Брайан Макклеллан - Uncanny Collateral

It was almost three in the morning when I pulled onto a quiet street just south of Mayfield Road on the eastern border of the Cleveland city limits. I sang along with Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” on the radio, squinting at signs until I found one advertising all-night parking. I got out, shrugging on an unlabeled hoodie and getting a Maglite from the passenger seat of my rental. I looked up and down the street, eyeballing the darkness for cops. The only sign of life I saw was a couple making out beneath a stop sign a block away.

The sight of them caused a stab of melancholy. It happened from time to time, especially when I was working late at night. I leaned on the car door, willing it away, trying not to think about the fact that my last girlfriend had dumped me after three weeks because I worked too much. That had been a couple years ago, and I’d had nothing but the occasional bar hookup since. As much as I liked Maggie, the fact that my only constant companion was a seven-century-old jinn was a tad dehumanizing.

The melancholy finally passed, and Maggie didn’t seem to have noticed. Hey, Mags, are we clear? I could see my breath as a white fog beneath the flickering of the street light.

We’re good, Maggie told me.

You’re sure about that?

Yeah. Closest cop is half asleep, eating a donut three streets over from here.

Oh, come on, I told her. That’s racist.

Cops aren’t a race.

Coppist?

Is it coppist if he really is eating a donut? she asked.

I should ask Justin.

I checked my pocket for a pair of plastic baggies filled with some draugr dust I’d scraped up after our fight the other day. There was more dirt, gravel, and glass from my pickup windshield than there was actual draugr dust in either bag, but Maggie claimed it was enough. I flipped up my hood and walked quickly down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for passing cars.

I crossed Mayfield Road and pulled myself over a seven-foot concrete wall, dropping on the other side to land in an overgrown tangle of vines, discarded stones, and the trees that formed a screen between the road and Lake View Cemetery. I knelt among the vines, squinting through the trees to the open grass and winding concrete paths that made up the cemetery beyond.

I spotted a flashlight bobbing in the darkness off to my left just as Maggie said, Security, and I moved behind a tree until he passed.

Rub a little more of that draugr dust on my ring, Maggie told me.

Kinky, I replied, following her instructions. I could practically feel her rolling her eyes.

Okay, I got it, she told me. They’re both in the same tomb. Head north until I say so.

With Maggie guiding the way, I was able to navigate to the nearest path and follow in the security guard’s footsteps. There was just enough moonlight that I could manage without my Maglite, but I kept it in hand regardless. We passed hundreds of graves varying as much in shape and size as the people within them. Black obelisks towered high above, and shadowy mausoleums seemed to menace me from the darkness. Despite working with loa, vampires, and even Death, cemeteries still gave me the willies.

How much do you think you’d have to be paid to be a security guard at a cemetery? I asked Maggie.

I’m a jinn. I’m not really scared of the dead.

Not even the undead?

Only ghouls. They’re undead jinn.

Oh, that’s a pleasant thought. I considered the small amount of Maggie’s power she was able to use from within the ring and decided I didn’t want to see that in the hands of a vengeful undead.

Mean bastards, Maggie said. I’ve never had to tangle with one myself, but I’ve heard a pack of them can kill even the strongest ifrit. Ifrit were a class of powerful infernal spirits – a type of jinn to which Maggie was closely related.

I was about to reply when I felt her ring nudge me down a side path toward the northeast corner of the cemetery. I dodged another security guard, and within minutes I was standing before a marble mausoleum about the size of a one-car garage. I checked over my shoulder, then risked my Maglite.

The mausoleum was tucked into a space off the beaten path and behind several large trees. It was overgrown with moss and ivy, the lettering above the iron-grate door so worn it was impossible to read. Upon closer inspection, I found the door wasn’t locked or even closed all the way. A chain lay on the ground just inside the entrance, its links snapped rather than cut.

I took a hesitant step inside the mausoleum. There wasn’t a lot of space – just two stone sarcophagi in a dark, damp interior. It looked like something out of a vampire film, except with way less space. An old-fashioned light bulb sconce hung from the center of the ceiling. I couldn’t find a switch to turn it on, so I relied on my Maglite.

The sarcophagi had matching marble lids. One had the name Trevor carved into the top, while the other said Jacob . They were born in 1798. One died 1874, the other 1877.

Twins, I’m guessing, I said to Maggie. I wonder if that made it easier for the necromancer to raise them both. I did a quick examination of the lids and found scratches where lid met base. Definitely the right place. I set my Maglite on one sarcophagus and emptied my pockets beside it: a bag of draugr dust, a wooden stake, a two-pound iron ingot, and a thin piece of sturdy cord. I eyed the assortment dubiously. You sure this is going to work?

Oh, not at all. It’s not like I’ve tried all this shit out before – I found it in a book.

You’re really doing great things for my confidence. I leaned on the lid of the opposite sarcophagus and began to work it open. It scraped and screeched until I’d managed to get it as far off as possible without it falling off the side. I grimaced at the sound and listened carefully for either Maggie’s warning or the shout of a security guard. Taking a deep breath, I snatched up the Maglite and shone it inside.

The draugr lay peacefully in repose, arms stretched out at its side. It looked like a fairly ordinary corpse at first glance, but a closer look revealed that the flesh clinging to its bones was far too robust, the skin almost pink rather than black with age. An inexperienced eye would claim that the body laying before them had only been dead a short time, not a hundred and fifty years.

It says here, Maggie intoned, that draugr raised by a powerful necromancer are impossible to kill permanently unless you find their resting place.

What the hell are you reading from?

It’s called The Weary Dead , and it’s by some court physician. Fourteenth century, I think. It says that draugr will grow in strength each time you destroy its physical form. By virtue of its master’s magic, it will reassemble itself in its grave and become stronger and stronger each time it does so. By the third time it rises – which will be in a couple of days – its flesh will appear almost human, and it will have access to black magic, including shapeshifting, the force of wind, and control over lesser animals.

Okay, then. We should kill it ASAP.

Stop interrupting; I’m almost finished. The draugr’s fury will increase each time it is destroyed, blah-blah-blah, and it will stop at nothing to accomplish its master’s will so that it may be released to terrorize the world. Huh.

So that explains why they tried to kill me even with Nick being locked up and out of the picture.