Seawitch: A Greywalker Novel Page 16

  “That is my thought, too.”

  We walked on through the hospital without another word. Solis walked like something heavy and morbid had settled on him. I stopped him just outside the lobby doors in the dim greenish light of the emergency room driveway.

  “Are you really ready for this? I don’t think we can pretend this whole business, from the boat to Reeve’s death, isn’t paranormal. And it’s going to get worse now that someone with the stink of magic on them is willing to risk exposure by coming into a hospital to kill an old man who was probably dying, anyhow.”

  “This was not something accomplished from a distance?”

  “No. There wasn’t enough magical residue or a spell circle around his bed for Reeve to have been killed by magic at a distance. Someone or something came here in person to do it.”

  “If this person has magic at their disposal—”

  “It costs. Magic is not free, especially not this kind. The farther you want to reach, the harder you want to hit, the more you have to pay one way or another. Both the spell circles we’ve seen were drawn in blood. That has to come from a live person or animal, not a plastic container stolen from the hospital blood supply, which means our spell flinger is powerful but has a major crutch and can’t do much without literally spilling blood. Smothering wouldn’t pay the piper. No blood here, but the residue was otherwise the same, so no major spell was cast but something or someone magical was in the room and they killed Reeve—or made sure he couldn’t be saved, at the very least.”

  Solis looked troubled.

  I sighed and felt like I was kicking a puppy. “Up to you to believe it or not,” I said, “but I am telling you the truth where magic is concerned, and I don’t see any other explanation or any other way of solving this without heading into the weirdness.”

  “I am sorry I’m . . . difficult. Forcing my mind to go in these directions is . . . is like changing religions.”

  “Have you tried that?” I asked.

  “No. I think it wiser to challenge only one ingrained practice at a time.”

  “You might find that some changes just come along with the package.”

  He nodded. “That may be true. Your . . . partner. Mr. Lassiter? Mr. Purlis? Which does he prefer?”

  Ah, so Solis did know the whole long, strange tale of Quinton. “I’ve never asked him,” I replied, which was true. I’d just assumed he was content with the nickname and didn’t really like either his alias or his real name much. One he’d adopted on the fly and the other he’d tried to walk away from. “I just call him Quinton and we go on from there.”

  “Ah. How does he cope with this . . . blindness? I assume he is not like you. . . .”

  “You assume correctly. He trusts me—most of the time,” I added, thinking of his unexplained discomforts and alarms lately. “And he has enough personal experience with things that don’t fit the standard paradigm that he’s developed his own Theory of the Invisible by observation and deduction. Most of the time he’s right. Sometimes he’s not. Some things you can’t see still leave observable traces—like, say, gravity. Some leave nothing concrete behind to prove your experience was anything other than imagination. Well, I have some unexplainable scars, but I’m strange that way.”

  He seemed intrigued but he didn’t ask. He grunted to himself and nodded. “I see.”

  I had the urge to put my hand on his shoulder, but I stifled it. I wasn’t sure this tiny, forced bud of acceptance could withstand any ham-handed gestures on my part yet.

  “Just don’t go slamming any mental doors. If you can do that for a while I think you’ll figure the rest out. And I . . .” I hesitated, then finished, “I’m here.”

  “So you are,” he said. “And I should return home. To see how things are.”

  I smiled. “Understood. I’ll call you tomorrow if you don’t call me first. Then you can tell me if you’re still on board this crazy investigation or not.”

  He nodded and turned away to find his car. I went to mine and started back toward home.

  It was only ten minutes from Highline to my place in West Seattle, but when I reached the turn that would put me irrevocably on track for the condo, I went the other way, heading up to Ballard and back to Seawitch.

  * * *

  When I got to the marina, I didn’t go straight back to the boat, though I had thought I would. Instead I found myself walking up and down B dock as the last rays of our late-setting sun faded into purple and umber smears on the horizon. I wanted to confirm something I hadn’t been able to get a good look at before, and with the evening closing in, my ghostly act would be less noticeable than it would have been earlier. C dock and Pleiades were just across the water. . . .

  I sank into the Grey, the chilly mist and ghostlight washing up over me until the world was a dim shape beneath shadows of memory and bright lines of energy. I walked out to the end of the finger dock closest to the big blue sailboat and sat down in the slow-pressing cold at the edge of the blackness that was water. From here the power grid of the Grey was easy to see in all its burning color and searing light. Pleiades looked like the cold shadow of a boat surrounded like Sleeping Beauty’s castle by a magical hedge of waving emerald and aqua vines spiked with fury red thorns that rose from the water in a tangled pillar. And over it all lay a coiling cloud of gray-green smoke. The same color and misty snakelike form I’d seen around John Reeve when he collapsed at his home and again lingering around his empty bed at the hospital. Was it attacking Jacque Knight or was it protecting her? I was pretty sure I didn’t want to attract the attention of our murderous magic user, even if he or she was depleted after killing Reeve. I eased back from the Grey, feeling as if I were swimming upward through thickened silver steam as cold as Siberian graves. I broke free, back to normal, and found myself gasping for air, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

  Something splashed and nudged my foot where my toe overhung the edge of the dock. I glanced down, looking for the surface ripples left by a leaping fish, and caught the limpid brown stare of a furry, whiskered face. I froze, hoping not to frighten it off before I could see what the creature was, but there was no danger of that when the beast heaved itself up, throwing the bulk of its upper body onto the dock beside me.

  It bared its fangs, like the gigantic version of Chaos panting in excitement. I started at the creature, all wet, dark fur and compact, muscular body. Much too big to be a harbor seal and too hairy to be a sea lion. An otter of tremendous size but with a head bizarrely large and misshapen. It pawed at me and rubbed its weird head on my calf, soaking my jeans leg instantly. I thought about reaching out to pet it, but another glimpse of those teeth changed my mind. Whatever this thing wanted, I wasn’t going to tempt it to lose its temper by patting it on the head. Especially since that head was nearly the size of mine, to accommodate the finger-length incisors it flashed. It wriggled and the dying light flashed on its wet back.

  “What do you want?” I tried.

  “Har-per!” it barked. “Booooad!”

  “Boat?” I asked. “Which boat?”

  The noises it made didn’t make any sense to me this time; they were hisses and grunts cut off by a harsh barking scream as it thrashed back into the water, apparently dragged or shocked by a sudden eruption of energy from Pleiades that started with a whistle and a rising cry of sound, then flashed out in shades of red and searing white like lightning bolts directed by an angry god. The otter creature dove and dodged through the water, breaching the surface and cutting back down and around, faster and more nimble than the slickest fish. A trail of phosphorescent bubbles twisted through the water in its wake, the strange sound of it making ripples on the surface until the creature disappeared from view, tangled up in a gleaming creeper of jade and sapphire energy that faded into the depths as the gigantic mustelid swam away. Then the twining energy flashed bright and lashed through the surface in a shout of strange harmonies, recoiling toward me. I threw myself down on the dock and with a shriek, a cra
ckle, and a whir of angry wasps, the bright line of energy whipped through the space my head had occupied. Then it reeled, fading as if exhausted, back to Pleiades, sighing like a broken wire pulling through a hole in a steel wall—a wire drawn too taut and snapped by a sudden flick of a giant’s wrist.

  I converse with ghosts and work for vampires; one freakish, talking otter was barely a blip on my personal radar of the weird. That said, the short, swift violence of the moment startled me far more than having even a truncated and garbled conversation with a giant seagoing ferret. Not much fazes me anymore, but the sudden blink of magical conflict did leave me a little unsettled and mildly abraded on my palms and knees.

  I sat up with care and peered sideways into the Grey, looking for a sign of what had happened to the otter creature, but the cold depths of the bay were obscured by a scree of visual noise—like the Grey version of a dust devil kicked up in the otter’s wake. I turned my Grey-tuned sight toward the sailboat, but that, too, seemed hidden in a flurry of dimming energetic particles writhing in the water like clouds of agitated, dying krill. I muttered some curse words under my breath and backed away from both the Grey and the precarious, wet end of the dock. I considered walking over to Pleiades to investigate the apparent source of the magical flash, or down to Seawitch to see if I could get more out of the ghosts, but the fallen night, ringed around with sudden, creeping fog, made me think I’d rather return with Solis in the daylight than face the ghosts of Seawitch or, possibly worse, the resident of Pleiades alone.

  Rattled, I walked back to my car, paged Quinton, and went home.

  Quinton had arrived first. Even before I got inside I could sense his frustrated annoyance. He was muttering to himself and swiping at the dishes in the sink as if they had done him wrong. Every angry swish of the scrubber felt like a slap. We’ve had this strange emotional tie for about a year, but while the intensity had faded, the worst sensations apparently still bled through. Quinton was royally pissed and a touch scared and I felt every secondhand stab of it.

  “Hey there,” I said, putting down the bell and my bag with care so as not to squish the ferret, and coming over to kiss him on the cheek.

  He flinched.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he snapped, throwing down the scrubber.

  I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”

  He glared at me. Then he turned away with a jerk. “This hasn’t been as easy as I’d thought it would be—the things I feel, the things I try to shut off in my own head. I didn’t even realize I was this . . . angry about so many things until I started trying to turn it off.”

  I watched him and I hurt—my very own ache of sadness and pain for him, not just his upset turning inward and stabbing us both. “It hasn’t been a problem at my end. I don’t want you to shield me from your bad parts; I want you whole—bad things and all. You know I’m not any good at keeping my own horrors at bay. Is that the problem?” I was all too aware of Solis’s worries about his family to discount such a risk to what counted as mine. “Is being privy to my feelings driving you crazy? I’m sorry if that’s the case,” I said. It was so much easier to apologize now than it had been a few years ago. I knew it wasn’t a weakness to own up to causing distress or having made a mistake, or even to take a share of the blame whether you did something blameworthy or not.

  “No. No, that’s not it at all.” He still sounded angry, but the fluctuating colors around him told me it was frustration as much as anything. His shoulders were stiff and the set of his head and a ghost pain in my jaw made me think he was clenching his teeth. He kept that posture for a moment, still turned away from me; then he took a deep breath, held it . . . and deflated, the orange sparks around him dying out to only sparking glimmers as his aura settled down. “I’m sorry. I’m overreacting and I’m making this worse. I’m not sure how it could get worse, but I’m pretty sure it will.”

  “No. You’re still getting used to a strange situation. It took me a while to accept what I am and what that does to me. Although it’s still hard for me to take what it does to you.

  “And what could get worse?” I thought of his hints the night before. “Is it connected to Fern Laguire?” Laguire, his former boss at a government agency people don’t like to talk about, had finally retired and given up her search for the computer geek that got away when she had been persuaded that Quinton—or, as she knew him, J. J. Purlis—was dead. Her obsessive focus and fury went well beyond the normal profile for government spooks as long as her retirement had been at stake, but it appeared she’d let it go once her financial security had been assured by the removal of the threat she had seen in Quinton’s unresolved disappearance from her fold.

  He stiffened and swore. “Oh yes. Much worse than Fern. I forgot I mentioned it.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t remember what you said earlier? That your past is leaking back?”

  “Not just the business past. It’s not Fern this time. It’s my dad.”

  “I thought you’d dealt with your dad. . . .”

  “I thought I had. But I continue to be wrong every time I think I’ve got the upper hand at last. I saw him today. Or, rather, I heard from him. . . . That’s not quite right. It was a meeting, but it wasn’t a meeting. Telepresence, but I know he was actually nearby. I’ve seen him around Seattle recently.”

  I went to him and put my arms around him. “You’re sure? Why would he be in Seattle?”

  “Because he’s figured out some of the same things I did—that there are people like . . . well, not like you, but like some of your clients. People like the late Edward Kammerling. And didn’t he make hay out of that. . . .”

  “Excuse me? I’m not following you.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face, then turned and put his arms around me. The embrace felt a little desperate and more in need of comfort than I had expected. I tightened my hug. “Try again,” I whispered. “What did he want?”

  “He’s in charge of a new project. He calls it the Ghost Division and he thinks that’s funny because it’s the sort of project no one wants to admit exists. And it’s looking for . . . paranormals.”

  “I see.” Actually I wasn’t sure I did. Various governments have looked into psychic phenomena and other paranormal topics in the past and in the end they all give up or the projects get canceled. It was hard to believe anyone was green-lighting a project like that again. But maybe enough time had elapsed for the collective memory of the government to fade. “How did your father manage to persuade anyone to go down that road again?”

  “I have no idea. He’s the proverbial silver-tongued devil to have talked his way not only out of his last debacle but back into a position of autonomous control. Hell, he’s just a step from Satan, anyway. Why I’m surprised, I don’t know. And I wouldn’t care except that he knows I know . . . the right people. I don’t think he knows about you—if he does, he’s playing dumb or hasn’t had time to threaten you yet—but he may make the connection once he starts finding the people he’s looking for and notices how many have connections back to you.”

  “Is it just the bloodsucking fraternity he’s after or . . . everyone?”

  “Everyone, everything. I don’t even know what he’s planning to do once he finds them, except I know what the standard operating procedure is and . . . well, he’s pretty much by the book on that front: catch it, contain it, examine it. If it dies, get another one.”

  “This isn’t good.”

  “No. Very not good. And he’s putting a lot of pressure on me to do the street work. I don’t want this. I never wanted to be on anyone’s hook again and especially not his, but this is a nightmare.”

  I always think of Quinton as strong and balanced, so calm and logical, that it was odd finding this anger and confusion in him. I didn’t know how we’d get past this, but we had to find a way. And we’d have to do it without becoming lunch for the sort of paranormal creatures that enjoy chaos, anger, and fear. I didn’t need any o
f them hanging around. But I did need Quinton. “We’ll find a way,” I whispered.

  “I wasn’t intending to drag you into this. . . .”

  “I know that. But I’m glad you’re not keeping it from me. We can’t stay ahead of him or anything else if we hide things from each other. I have your back. I’ll always have your back.”

  He gazed into my face, making an effort to turn his emotional state. His eyes sparkled with a distant twinkle as the corners of his mouth fought upward. He rubbed his hands over my spine and shoulder blades. “I have yours, too. And it’s very nice.”

  I chuckled at him—I refuse to think I giggle—and gave him a tiny peck of a kiss on the mouth. “You’re wonderfully odd.”

  “Am I?”

  “I think so. Let me try that again.” I gave him a bigger kiss. “Hmm . . . yes, I definitely taste some odd there.”

  “How can you call me odd when I’m concerned for the welfare of the entire paranormal world?”

  “Wouldn’t you have to be odd to be concerned about that in the first place?”

  “I would think that was your field of expertise.”

  “Are you calling me odd?”

  “Strange, even.”

  “Wonderfully strange? Or just the garden variety of strange?”

  He broke down and laughed, a flush of pink and gold sparks zipping around us like champagne bubbles. “Exquisitely, marvelously strange.” He chuckled and kissed me again, spinning us both around like a top until we lurched to a stop against the drain board.

  I glanced over his shoulder. I wished I hadn’t.

  “Umm . . . what’s that?”

  “What?”

  “In the sink.”

  He blushed. “I burned a pot pie.”

  On a stove or a hot plate, Quinton can make a decent meal out of anything—or almost nothing. But where a microwave is concerned, he’s jinxed. I suspect that nature compensates for genius in one field by making people stupid in a related one. Quinton, who plays with electrical and quantum theory and can build an alarm system from a greeting card, two rolls of wire, and a tube of toothpaste, can’t use a microwave without setting his dinner—or the oven—on fire. I’ve been told Albert Einstein had difficulty tying his shoes.