Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

The knife man cursed, anger and fear and outrage all mingled together.

“You should know your tools better,” Sylvie said. “That talisman is protection against the dead , protection against necromancy . This gun? Is all real-world.”

The knife man pressed himself against the wall, his blood adding new swirls to the already stained wallpaper. His fingers tightened on the knife, considering coming back at her, at Wales. Definitely a pro. Sylvie liked big-caliber guns, liked the way they knocked men down and kept them there. This guy was used to being knocked down but not out. She aimed again, and said, “Don’t. You delivered her message. Now deliver mine.

“Odalys needs to stay away from my life, my family, my friends, and my city. If she knows what’s healthy for her, she’ll stay tucked up nice and tight in prison and behave herself.”

“She’s a witch; she’ll eat your heart—”

“Someone’s been watching too much Disney,” Sylvie said. “Go on. Get out. Give her my message.”

He rose; she tracked his movement, kept the gun leveled at his heart. “By the way, leave the knife.”

He growled, dropped it, and she shifted stance enough to let him sidle around her, hand white-knuckled on his shoulder. Sylvie kicked the door closed after him.

“You got careless,” she said. Wales glared up at her, untangled himself from the heap he was in, and folded himself into a seated position.

“I’d noticed, thank you,” he said. “You put Odalys in jail? Guess that means you saved the day.”

“Something like that,” she said. “Get up, Wales. We gotta go.”

“I’m all packed,” Wales said. His voice shook, as did the hand he pressed to his neck. The blood seemed to have stopped, though, and Sylvie felt her shoulders relax.

“So you are,” she said, allowing herself the luxury of looking around now that there wasn’t a knife-wielding assassin taking up her attention. The room had been bare the last time she saw it—furnished with a single table, a chair, a futon, and decorated by a dozen or more Hands of Glory dangling from the ceiling. Now the mobile from hell was packed away, only small hooks showing that anything had once hung from the ceiling, and the futon was covered with taped-shut cardboard boxes. “Leaving town?”

“That was the plan,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet, a scarecrow rising, making the room seem suddenly smaller. “Thought I might have made myself unwelcome.”

Sylvie’s response faded before she voiced it. The puddle of blood—Wales’s and the assassin’s mingled—was disappearing, small half circles curving inward, revealing the linoleum squares in damp spots. “What the hell—”

“Marco,” Wales murmured.

Sylvie grimaced. Marco, the murdered convict. The ghost associated with Wales’s favorite Hand of Glory. “I thought they snacked on souls, not blood.”

Wales didn’t look at her, let his gaze fall to his blood-spotted hands. “Some ghosts like both.”

“And you just let them wander loose?”

“Marco and I came to a new agreement.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like a good one. Where was he when you were attacked?”

Wales raised his head, grinned. “Doing the only thing he could. Letting you in. Amazing what a little independence in a ghost can get you.”

The blood on the floor began disappearing again; Sylvie was torn between being creeped out that she couldn’t see him, and grateful. Her imagination was bad enough, showing her a man kneeling facedown in a puddle of blood and licking pale lips.

“Get your shit and let’s get out of here,” she said.

“Where’d the we come from, Shadows? I’m leaving. You’re not invited.”

“Stop fussing and be grateful. I just want a consult on a case. It’s right up your alley. Dead people.”

“It’s been two days!” he said.

“You’ve been hanging around the dead too long. Life moves fast,” she said. “C’mon, I’ll let you store your boxes in my office. I’ll even buy you lunch.”

She hefted the first box—distressingly light and rustling—eight boxes in the room, and she had to have picked up his box with the Hands of Glory. . . . But she’d lose her momentum if she dropped it and danced around, shaking off the squeamish.

He growled. “Y’know, Shadows, I thought Southern women were supposed to be sweet and courteous. You’re pushier than a damn wheelbarrow.”

“Yeah, yeah, bitch too much, and I’ll take you to Mickey D’s instead of someplace good. Time’s a-wasting, Wales.”

He caved all at once, his scarecrow body easing from the stiffness he’d been holding tight.

“Fine. Fine. But it’s going to cost you more than a lunch. I want a consult fee.”

“Everyone’s greedy,” she said. “Hurry it up, Wales. And hey, do we bring that knife or what?”

Wales looked back at it, his aggravation swapping back out for remembered fear. “Only if you need a knife that can hurt ghosts.”

Sylvie shook her head and laughed. “Odalys. Christ. She would have been better off just sending someone to shoot you through your window. There’s a convenient roof right across the way. That’s the problem with you magic-users, always reaching for the esoteric answer.”

“I’m so glad you’ve thought of ways to kill me,” Wales said. He kicked the knife toward the wall and stalked out.

“Don’t take it so personally,” she said. “It’s my job. Besides, it’s not like she didn’t have a go at me already.” Even as she said it, she was wondering. Why would Odalys bother to send a messenger to threaten Zoe when she’d already sent a witch to kill Sylvie? Threats only meant something if there was someone alive to feel threatened.

While Wales loaded boxes in her pickup, Sylvie took the opportunity to call Zoe. There was a small but quantifiable difference between knowing her sister was safe at Val’s, and knowing it. Zoe picked up just before the phone went to voice mail, and said, “Too early! Call me later,” and hung up. Sylvie doubted she’d ever really woken up. Zoe liked her sleep. But hearing that familiar whine had soothed the worst of her nerves. Sylvie called Val also, got the machine. No surprise there. Even if Val had agreed to take care of Zoe, to teach her Magic 101, AKA how not to get yourself killed in a truly freakish fashion, it didn’t mean things were copacetic between Sylvie and Val. That was going to take some time.

“Hey, Val,” Sylvie said. “Just a heads-up. Odalys sent a magically armed thug after Wales, and he made noises about coming for Zoe, too.”

Wales returned, sweating, pushing his hair out of his face, and gave her a dirty look. “We’d be out of here faster if you’d help.”

It took them three silent trips to get the rest of the boxes into the truck, and Sylvie spent the time thinking about Odalys with increasing grimness. She’d known that jail wasn’t going to be the end of things if they even managed to get Odalys convicted. The charges Suarez had arrested her on were approximations at best, real-world analogues for magical misbehavior, and hell, Suarez hadn’t even had jurisdiction. A single wrong step, and the entire house of cards would fall, setting Odalys free. Sylvie had been willing to wait and see. That no longer looked like an option.

The problem was that the bars imprisoning Odalys also protected her. Odalys had contacts she could reach on the outside, but Sylvie’s only friend on the inside was in the hospital and out of the loop. Still, something had to be done.

Sylvie didn’t know if it was just a bad idea, or a really bad idea, that made her think she had a solution.

But first . . . she battened down the last of Wales’s boxes and slung herself into the truck’s cab. The Ghoul was a sullen presence in her passenger seat, idly tapping his fingers against his inner jacket pocket.