The Necromancer (Amber Lee Mysteries Book 3) (13 page)

“D. Randscom,” I said, “Seventeen, seventy six. Date of construction, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Frank said, “But a date of death is more likely.”

“Does the name sound familiar to anyone? The D. could stand for David or Devon.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Damien said, but as we moved along the tunnel paying close attention to the wood on the walls and ceilings we started to notice more names.

Each name had a first initial and a family name to it, as well as a date. They were roughly written, too, as if someone had carved them in with a Stanley knife. We went with the assumption that the numbers carved into the wood were dates, and with that in mind 1776 was the oldest date we came across. Many years showed up more than once, but there weren’t enough names and dates to imply that every person who had died in the Raven’s Glen area had an entry written into the wood.

It seemed more likely that these were people who ended up in the Underworld, somehow. Though the reason why a soul may end up in such a dark, dank place still escaped me. Were these souls with unfinished business? Were they the victims of sudden deaths, or violent ones? Suicides? Murders? Accidents? Why did some spirits get caught in the gravity of the Underworld while others soared above it?

The questions were relentless. I could sense the conveyer belt starting up again. Any moment now, a torrent of question bags would come flowing at me and I would struggle to find the one I could answer in the moment. The others would drift and return, waiting to be picked up.

At least, in the excitement, I wasn’t so much bothered by the cold anymore.

“Over here,” Collette said. She was ahead of us, now; only a faint glow in the sea of black. “We have arrived.”

I approached Collette and made the turn she was standing by without hesitation, but I wasn’t ready for what I saw beyond it.

The tunnel opened up into a great cavern which wasn’t pitch black and soundless. Here, I could hear voices and sounds. Music? I could see lights, too. Pale gaslights hanging on poles along what I could only describe as a street. On either side of it, buildings stood.
Buildings.
There I was, marveling at the mineshaft I had just come from, when only yards away an opening to a brand new world stood waiting.

I stepped into the street followed by Damien, Frank and Collette. Ahead of me I could see people moving around, Crossing from one side of the street to the other. They looked busy, too. Some were shoving crates around, others were just idling. One man stood with his back to a building, flipping a coin with one hand and checking a pocket watch chained to his waistcoat with the other. He glanced toward me as I walked past, but then he looked away.

The buildings around us had all seen better days, but they were intact and standing. I thought we had crossed into a western movie, and by the crooked brown and beige buildings surrounding us we would have been excused for believing such. But the inhabitants here seemed to come from all walks of life; and boy if there was life down here.

There were people
living
in the Underworld.

“Frank?” I asked, “Did you read about anything like this in that book you had?”

“Witch, don’t you think I would be a little more talkative if I had?”

“Missington,” Damien said.

I turned to him. He was reading a plaque stuck to the side of a building. “What’s that?” I asked.

“The name of the town. Missington, population seventy seven.”

“What of it?” said the guy with the pocket watch.

“Nothing,” Damien said.

“New here?”

“Sorta.”

“You look fresh.” The man pushed himself from off the wall and stepped across the wooden porch, boots thumping on the ground as he came. He sniffed the air. “Smell fresh too. Won’t last long in here.”

“We aren’t looking to stay.”

“Jus’ passin’ through?” His voice was hoarse and forced, and he had a scar down his left cheek.

“Yes,” I said, “Actually, maybe you could help. I’m looking for someone.”

“Everyone’s looking for someone down here,” said the man.

“I’m looking for someone who doesn’t belong here.”

The man cocked an eyebrow. “You sure as hell don’t look like you belong here, red.”

The muscles in my throat tensed up. “Is there a sheriff around here, or someone who might know who comes in and out of town?”

The man shook his head. “Last sheriff we saw come through here didn’t last long.” He made a cutthroat gesture with his thumb against his neck. “If you get my meaning. Your best bet is to try the Saloon. Barman is the only one around here who keeps his eyes and ears peeled. Rest of us jus’ mind our own business.”

“Right, well, thank you.”

The man in the waistcoat took a few steps back, rested against the wall, and checked his pocket watch again. He never said another word.

Damien joined us in the middle of the stony street and as the strange world moved around us—watching us with suspicious eyes—we thought, considered, and decided.

“I’m going to the Saloon,” I said, “And I want to go in alone.”

“Alone?” Frank said, “Why in the world would you want to do that?”

“Because we’re attracting attention as a group. We need to split up and spread out.”

“Amber is right,” Collette said, “Ze dead are slow to notice things and react, but they will react eventually. We must be gone before then.”

“Alright,” Frank said, “So we split up. We’ll ask around out here, but when you’re done in there you come right out.”

I nodded. “I will.”

Collette took my hand and said, “Be careful in there, Amber. I sense intelligence in zat Saloon. Zey will know you are living.”

I glanced at the building on the corner of the street. Light was spilling out onto the street from inside and a soft piano tone was playing.

“I can handle it,” I lied.

I didn’t know how hard of a time I would have at using my magick if I got into trouble, but I hadn’t come this far into a dead world to play it safe and I didn’t want to spend one second longer than I had to in it.

It was all or nothing, now.

CHAPTER 15

I strode across the street and entered the Saloon like I was born to, but as I crossed the threshold of the swinging door I found my composure sapped away in one mighty gasp. I guess I didn’t know what I expected to see, coming in to a place like this. Everyone here was dead. How much of a ruckus could they cause? But when I stepped inside, the ruckus hit me hard in the gut like a hot shot of tequila.

A piano was playing in the corner of the room by itself; a little southern ditty I didn’t recognize but one which had many of the patrons dancing. A poker game, wreathed in a mantle of cigar smoke, was taking place in the darkest corner of the Saloon; all hard faces, hats and cards. On the first floor banister a number of women in colorful dresses waved and whistled at the drunks downstairs; and they all wanted a moment or two alone with them—any of them.

I had seen student bars gloomier than this on a Friday night.

I made my way through the tangle of tables and chairs, careful not to bump into anyone, not to make eye contact, not to—

“Psst! Red!” A voice caught my attention. I stopped, turned, looked. The man was drunk off his face, was rocking weeks’ worth of untrimmed beard, a wife-beater, and stank of… Gods, I didn’t know what he stank of, but it made me want to cry. “Yeah, you,” he said, drooling over his denim jeans. “Why don’t you come on over here and give ol’ Huntley a kiss?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“C’mon. Pretty girl like you could make any man’s day. You’re prettier than any of the girls in here, you know that?”

“I’m not interested.”

“I’ll pay!” he said, wiping the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. “I’ve got silver!”

“Again, no.”

Huntley scowled and reached for my hand. I went to twist away from him but was too slow! He grabbed me and pulled me closer to his reeking body. “Huntley don’t like being refused,” he said.

My heart jump started and kicked into high gear. My body trembled, but not out of fear. It was the Power. I stared Huntley down and his face changed color, if that was at all possible. He released me and backed away, as did two of his friends who had been watching the whole thing.

“You’re… you’re—”

A pulse of magick shot out of my chest and into his, sending him sprawling to the ground on his ass. The music and the chatter stopped. His friends looked on, wide-eyed, but neither of them said a word. Then the piano resumed, and the chatter slowly came back into being. I turned away from the men and headed toward the bar, content, but now more alert than ever.

The bar was clean and clear of filth and drunks so I found a spot and sat down. Looking over my shoulder I could see that the specter of cigar and cigarette smoke was hovering and casting a hazy mantle about the Saloon, but it was only a curtain of smoke, it seemed to have a nucleus; a central, moving wisp floating around with a kind of intelligence I couldn’t comprehend. Was the cloud a ghost too, or was it something else? The nucleus weaved in and out of the spaces between people and things, encircling them, caressing them—
claiming
them.

Come in
, it would have said if it had a mouth to speak with,
Join the party
.

If that was a ghost, it was the creepiest thing I had ever laid eyes on. If it wasn’t a ghost, well, that opened up a whole other can of worms. And somehow I didn’t think I could exactly walk up to it and ask it what it was. I didn’t exactly know the etiquette around here and I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself on account of my status as one of the living.

“What can I getcha?” said the barman.

I shook my head and turned to face him. He was tall, muscular at the chest and arms, and he had a handlebar moustache. But his attire wasn’t altogether old fashioned. It was faded to hell, sure, but he was wearing a
Metallica
shirt and a pair of dark Levis. And I was pretty sure he was packing a revolver in the holster by his right hip.

“Me? Uh, what is there to drink?”

The barman turned and gestured to the wall at his back. It was covered in bottles with no tags on them, only liquids in various shades of brown and grey. “Take your pick, though for you I’d recommend a little fire water to take the edge off.”

“Fire water?”
Alcohol
. “I, no thanks, actually I’m here looking for someone.”

“Everyone’s looking for someone here.”

Second time someone had said that. “Yeah, I’ve heard. Anyway, I—”

“Listen, you either order something or you can see yourself out. I don’t give stuff away for free.”

I tapped my back pocket, hoping, slipped my hand into it and fished out a still wet ten dollar bill. On the one hand I was buzzing to have found money in a pair of jeans I hadn’t worn in a long time. On the other, the note was ruined–and I didn’t think to bring my wallet with me into the Underworld.

The barman eyed up the ten dollar bill from the other side of the bar and sighed deeply.

“This is all I’ve got,” I said.

“Doesn’t look legit to me.”

“It’s real.”

“Lemme see here,” said the barman, and he snatched the sloshy paper from my fingers. “Who is this, on the bill?”

“Hamilton.”

“Who?”

“Alexander Hamilton. This is a current ten dollar bill.”

The barman slapped the bill on the counter and slid it my way again. “Living currency is no good here,” he said, “I’m lookin’ for dead currency, old notes. Or, failing that, a day of your life.”

“A day?”

I was starting to learn that the dead had a kind of sixth sense. They could tell I was alive just by looking at me. It couldn’t have been a physical thing given that I was about as pale as anyone else in the bar. It had to be mystical.

“That’s how much a drink down here is worth,” the barman said, leaning over the bar. “That’s how much my
time
is worth.”

“I’m not about to give you a day of my life just so that you can answer a question. I don’t even know if you know who I’m looking for.”

“Sure I do,” he said.

“Oh? How?”

“Because why else would a pretty little red-head like you have come all the way down here from the above? Sure ain’t for the drink.”

“So you know something, then. And if you do, you’ll know it’s dangerous.”

“Not to me it ain’t.”

“Maybe not to you, but what about the rest of the good people of this town?”

“Do I look like a sheriff to you?”

“No. You look like someone who’s more interested in getting paid than doing a good deed.”

“Listen missy. I don’t run no God-dang quid pro quo service. You want something? You pay for it.” The barman straightened up. “I suggest you leave, red. Otherwise some of these folks might mistake you for one of my girls, an’ I ain’t gonna stop them.”