Bare Bones (13 page)

“I summoned a demon, Father. And I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t do it again. There are circumstances that necessitate quick information and sometimes you need to risk your soul to save others. The summoning that got me this demon mark?
That
I regret. I should have chosen a different option that time. But there may come a moment when lives are on the line. If it will save lives, I’ll do it again.”

Father Bernard steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the peak. “You say you should have chosen a different option that time, but you didn’t. Who’s to say there isn’t a different, better option next time? You can’t justify sin this way, Aria. As your father said, it’s a lazy path. It’s the easy way. And it’s so easy to justify your sin by pretending to be the martyr, by throwing your soul on the fire to save others. There are always other choices. There’s always a solution that keeps you from sin
and
saves your pilgrims, it just takes work to find it.”

Man, this guy was tougher on me than my parents. “Okay. Point taken. I can’t say I’ll never summon again, but I won’t rush into it and I’ll make sure I examine all the other options.”

He smiled, pleased. “Limiting your connection with the other side of the veil will weaken the demon’s claim on you.”

I squirmed. “But summoning isn’t my only sin. I fear that I’ve already darkened my soul.”

“You’re a Templar. Modern Templars do not judge, and they no longer kill humans. What could you have possibly done to darken your soul? Gambling? Those bottles of wine you drink each night?”

“I killed a man.” And it was glasses of wine, not bottles.

Father Bernard sucked in a breath. “I’m going to assume that you mean this metaphorically, because otherwise I’d need to report you to the police. So, metaphorically, what happened to make you kill this man?”

I took a deep breath. “Remember the occult gang last month?”

The priest shuddered. “Horrible. They were performing ritual killings.”

“Not just ritual murder, the last two victims were used for soul magic.”

I paused to let that sink in, watching the priest’s eyes bulge, his mouth drop open.

“Yeah. Soul magic. They didn’t have the appropriate item for this work, but a mage from D.C. did. He bargained the use of this soul trap for the death of three mages. At the end of the day, he contracted for the murder of the mages, chose one of the ritual murder victims. Four murders are on his head, two souls forever lost. Then he killed my best friend and tried to make it look like one of the ritual murders.”

Father Bernard shook his head. “A horrible, evil man. But surely he would have spent the rest of his life in jail, to face his eternal judgement upon a natural death?”

I clenched my jaw for a moment, trying to gain control of the fury that roared through me. I’d been haunted by my actions the last four weeks, but thinking of all Dark Iron had done made me angry enough to kill him again.

“There was nothing, no evidence that would have led to a conviction. The mages he worked with never saw his face. The soul trap wasn’t in his possession any longer. A search of his home would have revealed that he was practicing magic, but nothing more. He would have gotten away with it, gone on to kill again.”

“You don’t know that. And if there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him, how are you positive he was guilty?”

“One of the death mages had set up a meeting with the killer, and this man showed up. Plus my friend knew what he’d done, but a dead woman can’t testify.”

“Aria, you need to have faith. You’re a Templar. Justice will prevail. Sometimes that justice isn’t on our timetable.”

Others would have died. I couldn’t stand the thought of Dark Iron walking out of that room, smugly thinking he’d gotten away with murder. I couldn’t stand that he’d thought me too weak to stop him. Pride. And murder. And evidently laziness and impatience. It was all a lot of sin for my soul to bear.

Father Bernard was right. I had no faith. I couldn’t turn the other cheek and watch a murderer walk away to kill again. I couldn’t let five people’s deaths go unavenged. I couldn’t let
Raven’s
death go unavenged. And for all that, I was on the road to damnation.

“Thank you for your time, Father.” I stood, realizing that confession and penance wouldn’t help me remove this demon mark. The priest had said I was God’s Warrior. Well, if God needed a human with a sword, then He certainly intended me to use it. As Templars we were expected to have blood on our hands, we were to have faith that God would guide our swords. We were more Old Testament than New.

And if I burned for protecting my Pilgrims, for ridding the world of evil, for avenging those innocents who had been murdered, then so be it.

R
USSELL FINDAL HAD
changed in the last month—changed in a good way. The necromancer still had wary shadows about his eyes, but the tight lines in his face had eased somewhat. His brown skin had taken on ruddy undertones, as if he were spending regular amounts of time outside in the sunshine. His salt and pepper hair was still cropped close, but a short, tight-edged beard of gray made him look more the distinguished scholar than a summoner of the dead.

I probably would have been better off going to one of the mediums downtown, but I knew Russell, knew he was the real deal. Who knows how many women with a palm on their door I’d need to go through to find someone who honestly had a connection with the spirit world.

“How have you been?” I took the sweet tea he handed me with a smile, declining the plate of lemon wedges.

“Good. It’s taken me a while to find my feet, but good. I see Shay, I mean Bella, once a week.” A fond smile creased his face. “I always bring a toy for her. You know, a doll or a Lego set or something. This week I found some sculpting supplies and we spent the evening making little clay animals.”

His sister had been fourteen when she’d been murdered, and unfortunately she’d lain dead for over an hour before Dario was able to turn her. As a result, the young vampire had suffered irreparable cognitive damage. She was a fifty-four-year-old vampire trapped in a fourteen-year-old body with emotions and intellect somewhere around a child of four. She was all Russell had left of his family, and the reason he’d made his peace with the vampires and had decided to remain in Baltimore.

“Sounds fun,” I replied. It did. The idea of clay animals made me want to go hang out with my nephews for the weekend. “You still working at that warehouse?”

“Part time. Mostly I’m running a food truck down on Baltimore Avenue.” He grinned. “This guy owns six of them. Barbeque. He does all the meat smoking, and sends us out with the trucks. I like it. I get to meet a lot of people. It’s day work, which leaves nights I’m not at the warehouse free for my practice.”

And by practice he meant necromancy. Russell had hung a sign outside his row house, the familiar psychic palm along with his hours. “Business good?” I asked, wondering how much clientele he’d get in this residential neighborhood. He was pretty close to Camden Yards, so who knows? Maybe all the Orioles fans stopped by for a glimpse into the future of the team’s season.

“Mostly out-of-towners, although I’ve got some customers locally. Things have really stepped up now that all of the spirit workers and psychics are working together.”

Reynard had mentioned this, but it still surprised me. Psychics were an independent lot, not as likely to form big groups like other mages. They were friendly with each other and sometimes chatted over a glass of tea like Russell and I were doing, but there was never a leader, never a structured organization to their practitioners.

“So, I gotta ask, is that woman down by the Inner Harbor for real? The one who walks around the Constellation dressed as a gypsy, handing out cards?” I must have a dozen of her cards. She was quite a sales person, and very dramatic. I’m sure she made a fortune from the tourists, even if the cops were constantly running her off for soliciting.

Russell laughed. “See, that’s where things have improved. I’ve got nothing against people with minimal talent making a living, but they need to know who to refer people to when a client needs real help.”

“So all those people running the séances and ghost tours…?”

He shrugged, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his already sweet tea. “There’s good money in that, and a lot of them have reasonable skills. But if there’s a poltergeist tearing up someone’s house in Franklin Terrace, or a guy’s aunt in Federal Hill died without telling him where she hid the stock certificates, then Mr. Séance needs to know to step aside. And who to call.”

He nodded, a look of calm satisfaction on his face. “Doesn’t have to be me. There are some talented mediums who aren’t as public and work on the side. We all just need to know who specializes in what and feel comfortable making that call.”

It made sense. I sipped my tea and we continued chatting about the neverending construction on 895, whether that developer was really going to tear down Old Mall and turn it into upscale condominiums in the middle of the slum, and how the Ravens’ prospects looked this year. Finally, once a suitable amount of socialization had taken place, I pulled the fox figurine out of my pocket and set it on the table.

Russell’s gray eyebrows flew toward the ceiling. “Nice work. Old World work, I can tell from here. Does this practitioner have an eBay store? Because I’d love to order one of these.”

I waved my hand. “Family connection. I’m not sure if she takes orders or makes them for anyone outside the family, but I’ll check. It’s a
lelek raktarban
. I have a few of them, but this one seems to have attracted a spirit.”

His eyebrows threatened to vanish into his hairline. “May I?” he gestured toward the fox.

I nodded and Russell picked up the resin figurine, exclaiming softly as he examined it inches from his face. “There is indeed a spirit residing here, although he appears to be angry.”

Crap. I’d assumed based on my conversation with Gran that this was a helpful spirit. “Angry? What can an angry spirit in a
lelek
do to me? Do I need to ditch it down the sewer drain or something?”

“Not angry at you, just angry. It’s often the case. Anger is a powerful emotion—one that is powerful enough to bind a spirit to this world and energize it to seek a vessel.”

I still didn’t like the sound of that. “So let’s say this spirit was killed by a drunk driver. Does that mean he’s only going to help me prevent drunk driving? Or hide my beer and wine? Or pester me to take revenge on the driver that killed him?”

Russell shook his head, setting the figurine back on the table. “Oh no. There might be a specific scenario that motivates him more than others, but he’s here to help
you
. And he chose you specifically. If he wanted to prevent drunk driving, he’d have attached himself to an addictions counselor or a bartender, or a member of MADD. There’s something specifically about you that attracted this spirit.”

Well, that was a relief. “Someone told me that the spirit is struggling to adjust to using the
lelek
as a vessel. How long do you think it will be before he’s able to do more than fall off the shelf and sit on top of books? What can I expect from him?”

“Sadly some never do master the use of their vessel. The fact that yours has managed to move around is a good sign. I can give you some ideas and exercises you could try that might help the spirit, but there’s no telling how much he’ll be able to do. Ideally he should be able to communicate with you, verbally or through other means, move about on his own, act as an intermediary between you and the spirit world. I’ve heard a few legends of spirits who could move back and forth across the veil. Whether any of this will happen in your lifetime or not, I don’t know.”

This was all so depressing. No wonder the spirit was angry. I’d be pissed too, trapped in a vessel and unable to communicate properly.

“Let’s try something right now.” Russell got up from the table and pulled a battered cardboard box off a nearby bookshelf. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to find out who this spirit is. Calling him by name will strengthen the bond between you both and help him learn to communicate with you.”

The necromancer opened the lid, unfolding the board and placing the triangular planchette in the center.

“A Ouija board.” Obviously this wasn’t something we’d ever had in our house growing up. I’d never seen one while in Haul Du either since all the mages in that group studied Goetica. Ouija was a tool of mediums and divinatory mages, of necromancers and those who dealt with the spirit world. The hair on my neck stood up just looking at it.

“It’s a tool, just like a pendulum, cards, or a scrying mirror.” Russell sat and laid the fox figurine on the plastic pointer. Then he reached across the table and took my hands in his own.

“Aren’t we supposed to put our fingers on the thingie?” That’s how I’d seen it done in the horror movies.

“What, so one of us can accuse the other of moving it ourselves?” he scoffed. “If the spirit can’t manage to move the indicator on its own, then I’m afraid he might not be of much help to you. I even placed the figurine in direct contact with it, to give him a little additional assistance.”

I looked down at the Ouija board, my heart sinking. My little fox was game, but he hadn’t been able to do much more than fall over and roll across the ground. I wasn’t sure moving a pointer was within his abilities. Hoping for the best, I closed my eyes.

The lights dimmed. Russell’s soft chanting was barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. Magical energy sparked along my skin and I shivered. He was doing all he could to help my little fox communicate. It was hard to believe that a month ago I’d regarded this man as an enemy, although a sympathetic one. And here he was helping me.

“The spirit is very frustrated that he can’t speak,” Russell announced. “I get the sense that he’s determined and not about to give up. That’s good. Now, let’s see if he’s strong enough to move the planchette and tell us his name.”

I opened my eyes and stared, disheartened. The fox and the planchette were exactly where they’d been before. Nothing had happened. I got the feeling nothing was going to happen.