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As I stood there, surveying the carnage, I noticed there was one last ghoul, but he was over by an azalea bush, crouching as if in fear. Ghouls tended to be emotionally challenged when it came to fear, so his actions made me pause. Hell, he was making it easy for me. I headed over, intending to dispatch him back to the grave, when I stopped short.
Martin. Martin the ghoul. Wonderful. Was our neighbor Wilbur behind all of this? I grunted as the others made their way to my side.
“What’s wrong—oh shit,” Delilah said. “That’s Martin, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s him, but he’s not talking.” I shook my head, trying to decide whether to put him out of our misery or leave him be.
He wasn’t trying to attack us, and if he’d been feasting on the old man, I couldn’t see any signs of it. No fresh blood on the face, no questionable matter staining his shirt. In fact, he was dressed quite conservatively in what looked like a faded pinstripe suit, and his neck appeared to have been fixed from when I’d broken it. Wilbur had welded a nice smooth steel collar around it, with a brace up the back of the neck to keep his head straight. Joy, a dandy and Frankenstein’s monster, all rolled into one.
“Wait—don’t hurt him!” The voice reached my ears faintly, and I spun around. There, running through the veil of dusk descending around us, was Wilbur. Wilbur the necromancer.
Chase looked confused. “Shouldn’t we take care of this thing?” he asked, pointing to Martin.
“His name is Martin, and he belongs to our neighbor.” I gave him a look that said, I know, I know.
“Oh, got it. Great. That explains everything.” Chase let out a huff of exasperation and motioned to his men. “Clean up that mess, and be careful. Some of those . . . things . . . might still have some life in them.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “We might get a little help here.” As Wilbur joined us, a worried expression on his face, I pointed to Martin. “You in the habit of losing that thing all the time?”
He stared at me, his concern turning to disinterest. “Martin has a habit of wandering off, yes. I try to keep him out of trouble, though . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked around. “What the hell happened here? Who owns all these ghouls?”
“We thought you might be able to tell us,” I said. “Since you’re a necromancer, and you have a sprightly ghoul of your own, we thought you might know who brought the rest of the gang back to life. Nice repair on the neck, by the way.”
Wilbur grunted. “I had to do something after you got done with him.” He glanced at the strange ghouls and shook his head. “I have no idea where these came from. They look crudely raised, though. Have you checked the cemetery for empty graves?”
Chase moaned. “Not grave robbers, too?”
“How else do you think necromancers get their dead to make ghouls and zombies from?” Wilbur seemed to be enjoying himself now. “Martin here willed his body to science. I just happened to work at the laboratory that claimed him. They decided they couldn’t use him and were going to bury his remains, so I volunteered to do the job. Martin was a transient—a bum. No one to care, no one to grieve for him. So I made him my pet.”
“Do you recognize any energy signatures around here? If you do, please tell us,” Delilah said. “We can use the help.”
“And why should I help you?” Wilbur asked. “First you break my ghoul’s neck, then you act like I’m the scum of the Earth—oh, don’t try to lie to me,” he added when Camille started to protest. “I know full well what you three think of me.” He glanced at her again. “Well, the other two. You—you’re an oddball. I can’t figure your energy out, witch. Anyway, give me one good reason why I should help you guys out.”
“Because I said so,” Vanzir said, stepping forward. “I’m a demon. I could slip into your dreams and suck out your life force without blinking an eye.”
“Down boy,” Delilah muttered. Vanzir glared at her. “Sorry—I meant, stop it, Vanzir.”
Before anybody else decided to play jack the testosterone, I stepped in. “Enough. Listen, all of you. We’re facing some dangerous people. First, we’ve got a Karsetii demon roaming the astral, hunting the Fae. Actually, it will prey on anybody who works heavy magic.” I emphasized the word anybody, and Wilbur paled. “Then we find a pack of wild ghouls on the loose. Somebody had to raise them, and according to Wilbur, here, they did a sloppy job in the process. Which indicates either a half-assed necromancer or some imbecile who has no idea what he’s doing. I’m tending to guess the latter, given our discovery over at Harold’s.”
“Harold?” Wilbur asked.
“We have a bunch of stupid frat boys summoning demons and killing Fae and Supe women. I’m wondering if they aren’t responsible for these ghouls, too.” I sidled over to him. “You didn’t by chance go to college around here?”
Wilbur shook his head. “College? I didn’t even finish high school. I spent a number of years in the marines, down in South America. That’s where I learned necromancy. In the jungle.”
Shamanic death magic. He was experienced. If he’d been taught by a native tribe rather than learning the more ceremonial forms of necromancy, chances are he lived closer to the spirit world and had an easier time working his magic. Shamans tended to be far more powerful than most witches or sorcerers.
Morio whistled, low and through his teeth. “Heavy magic, then.”
Wilbur shrugged. “The only kind I’m interested in.” He turned back to me. “You said there’s a bunch of kids dabbling in this? Not a good thing.”
“Any chance you can give us some ideas of why anybody would raise ghouls, other than . . . well . . . for fun?” I leaned against a nearby headstone. Camille and Morio sat on the grass. Roz and Vanzir stood at my side.
Chase motioned to his men. “Take a look through the cemetery. See if we have any signs of desecrated graves. And these remains . . . bag them carefully, and then we burn the whole lot. We do not tell the families about this, just fill in the graves and keep it quiet.” He stood near Rozurial. Delilah crouched at his feet, squatting on her heels.
“Why would somebody want to raise a bunch of ghouls? An army, I suppose—a band of fighters. They make excellent killing machines.”
“Why did you raise your ghoul?” I stared at him. He was one of the oddest FBHs I’d ever met.
