Blood Lite Read online

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by The Horror Writers Association, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books trade paperback edition October 2008

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

  Designed by Mary Austin Speaker

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 987654321

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6783-7 ISBN-10: 1-4165-6783-6

  Contents

  The Ungrateful Dead -Kelley Armstrong

  Mr. Bear - Joe R. Lansdale

  Hell in a Handbasket - LUCIEN SOULBAN

  The Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadow of Horror - Christopher Welch

  Elvis Presley and the Bloodsucker Blues - Matt Venne

  No Problem - Don D'Ammassa

  Old School - Mark Onspaugh

  The Sound of Blunder - J. A. KONRATH AND F. Paul Wilson

  An Evening with Al Gore - Charlaine Harris

  Dear Prudence - Steven Savile

  A Good Psycho Is Hard to Find - Will Ludwigsen

  High Kicks and Misdemeanors - Janet Berliner

  PR Problems - Eric James Stone

  Where Angels Fear to Tread - Sherrilyn Kenyon

  A Very Special Girl - A Harry the Book Story - Mike Resnick

  Love Seat Solitaire - D. L. Snell

  I Know Who You Ate Last Summer - Nancy Holder

  Bitches of the Night - Nancy Kilpatrick

  The Bell... FROM HELL!!! - Jeff Strand

  Dead Hand - Sharyn McCrumb

  Day Off - A Story of the Dresden Files - Jim Butcher

  About the Authors

  BLOOD LITE

  The Ungrateful Dead

  Kelley Armstrong

  I see dead people. Unfortunately, they also see me.

  One of the first lessons a necromancer learns is the art of playing dumb. When strolling down Fifth Avenue, searching for that perfect pair of shoes, pay no attention to the guy in the Civil War uniform. If he notices the glow that marks you as a necro, he will attempt to make conversation. Pretend you don't see him. With practice, you'll learn to finesse the act—pursing your lips, tilting your head, murmuring "Hmm, I thought I heard— Oh my God, would you look at those darling Jimmy Choos!"

  Eventually, the ghost will decide you're untrained—or just plain stupid—and wander off before getting to the part that begins with "Say, could you do me a favor . . . ?" Of course, one problem with playing dumb is that it seeps into your everyday life. But that has its advantages too. No one ever asks me to help with their taxes.

  Now, as I stood behind the stage curtain, I searched for

  signs of any otherworldly presences. Nothing screws up a seance like the appearance of a real ghost.

  In the theater, my intro began: "This is their world. A world of peace and beauty and joy. A world we all wish to enter."

  I tensed, flexing my calf muscles.

  "Jaime ..." Brett warned as he fixed my hair. "Stand still or this piece is going to wave like a bug antenna."

  Achieving an artlessly windswept updo is, truly, an art form, but it was part of the "sexy librarian" look I used for my shows. The pinned-up red hair, the modestly cut but curve-hugging dress and, of course, the wire-rimmed glasses. Admittedly, at forty-six, I was ramming the limit of how much longer there would be any "sexy" in my librarian. Keep the house lights low, though, and I looked damned hot.

  My cue came. I walked to the curtain, cheeks twitching as I struggled to keep my smile in, reminding myself I'd need it for the next two hours.

  As I stepped onto the dimly lit catwalk, I could hear the breathing of the sold-out crowd. Their excitement ignited mine and my grin broke through. I bit my cheek and set out.

  "Come with me now," my recorded whisper snaked through the hushed theater. "Let me take you into their world. The world of the spirits."

  I stopped. The speakers hissed as the recording switched to a man's voice.

  "The Globe Theater proudly presents ... internationally renowned spiritualist..." Another hiss as the volume swelled, the house lights rising with it. "Jaime Vegas!"

  "I'm getting a male relative," I said to Patty, a round-faced woman with big tortoiseshell glasses straight out of the eighties. "His name starts with N. . . no, wait . . . MYes,M"

  Statistically speaking, M is one of the most common first letters for male given names. Somewhere in Patty's mental file, she'd find a deceased Mike, a Matthew or ...

  "Mort!" she shrieked, like she'd correctly answered the Double Jeopardy question. "My uncle Mort."

  "Yes, that's right. Your moth ..." I drew out the word, watching for her reaction. At her frantic nod, I said decisively, "Your mother's brother."

  Interpreting cues was the key to cold reading. Sometimes it was only a slight widening of the eyes or a faint involuntary nod. Then I'd get people like Patty, so eager to praise and encourage me that I felt like a puppy who'd finally piddled outside.

  I spent the next few minutes postponing the inevitable message, with "Wait, he's fading ... no, here he comes ... I think he's trying to say something . . ." It's a two-hour

  show.

  I was in the midst of "reeling" Mort back when a voice said, "You called?"

  I glanced behind me. There stood a sixtyish bald man with a round face, bearing a striking resemblance to Patty. Uncle Mort. It doesn't matter that I rarely summon ghosts onstage. Sometimes they just show up.

  "Mortimer!" I beamed a smile as his gaze nestled in my cleavage. "How wonderful. I thought I'd lost you."

  "Uncle Mort?" Patty bounced, clearing her seat by a good three inches. "It's me, Patty."

  Mort squinted. "Patty? Shit. I thought you said Pammy, her sister." His eyes rolled back as he smiled. "Mmm. Pammy. She was always the cute one, but after she turned sixteen? Boom." He gestured to show what part of Pammy's anatomy had exploded.

  "Uncle Mort would like to tell your sister, Pammy, that he's thinking of her."

  "Ask her if Pammy's still hot," Mort said. "Last time I saw her was at my funeral. She wore this lacy little black number. And no panties." He chortled. "That's one good thing about being a ghost—"

  "Uncle Mort remembers that black silk dress Pammy wore to his funeral."

  If Patty bounced any higher, she was going to take flight. "What about me? Does he remember me?"

  "Yeah," Mort said. "The fat one. Even as a baby she was a little tub of lard—"

  "Uncle Mort says he remembers what a beautiful baby you were, so cute and chubby with red cheeks like apples."

  Patty spent the next few minutes telling Uncle Mort about Cousin Ken's cataracts and Aunt Amy's arthritis and little Lulu's lazy eye. Uncle Mort ignored her, instead peppering me with questions about Pammy.

  "Are you even listening to me?" Mort said finally. "Uncle Mort appreciates the update," I said. "And he'd like you to pass on a message in return. Tell everyone he misses them dearly—"

 
; "Miss them? One more Christmas with those people, and if the cancer didn't get me—"

  "—but he's gone to a good place, and he's happy."

  "Would I be here if I was happy? I'm bored out of my frigging skull."

  I crouched beside Patty, clasped her hands and wished her all the best. Then I returned to the catwalk. "Uncle Mort has left us now."

  Mort jumped in front of me, waving his arms. I walked through him.

  "She's ignoring you," another voice said.

  "I'm waiting for a new spirit to make contact," I continued. "I can sense them just beyond the veil." I pretended to scan the room, to get a look at the new arrival without letting on I'd heard him. More secrets of the successful spiritualist.

  A young man had climbed onto the catwalk. Dressed in a striped Henley shirt and cargo shorts, he was about twenty, stocky, with manicured beard stubble. A frat boy, I guessed. A ghost, I knew. The fact that no one noticed him sauntering down the catwalk gave it away.

  I continued to survey the room. "A spirit is trying to break through the veil..."

  "Don't bother, buddy," Mort said to the other ghost. "She may be a necromancer, but she needs some serious remedial training."

  "Actually, I hear she's very good. Comes from a long line of powerful necros."

  "Yeah? Well, it skipped a generation."

  "I have a name," I intoned, eyes half-closed. "Is there a Belinda in the audience?" In seat L15, if my sources were correct.

  "See?" Mort said. "She doesn't even know we're here."

  "Oh, she knows." The frat boy's voice carried a burr of condescension. "Don't you, Red?"

  "Do I have a Belinda in the audience? Hoping to contact her father?"

  A bingo-hall shriek as an elderly woman—in L15— leapt up. I made my way over to her. Mort stomped back to his afterlife. The frat boy stayed.

  After the show, I strode down the backstage hall, an icy water bottle pressed to my cheek.

  My assistant, Tara, scampered along beside me. "We have a ten a.m. tomorrow with the Post Intelligencer, then a two o'clock pretape with KCPQ. Friday's show is totally sold-out, but you can plug the October one in Portland." "Will do. Now, can you find Kat? Let's see if we can't get that sound system fixed before Friday."

  I slipped into my dressing room, closed the door and leaned against it. A slow clapping started across the room.

  The frat boy slid off my dressing table. "Okay, show's over. You done good, Red. Now it's time to get to work. Be a real necromancer."

  I uncapped my water and chugged.

  "Cut the crap," he said. "I know you can—"

  "—hear you. Yes, I can." I mopped my sweaty face with a towel. "But a dressing-room ambush really isn't a good way to get my attention."

  His full lips twisted. "Oh, please. You think I'm going to peep at you undressing? You're, like, forty."

  "I meant it's rude." I tossed the towel aside and grabbed

  my hairbrush. "If you'd like to talk, meet me at the rear doors in twenty minutes."

  "Urn, no. I'm going to talk to you now, and I'm not leaving until I do."

  Rule one of "how to win favors and influence necros"? Never threaten. I'd say if you're lucky enough to get one to listen, you should fall on your knees with gratitude. But that might be pushing it. A simple "okay, thanks" will do.

  I'm not heartless. In fact, in the last few years, I've made a real effort to listen to ghosts, and I'd had every intention of hearing this one out. But he was fast blowing his chance.

  I turned to the mirror and brushed out my hair, pins clinking to the floor.

  "Don't turn your back on me," the ghost said.

  "I'm not. I said I'll be ready in twenty minutes."

  He walked through the dressing table, planting himself between the mirror and me. "Fine. How about this?"

  He shimmered, then shot back, clothing drenched with blood, stomach ripped open, safety glass shards studding his intestines. A brain-splattered metal rod protruded from his ear. One eye bounced on his cheek.

  I fell back. "Oh my God! No, please. Not the death body. I'll do whatever you want!"

  I recovered and reached through his intestines for my cold cream. "Do you really think you're the first spook who's tried that? I've seen decapitations, burnings, drownings, bear maulings, electrocution ..." I leaned to see my reflection past the rod sticking from his head. "A couple of years ago, there was this one ghost who'd been cut almost

  in half. Industrial accident, I guess. That one did give me a start. But car accidents? Pfft."

  I met his eyes—or the one still in its socket. "Did you see that segment on E! last month? About celebrities addicted to plastic surgery? They talk and it's like watching a ventriloquist dummy. Only their mouths move. That scares me." I went into the bathroom to wash my face. The ghost followed. He changed back to his regular body, but stood behind me, arms crossed. Now, I've played this game before, and I could usually hold out longer than any ghost. But then my cell phone rang.

  Even without the special ring tone, I'd have known it was my boyfriend Jeremy. He always called me after a show to see how it went and he always timed it perfectly, giving me a chance to wind down but catching me before I headed out for a postshow talk with my staff.

  The call also reminded me that he was coming to Seattle after my Friday show. Our schedules only allow weekend visits every couple of months, and there was no way in hell I was spending this one with a ghost in residence.

  So I told Jeremy I'd call back, then said to the ghost, "What do you want?"

  "My cousin died in the same accident as me. I want you to open his coffin." "I'm not a grave digger."

  "He isn't in the ground. Our family has a mausoleum." "And why would I want to open his coffin?" He looked down his nose at me, not easy when he was no more than my five foot six. "Because I said so. You're a necromancer. You serve the dead. I'm dead. So serve."

  Of course, I said no, in increasingly descriptive ways. Of course, he didn't let it go at that.

  The problem with refusing a ghost's request is that you can't just walk away. Wherever you can go, they can go. At my staff meeting, Frat Boy stood between me and my staff and shouted the Pledge of Allegiance. When I called Jeremy back, he mocked and mimicked my conversation. In the rented limo, he sat on my lap and switched in and out of his death body.

  Being unable to touch anything in the living world squashes a ghost's threat potential. But they can be damned annoying. And this guy was a pro, making me wonder how many other necros he'd hit up before finding me.

  When it came time for my shower, I declared war. I've had enough ghostly Peeping Toms to get over any modesty, but Frat Boy would do more insulting than ogling, and as healthy as my ego was, I didn't need a twenty-year-old studying me for signs of sagging and cellulite.

  So I filled a censer with vervain, set it alight and banished him. A temporary measure that worked until 4:10 a.m., when the herbs burned up and I woke to him screaming the Pledge in my ear. I added more vervain and went back to sleep.

  When I woke, there was no sign of Chuck. I had no idea what the ghost's name was, but he looked like a Charles Willingham the Third or something equally pretentious— he reeked of money and privilege, too much of both, the smell as strong as BO and just as offensive. If he was a Charles, I'm sure he'd be Chas. I'd call him Chuck.

  Not seeing him that morning, I hoped that meant he was gone and naming him was premature. The last bit of vervain still smoldered, though. When it disappeared, he'd come back.

  I added another pinch, then noticed I was getting low. That happens when I'm on tour. There's a limit to how much dried plant material you can take on a plane. Even if I explain I'm a spiritualist and produce documentation, a satchel of dehydrated herbs begs for a trip to the little white room and a visit from Mr. Hand.

  Half of my remaining vervain gave me time to dress and escape. But as I walked into the TV station that afternoon, Chuck found me, and I spent the next half hour with a ghost prancin
g naked between the interviewer and me. Though I kept my cool, I knew my distraction would show—eyes a little too round, gaze darting a little too often, laugh a little too shrill. That wouldn't do. Part of my appeal is that, yes, I can be spacey, but in a ditzy C-list celebrity way, not one that screams "I just got my day pass."

  Afterward, sitting in the cab, listening to Chuck do a standup routine of sexist jokes, I envisioned him harassing me through my Friday show and into my weekend.

  I can take abuse, but there are two things no one interferes with: work and Jeremy. The warning shots hadn't scared this guy away. Time to haul out the howitzer.

  Normally, my "big gun" comes in the form of a sword-wielding, ass-kicking spirit bodyguard. Eve is a half-demon and a part-time angel, proving even the afterlife has moved to nondiscriminatory hiring practices. But when Eve is on a celestial stint, she's incommunicado. So I had to do this myself. That meant the heavy-duty

  banishing ritual, one that required a lot of time, effort and ingredients. The last was the sticking point. Vervain wasn't the only herb I was low on. So I placed a call to my West Coast supplier.

  Paige is a witch who lives in Portland and has everything a spellcaster or necromancer could need. She doesn't sell the stuff. She's just better organized than me ... or anyone else I know.

  It was still late afternoon, and Paige never went home early, so I called the office.

  "Cortez-Winterbourne Demon Hunters," a voice sang. "Get 'em slayed before you get flayed."

  "That's new."

  "Yeah, needs work, though. The rhythm's off." A pause and a double thump, and I imagined Savannah leaning her chair back, feet banging onto the desk. "So how's the celeb necro biz?"

  Savannah was Paige's nineteen-year-old ward and Eve's daughter. From the way she answered the phone when she recognized my number, I knew Paige wasn't there, so I chatted with Savannah.

  "Lucas is off in Chicago defending a client," she said. "Paige and Adam are in San Fran with Cass, checking out a vamp problem. Guess who's stuck behind answering the phone? I told Paige that's why God invented voicemail. But now I have a feeling my week is looking up. So what kind of trouble are you in? Kidnapped again?"