No Humans Involved by Kelley Armstrong

  "That's fine. No metal door can hold him in a room."

  I walked the perimeter, feeling the walls, then searching the center. It was small, as the man said. A concrete box with a drain in the middle of the floor.

  "I thought you said help was coming," the man said, voice dripping sarcasm.

  I knelt, squeezed my fingers into the drain grid and tugged. Bolted down. Maybe, with enough pulling, I could get it off, but the man was right--unless I could turn into a mouse, it wasn't going to help.

  "What's this for anyway?" I said, down on all fours, peering into the dark drain.

  Silence.

  I glanced back at the ghosts. The boy shifting under my gaze. Even the man looked away.

  "There's no tap in here. So what would they need to drain away?"

  "Blood," the man said after a minute. "That's what this place is. A killing room."

  "HOPE?" I shook her shoulder harder. "Hope? Come on. Wake up!"

  I'd been trying to rouse her for at least five minutes. Five long and precious minutes. Twice she'd stirred, only to fall back asleep without opening her eyes. Had they drugged her? Or had I hit her harder than I thought?

  There'd been no sign of Eve. Whatever magic these people had used to keep ghosts in here was either keeping her out or preventing her from hearing my call.

  As for Jeremy, I couldn't wait for rescue. Not this time.

  "Hope. Hope!"

  She mumbled something, her eyes still closed. I drew back my hand and slapped her. She started awake, eyes wide and unseeing, kicking and flailing.

  "Hope! Stop--"

  Her foot connected with my shin.

  "Ow. It's me. It's--"

  Fingernails raked across my cheek, coming dangerously close to my eye. I grabbed her by the wrists, pinned them at her sides and leaned over her.

  "Hope, it's me, Jaime. I know it's dark and you can't see anything, but we're in trouble and I need you to listen."

  I TOLD her what had happened. As I spoke, she just lay there, not reacting. I explained why I'd hit her with the gun. I told her about our solid concrete cell. I even pointed out the drain, its purpose and what that probably said about why we were in here. She sat through it all, unflinching.

  At first, I chalked it up to steady nerves. Or maybe shock. But then I realized she hardly seemed to be listening. She could hear me--I made sure of that several times. But her gaze kept sliding around the room, as if I were chatting about something as inconsequential as dinner plans.

  She seemed dopey too, unable or unwilling to sit up. When I asked how she was, she motioned for me to keep talking.

  Her gaze darted about the room, like me in a room of ghosts, my attention pulled every which way. I realized then what was distracting her: visions of murder, of human sacrifice. I had to get her out of here.

  Easy to say...

  "So we're trapped in this room," I said. "Unless you've got some secret power I don't know about, something that will knock down walls..."

  She blinked, focusing on me, then shook her head.

  I turned to the ghosts. The boy had faded again. I waited for him to return.

  "You two were killed in here, weren't you? By these people?"

  The boy nodded. "They talked about there being others before me. Kids, I think. But they aren't here. It was just me until Murray came along."

  So why weren't the children here? There was no sense asking him, so I just said, "And your name is?"

  "Brendan."

  "Good. Okay, Brendan, tell me everything you know about these people."

  NORMALLY, A ghost doesn't remember the circumstances surrounding his death unless you intercept him before he gets to the afterlife realms. But these ghosts had never crossed over, so they hadn't been granted postdeath amnesia, and they remembered everything.

  I relayed Brendan's experience to Hope, partly in hopes that she'd catch some clue I'd missed, but mostly just to distract her from the visions.

  I plucked every potentially useful tidbit from his story. We were in a basement. There was a TV room nearby, plus a small bedroom. The house was in Brentwood, probably close enough to where I'd been staying for the group to transport the bodies.

  From Brendan's account, there were at least five members. May was one of the leaders, working closely with a middle-aged man. They'd introduced themselves as a couple, but that was probably a front. None of Brendan's descriptions matched Rona Grant or Zack Flynn, but that didn't mean anything. May had said there were more members of the Ehrich Weiss Society, so we just hadn't seen any overlap except for her.

  As for getting some idea of what they were capable of, the only spell Brendan had seen them cast was the weakening one. When he finished, I turned to the older man--Murray.

  "So you were killed after Brendan?"

  He nodded, his head down. A hell of a thing to put someone through, but I had to do it, so I pushed on.

  "How were you approached?"

  He hesitated. "I--I don't remember. It's all very foggy. I was at work and then...That's all I remember from that day. I woke up here, like Brendan."

  He shot a furtive glance at the boy, as if worrying about what effect his death had on him, but Brendan said, "I didn't see it. I was blacked out. It happens a lot when they're doing magic in here."

  I relayed that to Hope. During Brendan's account, she'd barely seemed to be listening, but now she went still, as if struggling to pay attention.

  "So he was sacrificed?" she said. "Like the boy?"

  "Right."

  I gave her a quick recap of Brendan's story. She looked confused, but waved for me to continue questioning Murray. She listened as I relayed the story of his death, his tale almost identical to Brendan's, offering no new insight.

  As he finished, Hope moaned and began writhing on the floor. I knelt beside her. Her face was ashen, eyes rolling back.

  "They--they must have done something to me," she whispered. "I--I feel sick. Something..."

  Her voice dropped and I had to lean closer.

  "He's lying," she whispered.

  "Wha--?"

  "Shhh. The older one. Murray. He's lying."

  Her voice was so low I struggled to make out the words.

  "He wasn't burned. They stabbed him in the back. He was one of them. They turned on him." She swallowed. "I'm sorry I'm not much help. I'm...having a hard time."

  I squeezed her shoulder. "You focus on blocking the visions and I'll get us out of here."

  Her gaze dipped, cheeks flushing.

  I couldn't imagine what it was like for her. Seeing ghosts in their death bodies was nothing compared to seeing them in their death throes. I'd never complain about seeing a death body again.

  Death body...

  I turned to Murray. "I know something that might tell me more about the magic these people have. As ghosts, you can revert to what we call your death body, how you looked at the moment you passed. If you can do that for me, maybe I can take a closer look for signs of magic."

  "I don't know how," Murray said quickly.

  "I'll tell you."

  "Sure," Brendan said. "Whatever helps."

  "I don't see how it will." Murray crossed his arms. "They used gasoline and matches to kill us, not magic."

  "Humor me."

  He shook his head.

  "Why? It's not as if you're lying, right?"

  His expression chased away any doubt.

  "Wha--?" Brendan began.

  I shot him a look and he went silent.

  "Are you ever planning to get out of here, Murray?"

  "Of course."

  "So then what? You waltz up to the higher powers, say 'My name's Murray and I was a human sacrifice' and expect them to take your word for it? You've got some serious bad karma to undo, and not a lot of time left to undo it. I'd suggest you start now."

  His eyes said he wasn't convinced.

  I imagined Eve at my shoulder. Bluff, damn it. He's human. What the hell does he know about our world? Bury the
bastard in bullshit.

  "Do you know what I am? A necromancer. You can see a glow around me, one you won't see on regular people like her." I waved at Hope. "My job is to act as a mediator between this world and the next, and to do that, I have a partner on the other side. That woman I was summoning? I called her a ghost...among other things. She's not just any ghost. She's a direct link to the higher powers. Every necromancer is assigned one."

  "Cool," Brendan said. "Like a guardian angel."

  I imagined what Eve would say about being called an angel, but kept a straight face as I nodded. "Something like that. One of a necromancer's jobs is to ease the passing of spirits. When we escape here, I'll turn you over to her and she'll take you to the higher powers who will decide where you belong. When she hands you over, she'll make her report. What you do in the remaining time you have on this side will have a big impact on that report."

  Hope's strained voice floated over. "And if Jaime doesn't get out of here alive, then she can't help you cross over, meaning you'll be at the whim of the first necromancer you meet when--if--you escape."

  "But I don't know what I can do," Murray said. "I can't get you out of here--"

  "You can help by telling me about them. The group you were a part of before they killed you."

  Brendan turned on Murray. "What?"

  "Yes, he was part of that group, but he changed his mind after hearing what they did to you. He wanted to turn them in. That's why they killed him."

  Murray nodded emphatically. I doubted that was how it happened, but Brendan was mollified enough to relax.

  "Now," I continued, "tell me everything."

  THE DEMON WITHIN

  THE GROUP HAD BEEN STARTED almost fifteen years ago by May Donovan and another man, Don Rice. Don was also in the Ehrich Weiss Society, but otherwise the groups were separate, on May's advice. As we'd suspected, she and Don had used the society to research new occult groups and to track rumors of their own.

  "And Zack Flynn?" I asked.

  "Who?"

  "A reporter for the L.A. Times. He's part of the Ehrich Weiss Society."

  "I think May's mentioned him. Just a kid, right?" A moue of distaste. "We don't allow young people in our group. We're serious practitioners."

  Had Jeremy and Karl realized their mistake, left Zack and gone back to Brentwood? Or had they teamed up with Zack and used his connection to May to infiltrate her "real" group?

  Hope's face was red and beaded with sweat as she was swept into another vision. That jolted worries of Jeremy aside. He could take care of himself.

  I continued grilling Murray.

  Three years ago, after over a decade of trying, the group had found the so-called "key" to unlocking the mysteries of the magical world. Human sacrifice. Or not so much the act itself as the by-products. They cremated the victims' organs and used the ashes in spellcasting.

  The ritual they'd used must have bound the spirits to the earth so the magic could draw on their energy, draining them as their ashes were used. That's why Brendan was fading. He was disappearing as his energy was consumed in spellcasting.

  Even with that ingredient, their success had been limited to a few spells in a select number of books--simple magic from real grimoires, I'd presume. The spell they'd used to knock me out was a fairly recent addition, and the strongest thing they had.

  When I asked about the children, he said that over three years, they'd killed six children and buried them in the garden down the road.

  "But their spirits aren't here," I said. "Were they killed here? In this room?"

  "Some. But that was before May performed the encircling ritual."

  "Encircling ritual?"

  "To protect this room from..." he fluttered his hands, "evil spirits. Nosy neighbors. Who knows? May was getting paranoid. Kept worrying that we'd conjure up some demon or tap into something ugly."

  "Did something like that ever happen?"

  "Not to us."

  "But to May?"

  He glanced around, then lowered his voice, as if he could be overheard. "May is different. The magic always works better for her. Comes easier to her. Some of us can barely cast the simplest spells. May's always first and best. It makes some of us wonder..." He shrugged. "There'd been grumbling. About what else May might be able to do. What she might be hiding from us."

  "Which would explain the 'encircling' ritual. If she did something that spooked her. So presumably, this ritual is what keeps you two in."

  I had a good idea why May was the strongest. Tapping into real supernatural blood. As for what kind...

  "These rumors," I said. "About May Donovan--"

  "They're coming."

  The raspy voice made the hairs on my neck rise. It came from Hope's direction, but didn't sound like her.

  When I looked over, she'd twisted onto her side, her hair tumbling over her face. In the dim lighting, her expression seemed to be fear, but as I bent to reassure her, I saw she was smiling. Her amber eyes glittered. Her lips were drawn back, white teeth glowing in the darkness.

  "Hope?"

  She blinked and that smile wavered, but returned, less feral, more...blissful, eyes rolling back. Her lips parted and she let out a hissing sigh of pleasure.

  The sound raked down my spine. I recognized that look, that sigh. When I'd made my deal with a demon, he'd taken human form for the summoning. As I'd squirmed, listening to the killer describe his crimes, I'd seen that same look on the demon's face as he drank in the chaos.

  But half-demons weren't demonic. Like every other supernatural, evil was a choice, not a blood destiny. I remembered Hope's words: "Other half-demons get a special power without a demon's attraction to chaos. That attraction is all I get," and I understood. All those times she'd looked away, guilty, embarrassed, when I'd offered sympathy for the horrors she had to endure.

  Horror, yes. Horrible? Horrifying? Not for her.

  Now, hearing our would-be murderers approaching, she felt not fear but--

  I turned away from Hope. I had to think...

  "Jaime?"

  I steeled myself not to look at her. I remembered the demon I'd dealt with, how seductive he'd been, how easy to trust...and how much I'd paid for it.

  "Jaime?" Her voice quavered, but that hoarse bloodlust was gone. "Help me. Please."

  Still I resisted. But did enjoying chaos make Hope demonic? She had helped us find this group. Never once had she led us into trouble, double-crossed us or done anything to cause chaos. She'd honestly seemed to want to help--to find some balance for the impulses she hid.

  I turned. We'd been in this room long enough that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could make out Hope's face, slick with sweat, her eyes still glowing, but filled with fear, even despair.

  "They're outside," she said. "Talking. I can hear their thoughts. This place--all the chaos--it must be boosting my power. I'm getting all these thoughts, every bad thing--" She inhaled. "May's the key. Tricking them. Lying to them. You can use that."

  "How?"

  Frustration flared in her eyes. "Just...use it. Somehow. Not much time."

  I leaned in to listen. She talked fast, throwing out snippets of information about May and the others. Random thoughts, out of context, left to me to interpret.

  Then she gasped. "They're getting ready. Gas. Matches."

  Her face contorted, excitement warring with true fear. She grabbed my arm.

  "Knock me out again," she rasped.

  I took her other arm and drew closer. "They won't hurt you. I'm going to get you out of here."

  "You don't--" She bit off a snarl and took a deep breath. "You need to knock me out."

  "I really need you awake, Hope. I might need your help--"

  "To kill you?" Her gaze met mine, hard and sharp. "If they want to kill you, I might not try to stop them. I might even help them."

  I didn't believe that, but I could see that she did.

  "Grab my hair and hit my head against the floor."

 
; "What if I accidentally--"

  She flew at me. Seeing that snarling face, those glowing demonic eyes, I reacted instinctively and flung my arms out, knocking her back. As I hit her, she veered, as if launching off my hands, twisting to fly, headfirst, into the nearest wall. She hit it and slumped to the floor.

  DEMONS AND WEREWOLVES

  I RUSHED OVER and dropped to check Hope's pulse. There was a muted jangle at the door, as if someone was turning a lock.

  I sprang to my feet.

  Light filled the tiny room. I stumbled back, blinking after straining so long in the dark. Then I followed the light up and saw a panel inset in the high ceiling.

  Ringed around the room was a high shelf dotted with what looked like stuffed animals. The taxidermy types, not the toys. That caught me off guard and I stared at a crow for a moment before yanking my gaze away.

  Another click. The door was opening. I looked around frantically, hoping I'd see some weapon missed in the darkness. There was nothing. Shoes! My heels. I could use them as I'd planned to with Botnick, to stab or--

  I stared down at my sneakers. Oh, goddamn it!

  "Hello, Jaime."

  May Donovan walked in, dressed in a blazer and skirt, as calmly professional as if we were meeting in her office. Even smiled and extended her hand.

  "I trust I won't need to use that spell again," she said, stopping before me. "You're a bright woman. You know when you're outnumbered." Her gaze dropped to Hope. "Still unconscious? I suppose that's just as well."

  A click as the door closed. I looked past May and saw four others crowding into the tiny room. Three men, one woman, all on the far side of forty. At a gesture from May, two of the men walked to Hope and carried her into the middle of the room.

  Something was etched into the concrete--a symbol they'd found in a book, presumably. As the men laid Hope on it, her hand flopped onto the stainless steel drain, sparkling and spotless, no sign of its purpose evident. Of course there wasn't--the point of having a concrete room with a drain was to wash away all the evidence.

  I swallowed.

  One of the men retrieved the gas can he'd left by the door and set it down on a lock of Hope's hair. The other woman held the matches, flipping them in her fingers, not nervous, just toying with them. I glanced at their faces, relaxed, unworried and unhurried, as if they were preparing the room for yet another dull but necessary business meeting.

  I opened my mouth to stall them, but my mind and gaze stayed caught on Hope, on that gas can carelessly laid on her hair, on her graceful fingers and chewed nails stretched over that immaculate drain.