“What do you sing?” I asked, fascinated despite myself.
“I generally use slow jams,” she said. “Classic R and B from the eighties, nineties has a nice, relaxed rhythm and sets a nice tone.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Just don’t tell my grandmother that. She’s in the business, too, and she’d be pissed if she learned I was singing Luther Vandross to clients. She says gospel’s the only way to go.”
“We’ll keep your secret,” Ethan said. “And sorry we interrupted you.”
She waved it off. “No worries. Some of them like to listen in, and cemetery conversations are usually pretty morose.”
“Do you do a lot of work in this neighborhood?” I asked, thinking again of Caleb Franklin.
“We work territories. Not many want to work this close to Hellriver.” She shrugged. “I don’t tend to get bothered. And if I do, I know how to protect myself.”
“Fireballs?” I asked, thinking of Catcher.
“Screaming ghouls,” she said, her expression so serious I had to choke back a silent, horrified scream.
She must have sensed my concern. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. They don’t typically manifest physically, so they don’t usually cause any physical harm.”
“I’m stuck on ‘typically’ and ‘usually.’”
She smiled. “Job hazard. And speaking of which, did you say earlier I didn’t look like an evil sorcerer?”
“That’s actually why we’re here,” Ethan said. “We’re looking for a sorcerer—someone not of the Order, but actively practicing. The magic is likely to be dark, or at least unusual.”
“What kind of unusual?”
“Alchemy.”
Annabelle’s eyebrows lifted. “Alchemy. That’s not a word you hear very often.” She frowned. “I’m doing the darkest magic around here that I’m aware of, and that’s only because it’s literally dark,” she said, waving a hand in the air to indicate the nighttime. “You’ve checked with the Order?”
“One of our colleagues is doing so,” Ethan said. “Although we’ve found them to be relatively useless.”
“No argument there. The MVD Association exists because the Order didn’t consider us sorcerers. In Europe, in Asia, India, magic-doers of all types are part of the same conglomeration. But in the good ol’ U.S. of A., we are not good enough to join their party.”
“Supernaturals pick the oddest swords to fall upon,” Ethan said.
“You are preaching to the choir.”
“What about a shifter named Caleb Franklin?” I asked. “He lived nearby. Did you happen to know him?”
She pursed her lips as she considered. “Caleb Franklin.” She shook her head. “No, that doesn’t ring a bell, either. And I don’t think I know any shifters.”
“How about this man?” I asked, pulling out my phone and showing her the grainy photograph Jeff had captured.
She frowned. “Hard to tell from the picture, but I don’t think so. I feel like I’d have remembered the beard.” Her eyes widened, and she lifted her gaze to mine. “Is this about what happened to that poor shifter at Wrigley? I mean, they didn’t release his name, but a vampire and shifter were involved, right?”
“Caleb Franklin is that shifter,” Ethan confirmed. “We believe he was killed by a vampire, and may have been involved in the alchemy. Alchemical symbols were found nearby.”
“I’d have liked to have seen them,” she said. “I mean, I’m sorry for his death, but it’s interesting the way that rare magic is. Like walking down the street and seeing, I don’t know, a diplodocus or something.”
It was the kind of joke I’d have appreciated, if a concussion hadn’t immediately shaken the ground beneath us. I gripped Ethan’s arm with clawed fingers.
What. The. Hell?
He patted my hand supportively, but I could tell he’d gone on full alert.
“And that’s my cue,” Annabelle said, moving closer to the gravestone and resting a hand on a marble curlicue. “Mr. Leeds knows I’m here and thinks I’m ignoring him, so I need to let him talk. I don’t, he’ll get angrier and angrier. And that’s when ghouls become a real possibility.”
I managed a weak smile. “That must keep your dance card full.”
“It does.”
“Do you mind if we observe?” Ethan asked. “And please say no if it would disrupt your process.”
“Or add to their potential ghoulishness,” I added. “Because we don’t want to do that.” God, did we not want that!
Annabelle smiled. “I don’t mind at all. But you’ll want to take a step back and cover your ears. Sometimes they come up screaming.”
Every cell in my body shuddered in simultaneous horror.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHAKE THE BONES
I took several steps back, working carefully to stay in the aisle and avoid stepping on anyone else’s plot. When Ethan moved beside me, I gripped his hand, unashamed.
Be still, Sentinel, he said. Those were the first words he’d said to me, and words I usually loved to hear. But here, in this graveyard, while waiting for a necromancer to commune with the dead, I wasn’t loving it.
Annabelle moved to stand at the end of the grave, facing the stretch of grass and gravestone. She closed her eyes, blew out a breath, seemed to center herself.
The earth shook again, the concussion like a strike on a timpani drum.
I cursed Thriller silently again.
Seemingly oblivious to Mr. Leeds’s irritation, or maybe because she was trained to deal with it, Annabelle held out her hands, palms down, over the grass.
“Harold Parcevius Leeds, I am Annabelle Shaw. I am here to help you speak. Please comport yourself respectfully.”
Another tremor.
Eyes still closed, she shook her head, breathed through her nose in what looked like irritated resignation. “Mr. Leeds, I am not interested in taking abuse from you. I am here voluntarily to help you communicate. If you can’t be pleasant about it, I’ll leave you to silence. Neither of us wants that. You want peace, and I want to help you find it.”
She paused, waiting, as Ethan and I stood behind her, watching, and then she nodded.