Half-Off Ragnarok: Book Three of InCryptid (18 page)

To her credit, Shelby came right over, putting her hands on my shoulders as I stooped to form a basket for her foot. “I didn’t stay with you only because your cousin was a Johrlac, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Then why?”

She stepped into my joined hands, smiling impishly before she said, “The sex has been amazing.” She pushed off the ground before I could formulate a reply. I straightened automatically, boosting her until her head cleared the top of the fence. Shelby put her hands on the wood, steadying herself.

Silence fell. She wasn’t getting heavier, so she wasn’t in the process of turning to stone—good. Finally, when I could restrain myself no longer, I asked, “Well?”

“We need to go next door,” she said, voice sounding strangely hollow, like she was trying to divorce herself from the scene. “There’s a dead man on the back porch.”

This time, the pause was mine. “All right,” I finally said. “Let’s get you down.” It was time for a little recreational breaking and entering. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

My family has always had what can most charitably be called a complicated relationship with the law. We understand the need for laws that cover an entire population. We just get cranky when those laws are applied to
us
. It’s hypocritical as hell, but when you’re trying to balance the needs of several dozen nonhuman species against the needs of the human population, sometimes hypocrisy is the only answer. In the four generations we’ve been active in North America, we’ve racked up charges ranging from breaking and entering and vandalism to assault with a deadly weapon and murder. So far, we’ve been able to make all those charges go away. Our luck isn’t going to hold forever, and every time we stretch the law, there’s a chance that this will be the time that things fall apart.

All this ran through my mind as my grandfather boosted me over the fence and into the yard of Bill O’Malley, aka, “the dead man on the porch.” He’d been living there alone since his wife had died some eight years previously, which was a good thing for us; it lowered the odds of someone coming in and finding us creeping around the property. I’d already been questioned by the police once today. I really wasn’t in the mood for a second conversation.

I hit the grass in a crouch, straightening and turning to help Shelby lower herself down. Then I grabbed her hand and pulled her farther into the yard, moving away from the fence as fast as I could without actually running. Shelby frowned at me.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked.

“Grandpa’s coming.”

She opened her mouth to ask another question, before Grandpa answered it the easy way, vaulting one-handed over the eight-foot fence and landing on the grass so hard that it seemed to vibrate the ground. I winced. The thump made by his impact meant that we weren’t going to be finding a cockatrice in this yard—the vibrations would have driven it as far away as its wings could take it.

“That’s amazing,” said Shelby.

“That’s engineering,” said Grandpa. He started toward the porch. I moved alongside him, watching the ground for signs that the cockatrice wasn’t as far off as I thought. Nothing moved within my field of vision, and so I turned my attention to the body.

Bill O’Malley had been in his seventies, still the kind of man who could manage his own house, although he’d been using a yard service for the past few years, according to my grandparents. He was lying facedown on the brick of his back porch, one arm straight out in front of him like he was pleading with something. I moved closer, crouching for a better look.

The tips of his fingers were gray.

The door was still open. Looking through into the kitchen, I saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary or even out of place. He’d probably heard a noise and gone to investigate. There had been no one there to mix a poultice for him. He’d never had a chance.

“Poor bastard,” I murmured, straightening. “Grandpa, do you think you can jump the fence while carrying Mr. O’Malley? I want to examine his body under better light.”

“How invasive?” he asked.

“We won’t be able to put him back.” I felt a pang of guilt at that, and knew I had some sleepless nights ahead. Any family he still had would never know what had happened to him. But I needed to confirm, once and for all, that this was a cockatrice, and that meant a physical examination. This was how we’d save lives. I tried, with only limited success, to put the thought of his grieving family out of my mind.

Sometimes it can be hard to reconcile being a Price and a scientist with being a decent human being.

“What are you going to do with the remains?” asked Grandpa.

“Crunchy.” Alligator turtles are immune to petrifaction, as are all true reptiles. He’d enjoy the meaty bits, and any rocks that wound up in his dinner would just be spat out like so much unwanted roughage.

Grandpa nodded. “All right.” He cast a regretful look at the house. “He was always a good neighbor. Never asked too many questions. I like that in a man.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I, Alex. So am I.” With that, Grandpa knelt and scooped Bill O’Malley into his arms. The old man’s face was uncovered in the process, revealing eyes the solid, unwavering gray of granite. Grandpa carried him like he was light as a feather, walking back toward the fence. Shelby and I followed. With no reason to suspect foul play, our footprints would be gone long before the police came to check on Mr. O’Malley. Even Grandpa hadn’t been able to dent the sunbaked Ohio ground.

One by one, we climbed and boosted each other over the fence into our own yard, leaving the dead man’s empty house behind us, lights burning in the windows like signposts, trying to beckon their departed owner home. But he was never coming home again.

“I knew Evelyn was the one for me the very first time I met her. She slapped me so hard that my jaw hurt for three days, and all because I’d said that sometimes, werewolves could be dangerous. Love is a painful thing.”

—Kevin Price

In the kitchen of an only moderately creepy suburban home in Columbus, Ohio, preparing to perform an autopsy on the kitchen table

“N
O,” said Grandma. “Absolutely
not. Martin, what were you
thinking
?”

“That we sold the Ping-Pong table at the rummage sale last summer, so if we’re going to cut a man up, this is the best place to do it.” Grandpa sounded slightly sheepish. “I told you we shouldn’t have sold it. Things like that always come in handy when you least expect it.”

“Sorry, Grandma,” I said, without looking up from the complicated business of cutting Bill O’Malley’s clothes off with the scissors from the junk drawer. His joints had stiffened enough to make it hard to bend his arms and legs, and I wound up removing his pants in small pieces, dropping them into the trash can I had ready for just that purpose.

“Angela. I know this is inconvenient, but we don’t have a better place to perform the autopsy.” Grandpa’s voice was level but firm. He walked over to her, putting one massive hand on her shoulder. “Mr. O’Malley is already gone, God rest his soul, and it’s not like we could use him for spare parts when he’s been half-petrified.”

“Excuse me?” said Shelby.

Grandpa continued like he hadn’t heard her. “Now at least this way, he can teach us something before we dispose of his mortal remains.”

“But does he have to teach us on my kitchen table?” Grandma asked petulantly. Then she sighed. “I suppose you’ll want the autopsy kit.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

“I’ll go get it,” said Grandma. “You three, stay here, and try not to get any gore on my kitchen.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Grandpa. “I think this one is going to require the big tarp.” The two of them turned and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with Shelby and the dead man.

The dead man was honestly the least of my problems. Shelby crossed her arms, glaring at me, and demanded, “Spare parts?”

“Grandpa’s a Revenant,” I said, as I resumed cutting off the last of Mr. O’Malley’s clothing. “He was originally several different dead guys. Now he’s one living guy. You should ask him about it sometime. He tells the best dumb mad scientist jokes.”

Shelby looked at me blankly for several seconds before she said, “You’re a hell of a lot cockier than I’m used to you being, you know that?”

“That’s because you’re finally seeing me in my element. Work cocktail parties, not so much my thing. Dead bodies? I’m your boy.” I pulled the last of Mr. O’Malley’s clothing off of his body, covering his genital region with one of Grandma’s good hand towels. She’d probably yell at me for that later, but the man deserved at least a little dignity.

“Disturbing yet endearing,” said Shelby. “What do we do now?”

“Hmm?” I dug my phone out of my pocket. “Now we examine the body. Have you done this before?”

“I’ve never done a proper autopsy, but I’ve done plenty of necropsies, and a few cryptid dissections. None where the victim was partially turned to stone, but I know how to hold a scalpel.”

“Good.” I handed her my phone. “I’m going to want you to take pictures for right now. Once we get into the more invasive procedures, I may need your hands.”

“Got it,” said Shelby, with a mock salute. “Why are we doing this again? I thought your grandfather was a coroner.”

I saluted back, motioning for her to follow me as I began to circle the body. “He is, but this isn’t really an autopsy so much as it’s a game of hide-and-seek with the petrifaction. He understands the human body. I understand turning it to stone.”

“So it doesn’t matter if you butcher the poor man as long as you find what you need, yeah?”

“Yeah. On that note, there’s some petrifaction of the fingertips and discoloration of the skin to the first knuckle, but the rest of the hand looks normal.” I picked up Mr. O’Malley’s hand, turning it gently. “Normal pliability for this stage of rigor. No signs of internal petrifaction.”

Shelby dutifully took a picture of Mr. O’Malley’s stone fingertips.

My next stop was Mr. O’Malley’s head. As expected, his eyes had been fully petrified, becoming hard round balls of stone. His tongue was also petrified, and his lips were discolored, showing the progress of the petrifaction through his system. His cheeks remained fleshy and skin-toned, the tips of his ears and bottoms of his earlobes had been petrified. Shelby dutifully took pictures of all the grayish spots.

“So is all of this telling you anything?” she asked.

“It was definitely a visual petrifaction—poison moves with the bloodstream, but this was targeting the extremities as much as it was the eyes and internal organs. That’s a sign of the whole ‘visual allergy’ thing.”

“Cockatrice, yeah?”

“Probably. At this point, I’m hoping so.” I looked up long enough to flash her a strained smile. “I’m not really in the mood for another scientific mystery right now.”

Shelby nodded. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s get back to the dead man at hand.”

We had almost finished our initial, noninvasive examination of the body by the time my grandparents came back. Grandma was carrying the plain brown briefcase that contained our home autopsy kit, as well as a pair of rib spreaders, a bone saw, and a chisel. I raised an eyebrow at the chisel. “You don’t know how far the petrifaction has spread internally,” she said.

“Fair point,” I replied.

Grandpa, on the other hand, was carrying an armload of protective gear. He dropped smocks, gloves, and non-polarized goggles on the counter before walking to the kitchen table, putting a hand beneath it, and lifting the whole thing casually off the floor. “What have you learned so far?” he asked, as he began spreading a tarp across what would become our autopsy zone.

“Visual petrifaction confirmed; some damage to the extremities, but the main damage seems to have been to the eyes and throat. His trachea is completely blocked by what looks like concrete. He probably suffocated.”

“What’s this?” I turned to see Shelby looking at the dead man. She pointed. “Look at the underside of his knee. See? Right there.”

“I noticed those during the initial examination,” I said, moving to stand beside her. From here, we had a perfect angle on the wound: two messy punctures, each a little less than five millimeters in diameter, surrounded by a thin ring of petrified flesh followed by a thick ring of bruised and damaged tissue. The marks were spaced about as far apart as a human’s canine teeth, although whatever made them was clearly longer and thinner than a human tooth. I looked at them for a long moment, frowning. Finally, without moving, I said, “Put the table down now, Grandpa. We need to get started.”

“What did she find, Alex?” asked my grandmother.

“Those puncture wounds are petrifying.”

The table hit the floor with a “thump,” and Grandpa frowned at me across the body. “Cockatrice don’t inject venom into their prey.”

“No,” I said. “They don’t.” But lesser gorgons did. So did Pliny’s gorgons.
Oh, hell, Dee,
I thought.
What did your people
do
?

Grandma opened the autopsy kit as the rest of us moved to put our smocks and gloves on. And then, with no further discussion, we got to work.

As dates go, “come join me and my family in dismantling the man who used to live next door” ranked high in memorability, and low in normalcy. Shelby proved to be as well-trained as she’d claimed to be, and didn’t even wince when my grandfather used the rib spreaders to crack Mr. O’Malley’s chest, revealing the half-petrified surface of his heart. The arteries connecting it to the rest of his body were an equal mix of flesh and stone, striated almost like the bands of fat in bacon. Cutting it loose would have been a difficult, time-consuming process, and so we didn’t bother. Instead, we simply took samples from the heart tissue and the equally damaged lung tissue, placing them in sealed vials for later study.

Since we already had cause of death—petrifaction—we were able to skip several of the standard autopsy steps, such as weighing the individual organs and examining the contents of Mr. O’Malley’s stomach. Grandpa did make some disparaging comments about wasting good organs, and Shelby somehow managed to keep herself from asking for details about how he would have used them. It was almost peaceful by the time we were ready to devote more attention to the puncture marks behind Mr. O’Malley’s knee.

The ring of stone around the wounds had expanded during our examination. I frowned as I uncapped a venom extraction syringe and fitted it over the first puncture wound. Shelby frowned too, catching my expression.

“What’s wrong now?” she asked.

“The wounds imply a venom-based petrifactor, but the progression in the eyes, throat, and internal organs implies a glance-based petrifactor,” I said, pulling back the plunger. The suction this created would pull any remaining venom from the wound, allowing me to analyze it at my leisure. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not unless you’ve got one of each, like a sine and a cosine,” said a dreamy voice from the doorway. We all turned to see Sarah standing there, one hand grasping the doorframe, the other pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I woke up and I didn’t know who I was, so I came down here so I could find me.”

“Angie . . .” said Grandpa.

“I’m on it.” Grandma set down the pan she’d been holding and shucked off her gloves, dropping them onto the counter before she rushed to put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. You need to get back to bed.”

“Will you tell me a bedtime equation?”

“Sure, honey. Sure.” Then they were gone, allowing the kitchen door to swing closed behind them. I sighed. Shelby turned to look at me.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“So are the rest of us,” I said, and moved the venom extraction syringe to the other puncture. “I’ll compare these wounds to the field guide after we dispose of the remains.”

“Right—body disposal.” Shelby looked briefly unsure. “How were we going to manage that, exactly?”

Despite my distress over Sarah, and the whole situation, I smiled.