Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us (8 page)

McGowan threw his head back and laughed loudly. “Well, you ain’t stupid, kid.”

“What about the Sidhe? How do they play into this?”

“Good question. The Sidhe are enormously powerful in Faerie, but weaker here in the Mortal Plane. With a few exceptions, here they’re more like mid-level practitioners. If they can control one or more of us, then that gives them strength here.”

“And how would they control me?”

McGowan’s focus drifted away for a moment, and he smiled as if at a fond memory. “The Sidhe of the royal blood can be quite beguiling, and that is probably the only capability they have that isn’t weakened here on the Mortal Plane. When they want to be, the men and women both are the most beautiful beings you have ever seen. They can turn it on and off like a light switch. I’ve seen mortal men without the slightest homosexual tendency, become so obsessed with a Sidhe male they destroy themselves with the compulsion. But more than that, if you’re not prepared, they can make you want them, desire to please them, willing to do anything to make them happy. You become a virtual slave without even knowing it, obsessively, compulsively needing their constant approval.”

The limo pulled into a large U-shaped driveway in front of an enormous McMansion, easily twenty thousand square feet. Paul gawked like a country bumpkin when McGowan said, “This is Highland Park. Lot of money in this neighborhood.”

~~~

Anogh waited well down the street from the mansion of the powerful witch. Hidden within a simple glamour in the shadows of a large tree, he watched the limousine pause at a wrought-iron gate. After a brief delay the gate swung open and the large car pulled forward onto the grounds of the estate. He watched the druid, the Old Wizard, his daughter and the necromancer emerge from the limo and disappear into the mansion.

He also watched Cadilus’s two young mages stalking the periphery of the mansion’s grounds. Both had shape-shifted into small falcons and flitted back and forth on drafts of warm air, careful to remain beyond the mansion’s wards. Shape-shifting was difficult magic for a Sidhe mage on the Mortal Plane, so both were clearly powerful and dangerous.

A sharp cry broke the quiet of the afternoon, and a large red-tailed hawk swooped down out of the sky. Much bigger than the falcons, its attack was unexpected, and it nearly impaled one on its talons, but the smaller bird dodged at the last moment and escaped without damage. Outmatched by the larger bird, the two falcons fled into the distance, while the hawk landed on the wall surrounding the compound of a neighbor.

A mortal might think the little drama quite ordinary, predators contesting their hunting territory. But the cry of the hawk had an arcane quality to it Anogh recognized.

How had the
black fey
come into this?
he wondered.
But more importantly, why this particular being, this most dangerous of beings?

~~~

Salisteen met them just inside the front door of the McMansion in a foyer larger than Paul’s apartment. It had curved staircases winding both left and right around a massive crystalline chandelier, both leading up to a second floor landing.

She was a tall, elegant black woman, African-American, looked like a retired model a bit past her prime, but still quite good looking. She wore a knee length dress, long legs ending in tall, spike heels, curly, brown hair cut in a very short afro. When McGowan introduced them Paul extended his hand. Salisteen beamed at him gorgeously and smiled, gripped his right hand in hers, but reached out with her left hand and took hold of his elbow, then pulled him toward her to within a distance that bordered on intimate. “Paul,” she said sensuously, their faces only inches apart. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She had an accent that could only be described as Texas elegant, every vowel articulated carefully. The word
pleasure
came out like a promise, and Paul grew aware of some very attractive cleavage not far below his chin, though he was careful not to look down and stare at it.

She stepped back from him and released his hand, but she paused and looked him up and down carefully, as if examining her next meal. Her smile broadened, and in a slow drawl she said, “This should be very interesting.”

Katherine said, “My dear, Paul is not an appetizer for dinner.”

Salisteen turned and looked at her. “Of course not, darling.” She glanced back at Paul. “I think he’d be an entire meal all by himself, including desert. And I am in the mood for desert.”

She turned and walked toward the interior of the house, spoke as she walked, “Come with me. The servants will take care of your luggage. I have rooms prepared for you.”

Paul noticed there was a preponderance of rather good-looking young men among Salisteen’s servants, some runway-model caliber, all rather weak practitioners. They wore simple white coats that ended just below their waistline. There were also a few individuals dressed in business suits, male and female, all good looking but nothing like the runway-model servants. The
suits
were further distinguished from the
servants
in that each had a little curly, flesh-colored wire running from an ear into the collar of their coat, and also each was a much stronger practitioner. No one needed to tell Paul the
suits
were security.

Salisteen led them to a large office with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a patio and an enormous lawn. Waiting in the office was a fellow that looked like a dockworker, short, stocky, a little overweight, heavily muscled. He had the kind of dark, black hair that left a five-o’clock shadow ten minutes after shaving.

“Charlie!” McGowan said, obviously surprised to see the man there. “What are you doing here?”

“Walter,” the man said. To all outward appearances they were two old friends, but there seemed an element of tension between them. “Salisteen asked me to come and help too.” He spoke with a thick New York accent.

McGowan made introductions, and Paul learned the fellow was Charlie Stowicz. That meant they had four of the five most powerful wizards in North America present in the room. McGowan’s uneasiness put Paul on edge. Whereas Salisteen wanted to eat Paul for desert, Stowicz looked at him like he wanted to hang him from the nearest tree. Colleen confirmed Paul’s suspicions when she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “The only reason Charlie would be here is to see you. And I’m not sure if that’s good.”

~~~

Dinner was a casual affair, a simple help-yourself buffet. Katherine would have enjoyed it more, but when that cougar Salisteen heard Paul had never tasted Texas barbecue, she personally introduced him to every dish on the table. The slut never lost physical contact with him: a hand on his elbow, her hip brushing against his. She was probably spelling him, and Katherine considered checking his aura.

What am I doing?
Katherine asked herself.
First I avoid him like the plague, then I turn into a seething bag of jealous hormones?
She had no claims on Paul, and if he wanted that over-sexed, middle-aged trollop, he could damn well have her.

They sat at picnic tables on one of the many patios. Katherine sat opposite Paul while Salisteen carefully chose a seat next to him, her hip brushing up against his. The conversation immediately turned to the demon kills. “It seems to have progressed to about one or two victims a month,” Salisteen said. “And it’s careful, never strikes in the same municipality twice, at least not without waiting several months between victims. Only strikes in larger communities that deal regularly with unusual deaths. The victims are all young girls about eight or nine years old. But other than that, no set pattern to victim type: white, black, Hispanic, blonde, brunette, rich, poor.”

Paul asked, “But wouldn’t someone connect the dots on a string of murders like that?”

Stowicz lifted his napkin to his face and wiped a bit of sauce from his chin. “No sign of trauma, right?” He looked to Salisteen for confirmation and she nodded.

He turned to Paul. “No sign of trauma, no drugs in the system, no needle marks, nothing that’ll show up on an autopsy. Medical examiner just chalks it up to natural causes, sometimes of unknown origin, sometimes they take a guess.”

Salisteen added, “And the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area has a population of well over six million. They deal with thousands of deaths from all causes every day.” She stared at her food for a moment, used her fork to push it around the plate without tasting it. “This one’s careful. But I don’t think it’s ventured outside the Dallas/Fort Worth area.”

Colleen asked, “And what brought it to your attention?”

Salisteen frowned and continued to stare at her food as if recalling a bad memory. “A friend of mine, Mike Ramirez, Sergeant in the Rangers, good cop, smart cop.”

She looked pointedly at Paul. “As you say, he connected the dots.”

She took a pull on a bottle of beer. “He’s also a practitioner of middling talent, checked out one of the bodies and spotted the demon stink, knows when to ask for my help. In these kinds of cases Mike’ll bring me on board as a consultant, pays me a small fee—a very small fee—to make it look right. That allows me and my associates limited, but official, access to view a body or something like that. He’s identified four confirmed victims and four or five other possibilities.

“I called in a number of local practitioners, and with phone calls from Mike paving the way, we canvassed the morgues in the greater Dallas area, looking closely at any death that didn’t have an obvious cause. But we’d have to get court orders and exhume the bodies to be sure. It looks like it’s gone on for about six months.”

The conversation moved on and they talked about some sort of police procedure, but Paul looked deeply troubled, had stopped eating and just toyed with his food. “Little girls eight or nine,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Cloe would be eight now.”

Katherine’s heart lurched as she realized what this meant to him.

Salisteen turned to him and asked sharply. “Who’s Cloe?” The conversation at the table abruptly halted.

“The little girls,” Paul said. “Any pattern there?”

Salisteen frowned at the obvious evasion and she shook her head. “Mostly white and Hispanic, though we suspect one black girl was a victim, but we won’t know for sure without exhumation. They were all different hair color, different economic status. No pattern.”

Paul nodded, stared at his food with blank, vacant eyes. “There has to be a pattern,” he said.

Salisteen dismissed him rather casually. “None we’ve been able to spot so far. The most recent victim hasn’t been buried yet, so we’re going to see her tomorrow.”

~~~

He’d timed it perfectly; as he turned onto the street two blocks away the little Mexican boy and the pretty Mexican girl parted, each walking down a different street. He had no interest in the little Mexican boy; he wasn’t Alice. He could never be Alice. But he could be a problem, might get in the way at the wrong moment, so he decided to follow the boy instead of pretty little Alice.

He drove slowly, but not too slowly. There was an art to remaining unnoticed, a skill he’d acquired slowly with much practice and patience. And the power of the voice within him helped too, and his own skills as a practitioner helped immeasurably.

He watched the little Mexican boy walk up to the front door to his house, an above-average house that meant his parents had above-average money. He drove past and continued on without looking back.

Chapter 5: The Bearer

Plano, Texas was about twenty miles north of the center of Dallas, a rather well-off community of about 300 thousand people, with a lot of high-tech industry. For the most part the population was well educated with a higher-than-average income. But none of that had helped poor Monica Clarkson. Her little body lay quietly in a refrigeration unit in the Collins County Medical Examiner’s Office in McKinney, a few miles north of Plano.

Paul expected to be escorted to a large room with stainless-steel, coffin-shaped, refrigeration drawers, and like on TV, a bored, uncaring morgue technician would slide open one of the drawers and they’d all stand there looking at the body. It was nothing like that.

And he expected Mike Ramirez, Texas Ranger, to be a big man wearing a big western Stetson, a large, silver belt buckle the size of his fist, and cowboy boots. Ramirez was a big man, stood a couple inches over six feet, only an inch or two taller than Paul, outweighed Paul by a good thirty pounds, most of it in his shoulders with only a touch of middle-age gut peaking over his belt line. And he looked more like a Harvard MBA than a cowboy, wearing a neat business suit, faintly Hispanic features, dark brown hair, handsome, with a pleasant smile. Paul thought Salisteen should be all over him.

She made the introductions. When Paul shook Ramirez’s hand he said, “I really appreciate y’all helpin’.” He spoke with a strong Texas accent.

He pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, waited a moment with it pressed to his ear, then said, “Ramirez here. We’ll be there in about five.”

Ramirez got them badged up, then escorted them past a security barrier and led them toward the back of the building. After a few minutes of walking he stopped, opened a door and held it for them. They filed into a room with a large glass window in the back wall that looked into another room with four, stainless steel gurneys lined up in a row. It was a cold, sterile room, with a ceramic tile floor pockmarked by steel drains. A young black fellow finished adjusting a green sheet over a small body on one of the gurneys.

The place had a faintly antiseptic smell that masked a hint of something like sewage, or rotting meat. The underlying scent of decay was so faint Paul couldn’t really place it, but it bothered him.

Ramirez turned to face them. “Anyone here going to puke?”

Paul recalled the day he’d identified Cloe’s body in a somewhat similar setting. He might break down crying, but he wasn’t going to puke.

“I warn you,” Ramirez added, looking specifically at Paul and Katherine. “This ain’t like looking at your old dead grandma who passed away in her sleep.”