Phantom Kiss (Chicagoland Vampires 12.5)

He handed it to me, the screen showing what looked like a pretty typical Internet product page. Description, picture, cost. But instead of a book or pair of shoes, the seller was offering a “Spell to Summon a Spirit Using Partial Skeleton.”

“A lot of alliteration,” I said, reading the description, which talked about unearthing a skull or other body part to pull the deceased’s spirit back into this world. The buyer would receive a prekindled magical object, a candle, and the words necessary to initiate the magic.

“Pretty damn close to what we’ve got here,” I said, handing the phone to Ethan. “I presume you can’t track it, given where it came from?”

“Correct,” my grandfather said. “Even if we had a warrant for the buyer’s information, it’s highly unlikely the seller would cooperate, and we won’t be able to find them to enforce it. We’ll be talking to the Order about the market,” my grandfather said, displeasure clear in his voice. “Very firm talking.”

“If we assume that’s the right spell, it doesn’t say anything about the purpose of raising a spirit. So what’s the point?” I looked down at the grave. “What are they trying to do here? What do they want with a ghost?”

“Maybe the buyer wanted a ghost butler,” Jeff said. “Or to locate some kind of hidden treasure that only the deceased knows about, or to have a really kick-ass Halloween prop.”

“Several months early?” Annabelle asked.

Jeff shrugged, mouth arranged in a quirky grin. “Ghost butler.”

“Maybe they did it just to prove they could,” my grandfather quietly said, worry in the lines of his face. “Tonight proves he’s still out there, still trying to make magic. Still trying to accomplish something. We just have to find the something.”

Before the something found us.

• • •

We drove back to the House at speeds that weren’t precisely legal. Neither Ethan nor I wanted to leave it for long.

Mallory and Catcher met us in Ethan’s office in front of a spread of pizza boxes on the conference table.

“We have exonerated Mickey Riley!” she pronounced, slice of pepperoni in hand.

“And managed dinner, apparently,” Ethan said.

“Malik ordered it,” she said, wiping grease from her fingers. “Decided the team needed a refuel.”

It wasn’t Saul’s, my favorite Chicago chain that offered my favorite pizza—cream cheese and double bacon—but it was laden with pepperoni and still gleaming with heat and grease. My stomach rumbled with hunger, and my self-healing vampire arteries rejoiced.

“I’m game,” I said, and pulled out a chair, grabbed a slice, and took a seat. “Tell us about Riley.”

Ethan sat down beside me, got his own slice. My heart leapt happily when he skipped the plate and fork, opted only for a napkin. I’d rubbed a little of the shine off of him, and that was fine by me.

“It’s not Riley,” Mallory said. “In the grave, I mean. Very much Riley’s name on the records, very much Riley not in the ground.”

“Then who the hell is it?” Ethan asked.

“Not Riley,” Mallory said with a grin, a long string of cheese stretching between the pie and the second slice of pizza she’d lifted from it.

“Turns out Mickey Riley had a very distinctive feature.” Catcher held up a hand, all the fingers curled down except his little finger. “He was missing the pinkie on his right hand. Butcher in the 19th Ward cut it off during a disagreement about protection money. But the body in the grave had all ten fingers. On the upside, it did have something you’ll find familiar.”

He pulled up an image on his phone, handed it to me.

On a background of silver that I suspected was an autopsy table sat a pair of old-fashioned spectacles with small, round lenses.

“These look like the same glasses worn by the ghost who attacked us in the tunnel.” I looked up at Catcher, handed the phone to Ethan. “So our ghost, whoever he was, was in Mickey Riley’s grave.”

I was relieved that one of the pieces had fallen into place—if still concerned about the who and the why.

“If not Riley, did the forensics team know who the remains belong to?” Ethan asked.

“No,” Catcher said. “There’s no identifying information with the remains and no matches in the DNA archive. They’ve surmised this gentleman is older than Riley based on the condition of the bones, the glasses, the fabric. Have you looked up the marker from tonight’s site?” Catcher asked. “Maybe his and Riley’s records were reversed.”

I swallowed a mouthful of pizza, adjusted the tablet on the conference table, headed for the cemetery records. “Good idea. Hadn’t gotten there yet.”