Author: Kalayna Price

I stared at the razor sharp teeth filling the man’s mouth. “You’re sure the machine was calibrated correctly?”

“Trust me, I double-checked.”

“So it’s what, cosmetic? On a homeless man?”

She tugged the sheet back over the man’s head, which was a relief—I’d seen as much of John Crispy as I cared to.

“I’m not convinced about the homeless part either,” Tamara said as she stepped away from the gurney. “That is, unless soup kitchens are now serving caviar and champagne.”

Yeah, no. I didn’t see that happening, and from Kingly’s description of the man, it didn’t sound like he could have sauntered into a place serving such items without drawing attention.

“And then there is this.” She crossed back over my inert circle and picked up a file from a nearby equipment tray. I reached out my hand for it, but she shook her head. “Not until after the ritual. I want to hear him say his name first.” When I just glanced from her to the folder she said, “Suffice to say that several witnesses to the event sat down with sketch artists. The resulting images immediately pinged a missing persons report. But the dental records didn’t match.”

Go figure. This guy must have had a hell of a smile. I was shocked Kingly hadn’t mentioned the teeth. Neither of the Kinglys were extremely open-minded, but James spent several minutes with the man. Surely he would have noticed the jagged, razorlike teeth—a smile like that would be hard to miss—but all Kingly had said was that the guy was “so polite.”

Odd.

“We should start,” I said and began my ritual as soon as Tamara turned on the recorder.

The shade that sat up from the body was almost worse than the body itself. The body had continued to burn after death, making its features hard to determine. The soul had left the body a little earlier so that even without distinct color, its burnt body looked raw. For the second time in as many days I found myself looking anywhere but at the shade I’d raised.

“What is your name?”

“Richard Kirkwood,” the shade said, not the least bit hindered by his burnt lips or sharklike teeth.

From outside my circle Tamara made a triumphant whoop. “I knew it. Ask him when he got his teeth changed.”

This was supposed to be my interview, but Tamara was the one who’d arranged it, so I complied.

“I never altered my teeth,” the shade said. “I did have a root canal two years ago.”

Tamara grumbled something disparaging about shades. I ignored her.

“Do you remember having all your teeth sharpened to points?” And lengthened by the look of them.

“No.”

“Have you ever had the desire to do so?”

“No.”

This interview was eerily familiar.

“Mr. Kirkwood, do you remember how you died?”

“Fire. I was on fire. I could hear people screaming and then…” Then the collector came for him.

“Do you remember how you caught fire?”

“No.”

“Do you remember asking a man to fill a milk jug with gasoline?”

“No.”

I glanced at Tamara. She stood perfectly still, watching the shade with a loose jaw, her lips slightly parted. But while her mouth might indicate shock, there was dread in her eyes.

“What was the last thing you remember before the fire, Mr. Kirkwood?”

“Going to bed early. Kelly was working a double at the hospital, but I didn’t feel well.”

“And what day was that?”

“Friday night.”

I looked at Tamara and she flipped through the missing person report. With a nod she said, “Kelly Kirkwood filed the report. She was worried when she returned from her double and her husband wasn’t home. When he hadn’t returned the next morning, and didn’t answer his cell phone, she reported him missing.”

He didn’t pull his combusting trick until the following Tuesday, so like Kingly, he was missing three days.

“Is there a picture?” I asked Tamara, and she turned the file to show me a printed photo. Between the decay from the land of the dead and the blue haze of my circle, to say nothing of the random swirl of Aetheric energy, the picture was completely obscured. I shook my head. “How about weight, did she list it in the report?”

Tamara nodded. “She has approximately a hundred and sixty pounds listed. She must have been guessing. Very poorly too. I’d estimate he weighed between ninety and a hundred pounds at time of death.”

Which fit the description of a scrawny man in clothes that hung off his bones that Kingly had given me. And if I was right, though I half hoped I wasn’t, Richard’s wife hadn’t been as bad a guesser as Tamara assumed. Not if Kirkwood suffered the same transformation as Kingly. I turned back toward the shade. Then regretted it and moved my gaze slightly to his right.

“When was the last time you weighed yourself, and how much did you weigh at that time?”

“Wednesday. Kelly and I always weigh in on Wednesdays since we joined a gym. My last weigh-in was one hundred and sixty-three pounds.”

“That’s impossible,” Tamara said. “A person can’t lose sixty pounds in six days.”

But he had, and so had Kingly. “Three days,” I muttered.

“What?” Tamara asked leaning close to the edge of my circle.

“He lost it in three days. The same three days he was missing.” Whatever spell had infected Kingly and Kirkwood, it wasted them before, well, wasting them. To the shade I asked, “Do you remember anything odd happening on Friday?”

It was a dicey question because it required the shade to evaluate the subjective notion of what could be considered odd. Shades could recite the events in their lives—often in horrific detail—but opinions left with the soul along with emotions. I wasn’t surprised the shade sat mute.

I tried again. “Did you meet anyone new on Friday? Did anyone ask you for a favor?”

“No.”

Damn. If Kirkwood had spread whatever made him waste away to Kingly, how did Kirkwood catch it?

“Did your routine change in any way on Friday, besides that you went to bed early.”

“Yes. I normally go home at lunch and walk Missy in the park. We didn’t make it to the park because a man threw himself in front of a bus.”

My mouth went dry. Another suicide?

“Did you see this happen?”

“Yes. Missy and I were walking down the sidewalk and the man was standing on the curb. He watched the bus approaching and then jumped into its path. He hit the front first, before disappearing under the bus and getting drawn into the wheel well.” He said all of this with a level voice.

I didn’t feel half as calm. A queasy uneasiness reverberated through every cell in my body. Three bodies couldn’t be a coincidence. Nekros had a serial killer. Weapon of choice: suicide.

Chapter 14

Tamara gave me the name of the man—or really, boy, as he was a freshman in college—who’d thrown himself in front of the bus: Daniel Walters. But that was all she could legally give me. Unless I had an official form signed by the family and granting me permission to access the boy’s files, she couldn’t release any information about the autopsy. She did pull the file though, and as I was on my way out, she told me the four most important words that her report could possibly contain: “He fits the pattern.” Then she wouldn’t say anything more about him—or his next of kin.

“Thank goodness you’re back,” Rianna said when I walked through the doors of Tongues for the Dead.

“Everything okay?”

She shrugged. “Aside from being bored to tears and tired of being inside the office?”

I knew all about that. Until yesterday, I’d been the one stuck. We’d been open only four days, but it was already clear we needed to find a solution to one or the other of us having to be present during business hours. What we really need is a receptionist. But that wasn’t exactly in the budget. Yet, at least. I could dream, right?

I filled in Rianna on everything I’d learned at the morgue.

“This is a lot bigger than Kingly,” she said, her voice hollow with shock.

“Yeah, and Kingly is still the focus, but tracking this thing back to its source is part of finding out who killed him.” And how. The spell seemed to spread by witnessing suicide, or really, murder disguised as suicide.

That thought made me stop, my stomach souring. “So far, every victim saw the previous die. When Kingly jumped…”

I didn’t have to finish the sentence. We could both guess that someone on the street that day was infected and going to die—if they hadn’t already. In the cases we knew about, the cycle took only three to four days. How many bodies does this thing have to its name?

And why?

“It acts more like a parasite than a spell, doesn’t it? Using up bodies and then jumping hosts,” I said thinking not only about the emaciation but also the damage to Kingly’s ghost.

“Unless everyone who witnesses the death is affected, or infected, or whatever.” Rianna’s hand dropped to Desmond’s head, her fingers scratching behind his ear absently as she spoke.

“Wouldn’t we have heard about a sudden spike in suicides?” Of course, I hadn’t heard about Kirkwood, and his method of death had been extreme. What if the other suicides were less public or didn’t succeed? It was definitely something to look into. “If it’s a spell that spreads like a pathogen, we could have an epidemic of suicides.”

We were both silent for a moment. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Rianna broke the silence first. “But why?”

She’d moved so that her legs pressed against Desmond, the barghest’s touch clearly a reassuring warmth for her.

I shook my head. “Some sort of life cycle? In nature, there are parasites that infiltrate the host’s brain and force them to act suicidally stupid. Like fish flashing to attract birds or ants climbing to the tallest blade of grass so they’re eaten by a cow. It’s all part of the parasite’s cycle of life.”