Page 53 of Bitter Spirits

“So we’ve got nothing.” Exasperation tore at Locke’s self-restraint.

“Not quite.” Des straightened, his face set in hard angles as he walked over to a dented filing cabinet in the corner. He pulled out a drawer—which gave an ear-splitting squeal—reached in, and came back out with a small zippered pouch. He slammed the drawer closed and stormed past Locke. “Come on.”

Curious, Locke followed. Des went back out to the main floor and straight to one of the high-top tables. He set the pouch down and then worked off a heavy silver ring from his left hand and two from his right before holding them out to Locke.

“Hold these for a second.”

Locke took the trio of rings. “What are you doing?”

“Finding out what happened to Isa.” From the pouch, Des pulled out an unlabeled bottle, uncapped it, and poured a small amount of what appeared to be oil into his palm. “Take those rings—don’t let them go—and go sit in that corner booth.”

As he talked, he dipped his finger into the oil and started trailing it along one of the intricate tattoos winding its way over his ring finger and up his left forearm. A pungent mix of citrus and soap drifted from Des’s skin, chased by the near-electric zing of magic.

Locke drew back as the combination seared across his enhanced senses. “Is that rue oil?”

“Yep.” Des continued tracing the pattern etched into his skin. The dark lines of the tattoos sharpened and emanated a faint glow. “Now, so long as you don’t draw attention to yourself, you should be good, but if things take a turn, a standard protection ward should be enough to discourage any leeches.”

Locke had started to move to the booth but on that last word stopped and turned to pin Des with a look. “Leeches?”

“Yeah.” Des shook the excess oil from his palm then wiped it on his pants. “Some of these spooks can be stubborn assholes. The last thing you want to pick up is a rider.” He plucked a piece of chalk out of the pouch. “I can pull them off, but it’ll take time we don’t have.” He turned on his heel and started to shove tables off to the side. Before long, he had an open space in front of the graffiti-laced wall.

Sliding into the booth, Locke rolled the three heavy rings in his palm. “What’s with the rings?”

“They’re hexed,” Des said with a disconcerting casualness as he lowered to his heels then started drawing on the concrete floor. “Specifically, so ghosts will leave me the hell alone.”

Locke opened his palm and studied the rings. Sure enough, he recognized some of the symbols. He looked back to Des. “And those wards you’re drawing…?”

Without looking up, Des said, “Ensuring that the uninvited don’t crash our meeting.” He got to his feet, tucked the chalk into his back pocket, and looked at Locke over his shoulder. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Des turned back, took a breath, and, in a disturbingly deep voice, commanded, “Wake up.”

The soft glow along his left arm flashed bright, burning white, then settled into an unearthly haze as the overhead lights flickered for a long moment before steadying. His power washed outward, touching the walls then climbing it like ivy. A breeze swept through the room, bringing the scent of fresh-dug dirt marred with bone dust and an unnatural chill that raised every hair on Locke’s body. It twined around Des like a devoted pet, demanding to be acknowledged.

Locke held still as his magic stalked silently forward, curious about the phenomenon. It stayed back but not far enough. Des’s head turned, giving Locke a glimpse of his profile. His familiar features blurred into a ghastly mask. Though similar to the one Isa wore as a Reaper, Des’s had a savage undertone—a warning that universal rules would not apply.

Des’s mouth moved, and with a bone-rattling boom, he warned, “Back off!”

Locke called his magic back. Like the hunter it was, his magic eased reluctantly away from the threat and settled warily between the two men.

Des’s power continued to spread behind him then slid through the urban art to spill into the interspersed sigils until they writhed, shifting to form a decorative arch. Des turned back and fed more power into the wall until the space within the arch shimmered. Then it settled into an inky black pit.

“Alphonse Magariue, come forward.”

The empty doorway quivered, and deep inside, a haze brewed, gaining form as it drifted closer until a thin man wearing a cowboy hat, a tattered long-sleeved chambray shirt, and jeans—the kind in sepia photos of the Old West—stepped out of the archway.

He stood—well, hovered—there, glaring at Des, his weather-worn face screwed up in a scowl. “Why you calling me, boy?”

“Tell me what happened to Isa.”

“Hell if I know. Ain’t like I hang around watching you idiots.”

“You watch Isa all the damn time, Al. And I know you were watching her today. You left your damn shot glass on the counter.”

A crafty look slid over the phantom’s face. “That ain’t mine.”

Magic surged, and the room took on a menacing stillness. Then Des moved almost preternaturally fast, snatching the phantom’s shirt and dragging the spirit close. He loomed over the old cowboy, his head passing through the brim of the hat as he snarled, “Tell me what happened, Alphonse.”