Page 29 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)
“I call upon those who rule the underworld. Hear me, Hades, Pluto, and all you Shinigami. Share your power, Owuo, Abaddon, and Shiva. Look down on James Smith, O Bast, and raise him in an unnatural life. St. Michael, grant me this gift to restore the balance in your scales.” The air around us starts to move, as if someone has opened a window or turned on a fan.
There is no fan and the windows are closed.
Micah’s jaw is tight, Geordi’s grin has shades of pride, and Damon’s gone still, his gaze on the box.
I can’t tell if anyone else can feel the air move, or if I’m the only one.
It’s almost like when the sins move from the body to me, but both stronger and less direct.
It’s creepy af.
A light grows about eight inches above Brandon’s hand. It starts smaller than a pinprick, tiny and bright. Over the next few seconds it grows larger, to the size of a cherry, then a plum, then an apple. It’s about all I can see.
“James Smith, is it you?” Brandon speaks in a clear voice that carries a surprising amount of authority.
Yes .
The answer is so soft it’s like someone is whispering directly into my ear. I glance around, wondering who else heard it. Brandon nods, so he must have. I’m not sure about the rest.
“I have called you here to ask a question, James. Mr. Smith. We’ve learned that during your lifetime, you killed a woman, and now we want to know her name.”
The question carries me back to the morgue, to the vision, to the pleasure that wracked him as he wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed. I close my eyes in a slow blink. It’s too much.
The only response is very faint laughter.
“Nah, man, you don’t understand,” Brandon says, the clear authority in his voice rising. “I can hold you here and you can’t do shit about it. Tell me what I want to know or I’ll trap you in a jar and keep you.”
Fuck you .
“My boyfriend would object.”
The shade of James Smith makes a disgusted sound, and Brandon glances at Geordi. “Get me a jar.”
We all sit in silence while Geordi leaves the room. The air is still moving, the flow sharper, prickling my skin, making it hard to keep still.
“Maybe you could tell me something else while we wait.” The light over Brandon’s hand flickers, like it’s threatening to go out. “Do that, and I really will keep you in a damn jar. Now tell me this. How many people did you kill?”
There’s a pause. Enough .
Damon’s exasperated snort lets me know he can hear the shade too, which is reassuring. I shift so I’m sitting closer to him.
“Have you ever been in a jar before?” Brandon asks, his tone mocking. “I’m sure you haven’t, and I’m also sure you’ll hate it.”
For all I know, it might be an improvement .
“Really? I’ve talked with more than one shade who’s said there’s nothing on the other side, that there’s just this big cloud of energy. The thing is, they tell me that, when you dive into that cloud of energy, you’re surrounded by consciousness and peace.”
He speaks baldly, like he doesn’t give a fuck what James Smith chooses, one way or the other. “All you’ll have in the jar is your own bad attitude.”
There’s a long silence, like Brandon is giving the shade time to think through its choices. My stomach grumbles and Damon gives a soft laugh. The light over Brandon’s hand goes dims, becoming little more than a hazy shadow.
Geordi comes back in with a large glass jar. He sets it next to the box and makes a show of unscrewing the metal lid before returning to his seat.
“Okay, James. Time to shit or get off the pot. What was the name of the woman you killed?”
Sue , the shade says, so soft I wonder if I’ve heard him right.
Sue Myhre . This time it’s louder, like saying her name has energized him. The woman’s ghost, who’s been little more than a shadow, is suddenly much clearer.
Bitch. I hated her. She wouldn’t fucking go out with me so I took her out, if you know what I mean .
The voice has even more force, the same signature I remember from the vision.
James Smith was a bad person, and his shade carries all that evil energy.
“Put him in the jar,” I say, startling all of us, myself included.
The ghost nods her head in approval. “The global consciousness doesn’t need his bullshit. ”
Brandon doesn’t look my way, though he moves his hand toward the jar, letting me know my words got through. “Last chance, Smith. How many people did you kill?”
More laughter, but before it ends, Brandon makes a quick toss and the light flies into the jar. The sound of the shade’s scream is cut off when he screws on the lid.
“There.” Brandon sits back, his posture softening. “You’ve got your name, and we’ve got him where we can find him if the police need more information.”
I try to imagine telling McGraw he can interview the murderer’s shade, now that it’s been raised by a necromancer. Shake my head. Nope. Not even .
“That was quite a performance.” Geordi reaches over to shake Brandon’s hand, then pins me to my seat with his gaze. “Now, I want to know how you came to have this vision in the first place.”
“I’m, uh, psychic.” Or the devil was talking to me. One or the other. I can barely drag air into my lungs.
“Psychic. Huh. You have many visions like this?”
My mouth is dryer than the desert sand. “Only this one.”
“Really?” He leans forward on his elbows. “What were you doing that brought on the vision?”
The air stops moving and the temperature rises. Some combination of heat and stress make sweat bead along my hairline. “Praying,” I say shortly.
Geordi’s eyes widen, like he can’t believe what I’ve said. “What would make you do that?”
I have to cough softly to clear my throat. “It’s how I was raised.”
“I see.” He nods, like whatever I’ve said makes sense. “We were probably all raised to mourn the dead, though. How was your upbringing different?”
I glance around. Everyone’s watching me, and I’m trapped by their curiosity and concern. Fuck . I literally cannot answer his question, and if I’m not very careful, this dude’s going to figure me out anyway, and then—I squeeze Damon’s arm again—I’m going to be so, so fucked.