I propped my bike against the brick wall of the university library and messaged Lee about the paranormal murder. I asked if she’d be oh so kind as to look into my suspected wraith problem a little more. She had more resources than me, and it was in her best interest to help. The City of Seattle was paranoid enough about the hidden underground zombie community. A homicidal wraith would attract more scrutiny to the paranormally inclined, which Lee wouldn’t appreciate.
By the time I reached the elevator, she had messaged me back to call her. She even answered on the first ring.
“Lee, please tell me you have something useful for me,” I said quietly.
“Over the past day I’ve gone through Lou’s texts and asked a few ghosts and occult experts in the city on your behalf, but I have yet to find anything useful. Suffice to say there are not many survivors to tell the tale when it comes to wraiths—living or dead.”
Considering the fact that the thing seemed to eat Otherside, I wasn’t exactly surprised. “Thanks for trying, Lee.”
But she wasn’t done. “You have been reluctant to follow my advice, but I pray you do it this time. Tell the sorcerer’s ghost what has transpired.”
“I remember you distinctly telling me not to call the sorcerer—”
“Unfortunately, your situation now calls for it. The tools you have at your disposal are dangerous, but that does not mean you should not use them.”
“I have no idea what he’ll do to Nate.” Hell, for that matter I had no idea what he’d do to me.
“That is Nate’s concern, not yours,” Lee said, her voice even colder than usual.
“Oh, come on— Lee?” I stared at the phone. She’d hung up. “You got to be kidding me…”
I shoved it back into my pocket and jabbed the elevator call button.
Sometimes I really wished Lee hadn’t died at the turn of the last century. None of the ancient zombies had a sympathetic bone in their bodies….Then again, she probably wouldn’t be running the underground city if she did.
I rode the elevator up to the paranormal floor at the top of the library. The ghost librarian wasn’t waiting at her usual spot at the special collections desk when I exited. I squeezed my arm under the plastic guard and helped myself to a pass from a neat stack, along with a computer password on a slip of paper, and let myself in.
The paranormal floor was deserted, so I retrieved an armload of books and deposited them loudly on a table, letting them spread out. I was especially hopeful that the ghoul and ghost binding texts might shed light on the problems I was having with Nate’s bindings. The ghost binding was obvious, but ghouls are an interesting mix of practitioning schools. The ghost is incorporated back into the body, as with a zombie, but there are some subtle differences that skirt the line where ghost bindings and possession meet reanimation. And Nate seemed to be a messed-up cross between the two.
I made some notes and sketched some bindings that sounded similar to Nate’s, but I’ll admit I was grasping at straws.
I checked my phone and realized an hour and a half had gone by. I should be getting back, but there were no messages from Nate or Aaron with an emergency. Oh, what the hell—it wasn’t like I was needed anywhere else.
I left my reference books on the table and headed over to the computer. I searched for every book I could find that mentioned the paranormal beyond zombies, ghosts and ghouls—anything to do with entities that might hint at what could be terrorizing Nate. As I’ve said before, everything has a reasonable explanation. Including Eloch. And discovering what he was and wanted might just buy me more time to get Nate out.
An uncomfortable thought occurred to me. What if Eloch was another sorcerer’s ghost having some fun at Nate’s expense? I shivered involuntarily at the idea of something as powerful as Gideon with a bone to pick with Nate….
There was one term I hadn’t searched for. That I’d avoided searching for. I let my fingers hover over the computer keys before typing in “demon.”
Biblical references, a few myths—lo and behold, there was Dungeons and Dragons again…Just as I’d thought, nothing reliable or beyond the usual brimstone-and-fire bullshit. Mythology, monsters, videogame bosses…
I sat back in the chair and sighed. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. I raise the dead for a living; I can suspend disbelief, but demons were pushing it. As far as I knew, vampires, demons and angels didn’t exist outside mythology. But a couple of weeks ago I would have said there was no such thing as a sorcerer’s ghost. I was open to grains of truth—evidence of something real enough to inspire belief but rare enough to evade discovery.
Everything had an explanation. I’d talked to countless ghosts who lived on the Otherside, and none of them ever mentioned encounters with angels, demons, vampires or other monsters from myths—except for Nate, and he wasn’t reliable on account of being terrified. There was no good side versus bad as far as the undead were concerned, only the Otherside. An inspiration for purgatory? Sure, I’d buy that, but there weren’t any battles going on for anyone’s immortal soul. A battle to get them to pay outstanding bar tabs at Lee’s, maybe.
But if there wasn’t any mention of demons in reputable texts, and no practitioner I knew of had ever thought to report one, and even Mork’s obscure occult texts didn’t mention them.
The undead feed off fear, and what better way to generate it than to convince people they were dealing with a real demon. I was convinced poltergeists couldn’t pull it off, but a sorcerer’s ghost or ghoul? Where there was one, there had to be more. Probably all just as arrogant as Gideon…
I cleared the search for “demon” and typed in “Eloch.” Specific names generally don’t have a great track record at returning useful references—not unless it was someone famous. I was banking on Eloch having other victims and an ego. People with an ego, alive or dead, always want the credit.
Nothing came up.
What the hell. I tried “Eloch” and “sorcerer” next, and frowned at the results.
There was still no reference to an Eloch, but there was a short list of books—only ten or so—that held references to sorcerers. It included a collection of diaries from Christian monks from northern Europe dating back to the 1600s. I looked closely at the description: accounts of supernatural happenings, lists of names, crimes, victims…
A chill settled over me. Witch trials. I was looking at the accounts of medieval witch trials. There was also a handful of journals of the accused, supposed witches and sorcerers who’d been burned at the stake.
Nothing about making deals for people’s souls, but still…
I jotted down the reference numbers and headed into the archive shelves, a section I wasn’t familiar with and had never really perused, as it dealt more with the history of practitioning as opposed to its uses.
You’d be surprised what people used to write down in journals before the advent of TV…or electricity. It wasn’t as if they had much besides time to kill—metaphorically speaking. If I was lucky, I might find accounts of demons or wraiths. Or if I was very lucky, mention of a paranormal entity that called itself Eloch.
The accounts of the accused were all over the place—witch trials, encounters with dangerous practitioners and even a few self-proclaimed magicians—though they all struck me more as fantasy than reality on account of the complete lack of references to bindings or symbols. Those I discarded as useless. I was getting the impression that real sorcerers weren’t the type who left their notebooks around for people to stumble across. Otherwise, they’d be more well-known in the practitioning community….
But the eyewitness accounts of witch trials by the monks who had persecuted them…Leave it to the people who hate you the most to leave a decent record of your demise.
I began reading about a witch trial that had occurred in Denmark during the late Dark Ages, early Middle Ages. Well before the Salem witch trials and Inquisition, by almost five hundred years. At this time most trials targeted a particular witch or sorcerer, more often than not a woman and often for something slight, like unleashing a poltergeist or ghost on the town. The religious authorities got that part wrong more frequently than I cared to imagine. Ghosts are like cats—you can barely get them to stay on talking points let alone direct them to haunt someone. And most of the people they’d managed to target were village healers or minor practitioners. Why is it that the mob with pitchforks always attacks the harmless?
The monk or priest who had recorded the account had veered from the typical practice of focusing on one person or haunting, deciding instead to rout out every practitioner—or witch, or sorcerer—he could find. He’d made a list of names and included underneath the evidence for their connection to the paranormal.
Some of it was the typical BS—likely some rich patron in the middle of a land grab—but there were definitely some real practitioners, with evidence of symbols and seances and binding spells. Not proof on its own, but an indication that at least some of the names had been involved in the paranormal. There was even a mention of the walking dead, “abominations,” et cetera. Probably a zombie or ghoul.
Not exactly useful in determining what Eloch might be, though it painted an interesting picture of how people in the Middle Ages viewed us. It wasn’t all that far off from the present, though without the stakes and pitchfork-wielding mobs….
I froze as a name jumped out at me, halfway down the list of suspects.
Gideon Lawrence.
That couldn’t be right….This had happened a thousand years ago. There was no way.
Just how long did a sorcerer’s ghost survive? I knew Gideon had to be old…
Maybe he’d taken the name of another sorcerer?
I skimmed the account. It was unusual in its own right, as men were rarely prosecuted for sorcery and witchcraft. It said he’d been burned at the stake for dereliction of duty and treason as the court sorcerer. At least in this case they’d persecuted an actual sorcerer. There was even a list of his properties and goods.
I frowned at the passage, wondering if the translation was right. Gideon hadn’t mentioned treason or being a court-appointed sorcerer. Though he had mentioned being a scapegoat. The monk was thorough with most individuals, detailing treason, witchcraft, consorting with devils…except when it came to Gideon Lawrence. There, he only hinted at the charges. Gideon had displeased the king by refusing to use his evil powers for the Crown’s good, but there was no mention of what he’d refused to do. Strange—what kind of deed would earn itself an omission, when so many other details had been laid bare?
The trials had happened over the course of a month or so—twenty people, including Gideon, accused of witchcraft and sorcery. Clearly, not all of them were guilty, and the property transfers indicated as much.
I glanced at my phone; I had run out of time. I had to get back to Nate.
I grabbed the book and headed to the photocopier and began scanning the pages related to Gideon.
What was it Gideon had said? People like to find someone to blame….
I wondered how many of the real witches or sorcerers who’d been burned at the stake had returned the next day to wreak vengeance. I knew how I reacted when push came to shove….
I finished the photocopies and tucked them into my backpack. I retrieved my water bottle and headed into the bathroom to fill it up and run cold water over my face. The discovery had shaken me, and not with the usual fear that Gideon inspired. It piqued my curiosity. I shelved my own jumble of thoughts to look at later as something cold prickled along the back of my neck, raising the hairs.
I straightened with a start and searched the bathroom. I looked in the mirror. My normal, pale reflection and red-rimmed eyes stared back at me. No grey cast—the mirror wasn’t set.
Still, the cold prickling didn’t pass.
I pulled my Otherside sight. The bindings that rimmed my eyes flared gold in the mirror, and I looked down to see the binding on my wrist flare too, but otherwise there was nothing—no bindings, no trace of Otherside.
“Gideon?” I whispered. My breath fogged in front of me.
But there was no answer. The cold faded, as did my condensed breath. I searched the mirror one last time but saw only myself. No grey cast, no writing in charred black, not even the red demon eyes Nate had described.
I turned the faucet on and threw more cold water on my face—this time to calm my nerves. I didn’t take my eyes off the mirror.
But there was nothing.
It had to be my imagination. Too much Otherside and my nerves on edge. My hand shook slightly as I filled the water bottle.
I jumped as something buzzed loudly, echoing off the porcelain tiles of the washroom walls. I swore and pulled my phone out. It was Nate. I left the bathroom before answering.
“Tell me you found something, K,” he said.
I reached my desk and slumped back into my seat. “Well, that depends. I found some interesting ghoul bindings to look through when I get home.” I decided to omit that I’d searched for Eloch amongst the collection. “Oh, and I’ve got some fascinating information on a sorcerer’s ghost we both know and fear.”
I didn’t mention that I’d also done an online search of old entertainment and music magazines that had featured Mindy, Nate and Cole. I needed more info on the dynamics that Nate wasn’t willing or able to describe. Mindy had witnessed something at Damien’s death and had already lied. My gut said she was hiding something; the question was what. And I doubted more and more that she was as oblivious as Nate insisted with regard to his notebook full of unrecorded songs. When people start off with outright obfuscation, it’s impossible to divine the big lies from the small ones.
Maybe Aaron had had better luck. “Nothing useful, Nate,” I repeated.
“Considering my fucking abysmal luck, I half-expected that.”
“Your turn,” I said.
I heard the rustling of paper on the other end. “Well, almost everything dead likes the fucking cold.”
I closed my eyes and massaged my forehead. “What about stuff on wraiths?”
I heard him sigh. “They like the cold, eat copious amounts of Otherside, are prone to fits of rage, match the description of a bunch of my exes…Nothing about salt anywhere.”
That just meant no one had figured it out in time to live to write about it.
“A few things on salt water, though. Witches, sorcerers and practitioners aren’t supposed to like them.”
Hunh. It seemed awful simple—throw salt on a sorcerer or witch? Maybe not the best topic to broach with Gideon. There had to be something more to it, like combining it with specific kinds of spells or bindings? Or a particular warping of Otherside…
“Keep in mind I’m pretty sure the guy who wrote that book was dabbling in altered states of reality.”
“Why?”
“Because he thought vampires might exist, but there’s not a goddamn fucking word on demons.”
I sighed and pinched my nose. “Nate—”
“I mean, come on, K—this Russian spent an entire chapter on the origin of vampire myths, but does he mention demons once?”
“Nate.”
“Fine.”
I let out a breath. “How are you holding up?”
“Well, K, besides the fact that my hair is falling out, my skin is yellow, that scar you sewed hasn’t done a damn thing as far as healing up, and—just let me check here—yup, my eyes are definitely a new shade I’ve dubbed puke green, I’m just spunky.” There was another sigh. “I mean, I feel like I’ve desecrated the temple of Cameron or something. I know it’s just his body, but still.”
“Nate, not what I meant.”
“I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t feel like putting the energy into lying well, so I’m lying badly. See, solves multiple problems.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“Perspective, K.”
My eyes drifted back to the accounts of the witch trials open on my desk. I knew I should be concentrating on getting Nate out—or at the very least the wraith—but my curiosity about the sorcerer’s ghost got the better of me.
It couldn’t be possible, could it? I mean, that would make Gideon over a thousand years old.
“Got to go, Nate. Keep looking and call if there are any emergencies.”
“Or if I find something?”
“That too.” I hung up.
There was still no message from Aaron to say if he’d gotten me my window at the crime scene. I should try and swing home to check on Nate in person and at the very least shower, but couldn’t resist going back to the computer, where I typed “Gideon Lawrence” in the search engine.
Five entries came up, but the one that caught my eye wasn’t from a library book; it was from a British archive, a London diary entry written in 1753. I clicked on it and waited as it downloaded. It was a practitioner’s account of a powerful ghost who went by the name of Gideon Lawrence and matched Gideon’s description. I sent it to the printer before I finished reading. I clicked on the second entry, this one from 1493, Paris. Another account, this time from a French medium, on his business dealings with a ghost who claimed to be a sorcerer and went by the name of Gideon. Again, the description was uncanny in its similarities to the Gideon I knew, right down to his glittering eyes. The next entries were from early 1800s Berlin—brief mentions of sorcerer’s spells credited to a ghost named Gideon Lawrence in two different practitioners’ accounts. Interesting. I printed them off as well.
The oldest and last entry was the one that really got me.
Denmark, 1052. I had to squint to read the scanned originals, for all the good it did me with the Old Danish. But the translation and drawing beside the text…
It was Gideon described to a T. Arrogant, aggressive, cold. The drawing even resembled him, though he appeared to be wearing different clothing than I’d originally seen him in.
I swallowed. My god, Gideon had been a ghost for almost a thousand years….
It was another account of the witch trial as documented by the local clergy.
The translation wasn’t easy to comb through, but it had to be him. Executed by the same court where he’d been retained as a sorcerer. Where the other account had omitted details of Gideon’s crimes, this one elaborated. He’d been sentenced to death for his “vindictiveness and cruelty in refusing to perform a miracle and bring one of the king’s subjects back from the dead.”
Why? And whom had he refused to raise?
My mind reeled. A thousand years. Gideon had been a ghost for almost a thousand years in part because he’d refused to raise the dead. There was irony there….
I mean, I knew poltergeists could last a few hundred, but eventually ghosts either go on to something else or just disappear….How long could a ghost keep sane on the Otherside? From what Nate had said, after fifty years or so people tend to go a bit batty….
Was there anything beyond the barrier for sorcerers, or was that the only afterlife they got? Did the fact they’d manipulated Otherside so much preclude them from going where all the other ghosts eventually went? Where the dead who didn’t become ghosts went? I was starting to understand his obsession with getting a body….
I scanned through the material, trying to find out why it was they’d turned on him.
I felt a chill run down my arm, followed by a prickling at my wrist—not unpleasant, but definitely there. I watched as the bindings on my wrist flared. The air beside me chilled and I picked up the scent of burnt firewood.
Shit. Gideon.
I sent the last account to the printer before closing the browser window and shoving my photocopies into my bag.
A moment later, none other than Gideon Lawrence, in all his violent translucent glory, appeared at the desk beside me. Still dressed in modern clothes. The leather jacket was the same, but the rest had changed.
“I got your message,” he said, appearing to glance at his fingernails, a very human gesture for a ghost.
I tensed. “What message?”
He glared at me, his eyes flashing black with annoyance. “You said my name a few minutes ago, near a mirror. Unless things have changed drastically, this is neither the basement of a bar nor a crime scene, and our lesson isn’t for another few hours, so—” He arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You’ve finished selling off all your own reference material and are reduced to using this library?”
I chided myself. Of course, all Gideon needed was a reflection to cross over. “Two reasons,” I said. “First, I can’t do the lesson.”
His lip twitched and his eyes glittered.
I ploughed forward before the snide comment came. “I used too much Otherside yesterday, accidentally calling something that thinks it’s a demon and wants my roommate’s soul—apparently. Oh yeah, and then I unbound a ghost from that corpse, you know, the one that was frozen with Otherside dust at the crime scene you want to see.”
Gideon closed his eyes. “Dear god, I think you’re serious.” He made a noise reminiscent of a sigh—though it wasn’t like he had to breathe. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“On account of the fact that I passed out?”
Gideon shot me a glare. “I need details. You’d best start at the beginning.”
I gave Gideon the precise if not short version of events, starting with my botched attempt at a seance with Damien.
“Where did you find out about the salt?”
Shit—I’d hoped to skim over that. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play stupid. Where did you find out that salt would disrupt the Otherside dust?” he said, his lip curling up, exposing a translucent incisor.
“It was more accident than anything else.” When Gideon frowned, I added, “My roommate saw something about it in a textbook.” The accident part was true, if not the textbook.
Gideon evaluated me for a moment before nodding. “I concede you have a reasonable excuse to cancel our lesson.”
Just fantastic. I was so grateful he agreed that my almost getting killed using Otherside was a reasonable excuse to skip class—real generous of him…
“And I agree with your assessment.”
That distracted me from my mental list of witty insults. “That it’s a wraith?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Or something else like it.”
“Such as?” I said when he didn’t offer any further explanation.
This time he gave me a slight smile, and as usual it didn’t get anywhere close to reaching his eyes. “Show me where the most recent murder took place and I’ll tell you. Use one of your compact mirrors. I’ll be waiting, so don’t take too long—my patience is neither infinite nor generous.” And with that, he dissolved into Otherside smoke, leaving a faint scent of burnt firewood in his wake.
I shook my head. “Thanks a bunch,” I said to myself, then glanced around, hoping he hadn’t heard.
If I didn’t need his damn opinion so badly…
I collected my things in my bag and returned the books to the trolley. Might as well give the ghost librarian something to do.
The last book on my desk contained the list of sorcerers where I’d first seen Gideon’s name—the original account of his trial. I hesitated before putting it on the trolley. Instead, I stuck it behind the books on a shelf I knew, from the covering of dust, was rarely referenced. I made a mental note of the spot before throwing on my jacket and grabbing my backpack and helmet. The last thing I did before heading downstairs was to message Aaron that I needed a window at the crime scene—now, instead of going home.
I had a sinking suspicion I wasn’t done with the book yet. What’s that old saying—keep your friends close and your enemies closer? I don’t know if Gideon counted as an enemy, but the homicidal ghost was definitely not my friend.