Spectral Evidence

Said without rancour, so far as Dee could tell. This swank old lady had killed a thousand similar monsters in her time, probably—more than she and Sami’d ever seen—but when it came to emotional weaknesses, everybody had their something; if she wanted to contract hers out, Dee could certainly relate. No different from any other job, long as the money was good.

“We’re still wanted,” Sami reminded her. “Sticking around in the States wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Oh, no doubt. But you’ll need new identities, won’t you, to cross the border into Canada? Unless you’re planning on using magic, that is—and that does leave a trail.”

“Not one the FBI can follow, far as I know.”

“Ah, yes. But what of Miss Chatwin, your former partner in escape?” Here Ruhel had tapped the second file, lightly. “Turns out, there’s a fair deal of historical linkage between her family and yours, above and beyond the sad fact of both your mothers having decided to initiate, ahem, intimate contact with the same member of the Goetic Coterie—”

Dee: “Careful.”

“I’m always careful, Miss Cornish; so should you be. Especially since I know you both know that Allfair Chatwin remains fixated on her half-sister, for...various reasons, all of them toxic. A dangerous woman.”

Dee shrugged, reluctant to state the obvious. But it was Sami who answered, anyways.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t think we have any problem with hunting your grandfather down, per se. But what is it you want us to do with him, exactly, once we find him?”

—

“So she gave you a phone too, huh?” Chatwin shook her head, grinning. “Can’t say they ain’t a canny lot, them Maartensbecks. Particularly like her usin’ me as a threat, too, to light a fire under your asses.”

Dee snorted. “‘Threat,’ Jesus. Annoyance, maybe...”

“Now, now, Lady Di. No need t’be insultin’.”

But: “Just shush it, both of you,” Sami broke in. Then asked, of Chatwin: “So who’d you talk to? Ruhel again?”

“Naw, they sent me a pretty little brown gal in undercover cop slacks and a Kevlar neck piece, tough as nails. Said her name was Anapurna Maartensbeck, so I’m thinkin’ she’s probably this generation’s granddaughter, but she didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout her great-great-great...whatever. Just how there’d been a break-in at the vault, some big black books took, an’ now they needed somebody t’get ‘em back, an interested third party knew enough of what magic smells like t’sniff ‘em out.”

“They sent you after books.” Dee shook her head. “The fuck.”

“Funny, that’s what I thought; them books weren’t the only things stunk, by a long shot. Most ‘specially so ‘cause when I did track ‘em down, they turned out t’be mainly no great shakes—I mean, sure, I guess if you never seen a grimoire in your life, you might get all het up. But really: Agrippa, Paracelsus? The Petit Albert? They’re the Time-Life series of black magic—ten a penny, find a copy any damn place. Hardly worth the lockin’ up, ‘sides from this...”

Bitch meant what she had under her arm, of course—that squat, thick tome, more folio than book at closer examination, ill-bound in sticky-pale leather. She flourished it forth at Sami with a little half-bow, running her thumb along the embossed title, which Sami read out loud: “Of The True Heirarchy of Hell, or Pseudomonarchia Daemo-nium, blah blah blah. Greatest Magickal Hits bullshit, like you said.”

“Uh huh. Now flip it open.”

Sami did, gingerly. And Dee watched Chatwin grin even wider, so much so it was like the top of her skull was in danger of falling off, as her—their, shit on it all—half-sister’s eyes widened, when she saw what was written inside.

“Clavicule des Pas-Morts,” she said, amazed. “This is...this was burnt. Wasn’t it?”

“Oh, more’n once, from what I heard. Then again

, those might’ve just been rumours put ‘round by whoever had it at the time, to throw everybody else lookin’ for it off the scent. ‘Cause once you got a copy of this bad boy, you probably want to keep it just as long as possible, don’t ya think?”

Dee looked at Sami, the resident expert. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because whoever has the Key of the Not-Dead can cure vampirism,” Sami replied, eyes still firmly riveted to the thing in question. To Chatwin: “How’d you find it?”

Chatwin shrugged. “Easy enough. Miss Anapurna give me a box of forensic samples, said they took ‘em at the crime scene—I whipped up a trackin’ spell, but didn’t get more’n one trail and that gone cold hours back, ‘cause it looked like the old boy who made it was already dead. odd thing was, though...”

“He was still moving?”

“Mmm. Just like old Professor Maks, I’d bet—or like that gal he left behind here would’ve been, you hadn’t performed an emergency head-ectomy.”

“So you figure out he’s a vampire, kill him, grab the book—and? Maartensbecks are the ones who lied to you, why aren’t you takin’ it up with them? How’d you even know where to find us?”

“Aw, now you’re drainin’ all the fun out of it.” Chatwin waited for Dee to rise to the bait, then sighed when she didn’t. “Well—as it ensues, Princess here was always gonna be my next stop already, but let’s lay that by, for the nonce. Given Mister Book-Snatcher didn’t look like he’d been undead too long, I decided t’use his blood and see how near the one’d turned him was, just in case it decided to come lookin’; that’s what brought me this-a-way, though I guess I’m runnin’ a bit late in terms of catchin’ up with the head monster-maker himself. Imagine my surprise, though, when I snuck up t’peek through the diner window and saw the two of you standin’ there, all large as life, ‘bout to cut yourself some fresh new vampire’s throat!”