Bloody Bones ab-5 Read online

  Bloody Bones

  ( Anita Blake - 5 )

  Laurell Hamilton

  Laurell Hamilton

  Bloody Bones

  1

  It was St. Patrick's Day, and the only green I was wearing was a button that read, "Pinch me and you're dead meat." I'd started work last night with a green blouse on, but I'd gotten blood all over it from a beheaded chicken. Larry Kirkland, zombie-raiser in training, had dropped the decapitated bird. It did the little headless chicken dance and sprayed both of us with blood. I finally caught the damn thing, but the blouse was ruined.

  I had to run home and change. The only thing not ruined was the charcoal grey suit jacket that had been in the car. I put it back on over a black blouse, black skirt, dark hose, and black pumps. Bert, my boss, didn't like us wearing black to work, but if I had to be at the office at seven o'clock without any sleep at all, he would just have to live with it.

  I huddled over my coffee mug, drinking it as black as I could swallow it. It wasn't helping much. I stared at a series of 8-by-10 glossy blowups spread across my desktop. The first picture was of a hill that had been scraped open, probably by a bulldozer. A skeletal hand reached out of the raw earth. The next photo showed that someone had tried to carefully scrape away the dirt, showing the splintered coffin and bones to one side of the coffin. A new body. The bulldozer had been brought in again. It had plowed up the red earth and found a boneyard. Bones studded the earth like scattered flowers.

  One skull spread its unhinged jaws in a silent scream. A scraggle of pale hair still clung to the skull. The dark, stained cloth wrapped around the corpse was the remnants of a dress. I spotted at least three femurs next to the upper half of a skull. Unless the corpse had had three legs, we were looking at a real mess.

  The pictures were well done in a gruesome sort of way. The color made it easier to differentiate the corpses, but the high gloss was a little much. It looked like morgue photos done by a fashion photographer. There was probably an art gallery in New York that would hang the damn things and serve cheese and wine while people walked around saying, "Powerful, don't you think? Very powerful."

  They were powerful, and sad.

  There was nothing but the photos. No explanation. Bert had said to come to his office after I'd looked at them. He'd explain everything. Yeah, I believed that. The Easter Bunny is a friend of mine, too.

  I gathered the pictures up, slipped them into the envelope, picked my coffee mug up in the other hand, and went for the door.

  There was no one at the desk. Craig had gone home. Mary, our daytime secretary, didn't get in until eight. There was a two-hour space of time when the office was unmanned. That Bert had called me into the office when we were the only ones there bothered me a lot. Why the secrecy?

  Bert's office door was open. He sat behind his desk, drinking coffee, shuffling some papers around. He glanced up, smiled, and motioned me closer. The smile bothered me. Bert was never pleasant unless he wanted something.

  His thousand-dollar suit framed a white-on-white shirt and tie. His grey eyes sparkled with good cheer. His eyes are the color of dirty window glass, so sparkling is a real effort. His snow-blond hair had been freshly buzzed. The crewcut was so short I could see scalp.

  "Have a seat, Anita."

  I tossed the envelope on his desk and sat down. "What are you up to, Bert?" His smile widened. He usually didn't waste the smile on anybody but clients. He certainly didn't waste it on me. "You looked at the pictures?"

  "Yeah, what of it?"

  "Could you raise them from the dead?"

  I frowned at him and sipped my coffee. "How old are they?"

  "You couldn't tell from the pictures?"

  "In person I could tell you, but not just from pictures. Answer the question."

  "Around two hundred years."

  I just stared at him. "Most animators couldn't raise a zombie that old without a human sacrifice."

  "But you can," he said.

  "Yeah. I didn't see any headstones in the pictures. Do we have any names?"

  "Why?"

  I shook my head. He'd been the boss for five years, started the company when it was just him and Manny, and he didn't know shit about raising the dead. "How can you hang around a bunch of zombie-raisers for this many years and know so little about what we do?"

  The smile slipped a little, the glow beginning to fade from his eyes. "Why do you need names?"

  "You use names to call the zombie from the grave."

  "Without a name you can't raise them?"

  "Theoretically, no," I said.

  "But you can do it," he said. I didn't like how sure he was.

  "Yeah, I can do it. John can probably do it, too."

  He shook his head. "They don't want John."

  I finished the last of my coffee. "Who's they?"

  "Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein."

  "A law firm," I said.

  He nodded.

  "No more games, Bert. Just tell me what the hell's going on."

  "Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein have some clients building a very plush resort in the mountains near Branson. A very exclusive resort. A place where the wealthy country stars that don't own a house in the area can go to get away from the crowds. Millions of dollars are at stake."

  "What's the old cemetery have to do with it?"

  "The land they're building on was in dispute between two families. The courts decided the Kellys owned the land, and they were paid a great deal of money. The Bouvier family claimed it was their land and there was a family plot on it to prove it. No one could find the cemetery."

  Ah. "They found it," I said.

  "They found an old cemetery, but not necessarily the Bouvier family plot."

  "So they want to raise the dead and ask who they are?"

  "Exactly."

  I shrugged. "I can raise a couple of the corpses in the coffins. Ask who they are. What happens if their last name is Bouvier?"

  "They have to buy the land a second time. They think some of the corpses are Bouviers. That's why they want all the bodies raised."

  I raised my eyebrows. "You're joking."

  He shook his head, looking pleased. "Can you do it?"

  "I don't know. Give me the pictures again." I set my coffee mug on his desk and took the pictures back. "Bert, they've screwed this six ways to Sunday. It's a mass grave, thanks to the bulldozers. The bones are all mixed together. I've only read about one case of anyone raising a zombie from a mass grave. But they were calling a specific person. They had a name." I shook my head. "Without a name it may not be possible."

  "Would you be willing to try?"

  I spread the pictures over the desk, staring at them. The top half of a skull had turned upside down like a bowl. Two finger bones attached by something dry and desiccated that must once had been human tissue lay next to it. Bones, bones everywhere but not a name to speak.

  Could I do it? I honestly didn't know. Did I want to try? Yeah. I did.

  "I'd be willing to try."

  "Wonderful."

  "Raising them a few every night is going to take weeks, even if I can do it. With John's help it would be quicker."

  "It will cost them millions to delay that long," Bert said.

  "There's no other way to do it."

  "You raised the Davidsons' entire family plot, including Great-Grandpa. You weren't even supposed to raise him. You can raise more than one at a time."

  I shook my head. "That was an accident. I was showing off. They wanted to raise three family members. I thought I could save them money by doing it in one shot."

  "You raised ten family members, Anita. They only asked for three."

  "So?"

  "So can you raise the
entire cemetery in one night?"

  "You're crazy," I said.

  "Can you do it?"

  I opened my mouth to say no, and closed it. I had raised an entire cemetery once. Not all of them had been two centuries old, but some of them had been older, nearly three hundred. And I raised them all. Of course, I had two human sacrifices to ride for power. It was a long story how I ended up with two people dying inside a circle of power. Self-defense, but the magic didn't care. Death is death.

  Could I do it? "I really don't know, Bert."

  "That's not a no," he said. He had an eager, anticipatory look on his face.

  "They must have offered you a bundle of money," I said.

  He smiled. "We're bidding on the project."

  "We're what?"

  "They sent this package to us, the Resurrection Company in California and the Essential Spark in New Orleans."

  "They prefer Élan Vital to the English translation," I said. Frankly, it sounded more like a beauty salon than an animating firm, but nobody had asked me. "So what? The lowest bid gets it?"

  "That was their plan," Bert said.

  He looked entirely too satisfied with himself. "What?" I asked.

  "Let me play it back to you," he said. "There are what, three animators in the entire country that could raise a zombie that old without a human sacrifice? You and John are two of them. I'm including Phillipa Freestone of Resurrection in this."

  "Probably," I said.

  He nodded. "Okay. Could Phillipa raise without a name?"

  "I don't have any way of knowing that. John could. Maybe she could."

  "Could either she or John raise from the mass bones, not the ones in the coffin?"

  That stopped me. "I don't know."

  "Would either of them stand a chance of raising the entire graveyard?" He was staring at me very steadily.

  "You're enjoying this too much," I said.

  "Just answer the question, Anita."

  "I know John couldn't do it. I don't think Phillipa is as good as John, so no, they couldn't do it."

  "I'm going to up the bid," Bert said.

  I laughed. "Up the bid?"

  "Nobody else can do it. Nobody but you. They tried treating this like any other construction problem. But there aren't going to be any other bids, now are there?"

  "Probably not," I said.

  "Then I'm going to take them to the cleaners," he said with a smile.

  I shook my head. "You greedy son of a bitch."

  "You get a share of the fee, you know."

  "I know." We looked at each other. "What if I try and can't raise them all in one night?"

  "You'll still be able to raise them all eventually, won't you?"

  "Probably." I stood, picking up my coffee mug. "But I wouldn't spend the check until after I've done it. I'm going to go get some sleep."

  "They want the bid this morning. If they accept our terms, they'll fly you up in a private helicopter."

  "Helicopter—you know I hate to fly."

  "For this much money you'll fly."

  "Great."

  "Be ready to go at a moment's notice."

  "Don't push it, Bert." I hesitated at the door. "Let me take Larry with me."

  "Why? If John can't do it, then Larry certainly can't."

  I shrugged. "Maybe not, but there are ways to combine power during a raising. If I can't do it alone, maybe I can get a boost from our trainee."

  He looked thoughtful. "Why not take John? Combined, you could do it."

  "Only if he'd give his power willingly to me. You think he'd do that?"

  Bert shook his head.

  "You going to tell him that the client didn't want him? That you offered him to the client and they asked for me by name?"

  "No," Bert said.

  "That's why you're doing it like this; no witnesses."

  "Time is of the essence, Anita."

  "Sure, Bert, but you didn't want to face Mr. John Burke with yet another client that wants me over him."

  Bert looked down at his blunt-fingered hands clasped on the desktop. He looked up, grey eyes serious. "John is almost as good as you are, Anita. I don't want to lose him."

  "You think he'll walk if one more client asks for me?"

  "His pride's hurt," Bert said.

  "And there's so much of it to hurt," I said.

  Bert smiled. "You needling him doesn't help."

  I shrugged. It sounded petty to say he'd started it, but he had. We'd tried dating, and John couldn't handle me being a female version of him. No; he couldn't handle me being a better version of him.

  "Try to behave yourself, Anita. Larry's not up to speed yet; we need John."

  "I always behave myself, Bert."

  He sighed. "If you didn't make me so much money, I wouldn't put up with your shit."

  "Ditto," I said.

  That about summed up our relationship. Commerce at its best. We didn't like each other, but we could do business together. Free enterprise at work.

  2

  At noon Bert called and said we had it. "Be at the office packed and ready to go at two o'clock. Mr. Lionel Bayard will fly up with you and Larry."

  "Who's Lionel Bayard?"

  "A junior partner in the firm of Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein. He likes the sound of his own voice. Don't give him a rough time about it."

  "Who, me?"

  "Anita, don't tease the help. He may be wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, but he's still the help."

  "I'll save it up for one of the partners. Surely Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, or Lowenstein will appear in person sometime this weekend."

  "Don't tease the bosses either," he said.

  "Anything you say." My voice was utterly mild.

  "You'll do whatever you want no matter what I say, won't you?"

  "Gee, Bert, who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"

  "Just be here at two o'clock. I called Larry. He'll be here."

  "I'll be there, Bert. I've got one stop to make, so if I'm a few minutes late, don't worry."

  "Don't be late."

  "Be there as soon as I can." I hung up before he could argue with me.

  I had to shower, change, and go to Seckman Junior High School. Richard Zeeman taught science there. We had a date set up for tomorrow. At one point Richard had asked me to marry him. That was sort of on hold, but I did owe him more than a message on his answering machine, saying sorry, honey, can't make the date. I'm going to be out of town. A message would have been easier for me, but cowardly.

  I packed one suitcase. It was enough for four days and then some. If you pack extra underwear and clothes that mix and match, you can live for a week out of a small suitcase.

  I did add a few extras. The Firestar 9mm and its inner pants holster. Enough extra ammo to sink a battleship and two knives plus wrist sheaths. I'd had four knives. All handcrafted for little ol' moi. Two of them had been lost beyond recovery. I was having them replaced, but hand forging takes time, especially when you insist on the highest silver content possible in the steel. Two knives, two guns should be enough for one weekend business trip. I'd wear the Browning Hi-Power.

  Packing wasn't a problem. What to wear today was the problem. They'd want me to raise them tonight if I could. Hell, the helicopter might fly directly to the construction site. Which meant I'd be walking over raw dirt, bones, shattered coffins. It didn't sound like high-heel territory. Yet, if a junior partner was wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, the people who'd just hired me would expect me to look the part. I could either dress professionally or in feathers and blood. I'd actually had one client who was disappointed that I didn't show up nude smeared with blood. There could have been more than one reason for his disappointment. I don't think I've ever had a client that would have objected to some kind of ceremonial getup, but jeans and jogging shoes didn't seem to inspire confidence. Don't ask me why.

  I could pack my coverall and put it over whatever I wore. Yeah, I liked that. Veronica Sims—Ron
nie, my very best friend—had talked me into buying a fashionably short navy skirt. It was short enough that I was a little embarrassed, but the skirt fit inside the coverall. The skirt didn't wrinkle or bunch up after I'd worn the outfit to vampire stakings or murder scenes. Take the coverall off, and I was set to go to the office or out for the evening. I was so pleased, I went out and bought two more in different colors.

  One was crimson, the other purple. I hadn't been able to find one in black yet. At least not one that wasn't so short that I refused to wear it. Admittedly, the short skirts made me look taller. They even made me look leggy. When you're five-foot-three, that's saying something. But the purple didn't match much that I owned, so crimson it was.

  I'd found a short-sleeved blouse that was the exact same shade of red. Red with violet undertones, a cold, hard color that looked great with my pale skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. The shoulder holster and 9mm Browning Hi-Power looked very dramatic against it. A black belt cinched tight at the waist held down the loops on the holster. A black jacket with rolled-back sleeves went over everything to hide the gun. I twirled in front of the mirror in my bedroom. The skirt wasn't much longer than the jacket, but you couldn't see the gun. At least not easily. Unless you're willing to have things tailor-made, it's hard to hide a gun, especially in women's dress-up clothes.

  I put on just enough makeup so the red didn't overwhelm me. I was also going to be saying good-bye to Richard for several days. A little makeup couldn't hurt. When I say makeup, I mean eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and that's it. Outside of a television interview that Bert talked me into, I don't wear base.

  Except for the hose and black high heels, which I would've had to wear no matter what skirt I wore, the outfit was comfortable. As long as I remembered not to bend directly at the waist, I was safe.

  The only jewelry I wore was the silver cross tucked into the blouse, and the watch on my wrist. My dress watch had broken and I just had never gotten around to getting it fixed. The present watch was a man's black diving watch that looked out of place on my small wrist. But hey, it glowed in the dark if you pressed a button. It showed me the date, what day it was, and could time a run. I hadn't found a woman's watch that could do all that.