“I don’t know. Disturbing mortal remains can certainly draw a spirit back into this world. It’s an instinctive response, even for those who are dead: You sense danger, that something is wrong, and you check on it.” She shifted her gaze from us to the grave, pity creasing lines of worry in her forehead. “But necromancy primarily involves communication—helping the deceased understand where they are and why, and passing along messages to their loved ones. We don’t do spells, and we generally don’t touch the remains. We might consult with a family about moving someone between cemeteries or resituating someone whose grave has been displaced by weather—like after flooding—but that’s it.”
“So if this isn’t alchemy or necromancy,” Ethan said, rising, “maybe it’s standard magic. We’ll talk to Catcher and Mallory.”
Annabelle nodded. “They might have a better sense of it.”
“How did you find it?” he asked Annabelle.
“I started a walk-through last night, to check the cemetery’s pulse, so to speak, see if anyone needed to talk. I was finishing up tonight, ended up crossing back over the same territory, and found it. It wasn’t like this yesterday. When I saw it, I locked up and called the Ombudsman, then you.”
Chunks of dark soil in the low grass caught my eye. I walked around the hole, redirecting the flashlight.
“You’ve found something?” Annabelle asked.
“Maybe a trail,” I said. Near the other end of the grave, clumps of dirt had fallen like crumbs onto the pale gravel walkway. I followed the line of dirt, but it didn’t get me very far—only ten or eleven feet past the end of the grave.
“Where does the path go?” I asked Annabelle when I’d walked back again.
“It circles around the cemetery, joins the main path near the gate.”
“I’m going to walk it,” I told Ethan.
Escort Annabelle back to the front and call my grandfather, I told Ethan. Ask him to bring the van. I’ll meet you back there.
Ethan glanced into the hovering darkness. You’re sure?
I’ll be fine, I assured him. But I’m taking the light.
• • •
I usually enjoyed the dark. Vampires were, after all, nocturnal. We lived in the night, relished in the scents and sounds of it. But I’d never been a fan of graveyards, and someone who could open a grave and steal a skull likely wouldn’t mind attacking me. So I stayed on my guard.
I followed the path down one side of the cemetery, then around the back. The chain-link fence here was in worse shape than in the front, buckled and rusted, bent over protruding shrubs, and in some cases barely hanging from the steel posts.
The signs of neglect—but not just that. I walked closer, found a slit in the fence where a portion of the chain link had been pulled back like a dog-eared page, fastened out of the way with small clips.
A small scrap of fabric was caught between the woven steel links. It looked like the same dark fabric we’d seen in the coffin, probably part of the deceased’s burial ensemble. The person who’d stolen the skull had come through here on the way out, sneaking out of the cemetery the way he’d come in, and probably hadn’t realized he’d dragged the scrap with him.
To avoid contaminating the sample, I didn’t pluck it free. Instead, I pulled out my phone, leaned forward, trying to avoid the mud as I took a photograph.
The broken portion of fence stood above a three- or four-foot dip in the ground, which was bare of grass and muddy. The dip would have provided a nice bit of cover for someone trying to sneak out of the cemetery. And sure enough, there were streaks in the mud where someone had slipped as they’d moved under the fence.
But the group that burst through the trees came from the other direction.
There were three of them. The girl was tall and lithe, with dark skin, short hair, wide eyes, and pretty, symmetrical features. The men had pale skin and brown hair. The one in front was shorter, the one in back taller, with wider shoulders and large headphones fitted over his ears. They all wore polo shirts with CPAN embroidered on the pocket.
“Did you get him?” the shorter man asked, nearly out of breath.
Even in my party dress, I’d taken a defensive position. They were humans, with no whiff of magic or weapons about them.
“Did I get whom?” I asked.
The shorter man glanced at me, then at the fence. “The summoner of the ghost whose energy is all over the freaking place. Did you see him?”
“I didn’t see anyone but you.” I narrowed my gaze. “Who are you?”
The shorter man bowed from the waist. “The Chicago Paranormal Action Network. Paranormal investigators,” he added at my raised brows.
Ghosthunters, I figured, searching the cemetery for signs of unusual “life.”