Chicagoland Gail Martin (best novels to read for students TXT) 📖

A shotgun fired from Ness’s end of the alley, and moments later, from West’s side. I didn’t know whether that would rile up the ghosts or put them on notice. As long as they stayed the hell out of my way, I didn’t much care.

My fight wasn’t with the ghosts. They were pawns, press-ganged to serve a bad master. I brought what I needed to set things right.

The air stirred in warning, in an alley where it should be still. A prickle of foreboding ran up my spine, and I was sure if I hadn’t invoked Krukis’s power that the hair on my arms would have stood up.

I don’t have magic of my own, but when I borrow Krukis’s power, I’m much more aware of the energies around me, magical and natural. I focused on those energies, trying to tune them in like a scratchy radio station, looking to get a fix on why the ghosts were riled up.

It wasn’t hard to picture the scene after the theater tragedy. A snowy day just before Christmas, smoke thick in the air, weeping survivors, and the fire barely under control. Bodies everywhere, many burned beyond recognition. Whole families perished. Then the final indignity—bodies stacked like cordwood when they could finally be retrieved because the morgues were full.

No wonder the ghosts were pissed.

Shotguns fired again. I wondered if the ghosts had gone after Ness and West because they were mortal. Did the spirits believe me to be one of them, instead of merely immortal? That wasn’t something I wanted to think on too hard.

Instead of draining their energy, the shots seemed to make the ghosts even angrier. Shadows in the alley began to move, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see gray wisps flitting back and forth. The temperature continued to drop until I could see my breath. This definitely wasn’t good.

Last night after Sarah went to bed and while West was busy developing pictures, I’d called a sorta-friend, Ben Lavecchia, a Mob strega back in Cleveland. I carefully didn’t mention any connection to Ness or Capone—after all, Benny’s old man, Vincent, runs the Cleveland Cosa Nostra. But I did get his “professional” advice on what would turn regular ghosts into killers, and he gave me some ideas on how to fix it. So I put that knowledge to use, looking for a way to set the ghosts free and stop the murders.

“Look for the old bits,” I muttered under my breath. That’s what Ben told me to do. It wasn’t hard to find part of the original theater’s back wall. The new owners claimed they tore all of the old building down, but they kept part of the rear wall and also reused the salvageable brick from the Iroquois, figuring no one would ever know.

Soot still darkened some of the bricks like ash from a crematorium. No wonder the spirits lingered. I examined the old section closely, aware that the swish and swirl of spectral presences had grown thicker around me, wanting and watching—or maybe, preparing to attack.

I wheeled and found myself facing down a row of gray ghosts, dressed in the Sunday finery of a by-gone era, sunken-eyed and pallid.

Get out.

You are not one of us.

Not human. What are you?

Leave!

I leveled the shotgun at them, and they stayed where they were. “I’m trying to help you,” I told them. “But if you mess with me, I’ll blow you to smithereens. So back the hell up.”

Of course, that’s when they rushed me, hands like claws, mouths open and wailing, throwing pebbles and going full-on poltergeist.

I blasted them, and they vanished. But I knew they’d be back.

Whatever bound them had to be somewhere in the old section of brickwork. Thanks to Ben’s advice, I spotted the sigils that were carved into the wall. From the descriptions Ben gave me, I recognized their purpose: to bind the ghosts to this location and torment them. A third sigil matched what Ben said might be a way to control the ghosts and manage who they attacked. With Capone gone, my guess was that no one was controlling the ghosts anymore and the switch had been left “on.”

The ghosts drew closer, losing their fear of me. I couldn’t keep blasting them and still break the spells, so I put a salt circle down to buy myself a little elbow room since the ghosts couldn’t cross the salt to get their clammy spectral hands on me. That didn’t stop them from hurling themselves against the barrier while Ness and West blasted them like it was a shooting gallery.

“Hey! Watch where you’re aiming!” I yelled as a few stray pieces of rock salt pelted me, pinging off my metal skin. It didn’t hurt, but I had no desire to have welts and bruises when this was over, even if Krukis’s magic protected me from worse injury.

I’d brought a chisel with me and a hammer, as well as some protective items Ben said might help. The first blow of the point against the brick caused a flare of green light and a surge of power that threw me across the alley. Fortunately, it also blew the ghosts’ images away like a strong wind, so I didn’t get mobbed.

I climbed to my feet unhurt, went back to the wall, and laid down the salt line again. Before I took up the chisel once more, I pulled a flask from my bag and doused the wall with a mixture of salted holy water and a few other ingredients good for neutralizing magic. When I struck the wall again, the green light dimmed substantially, giving me a shove that I easily ignored.

The ghosts regrouped but kept their distance, more curious this time than angry. Maybe they got the idea that I was trying to help them. It took time to chisel away the sigils, which had been carved deep into the brick. Every so often, I stopped to soak the wall again, hoping to avoid