them. Cadilus followed her out onto a balcony overlooking the countryside of Faerie. “Just a very simple spell to make her doubt him, to make her question her own feelings. Those short-lived mortals don’t truly understand the nature of a necromancer, so it’s not difficult to introduce doubt into the equation, leavened by a bit of suspicion and paranoia. The effect of my spells wane when she’s protected within the wards of the Old Wizard’s home, but when she emerges and one of my assistants regains access to her, the spells are quickly reinforced.”

She turned toward him and smiled, her emerald green eyes bathing Cadilus in the glory of the Summer Queen. “You have done well. Separated and untrusting, those two young mortals are weaker. We’ll need that weakness when the time comes. Have the Realms calmed?”

“On the surface, yes, Your Majesty.”

Her eyes narrowed unhappily. “That doesn’t sound  . . . comforting.”

Cadilus shook his head. “The young man is a necromancer, which explains some of his somewhat unusual abilities. The mortals all now accept that he’s not a demon, though I wonder if a necromancer can really exist without some demon blood in his veins.”