Category: Books

Getting there.

Grimoire House
The Next Morning

“You will forgive me for not explaining my meaning until the sun was in the sky,” I told Curwin. “It is bad, when the dead kill the living. It is even worse when you talk about their crimes where the dead can hear.”

“So that’s what this is, then? A murderous ghost?” Curwin looked dubious, and for good reason. “I am given to understand that such creatures would need to be extremely powerful, and extremely angry. Souls are not supposed to linger on this plane, are they not?”

“They are not.” I suppressed a smile. Marsh had arranged last night to have Curwin liaise with me in this investigation, and I was glad for both the company, and the help. The good lieutenant might not have had any significant magic on his own, but he had a useful grasp of theory. “It is no simple task to resist the pull to Eternity, and no sensible necromancer will allow a soul to linger overlong, for exactly this reason. With the power comes a certain recklessness, and spite. It’s not really the soul’s fault. Well, except for deciding to stay on this plane, I suppose.”

This wants to be more than 3K, but I shall be firm. For now.

At least we had one clue: the identity of our murder victim. “You came damned close, Sunshine,” Marsh told me as he pulled a sloppy folder out of his filing cabinet. “The dear departed was one David Shane. You can probably guess that he was known to the police.”

“If not quite by name,” I observed while opening the file. “Ah. He had an alias.” My eyebrows raised. “Many, many aliases.”

“He was in the sort of business where he’d need a few. Ghostlegger. You familiar with them, Lieutenant?”

“A bit,” Curwin admitted. “We’d get the odd addict from far foreign, looking for their fix of spookweed. Tobacco mixed with ghost-stuff, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Not souls, although ectohuffers would smoke them too, if only the perverts could. Strip a ghost of its old memories, mix the stuff up with whatever street-sweeping baccy’s around, and smoke somebody else’s life away. Hell of a high, I’ve heard the poor bastards say.” Marsh’s frown showed teeth. “Even more of a low, when you haven’t gotten any for a bit.”

I gotta figure out some things on this one, and right quick.

Lieutenant Curwin asked about the most obvious possibility first: “Was the murderer covering his tracks? Trying to keep you from sniffing out his identity?” He also seemed interested in my work in general, which I do like to see in a man.

“If he did, ‘twould be hideous overkill,” I replied, still trying to find any trace of death-residue that might be read holographically (more Old American, I’m afraid). “Even if I could reconstruct a spirit that existed in this space at the time of the murder, it could only give me a surface idea of who attacked the victim. The murderer would have to be of extremely high rank to justify the magical energy it would take to wipe a site this clean.”

“How high rank?” asked Marsh.

“Let me put it this way, Horace: if I was seriously considering this possibility, I would be asking you if the President had an alibi.” I smiled. “Although I can’t imagine what motive your grand-uncle might have.”

I thought I’d maybe do this up as a 3K word one for this week.

“You can shut off the ghost-warmers, lads,” I told the assemblage of policemen and workers knotted up near a tarpaulin-covered body. “There’s not a one of them within a block of this place. Hullo, Horace.”

“Hullo, Sunshine,” needle-grinned Horace Marsh (yes, one of those Marshes). “Sorry to drag you down tonight. There’s horrible coffee.”

“That would imply that you might ever have good coffee,” I retorted as I poured myself a cup. “All the angels, but you brew a wretched cup. I wish I knew how you manage it.”

“I start out by hating the beans. After that, I improvise.” Horace visibly grew serious. “This is a bad one, Mistress Dexter. We suspect Dominion activity.”