I drove without any real direction in mind at first, driven mostly by a need to simply get away. It annoyed me that I felt a twinge of guilt for not wanting to let Ryan know about what had happened. Why did I need to run and tell Ryan anytime something weird or strange happened to me? Maybe because he’s the one of the few people I know who understands “weird and strange,” I reminded myself with a sigh.
But I couldn’t face him right now. I needed to chill for a while before seeing him, otherwise he’d know something was up.
At the next stop light I sent a quick text to Ryan, telling him that the scene took longer than I’d expected and that we’d have to hit the studio tomorrow. I didn’t want to get sucked into a phone convo with him. Too much chance that he might hear something in my voice, and then I’d end up explaining what happened and he’d be all worried and ...
I sighed. And that was the problem. He acted worried and caring and all of that, like the absolute bestest of best friends. And I liked that we were such good friends, I really did. Or rather, I would like it more if I didn’t want so much more, and if I could get rid of the niggling sense of uncertainty about him. Aaaand we’re back to me being whiny and neurotic! Full circle on the emotional roller coaster.
Besides, as harsh as it might sound, there was little that Ryan could do if I told him, other than worry.
Rhyzkahl might be able to do something. Even as the thought whispered through my head I couldn’t help but feel as if I was somehow betraying Ryan by even considering another summoning of Rhyzkahl. But the demonic lord would be far more able to tell me if it had been some sort of directed attack or simply some random ripple of arcane weirdness.
My thoughts continued to tumble in jagged discord for the entire drive home. Full night had descended by the time I pulled up to my house, with the waxing moon hanging above the trees, mocking me with its not-fullness . Still, it’s less than a week until the full, I thought as I entered my house and locked the door behind me. And summonings of Rhyzkahl were always easier than traditional summonings since he was willing to be drawn through.
I descended the stairs to my basement and looked down at the storage diagram, uncertainty coiling through me. Unfortunately, I had no way to measure how much power was stored beyond a general sense of full or not full. I was fairly sure that I had enough to perform a summoning of Rhyzkahl.
But I’d been a summoner long enough to know that “fairly sure” was a good way to die a screaming death. If I ran out of power partway through the forming of the portal, it would latch onto the next closest source—me—and would then collapse in on itself while merrily reducing me to the smallest possible pieces.
I fought back the spurt of panic the mere thought of that had produced. No. It would be the height of idiocy to attempt a summoning without being absolutely positive that I had sufficient power. There was no such thing as screwing up a little when it came to that.
Not to mention I’m not exactly calm and focused right now.
I turned away from the diagram and returned upstairs. It looked like I was on my own for a little while longer.
Chapter 14
Needless to say, the next morning I was in the perfect state of mind to attend an autopsy.
As usual, the outer door of the morgue was propped open with a chunk of concrete. I stepped in, automatically breathing shallowly until I could get used to the odor—a strange combination of bleach and other sanitizers, with the faintest underlayer of rot. Carl kept the morgue as pristine as possible, but I’d seen the way bone dust and blood flew everywhere, and I knew there was no way to ever get the place truly clean.
Carl was already in the cutting room, setting out the equipment that would be needed for the autopsy. I went ahead and donned the plastic smock and gloves, earning me a slight smile and a raised eyebrow from him.
“So eager to dive into the gore today,” he murmured as he headed off to the cooler.
“Are you referring to me or you?” I shot back.
“Either will do,” he replied.
I grinned. I was used to Carl—or as used to him as anyone could get. He was quiet and dour—or at least that’s how he came across to most people. I’d had the chance to get to know him a bit more personally in the past few weeks—due in no small part to the fact that he was dating my aunt.
Yeah, I was still getting used to that. My aunt had a boyfriend. The morgue tech. Not only that, there was something odd about Carl when it came to arcane powers. Protective wards didn’t work on him. It was as if he didn’t exist. Moreover, when he’d been attacked by a creature with the ability to eat souls, he’d been unaffected. Does that mean he has no soul? Or does he simply have some sort of super-resistance to what we call magic?
Either way, it was enough to make me treat him with newfound respect and caution. It helped that, as quiet and dour as Carl could be, he seemed to be a pretty nice guy, and my aunt was apparently quite happy to have him around.
And if he’s with her, then I don’t have to be around as much, the thought snaked through my head, and I felt a quick flash of guilt for thinking it. I loved my aunt. But sometimes lately it was a little creepy and unsettling to be around her.
I pulled my attention back to the present as Carl pushed a laden stretcher up next to the metal cutting table, then unzipped the body bag to reveal the body of Vic Kerry. “Another day out there and it would have been fairly disgusting,” he commented, as if making note of the color of Vic’s underwear.
I thought he was fairly disgusting anyway, with the bloated face and maggots crawling around his eyes and nose. Carl photographed the body while it was still dressed, then I gritted my teeth and helped Carl remove the man’s clothing. Carl held out a bag for me to put the clothing in but I paused.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Sorry. I was looking at the dirt.” Like handprints, as if someone with dirty hands had picked the man up. Or with hands made of dirt. The tiny bit of lingering doubt dissipated. Now if I could just figure out what exactly the golem-thing was.
Carl tilted his head. “I take it you feel this is unusual? He was lying in bushes for several days.”
“It goes along with what I felt up in his office,” I said, oddly relieved to know I could be more forthright with Carl. “There was a strange resonance there. I think Vic Kerry was murdered and I think it’s connected to the attack on Lida.”
“Interesting. Have you spoken to your aunt about it?”
I shook my head and went ahead and put the clothing into the bag. “Not yet. Haven’t really had the chance.” It hadn’t even occurred to me to go talk to her after last night’s incident. Had I lost that much faith in her? No, I was simply preoccupied, I tried to reassure myself. That’s all.
Silence fell for a few minutes while we finished undressing the body and prepping it for autopsy.
“She’s still your aunt,” he said abruptly.
I grimaced. “I know. But—”
“She was changed. Subtly,” he continued. “She was in the void for long enough that she absorbed aspects not of her original nature.” Then he shocked me by saying, “Just as you were changed by your time in the void.”
I stared at him, literally openmouthed. “I wasn’t changed!” I finally managed. “I mean, I—”
“You were in the void for two weeks before you were called back,” he said, eyes intent on me in a manner that was beginning to seriously creep me out. “The changes are subtle, but there for those who can sense them.”
I could feel gooseflesh spring up on my arms. “Can you sense them?”
I expected him to confess to great arcane knowledge, or admit that he had othersight or some such thing. I didn’t expect him to smile and shake his head. “No, but I see how the changes in you have affected those around you who can sense them. Whether they realize it or not.” He shrugged. “Most don’t realize it. But I listen and watch a lot.”
“Ryan?” I said before I could think.
His smile widened very slightly. “He is one.”
The banging of the outer door interrupted the odd conversation, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
“Morning, boys and girls,” Doc said with a cheerful grin as he strode into the cutting room. Dr. Jonathan Lanza was the forensic pathologist for the St. Long Parish Coroner’s Office—a slender man about my own height, with dark hair and eyes, and a nose that betrayed his Italian heritage. He’d come to St. Long Parish after working in both Las Vegas and Houston, which meant that he had a wealth of knowledge that we were deeply fortunate to have access to.
“So, this is the guy who decided to try to fly?” he asked, gaze skimming over the body on the table.
“Yep,” I said, “but I think he was helped along.”
He picked up his clipboard and peered more closely. “Hunh. Well it definitely looks like he was attacked.” He pointed to Vic’s neck. “Carl, clean that dirt off please?”
Carl obligingly stepped forward with a wet towel and carefully wiped away the smears of clay.
“A bit easier to see now,” Doc said, pointing to the marks on Vic’s neck with the end of his pen. “Here you can see bruising—from the fingertips of whoever grabbed him by the throat.” He frowned. “Looks deep too. His attacker was pretty damn strong.”
I kept the interested look on my face and didn’t offer any possibilities.
“And your boy here tried to escape,” Doc continued, indicating several scratches. “Those look like fingernail marks—his own as he tried to get the attacker’s hand off. I’ll do scrapings from under his nails in case he managed to scratch the other guy as well.”
“Sounds good,” I replied. I’d be shocked if anyone else’s flesh was found though. I glanced at Vic’s hands and could easily see the dirt under his nails.
I watched as Doc and Carl took scrapings and clippings from the nails and sealed them in a small envelope. It would be forwarded to the DNA lab, but I felt no need to put any sort of rush request in.
