Bare Bones (21 page)

I heard Janice scribbling in the background. “Can’t they speed up DNA testing? Make it a priority?”

“No. There are only so many labs that do that sort of thing and with murder, everything’s a priority. Plus DNA testing doesn’t do us any good if the victim didn’t have theirs on file. If the monster is walking around in their skin impersonating the victim, we might not even have a missing person’s report. Nobody reported Brian Huang missing. Or Bradley Lewis.”

“I can dig around and see if there are any other reports of demonic possession. Most of them are probably bogus, but could be another Bradley Lewis out there,” Janice offered.

It would help. “Thanks, I’m on my way to check out one of the theories on these guys, then I’ll call you back. The vampires might be able to help, too. They got a good read on the one dead vampire, and should be able to recognize if someone’s walking around in her skin.”

“Mmmm.” Now there was rapid typing in the background, along with a beep. “Call me this afternoon?” Janice asked, her voice distracted. “I gotta get on this, and Sean keeps texting me to call him. I hope he’s not cancelling tonight.”

I promised to call her and hung up, musing over the fact that she’d seen the developer every night since they’d met. Personally that would drive me nuts to see someone every single night, to have them texting and calling me when we weren’t
really
a couple.

Oh. Dario. Okay, maybe with the right person, that amount of contact wouldn’t be irritating. I might be suspicious of Sean, but deep in my heart I was hoping that he
was
that right person for Janice. She deserved someone who was crazy about her, someone she was crazy about. And unlike in my doomed situation, Sean wasn’t a vampire.

***

JESSUP CORRECTIONAL CENTER
had a dark past. It had been designed over a hundred years ago and the tight corners and narrow staircases weren’t suitable for a maximum security prison. With a reputation for riots, fights, and escapes as well as attacks on officers, the final straw came when two guards were stabbed in 2007.

The main building was demolished, over eight hundred inmates moved to another high-security facility. The remaining buildings housed medium security offenders and a separate women’s prison. Still, security was tight, and it took me quite a while to go through checks, sign-ins, and metal-detectors. Turns out there was a visitor dress code that thankfully I had unknowingly complied with. Several people were turned away for short skirts, leggings, or tank tops.

I felt sorry for them. Visiting days were based on a prisoner’s ID number, and thus were once per month. Those with inappropriate clothing would need to run home and change, or risk not seeing their friend or family member for another month.

Luckily Tremelay had pulled his police strings and gotten me in outside of the normal visiting day. Still, after making my way through all the security checks, I sat in a room that reminded me a lot of a bus station and waited.

Finally they called my name and I walked into a large room, divided with plexiglass, half-height cubicle dividers separating the individual booths. I sat and waited yet again. A few moments later a guard escorted a jumpsuited Chuck in. He sat and picked up the phone receiver like he’d done this a million times.

I did likewise. “Did you get the Fisher’s caramel popcorn?”

It had been our deal. He gave me the info on Dark Iron, I sent him a gigantic bucket of the Eastern Shore staple four times per year. It was a deal well worth making.

He nodded. “I’d expect this isn’t a social visit. You here for magical information? Need to pick my brains about a ritual or something?”

His voice was full of longing, as though he’d hoped every day for a practitioner to talk shop with. I doubted many in prison were mages, and I’m sure he kept his extracurricular practice to himself.

“I’m here about skinwalkers. At least I think they’re skinwalkers. They might be an Aztec god or or shapeshifters, or possibly demons.”

He blinked, his head jerking to the side in surprise. “Skin whats? And did you say Aztec
god
?”

Either Chuck was ready for an Academy award, or these monsters killing and skinning humans weren’t the Big-Bad that Fiore Noir had been using sacrificial magic to protect the city against.

I was here. I was in the company of a skilled ceremonial magician. Might as well use my time wisely.

“We’ve got three killers going around Baltimore killing people and skinning them. At first we suspected a human serial killer, but we’re now thinking all three are some sort of paranormal creature. They take the skins of their victims and assume their identity.”

Chuck looked horrified, which was odd given that he’d participated in sacrificial magic. “They
wear
the skins of dead people? Do they tan them first or something?”

It was gross either way. “The M.E. says they’ve been preserved somehow, but it’s not a tanning method he’s familiar with.”

He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Are their victims important, powerful people? I assume they’d have to be to warrant going to all that trouble.”

“Not exactly. A college-age slacker. A museum employee. A renegade vampire. And we found another skin that belonged to a teenage boy.”

“That’s four.” Chuck wrinkled his brow.

“There’s only three of them, but it seems they’re collecting these skins and can swap around who they’re impersonating.”

Chuck swallowed, looking rather ill. “Ugh. I don’t know of any mages who do that sort of thing. I’ve never even heard of it before. What did you say these things were again?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe they were related to skinwalkers although I’ve never heard of them using human skins, just animals.”

His eyes narrowed. “Aren’t skinwalkers just human mages who specialize in a kind of shape-shifting?”

“Yeah, but these taste like a rotted corpse so I’m not convinced they’re human. Would a mage who participated in that kind of magic change at a molecular level?”

“How do you know what they taste like?” Chuck again looked horrified.

“One killed a vampire, but before that a renegade north of the city said she’d picked the girl up and when she bit her, the girl tasted like a rotted corpse.”

“I don’t think the magic user in his original form would be changed in any way that would make him taste like that to a vampire.” Now Chuck was beginning to look intrigued. “Perhaps something in the transformation process gives him or her the flavor of the dead body that used to wear the skin. Or a mage that skilled might have a life-extension spell. Some of them involve becoming like the living dead. Of course, a decent illusion spell is necessary because rotted corpses walking around isn’t socially acceptable.”

If so, it was probably the first theory. I just couldn’t see the man who’d cried in the interrogation room as an ancient. “I’m pretty convinced we’re dealing with skinwalkers then. Unless you tell me that there’s an Aztec god somewhere around Baltimore.”

Chuck recoiled. “God, I hope not! So besides the bodies and preserved skins, what have you got? Any witnesses?”

“Just one. A buyer for the museum. He said he saw three teens skinning a man at a rest-stop off I-95 and when he read in the paper that we found the dead guy in the closet, he called in to tell the police.”

Chuck pursed his lips, scowling at the phone receiver. “You sure it’s not him? What did he buy? Cursed object? Maybe at night he turns into psycho-skinner man and he’s trying to throw you off the trail.”

“I didn’t get that vibe from him at all.” I bit my lip in thought. “He was down in South Carolina picking up a piece for an exhibit. Guy fancies himself one of those pickers, going around to flea markets and estates scrounging for a Fabergé egg in Aunt Mable’s dresser drawer. Cursed object is a good theory, but we’ve got witnesses that have them in the same place at the same time, so it wouldn’t be a cursed picker guy switching between a bunch of skins.”

The mage rested his chin on one fist and leaned forward, phone tight to his ear. “So tell me about skinwalkers. What do you know?”

Not much. Not until I got home and read more. Now that I’d narrowed it down, ruling out Aztec gods, this made the most sense.

“There are a few Native American tribes who have legends of individuals claiming to be skinwalkers. They’re human—at least they are at the start—and they were mostly likely magic users who turned evil.”

Chuck snorted. “Evil is such a subjective concept. Taking an animal skin and using it to gain power and knowledge? How is that evil?”

“Well, according to the Navajos, the skinwalker needs to kill an immediate family member to gain the skill.”

“Every gift of magic requires a sacrifice,” Chuck commented calmly. I glared at him until he squirmed. “
I’ve
never done it but I could see if there was a family member you really disliked—say that brother that bullied you growing up—there might be a temptation.”

“Anyway.” I frowned at him as I continued. “Once they gain the ability of a skinwalker, they use their animal forms to kill and injure others.”

Chuck snorted. “Seriously? Why bother? You can do that from a distance with all sorts of other magic—most of which doesn’t require you to off one of your own family.”

The mage was starting to get on my nerves, but I still had hope he’d have some insight for me. “I don’t know why. Maybe killing someone up close and personal as a scary animal is a thrill for them. Maybe they concoct blackmail schemes and rake in the dough. You know, ‘pay me or a giant bear will maul you.’ Or maybe they just like being animals.”

“Or they like being other people.” Chuck rubbed his chin. “That
would
be kind of fun, running around as someone else. There’s no accountability. Rob a bank, then ditch that skin and wear another. It would be like one giant high school prank.”

High school prank. I envisioned three teens running away from home and their Grandmother, hitchhiking their way to the big city, stealing people’s identities and living their lives. It did seem juvenile, if you took away the murder component.

Teenage skinwalkers. Whatever their true age, I needed to get back and research this further. What were their habits? And, most importantly, how could I stop them.

And what the heck was I going to do
after
I stopped them? Could they be sentenced to a prison for the criminally insane, one where the three teens could be in solitary confinement so they wouldn’t skin their roommates? But that would be Tremelay’s problem, not mine.
My
problem was bringing these three in.

I had one more thing I wanted to ask Chuck before I left. “Okay, so whatever Fiore Noir was spelling against, it wasn’t an Aztec god, and it clearly wasn’t three teen skinwalkers. Tell me, Chuck. Tell me what I’m going to have to kill in the near future?”

He grinned. “You know what’s been fun? Having you visit me and tell me about your skinwalker problem. I’d love someone to come by regularly and talk shop. I might even be able to help. I’m quite eclectic in my practice as compared to the others in Fiore Noir.”

How did I ever think I liked this guy? “You cared enough about the city to kill to protect it. Tell me what’s coming.”

“Once a month, on my visiting day. Each time you come I’ll give you a clue—after we talk shop for at least an hour, that is.”

“I don’t have time for this,” I snarled. “Baltimore doesn’t have time for this. For all I know there might already be a basilisk or some other monster terrorizing the city. I’m already sending you popcorn and now you want to be besties?”

“It’s September. If the Big Bad, as you call it, doesn’t appear by first frost, it will wait until spring. That’s plenty of time to visit me and put the puzzle pieces together.”

This was Baltimore, first frost could be in October or it could be in January. I had no idea how long the last two soul magic spells would hold. I had no idea what the heck they were holding back. And I really didn’t want to visit Chuck monthly in addition to sending him popcorn.

But I had to. He’d just given me a clue. Whatever this was, it didn’t like the cold. If we had an early winter, there was a good chance I could figure it out before spring. Six additional clues. And, unlike most people, I had a brilliant father to help me.

“Okay. I’ll see you next month.”

I slammed the phone on the receiver and stomped away, but not before I saw the smirk on Chuck’s face. It made me think that twenty years at Jessup was far too light of a sentence.

I
’D BARELY CRACKED
open
Native American Magic
when my phone beeped with a text. It was Tremelay, sending me an address.

The Powerplant? Was he asking me to go clubbing? Maybe. If there was a good band or a decent D.J.

I glanced over at the fox figurine, still resting on the book shelf with dull red eyes. “What do you think, Raven?” Then my phone chimed again.

Hurry
.

I might not know much about the detective’s personal life, but I doubted he was in a huge rush to have me meet him at a drunken dance-fest. Tremelay wouldn’t demand my presence if it wasn’t important, so I threw my sword over my shoulder and ran out the door.

Parking in that section of the Inner Harbor was impossible at night, so I walked. Or rather, I ran. It wasn’t as easy as it had been a year ago when I’d been working out regularly. By the time I arrived at the huge building which had formerly housed a coal-burning electric plant, I was sweaty and puffing hard. And I was horribly underdressed.

Instead of eyeing my sword, everyone eyed my faded jeans and worn T-shirt. It was a far cry from the miniskirts and barely-there dresses most of the women were wearing. I shifted away from the crowd that was waiting for the concert venue, and looked for the address Tremelay had sent.

The Powerplant was a monstrous conglomerate of bars, clubs, and businesses as well as the concert site. Everything had been built onto and around the original building, which still had the iconic smokestacks. Well, iconic except that they were now adored with a giant guitar advertising the Hard Rock Café.