I took another drink, and not because I needed the magic.
Prout looked up at me. “Yes, Father Satan, I have served thee well, and now have this sacrifice for you.”
I held a hand out. “Easy, Prout.”
He wasn’t listening. “You come to me in the shape of my enemy to mock me. I did harm to your pet. That opened my heart to you, didn’t it?”
I had no idea what he was going on about, but talking was better than slashing. “You begin to see things, my son.”
He nodded and studied his reflection in the blade.
I looked at him through magic. Prout had always been leopardspotted, just full of weaknesses. That had changed. The spots had become long, oily rivers that ran up and down his body, like circulating currents. I’d never seen its like before, but it wasn’t part of Prout. He had no talent.
I closed my fist and opened it again. A blue spark, invisible to Prout and his family, flew from my palm and drilled into his forehead. His stripes went jagged. He tried to rise, then toppled and fell, snuffing two of the candles against his belly.
I looked past him toward the kitchen. “Come on out, Leah. This ends here.”
The young artist stepped from the darkened kitchen, glowing silver with magic. She’d streaked paint over her face and in her hair. It had to be her trigger-something in it, or the scent-and the glow made her very powerful. She opened her hands innocently and stared into my eyes.
“You don’t know what he did, Trick.”
“He arrested Martha for your murders.”
“Not that.” Her voice came soft and gentle, like a lover’s whisper. “Before that, when he was investigating you. He knew you were set up. He had evidence to clear you. He didn’t. You know why? Your mother is part of his church. You were an embarrassment for her. He wanted to make you go away.”
I stared down at the man and suddenly found the knife in my hand. Prout had known I was innocent. He destroyed my life because magic was evil and he couldn’t abide it. He got me tossed from the force and hid behind being a good church-going man, an upstanding officer.
I weighed the knife in my hand. “Right. He’s a hypocrite.”
“Just like the others. They all pledged money, but only in trust, only upon death, for capital expenses, not operations.” Leah’s eyes narrowed. “They knew how tight things were for the mission. They helped Martha to expand until she couldn’t keep the place going. They had their own plans. They’d move her out, revoke their gifts. They had to be stopped.”
“You made them pay.”
“I made them reveal themselves. They wallowed in their own vanity. They died embracing their inner reality.”
“Why the staging? The rotten food, from the vanitas paintings?”
“It was all a warning to others. They should have seen death coming.”
“And the Twinkie. I saw one at each site.”
Leah smiled coldly. “The promise of life everlasting. They never saw it.”
“They never could have understood.”
“But you do, Trick.” Her eyes blazed. “You have to kill Prout. He betrayed you. Let him die here. Let everyone see how black his heart really is.”
Argent arcane fire poured over me. Every moment of pain I’d felt exploded within. I’d made a good life. I’d had friends. I’d been respected, and Prout conspired with my mother and with criminals to smear me and destroy me. Leah’s magic wrapped me up and bled down into the blade, tracing silver lightning bolts over the metal.
One second. A heartbeat. A quick stroke and Prout’s blood would splash hot over me. I could revel in it. Victory, finally.
Then it was over.
I dropped the knife.
She stared at me. “How?”
“I’ve been where you’ve been, darlin’. As low as can be.” I let blue energy gather in my palm. “No vanity. No illusion. I know exactly what I am.”
The azure bolt caught her in the chest and smashed her back against the wall. Plasterboard cracked. She left a bloody smear as she sank to the floor.
In turn I used magic to put Prout’s family out and to let them forget. They’d have nightmares, but there was no reason to make them worse.
And it was going to get worse.
I’d been worried that Martha could have turned a jury with her talent. There’s no juror in the world, much less jurist or lawyer, that isn’t a little bit vain. I never figured the way Prout did, that being talented meant one was evil; but I knew better than to rule it out.
I had to deal with it.
I picked up the knife. I wrapped Prout’s hand around it.
We went to work.
Cate found me on the hill overlooking Anderson’s graveside service. Huge crowd, including Prout. He dressed properly. The only white on him was his shirt and bandages on his face. He stood beside my mother, steadying her, being stoic and heroic.
That was his right, after all, since he’d put an end to the Society Murderess.
“How can you watch this, Trick?”
“Only way I can make sure he’s dead.” I half-smiled. “Think my mother will throw herself on the casket?”
“Not her. Prout. Preening.”
“Why shouldn’t he? He’s a hero. He killed a sociopath.” I nodded toward him. “She put up a hell of a fight before he stabbed her through the heart. I heard his jaw was broken in two places.”
“Three. Cracked orbit, busted nose.”
“Whoda thunk she could hit that hard?”
“Never met her.” Cate shook her head. “How’s your hand?”
“Scrapes and bruises. I’ll be more careful walking to the bathroom in the dark.”
“You know, there were some anomalous fingerprints on the knife.”
“Ever match ’em?”
“No. Was I wrong about you, Trick?”
“I don’t think so, Cate.” I met her stare openly. “They need their heroes. They need someone to fend off the things lurking beyond the firelight. Prout battled to save his family. Its best he never knows how much danger he was in. How much danger they were all in. All their fear and they couldn’t even imagine.”
“I don’t think they really want to.”
“You’re probably right.”
Down below, Martha Raines closed the prayer book and made a final comment. I didn’t hear it. I didn’t need to.
They did, and they looked peaceful.
Grave-Robbed by P. N. Elrod
Chicago, February 1937
When the girl draped in black stepped in to ask if could help her with a séance, Hal Kemp’s version of “Gloomy Sunday” began to murmur sadly from the office radio.
Coincidences annoy me. A mournful song for a dead sweetheart put together with a ceremony that’s supposed to help the dead speak with the living made me uneasy-and I was annoyed it made me uneasy.
I should know better, being dead myself.
“You sure you’re in the right place?” I asked, taking in her outfit. Black overcoat, pocketbook, gloves, heels, and stockings-she was a walking funeral. Along with the mourning weeds she wore a brimmed hat with a chin-brushing veil even I couldn’t see past.
“The Escott Agency-that’s what’s on the door,” she said, sitting on the client chair in front of the desk without an invitation. “You’re Mr. Escott?”
“I’m Mr. Fleming. I fill in for Mr. Escott when he’s elsewhere.” He was visiting his girlfriend tonight. I’d come over to his office to work on his books since I was better at accounting.
“It was Mr. Escott who was recommended to me.”
“By who?”
“A friend.”
I waited, but she left it at that. Much of Escott’s business as a private agent came by word of mouth. Call him a private eye and you’d get a pained look and perhaps an acerbic declaration that he did not undertake divorce cases. His specialty as an agent was carrying out unpleasant errands for the unable or unwilling, not peeking through keyholes, but did a séance qualify? He was interested in that kind of thing, but mostly from a skeptic’s point of view. I had to say mostly since he couldn’t be a complete skeptic what with his partner-me-being a vampire.