2 Death Rejoices (75 page)

“Maybe Spicer is commanding them to stay,” Declan said, “in their headsets?”

I indicated the state of them with a grimace. “Or they're so far gone that they don't see or hear us.”

Declan nodded rapidly, and the elongated, olive-green nose of his gas mask shook up and down. We stepped over remains of broken Brut bottles, exchanging cautious glances about the shards, moving further into the room. The fan whirred noisily, bringing fresh air from
the surface, and we both peeled back our gas masks, testing the air quality tentatively. It still sucked, but wasn't overwhelmingly hideous, more late spring outhouse than high summer dumpster.

The next thing to capture my attention was the oddly graceful shape Anne Bennett-Dixon made on the table. She lay on her side, her small, pregnant belly resting on the tabletop. Her neck was held to the table by a large metal claw, like a bear trap, the iron fingers clutching the flesh and tendon to keep her cervical spine in place and hold her to the table. This did not seem to trouble her.

“Nice of the villain to tie up his hybrid for us. Points off for not using railroad tracks, though. What do you think he was doing to her?” I asked, dropping the gas mask gently at my feet, followed by my backpack. I lowered my face as close to her as I dared. “Does she smell like Batten's cologne to you?”

Anne's eyes rolled up at us. “Baby.”

Out of the side of my mouth, I asked, “Did that zombie say something?”

“I think so.”

“Zombies don't talk.”

“You said Dunnachie said ‘rend bowel’ when he was after you.”

“Don't remind me.”

“Baby,” Anne said, and pinned me with a calculating gaze. Her parched lips came up off her teeth, revealing tiny fangs slicked with pestilent yellow-green goo. “Take baby.”

“Oh, hell no.” I was having none of whatever she was selling.

One of the zombies in the corner gurgle-snorted like a fat man coming awake and half-turned. Declan grabbed my forearm in warning, but my voice crawled back down to a cautious squeak on its own.

“What am I, midwife for the dead?” I whispered. “Not gonna happen.”

“Poor thing. Maybe that's what Spicer was planning to do here.”

I wrinkled my nose at the baby bump. “There's no chance the baby is alive, right?”

“I sincerely doubt it. She's been two different kinds of undead. We need to put her out of this misery.”

I took a deep breath, tasted death on the air, and smothered a cough behind my fist. “Think she'll burn?”

“Hell if I know. I don't think
he
knows.” Declan jerked his chin at Spicer's Vodou set-up and the techno-zombies. “If he doesn't know, I can't imagine who would.”

“What the fuck do we
do
about her if she doesn't burn?”

“You're asking me, Dr. B? I'm just your assistant.”

Okay, maybe I deserved that.
“Where is Spicer? And where's Batten?”

“I don't know, I don't know, I don't know,” Declan hissed, tossing his gas mask down in my pile of things. “I don't know anything you don't know!”

“Okay, gloombucket, calm your tits.”

He ignored my cursing and scanned the room, getting himself under control; that he had become so quickly accustomed to my vocabulary was sort of nice. I stuck close to him as he investigated a collection of jars on a knee-high bench in one corner by a peg wall of tools and a shoulder-high pile of boxes. The jars had once contained baby food; the labels were peeled off, but hastily, and I could still clearly read
Strained Squash
on one. Inside each jar, something pale, pasty, and slightly reflective coiled lazily, as though the necromancer had infused smoke with custard and white glitter nail polish.

“Astrals. This is his collection of souls. He kept them to boost his powers.” I felt my lips tighten against my teeth. “They're not labeled.”

“Labeled?”

“There are no names to tell him which astral belonged to which zombie,” I said, and rage I hadn't known was there began to swell. My voice quivered. “As if it doesn't matter which soul is which. Which person — these were
people
— and he's got their spirits in little fucking baby food jars. Look, is this Stuart? What about this one? The Master of the Revels who we still don't have a name for? Mr. No Name? How would you like to end up a nameless soul floating in a Gerber jar that used to hold mushy green beans?”

“I know, Dr. B.,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry, but did you expect him to care? This is a man who's using zombie slave labor. He may have once had the ideals of the Grand Priory, but it's obvious that John Spicer is no longer operating with any heart at all.”

I shook my head rapidly, but the rage didn't dissipate. “Guess I'm still trying to see good in him. But he's just as bad as Malas. Maybe worse. I don't recall Malas ever stealing someone's soul.”

“No,” Declan said, “Malas just takes your life and promises your soul to the Second Circle of Hell.”

I stared at the jars for a long minute. “Point taken.”

“Looks like Spicer's not here,” Declan said, motioning to several branching openings in the wall. “Unless he's down further in the mine. I doubt it, though. The further you go, the worse the air quality will be, fan or no fan.”

“Batten's not down here, either. Where the hell did he go?” I said, picking up the single jar that had two astrals, one big and one tiny. “Do you suppose this is Anne and her baby?”

“It's the only jar that has two distinct astral bodies.”

Movement from my left, behind the boxes, brought my head around. I spotted a pair of tanned arms and hands stretched up on the wall by the passageway and flung myself into Declan with a breathless cry, fumbling the jar. Declan's quick, sure hand caught the jar with a latex-covered whack. He tucked it in my back pocket, making an awkward lump.

When the hand-thing didn't come out at us, I shuffled cautiously forward to peek and found him: dark-haired head limp, arms roped and cuffed up against the wall, groggily regaining consciousness. When his head flopped to the side, I could see that his lip was puffed up and split — a match to mine — and there was dried blood crusted under his nose. My heart lurched sickly in my chest and I heard myself whimper. Batten brought his chin up, cracked one eyelid, and promptly slammed it shut again.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “I was afraid it was you.”

I slapped a gloved hand to my chest, pulse slamming with a blend of relief and distress. “Why are you all bruise-y faced and locked up in — holy crapbaskets, are those your own handcuffs?”

“Shut up and get me the keys.”

“Don't you have your knife to cut these ropes?” I asked.

“Shut. Up.”

“He took that too, huh? Knife
and
handcuffs? Boy, were you pissed or what?”

Batten's jaw clenched hard and a line of muscle along his neck twitched. “Get. The. Keys.”

“You're lucky I'm not Spicer.” I pointed the zombies out helpfully, in case Batten hadn't noticed them.

“I wish you were,” he said. “He's easier to deal with.”

“Oh, obviously,” I said. “Look at yourself.” I examined the heavy twisted rope, sturdy cuffs, and big iron bar in the wall. I yanked on the bar. It wasn't going anywhere. It was a weird set-up, obviously slapped together out of whatever Spicer had handy. I whistled low.

“Harry was right; Spicer
could
give you lessons.” I cocked my head.

Batten's eyes darkened. “Harry said what?”

“How did Spicer get the drop on you, Kill-Notch? He really messed you up, look at your lip,” I wondered aloud, letting him see my bafflement. “Dude's badass. I'm so impressed.”

“Get out,” Batten told me tightly, giving up on me and turning his focus up at my assistant. “Declan, keys. Then get topside. Call Chapel. Get the Goon Squad here, pronto.”

I felt my eyes widen and I opened my mouth to yell that I'd told him to bring help, I'd offered to come with him, but he took off on me. The sight of fresh blood leaking from his nose, and his subtle, pathetic attempt to sniff it back up his nostril before I could see it, stopped my tongue behind my teeth.

“Goon Squad is behind us, but banged up,” I said quickly. “We're here now. We should take advantage of the time we have and make this a quickie.” I spared a minute to consider what I'd said, not bothering to hide a lewd smile.

“Woman,” he said warningly, making an experimental pull on the cuffs. “Keys.”

Angry, tied-up Batten.
Yummy.
I drank in the sight until Declan elbowed me. “Sorry! Sorry. I have a thousand rabid wolverines to kill later, and this is totally helping me re-load. Now, where did Spicer put your keys, did you see?”

“He hung them on the wall,” Batten said, motioning as best he could with his chin. “By the bench.”

Anne made a noise as I passed her and Declan started like he'd forgotten she was there. “We've got to put this poor thing out of her misery before Spicer gets back,” Declan said. “Do you know where he went?”

Batten grumbled something to him that I couldn't hear, and while they discussed where the
bokor
might have gone, I cooled to a simmer,
searching the wall above the bench with the astral jars for a key ring, eyeing the zombies warily and fingering past various tools and hanging lanterns and junk. On the table, Anne moaned again around the iron in her throat, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to quell my nerves.

There were no keys. I did a quick-fingered double check. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” I said.

“On the wall,” Batten repeated.

“Oh, you mean the wall?” I propped my fists on my hips. “Silly me, I was looking on the wall.”

Batten just scowled.

I said, “Did he hang them there before you passed out?”

“No,
after
I passed out, I saw him hang them there.”

“I'm making a point.” My leather-gloved fists creaked. “You might have seen him put keys on this wall, but I'm telling you, there are no keys on the wall now.”

“Oil and water,” Declan muttered under his breath.

“I suggest we move to step two: kill the monsters,” I said.

Batten shook his cuffs angrily. “Marnie.”

“Without Agent Batten?” Declan said uncertainly.

“We've got everything the modern monster hunter could want.” I put the backpack on the ground by my feet and unzipped it.

“Fuck's sake,” Batten groaned. “Dr. Edgar, go up and call SSA Chapel.”

“Well,” Declan wavered, shifting on his feet. “I really don't feel right about leaving you tied up with Dr. B. here and the monsters there.”

Batten opened his mouth to object, but then cut his eyes at the plugged-in zombies and the zombie-revenant hybrid on the table, and then to me. “Shit.”

“Damn skippy,” I agreed. “It's a bad situation. But I told you: I got this. I need you here with me, Declan. We'll take care of Anne first. We're going to have to expel the evil influences before we put her down.”

Declan's jaw dropped. “You're kidding, right? We don't have that kind of time.”

“We do this my way, Dr. E.,” I said firmly. “No grey areas this time. Proper invitations. Calling the Watchtower. We need all the help we can get.”

“I have no inroads with anything
but
the grey area,” Declan insisted. “I won't be able to amplify your power if you don't let me play from the grey. The Dark Lady doesn't hear the pleas of immortals, nor will the Green Man.”

I glanced at Batten to see if the word immortal had registered; momentary confusion showed across his brow in a ripple.

“Then you'll just assist me, Dr. E.,” I said, digging out four white votive candles from my backpack.

“No time for hocus-pocus,” Batten said. “Just get me out of here. I'll kill it.”

I didn't bother to smother my snort-laugh. “Like you did the first time you tried? Oh, wait.”

“Then
you
kill it,” Batten snarled.

“I can't kill her yet,” I said. “I have her soul in my back pocket. If I can save it—”

“Even if you could release her astral from the clutch of the necromancer —
which you can't
— her soul is promised to the Overlord through her commitment to Malas.” Declan looked despondent. “There is no redemption for the damned. I told you that before.”

“You don't know,” I told him. “What if you're wrong and I'm right?”

My assistant squinted at me like I was trying to sell him a steam powered television set. I sighed.

“Listen, Declan, you might be more worldly, and speak five languages, and have more degrees than me, and more experience with the dark arts, and …” I wrinkled my nose. “Where was I going with this? Oh, right, fucking shit up.” I turned to exchange my leather gloves into the backpack for black neoprene ones. When I faced them again, I was all business, Baranuik-style. “When it comes to screwing up other people's schemes and machinations, I am a motherfucking natural. Now, hold this.” I wiggled my back pocket meaningfully.

Declan blinked rapidly at my butt then took the jar of astral bodies from the pocket. “I will say this: belief is a powerful ingredient, Dr. B. You have that on your side. I just don't know…”

Batten offered, “She does have a point about fucking up.”

“Thank you, Jerkface.” I let him see me ogle his bondage once more, thoroughly enjoying his helplessness. “Now, could you hold our patient, Dr. E?”

Declan positioned himself behind Anne's head, at the end of the table; she craned to look at him, making wet, smacking noises and hissing around tiny fangs.

His voice wavered. “Whenever you're ready, Dr. B.”

I used my chalk to draw a protective circle around the table, laid the four white votive candles at North, South, East, and West, lit them, and began inviting the Watchtowers, elemental guardians that rushed in to offer protection against any possible intrusion from dark forces. Spicer would not have been greeted by these guardians; he was only interested in manipulating dark forces.

Once my working space was sealed, I said, “There. Let's see the
bokor
chuck his taint in
this
circle. Wait, that's not right.”

“Clay,” Declan said, “and salt. Tell me when to grab her.”

“Hurry it up,” Batten said.

I got closer to the table and Anne's focus swung to me with such intensity that I wondered if any part of her understood what I was attempting, and if so, how she felt about it. I smiled at her a little. She did not smile back.