Spellcasters (69 page)

“They have,” Lucas said. “Cabal policy. They inter their dead immediately.”

Jaime nodded. “Otherwise, it’s like propping open the door to Tiffany’s and going home for the night.”

Lucas caught my confused look. “Supernatural remains are considered extremely valuable necromantic relics.”

“Yep,” Jaime said. “Other people go to the black market for DVDs and diamonds. Us necros get to buy decomposing body parts. Another reason why I give thanks every day for this incredible gift I’ve been given.”
She scraped the last bit of custard from the ramekin and licked the spoon. “Okay, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind for my evening, but let’s do it. Time to wake the recently deceased.”

Jaime had just finished her final Orlando show when she heard the news about Weber. She’d then rented a car for the two-hundred-mile trip to Miami, so we now had a vehicle. Lucas drove because he was the only one who knew where to find the cemetery. But, as I soon discovered, that wasn’t the only reason. When we hit the outskirts of Miami, Jaime put on a sleeping mask. At first, I thought she was taking a catnap. Then I realized that allowing a necromancer to know where the Cabal buried their dead would be a serious security breach. Not that I could imagine Jaime skulking around a moonlit cemetery with a shovel, but I gave her bonus points for blindfolding herself rather than put Lucas in an awkward position.

The Cabal didn’t bury their dead in a municipal cemetery … or any recognizable cemetery at all. Lucas drove past the city limits, then made so many turns that I was lost even without a blindfold. Finally he pulled off the road and headed down a thin strip of land flanked on both sides by swamp. A mile later, the road ended. I squinted out the window.

“This is the cemetery?” I said.

Lucas nodded. “It’s hardly conducive to graveside visits, but the alligators tend to discourage trespassers.”

“Alligators?” Jaime tugged down her blindfold. “Jesus, we’re in the middle of the fucking Everglades!”

“The periphery, to be precise. The Everglades are comprised primarily of saw-grass plains, not swampland as you see here. This would be Big Cyprus Swamp, which is technically located outside the Everglades National Park.”

“Okay, let me rephrase that, then. Jesus, we’re in the middle of a fucking swamp!”

“Actually—”

“Don’t say it,” Jaime said. “We’re not in the middle of a swamp, we’re at the edge, right?”

“Yes, but we will be going into the middle, if that makes you feel better.”

“Oh, believe me, it does.” She peered out into the dark tangle of trees, hanging moss, and stagnant water. “How the hell are we going to get to the middle?”

“We need to take the airboat.” He glanced at me. “If you do see an alligator, your new shock spell should be ample deterrent.”

“Great,” Jaime muttered. “And what are us nonspell-casters supposed to do? Run for our lives?”

“I wouldn’t advise it. The average alligator can outrun the average human. Now, Paige, if you could cast a light spell, we’ll work our way down to the boat.”

A
fter hot-wiring the airboat, Lucas persuaded us it was safe to come aboard, and we set off for the cemetery. The trip reminded me of a Tunnel o’ Horrors ride I’d taken once, the kind where you’re traveling along in pitch black. Nothing jumps out at you, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying, because you spend the whole time tensed, waiting for the big boo. I’ve never much seen the attraction of intentionally scaring yourself silly, but at least with those rides, you know nothing in there can hurt you. Not so with the Everglades. It’s dark and it stinks, and you’re zooming under tree branches hanging with moss and vines that tickle across the back of your neck like ghost fingers. Everywhere you look, you see trees and water, miles of them in all directions. Of course, there’s not much danger of drowning. The gators’ll get you first.

Don’t ask me how Lucas knew where he was going. Even the combination of my light spell and the boat’s headlight illuminated no more than a dozen feet in front of us. Yet, despite the lack of obvious markers, Lucas expertly guided the boat through twists and turns. After about twenty minutes, he eased off the throttle.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“We’re here.”

“Where the hell is here?” Jaime said, leaning over the side of the boat. “All I see is water.”

Lucas steered another few yards, inched the boat sideways, then hoisted up a tie line. I directed my light-ball over his head and saw grass leading up onto a hillock that rose from the water like the back of a sleeping brontosaurus.

“Can we get out?” I said.

He nodded. “Stick to the path, though. And try to avoid stepping in the shallow water.”

“Let me guess,” Jaime said. “Piranha?”

“Not this far north. There are, however, water moccasins, coral snakes, and cottonmouths.”

“Let me guess: They’re all poisonous.”

“Very.”

“Anything else we should know about? Lions and tigers and bears, maybe?”

“There are, I believe, still a few black bears in the swamp, but not in this immediate area. As for feline predators, while I’ve heard of bobcat sightings, I’ve personally only seen a panther.”

Fortunately, we didn’t encounter any alligators, water moccasins, bears, or panthers. I heard a splash now and then, but it was probably a large fish. If not, well, sound carried at night, so it was likely miles away … or so I told myself.

The path wound through a few acres of soil just dry enough to walk on, like ground after spring thaw, when you can’t decide whether to switch to shoes or stick with boots. The perimeter was ringed with cypress trees, those gnarled, drooping, moss-festooned specters that characterized the Everglades. As the ground rose and dried, the plant life gave way to grasses, hardwoods, and the occasional cluster of white orchids.

Lucas pushed back a curtain of willow branches and ushered us into a semicleared patch.

“Cabal cemetery number two,” he said. “Reserved for executed criminals and the unfortunate victims of what the Cabal likes to call ‘collateral damage.’ ”

“I see they saved a few bucks on headstones,” I said, peering over at the unmarked ground. “How the heck are we going to find—No, hold on, there’s some freshly turned earth, so that must be where they buried Weber. Oh, wait, there’s another new grave over there … and that stuff looks pretty fresh, too. Damn. They must employ full-time gravediggers.”

“The ground here dries very slowly, so most of these aren’t as new as they look, though I suspect all three have been dug this month. As for finding Weber’s grave, it isn’t really necessary. In communicating with the recently deceased, relative proximity is as satisfactory as absolute.”

“ ‘Close enough’ counts in horseshoes
and
raising the dead.” Jaime wiped her palms against her jeans. “Okay, time for the gross stuff. Can you guys take a walk while I set up?”

We wandered over to the opposite side of the graveyard. For the next twenty minutes, we sat in the darkness, doing battle with swarms of
mosquitoes and near-invisible biting gnats that Lucas said were called, quite appropriately, no-see-ums.

Finally Jaime called us back.

Although we were within a few yards of Weber’s assumed burial site, we had no intention of actually doing anything with his body. Communicating with the dead, fortunately, did not require raising the dead. Necromancers could indeed return a spirit to its physical body but, having seen it done once, I never wanted to witness it again. Instead, most necromancers communicated with the spirit world in other ways. Earlier Jaime had decided she’d use channeling again, as she’d done with Dana. Channeling was more difficult than other forms of communication, but it would allow us to communicate directly with Weber.

Again, Jaime lit a censer of vervain, since Weber probably fell into the category of a traumatized spirit. Beside the censer of vervain was another of dogwood bark and dried
maté
. This was a banishing mixture, used to drive away party-crashing spirits. When you summon in a graveyard, uninvited ghosts are a definite possibility. For now, this mixture would be kept unlit, but Jaime had an open book of matches right below it, ready to use.

Once we were ready, Jaime closed her eyes and invited Weber’s spirit to join us. It wasn’t a simple “Hey, come on out.” Inviting a spirit required long inducements, and we settled back, knowing this could take a while.

After about two minutes, the ground vibrated. Jaime stopped mid-invocation, hands raised.

“Uh, tell me no one else felt that,” she said.

“The ground out here can be a little unstable,” Lucas said.

I glanced at him. “Like ‘eroding into the swamp at any moment’ unstable?”

“No, the Cabal has taken precautions to ensure the cemetery won’t sink into the Everglades until it reaches full capacity. Minor shifts, though, are not to be unexpected. Please continue.”

Before she could, the earth rumbled again. I pressed my hand to the ground, which vibrated like a twanged piano tuner. Jaime grabbed her matchbook and lit the censer holding the repelling herbs. The ground gave a tremendous shake, so violent I would have toppled sideways if Lucas hadn’t caught me. Behind Jaime, an oak seedling quavered, then vaulted into the air. The ground ripped open, clods of dirt spewing like volcanic lava.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Jaime said, scuttling toward us. “I
know
I didn’t do that.”

A strip of turf ripped back, like a peeled sardine can, opening a deep rectangular pit. From the bottom of the pit came scratching, scrabbling sounds.

“I would strongly suggest we don’t wait to see what that is,” Lucas said.

We all scooped up a handful of Jaime’s equipment. As we turned to run, the thing in the pit rose to the top and, despite Lucas’s advice, even he stopped to look. A body levitated over the grave. It was an old woman with long gray hair, dressed in a hospital gown. Her flesh had desiccated rather than decayed, reminding me of those bog mummies from England.

The body rotated ninety degrees, until its feet pointed at us. For a moment, it hovered there. Then, suddenly it sat upright, eyes flying open.

“Who dares disturb my eternal rest?” boomed a deep male voice with a Scottish burr.

Jaime backpedaled past us. I started to follow, then noticed Lucas hadn’t moved. I tugged his jacket.

“Hey, Cortez, I think that’s our signal to run.”

“While I have no aversion to the general concept, it may not be warranted.”

“Dinnae whisper, mortal!” the corpse rumbled. “I asked you a question. Who dares—”

“Yes, yes, I heard that part,” Lucas said. “However, considering that we did not disturb you, but rather you have answered an invitation extended to another, I believe it is you who must identify yourself.”

“Are you crazy?” Jaime hissed. “Leave it alone!”

“I repeat,” Lucas said. “Please identify yourself.”

The corpse’s head snapped back with a sickening crack, then twisted in a full circle, the flesh around its neck splitting, banshee wail ripping through the Everglades.

“Ah,
The Exorcist
, if I’m not mistaken,” Lucas murmured. “One must admire an entity with a full appreciation of contemporary pop culture.” He raised his voice to be heard above the wailing. “Your name, please.”

“My name is war! My name is pestilence! My name is misery and pain and everlasting torment!”

“Perhaps, but as a form of address, it is rather unwieldy. What do your friends call you?”

The thing stopped its head-spinning and glowered at Lucas. “I have nae friends. I have worshipers. I have devotees. And, thanks to you, today I have one fewer of those.”

“Esus,” I said.

The corpse turned toward me and sat up straighter. “Aye, thank you.” It glared at Lucas. “The witch knows who I am.”

“And, apparently, you know who we are,” Lucas said.

“I am Esus. I know all. I know you, and I know the witch, and I know the necromancer.” He peered over at Jaime. “Caught your show. Nae bad, but it could use a wee oomph.”

Esus’s voice had lost its orator boom and settled into an odd blend of Scottish and American idiom—the speech of an ancient spirit who liked to keep up with the times.

Jaime eased up beside us. “So you’re a …”

“A druid deity,” I said. “Esus, god of woodland and water.”

“I like the witch,” Esus said. “I’ll talk to the witch.”

“And we’ll talk to Everett Weber,” Lucas said.

“No, you willnae. I gave you a chance to speak to Everett and what did you do? Nearly got the poor bastard shot by a bunch of Cabal cowboys. But did I interfere? Nae. I stood down and let my acolyte be taken into custody, because I trusted you to get him out of there.” The corpse threw up its hands. “But, och, he’s out of there now. After he’s dead!”

“That’s true.” I sidled as close to the reanimated corpse as I dared. “But, being all-knowing, you also know that wasn’t our fault. We did our best with the information we had.”

Esus’s sigh blew bits of withered flesh out the corpse’s torn neck. “I know. But I still cannae let you talk to Everett. He’s a wee bit traumatized right now, being suddenly dead and all.”

“Understandable,” I said. “But we really do need to speak to him, and now is the best time.”

“Nae can do, lassie. Ask all you want, but I’m nae changing my mind. Of course, whatever Everett knows, I know, so you could ask me. It’ll cost you, thocht.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jaime said. “No deals with the devil. I’ve learned my lesson on that one.”

The corpse glowered at her. “I am nae the devil. Or a demon. Or some skittering spook. I am …” Esus crossed his arms. “A god.”

“Very well, then,” Lucas said. “What would you like?”

“What do you think I’d like? What do all gods like? Sacrifice, of course.”

“I’ll give up booze for a week,” Jaime said.

“Ha-ha. You could use a wee bit of that humor in your show. Far too much of that touchy-feely stuff for me. A good corpse joke now and then would liven things up. As a druid god, I demand true sacrifice. Human sacrifice.” He looked at Lucas. “You’d do.”