Bone Gods

alienated almost everyone he crossed paths with. Lawrence was as replete with memories as Jack’s flat. Plus, he was a decent bloke and a decent friend, and in the way of decent people would want to commiserate, give and get sympathy. He would want to remember Jack, and Pete didn’t have the strength to heap on any more memories.
    Lawrence came back with two tumblers full of thick, viscous green liquid and held her at arm’s length. “So. Miss Petunia. You blown back to my door—for what?” He grinned at her crookedly, teeth white enough for an advert. “I know you never be without trouble riding on your shoulder.”
    Pete decided blunt was best. Lawrence was at least too polite to throw her out. “I need you to tell me whatever you know about necromancy.”
    The smile and the warmth went out of Lawrence’s face, a candle covered with a jar. Taking a seat on the leather sofa, he drained his tumbler and offered Pete the other. She caught a whiff of something dead and sea-borne and crinkled her nose. “Fuck, no thanks. What is that shit?”
    “Seaweed,” Lawrence said, as if it were a natural thing to pour down your gullet. “Your loss. Might improve your mind, so you don’t go around askin’ about black deeds that’ll get you dead.” He took a joint from the mellowed ivory box at his elbow and offered it to her once the end was a cozy orange. Pete inhaled and passed it back. Like the Newcastle for Mosswood, it was a gesture of hospitality, the handshake of Lawrence’s mostly white witchcraft and Pete’s talent, which was no color she could discern.
    Lawrence dragged like a movie cowboy on a handmade cigarette and let the pleasant murk fill his sitting room when he exhaled. “Now,” he said. “I’ve gotta ask: Why a smart girl like you messing with necromancers?”
    “I didn’t mess with anyone,” Pete said. “They killed a bloke and left him in broad view in the center of the fucking British Museum, so they rather brought this on themselves.” She dug out her mobile and called up the photo. Lawrence’s hand-tended and magically coaxed pot at least blunted the edges enough that the damn thing didn’t give her a migraine, but she still held the mobile gingerly as she passed it to Lawrence.
    He whistled, and smoothed his free hand over his forehead. Lawrence was generally unflappable, but his pupils flexed as he examined the photo. He handed it back and took a quick, nervous drag. “This ain’t somethin’ you want, Petunia.”
    “I just need to know what they mean,” Pete said, snatching the fag back. “What kind of spellcraft they’re designed for. Who’d know enough about necromancy to carve them into a bloke’s torso in the first place.”
    “You think I know?” Lawrence barked a laugh. “I’m flattered you think I run with that kind of crowd, but truth? I’m a white witch. I stay clear of the bone-shaker’s business and gods willin’ they stay outta mine.”
    “Yeah, yeah, you’re strictly ballroom,” Pete said. “But you did spend twenty years being Jack’s best mate, Lawrence. Don’t take me for an idiot. You at least know who can tell me, if you’re concerned for your virtue.”
    Lawrence tipped his head back against the sofa. “Maybe I don’t wanna tell you because I know you’ll get yourself a whole lot more than trouble if you keep pushin’ this.”
    Pete set the remains of the fag in Lawrence’s ashtray and mimicked his pose, pulling her legs under her. “Maybe I’ll sit here, smoke all of your good shit, and generally make myself a nuisance until you change your mind.”
    “Fuck me!” Lawrence put his hands over his face and groaned. “You gonna get yourself killed just as dead as that dead bastard on your screen, you keep this up, Pete.”
    “Duly noted,” Pete said. “Who, Lawrence? You know I can tell.” She pointed to his jittering knee and giggled once. She wasn’t immune to the effects of a good garden witch’s product. “You’re a terrible liar.”
    “Normal people be thinkin’ that’s a good thing,” Lawrence muttered.
    “Yeah.” Pete stretched, lying out on the length of Lawrence’s decadently squashy armchair. “But you’re not fucking normal, Lawrence. Neither of us. So you gonna tell me, or am I going to park in your sitting room for the evening?”
    He lifted his head and glared at her before he sat up and rooted around in the occasional table that held the box. “Might know a bloke has the cipher to your nasty