Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

“I do know about shape-shifters,” she said. “I know they don’t play dead well enough to be body-bagged before they wake up and change shape. These women were dead. Cold and dead. You need to pay better attention, Wales. I told you that on the road.”

His response was a petulant huff better suited to a teenager than an adult and was followed by another spew of backchat that made Sylvie wish he was as tongue-tied around her as he was around Alex. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me some since I was still thinking on the man that came to knife me. Normal people need recovery time for that sorta thing.”

Alex’s eyes widened in sympathy, and her urgings that he sit down and have a pastelito and a coffee overrode Sylvie’s reflexive snort of, “You’re holding yourself up as normal now, Ghoul?”

When Alex’s fussing looked like it might drive Wales away, Sylvie said, “Alex.” It was more than a reprimand; Sylvie had Odalys to deal with, and her idea didn’t look any better now than it had earlier, but it was all she had.

“You need something?” Alex said.

“You still got . . . Wright’s contact info?”

In the kitchenette, Wales shot to attention, nearly dropping the paper plate Alex had pressed on him. “Hey, I nearly forgot about your possession case. You got rid of his ghost all right?”

Sylvie snapped, “Mind your own business. Alex, you got it?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, slowly, a drawl that nearly matched Wales’s natural speech and was alien in her mouth, a mark of her uncertainty. “But didn’t you . . . I mean, you’ve got it, too, right?”

“You’re the one who’s going to call, though,” Sylvie said. “Just let him know about Odalys’s bid for power, would you?”

She wanted to call; her fingers itched for the phone. She wanted to hear the cadences of his speech in Adam Wright’s voice. But Demalion had a job to do—two jobs, neither simple. Better to wait until he’d dealt with one or the other. ISI or Wright’s family.

Wales shook his head. “What do you think a Chicago cop can do about a Miami necromancer? You’re grasping at—” His gaze narrowed. “That ghost of his was from the ISI. You gave the body to the ghost?”

“ Gave isn’t the word I’d use,” Sylvie said.

“Christ,” Wales said. “And the man inside, the man who owned the body? What’d you do with his soul?” He set the plate back on the counter, the pastry untouched.

“It’s none of your business,” Sylvie said again.

“Death magic is my business, and if I’m going risk myself in the swamps with you, I’d like to know that you’re not going to sell me out for your own—”

“She didn’t .” Alex stopped them both. She slammed herself into her seat, her coffee mug onto the desk. It sloshed but didn’t spill. “It wasn’t her fault. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. Wright died. Demalion got the body, but there was no taking or stealing or anything like that.”

“Were you there?” Wales asked. “Or is that what she told you?”

Sylvie gritted her teeth. “Alex. Call him. See if he can get a word to the ISI gossip chain; see if they can be bothered to take an interest. Maybe we can make her their problem. Wales, I’m going to say this once more. Leave this topic alone.”

“He came to you for help,” Wales pushed.

Sylvie said, “I did what I could.” Her throat felt tight, a little ragged, but the conviction shone through, surprising even her. The guilt she’d been afraid of for days crumbled. It was true. She could grieve for Adam Wright’s death; she could be uncomfortable seeing his body walking around with a new owner; but ultimately Wright had chosen to die as he’d lived: helping people.

If she could summon his spirit back from whatever afterlife he’d found, she thought that Wright’s regrets would be sharp but few. It might be self-serving thinking—Wales clearly believed she was to blame—but Sylvie was going to cling to it. She was tired of grief and guilt.

“So, monsters and dead things that kill cops. You ready, Ghoul?”

Alex said, “Call Suarez first. He wanted to talk to you. Wouldn’t leave the message with me. You might let him know that I’m in on the big stuff; it makes message taking a lot easier.”

“Hey,” Sylvie said. “Caution’s a nice trait. ’Sides, you ever think that it wasn’t you he was worried about but whoever might have been listening in on his end? Cop who talks about magic like a real thing might get a bad reputation pretty quick.”

She dialed as she spoke, hoping that Suarez’s call meant he was out of the hospital, hoping he’d be more lucid, could give her more to go on. She was willing to go out to the Everglades and play monster-hunter, but she’d prefer all the information she could get.

The phone clicked over. Lourdes answered. Sylvie bit her lip, and said, “Adelio Suarez, please,” hoping if she kept it short, kept it professional, there’d be a chance that the woman wouldn’t recognize her voice. Lourdes sighed but passed the phone over.

“Shadows?” Lio asked. “Are you at the site?”

His voice was sharper than it had been yesterday, less blurred by shock, pain, or drugs. Agitated, though. Sylvie regretted calling; she knew how this was going to go. Cop stuck in bed when there were problems to solve—he wanted to backseat drive.

“Not yet,” Sylvie said. “Did you remember anything else?”

“Make sure you’re not seen. By the cops, or the damn strange suits that showed up. And the press is swarming, so stay out of their way also.”

“Lio—”

“And don’t use my name if you get caught, or call on me for help. Odalys’s lawyer is screaming, and my name’s not what it should—”

“Suarez! I get it. Call me if you have something new to tell me.”

“Tell me what you find.” Suarez got out a final demand just before Sylvie disconnected. Her nerves felt stung and jostled; she loathed being treated like an idiot, like a subordinate. Lio needed to remember he was her client, not her boss.

“Do you need any stuff before we head out?” Sylvie asked Wales. He jerked as if she’d caught him doing something other than eyeing Alex sidelong, then flushed brick red across his pale cheekbones.

“Stuff?” he asked.

Alex grinned, and Sylvie reminded herself to have the talk with Alex. No dating necromancers. She took another, more objective look at Wales. No dating necromancers even if they were halfway to good-looking by daylight.

“Magical tools?” Sylvie said. “To help at the scene?”

“Now, see, let’s chat about that for a bit. What exactly do you want me to do?” He held up a hand, said, “Not that I’m saying I won’t help. I just want to know what you expect of me.”

Sylvie sat on the desktop, swung her feet for a second, thinking. It was a fair question. “To be honest, Wales, that depends on what you can do. At bare minimum, I’d like you to take a look at the scene and see if you can sense and/or identify whether necromancy was used and what its purpose was.”

He frowned, twisted his hands over, stared at his knuckles. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”

“Special equipment?”

“Just me. And Marco.”

“Marco?” Alex asked.

Sylvie said, “You want to show her Marco?”

Wales rose abruptly and went outside, stood squinting up at the sun.

Alex wrinkled her brow, gnawed her lip. “So what’d I say?”

“Marco’s his pet ghost,” Sylvie said. “He carries Marco’s Hand around in his pocket.”

“His . . . Oh,” Alex said. Her lips tightened. She pushed her coffee cup away from her as if the cream and sugar had gone bad.

“Necromancer,” Sylvie said. “Not a clean magic. Something to remember, Alex.” She pushed off the desk, ambled out into the sunlight after Wales, and left Alex with something to think about.