Лорел Гамильтон - Obsidian Butterfly

Ramirez stood at the end of the hallway. He was still smiling as if he were giving me a tour of some other house for some other purpose. His face didn't match what we were about to do. He motioned to the doors to either side of him. "Artifacts to your left, gory stuff to the right."

"Gory stuff?" I made it a question.

He nodded, still pleasant, and I moved closer to him. I stared into those dark brown eyes and realized that the smile was his blank-cop face. His face cheerful, but his eyes were just as unreadable as any cop's I'd ever seen. Smiling blankness, but still blankness. It was unique and somehow disquieting, "Gory stuff," I said.

The smile stayed, but the eyes were a little less sure. "You don't have to play the tough girl with me, Anita."

"She's not playing," Edward said. He'd finally joined us.

Ramirez' eyes flicked to him then back to study my face. "High compliment coming from you, Forrester."

If he only knew, I thought. "Look, Detective, I just came from the hospital. Whatever is behind the door can't be worse than that."

"How can you be so sure?" he asked.

I smiled. "Because even with the air conditioner on, the smell would be worse."

The smile flashed bright and I think real for a moment. "Very practical," he said, voice almost laughing. "I should have known you'd be practical."

I frowned at him. "Why?"

He motioned at his own face. "No make-up," he said.

"Maybe I just don't give a damn."

He nodded. "That too." He started to reach for the door, and I beat him to it. He raised eyebrows at me, but just stepped back and let me open the door. Which also meant I got to walk in first, but hey, only fair. Edward and Ramirez had both already seen the show. My ticket was fresh and hadn't been punched yet.

I EXPECTED TO FIND a lot of things in the bedroom: blood stains, signs of a struggle, maybe even a clue. What I did not expect to find was a soul. But the moment I entered that pale white and green bedroom I knew it was there, hovering near the ceiling, waiting. It wasn't the first soul I'd sensed. Funerals were always fun. Souls often hung around the bodies as if unsure what to do, but by three days' time the souls were usually gone to wherever souls were supposed to go.

I stared up at this soul and saw nothing. If a soul has a physical shape, you couldn't prove it by me, but I knew it was there. I could have sketched the outline of it in the air with my hand, knew about how much space it was taking up as it floated near the ceiling. But it was energy, spirit, and though it took up space, I wasn't entirely sure it took up the same kind of space as I did, as the bed did, as anything else did.

My voice came out hushed, as if I spoke too loudly, I'd scare it away. "How long have they been dead?"

"They aren't dead," Ramirez said.

I blinked and turned to him. "What do you mean they're not dead?"

"You saw the Bromwells in the hospital. They're both still alive."

I looked into his serious face. The smile had vanished. I turned back to gaze at that slow hovering presence. "Someone died here," I said.

"No one was cut up here," Ramirez said. "According to the Santa Fe PD that's the method of killing that this guy is using. Look at the carpet. There's not enough blood for anyone to have been cut up."

I looked down at the pale green carpet, and he was right. There was blood like black juice soaked into the carpet, but it wasn't much blood, just spots, dabs. The blood was from the skinning of two adults, but if someone had been torn apart limb from limb there would have been more blood, a lot more. There was still the faint rank smell where someone's bowels had let go either under torture or death. It was pretty common. Death is the last intimate thing we ever do.

I shook my head and debated on what to say. If I'd been at home with Dolph and Zerbrowski and the rest of the St. Louis police that I knew well, I'd have just said I saw a soul. But I didn't know Ramirez, and most cops spook around anyone that can do mystical stuff. To tell or not to tell, that was the question, when noises from the front room brought us all around to stare behind us at the still open door.

Men's voices, hurried footsteps, coming closer. My hand was on my gun when I heard a voice yell, "Ramirez, where the hell are you?"

It was Lieutenant Marks. I eased away from my gun and knew I wasn't telling the police that there was a soul hanging in the air behind me. Marks was scared enough of me without that.

He stepped into the doorway with a small battalion of uniforms at his back, almost as if he expected trouble. His eyes were both harsh and pleased when he looked at me. "Get the fuck off my evidence, Blake. You are outta here."

Edward stepped forward, smiling, trying to play peace maker. "Now, Lieutenant, who would give such an order?"

"My chief." He turned to the cops behind him. "Escort her off the property."

I held up my hands and started moving towards the door before the uniforms could move in. "I'll go, no problem. No need to get rough." I was at the door almost abreast with Marks.

He hissed close to my face, "This isn't rough, Blake. You come near me again and I'll show you rough."

I stopped in the doorway, meeting his gaze. His eyes had turned a swimming aqua blue, dark with his anger. The doorway wasn't that big, and standing in it we were almost touching. "I haven't done anything wrong, Marks."

He spoke low, but it carried, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

I thought of a lot of things to say, and do, most of which would have gotten me dragged out by a bunch of uniforms. I didn't want to be dragged out, but I wanted to make Marks suffer. Choices, choices.

I rose on tiptoe and planted a big kiss on his mouth. He stumbled back, pushing away from me so hard that he fell into the bedroom and left me pushed into the hallway beyond. Masculine laughter filled the hallway. Two bright spots of color flamed on Marks' cheeks as he lay panting on the carpet.

"You're lying in your evidence, Marks," I said.

"Get her out of here, now."

I blew Marks a kiss, and left through a grinning parade of policeman. One of the uniforms offered to let me kiss him any time. I told him he couldn't handle it and left through the front door to laughter, catcalls, and masculine humor mostly at Marks' expense. He didn't seem to be a popular guy. Go figure.

Edward stayed inside for a few moments, probably trying to soothe things over like a good Ted would do. But in the end he came out of the house, shaking hands with the cops, smiling, and nodding. The smile vanished as soon as he turned so that I was his only audience.

He unlocked the car and we got in. When we were safe inside of its mud-stained windows, he said, "Marks has gotten you kicked off the investigation. I don't know how he did it, but he did it."

"Maybe he and the chief go to the same church," I said. I had snuggled down into the seat, as far as the seatbelt would allow.

Edward looked at me as he started the engine. "You don't seem upset."

I shrugged. "Marks isn't the first right-wing asshole to get up in my face, and he won't be the last."

"Where's that famous temper of yours?"

"Maybe I'm growing up," I said.

He shook his head. "What did you see in the corner of the room that I didn't? You were looking at something."

"A soul," I said.

He actually lowered his sunglasses so I could see his baby blues. "A soul?"

I nodded. "Which means that someone in that house did die, and within three days."

"Why three days?" he asked.

"Because three days is the limit for most souls to hang around. After that they go to heaven or hell or wherever. After three days you may get ghosts, but you won't get souls."

"But the Bromwells are alive. You saw them yourself."