“The past few guests have noticed the typical cold spots, strange noises, creepy visions,” I said.
“And you’re a... what, exorcist?” His voice was a flat line, like his mouth. At least his hands had moved to cross over his chest, so he could give me the complete package ofI’m-not-amused.
“No,” I said. “I’m a PI.”
He waited, and I waited, and we probably would have waited until the sun came up because Mr. Hot Cop In The Flesh wasn’t more stubborn than I was. I had decades of disappointing teachers, principals, social workers, and foster parents under my belt. Whatever the apple polisher had learned on the job could notcompareto that experience.
But there was an ominous thump from the second floor and both of us looked up to see the ceilingsagdownwards like it was made of latex and someone had just dropped a bowling ball right in the middle.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” King said, stubbornly.
“Really,” I said. I didn’t even bother to point at the horror-show level special effect we were looking at. “Why not?”
“Alchemy tradition says that it’s just tricks and hoaxes,” he said firmly. “With the goal being to scare non-magic practitioners and give more credence to...”
He trailed off, and I finished for him. “Witchcraft.”
In his defense, he looked a bit awkward about the whole thing, his tall frame a little hunched as he nodded. I rolled my eyes and gestured to Richmond, whose lips were moving in a silent monologue, and the ceiling, which now had a face clearly trying to get through. It’d be terrifying if I hadn’t seen scarier from creatures that Iknewwould kill me if I gave them an inch of fear.
“Okay, so your explanation for this is that it’s a trick. By who? Me?”
“Isit you?” he asked, tugging off his bulky rain jacket and bending down to roll Richmond onto his side, one knee bent, hands clear of his mouth. It was a textbook example of the recovery position.
He wasn’t looking at the ceiling or me, and I realized that the reason he wasn’t terrified was that his training told him this was all fake, so he truly believed it was just a trick. If the stupid hot cop got killed because he was as stupidly adherent to alchemy philosophy as he was to law, I was going to be annoyed. He was the first guy I’d gotten apingfrom in a while, and I didn’t want to end our flirtation with death and dismemberment.
“No,” I said, paging through the book to the sticky note that Laurel had labeled ‘How To Not Die.’ “It’s a ghost.”
His partner settled into the recovery position, King drew a leather notebook out of another pocket. It was different from the notebook he’d been using to take notes on his case, and the pen he drew out was silver and looked heavy. The ceiling had finally stopped bowing, and I skimmed the text as he wrote in the notebook.
Laurel’s spell book was relatively clear. There were three ways forward. If we could find the remains, that was the easiest. A simple containment spell would break the spirit’s connection to the physical plane.
If we didn’t have the remains, we could do something similar once we knew the spirit’s name. But if remains and identity were in short supply, then things got dicier and the text started reading, “May-chance...” and “Possibly...” It sounded like at that point we’d have to magically duke it out with the spirit until we’d exhausted their magical energy.
If I was on my own, I’d have more confidence. With this alchemist cop nearby, I’d have to be more careful to not expose that the magic I was using wasn’t witchcraft.
Shutting the book, I watched as King finished writing and carefully tore four pages out of his notebook. He placed them at the compass points around Richmond. I watched as a warm green energy woke the circles and then connected them.
“Anchors?” I asked. My understanding of alchemy was mostly based on what you saw on TV and a few after school enrichment classes from elementary school. “You’re okay leaving him?”
“Yes. His breathing is steady and the only way to get out is to figure out what’s keeping us trapped,” King said. “This should protect him while we find out who’s responsible.”
The anchors were small circles with the archaic writing that alchemists used to cast most of their spells. They connected to each other in a graceful outer circle. It was a clean sort of spell, not at all the sloppy work you’d expect from a rushed alchemist.
King examined it and nodded in satisfaction. If he was happy, I wasn’t going to question him. Notoriously picky, I’d seen alchemists refuse to do a spell if there was even a hint that it might fail.
“Well, I’m going to go look for the ghost,” I said. “What’s your plan, officer?”
“I’m going to look for the perpetrator who locked two police officers and a civilian in this house,” he said.
I grinned and raised both eyebrows. “So, you’re coming with me.”
“I guess I am, Mr. Ferro,” King said.
“If we’re going ghost hunting together, call me Parker,” I said.
With a curt nod, he checked his gear. Gun, taser, notepad accounted for, he looked back at me and raised an eyebrow.
“What if we find a ghost?” I asked.
