Page 28 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)
Ezra
I wake up the next morning to a text from Micah.
“A relic?” I ask the empty apartment. “What the hell is a relic?”
I reply with, I’ve got nail and hair clippings from the murderer. Don’t ask why. Relic enough?
Sure.
Okay if Damon comes?
Sure.
He texts me an address, and I say I’ll see him later. After working the weekend, I’ve got the day off, which gives me hours to sit around fretting. Because if there’s something I’m good at, it’s fretting.
I swear I’m still whiskey-sick from the other night, so I stay clear of the bottle. I do manage to go through about a dozen lollipops, which is kind of disgusting. I rearrange the paintings on one wall, unable to decide where to hang my newest purchase.
It’s a small piece, an icon of some saint or other.
I bought it on eBay because the figure’s expression reminded me of that damned Hanged Man card Jett keeps throwing at me.
They say I’m stuck. Correction, they say the cards say I’m stuck, and I need to move past something, which is ironic.
I mean, the two years I’ve lived in Seattle is the longest I’ve been anywhere since I left home at seventeen.
I’ve got moving on dialed in.
Another card says I should listen to my heart, or whatever. Can’t do that, full stop. My heart wants to crawl in bed with Damon and let him do whatever he wants, penance or not.
Last night at dinner, we talked about nothing important. It was great. I want to keep talking to him, to hear his theories about politics and art, to feel the warmth of his big body next to mine.
But. But. What kind of relationship would we have if I periodically ditch him for three days at a time? That’s not cool, especially since I can never tell him why.
I’ll never be honest with him, so it’s probably not fair for us to get involved at any level.
Regardless of what my heart wants.
I do shoot him a text, though, asking if he’ll go with me to meet Micah’s friend. He agrees, so I send him the address. It’s not far from the light rail station, a block or so to the west of Broadway. Maybe we’ll grab dinner later, assuming things don’t get too weird.
And I’m for sure expecting weird.
One of the other things I do to fill up the time is google SPAM, the organization Micah thought I might belong to. As soon as I get to the website’s About Us page, a pop-up interrupts me. Fuck that noise. I’m not in the mood for their stupid questionnaire.
I close the browser page and instead do a search on “James Smith.” I did one right after The Incident and at the time I didn’t find much. Today, though, there’s a new hit. An obituary.
JAMES LOVELESS SMITH (1960 – 2024)
James Smith, age 62, of Seattle, WA, passed away following an unfortunate accident.
James was born in Seattle on June 4 th , 1960, to a Mr. and Mrs. Smith in the Ravenna neighborhood.
He graduated with his GED and worked for Boeing until they got tired of his shenanigans and let him go.
His work history was something of a patchwork quilt, but he could tell a joke and drink any man under the table, and he’ll be missed by the denizens of MacCready’s Pub on Capitol Hill.
If he has other survivors, their names remain hidden by the mists of time and distance.
He always hated Seattle, yet he never left. That says something about a man. Donations in his name can be made to the Seattle Humane Society, earmarked for cats.
“What kind of batshittery is this?” I reread the obituary twice, double-checking the link address. Yes, The Seattle Times had published it in its November 5 th edition. “Seems like something this borderline disrespectful should have been declined or something.”
I find it on my phone so I can copy the link and text it to Damon. He responds almost immediately. WTF?!
Wasn’t the note you found signed by someone named Cat?
There’s a pause before he replies. Yup. We can discuss later.
Figuring he’s busy at work, I go back to searching for Smith’s online footprints. Other than the obituary, I can’t find shit. Six p.m. begins to take on unnatural proportions in my mind, as if on a subterranean level, I know something bad will happen.
It’s about impossible to distract myself from dread.
Damon must have knocked off work early, because at about five thirty he texts me that he’s outside my building.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks as soon as he sees me.
I lift the little bag I’m carrying. “Got my relics right here.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.” I keep my expression light, as if I’m joking. I’m totally not. Gotta think snipping the nails off a corpse is against some rule or other, no matter what my rationale.
The address isn’t much more than half a mile away, manageable on foot despite the rain. It’s too cold and wet to talk much, and as if by unspoken agreement, we leave Cat and the obituary for later.
If we have a later. The weight in my gut gets heavier with every step.
Our destination turns out to be an old Victorian, complete with gingerbread and a turret, and near the door there’s a small plaque.
SPAM Headquarters
TTGB Division
Damon points at it. “What?”
“Fuck if I know,” I say, and I ring the doorbell.
Micah answers. His smile is warm but his eyes are wary. He’s in full rockabilly mode; tall hair, Western shirt with embroidery and pearl buttons, and biker boots. “Come in. Brandon’ll be here in a minute.”
He leads us past an empty reception desk and into a decent-sized conference room.
There’s a single table, its turned legs and art nouveau flowers carved into the apron dating it to about the same year as the house.
The chairs are more utilitarian, wooden with squared edges and leather seats.
The walls are mostly bare, there’s an anemic-looking tree in a pot between two of the windows, and the place smells like wax and nervous sweat.
A light-skinned Black man sits at one end of the table. His eyes are green and his posture says he’s the one in charge. Micah introduces him as Geordi. “He hasn’t seen Brandon work all that often and asked to sit in. I hope that’s okay.”
Damon and I share a glance. “Sure,” he says, since I’ve apparently lost the use of my mouth.
Some unseen threat has me about ready to crawl out of my skin, and for once I want to heed Jett’s advice and follow my heart right on out of here.
This Geordi dude and Micah are in on some kind of joke that Damon and I don’t share, and I don’t like it.
I can’t leave, though. Next to Geordi is a faint shadow.
The murdered woman is hovering, almost visible, a reminder of why we’re doing—whatever it is we’re doing.
Damon takes a seat so I grab the one next to him, accidentally-on-purpose edging close enough to feel the heat of his thigh against mine.
Another man comes in, a classic tech bro with a button-down shirt and hair that could use a trim. He gives Micah a guarded hello, then leans over to shake Geordi’s hand. “Surprised to see you here.”
Geordi smiles wide. “Wanted to see my main man work.”
The guy’s cheeks go pink, which amuses me. Micah introduces him as Brandon, and once Brandon chooses a seat, Micah takes one too, on the corner closest to the door.
I can think of a couple reasons he’d want to sit there. None of them are good.
With everyone in place, Geordi takes charge. “I’d like to welcome our guests and thank you both for bringing SPAM this interesting problem. As you probably know, Brandon is a necromancer.”
Nope. Didn’t know that . I didn’t even know necromancers were real. My eyes get wide but I manage to keep my expression otherwise calm.
“He has the ability to raise the dead and ask them questions,” Geordi continues. “With his skills and a little luck, we’ll be able to help you.”
Damon’s never going to believe that I DID NOT KNOW Micah’s friend was an actual necromancer. Fuck . I’m going to have to talk so, so fast.
“So,” Brandon says, laying his hands flat on the table. “Who do you need me to raise?”
Micah nods at me, so I take out the small box where I’d been keeping James Smith’s trimmings. “His name was James, and he passed away a few weeks ago. The thing is, he killed a woman back in the ’80s, and we’re trying to learn who she was.”
I slide the box toward Brandon. He rests a hand on it, his expression going blank. Or blanker. “What’s in this?”
“Nail and hair clippings.”
Damon makes a grunt, like he’s bit down on the urge to ask how and why and when. Brandon just nods, his hand resting on the box. “Is there anything else you want from this man besides the name of the woman he killed?”
“No,” I say softly. “Unless maybe it’d be worth asking if he killed anyone else.”
“Right.” Brandon glances at Geordi. “What do you think? If he’s willing to talk, what else should I ask him?”
“I’m not sure. You’d pretty much be on a fishing expedition.” Geordi shrugs, a gesture more casual than the moment seems. “Use your best judgment now, and we can hang onto the relics, so if there’s a reason to bother the guy again, you’ll be able to.”
Damon mutters something soft and sharp under his breath. I put a hand on his arm and squeeze gently, hoping to transmit I’ll explain later through my touch. Later, like when I can no longer avoid explaining how I came to have hair and nail clippings in a box.
Assuming we have a later , which is feeling less and less likely.
“Do you need anything?” Micah asks Brandon. “A candle or something?”
Brandon shakes his head. “I’m good.” After a minute, he starts to speak, and it’s like the sound comes from another place entirely.