Voodoo Shanghai, page 13
“This mirror calls to different ghosts, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Very good,” he said, nodding for me to continue.
I looked back to the mirror, now pulsing out an Otherside call in a set tempo, one that was most definitely different from the beat of the other two mirrors.
“It’s like the area code has been changed.” I figured Gideon was actively dead through the 1970s and ’80s—he’d know how phones worked. “I mean, it’s a mirror, so it’s more of a beacon than a phone call going out—”
“More of a filter, less of an area code,” Gideon said. “Unlike a phone, it can’t be changed once set in place. But you aren’t completely wrong in your analogy. The tone of the Otherside signal being sent out is significantly different from the mirrors you delivered to Richan. What does it do?”
A filter on a mirror alters the ghosts that will hear the call. I used them all the time. For example, I often added things like, Chris Doe, but girl Chris, not boy Chris, and eighty years old when she died. The point was so I didn’t need to sift through fifty Chris Does—more like one or two.
But this filter was much subtler, set into the mirror’s primary, permanent bindings rather than added as an afterthought.
I added more Otherside. Only the outer ring primed and flared gold; though the rest of the mirror siphoned Otherside, storing it, none reached the inner ring. “It’s acting like a pressure valve.”
“Take a closer look at the rest of the mirror.”
I did. While the mirror stored more and more Otherside, the outer ring pulsed, releasing a small amount each time. “Jesus, it’s mimicking a weak spot in the barrier.”
Gideon nodded. “Very good. That pressure valve, as you call it, creates a ghost trap that in its early stage perfectly mimics a break in the barrier. Unlike the ones I had you give Richan, which are easily distinguished as mirrors by most ghosts.”
My mouth went dry. If a ghost stumbled across this kind of signature…Even Nate, who was paranoid about ghost binders, would be drawn in.
I felt the chill as Gideon stepped beside me. “This mirror,” he said, “is a real ghost trap. The name of the desired ghost still needs to be specified here.” He indicated a blank spot in the outer ring. “The mirror attunes the manner of baiting ever so slightly—for all appearances, a harmless break in the barrier. That is, until the right ghost passes through.” He lifted his hand and the Otherside bindings that surrounded him sparked. “Like this,” he said, and passed his ghostly hand over the mirror. The inner ring finally flared to life, then snapped upwards, forming a column of gold around his wrist.
A cage.
A ghost wouldn’t know what hit them.
“The real brilliance of a trap like this is all ghosts but the one being targeted pass through unharmed and none the wiser,” Gideon continued. His fingers danced and the cage and tethers fell away. “I’ve seen mirrors like this left for a decade or more before the right ghost travels through.”
I could well imagine. Leave the mirror lying in wait like a snare in the snow, hidden from view. More and more ghosts hear about the mirror and it becomes a well-travelled crossing point. Then, when the right ghost attempts it…
It was nothing like the mirrors I’d given Richan. Those were run-of-the-mill ghost traps any practitioner could use. You write the ghost’s name in the centre, prime the mirror and send out the call. The ghost shows up, even to take a curious peek, and the trap slams shut. But those ones were obvious, and only fooled the newest and most desperate ghosts. They could be avoided.
But this? This was the tool of a true professional.
“Ghosts aren’t stupid,” Gideon said beside me. “And the ghosts a soothsayer is after are fragile, sensitive to the land of the dead in unique ways. In life, that sensitivity often manifests as mental illness—schizophrenia, manic depression, autism spectrum, dementia. This vulnerability makes their ghosts more powerful, more valuable, but they also tend to be much more cautious and paranoid. They keep to tried-and-true paths, ones they know are safe.”
It all made perfect sense. And it sickened me. “Turn it off,” I said.
Gideon regarded me, not unkindly. “It’s cut off from the barrier. No ghost can sense it. Only the two of us.”
I shook my head. “Just please turn it off.” I took a small step back. It was all I could do not to wrap my arms around myself. “Just…I get it. I understand what it does.” What I’d made. And it was horrible.
Gideon’s brow furrowed, but he shut the mirror down. “This mirror is designed to catch a ghost who has more tricks, as you like to say, than the average dead. There are many reasons I would choose to sell this tool to a soothsayer.” He turned his grey eyes on me once again. “But not one like Richan.”
I felt Gideon’s gaze on me, but all I could look at was the abominable mirror I’d built.
“This is a very expensive mirror,” Gideon continued. “It is specialized, rare, powerful.”
I turned towards him. Powerful I understood, but expensive, rare? “That makes no sense,” I said. “It’s almost identical to the mirrors I made for Richan, the kind you find in a spell book. Hell, it only took me a half-hour to work it out—”
“Almost identical, and that leads us to the serious problem I mentioned earlier,” Gideon said, and sighed. “Your obliviousness betrays your own bias. The change you made is not insignificant. It’s what Richan suspects you are capable of. I didn’t have you deliver the mirrors so Richan could verbally abuse you, Kincaid. I needed to determine if a low-level thug of a soothsayer would discern your particular talent.”
I frowned at Gideon. Talent? “If using Otherside until I make myself physically ill is a talent, I have news for you, everyone in Seattle with a tentative toehold in the paranormal community is already well aware.”
Gideon gestured once again at the mirror, highlighting the link I’d built between the two rings. “The double intricacies require the binder to be able to set a mirror freehand. China marker gets too much in the way, ruining the entire binding. Even the simpler, less powerful mirrors I had you give Richan are difficult for even an advanced practitioner using wax.” He turned to me. “I don’t know if Maximillian did you a favour or a great disservice keeping from you just how rare a talent it is to be able to freehand-inscribe Otherside. I suppose it’s both, considering…” He trailed off, still watching my face.
“Considering what?”
Gideon shook his head. “Considering the kind of people in the paranormal community it can attract—dead and undead. The only practitioners who can set this type of mirror are ones who have a natural aptitude for freehand bindings, such as yourself. The only other way—”
“Is sorcery,” I finished for him.
“I imagine Max thought you not knowing meant you wouldn’t unwittingly expose yourself. I suspect it was one of the reasons he insisted you use the more pedestrian bindings.”
I’d spent years thinking Maximillian discouraged my freehand Otherside work because it was his way or the highway. All the nagging, all the arguments that followed. If Max had stopped for one minute to tell me why…
“The whys are inconsequential now. Suffice to say, it is an asset which will make sorcery easier for you to learn, and it’s what I believe Richan suspects you can do, and I’d rather not have people like him knowing about it.”
And I didn’t imagine I would want to meet any of them. Not if they knew I could make a mirror like this.
“From now on, if anyone asks, you’re good with china marker wax—also a highly valuable skill, and it explains any perceived freehand. Make certain over the next few months your china markers are with you at all times. Understood?”
I nodded, my stomach roiling. Max hadn’t been berating me—he’d been trying to protect me—he’d cared. But the revelation was bittersweet. He’d tried protecting me by holding me back, keeping me ignorant. That wasn’t easy to forgive or forget.
“In the meantime, I’ll deal with Samuel. I imagine a well-placed threat or two should suffice. He’s a coward at heart and depends too heavily on my spells and mirrors.”
Any other day I might have argued with Gideon against intimidation tactics, even with Richan, but I had another question on my mind, one that mattered more than the possibility of a soothsayer getting bullied. “What would they do to me?”
Gideon glanced up.
“The kind of people I don’t want finding out about my talent.”
“Oh.” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose any number of things. A few of the living out there who know enough to consider themselves sorcerers would likely try and bind you. It’s possible if you’re still alive, though they would probably kill you first for simplicity’s sake. The dead, though? They make me look like the tooth fairy.”
I nodded, my mouth still dry. Was Gideon trying to scare me? Of course he was, but he also hadn’t sold the powerful mirror to Richan. He had some boundaries…
And now he was bundling it up…in the blankets I’d designed.
“I thought you weren’t selling that to Richan?”
“Oh, I’m not. I wouldn’t dream of giving Richan a mirror this powerful, even if he could afford it. But I never once said I didn’t have a buyer. And for these inventive cloaks of yours as well,” he said, tapping my blanket. “I’ll let you know if I require more. It may become a lucrative new business for me. Thank you, Kincaid.”
Just when I began thinking Gideon might not be the devil…
“Oh, and before I forget, I need an introduction,” Gideon continued, as if nothing more than a run-of-the-mill lesson had occurred. “The doctor of the dead? The one you speak with in the mortuary.”
“Dr. Blanc? The coroner?”
“Yes. Or have you already forgotten that I am sorely in need of a body?”
I licked my lips. Yeah, Gideon hadn’t mentioned that particular project of his in a while and I’d hoped it would stay on the back burner. Doing Gideon’s bidding myself was one thing. I was used to dealing with ghosts, and despite Gideon’s, well, unique attributes, he was still a ghost. Bitching about past mistakes and regrets, paranoia, megalomania—it was all par for the course.
But Dr. Blanc? He had no real experience with the paranormal, and worse, he was drawn to ghosts and zombies like a moth to a flame. He’d be at Gideon’s mercy. He wouldn’t know what hit him.
“What about Lee Ling’s assistant, Mork—I mean James?” I corrected myself. “In Damaged Goods? He’s creepy, but he has access.” I crossed my fingers behind my back at the white lie. I suspected Mork was a mortician, morgue assistant or medical school dropout, but I didn’t know for sure.
Gideon shook his head. “No. I need someone with better knowledge of modern science. James has a deft touch, but…” Gideon trailed off then nodded at me absently. “Your Dr. Blanc is a better choice.”
“I…ah…” Shit.
Come on, Kincaid. A reason, any plausible reason not to introduce them…
Gideon glanced up, his eyes narrowing. “Make the introduction, Kincaid.” He didn’t sneer at me—he’d stopped doing that a while ago—but the warning note was there. “That’s an order.”
I swallowed. “Gideon, it’s not that simple. Dr. Blanc is…” What? Naive? Uninitiated in the tempestuous nature of the dead? All of the above? I didn’t get a chance to finish.
There was a hard set to Gideon’s mouth as he closed the distance between us, chilling the air in front of me. He stopped shy of touching me, but barely. “Call Dr. Blanc. And remember, the next time you try to cast me as the villain, Kincaid, that I’m the only ghost this side of the barrier standing between you and the dead and undead you never want to meet.”
And with that, Gideon disappeared. With the mirror. I stared up at the fluorescent lights of the library. I’d walked into that one. Gideon was sensitive to anything that even hinted at me not following his instructions to the letter. “Why, oh why can’t I catch a break with that damn ghost?” I said to the ceiling.
But no one answered me. Not even the librarian. She knew when to keep quiet—so why the hell didn’t I?
I headed for the stairs and outside to where my bike waited for me. And to think Richan had wanted the job of Gideon’s assistant.
I reached my bike and secured my bag to the back.
Gideon played an insidious psychological game. He justified the verbal abuse and snide comments by deifying himself as the supreme authority of the paranormal. You should feel honoured I deign to yell at you over your lacklustre bindings. Gideon wasn’t the first teacher I’d seen use those kinds of methods.
It sucked. And it was a lousy way to teach.
I manoeuvred my bike past a few buses dropping off and picking up students. I tried to pay attention to pedestrians and cyclists, but my thoughts didn’t want to emerge from this particular rabbit hole. Memories of my own family fought and clawed their way to the surface.
My mother always said she loved my father’s passion. They fought because they both ran hot.
It was a stupid excuse to be assholes. The truth is, they were both master manipulators.
Well, Richan might be the kind of man who invited that into his life, but I wasn’t subscribing. I wasn’t Gideon’s apprentice because I wanted to be, I was here because I had to be. And I needed to remind myself of that—especially when Gideon had one of his kinder moments.
A red light I’d been caught behind flickered green. I kicked my Hawk into gear and headed for the viaduct and home. If I was to have any chance of making my flight tomorrow, I needed sleep. And I had an introduction to make. It might kill my soul to do it, to give in, but my hands were tied.
I laughed, remembering something my mother had once told me. That I was no better than her and someday I’d end up just like her.
In a way, she’d been right. I’d gone and found a relationship that mirrored my parents’ and felt just as inescapable.
A gust of wind hit me straight on as I turned onto Pike. I shivered and corrected my bike. My thoughts had me on autopilot. Something Aaron would thoroughly disapprove of.
Speak of the devil. After reaching my building, I checked my phone and saw that my boarding pass for tomorrow was there.
Now Aaron was far from perfect, but he, well…
What? Was interested? Wanted me again? I sighed and put the phone back into my pocket as I wedged the door to the lobby open. Maybe that was part of my problem too: I didn’t know a good thing when I saw it. It was ingrained in my DNA—I didn’t know how to have a relationship that wasn’t a fight. I needed to win at something, to overcome—to do battle.
I wished I could go back to a simpler time when my biggest worry was whether Nate would show up to a seance on time. I was happy then.
Just because my arrangement with Gideon came with a handful of tolerable moments didn’t excuse the bad ones. I’d learned from my mother that ignoring the ugly stuff is a great way to end up dead. And despite hanging out with ghosts, I had no intention of joining them any time soon.
As I rode the elevator up, my thoughts drifted once again, this time to the Portland crime scene and Aaron, who was normally reserved when making connections yet was convinced Dane’s poltergeist was involved in the new murder.
If all my recent troubles with the dead in Seattle were any indication, whatever was waiting for me in Portland wouldn’t be good.
CHAPTER 7
COLD ENOUGH TO WAKE THE DEAD
Aaron hadn’t been wrong to worry about my ability to get up before the crack of dawn. I set five separate alarms at three-minute intervals. After the first one rang, I swore and managed to hit the Snooze button. The second time, I cursed Nate; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d played a practical joke. It was the third one that finally got me up.
I brushed my teeth and left a quick message on the bathroom mirror for Nate and/or Gideon saying simply that I was on my way to Portland.
I had just enough time to shove the personal essentials into my backpack, then I turned to my practitioning equipment. I’d had the foresight to set aside a couple of compact mirrors, sage, china markers as per Gideon’s instructions, and a good-sized mirror—the kind you might find in a locker, already set and tinged with a ghost-grey cast—in a large zip-lock bag on the kitchen table.
The Transportation Security Administration examined any and all practitioning goods—books, herbs, mirrors, china markers. An industrious individual had unleashed a ghost of the poltergeist variety on a plane about seven years ago, resulting in the most notorious emergency landing in the USA since 9/11. Since then, set mirrors had been banned.
I hoped I’d be cleared with Aaron by my side.
I wore my blazer underneath my leather jacket, a pair of dark-wash jeans and new, unscuffed bike boots. A little more casual than I’d like for airport security, but professional enough to get by.
The last thing I did was pull my rat’s nest of hair into a tie, wrapping it into a low ponytail before sliding on my helmet. It was 4:45 a.m. and I didn’t have a drop of coffee in me.
Still, I gave my apartment one last check to see if I’d missed anything. On a whim, just before ducking out the door, I grabbed a lipliner and an unset makeup compact and slid them into my pocket. Those probably wouldn’t be confiscated, they were only makeup after all. If the TSA took my tools, at least I’d have something to conjure a ghost with.
I gave myself a once-over in the bathroom mirror. Not bad. I pushed my bike out the door and wrestled the door locked behind me. A few minutes later I was on a mercifully empty highway on my way to Sea–Tac Airport. I guess, if there was one silver lining to an early flight, it was that there was next to no one on the road.
