Ash to Embers (Courting Shadows) (4 page)

"Not amused," she said, slumping face first into the security gate. She shook the handle for all the miserable bastard was worth. In an extraordinary display of maturity she booted the gate, nearly bending the sucker in two. The tantrum gave her a wide enough hole to fit her hand through. When she opened the door it gave way with an angry shriek.

"Tomorrow I get the torch," she grunted as she kicked the offending object again, hammering it back into shape. Every cell hurt from the return trip through the Black Gate and the pain in her ribcage was worse than usual, as if her body were decaying from the inside out.

"Forgot your key again, luv?" Amusement curled the edges of Ceyla's Essex accent.

Tian turned to find the striking black female wearing low rise skinny jeans and a white v-neck undershirt that was cut off at the bottom. The gap revealed a slender flat expanse of unmarred skin. Ceyla's wild mahogany curls snaked out in every direction and ended above her collarbone. She was leaning on the door jam, cigarette in hand.

"I didn't forget them...They jumped out of my pocket when I wasn't supervising my clothes."

Ceyla took one look at Tian's face, ashed into the mug she was holding and offered the butt. "You alright, then?"

Tian shook her head and raised her right hand, spreading her fingers so the words etched into the sides were clearly visible. "No. I'm in a desert of dog shit right now."

"Fuckin' ell." Ceyla's jade green eyes bored a hole into her back as Tian brushed past. "Well? Obviously you're in a strop about it. What did the lousy git have to say? What's he want then?" Ceyla pushed, following her into the house.

"The git," Tian said, "wants me to collect something he's misplaced."

"Bad something?"

"You don't see my phone blowing up cause I won the fucking lottery, do you?"

Ceyla chuckled because she had a thick skin and a sick sense of humor. It was a good combination. "So the Oracle... is really as mental as they say?"

"Yup."

Tian took a San Pellegrino from the fridge, cracking it open with a hiss. Ceyla pulled a bottle of Jack off the counter, went to the cupboard, and used a juice glass to pour herself a drink. She took a shot out of the bottle before recapping it.

"What are you going to tell Eamon?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing, because I'm not allowed. You're gonna tell him. I'm going to get the damn thing, deliver it, and wash my hands."

Ceyla let out a low whistle and took a long slow sip from her glass. "That is a terrible idea and it's going to have to wait."

"Why is that?"

"Because Avery's out at a house call which means we've been stuck with the client meeting and you are not leaving me to deal with whatever toss pumpkin walks through that door on me own."

"Business comes first."

"Course it does," Ceyla said, polishing off her drink. "Get your ass moving."

They took a local portal that dumped them out in the middle of a stairwell about halfway to the top of the forty-four story building in which Swift Paranormal Investigations was located.

"Fuck me," muttered Ceyla, removing a cigarette from behind her left ear. "Never quite get used to that."

Ceyla took a book of matches from her back pocket, folded it, and sandwiched the small brightly colored head of a stick in between the front flap and the ignitor strip. It wasn't until the flame hit the twisted tip of the hand-rolled that Tian opened her mouth.

"Way to be inconspicuous, Cey."

Ceyla looked up from her hands and shook out the match. "Inconspicuous is highly overrated, darling."

"You and Avery have been watching too many Ab Fab reruns," Tian said. She checked the wards etched like graffiti into the drywall.

"Like hell, I'm glamouring my ass off. Do you know I got ticketed for two hundred and fifty quid the last time I got caught smoking in here?"

"I told you the wards only work for the big stuff. Smoking doesn't count."

Ceyla snorted and removed the still lit cigarette from her mouth, waving it erratically as it perched between her index and middle fingers. "Obviously I missed that part. Now, are we going to toddle on up a couple of flights so we can play nice with all the wankers and whack jobs that think their garbage disposals are haunted, or what?"

"You're a true humanitarian. You know that, right?"

They started hiking, taking three and four steps at a time. "Humanity is highly overrated as well," Ceyla retorted.

"Tell me about it."

Tian leaned into the stairwell door which swung open, exposing them to the flickering fluorescent lighting of the thirty fifth floor. A bug eyed twenty-something with a studded nose ring and bright yellow pumas was lounging on the old fashion love seat outside of their office. His hairline didn't match his age, not receding so much as it was making a desperate attempt at evacuating his skull like the thing was the freaking Titanic. What was left of his thinning hair was combed over and he was wearing an immaculate white t-shirt that read "The Truth is out there". Tian rolled her eyes.

"I hate it when they're early," she said cracking her neck. She was still experiencing phantom pains from the recent dislocation.

"Are you George Thorton?" Ceyla asked.

The guy's eyes widened when he saw them. He slumped further down in the chair and leered. "Don't tell me, the paranormal investigators are running late," he said, affecting an air of disappointment.

"You're ten minutes early, dipshit."

The guy shrugged. "Do I at least get a cup of coffee?"

Tian turned to Ceyla. "Quit censoring me."

Ceyla grinned. "Suit yourself, luv."

"We are the paranormal investigators," Tian tried again. The words sounded forced. She unlocked the door and shoved it open. The thing swung in and hit the adjacent wall with a loud clatter.

"Huh...Anyone ever tell you ladies you should have your own TV Show? You know, like Ghost Hunters, but hot. No offense, but are you two any good at this?"

"Don't be reckless with your mouth, George."

Ceyla shot Tian a long suffering look of reproach before interrupting in an overtly placating tone. "Look George, I can call you George, right? Why don't we talk about what brought you here, yeah?" She grabbed his arm and maneuvered him into the office. "You wanted a coffee didn't you?"

"Um, sure...but I have to warn you I'm kind of a coffee snob. Too many years in the city." He was eating up the attention.

Tian took a seat behind the teak desk. George sat across from her in a high backed green velvet chair.

"Don't you worry gov, we'll get you sorted," Ceyla said with a wink.

Ceyla only used the term gov when she was equally inclined to punch a person in the face. She walked over to the high end fridge in the corner, grabbed a mug off the top and filled it with filtered water from the pitcher inside. George inhaled heavily as Ceyla placed the mug in front of him and sat down.

"That's what I'm talking about," he said with a sublime expression after his first sip. His expression slipped along with the bravado he'd affected the longer he sat in thought. He worried at the edges of the mug in a nervous gesture, turning it around in his hands like a dog looking for a flat place to lay down.

"Why don't you tell us why you're here," Tian prompted.

To his credit, George didn't say anything right away. The crazies and the liars usually had half the story out before they got through the door. The future film makers of America didn't even get that far.

"I think my little brother is possessed," George said into the awkward silence.

Ceyla stiffened in her chair. He looked up at them with helpless, colorless eyes.

"I know how that sounds," he offered, misreading the reaction.

"How old is your little brother?" Tian asked.

"Seventeen."

"San Francisco isn't much of a kid friendly city," Tian said. Ceyla lit another hand rolled.

"Yeah, neither is Duluth. Our parents are going through a nasty divorce. I told them he could stay with me for a while."

"Teenagers get up to all sorts, mate. What makes you think he's possessed?" Ceyla asked. She was slowly regaining composure. George shrugged and looked down at the desk as if he wasn't sure what to say next. When he spoke he did so slowly.

"Three weeks ago he was fine. We hung out, played video games, ate lots of pizza. I mean, he was pissed at our folks, but we both were. Are. They're so involved in hating each other it's like nothing else exists. I took him out one night, you know, to get him laid...," he looked up and stalled, as if realizing he was in front of women. "Uh, sorry."

"Keep talking," Tian pushed.

George swallowed and took another sip of "coffee" before continuing his narrative, "Will, that's my brother, was acting like an asshole after, moody, bad tempered, real aggressive. Then he... he just fell apart. I don't know when the last time he showered was, but he smells like death. He picks at his skin. He doesn't eat. He draws numbers all over himself, goes ballistic when I try to get him to clean it off. Then he gets all glazed and sits there staring into space mumbling shit, names, Latin phrases...kid's seventeen, he barely speaks English, let alone any other languages. No one can find anything medically wrong with him. It's freaking me out. I've found him outside wandering around in the middle of the mission twice at three/four am and he doesn't remember doing it. I looked this stuff up. He's freaking possessed and on all of the shows the paranormal investigators always know exorcists too. I need one."

By the time George was finished, Ceyla looked as if she wanted to throw him out the window. She shook her head and looked at Tian. "Whot do you think?"

"I think it'll go faster with an expert opinion."

"I am not asking that fucking mug for a favor," Ceyla snarled.

Tian looked at George, who was watching the exchange in obvious discomfort. "Exorcisms don't come cheap," she told him.

He nodded stiffly. "It's my brother."

"Lucky him."

The interior of Liam's apartment wasn't a huge improvement on the exterior of the building, but the guy's cramped '61 Chevy Corvair left even more to be desired. Liam, who wasn't a large guy to begin with, fit perfectly into the broken down mass of springs he'd smothered in an old bed pillow. The stained and yellowing contraption formed what amounted to a driver's seat and the duct tape holding it together was a nice touch. Real classy.

Sio eyed it with envy as he gnawed on his knee caps and the springs in his own, non-pillow covered seat dug into his ass. He knew Liam didn't give a shit about his discomfort so he didn't bother to mention it. The guy was crooning along with the Tom Waits song crackling through the dashboard. Liam had a voice like a chainsaw.

They lurched over the Bay Bridge with a disastrous level of recklessness and it was the first time all day Sio felt placid. He took a deep inhalation, ignoring the acrid black smoke wafting through the air vents, held it, and identified the feeling as the sort of calm that came with the acceptance of inevitability. Theoretical violence, unlike actual violence, had limited consequence. The outcomes were measurable and you had to sign up for them, participate in your own destruction. It was depraved, and he did it because the actual violence in his life had left scars like an addiction, only more of the same ever managed to satiate.

God, that was morbid.

"Tell me about the guy I'm fighting," he said. He didn't ask Liam where they were going because he didn't care.

Liam turned his head and shot him a calculating look from the driver's seat. The car lurched in the absence of his focus, playing Pac-Man with the lane dividers. The corner of Liam's lip peeled back from his canines, giving way to a mean spirited expression.

"Bloke's undefeated, but if I was you..."

"And you're not."

Liam's evil grin widened. "If I was you, mate, I'd be more worried about the incident you had outside my building. That bitch ain't right."

"Thanks for the tip."

Liam shrugged. "Just sayin'."

They settled into an uneasy silence as the Corvair shuddered its way through the back streets of Oakland. Other cars rolled past, pumping out music loud enough to vibrate the broken bits in Liam's air vents, but the passengers in the overtaking vehicles ignored them. Liam's heap was an invisibility cloak. The scumbag camouflage made driving around in one of the biggest pieces of shit ever assembled surprisingly convenient.

Liam pulled to the side of the road. The Corvair didn't park or shut off so much as sputter its way through an agonizingly slow death. Sio muscled the door open. He unfolded himself with a curse as he slammed his head into the doorframe, and watched as Liam removed a pair of pristine brass knuckles from under the driver's seat along with several other lethal and highly illegal looking odds and ends.

Liam got out of the car, stashing everything in the polyester track pants he was wearing. He slipped on the brass knuckles and smoothed the checkered flannel shirt down against his chest. The Scot's hands lingered a moment as if he were taking inventory. Sio rolled his shoulders to coax the feeling back into his limbs.

"S' through there," Liam grunted, nodding his head toward a squat structure down the block. Since he'd already changed at Liam's apartment Sio left his gym bag in the car. He locked the passenger door and slammed it shut while Liam snorted in amusement. "Ain't no one able to open that side but you big boy. Ain't nobody lookin' to bust into this piece neither."

"So you're saying it's not just about the smooth ride."

"Dick."

Sio grinned and followed the Scot down the street. Anticipation frothed under the surface of his skin, butting up against the discomfort of being a tourist. This wasn't his lifestyle or his element, it was the temporary balm that filled the void left by the missing pieces in his psyche. Liam fit here. He didn't. He didn't fit into the placid cocoon of well-adjusted normalcy he'd built around the rest of his life either, but fuck it. There was only so much he could do.