14. Trouble Close at Hand

Nick white-knuckled the handle above the passenger window as Shirley sped through the streets of New Orleans at a suicidal pace. When she wasn’t swerving and kicking up clouds of acrid smoke behind them, she cursed anyone and everyone with a vehemence only found in rush hour traffic. The combination of champagne and beignets sloshed around in Nick’s stomach, threatening to make even more of a mess of things than they already had. Adding to matters his head still spun from the implication of the name Jackie had given them. He hadn’t expected the sudden exit on Shirley’s part, but he supposed it was merited.

“How could we be so stupid?” shouted Shirley to no one in particular. “We should have known she was a potential threat. One of us should be there with them.” Her face was flushed and her hands were wrapped around the steering wheel as if her life depended on it. To some extent, it did.

“Calm down, Shirley.” Nick winced, waiting for her fiery retribution, but it didn’t come.

Instead, Shirley let a ragged breath out between her teeth and inhaled violently through her nose. It was the most profoundly aggressive act of mindfulness Nick had ever witnessed.

“We don’t know that Marie is a threat yet. For all we know, she’s in the dark as much as we are.” Every fiber of Nick’s being wanted to believe it. He couldn’t imagine the woman he had shared his coffee with leading innocent people into harm’s way. Then again, he had been fooled before.

“Just because she is ignorant of the danger doesn’t mean it isn’t there. You’ve never handled an object of power, have you?”

“No, I can’t say I have.” Nick had tried on several occasions but found the owner of said object was often dead before he could get anywhere near it. “Have you?” The thought of Shirley holding some ancient crystal skull of a Nazi general didn’t seem so far off, but she was still living, making it unlikely.

Shirley gave a mirthless laugh. “If I had, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve seen the aftermath of these objects, and it’s never good. How Marie survived as long as she did is nothing short of a miracle. Hold on.” She yanked the wheel to the left. The car lurched, one of its wheels briefly leaving the ground.

“You know, to some degree, a car is an object of power. Maybe you should handle it with the same level of care.”

Shirley glared at him with such pure hatred that Nick wished he could crawl inside himself like some strange, anthropomorphized tortoise. “I am getting us there as fast as possible so that when we arrive, you and I don’t have to make another trip back to the Land of the Dead. Now, make yourself useful and get some guns loaded, we’re nearly there.”

Nick doubted the trick with the Land of the Dead would ever work for anyone again, but he figured it was a bad time to bring it up. Instead, he unlatched his seatbelt and climbed into the back seat. Two, neat black bags were laid out with ammunition and a fair variety of pistols. “You know, if you had let me load these earlier, we’d be at less risk for an untimely misfire leading to my death.”

“Company policy,” growled Shirley. “One loaded firearm in the car at a time unless it’s a raid van. You can thank Agent Winkler for that one.”

Nick pulled out bullets and started loading a pair of revolvers. They were the size of his forearms and the thick shells eclipsed his knuckles. Nick wondered if he’d shatter his arms on the first shot, but decided whatever was on the other hand would have a much worse time of it. “Do I even want to know what our good friend Winkler did?”

“Let’s just say driving a fully loaded truck towards a fire elemental was a bad idea that got a lot of good agents killed.”

Nick felt a pang of regret at the matter-of-fact way Shirley spoke about mass casualty events. Years ago, she was the one crying at the feet of a cocky, disemboweled television host. Hell, she hadn’t even liked the man, but she recognized the loss of a human life. The Sixth Side stripped that from her with ruthless efficiency. Nick cursed the shadow organization and loaded the rest of their weapons. In short order, the back of the van was an arsenal.

Despite the buffet of firearms before him, Nick missed Old Faithful. “I bet that little prick took my harpoon gun. I never leave without it, he knows that.” Either James was becoming a better liar, or Nick was getting less cognizant. Neither was a preferable outcome.

“You could try being conscious enough to pack your own bags.”

Nick mouthed the words back at her and made an obscene gesture.

Shirley ignored it and continued to breathe slowly. “Nearly there.”

“You save a kid from the Land of the Dead, and the thanks you get is him stealing your best gear. This is why you should never get in the business of helping people.” A part of him missed the old days of looking out for no one but himself. Another part of him remembered that it was behavior like that which had landed him in the middle of a kill circle composed of undead apprentices over a lake of lava. Live and learn.

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“Their transponder is coming from the middle of a cemetery.”

“I know, we went over this.”

Once more, Shirley ignored him. “When I pull up, you’re going to pass me my pistols, and we’re going in quietly. Until the shooting starts, I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”

“Powerful necromancer in the middle of a cemetery that houses rich pricks who are probably more than a little bit into the arcane arts? Don’t see why there would be any shooting.” As a rule, Nick didn’t like to associate with the ultra-rich. They had the strangest habits, and more often than not, ended up being the ones that worshipped old gods or other such dangerous beings. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a hidden stash in here anywhere? I could use a swig to settle my nerves.”

“You know I don’t. It’s—”

“Company policy,” Nick finished for her. “Well, this is going to be the first time I get into a fight with the undead while sober, so you’re responsible for however that turns out.”

“Sober? Did we attend the same brunch?”

“Mimosas don’t count, Shirley! Everyone knows that.”

She slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.

Nick, who hadn’t worn a seatbelt, collided with the passenger seat, briefly seeing stars. “You did that on purpose,” he wheezed.

“Oops.” Shirley grabbed her pistols from the back, clipped one into a thigh holster, and held the other. “We’re here.”

Nick sucked in deep gulps of air, letting out a string of curses between each, and grabbed the revolvers. As he stepped out, he grabbed a handful of the specialized slugs and dumped them into his pockets. They weren’t the usual holy water shells he used against undead, but they’d have to do.

Together, they made their way into the cemetery.

As they approached the main gate, a dozing tour guide perked up and ran toward them. “Can I offer either of you a tour?”

Nick flashed his revolvers.

The guide, possibly having too much of it for one day, looked down at the guns and shrugged. “A simple no would have sufficed.” He returned to his camp chair at the cemetery’s edge and slumped down.

Shirley shot Nick a disapproving look, but he ignored it. They continued through the gate.

Shirley’s head swiveled back and forth, searching the graveyard. “Did you need to do that?”

“He’s a tour guide, and this is a wealthy cemetery, I’m sure he’s used to it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nick didn’t respond and instead focused on the towering mausoleums ahead. There was no sign of Lopsang, James, or Marie, which meant one of two things. They were either underground or had ditched their transponder to mess with Shirley. Nick hoped for the latter. “These are bigger than usual, right?” he flicked a revolver towards the marble obelisks and crypt buildings flanking the main road. Many stood tall enough to block out the afternoon sun, creating alternating strips of sunlight and shadow.

“Maybe it’s a function of population? More dead to bury, can’t go lower…”

Nick shook his head. “This shit is expensive. Getting burned is much cheaper and realistic. This is something else.” The air was muggy and clung to his skin. It reminded him of the Central American jungle. He half expected to hear the buzzing of insects that had been routine in that fetid hellhole, but there were none. In fact, as they walked closer to the center of the cemetery, all sounds died away. Nick felt a series of prickles run up his arm and a cool breeze washed down the lane. “You feel that?”

Shirley nodded. “We’re getting close.”

“If not to the necromancer, then to something worse.” Cold chills in cemeteries were nothing out of the ordinary, but to do so in such heat would take a powerful being. Mist drifted in heavy billows out of a mausoleum on the left side of the path. Nick pointed to it. “There.” He held up his pistols and quickened his pace.

“Hold on a second Nick,” Shirley hissed. Her gun was trained on the mausoleum.

Nick barely heard her. Even through the silence, he could hear the sound of metal against rock. He approached the mausoleum. Inside, a large stone plinth lay toppled on the remains of a catacomb entrance. He kept his pistol pointed at it. “Who the hell builds catacombs in New Orleans?” he asked out loud.

As if in response, he heard muffled shouting from below. The ground beneath him rumbled. “Uh, Shirley?!” Nick frantically ran around the edge of the stone, trying to push it, but it didn’t budge. “I think they’re trapped inside!”

Shirley rushed to help him. They strained, trying to lift the stone, but it was too heavy.

Nick fell backward, panting from exertion. The muffled shouts continued below. He looked up at the tomb surrounding them and had an idea. “Shirley, you might want to back up,” he yelled, pointing a pistol at the stone. He thumbed back the hammer.

At the same moment, the tip of a pickaxe broke through the stone, creating a small black hole.

“Wait!” shouted Shirley, crouching down. “James, Lopsang, are you down there?”

“We could use a little help!” It was James’s voice, albeit extremely muffled.

Nick leveled the pistol at the hole. “James, if you can, get to the side because this will make one hell of a bang.”

There was more muffled shouting from below, but nothing in means of an actual response.

Nick looked to Shirley. “Good enough?”

“No, it’s not good en—”

Nick took steady aim and pulled the trigger on the revolver. The concussion shook his arm and tweaked something in his shoulder that he was sure to regret later. The result was a fantastic spray of stone and dust that blew a foot-wide hole in the slab. Without waiting for further discussion, Nick pulled the trigger twice more, cracking the stone in half and crumbling an entrance just wide enough for them to scramble through.

“I could have helped you with that,” whispered a voice from behind Nick.

He turned wildly but saw no one.

James came scrambling out of the hole on hands and knees, moving with a rapidity that only meant impending lethal danger was close at hand. “Uh, Nick, there’s an abomination down there.”

“And I’m hearing voices. Oh joy…”