Bone Gods

strong stuff. I could feel it all the way across the room. Beyond that…” She watched the smoke dissipate into the bright morning air. “I don’t know, Ollie. I’ve never run into anything like this before.”
    “You can’t, I dunno…” Ollie gestured in a vague circle. “Read the scene? Sense the vibrations of the ether or summat?”
    Pete sighed. “Maybe if I were a bloody TV psychic, Ollie. I’ve told you, it doesn’t work that way for me.” It being a talent, and Pete’s talent being even less use than a fake medium’s in situations like the one inside. Murder wasn’t something she could conjure an answer to, besides feeling the black magic seeping out of the museum even now, laying cold bony fingers on the back of her neck.
    Ollie waved her smoke away from his face and fidgeted, the next bit not coming to him easily. “You think you could get your Jack to take a look? I’ve seen him do all the mumbo-jumbo stuff.” He squinted at Pete. “You two didn’t split up, did you?”
    Pete dropped her fag-end to the granite steps, grinding it under her toe. Ollie was just fishing for a reaction. She was careful not to give him one. “No. Jack’s not about anymore.”
    “Oh,” Ollie said, sounding almost disappointed. “Well then,” he continued, after a moment where Pete watched a valiant struggle not to ask for gory details play out in his florid face, “anything else you can give me about the dead bloke? Preferably something I can use to put a squeeze on whoever did him a bad turn?”
    Pete breathed in, out, clearing her lungs of smoke and her mind of the tight squeeze of emotions that Jack’s name conjured up. As if she’d called his ghost into being, she swore she could hear his raspy laughter from just behind the next pillar, smell his scent of leather and stale tobacco and soap and whiskey, see a curl of blue across the air, the visible tinge of the magic that followed Jack everywhere he went.…
    But she couldn’t see it, not really. Because Jack was gone. And he wasn’t coming back.
    “Pete,” Ollie said. “Hullo. Come back. I could use the assist. Hasn’t been a banner year for clearing cases, since me brilliant lady partner shoved off for the private sector.”
    Pete rubbed a hand down the side of her face. She couldn’t speak to the dead or even know by sight and sense what kind of spell she’d stumbled onto, but she could at least act like she had a brain in her head. “Give me his particulars. Maybe I can scare up his contacts or at least tell you what his poison was, sorcery-wise.” She didn’t have much in the way of a useful talent, but she could at least talk to the people who did, which was more than Ollie would get. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get his heart pulled out, or at the very least his head stove in.
    Ollie consulted his PDA, a blipping, annoying little device that Pete had always thought he put entirely too much stock in. “According to the museum’s human resources, the name’s Gerard Carver, he was an assistant curator of the Egyptian Collection, an excellent worker according to his boss (a Mr. Something-Egyptian-with-Ten-Thousand-Syllables), diploma from London City College, nary an enemy in the world as far as the museum was concerned.” He scrolled through the notes. “Lives with his mum in Knightsbridge. Ah, shite, I’m going to have to be going there next.” Ollie closed his eyes and sighed. Pete had all sympathy—telling someone their son was dead wasn’t a task anyone should have to do with regularity.
    “I’ll find out,” Pete said. “I’ll need to get a few pictures of the marks. That all right?”
    Ollie grimaced. “Officially, no, but go and be quick about it. Newell could have me out on my arse if he even knew you were here.”
    Pete nodded her thanks. Nigel Newell, her old DCI, was about as stolid and unimaginative an officer as any Channel Four procedural could have thought up. His last words to Pete before she’d left the Met had been How disappointing you’ve let your imagination run away with you. Not having to contend with Newell every day was one of the few upsides that Pete had found in quitting.
    Before she could express her thoughts about what exactly Newell could do to himself if he found out Ollie had called her, a blond man came across the lawn, waving and shouting something Pete couldn’t make out. She shaded her eyes with her hand. “Who the fuck’s that?”
    Ollie sighed. “Frederick McCorkle. New