Chapter Text
July 13, 2001, Blackwood Mansion, St. Louis.
Harold Gaynor's house sat amidst a lush green lawn and the graceful expanse of trees. The house gleamed in the warm August sun. Bert Vaughn, my boss, parked the car on the crumbling gravel of the driveway. The gravel was so white it looked like hand-picked coarse salt. Somewhere out of sight, the soft hum of sprinklers drummed. The grass was absolutely perfect in the midst of one of the worst droughts Missouri had experienced in over twenty years. Oh, well. Hekate wasn't here to talk to Mr. Gaynor about water management. She was here to talk about raising the dead.
Not resurrecting. She's not that good. I mean zombies. The staggering dead. Rotting corpses. Night of the Living Dead. That kind of zombie. Though certainly less dramatic than Hollywood would ever put on screen. She's an entertainer. It's a job, that's all; like selling.
The Animation had only been a licensed business for about five years. Before that, it was just an embarrassing curse, a religious experience, or a tourist attraction. It still is, in parts of New Orleans, but here in St. Louis, it's a business. A profitable one, largely thanks to its boss. He's a scoundrel, a crook, a rogue, but screw him if he doesn't know how to make money. It's a good trait for a business manager.
Bert was six feet three inches tall, a former college football player with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a beer belly. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored so that his belly wouldn't show. For eight hundred dollars, the outfit should have hidden a herd of elephants. His light blond hair was cut short, returning to its style after all these years. A sailor's tan made his light hair and eyes stand out dramatically in contrast.
Bert adjusted his blue and red striped tie, wiping a bead of sweat from his tanned forehead. “I heard on the news that there’s a movement over there to use zombies in pesticide-contaminated fields. That would save lives.”
“Zombies rot, Bert, there’s no way around it, and they don’t get smart enough to be used for fieldwork.”
“It was just a thought. The dead have no rights under the law, Hekate.”
“Not yet.”
It was wrong to resurrect the dead so they could be slaves. It was simply wrong, but nobody listened to her. The government finally had to step in. A national committee was being formed by animators and other experts. They were supposed to examine the working conditions of the local zombies.
Working conditions. They didn’t understand. You can’t give a corpse good working conditions. They don’t appreciate it anyway. Zombies can walk, even talk, but they’re very, very dead.
Bert smiled indulgently at Hekate. She fought the urge to punch him right in the smug face.
“I know you and Charles are working on that committee,” Bert said. “Consulting all the businesses and checking on the zombies. It’s great media for Animators, Inc.”
“I don’t do that for good media,” Hekate said.
“I know. You believe in your petty cause.”
“You’re a condescending bastard,” she said, smiling sweetly at him.
He smiled back at her.
“I know.”
Hekate just shook her head; with Bert, you can’t really win an insult match. He doesn’t give a damn what she thinks of him, as long as she works for him.
Her navy blue suit shouldn’t weigh her down in the summer, but that was a lie. Sweat trickled down her spine as soon as she got out of the car. She was also wearing black stilettos.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. Bert gestured for her to walk.
She did, walking carefully over the gravel in her black high-heeled shoes. Women can wear many pretty colors, but men wear comfortable shoes.
Bert was looking at the door, the smile already set on his face. It was his best professional smile, dripping with sincerity. His light gray eyes gleamed with good humor. It was a mask. He could switch it on and off like a light switch. He would have the same smile if you confessed to killing your own mother. As long as you were willing to pay to have her resurrected from the dead.
The door opened, and she knew it was good that Bert didn’t know I was there with my wands and daggers. The man was maybe five feet seven, but the orange polo shirt he wore stretched across his chest. The black sports jacket looked too small, as if when he moved, the seams would burst open, like the skin of an insect that had grown too large. Acid-washed black jeans accentuated a slim waist, so it looked like someone had pinched him in the middle while the clay was still wet. His hair was very blond. He looked at us silently. His eyes were empty, dead like a doll's. Hekate glimpsed the shoulder holster under his sports jacket and resisted the urge to kick Bert in the shins.
Either her boss didn't notice the gun or ignored it.
"Hello, I'm Bert Vaughn, and this is my associate, Hekate Potter-Black. I believe Mr. Gaynor is expecting us." Bert smiled at him charmingly.
The bodyguard—what else could he be—stepped away from the door. Bert interpreted this as an invitation and went inside. She followed him, unsure if she wanted to. Harold Gaynor was a very wealthy man. Maybe he needed a bodyguard. Maybe people had threatened him. Or maybe he was one of those men who had enough money to keep the muscles contracted, whether they needed them or not.
Or maybe something else was going on. Something that required weapons and muscles and men with dead, emotionless eyes. It wasn't a cheerful thought.
The air conditioning was very loud, and the sweat cooled instantly. We followed the bodyguard down a long, central corridor lined with dark, expensive-looking wood. The corridor looked oriental and probably handmade.
Heavy wooden doors were set into the right wall. The bodyguard opened the doors and again stood aside as we walked. The room was a library, but Hekate bet that no one had ever read any of the books. The place was floor-to-ceiling in dark wood bookshelves. There was even a second level of books and shelves reached by an elegant, narrow staircase. All the books were hardcover, all the same size, soft colors, and grouped like a collage. The furniture was, of course, red leather with brass buttons worked into it.
A man was sitting near the opposite wall. He smiled as we entered. He was a large man with a pleasant, round face and a double chin. He was sitting in an electric wheelchair, with a small plaid blanket over his lap, hiding his legs.
"Mr. Vaughn and Miss Potter-Black, how kind of you to drive here." His voice matched his face, pleasant, almost amiable.
A slender black man sat in one of the leather chairs. He was over six feet tall, as far as one could tell. He was leaning forward, long legs stretched out in front of him with his ankles crossed. His legs were taller than hers. His brown eyes looked at her as if he were trying to memorize her and would assess everything later.
The blond bodyguard leaned against the bookshelves. He couldn't cross his arms; the jacket was too tight, muscles too big. You really shouldn't lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you cross your arms. It ruins the effect.
Mr. Gaynor said:
"You met Tommy." He nodded to the seated bodyguard. "This is Bruno."
“Is that your real name or just a nickname?” Hekate asked, looking directly into Bruno's eyes.
He shifted slightly in his chair.
“ Real name.”
She smiled.
“ Why?” He asked.
“I've never met a bodyguard whose real name was Bruno.”
“Was that supposed to be funny?” He asked.
She shook her head. Bruno. He never had a chance. It was like naming a girl Venus. All the Brunos had to be bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a policeman? No, it was the name of a bad guy. Hekate smiled.
Bruno straightened up in his chair, a smooth, muscular movement. He wasn't carrying a weapon that Hekate could see, but there was a presence about him. Dangerous, it said; be careful.
Someone could think she shouldn't have smiled.
Bert interrupted:
“Hekate, please. I apologize, Mr. Gaynor... Mr. Bruno. Miss Potter-Black has a rather peculiar sense of humor.”
“Don't apologize for me, Bert. I don't like that." Hekate didn't know why he was so upset, anyway. She hadn't said anything truly insulting out loud.
"Now, now," Gaynor said. "No hard feelings. Right, Bruno?"
Bruno shook his head and frowned, not angry, half perplexed.
Bert shot an angry look, then turned, smiling, to the man in the wheelchair.
"Now, Mr. Gaynor, I know you must be a busy man. So, exactly how old is the zombie you want to create?"
"A man who gets straight to the point. I like that." Gaynor hesitated, looking at the door. A woman entered.
She was tall, long-legged, blonde, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it was a dress, was pink and silky. It clung to her body as it should, concealing what decency demanded, but leaving very little to the imagination. Long, pale legs were encased in pink high heels, without stockings. She walked across the carpet, and all the men in the room watched her. And she knew it.
She threw her head back and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face lit up, her lips moved, her eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, as if someone had turned off the sound. She leaned her hip against Harold Gaynor, one hand on her shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the movement lifted the already short dress another inch.
Could she sit in the dress without lighting up the room? No.
— This is Cicely — he said. She smiled brightly at Bert, that quiet giggle making her eyes sparkle. She looked at Hekate, and her eyes wavered; the smile vanished. For a second, uncertainty filled her eyes. Gaynor patted her hip. The smile returned. She nodded gracefully to them both.
— I want you to lift a two hundred and eighty-three-year-old corpse. Hekate just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.
"Well," Bert said, "this is almost three hundred years old. Too old to be created as a zombie. Most animators couldn't do it at all."
"I'm aware of that," Gaynor said. "That's why I asked for Ms. Potter-Black. She can do it."
Bert looked at Hekate. She had never created anything so old.
"Hekate?"
"I could do it," she said.
He smiled back at Gaynor, satisfied.
"But I'm not going to do it."
Bert turned slowly to Hekate, the smile fading.
Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were motionless. Cicely gazed pleasantly at Hekate, her eyes empty of any meaning.
"One million dollars, Ms. Potter-Black," Gaynor said in her soft, pleasant voice.
I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the arms of the chair. Bert's idea of sex was money. He probably had the biggest boner of his life.
"Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Gaynor?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I'll provide the white goat." His voice was still pleasant when he said it, still smiling. Only his eyes darkened; anxious, anticipatory.
Hekate stood up.
"Come on, Bert, it's time to go."
Bert grabbed her arm.
"Hekate, sit down, please."
She stared at his hand until he let go. His charming mask fell, showing her the anger underneath, then he reverted to being a pleasant businessman.
"Hekate. It's a generous payment."
"The white goat is a euphemism, Bert. It means a human sacrifice."
Bert looked at Gaynor, then back at Hekate. He knew her well enough to believe her, but he didn't want to.
"I don't understand," he said.
"The older the zombie, the greater the death required to raise it. After a few centuries, the only death “big enough” is a human sacrifice,” said Hekate.
Gaynor was no longer smiling. He was looking at her with dark eyes. Cicely still looked pleasant, almost smiling. Was there someone at home behind those very blue eyes?
“Do you really want to talk about murder in front of Cicely?” Hekate asked.
Gaynor smiled at her, always a bad sign.
“She can’t understand a word we say. Cicely is deaf.”
She stared at him, and he nodded. She looked at Hekate with pleasant eyes. They were talking about human sacrifice, and she didn’t even know it. If she could read lips, she was hiding it very well.
“I hate a woman who talks constantly,” said Gaynor.
Hekate shook her head.
— All the money in the world wouldn't be enough to make me work for you.
— Couldn't you just kill a lot of animals instead of just one? — Bert asked. Bert is a great business manager. He knows absolutely nothing about resurrecting the dead.
Hekate stared at him.
— No.
Bert sat very quietly in his chair. The prospect of losing a million dollars must have been a real physical pain for him, but he hid it. Mr. Corporate Negotiator.
— There has to be a way to solve this — he said. His voice was calm. A professional smile curved his lips. He was still trying to make a deal. Bert didn't understand what was happening.
— Do you know another animator who could raise a zombie this old? — Gaynor asked.
Bert looked at Hekate, then at the floor, and then at Gaynor. The professional smile had disappeared. He understood now that they were talking about murder. Would it make a difference?
Hekate had always wondered where Bert drew the line. She was about to find out. The fact that she didn't know if he would refuse the contract said a lot about him.
"No," Bert said softly, "no, I don't think I can help you either, Mr. Gaynor."
"If it's the money, Miss Potter-Black, I can raise the offer."
A tremor ran down Bert's shoulders. Poor Bert, but he hid it well. Gold stars for him.
"I'm not a murderer, Gaynor," Hekate said.
"That's not what I heard," said Tommy of the blond hair.
She looked at him. Her eyes were still as empty as a doll's.
"I don't kill people for money."
"You kill vampires for money," he said.
“Legal execution, and I don't do it for money, and I only accept those cases when it has been proven that they were guilty of crimes worth an execution," Hekate said.
Tommy shook his head and stepped away from the wall.
“My informants told me you’ve killed humans before, Ms. Potter-Black,” Gaynor said.
“Only in self-defense, Gaynor. I don’t commit murder.”
Bert was standing now.
“I think it’s time we go.”
Bruno stood up in a fluid movement, large dark hands loose and half-cupped at her sides. She was betting on some kind of martial art.
Tommy stood away from the wall. His sports jacket was pulled back to expose his weapon, like an old-school gunslinger. It was a .357 Magnum. That would make a very big hole.
They were treating her like she was a very dangerous person. At five feet three inches, she didn’t feel intimidated. Raise the dead, kill a few vampires, and people start to consider her one of the monsters. Sometimes it hurt her.
“Immobulus,” she cast after quickly drawing her elder wand on the two bodyguards.
"Let's make one thing clear. I will never raise this dead person at the cost of a living human being. No matter how much money you try to give me, I'm rich enough not to have to deal with that. Come on, Bert.” She headed toward the door, pulling Bert with her and walking backward, still keeping an eye on them all.
Gaynor smiled again, like a pleasant, beardless Santa Claus.
“Of course, you understand that telling the police would be pointless.”
She agreed.
“We have no proof. You didn't even tell us who you wanted to resurrect from the dead or why.”
“It would be your word against mine,” he said.
“And I'm sure you have friends in high places.” She smiled as she said this.
His smile widened, forming dimples in his small, chubby cheeks.
“Of course.”
They left the house, and she finally turned her back on Tommy and his gun. Bert followed her. They went out into the scorching summer heat. Bert seemed a little shaken. She felt almost friendly with him. It was good to know that Bert had limits, something he wouldn't do, even for a million dollars.
"Would they really have shot at us?" he asked. His voice sounded prosaic, firmer than the slightly glazed look in his eyes. Bert was tough. He unlocked the trunk without being asked.
"With Harold Gaynor's name in our address book and on the computer? Not knowing who we mentioned this trip to?" She shook her head. "Too risky."
"Then why did you use your magic on them?" He looked her straight in the eyes as he asked, and for the first time, she saw uncertainty on his face. The old money bags needed a word of comfort, but she was finished.
"Because, Bert, I could be wrong."