Little Gods (29 page)

“I'm sorry,” Rondeau said, looking down at the table. “Really. But you can't give chicken bones to the dog. It might choke."

“We've got to find Sweeney,” Marla said.

Marla and Rondeau went to Sweeney's old place, a Victorian townhouse in a nice neighborhood. The house had been ritually defiled, the walls covered with lethally mis-drawn spray-painted runes, the corners filled with sea salt, the mirrors all shattered. Bird-shit covered the floor from the flock of pigeons that had been released inside, that now lived raucously in the living room chandelier. The house had been turned into one huge bad-luck death-omen. That had been Sweeney's first warning, which he had disregarded. As if he had nothing to fear from threats of death.

“I don't think he's been back,” Rondeau said, noting the undisturbed dust. The dog sat down by his feet and scratched behind its ear. The pigeons twittered, and the dog barked. It was an adorable bark, a bark that would never annoy neighbors or frighten children.

“Let's check the bedroom,” Marla said, and went upstairs. She opened the closet, which was empty but for a few wire hangers. “He came back for his suits. He was always vain about his suits.” She glanced at Rondeau. “You're vain, too, but he had good taste. Has, I guess."

Rondeau tugged at his purple cuffs. “My taste is unimpeachable. How do you know it was Sweeney, and not some looter, who took the suits?"

She pointed to the carved designs over the closet door. “If anybody else passed so much as a finger through this doorway, zap! They'd be burned."

“That's pretty extreme wardrobe protection."

“I told you he was vain."

The dog trotted toward the closet door.

“No!” Marla and Rondeau shouted simultaneously. But the dog passed through the doorway without visible harm; the runes over the door didn't even glow. It was as if the dog wasn't even there. It trotted back out, whining, seeming unhappy for the first time since they'd met it.

“So where do we go next?"

“Sweeney doesn't seem to be covering his tracks particularly well,” Marla said. “He doesn't seem worried that we'll find him. Where would you stay, if you wanted to thumb your nose at the whole council?"

“Heaven forbid I should do such a thing...” Rondeau considered, then snapped his fingers. “Sauvage's place."

Marla blinked. “Oh, he wouldn't.” Sauvage had been the chief sorcerer in the city, before Marla. He had been murdered, and he was a heroic, almost totemic figure in the city's history, its most accomplished and well-loved secret ruler. His former residence, a lavish apartment above the nightclub he'd owned, was practically a museum piece, preserved and untouched, the nightclub closed, the property owned by the council of sorcerers.

“Sure he would,” Rondeau said. “Sweeney's an asshole."

The dog barked again, as if in agreement, though it might have been barking at a stray pigeon that had made its way upstairs.

“I haven't been in here since the day Sauvage died,” Marla said, pausing with her hand on the door handle. “It's been a long time."

“He was a hell of a guy,” Rondeau said, tugging at his shirt collar. “My goddamn ghost is waking up."

“So long as it wakes up quietly."

“Like that's up to me. I'd rather it never woke up at all."

The dog scratched curiously at the door. Marla pressed her hand against the metal, closed her eyes for a moment, and nodded. “No traps. Not magical ones, anyway. I guess Sweeney could have a shotgun in there, with a string tied from the trigger to the doorknob."

“Cheerful thought."

Marla took a big, old-fashioned keyring from her pocket and unlocked the door. She eased it open and stepped into the dimness, her eyes quickly adjusting to the lack of light. Rondeau and the dog followed, the one muttering and tugging at his lapels, the other wagging its tail. They went past the shrouded jukebox, dusty chairs, and covered pool tables. “The stairway to the apartment is through the curtain, in the back.” Marla led them through the curtain and up the stairs, ghosting silently. Rondeau followed, still fidgeting as if his suit itched, but doing so quietly. Only the dog made a sound, a low growl that Marla took as an encouraging sign. Sweeney must be upstairs. With luck, Marla wouldn't have to do anything to him herself—the dog would do its otherworldly messenger thing and drag Sweeney's spirit away.

Marla paused outside the apartment door. Inside, someone walked around, singing to himself. Marla touched the knob, found it unlocked, and shoved it open.

Sweeney stood in the middle of Sauvage's living room, wearing one of the dead sorcerer's oversized flannel robes. He held a glass of something amber and probably alcoholic in his hand. Sweeney raised a bushy eyebrow at Marla and lifted his glass in salute. “Ah, you tracked me down.” His voice rolled majestically; that was half his charm.

Rondeau stood beside Marla, taking no notice of Sweeney. “Fucking ghost,” he muttered. “It's all ... fluttery."

Marla ignored him, stepping toward Sweeney. “This is the end."

“You've come to kill me, then? Really kill me? Not like your bully-boys did? You think you'll have more luck than they did?” Sweeney didn't seem to be blustering. The whole situation appeared to amuse him mightily, which only incensed Marla further.

Marla touched the dagger at her belt, its hilt wound with bands of white and purple electrical tape. It was her dagger of office, symbol of her position as chief sorcerer, custodian of the city.

The dagger was very sharp.

“What I kill, stays dead,” she said.

Sweeney sipped his drink, then belched softly.

The dog trotted around Marla's legs, cocked its head, and looked at Sweeney.

Marla grinned. “Have you met this nice pooch, Sweeney?"

The dog sprang.

But it didn't jump at Sweeney—it jumped at Rondeau, a shocking lateral move that caught Marla by surprise. The dog hit Rondeau in the chest, and despite its relatively small size, managed to drive him to the ground. The dog snapped its teeth near Rondeau's throat—and, abruptly, Marla's could see the ghost that haunted the zoot suit. Rondeau
wasn't
paranoid or full of shit—there was a paranormal infestation. The ghost flickered and shimmered in her vision, like a black-and-white film projected on a billowing curtain, but it was undeniably there, black hair slicked back, dimpled chin, desperate eyes.

The dog dug its claws into Rondeau's stomach and pulled, holding the ghost by the throat. Rondeau was quiet, perhaps knocked unconscious by the fall, perhaps simply shocked into silence.

“That's unusual,” Sweeney said. “And it looks like such a nice dog."

Marla glanced at Sweeney, then back at the dog. They'd been wrong, she realized—the dog wasn't here for Sweeney. It was here for the ghost in Rondeau's suit. The ghost must have been sleeping before, or dormant, or
something
, somehow beneath the dog's awareness, but now it had woken up, and the dog was on it. No wonder the dog had sniffed at Rondeau so intently; it must have faintly sensed the ghost.

Well, this was unexpected, but it wasn't really her problem. Let the dog have the ghost. She'd take care of Sweeney. Since the dog wasn't after him, perhaps Sweeney hadn't worked some dark magic to cheat death. Maybe Marla's bully-boys had simply made an error, and believed Sweeney dead when he wasn't. Maybe they'd even killed the wrong man by mistake. She would make no such error now. She unsheathed her dagger.

Then Rondeau screamed. Marla whipped her head around and gasped in horror.

The ghost wasn't the only thing being pulled away by the dog's relentless tugging. A flickering image of Rondeau himself was coming out, too, tangled up with the ghost. At first Marla thought the ghost was holding on to—to what? Rondeau's spirit? The ghost seemed to have its arms wrapped around Rondeau's spirit, like a shipwreck victim clinging to a piece of flotsam. But then Marla saw that the ghost's arms
disappeared
into Rondeau's spirit, that she couldn't tell where one left off and the other began. They were joined like Siamese twins, the ghost and Rondeau's spirit somehow
grown together
.

The dog was pulling out the ghost, and in the process ripping Rondeau's spirit from his body.

Marla didn't think. She took a few short running steps and kicked the pale dog in the head as hard as she could. The moment her foot connected, she was wracked by remorse—how could she have done such a thing, kicked a poor, sweet dog? The intensity of her guilt made her double over, gasping.

The dog spun off Rondeau with the force of Marla's kick, releasing the entwined spirits, which snapped back into Rondeau's body. The dog hit the carpet, rolled, then gained its feet. Marla expected it to growl and snarl, but it only lolled its tongue, wagged its tail, and raced off down the stairs.

But it would be back. Supernatural messengers weren't the quitting kind.

Sweeney could have escaped at any time during the confusion, but he was still there, half-smiling. “Damnedest thing I've seen all week,” he said. “Wish you hadn't kicked the dog, though. I liked it."

Marla drew her dagger, bared her teeth, and rushed at Sweeney.

He died like anyone. Nothing special. But she had Rondeau (who was sweating, shaking, and clearly frightened by his ordeal) wrap the body in a blanket. They would hold onto Sweeney's corpse for a while, to make sure it didn't stand up and walk away.

Marla called Hamil, and told him to send a car. She sat on the couch smoking a clove cigarette, looking at the wrapped bundle on the living room floor. Trying not to look at Rondeau. He didn't speak, either, just sat shivering in a chair.

Marla's cell phone rang, once. The driver was here. She picked up the wrapped corpse and slung it over her shoulder. “Let's go."

“Marla,” Rondeau said, voice trembling. “That thing ... what happened with the dog..."

“We'll talk about it later,” she said, more disturbed by the whole thing than she wanted to admit. Marla wasn't particularly good when it came to seeing around corners, and she didn't see a clear-cut way to solve this. That made her nervous.

And, somewhere out there, the dog was waiting. Wagging its tail.

“He's quite dead,” Hamil said, tugging the blanket back over Sweeney's face. He frowned at Marla. “You executed him rather ... enthusiastically, didn't you?"

Marla sighed. “I wasn't in a very businesslike frame of mind. But he's dead, really dead, and that's what matters."

“Yeah, all our problems are solved,” Rondeau said morosely. “Except for the dog that's after me."

“The dog is only a symptom of your larger problem,” Hamil said. “From what Marla described, this is more than a simple haunting—this ghost is parasitic. This is a possession-in-progress. The ghost is devouring your spirit, fusing with it ... and once the process is finished, you will be gone. Only the ghost will remain, in your body. Every minute you wear the suit, the possession progresses a little farther. I'm sure it's very difficult work for the ghost, taking you over this way ... that probably explains the periods of dormancy. It's psychic recuperation time."

It also explains Rondeau's recent fascination with flashy cars and big band music
, Marla thought. The ghost was already partly assimilated, its personality bleeding into Rondeau's own.

“Already the ghost is so entwined with you that the dog cannot drag one away without taking the other,” Hamil said.

“I should've never bought this suit,” Rondeau said. “But it was only
four dollars
! And once I put it on ... hell, I could tell it was haunted, but I looked so sharp! I figured, it's just a ghost, it's harmless, it's a psychic burp, an aftertaste, an echo. Nothing to worry about. I mean...” He looked at his shoes, frowning. “I haven't taken this suit off since I got it. I haven't showered in a week. I thought I just ... liked the suit a lot. But now I think I was compelled to keep wearing it, just like I was compelled to be nice to that dog."

“So take the suit off now,” Marla said. “Arrest the process."

“I doubt it will come off so easily,” Hamil said.

Rondeau nodded. “It's like its part of my skin."

Marla touched her dagger's hilt. “So we cut the suit off."

Hamil shook his head. “Won't work. Unless you're prepared to take the skin with it."

Marla considered that. “Last resort,” she said finally. “Other options?"

“I'm looking into it,” Hamil said. The expression on his face told Marla that he had ideas—just nothing he wanted to mention in front of Rondeau.

“Go lie down in the spare bedroom, Rondeau,” Marla said. “Get some rest. We'll keep an eye out for the dog."

“Go away and let the grown-ups discuss things,” he said, with just a trace of bitterness. “Got it."

“So,” Marla said once Rondeau was gone. “Give me the bad news."

“Your knife,” Hamil said. “It's ... special, as you know. I realize you largely limit its usage to assaults on the material, but under the right circumstances, the knife can also be used to cut the
immaterial
... even the flesh of the soul."

“So you're saying..."

“You can cut the ghost out of Rondeau."

Marla stood up. “Hell, let's do it!” Seeing his dour expression, she sat back down. “What's the catch?"

“Think of the ghost as a cancer, and of Rondeau's spirit as healthy tissue. It's an imperfect analogy, but it will do. Imagine trying to cut away the cancer. Part of the tumor is easy to excise, and comes away cleanly. Sometimes, though, you have to cut away some healthy tissue along with the cancer. And sometimes...” He shook his head. “Sometimes, there's no way to cut out the cancer, because it's spread too far, and can't be removed without destroying vital parts of the healthy tissue. Without killing the patient."

Marla nodded. “So I can cut away some of the ghost, but not all?"

“Yes. Fortunately, unlike a cancer, the remaining parts of the ghost—those you can't cut away—will not continue to grow or spread. But those parts left behind
will
have an effect. A few of the ghost's memories, perhaps, or the ghost's taste in food, or movies, or sex. Or larger personality traits may carry over. And in the course of cutting away the ghost, you may unavoidably remove pieces of Rondeau's spirit, slice away sections of his memory or personality...” Hamil shook his head again. “It's an ugly business."