Anita Blake 24 - Dead Ice (64 page)

I frowned at him. “Hmm, okay, yeah, I guess so. Who are we waiting on again?”

“Why, do you have to meet Jean-Claude later?”

“Not exactly, more an ongoing attempt to have a life and a career.”

She gave me a tired smile. “I understand that. When my kids were teenagers I’d be away so long that they looked like strangers to me. When did you get to be four inches taller, that kind of thing.”

“I can’t imagine trying to do this with kids,” I said.

“I was lucky, my husband worked from home part time and was Mr. Mom full time.”

“My wife and I are still at that fighting-about-whose-career-comes-first point.” Brent frowned. “I’m sorry, that was oversharing.”

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Manning asked him.

“I don’t . . . maybe two hours.”

Manning turned to me. “He was working long distance with our tech crew trying to trace the origin of the videos. Some of the items in the room make them believe it’s still being filmed here in the United States, if we could just figure out where.”

“I think it’s here, too, and I don’t have anything but a gut feeling to go on,” I said.

“Or maybe we all hope it’s here, because that makes them easier to find,” Manning said.

“And catch,” I said.

She smiled, but she looked tired, too.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” I asked.

“Going over all the files we have on this, so I’d be fresh to look at the films with you today.”

“I was out doing zombie stuff all night. I managed to grab a few hours this afternoon, but I guess we’re all behind the sleep curve,” I said.

There was a brief knock at the door. Manning said, “Come in.”

A woman came through the door, smiling. She looked so young she could have been one of Cynric’s classmates, except for the FBI suit skirt that no self-respecting teenager would have worn unless forced. She was wearing a round Peter Pan collar and a little chain with a heart on it; I hadn’t seen either since college, and the blouse had been on a student teacher. Straight brown hair was fastened back behind her ears with a barrette. She wore no makeup except for light pink lip gloss and was still delicately pretty with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were big and pale brown like Bambi’s. Maybe it was the eyes that made her look so young?

“This is Agent Teresa Gillingham, Marshal Blake,” Manning said.

I got to my feet and held out a hand to Agent Gillingham’s offered one. The moment we shook hands I knew she was another practitioner, which was politically-correct-speak for psychic. I didn’t know what flavor she was, but whatever she was it tingled all the way up my arm.

She withdrew her hand with a little laugh. “Wow, they told me you were psychically hot, but that was something.”

“Agent Gillingham,” Manning said with reproach plain in her voice.

“I know we were supposed to hide what I was, so Marshal Blake would be more likely to use her gifts without hiding from the FBI psychic, but she knew I was another psychic the moment we shook hands, didn’t you, Marshal?”

“Yeah, your energy’s pretty obvious, too.”

“What kind am I?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not even going to try to guess?”

“No.”

She looked at me a little like Manning had; maybe it was FBI training? “You’re no fun, not to even try.”

“You’re not the first agent to tell me that.”

“About guessing their psychic ability?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“No, about not being any fun.”

“Oh, I bet you’re lots of fun away from work,” she said, smiling and raising an eyebrow at me.

I was suddenly wondering if she was flirting with me. I wasn’t very good at subtle, and maybe she was just being friendly.

“We’re all more fun away from work,” Brent said, and he definitely didn’t mean anything by it, so I let it go. Maybe I was starting to look for people flirting with me, or expecting it; weird. There was a time in my life when I was pretty oblivious to all of it.

Agent Gillingham said, “Special Agent Kirkland is right behind me; he had to take a phone call.”

I didn’t even try to hide my unhappy about that bit of news. “That makes you unhappy; why?” Gillingham said.

“You don’t have to be psychic to know that,” I said.

“It was in my report,” Manning said.

“I meant I wasn’t trying to hide my feelings,” I said.

“There’s not hiding your feelings and then there’s being obvious about it,” Gillingham said. She looked hard at me and I felt a brush of something. She was probing me.

“Keep your powers to yourself, Agent.”

She actually blushed a little.

“What do you mean, Blake?” Manning asked.

“Did Gillingham just try to peek?” Brent asked.

“Yeah, she tried to peek,” I said.

“I didn’t feel anything,” Manning said.

“Me, either, which meant it was really subtle,” Brent said, smiling and friendly, but there was something in his eyes that was thinking too hard. I realized that he was a little bit psychically gifted, at least enough to usually pick up active psychic probing, but he hadn’t sensed what the other agent had done.

“It was,” I said. I looked at Gillingham.

“I’m sorry, Marshal.”

“Sorry for trying to sneak a peek inside when you know full well that’s considered rude among practitioners, or just sorry you got caught?”

“Both,” she said, and her lips smiled when she said it, but her eyes stayed serious and thoughtful.

“If instructors told you I was hot psychically, then you should know I’d sense it.”

“They said you were powerful, but like a bull in a china shop.”

“I smash things, is that it?”

“Sometimes, but it’s more you are so powerful psychically that you just bull your way through everything, so subtle energies are lost to you because you give off so much of your own energy it makes you blind to other practitioners.”

“Once, maybe, but not much gets by me anymore.”

“You’re even more powerful than I was told. Being around you is like standing next to power lines just humming through the air.”

“Most psychics don’t describe me that way.”

“How do they describe you?” she asked.

“Scary.”

She laughed, and I wasn’t sure if it was humor or nerves. I might even have asked, but the door opened behind her, and it was my fellow marshal and unhappy coworker.

“Hi, Larry,” I said.

“Anita,” he said. He closed the door behind him. He didn’t shake hands with Gillingham, just nodded at her.

“I see you’ve met Agent Gillingham before,” I said.

“Did she try to probe your thoughts yet?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at Gillingham. “I told you not to do it, didn’t I?”

She looked embarrassed again. “I was very low-key about it. I thought her own power would hide it.”

“You thought your little knock-knock would be lost in the loudness of her own energy, is that it?”

Gillingham nodded.

“What did I tell you?”

“Not to try,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because Marshal Blake is better at being a practitioner than the instructors at Quantico seem to think.”

“Remember, I sat through those same classes, Teresa. Their information is several years out of date about Anita, and I suspect several other major powers in the states.”

“Not the world?” Manning asked.

“Interpol seems to keep better track of their psychics and whether they upgrade their skills,” he said.

“Why do you think that is?” Manning asked.

“They’ve had practitioners on their force longer than we have, for one thing.”

I said, “And they keep files on psychics in case they get powerful enough for Interpol to feel they represent a danger to the public, because they have to have enough proof in their files to get their version of a warrant of execution for the witch.”

“Witch is a religion, not a psychic talent,” Gillingham said.

“In the United States,” I said.

She frowned and looked at Larry, as if for confirmation. I wondered if he’d been one of her mentors, or even a teacher. “Anita’s right; in parts of Europe you’re a practitioner, or a psychic, until you get powerful enough for the government to see you as a danger and then they label you a witch. It’s still legal to kill witches in parts of Europe.”

“I thought witch meant what a rogue vampire or lycanthrope is here, that they’ve killed people,” Gillingham said.

Larry and I both shook our heads. “They just have to prove that the practitioner is sufficiently dangerous,” Larry said, “but they don’t actually have to have hurt anyone yet, in some parts of Europe. It’s even worse in parts of South America and Africa.”

“That’s not how the books explain the European system,” she said.

He smiled, but it was a cynical smile. “Yeah, it made my little trip to Europe interesting.”

“I didn’t know you were in Europe,” I said.

“Let’s say it made me appreciate my own country more, and be a little less judgmental.”

“You hit the psychic radar pretty hot yourself, Larry,” I said.

“So I was told in several countries that I won’t be traveling to again. They accused me of being a necromancer, and that particular talent is an automatic death sentence in several countries, especially in Eastern Europe.”

“Former Soviet bloc countries don’t allow necromancers,” I said.

“I didn’t think I qualified as one, but they thought differently.”

“Oh, Larry, I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.

He smiled. “Yeah, I wasn’t quite chased out of the country with pitchforks and torches, but I think if I hadn’t been FBI it would have been even more dangerous; as it is I’ve been marked as a person non-desirable in several countries.”

“Why were you traveling in Europe?” I asked.

“Looking for more animators and necromancers.”

“Anyone with gifts like ours hides there,” I said.

“They hide, or they’re dead,” he said.

“Why were you looking for necromancers?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you, Anita, you don’t have my clearance level, I’m sorry.”

“You sound like you mean that,” I said.

“I do.”

We had a moment of looking at each other, and he suddenly put his hand out. I hesitated and then took it. We shook, and I saw something in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in years: sympathy toward me. He’d been hating on me so long that I’d started to hate him back.

“I am truly sorry, Anita.” I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about Europe.

“I’m glad. I’m still sorry it was scary over in Europe for you,” I said.

“Me, too. I had no idea the level of hate people have over there for our talents.”

“They’ve had more large-scale undead incidents over the centuries there than we have here, I think.”

“I got a little taste of people not trusting me just because I was too good with the dead. I didn’t like it much,” he said.

“I understand that,” I said.

“Truce,” he said.

I nodded. “Truce.”

We still weren’t back to being friends, and he hadn’t asked for that. He knew he’d done too much damage for that, but it was a start. I sat down to watch the videos with Larry beside me, and for the first time in years, I was glad he was there.

T
HERE WAS ONLY
one extra person in the room for this viewing, but the room seemed way more crowded. Maybe it was Larry going pale beside me and saying out loud, “They told me what I’d be seeing, but words can’t prepare you for it, can they?”

We’d all agreed that no, words didn’t do the horror of the actual visuals justice.

I lowered my psychic shields as the blond zombie was told to walk to the bed. I looked at the man in the corner who was giving her orders. All I could see was a shoulder or arm in a long-sleeved shirt, and that was only every once in a while. He obviously didn’t want to be on film, so why stand where he was even a little visible?

I felt something brush against me. I looked at my arm to see if an insect had gotten into the room, but there was nothing on my arm. I put it down to lack of sleep and went back to watching the blond zombie. Something brushed against my leg, as if there were a cat in the room, and I knew that wasn’t true. I stopped trying to “see” what was on the screen, and turned my attention to the here and now in the room.

Larry beside me was like an orange/yellow energy that I could see from the corner of my eyes, but he was just sitting there looking pale and watching the film.

The invisible something brushed my leg again. I’d never experienced anything like it before; it was almost like a ghost, but I knew that wasn’t it. I knew what ghosts felt like. I looked slightly back and found Agent Gillingham like a pale yellow/white light. I turned back to the videos, in time to see the man’s arm so that his hand showed. Why wasn’t he more hidden? Was he the animator who had raised the zombie? I tried to see if I could see a connection between them that wouldn’t show to my physical eyes. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to see it, even if it was there, but if he was the one who had raised them, then we were looking for someone who could raise the dead and who would be willing to do something this monstrous. Contrary to movies and TV, most animators and voodoo priests are nice law-abiding people, so this kind of shit would narrow the field. The voodoo priest and priestess I knew would help find this guy, if I could prove to their satisfaction it was him standing there, and not just the client he gave the zombie to.

Something brushed my shoulder. I thought it was my own hair, until I went to move it and realized it wasn’t. I looked around the room without moving my head, letting my own power search outward, and I kept it aimed at Gillingham. She was the only other psychic in the room; if it wasn’t her doing something I’d search farther out, but I’d learned that you start with the obvious and then try weirder stuff.

I couldn’t get a good read on what was onscreen, because whatever was trying to get my attention was dividing my focus too much. Two things happened at once, that soft brush at my shoulder, and again I might have thought it was my own hair, but I knew the difference now. It wasn’t me, and Gillingham’s energy sort of pulsed a soft red.