Chapter One
Dec 21, 11pm
It was almost Solstice,and as the sun started to set there were bad men at the gates of every cemetery in Dudley.
Most people put their faith in good works and solid church-forged padlocks. They weren’t the ones who had to worry in thefirst place, though. It was only the people with enemies who needed to worry about the dead.
Enemies and secrets.
Hill Rosen paused on the street opposite St. Januarius Church and watched the thugs and mercs take up their stations along the boundary lines of consecrated ground. Most of them wore guns in shoulder holsters under their parkas, pointedly visible to passersby. Some just depended on their fists and the promise of red-faced, spittle-flecked rage to keep the bereaved back from the walls.
It had been over a century since the last confirmed invocation of the dead. That was according to the Church, of course, whose current doctrine told congregations to seek redress for their wrongs through temporal authorities.
What was the verse Father Thomas had used this morning? Hill narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember the content of the solemn drone of the sermon at his family church.
Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, that was it.
Unofficially, based on Hill’s two-year-long deep dive into the subject, it had been fifteen years ago in Idaho. A factory fire that corporate lawyers had successfully passed the buck on, leaving the bereaved families to shoulder the medical and personal costs…including a local priest who’d either forgotten to lock the gates or handed over the keys to bitter parishioners. Either way, he wasn’t a priest anymore.
What the summoned dead had thought was a fit response to that wrong was up in the air, but by New Year’s, the company had reversed its decision and the families had been made whole…financially at least. A few True Haunting enthusiasts speculated that—based on the high suicide rates in the upper echelons of the company around this time of year—the dead hadn’t been satisfied with money.
Hill could see why fifteen years wouldn’t be long enough for anyone with a guilty conscience and money for muscle.
On the other side of the road, one of the mercs noticed Hill. The man scowled and dropped his hand pointedly to the gun holstered on his hip. A sharp jerk of his chin to one of the other men sent a wiry fair-haired man who looked uncomfortable in his jeans and sweater loping over the road.
“You lost?” the man asked as he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Hill. A quick once-over—from messily cropped brown curls to cheap sneakers—made him visibly untense as he dismissed Hill as a threat.
Hill shook his head.
“Late,” he said. He nodded toward the padlocked gates. “I wanted to stop by my dad’s grave while he’s close.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “He die bad?” he asked.
“It was a heart attack,” Hill said. That was what he’d told them at school, a lie so old it almost felt like the truth. The next bit just was. “I just miss him.”
Despite the professional detachment, the merc briefly softened.
“That’s a shit one,” he said. “And when my dad goes, I’ll wanna talk to him. But not tonight.”
Hill glanced over at the well-guarded church and swallowed hard. “Not tonight,” he agreed.
“Get home,” the merc told him, not unkindly. “You don’t want your dad to look down and worry.”
Hill nodded and left. The soles of his feet scuffed along the road as he walked away. He could feel the merc’s eyes on the back of his neck, but he didn’t look back.
Albie Rosen had been a nice guy. Funny. He gave great piggy-back rides and was good at explaining why people did what they did. His hands had never been sweaty.
He’d also been weak. He let people walk all over him rather than stand up for himself.
Even dead, Hill couldn’t imagine he’d be much good at being a vengeful spirit. He’d probably be more disappointed than angry. It would be nice to see him again, but it wouldn’t fix anything.
But that was OK. The only reason he was here was so his stepdad’s thugs, whoever they were, could report back that he’d given up.
Hill zipped his hoodie up as he reached the end of the block. He hunched down into it as he rounded the corner. His bus, the 229, was already at the stop, and he broke into a jog to get there before it pulled away.
Fraser had always kept a few degrees of separation between himself and any dirty work he needed done. These days he used money. That wouldn’t have worked on Hill’s dad, so maybe back then it had been threats. Either way, it kept Fraser’s hands clean.
There was just one problem with that.
