The Voodoo Killings Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE VOODOO KILLINGS

  “The Voodoo Killings is such a spectacular mix of urban fantasy and mystery it kept me up to two in the morning. Give me more Kincaid Strange.”

  FAITH HUNTER, New York Times bestselling author of the Jane Yellowrock series

  —

  “Kristi Charish grabs the zombie novel by the throat and drags it back to square one, creating a voodoo zombie mystery that is a fresh and fantastic take on a whole genre. A must read!”

  PETER CLINES, author of The Fold, 14 and the Ex-Heroes series

  —

  “What a rush! Highly entertaining, original, and brimming with wit—and zombies in closets—I loved The Voodoo Killings. Can’t wait for the next!”

  JULIE E CZERNEDA, author of This Gulf of Time and Stars

  —

  “This was an absolute delight to read. With a smart, cynical hero and zombies whose morals are as gray as the brains they snack on, The Voodoo Killings offers a fun and creepy new world—or two—to get lost in.”

  PATRICK WEEKES, author of the Rogues of the Republic series

  —

  “I couldn’t put it down! Kincaid Strange is such a kick-ass protagonist. There hasn’t been a character like her in years and I can’t wait to read more!”

  LEILA, Goodreads

  —

  “Really liked this one—I can see the comparisons to Kelley Armstrong, but also felt strong comparisons to the Darynda Jones series and even to Charish’s own Owl series….Great pacing in this one, and a diverse cast of characters who will grow well with the series. I’m looking forward to book two and to seeing what will happen.”

  JENN, Goodreads

  VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2016

  Copyright © 2016 Kristi Charish

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published by Vintage Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, in 2016. Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Charish, Kristi, author

  The voodoo killings / Kristi Charish.

  ISBN 9780345815880

  eBook ISBN 9780345815897

  I. Title.

  PS8605.H3686V66 2016 C813'.6 C2015-905827-9

  Cover design by Five Seventeen

  Image credit: Mohamad Itani / Arcangel Images

  v4.1

  a

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Better Off Dead

  Chapter 2: No Substitute for the Real Thing

  Chapter 3: Underground

  Chapter 4: Damaged Goods

  Chapter 5: The Late Great Nathan Cade

  Chapter 6: Dead Men Tell No Tales

  Chapter 7: Hangovers

  Chapter 8: Maximillian Odu

  Chapter 9: Coffee and Murder

  Chapter 10: Smoke and Mirrors

  Chapter 11: Flotsam

  Chapter 12: Seance

  Chapter 13: No Good Deed…

  Chapter 14: Gideon Lawrence

  Chapter 15: Dead and Buried

  Chapter 16: You Can’t Take It With You

  Chapter 17: The Living and the Dead

  Chapter 18: Ghosts

  Chapter 19: Drowning

  Chapter 20: Baggage

  Chapter 21: Personal Demons

  Chapter 22: Murder and Mayhem

  Chapter 23: Otherside Bound

  Chapter 24: Jail

  Chapter 25: The Devil’s In the Details

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To anyone I know who is stuck on the Otherside

  CHAPTER 1

  BETTER OFF DEAD

  My cellphone rang six times before I managed to fish it out from underneath the stack of receipts scattered over the desk. I swear to god, if my ex, Aaron, is trying to get a hold of me again…

  It wasn’t Aaron, though. It was a number I didn’t recognize.

  I picked up. “Hello?”

  A squeaky, barely pubescent male voice replied, “Umm, hi there. We need a zombie.”

  I scrunched my forehead and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, umm, one who isn’t too gooey, still looks pretty normal, can walk—” He snuffled like he had covered the receiver. Muted whispering followed. “It also has to have its ID. How much would that be?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look, kid—I’m not raising you a zombie so you can send it to buy beer. Now hang up or I’ll track your parents down.” I tossed the phone back on the counter.

  Damn kids. I closed my eyes. I never should have put that line about zombies in my listings. Apparently zombie mascots were in this season.

  I reached for the half-finished mug of Japanese noodles. The mug, a souvenir from my own college days, had been crazy-glued back together more times than was healthy—for me or the mug. The handle more so than the rest. And, as if that very thought was action, it snapped off, sending what was left of my dinner over the desk.

  Damn it. I swept most of the broth onto the floor with my arm, but not before it reached the curse book I’d left open. I picked it up to assess the damage. The corners of the pages and back cover were soaked through with Japanese chili broth. Of everything on the desk the noodles could have soaked, it had to be Curses of Louisiana, the sole book I had buyers for on eBay.

  Great. Just spectacular. I tossed it on the couch. Maybe I could hair-dry or microwave it back to sellable….

  The phone rang again. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” I grabbed it. “Listen, kid, I don’t care which one of your little friends you stick on the phone, I’m not raising you a beer zombie. Got it?”

  “Ahh-hi,” an uncomfortable, unmistakably adult male voice said. “Is this Kincaid Strange, practitioner? I was told you handle zombies.”

  I sighed. “Look, buddy, I don’t do zombies for parties, and when I do do zombies, it’s permits only. The best I can give you is a ghost: no kids, no suicides. If you want one of those and can construct your request in a way that doesn’t involve Elvis or Marilyn, I might be able to help you.”

  “Uh, you don’t understand. I mean, I am a zombie…I think…”

  I ran through the possibilities in my head. One, he was nuts. Two, I was talking to a ghost who’d accidentally possessed a phone and then confused itself. Seattle had banned pay phones three years back—way too easy to possess—so that was unlikely.

  Still, it was more plausible than the third option: that I was speaking with a newly raised zombie who carried a cellphone.

  Real zombie or imaginary, I’d be the last number the cops saw in his call list, and if he started biting people…I had to go take a look.

  I rifled through the desk drawer until I found a pen and paper. “So…what did you say your name was again?”

  “You didn’t ask. Cameron. Or that’s what the wallet says.”

  “Okay, you can still read. That’s a good sign. Listen, Cameron, where are you?”

  “I’m not sure….I’m near a bar. But I don’t remember it.”

  If he really was a zombie, that wasn’t surprising. Short-term memory goes fast. Still, zombies tend to wander back to familiar places, like homing pigeons.

  “That’s
okay, Cameron. Any landmarks? Signs, the waterfront, interesting buildings?”

  I heard boots scrape against wood. “There are docks across the road, and trains.” Each word was deliberate and careful. The more he spoke, the more I was convinced this guy might be the real thing. It sure as hell wasn’t a ghost calling me, since it wouldn’t be able to generate the background noise. Well, unless it was a poltergeist…

  I pushed that thought aside. With a poltergeist, the call would have deteriorated to insults by now.

  A bar by the docks. “Is there a yellow banner hanging above the doorway, below a burnt-out set of neon lights?”

  “Yes. The bartender—he gave me your card and said to call.”

  Randall would do that. So Cameron was outside Catamaran’s, the local sports bar. I was not happy Randall hadn’t bothered to call me himself, but at least he’d know what to do with the zombie until I got there.

  “Okay, Cameron,” I said as I slung my leather biker jacket over my shoulders and tied my black curls into a messy ponytail. “Do exactly as I say. Walk back inside. Find Randall, who is likely the one who gave you my card. He’s the big Asian guy with tattoos. Tell him Kincaid is on her way. He’ll tell you where to sit. No talking to anyone else, and no eye contact. Can you do that?”

  After a hair’s breadth of a pause, he said, “I—I think so.”

  He didn’t sound that far gone. Never hurts to spell things out, though. “One last thing—and it’s important. Whatever you do, no biting. If you bite someone, I can’t help you. Got it?”

  “Sure,” he said, with less hesitation in his voice. Not that far gone.

  “Repeat it back to me, Cameron—all of it.” He did, and then I made him repeat it three more times until I was satisfied he’d remember.

  As soon as I hung up, I called Catamaran’s. Randall and I went way back; his family had been big in the Seattle practitioner community, though Randall never took it up. I used to babysit his kids when I was back in high school. He and I were still friendly, but he made no secret that he didn’t approve of my career choice. Said no good ever came of using Otherside, that tapping the afterlife is a crutch the living use so they don’t have to let go of the dead. Eventually, you get to the point where you can’t stop using it or it drives you mad, he said. I didn’t quite buy it, though I couldn’t blame him for having an allergy to practitioners, considering his wife ran off with a voodoo priest ten years back.

  “Kincaid,” Randall said.

  The joys of caller ID.

  “Wondered how fast you’d be calling,” he continued. He had the low, intimidating voice of a full-contact-sport referee. “He one of yours?”

  “You kidding? I put them back when I’m done. I sure as hell don’t let them go walkabout in Seattle with cellphones.”

  Randall snorted.

  “Think he’s the real thing? Not just pretending, or messed in the head?”

  “Kid, trust me, he’s a zombie. Can you help him?”

  I let out a long breath as I fumbled my keys off the stand. “I don’t know, but just don’t call the cops until I get there.”

  I heard the door chime in the background; I hoped it was Cameron walking in. I pictured Randall weighing the baseball bat he kept behind the bar. “Just get down here fast before one of my customers figures out what’s up with him.” He hung up.

  I headed into the washroom to leave a message for Nate, my roommate. I grabbed the red lipliner in Manhunt I always left by the sink and began to write backwards on the mirror: Nate. Going out. Back in an hour or so.

  I waited for a response.

  Nothing. He was probably still pissed about my most recent comments on nineties-era grunge music. Piece of advice? Don’t argue with the ghost of a deceased grunge star about his contribution to the modern music landscape. It doesn’t go well.

  I added, Stop being a princess.

  Still nothing.

  I stuck the lipliner back in the toothbrush holder. He’d hold out for another day at most. Ghosts might be stubborn by nature, but the modern ones love their electronics and suck with combination locks. Too tactile. If Nate wasn’t jonesing for his PlayStation by tomorrow, then I’d get worried.

  Before I headed for the elevator, I opened my freezer and carefully removed the blue ice trays and shelf, and reached for one of the three silver Thermoses I kept hidden there. I rolled it over and checked the date. June 2015: three months old, so still good—or good enough in an emergency. I tucked it in a discreet compartment of my backpack and grabbed my bike, a red 1990 Honda Hawk GT 650 in desperate need of an overhaul. As I locked up, I couldn’t help wondering what the hell was waiting for me at Catamaran’s. Some start to my Friday night.

  —

  I live in a converted warehouse by the Seattle docks that was originally used for sugar- and rum-running in the 1800s; the boats had sailed right in where the cargo could be unloaded away from prying eyes. It wasn’t until 1950 that they infilled the slough and converted the warehouse into studio apartments. The one feature they’d left intact was the freight elevator, which I was partial to because it let me take my bike upstairs. No, I don’t trust my neighbours.

  The building attracted a revolving and seemingly endless roster of artists and musicians. I had my suspicions there was a witch three floors down, but people in my business tend to keep to themselves. I’d pieced together from snippets of laundry room conversations I’d overheard that tenants in the building thought I was a drug dealer or a stripper. It’s the leather. The bike doesn’t hurt either.

  As I rode the elevator down to the main floor, I composed a mental list of everyone in Seattle still capable of raising a zombie. It wasn’t long. Since the new laws kicked in, restricting what kind of dead you could raise and when, there were only two of us left in town that I knew of: me and Maximillian Odu.

  Max was the genuine article, a traditional voodoo priest from a long New Orleans family line. He was very good. I’d been Max’s apprentice for a number of years, an arrangement I’d terminated almost a year ago at Halloween. Max was a stickler for tradition and didn’t appreciate some of my more creative modifications when it came to raising the dead. And unlike me, Max outright refused celebrity seance gigs. As he’d said many a time, it went against every fibre in his body to capitalize that way. Given the new laws, his wallet had to be hurting too.

  I’m not so picky. This is Seattle: do you have any idea how many calls I get for one-on-one time with famous dead grunge rockers? It’s called making rent.

  I was not keen on zombie shoptalk with my old teacher—my leaving him was still a sore point between us—but I found Max’s number and hit Call; even if it wasn’t his zombie, he’d know if anyone else in Seattle could have pulled off a raising. He was a hell of a lot more up to date on the local scene than I was these days.

  The phone rang six times before it went to voice mail.

  “Max, it’s Kincaid. Get back to me ASAP, will you? Business-related question.”

  The freight elevator hit the ground floor and I kicked the grate open—hard; it had a bad habit of catching on its hinges. One of these days I’d oil them, since our building manager sure as hell wasn’t about to. I pushed the bike out and weaved between the haphazard art installations—an impromptu art gallery for the artistically inclined in the building, or a display of every piece rejected by the legitimate dealers of Seattle. Take your pick.

  By the back entrance, the front wheel of my Honda Hawk rammed into the side of a new installation. I swore, and backed the bike up to try again. The piece in question was an ornate six-foot mirror painted to look like a ghost summoning, complete with a detailed depiction of a frozen Renaissance-era man with an authentic Otherside ghost-grey cast.

  I shook my head. No wonder none of the art galleries took it. First off, ghosts don’t last that long; they can survive a century and a half, tops. And they sure as hell don’t stand there and watch the world go by.

  I negotiated my bike past it and out the door
into a perfect mid-September Seattle night: drizzle with a touch of seaweed in the air. I hopped on, kicked it into gear and took off up First.

  —

  Catamaran’s was only a few blocks from my place, and I knew the route well enough to hug the alleys. The last thing I needed was some cop spotting me en route. A zombie by nature is unpredictable, doubly so if the practitioner who raised it is MIA. It was a distinct possibility all hell would have broken loose by the time I got there…which brings me back to wishing to avoid a patrol car on the way. Even if I had twenty rock-solid alibis, in the event of a zombie mishap I’d be an immediate suspect. A vision of one of those Monopoly “Go directly to jail” cards comes to mind.

  I veered into Pioneer Square, the trendy historical part of town. In my experience, the cops usually left Pioneer Square alone. At least until after midnight.

  As I crested the hill, I noticed floodlights a block away on the other side of Pioneer Square park. The streets were crowded with people heading to the clubs, but there was a notable gathering around one of the popular coffee shops, one I liked to frequent. I hadn’t heard about any movies filming in town this weekend; most of that action had moved north to Vancouver. So what gave?

  I spotted the two unmarked black sedans tucked by the curb, the silently flickering red and blue lights set just inside the windshield.

  Shit.

  I turned into the nearest alley. Most of the detectives wouldn’t recognize my Hawk from this distance, but my ex, Aaron, and his partner, Sarah, would. I checked out the scene unfolding behind me in the side mirror. No sirens, no ambulance—a break-in?

  I stuffed my curiosity. Even if I rode up and asked the uniforms, they probably wouldn’t give me the time of day, even though I used to be a department consultant. Like I said, the new paranormal laws outlawed five-line, permanent zombies and also restricted the four-line, temporary zombies used in police investigations and legal disputes. That changed a lot of things in Seattle, especially for me. One day you’re raising ghosts and zombies to help the police catch killers, the next you’re persona non grata.