Bone Gods

necromancer hadn’t reached for Jack. He’d reached for her.
    The power in the flat was still up. Small ice picks in the base of her skull told Pete that magic was here, and her talent whispered to her to let it in. It would fill her up, consume her, drown her in power, but what a sweet death it would be, suffused with all the power the Black had to offer. Pete bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard. Pain could usually pull her back when things threatened to get hazy, and she yanked open the last door, hearing Patel snap a question at the plod and the plod answer— Just wanted a cup of water.
    She’s a fucking menace and it’s a murder scene now, Constable. Get back in there.
    Any other time, Pete would have been flattered that Patel held her in such regard, but now she was merely beginning to sweat. If anyone saw her, Patel would toss her in lockup. He was an intractable bastard and Ollie had already had to convince him not to arrest her simply for finding the writing.
    McCorkle didn’t have much in the way of possessions—no box of keepsakes, no photos, not even an awkwardly hidden stash of porno.
    The drawer refused to close when she shoved it back, and Pete rattled it, keeping one eye out for the constable. A gurney had arrived to take McCorkle on to the Lambeth mortuary, and she heard Patel snap an order before his footsteps started down the hall to the bedroom.
    “Shit,” Pete hissed, jamming her hand into the thin space between wood and wall. That was one benefit of being petite—she could reach the tight spots. Pickpockets and coppers, Connor had said. The two trades that rewarded quick hands and devious minds.
    Her fingers brushed a bundle attached to the underside of the wardrobe with DIY tape, and Pete snatched it. It was a plastic Tesco bag, wrapped round and round something that smelled like a cross between a dodgy restaurant and rotting orchids. When she touched the plastic, the Black flared again, a veritable flash flood of power cascading over and around her mind, clawing with small fractious fingers to be let inside.
    Pete shoved the mess into her jacket, kicked the drawer shut, and leaped across the room to a sitting position on the bed, just as Patel burst in.
    “I hope you have something damn impressive to say about all this, Miss Caldecott, because otherwise I’m going to arrest you right now.”
    Pete looked up at him. Patel’s cheeks had flushed to a deep magenta, and his regal nose flared with every breath. She considered for a moment, keeping her arm clamped to her side to hold the bundle against her stomach. “Nothing comes to mind.”
    “You think I’m fucking about? I’ll have you,” Patel snarled. “You were a liability on the force, and now you’ve apparently fucked off ’round the bend with the fortune-tellers. I don’t care who your dad was—I’ll have you. Conspiracy to murder. Start talking.”
    “Felix, bloody Hell, it’s my fault,” Ollie said. He was also red, hands trembling and sweat breaking out on his temples. Some might mistake it for anger in a man of his size, but Pete knew Ollie, and Ollie was scared.
    “Don’t cover for her, Heath,” Patel said. “You’re just going to make it worse than it already is.” He sneered at Pete. “Outside consultant, my arse. Whose cock did you suck to stay out of jail thus far?”
    “Your mum’s. Disappointingly small.” Pete stood. “I’m leaving. You can charge me if you have the balls.”
    She left the crime scene, feeling curiously numb after the flashover of rage. The thing in her pocket prickled her skin and she drew her hand away. She’d be furious at Ollie for dragging her into this if he weren’t as fucked as she. He’d probably lose his job and his pension, if Newell was in a foul enough mood. Not to mention that in under an hour she’d managed to both get McCorkle killed and make an enemy of Felix Patel, the sort of hard-nosed bastard who’d probably harass her with traffic citations and littering charges until the end of time, just because he could.
    “Arse,” Pete said, though Patel was long out of earshot. She hated being out of her element, hated that she was a tourist in the world of the Black with no talent of her own besides being filled to the brim and possibly burned alive any time she came in contact with sorcery. Hated that she couldn’t find her feet, solve the problem. All she could do was walk to the fucking bus stop, sit and wait to be taken back across the river, a