Vermillion
BY DANIEL MARKS
“This is Amie Shin.” The Station Agent gestured in the direction of a petite Asian girl bunched up at one end of the settee like a snowdrift.
Unlike so many in Purgatory, where a quick rub of ash sufficed to dim the glare of their souls, this girl was immaculately painted, her face powdered white, her brows dark with kohl, a deep spot of crimson dotting her tiny pert lips. If it weren’t for the bold glow of memory burnishing her eyes, she might have passed for living.
She untangled her legs from underneath her and crossed the slickly polished stone of Manny’s office, her ornately embroidered robe fluttering around her and slippered-feet softly shuffling. Extending her hand and nodding sweetly, she said, “I’ve heard much about your thievery.”
Velvet slipped her hand into Amie’s and squeezed. “Pleased to meet you ... I guess. I won’t lie, I’ve never heard of you.”
She noticed a sinister assessment in the girl’s eyes that traveled all the way down to a grip that lingered longer than any handshake known to man. Velvet jerked away and rubbed at her hand uncomfortably.
She spun toward Nick, widening her eyes to indicate that they might be dangerously close to a crazy person. “Um ... this is my boyfriend,” she said.
Ever the people pleaser, Nick stabbed his arm between them, a big Prom-King smile plastered on his lips, but not for long.
“I’m Nick,” he said.
His hand hung in midair. Amie recoiled from it for a moment like he’d slapped some roadkill onto the floor between them. A smile flittered on her lip, brief as a facial tic, and then it was gone. Nick withdrew and gave Velvet a quick glance that verified her assessment that the girl was likely criminally insane.
Amie backed away and curled up again on the couch, glaring at them both. Velvet shivered. Nick gulped audibly.
Manny raised an eyebrow and crossed to the other side of the mammoth room. A study in gray Hollywood glamor, the gunmetal-colored silk gown draped on her slim figure like a cascade of water, and the short train was shirred elegantly. Her hair coiled about her lovely face in perfectly coiffed waves. She flipped open a carved wooden box, set atop a mirrored bureau, and pulled out a pale pink envelope and a slip of folded paper and retired to her writing desk where she jotted notes as they talked.
“We’ve uncovered an issue,” she said, voice echoing across the expanse. She tapped the edge of the envelope into the palm of her hand. “A haunting, of course. But this one is marked by both its chronicity and audacity. Amie was sent to fill us in on the details, so I expect she’ll do that.”
Manny wove her hands together and gazed across the temple of her index fingers.
Velvet and Nick watched Amie as she rose and paced back and forth between the settee and the Station Agent’s kidney-shaped desk, weaving in between the columns of light cast by the gas lanterns, like a vampire would daylight.
“The tremors started only a couple of weeks ago. A light rumbling soon gave way to more moderate shaking and the appearance of the inky shadows rushing into Vermillion like a dense fog,” Amie said.
“You got yourself some shadowquakes.” Nick flopped into the armchair and pulled Velvet into his lap, hand resting gently on her stomach.
Velvet snuggled in and yawned. “Obviously.”
Amie stopped for a moment and glowered before Manny encouraged her to continue. “You must understand, we run a very tight ship in our district and hauntings have declined rapidly in the past quarter. So it comes as a surprise, but not nearly as much of a surprise as who we believe is causing the disturbance.”
The girl paused dramatically, scanning their faces. Probably checking to make sure they were enthralled.
Normally, hauntings are a pretty simple fix. You can count on a shadowquake when there’s some sort of psychic meddling going on in the world of the living, but that’s not always the case. Velvet knew from experience that ghosts traveling through the cracks could create just as many, if not more, problems than any medium, fortune-teller, witch, or telephone psychic ever could. But, you merely had to scare humans badly enough to put a stop to their shenanigans—a well-placed undertaker and a corpse will suffice, on that count—or just snare the ghost and bring it back to the City of the Dead for a proper comeuppance.
“So who is it?” Velvet asked, taking the bait.
“Our undertaker, Abner Conroy.”
It was as though the news stripped the room of oxygen, of sound. Velvet glanced at Nick. His mouth hung open, horrified at the possibility that his counterpart in Vermillion would perpetrate such an offense. Though they were both adept at possessing bodies, Nick’s expertise was in raising the dead, not burying them as his job title implied. They didn’t make the rules, any more than they picked their occupations. If they had, Velvet would have christened Nick ‘The Zombie Guy,’ which is way more appropriate. But that’s neither here nor there.
“How do you know?” Nick snapped.
“We’ve long suspected Abner.” Amie tossed a hand flippantly. “Well, for the past two weeks, anyway. He was never quiet about his desire to join the revolution, so we were surprised he didn’t vacate Purgatory during that exodus with the rest of the criminals. Now he’s gone missing. It’s been two weeks and the shadowquakes have increased. So what do you think? Who else could it be?”
Velvet pushed herself off Nick’s lap, bristled the crinoline of her skirt and straightened the stocking seam rising from her combat boots. “You’re sure he hasn’t moved on to another of Purgatory’s boroughs? You’ve gone in? You’ve searched?”
“Of course, we’ve searched,” the girl spat. “We’re no amateurs...” She struggled for a word.“...Miss.”
Manny’s eyes narrowed in Velvet’s direction. She took it as a cue to ease the tensions building since their introduction to the strange and possibly schizophrenic girl. The last thing Velvet wanted to do was get on the Station Agent’s bad side. Manny had nearly as bad a temper as Velvet’s.
“Of course not, Amie. I only meant to cover the bases,” Velvet smiled. Amie straightened and gave a little nod of acquiescence. “Okay.”
“So what is it your team needs from us?” Velvet asked.
“Well, I’m not convinced we need you,” Amie said huffily. “But our Station Agent is of a different mind about all this, and we are rather busy, just now.”
“What does your Station Agent want, then?” Nick sat forward on the chair, elbows resting on his knees and head cocked to the side. He had that easy comfort about him that Velvet never quite got a handle on, as though he’d never be out of place anywhere ... even in death. Plus he was smokin’ hot. She never turned down a chance to ogle him, profusely.
“He wants you to go in and search, though there’s really no need. I’ve personally exhausted every trail.” Amie’s voice was condescending and haughty, two words Velvet imagined were carved into the girl’s headstone.
Actually, she was kind of sure of it.
Velvet sneered at her.
Amie glowered back.
“Velvet and her team are the best we have,” Manny said, breaking the tension. She folded the stationery and slipped the paper into the envelope. “See that this gets to Howard Barker at the Temple of the Nomadic Star.”
Velvet gripped the corner of the envelope and tugged but Manny didn’t let go. She glanced up. The Station Agent had a serious look gracing her normally placid face.
“And don’t open it please.”
“What? Of course, I wouldn’t.” Velvet chuckled uncomfortably and glanced at Nick, who shrugged in silent judgment. “Really? You have to ask?” She turned the envelope over between her fingers, examining Manny’s
