Spirit and Dust (31 page)

The rest of the group was in the librarian’s office, where it was warmer, and Lab Coat was trying to see if he could connect
a laptop to the security camera feed, even with the main power off. Marian had wanted to stay, but I warned her she wouldn’t see much.

So it was just me and Carson. Nothing awkward about that.

Once I’d found Aunt Ivy’s picture, I propped the book open on the table and rubbed my hands together to get the blood back into my chilly fingers. “Ready?” I asked, and looped Carson in with my psyche, the way I had with Oosterhouse in the apartment.

“Ready,” he said, and got out of the way to let me work.

The picture was black-and-white, showing Ivy with her hair pulled into a braid, her foot braced on a rock, an artifact in one hand and a trowel in the other. But I pictured her in color, as I’d seen her at the Institute museum.

I focused on our similarities, on the links we shared in the chain of our DNA. I called to any remnant I could reach by any stretch of imagination. I pulled as if I could bring her all the way from 1932, and despite the cold, a sweat of effort stung my cuts and scrapes.

After all that, my aunt appeared with staggering abruptness, like I’d yanked with all my might on a door that hadn’t been locked. I caught myself on the table as Ivy, looking exactly as she had before, glanced around, getting her bearings. I was ready to introduce myself all over again to this new shade, but when she saw me, recognition lit her face.

“Daisy! Good grief. You look awful.”

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I said, wondering how to even start to explain.

“Did you find it?” she asked urgently. “The Jackal? Did you get to it before the Brotherhood?”

“How did you know—” The question confused me, and not just about how to answer it. “Are you the same shade from the Institute?”

“Of course,” she answered impatiently. “Don’t sound so surprised. Goodnights go where they’re needed. I told you: you’re never alone.”

I didn’t know how to wrap my head around that. And she was waiting on my answer to her question. “It’s really complicated. The Jackal isn’t a thing … Well, I’m not sure what it is, exactly, I just know that everything is a huge mess and it’s my fault and I have to make it better.”

The words came out in a guilty rush. I hadn’t just been naive. I’d been overconfident, so sure I knew everything, could handle any spirit. I’d created this situation by playing into Oosterhouse’s hands, and all I’d been able to do since was plug holes on a sinking ship.

Ivy’s shade walked through the table and laid her hands on mine. Sensation raced up my skin and sank into the heart of me. Reassurance. Willpower. Permanence. A steady foundation in a rocky world. “Anything you need is yours. You have generations of Goodnights at your back, Daisy. More than you know.”

While I still reeled from that, she stepped back and dusted off her hands in a down-to-business way. “Now. What do we have to work with?”

Feeling more confident—except for the part where I realized Carson had heard all of that—I told her, “We have the Book of
the Dead. Oosterhouse’s book. At least, I’m pretty sure.” I gestured to the laptop, where hieratic writing filled the screen. “Can you read it?”

She leaned in, fascinated by the computer. “What wonder is this! Is it some sort of electronic tablet?”

“Not exactly, but we have those, too. It
is
electronic, though. The writing is stored inside.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Ordinarily, it might take a few days. But let me see.…”

Before I could stop her—remnants and electronics don’t always mix well—she placed her hand
inside
the laptop. The screen flickered and flashed, and the picture writing scrolled upward, faster and faster until it was nothing but a blur of pixels.

The blur became swirls and fractals and finally resolved into letters. English letters. Ivy staggered back, her image wavering. I reached to steady her, and the air she occupied was frigid.

Carson had sat back to let me work, but at that he straightened, as if he would help. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Everything,” Ivy answered him, her voice still weak. “With the secrets in this book, one could achieve what the pharaohs only dreamed of—innumerable worshippers, eternal power, and eternal life.”

“How?” I asked, giving her as much of my strength as I could. “I’ve guessed at some of it, but until I know exactly what’s happened, I can’t undo it.”

She sat in one of the chairs, as if she had substance. “The soul, according to ancient Egyptian afterlife beliefs, has three parts: the
akh
, which journeys to the afterlife; the
ka
, which remains
in the burial tomb; and the
ba
, which can fly about and pay calls and such.”

“Okay.” That sounded at least a little like my understanding of remnants, except the flying-around part.

Ivy nodded to the computer. “This Book of the Dead contains a ritual that allows one’s
akh
to come back from the afterlife, and by rejoining with the other parts, become a creature of both worlds, able to call on the power of the dead to work magic.”

“What about the Brotherhood?” Carson asked. “Where do they fit in?”

Ivy tilted her head to study him before she answered. “The deceased needs a priest and acolytes to help him reunite his spirit. Since he is, after all, deceased. Whoever bears the mark of the pharaoh—though really it could be anyone with enough riches and power to rate acolytes—holds a share of this power.”

“Ha!” I slapped my hand on the table. “It
is
magic tattoos.”

Carson didn’t quite roll his eyes. “But the Brotherhood have been doing magic since we met them in the cemetery.”

Ivy might not know what he meant exactly, but she seemed to follow well enough. “The mark gives some small power, but the more pieces of the pharaoh’s spirit the priest possesses, the more easily he and the acolytes can work magic. Which I’m sure comes in handy when doing the master’s bidding.”

Then she looked at me and asked the question I’d been dreading. “How many pieces of the Jackal do the Brotherhood have?”

“All of them.” There was no sense in hiding it. “The shade of Oosterhouse—his
ba
, I guess—tricked me into opening the Veil for him.”

Carson spoke up, surprising me. “It wasn’t her fault. She was trying to save me.”

Ivy’s image wavered with alarm. “It doesn’t matter why. It matters what he and his acolytes can do now. Where is he?”

“On the first floor, in the Egypt exhibit,” I said. “I managed to bind him, but the Brotherhood have us trapped in here.”

“You must keep them from getting the book. If the Jackal gets loose, he can draw on all the ghosts in Chicago for power. And if he completes the ritual, he can go anywhere, have access to all the souls in history.”

I fell into a chair, vividly recalling Phin telling me we live in a finite world. But all the souls in history? Maybe not infinite, but that would make little difference to the people he would rule.

“How can we stop that from happening?” I asked.

She considered the question grimly. “You have him bound. You could entomb him and leave him for later generations to deal with.”

I rubbed my pounding head. “I don’t think the city of Chicago would be thrilled with my collapsing their nice museum on him. So entombing isn’t really doable.”

“Then we have to think of something else,” she said. “The book has instructions for unbinding the Jackal’s
ka
from his grave. That can only be done once the spirit is rejoined. You didn’t do that, did you?” When I shook my head—I’d only had the grave remnant half untied from the Anubis statue—she looked relieved. “Then I’ll wager his acolytes are preparing for that ceremony, hoping it will work on your new binding as well.”

“And once it’s unbound?” asked Carson. “What then?”

“The reborn pharaoh is still just spirit,” she explained. “He needs a body. The last step of the ritual will transfer the binding from the tomb to a living person. A host.”

“Like possession?” Carson asked, more calmly than I would have managed.

Ivy paused, as if reviewing the text in her mind. “Even with a perfect translation, this subject matter is esoteric. But there’s more a connotation of a symbiotic partnership.”

Whatever Carson was thinking, it etched a deep V between his brows. “So the host would have the Jackal’s power?”

I didn’t want to let it get that far. “What if I sent his spirit back beyond the Veil?” It seemed an awfully simple solution.

“That might work.” She seized the idea with growing enthusiasm. “The book warns that the gods would be jealous of a new brother and might try and cast him back to the afterlife. Rending and sundering of spirit flesh was mentioned.”

“That sounds promising,” I said.

“But you’d have to do it before he’s bound to a host, or more than spirit might be torn asunder.” Her frown deepened even more. “If the Jackal knows you can open the Veil, you’re in terrible danger, Daisy. You are the biggest threat to him. And the biggest prize. If he kills you, he might be able to take your power over the gate to the afterlife. And then …”

And then the Jackal would not be confined to the spirits on this side of the Veil. Not just all the remnants in history, but all the souls in eternity. What was more infinite than that?

“That’s not going to happen,” said Carson. I didn’t know if he meant the raiding of the afterlife or the possibility of the
Jackal sending me there. When he used that steely voice, I really didn’t care. We stood apart, but his conviction warmed me.

Ivy measured him with a long look, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t have a chance before Lab Coat popped his head out of the office door.

“Hey, guys,” he said. “You might want to come look at this. Either we’re about to get rescued, or things are about to get weird.”

Carson and I exchanged glances and headed for the librarian’s office. Halfway there, I realized Ivy was following, and turned back.

“Aunt Ivy,” I began, aware that Carson had paused as well, watching the exchange. I thought about dropping the psychic connection that let him hear Ivy, but worried that would put another pebble in the shoe of our limping partnership. “You know it’s really dangerous for you here, right? These guys can zap you like that.” I snapped my fingers.

She grinned. “I’m just a scrap of spirit, Daisy. My soul is safe in the beyond and I have no body to damage. But even if I did, my place would be with you.”

My hero worship was in danger of turning into real affection.

In Marian’s office, the band of nerds was clustered around the other working laptop, but they moved back as Carson and I came in. Margo was already wrapped in the afghan from the office couch, but she shivered when Aunt Ivy slipped through the wall.

When I was dead, I wanted to be like Ivy, the type of remnant who made my own doors.

We huddled around the screen for information the way castaways huddle around a campfire for warmth. Lab Coat had managed to hack into the security camera feed using his own brand of techie magic. The picture was sepia with night and blurry with rain, but I could see a helluva lot of cars, vans, and flashing lights.

“What are we looking at?” asked Carson.

“This is the drive outside the north entrance of the museum,” said Smith, pointing to the screen. “This is the police, the armed response team, news crews, and—”

“And the FBI,” I finished. I recognized Taylor’s profile and Gerard’s bulldog tenacity. They were standing side by side, watching a big, black car pull into the drive behind the police barricade. It parked, and about fifty cops and detectives went over to it.

Devlin Maguire climbed out of the limo. Proof that my psychic powers don’t include premonition.

“What is
he
doing here?” I couldn’t fit him into my mental jigsaw puzzle. But there he was, big as life, unmistakable from the cut of his perfectly tailored raincoat to the size of his charisma. I even caught a glimpse of platinum blond near his shoulder before the reporters engulfed him. It appeared that he’d brought his pet witch, Lauren.

The news camera lights made him stand out even in the security video feed. Maguire looked like a president taking a press conference. There was no sound, but he made confident, reassuring gestures to the reporters, while Taylor, Gerard, and half the police force waited on him to finish.

I glanced at Carson to see if he was as surprised as I was. I couldn’t tell, because he’d gone to that cool, impassive facade he wore around his father.

The man who’d had his mother murdered.

“Maybe this is good news,” I said, then felt stupid when he cut his gaze to me, his subtext clear: How could this possibly be good news? “Alexis must be here, in the museum somewhere. The FBI could have come with Taylor, but Maguire wouldn’t be here unless the kidnappers called him.”

At Carson’s continued stare, I realized my error. “Or he could be worried about you,” I said, just babbling now. But how
did
you tactfully navigate such a screwed-up family dynamic?

“He’s not here because of me,” Carson said grimly, but he didn’t explain more than that.

“So who
is
that?” Marian asked. “It’s not the mayor, though you’d think so from the press.”

“Why … that’s Devlin Maguire!” exclaimed Margo, leaning into the screen. “He is a
major
contributor to the museum, and has come to a number of our gala events with his sister, Gwenda, who is on the fund-raising board.” She glanced at me, and showed she had been paying attention to more than the moans and groans from the floor below. “I believe Mr. Maguire is a shareholder in the Beaumont Corporation, who loaned us the basalt Anubis statue—the black jackal that you’ve been so interested in.”

Hold. The. Phone.

I reeled at the implications of that and turned to Carson,
more baffled than accusing. “Did you
know
that? Is that why you remembered that article about the deep-sea recovery?”

“That’s how I came across the article,” he admitted. “Doing paperwork.”

His tone was too careful. There was more, and when it connected, I thought my brain would short-circuit. “Does that mean that Maguire knew what the Oosterhouse Jackal was all along?”