No Humans Involved by Kelley Armstrong

  Jeremy tried to accompany me, but I insisted he stay behind. Bad enough I couldn't help him search the house. He argued, but I stood firm and, after a long look in my eyes, he brushed his lips across my forehead, then whispered a suggestion about a coffee shop a block east.

  The ghosts followed me out the rear door into the backyard, cycling through the same insults as if they could think of nothing new. I considered making a run for the road and trying to lose them.

  "What the hell?" said a voice behind me. Eve strode around to my front. "Why didn't you call?"

  She wheeled on the severed man when he got too close and slammed a kick into the side of his dangling head. His torso flew sideways so fast he toppled.

  "Now put yourself together or the next kick is going to knock that half clean off." She turned on the other two. "Clothes on. Scalp on. Eyes back in."

  She marched in front of them like a drill sergeant. "Is this how you think you get a necromancer's attention? Well, congratulations. You've just placed yourself on their blacklist. No necro, anywhere, is ever going to speak to you, no matter how nice you are."

  The pioneer woman aimed a sulky scowl at Eve. "Who do you think you are, giving us orders?"

  "Let's just say you don't want to find out," Eve said, peering down at the woman from her full six feet. "Now--"

  "You don't scare me," the Victorian woman said.

  She advanced on Eve. The other woman circled around behind her. The man stepped forward, his hands clenching into fists. Eve stood her ground, looking bored.

  "You spooks wanna rumble? I've got a better idea. What you need is a break. A vacation. I'm thinking Scotland. Got some great castles there."

  She drop-kicked the man, then shot an energy bolt into the Victorian woman's stomach. The pioneer woman ran at Eve, then froze in a binding spell.

  "Hey, Kris?" Eve called. "That's your cue."

  Kristof appeared, leaning against a tree, as if he'd been there all along, watching from the other side.

  "Sorry," he said. "It looked like you were having fun. I hated to interrupt."

  "I was, but now it's time for transport and I could use some help. You take the ugly guy. I'll take the ugly women."

  The Victorian woman squawked as Eve grabbed her arm and that of the still-frozen pioneer woman.

  "Back in a jiffy," she said as she vanished.

  UNGRATEFUL

  WHEN THEY WERE GONE, I looked at the house. Should I go back inside? No. Not just yet. I crept from the yard and found the coffee shop Jeremy had mentioned. Some Starbucks clone in a strip mall, the kind of place it seemed no neighborhood could be without.

  I ordered, calling Jeremy while I waited in line, so he'd know where to pick me up. I told him Eve had shown up and "solved the problem." Another day, another rescue.

  I sat in a too-comfortable armchair, the kind these places always seem to have, that look so cozy and inviting until you sink down and realize you can't reach your coffee. So you clutch the mug in your hands and tell yourself the comfy chair makes up for the inconvenience.

  Two women about my age plopped onto the sofa next to me, though the coffee shop was three quarters empty. They then proceeded to speak loudly enough to entertain us all.

  "And I told her, 'You are not quitting ballet, not after I paid for lessons for five years.' All those hours shuttling her to the dance studio, watching her rehearsals..."

  "Ungrateful kids," her friend said, shaking her head. "You want them to grow up with some culture, some grace, and all of a sudden they have better things to do."

  "Well, if that's what she thinks, she can think again. I made an investment. And like all my investments, it damned well better pay off. Ungrateful little..."

  My jaw clenched so tight my head hurt. I lifted my cup to sip my coffee and watched the surface quiver as my fingers shook.

  How many times had I heard some variation on those words from my own mother? My earliest memory was of her dragging me from a preschool pageant, her fingers clamped around my arm, where I'd have welts for weeks, all because I'd been ungrateful enough to cry when the hair stylist's curling iron had burned my scalp. Even the last time I'd spoken to her, I'd heard the speech. My eternal ingratitude for the sacrifices she'd made on my behalf.

  As the women continued, my mother's voice rolled over me, taking me back to when I was first coming into my powers.

  "Do you have any idea what it's like, Jaime? Getting calls from high school that you're cowering in the bathroom? Having to delay a commercial shoot because some ghost is bothering you? Changing your wet bedsheets? Pissing the bed at your age because you're scared? I've worked my ass off to make something of you. Your father saddles me with his screwed-up family problem and his screwed-up kid, then kills himself--takes the easy way out. Your precious Nan is no help, always coddling you, putting me down because I ask a little of you in return. You should be tripping over yourself to help, not complaining because you missed a week of school, failed another test. As if you wouldn't have failed anyway. At least I gave you an excuse. Any other parent wouldn't put up with this, you know. They'd have shipped you off long ago."

  I'd grown up believing her--that any other parent would've gotten rid of me. A child has no other point of reference, no wider view of the world.

  I'm sure I wasn't easy to raise. I had my problems, supernatural and otherwise. But now I look around and see the way other parents raise supernatural children. Jeremy taking in a feral child werewolf, no relative or responsibility of his. Paige adopting the daughter of a dark witch, a stranger. Even other human parents faced with supernatural children handled it just fine. Talia Vasic raising Adam on her own, helping him deal with his demonic powers before she knew what they were. Hope talking about how close she was to her mother, a woman who probably still didn't know why her daughter was "different." It didn't matter. A parent loves. A parent helps. A parent accepts.

  Still, I wasn't the only supernatural raised by an unloving parent. Jeremy talked little of his father, but from what I've gleaned, the man had been a cold killer with nothing but contempt for his quiet, nonaggressive son. Jeremy got over it. Flourished. Grew up to be a leader, a man who accepted his differences and didn't complain about them or feel sorry for himself.

  "You should have called."

  I looked up. The other women were gone and Eve now sat in their place. She propped her long legs on the table between us.

  "Yeah," she said, cutting me off as I started to answer. "You wanted to handle it yourself. I know. But see, that's not how this arrangement works. We're partners. If I need a ghost contacted in another plane or I need something done in the living world, I call you. If you need a pesky spook scared off, you call me."

  "I--"

  "And you know what? I'd love to be able to find any ghost myself, to surf the Internet when I need information. But I can't. No more than you can deal with jerks like those three."

  I looked around, then took out my cell phone, pretending to talk into it. "You took them to Glamis, didn't you? To Dantalian."

  "Oh, they'll have fun," she said. "Dantalian's not so bad. Gets lonely, though. Six hundred years is a long time to be cooped up, even for a demon. Like a cat confined to a small apartment. He appreciates new playthings to bat around." She stretched one leg and "nudged" my knee. "And if you think that distracted me from my lecture, you're wrong. You need to call me, Jaime. If I'm around, there's no need for you to deal with shit like that."

  "I know. I just--"

  "--don't want to need help. Fine. But everyone has her specialty. Yours is helping ghosts. Mine is kicking their asses. Whole different skill set."

  "I didn't help them," I said as I looked out across the shop. "Didn't even try."

  "You were breaking and entering, for God's sake. You can't stop to take requests."

  She went on, trying to convince me that I hadn't been wrong to ignore the ghosts. But I knew I hadn't handled it well. I should have told them I was busy, but would speak to them later,
outside. They still might have turned on me, but at least I could say I'd done my duty.

  Duty? I balked at the thought. I wasn't their servant. I didn't owe them anything.

  Or did I?

  I thought of the analogy I'd made earlier. Necromancers as the Elvises of the ghost world. They all want to catch a glimpse of us, to talk to us. Just a little of our time. And, yes, it can be overwhelming, as I'm sure it was--or is--for Elvis. But if someone walks up to him and just wants to say, "Loved your stuff," does he have the right to ignore them?

  I've spent enough time in Hollywood to know this is a contentious issue--the artist's obligation to the public versus his right to privacy. While I don't think you owe it to your fans to provide tabloids with your vacation itinerary or details of your sex life, I don't think an autograph or thirty seconds of your time is too much to ask, not when these are the people who fund your dream--buying your movies, albums, books, whatever.

  I told myself the analogy wasn't a fair one. I'm quick with a signature or a smile for my fans. What obligation do I have to ghosts? They don't pay for seats at my shows. Yet, without them, without my ability to speak to them, I'd have no career. Sure, I could fake it--I usually did--but it was my real contacts, like my seance with Tansy Lane, that kept me in business.

  But ghosts ask for more than an autograph or a handshake. Am I obligated to provide it more often than I already do? Am I obligated to at least listen more often than I do?

  Jeremy arrived and I started to get up, but he waved me down again and told me Hope had taken a cab and I should finish my coffee. He got one for himself, then started to sit on the sofa.

  "Uh, not there," I said.

  He looked over his shoulder at the seemingly empty seat. "Hello, Eve."

  "Tell him I said hi...and bye," she said. "I need to check a few things, then I'll come by the gardens."

  AFTER WE left the coffee shop, Jeremy told me the results of their break-and-enter. He had hoped to uncover the name of the lover Botnick had shared with a member of the magic group, and he had found a book with dozens of women's names, all classified by codes. Find the key to the code and he might find the right lover--but he suspected that key had existed only in Botnick's head. Eve was trying to gain access to Botnick, but those first few postdeath days were difficult.

  Hope hadn't fared any better. As she'd feared, the vibes she'd picked up were old. She'd finally tapped into the chaos enough to see what she'd been sensing--a vision of a man killing his wife with an axe, back in the twenties. A gruesome reward for all her effort, and one with no bearing on our case.

  I hesitated for a minute, then told Jeremy about the women in the coffee shop and how they'd reminded me of my mother.

  "I guess I was feeling sorry for myself, thinking of how other parents handle supernatural things so much better. But you didn't have it easy yourself."

  A half-shrug. Did that mean he didn't want to talk about it? Or just didn't want to complain? After a moment, though, he said, "I just wasn't what Malcolm hoped for in a son." He often referred to his father by his first name, which said a lot about their relationship.

  "You weren't a fighter, you mean." I flushed. "Not that you aren't--"

  "I'm not. I can be, but it's not who I am. A wolf instinctively wants to pass on what he knows to his son. I just wasn't that son. He tried transferring his attentions to Clay, but--" a shrug, "--that didn't work out so well."

  "Your father and Clay?"

  "At first, Malcolm wanted nothing to do with Clay. But as he grew, my father interpreted his strong wolf side as..." He paused, as if searching for a word.

  "A violent streak?"

  "Sadistic even, which I'm sure any psychiatrist would say was projection. Malcolm liked to kill. There's no other way to put it. He wanted to train Clay to fight. I knew that as long as I supervised, it was what Clay needed. Clay hated Malcolm, but he was astute enough, even at that age, to take what he could from the lessons. As for a father-son bond, it never happened."

  "Is that all your father wanted?"

  "I'm sure he hoped to turn Clay against me. Malcolm vacillated between ignoring me and planning petty revenges. He hated being beholden to me."

  "Beholden?"

  "His father left Stonehaven and all its assets to me. While my grandfather intended to protect me, the result was that I was then responsible for Malcolm. I had to dole out an allowance and hide his killings, because if the Pack found out, he'd be banished, and become an even greater threat."

  I was silent for a moment, then said, "That's the real problem, isn't it? You're tired of being responsible for others."

  He looked over sharply.

  "Your father. Clay. The Pack. Elena after Clay bit her. You've always been responsible for others, and now that you're hoping to retire from Alpha-hood, the last thing you need is a relationship with someone else you might need to protect."

  "No. That's not true, Jaime. Clay and the Pack were responsibilities I wanted. Even with Elena and my father, there were other options available. I like being responsible. I like helping. I like protecting. And I'm sure that says something less than admirable about my character, but I can't help it. If anything, with you, I struggle not to overdo it. I want to give you advice, to help you, and I know that's not what you need from me."

  "Sometimes it is," I said softly.

  A crooked smile. "In small doses, yes. If I gave free rein to my impulses, you'd run screaming the other way." He eased back in his seat, smile fading. "I am a leader, Jaime. I like to be in control and be responsible for others, and I take that responsibility very seriously. That means I don't take chances. Ever."

  I met his gaze. "Well, maybe it's time to start."

  A long pause. Then he murmured, under his breath, so softly I had to read his lips to hear it, "Maybe it is."

  BY THE time we returned to the house, it was past midnight. Jeremy and I snuck around to the garden.

  I sat under a gnarled dwarf tree, the long twisted branches tickling my arms, while Jeremy...got ready. Overhead the nearly full moon brightened the garden to twilight, casting a yellow glow. Some night bird or owl gave a mournful cry, raising the hairs on my neck. The faint smell of wood smoke drifted past.

  "Nice night for grave digging," Eve whispered as she sat beside me on the bench. "Did you know you have a ghostly audience already?"

  I glanced around. Tansy and Gabrielle were almost hidden behind a fountain. Tansy lifted her fingers in a sheepish wave. I waved back, but my stomach clenched. Was she still waiting for me to talk to her?

  "There are more," Eve said. "Probably a dozen of them. They seem to be trying to stay out of your way. Just curious. But if you want me to shoo them off--"

  "No, they're fine."

  She tilted her head, hearing the click-click of claws on cement. "Here he comes. I'll get out of your way too, so I can guard the guards--warn you if they get curious."

  "Thanks."

  A black wolf stepped from the shadows into the moonlight. He moved slowly, as if wary of startling me. I suppose if there's any sight worth being spooked by, it's a 180-pound wolf in a residential garden at night. But Jeremy in wolf form never frightened me. Not even the first time I'd seen him. A changed werewolf looks like a real wolf, but their overall size stays the same, as do their hair and eye color. I'd taken one look in those dark eyes and I'd known it was Jeremy.

  He padded over to me and nudged my hand, his nose as cold and wet as any dog's. I laughed at that and he gave me a look, but I didn't share. Comparing a werewolf to a dog might be considered an insult. But as I stood, I did let my hand brush his fur. It felt like...fur. Coarse on top, soft underneath.

  I turned to ask where we should start, and was struck by a sudden thought. "You can understand me, can't you? Do you need me to speak slower or louder...?"

  A soft snort and shake of his head. The movement was awkward, as if he wasn't accustomed to "human" communication in wolf form. How did they communicate? Did they understand barks?
Did some canine language interpreter click on when they changed form?

  "So I guess we should do this systematically, one bed at a time, starting--" I looked up to see his tail disappearing into the shadows. "Or I can just follow you."

  CADAVER DOG

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, Jeremy sniffed gardens, trying to find the unmistakable scent of a decaying corpse. Harder than it sounds because most of the beds were raised within retaining walls, so he had to hop up or--in a few cases--take a running leap.

  He stayed at the edge of the gardens and leaned in to get closer to the center, ducking around bushes, picking his way past plants. I erased paw prints as we went.

  We'd made it through about half of the garden when I noticed Tansy and Gabrielle watching.

  "Is this about those poor trapped children?" Gabrielle asked as I waved them over.

  I nodded. "We're hoping to find a body, so we can..." I considered how best to explain it. "Find the people responsible and figure out what they did so I can free the spirits. He--" I waved at Jeremy. "The, uh, dog is specially trained for that sort of thing."

  "A cadaver dog."

  "Right. But not, you know, officially or anything. Just a friend of a friend knew someone who trained them and let me borrow this one."

  "Shouldn't he be on a lead?" Tansy asked.

  "This one works better off-leash. He's very well trained."

  "Huh. Well, it looks like he may have found something."

  I leaned past Tansy to see Jeremy gingerly raking back the dirt with his claws. He took another sniff, caught a noseful of dirt and sneezed. Then he resumed his careful digging.

  A smell wafted up, strong enough for me to recognize. The stink of a rotting corpse. Jeremy lowered his muzzle into the hole and flipped something out. Even before I got close, I could see tiny sticklike bones and needlelike teeth. A mole or large mouse.

  "Eww," Tansy said. "You'd better grab that, before he eats it."

  I swallowed a laugh. "I made sure he was well fed before we started."

  Jeremy looked at me, as if figuring out what we were talking about. He rolled the tiny corpse back into the hole, this time with his paw.

  When he started covering it, I hurried forward. "I'll get that. You just keep--I mean, go, boy. Work. Sniff."