Shane followed Ashs example and lodged his own shovel into the crack of the casket opening.
On three, Ash said. One, two, three.
Together, they hoisted the lid open. A cloud of dust and debris billowed from the inside of the casket, sending them both into coughing fits. Shane stared down into the dirt, hoping to see the corpse, but when the dust cleared, both Shane and Ash remained silent for a long moment. The damp-wood smell emanating from the casket filled Shanes nose, but the scent of the dead wasnt there. He blinked several times. Was he seeing correctly? Ash swore under his breath, a confirmation of Shanes conclusion.
The casket was empty. No corpse, no half-decayed body, no bones. Nothing.
After another long moment of silence, Shane cleared his throat. Um, Ash, where the hell is Mrs. Foley?
Shane didnt know all the details of Ashs job as a ghost hunter, but the general training Shane had received from the Execution Underground before hed started specializing in hunting witches and warlocks, but after hed already earned his first PhD in religious studieswith a focus on the occult and pagan religions, of coursehad taught him enough to know that generally corpses remained in one place, regardless of whether their spirit roamed the earth. And Jennifer Foley was supposed to be dead. Very dead.
Ash shook his head. I have no fuckin clue. He stared at the open casket with a stunned look on his face. A glazed aura clouded Ashs green eyes, as if he were dreaming while awake. Shane knew that look. Ash struggled with PTSD. Shane didnt know from what, because Ash wasnt a former military man, and hed never had the heart to ask. That look said, Ive seen a lot of bad shit in my life.
Ash, you with me? Shane asked.
Huh? Ash looked up, roused from his trancelike state. He shook his head as if shaking the memories off. Yeah, Im okay.
Shane nodded before he tossed his shovel to the side. Ill give you a second. Dont worry about calling Damon, Ill do it.
Thanks, man, Ash muttered.
Shane held up his hand. No problem. Ill handle it.
That seemed to have become his motto: Ill handle it. Even though he was both the youngest and least experienced among his team members, who were all his senior by at least five years, he acted as the oil for the sometimes squeaky Rochester division cog in the massive machine of the Execution Underground. A covert international organization of elite hunters, the Execution Underground protected humanity from the paranormal creatures who, unbeknownst to the general populace, lurked around every corner. When his fellow hunters, his division team members, needed his aid, he obliged. Always.
Earlier that morning he had read an article in the Democrat and Chronicle about the murder of Mr. Ted Foley. Reportedly, the deceased had been telling his close friends for several days before his death how his dead wife, Jennifer, the now-missing dead woman, was haunting him, threatening him. That detail had been enough for Shane, and hed brought the article to the attention of the team. Theyd all agreed it was best to take every precaution and ensure that the wife really went to her eternal rest. Aside from all the digging, it should have been an easy job for Ash, their resident ghost hunter, especially with Shanes help with the hard labor. A very straightforward murderous poltergeist case. Easy to fix, if you had a corpse to burn. The case should have been dealt with tonight. Except...
Shane called Damon Brock, their division leader, to break the news. While he waited for Damon to pick up, Shane let out a tired sigh. Damn it. The night had gone from shit to supershit to megasupershit.
Missing bodies always complicated things.
* * *
VERA SANDERS SLIPPED out the heavy steel back door of Soft-Tails and into the damp alleyway. She wrapped her near-floor-length jacket around her, shielding her almost-bare legs. Despite her plaid miniskirt, fishnet stockings and stilettos, she might as well have been in the buff, given how the night air chilled her to the bone. She was used to it, though. Rochester had long winters and springs that often didnt feel any different, and on nights like tonight, when she was slinging liquor behind the bar and working her ass off to fill her tip jar, she often found herself walking home in costume. And by costume she meant some barely there getup sanctioned by the strip clubs owner, her wannabe gangster sleazebag of an uncle. Thank goodness she was off work the next several nights.
Home.
The word skittered through her mind again.
Home was where she should have been going. Instead, she was holding a one-way ticket for the trouble train, and she knew it. Nothing good could come from what she was about to do, but damn, deciding to just let go had been such a relief. The familiar itch niggled beneath her skin. She longed for this like a druggie needed a fix.
Druggie?
Who was she kidding? She was a druggie. A black-magic druggie. Shed had one too many tastes, and now she was hooked. Just the thought of the familiar feeling of power racing through her body, supercharging her soul, sent a powerful shiver through her. She hurried down the alleyway out into the strip clubs parking lot and then to her car. Some part of her felt that if she slowed down for even one moment, the better half of her would win out again and she would end up going home, like she should. Back to the constant cravings. Back to the monotony of everyday life.
No. She couldnt resign herself to that.
She quickly unlocked the door to her ancient Volkswagen Beetle and slid inside. She started the engine of the once-great piece of machinery, whose only flaw was having been driven for one too many decades more than it should have been, and peeled out of the parking lot. Damn, this was a dumb move. She wasnt even really sure where she was going. Regular practitioners of black magic loved to be ridiculously cryptic. All her contact had given her was a general location. She would need to figure it out from there.
She drove across the city, singing so loudly that people waiting to cross the street could probably hear heranything to drown out the this is not a good idea chatter in her head.
When she finally reached her destination in the heart of the city, she parked her car, and headed down the nearest empty alley. She stopped behind an overstuffed-and-smelling-of-rot Dumpster and removed her hands from the warm den of her jacket pockets. She held her hands out in front of her, closing her eyes with the certainty she was alone and allowing her white-magic power, the power she possessed within, to flow from the pit of her stomach, through her chest, down her arms and to the tips of her fingers.
A vibrant violet light pulsated from her hands, and she urged that light to lead her in the right direction. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure she was still alone and not being watched, she followed her instincts, slowly navigating the citys back alleys until she reached a metal door with no handle. She allowed her magic to fold back in on itself before she balled her left hand into a fist and pounded on the metal door.
A young African-American woman with an afro poked her head out the door several moments later. She gave Vera the once-over, scanning her up and down with her shiny glossed lips pinched together, as if assessing Veras entire worth in a glance, before pushing the door fully open and gesturing her in.
Once Vera stepped inside, the woman closed the door behind her. The metal echoed, a loud, thunderous clang, like the door of a jail cell slamming shut, and Vera wondered if that perception was her consciences way of screaming, What the fuck do you think youre doing? once again, as if the dingy havent-been-renovated-or-lived-in-since-the-sixties look of the place wasnt enough to give her that vibe already. She couldnt quite tell from the interior whether this was a gutted-out old business or apartment building, but she would venture a guess that there had been more than one waterbed in this establishment back in its day. The way the wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, as if it hadnt been stepped on in ages, sent a slight chill down her spine. The creaking echoed courtesy of the equally wooden walls and wood coffered ceiling. How had termites not destroyed this building already?
Im Trista, the woman said. The silver of her large hoop earrings glittered in the dim accent light of the hallway, along with the star-shaped diamond stud in her nose. She was beautiful in an exotic, high-sculpted-cheekbones and eyes-so-fierce-they-could-cut-you sort of way. Youre here for the circle. It was a statement, not a question.
Vera nodded. Yeah.
Trista scanned Vera up and down again. Her nose scrunched and her nostrils flared, as if shed just put something distasteful in her mouth. You have the look of a black-magic witch.
The look? Vera frowned. Whatever the hell that meant. Whether insult or compliment when coming from the gatekeeper of a black magic coven, she wasnt sure. She contemplated a weak Uh, thanks, but opted instead for silence. One thing held certain with black-magic witches: no matter what, any advertisement of your own weakness meant exactly that, you were weak. Taking a half insult to heart, or expressing an opinion of it in any way, fell straight into the category of things that might make her appear weak. She couldnt allow that. She held Tristas gaze. The woman might have had eyes that could cut, but Vera was no spring chicken in the world of black magic. She wouldnt be easily intimidated. She was a powerful witch, more powerful than she looked.
Trista raised an eyebrow at Veras obvious lack of intimidation. Vera stood just the slightest bit straighter, eye to eye with the woman. She almost expected Trista to make a halfhearted threat, but the woman surprised her when she took a step back, gesturing for Vera to follow her down the dark wooden hall. As they approached the last door on the left, the sound of chanting filled Veras ears, and the familiar buzz crept into her veins. This was it. This was what she needed. Trista waved her forward, and Vera pushed open the door.
Black-magic paraphernaliafrom Santeria-like candles to nightshade herbs to animal blood and bone-filled pestleslined the walls of the dim candlelit room. In the center, eleven people sat in a circle, hands clasped together as they chanted in a tongue Vera didnt recognize. As she and Trista entered, a pair of cold blue eyes snapped open. The leader of the circle broke his trance and fixed his gaze on Vera.
Who are you? he asked quietly. His voice cut through the ongoing chanting. The lit candles around the room flickered, as if a swift breeze had rushed through.
A chill shivered down Veras spine, though the room was comfortably warm. Aside from her own father, who had once been thought of as the most powerful warlock of the past century, this man, this warlock, was powerful beyond anything she had ever encountered before. That thought sent icy adrenaline through her veins like a well-placed IV.
My name is Vera Sanders.
Sanders? He rolled her name around on his tongue as if it was a sweet candy that could melt in his mouth. You bear a striking resemblance to Johnathan Summers. Are you sure Sanders is your last name?
The chill racing down Veras spine hardened to numbing ice. She froze. In all the time shed been practicing black magic, no one had ever recognized her as her fathers daughter before. She had tried very hard over the years to keep that association buried. Her father had been a powerful warlock with plenty of friends and supporters, as well as enemies. She wasnt sure she wanted to cross paths with either side.
No relation, she said, lying worse than Nixon during Watergate. She held his gaze. Though she was generally a fantastic liar, hed caught her off guard, and if he didnt recognize that, he wasnt nearly as powerful as shed originally believed.
My mistake. He gave her a crooked grin, and she knew, despite his words, that he didnt believe her for a second. From the spark behind his eyes when her fathers name passed his lips, she knew he must have been either friend or foe, and there was a very, very thin line between love and hate. She wasnt prepared to walk that tightrope. My name is Nathanial.
He held her gaze, and the tension escalated. Several long seconds passed. Finally, she forced herself to look away, even though it grated against every feminist fiber of her being.
His eyes...they were so predatory and unforgiving.
Well, Ms. Sanders... Her last name sounded like a hiss and made his disbelief clear. What are you here for?
Im just here for the magic, thats all.
He grinned again. Something about his stare and his crooked smile made her feel as if she were a small animal cornered by a gun-wielding hunter. So would you care to know what spells were executing today? The sounds of the chanting had become less than background noise to her, a humming against the quiet threat of his voice. He didnt have to speak loudly for his words to be powerful and all-consuming. Her fathers voice had been that way.
An internal war waged deep in her chest. The little voice inside her head screamed she should care to know exactly what she was getting herself into and what spell her power would be assisting, but another voice reminded her that she was already in too deep, that it was too late to back out now. Was ignorance bliss? The third and most dangerous voice, the voice of her addiction, reared its ugly head, making her skin crawl. God, she wanted it. She knew it was wrong, but she did. Shed been too weak to stop herself from coming here, and now, with it dangling right in front of her as if she were a starving person staring at her first bite of food in days, she found herself incapable of resisting.
When shed refused to don the mantle of her fathers black magic legacy, hed called her weak for her addiction, for caring more about the high than about the power she could wield. She certainly felt weak now.
Youre stronger than this. Youre worth more than this, Vera. You deserve better. She repeated the mantra over and over again in her head. But as she looked into Nathanials eyes, all she saw was the scared little junkie girl her parents had accused her of being all those years ago. The same scared little girl who would never amount to anything more than a trashily dressed bartender at a sleazy strip club, whose mind was always clouded by wondering whenor ifshe would be able to get her next fix.
She sat down at the edge of the circle and joined hands. The voice inside her head fell silent, and as Nathanial smiled at her, she knew her father had been right.
* * *
IF ONE THING truly scared Shane out of his ever-loving mindand rightfully soit was the thought of being on the receiving end of his division leaders wrath. He watched Damon, silently waiting for a response to the story he and Ash had recounted. Nothing incurred the wrath of Damon Brock, their leader and resident vampire hunter, more than two things: 1) having Execution Underground headquarters breathing down his neck, and 2) allowing civilians, particularly the Rochester PD, to get any inkling of their operations.