Spirit and Dust

25


WAKING UP WITH a dead guy standing over me was a helluva way to discover that my systems were back online.

I shot to the head of the bed in a crab-walk that knocked over all the pillows and woke Carson. He pushed off the avalanche of bedding and searched for the threat.

“What’s going on?” he demanded when he didn’t see anything.

I grabbed his shoulder and pointed, not sure what I expected to happen. Or maybe I had some idea, because I wasn’t totally surprised when Carson Saw the khaki-clad shade across from him and vaulted out of the bed.

“What the—?” He looked from the apparition to me and back again. “How am I seeing this?”

When he’d moved, I’d pictured my psyche stretching to keep contact. It was only a few feet, and we couldn’t hold hands all the time. “I’ve got my groove back,” I told him. “And I’m sharing. Like in the museum, but with less life-and-death peril.”

“Are you sure about that last part?” He eyed the shade warily. A full apparition was an unnerving thing to wake up to, even if you’re used to them.

The ghost raised his hands in apology. “I beg your pardon. I am intruding on your tryst.”

The old-fashioned word made everything—the mild-mannered shade, my pajamas, Carson’s wicked case of bedhead, the fact that I was crouched like a ninja on the mattress—feel kind of farcical. I edged over and stepped down to the floor. That was a little better.

“It’s not a tryst,” I said.

Carson, still wary, or maybe just grumpy, said, “That’s not his business. Who is he?”

I already had a good idea. The shade had gray hair and a close-cropped beard, and a tanned face, lined from years of squinting in the sun. But he looked hearty and ready for an expedition, dressed in a field jacket and cargo pants.

He gave a small, good-natured bow. “Professor Carl Oosterhouse, at your service.”

Yes! I tried to be cautious about my excitement, but maybe, finally, we were getting answers.

I glimpsed a writing desk against the wall, where two messenger bags—Carson’s and Johnson’s—hung from the back of the chair. On the blotter were the netbook, the flash drive, and the jackal-headed figure from the museum, unwrapped and lying carefully on top of its padding.

“This must be why the Brotherhood wanted to steal the artifact yesterday,” I said to Carson, not hiding my hope very well. The shade was attached to the figurine, and when my mojo kicked back in, it must have pulled the remnant out of hibernation.

“Do you know where you are?” I asked Oosterhouse carefully. He seemed very coherent for a recently dormant spirit. But you can’t just spring on someone the fact that they’re dead.

“Beyond intruding on your privacy?” asked the professor, the glow of his good mood undiminished. “I am uncertain. But when I felt myself pulled from my own slumber, I couldn’t quite contain my excitement.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, assuming I hadn’t dreamed the words that had woken me. “How could you have been waiting for me?”

“An overdramatization.” He gave a rueful grimace. “It’s a failing of mine. I should have said, I’ve been waiting for someone who can do what you do. You’re the answer to a lonely soul’s prayer.”

Ah. Unfinished business. That would explain how cogent the remnant was. Clear goals gave spirits strength and focus, the same as the living.

Oosterhouse, hands linked behind his back, strolled to the desk. Carson stepped forward like he could stop him, but it took him out of my reach, even psychically. Numskull. Not only could he not touch Oosterhouse, now he couldn’t see him.

The shade bent to look at the figurine. “Ah yes,” he said, with a note of pride and nostalgia. “I found this on an expedition on the west bank of the Nile, across from Thebes. Now they call it the Valley of the Kings. What exciting days those were. Hot, tedious, dangerous. Half killing ourselves to find a tomb, only to discover it already plundered in antiquity. I may not have found much gold, but ah, the riches of knowledge …”

He seemed prepared to go on about the riches of knowledge for some time. Interrupting him was difficult, because as a spirit, he didn’t have to stop for breath.

“Ask him about the Oosterhouse Jackal,” said Carson.

Oosterhouse stilled, then turned. “Ask me yourself, young man.” He sounded very professorial just then, as if Carson had interrupted a class lecture. “I can hear you. But I’m not sure what it is you speak of. Perhaps a better-constructed question is in order.”

I didn’t want to relay that, so I moved closer to Carson to loop him back in, letting him see and hear Oosterhouse again. “What about the Brotherhood of the Black Jackal?” I asked, watching him closely for flickers in his emotions. His start of recognition at the name was small but obvious. “What can you tell us about them?”

He paused, as if to collect his thoughts. “I have not heard that name in quite some time. I believe we are in the twenty-first century now?” He shook his head and chuckled. “A new millennium. It seems incredible, yet also incredibly short, when one considers that our excavations uncovered tombs buried beneath the sands of multiple millennia—”

“About the Brotherhood?” Carson prompted.

Oosterhouse flared with disapproval. He changed subjects, but without acknowledging Carson. “My areas of inquiry concerned the occult aspects of ancient burial rituals. I tutored a number of students who gave themselves that name as a novelty. I believe they disbanded when I, ahem, left my teaching position to return to the field.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Possibly someone has revived the name as a schoolboy prank.”

“It’s no prank,” Carson said. “They’re willing to kill and kidnap people to get your artifact. Clearly they want something more than novelty.”

Oosterhouse grew sober. “That is regrettable. But now I understand. I’ve slept for some time, unremembered. But recently something has called me awake. I thought it might be you, dear girl, and your gift.” He gave me an oddly fond smile, as if my ability to hear and see him tied us together somehow. “But if someone is searching for the Jackal, that would also explain my waking.”

“Can you help us?” I asked the professor. “I don’t even know what the Jackal is.”

“Ah. Well.” He clasped his hands behind his back again and rocked on his heels. “This is the pinnacle of my research into the alternative funerary practices of a splinter cult of the late Middle Kingdom near Thebes. The Jackal is a very powerful thing. It is capable of channeling unlimited energy—”

“Unlimited?” I asked. “I thought there was no such thing.”

It was my turn to get the professorial frown. Oosterhouse did not like to be interrupted when he was lecturing.

“I think I am in a better position to understand the minuscule difference between infinity and almost infinity, my dear girl.” Then he gave a wistful sigh. “I had such plans. What great things I could have accomplished with such power.”

He seemed to fade with the sigh, and I thought at first that emotion dimmed his image. But his shade was weakening, the details hazing together in the pale dawn light. He might be well defined, but he was nowhere close to unlimited.

“Dr. Oosterhouse.” I rushed to pull him back from his memories. “Do you know where the Jackal is? It’s vital we get to it before the Brotherhood does. A girl’s life is at stake.” When he seemed to dither, I appealed to his pride. “You wanted to use it to do good. You’re the only person who understands how dangerous this thing could be in the wrong hands.”

“You mistake my hesitation, my dear.” His fading shade gave me a Santa Claus smile. “I will tell you where the Jackal is. But I ask for your help in return.”

“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you—”

“Hold it.” Carson had been quiet, letting me handle the professor. Now he objected like my legal counsel. “What is it you want?”

Oosterhouse’s eyes narrowed. “You are an impertinent young man. But, being a gentleman myself, I appreciate your protective gesture.” He smoothed his ruffled feathers and went on with his request. “I am tired of sleeping and awaking here. Tired of being this”—he gestured to his form—“shadow of myself. I wish you to open the door to the afterlife so I can be complete, my soul whole once more. If you do this for me, I will show you the Jackal.”

I had agreement on the tip of my tongue when Carson stopped me again. “This is how it’s going to be,” he said, in a voice to be reckoned with. “You show us where to find the Jackal and tell us its secrets, and only then Daisy will do her thing.”

“Does Daisy get a say in this?” I snapped.

Oosterhouse kept his gaze on Carson. “Yes, why not let Miss Goodnight make her own decision?”

My surprise shook me out of my snit. “How did you know my name?”

The professor gave me an avuncular smile. “My path crossed with a Goodnight before. Quite an interesting young lady, and you have the look of her. Add in your, shall we say ‘spirit’—if you will forgive a pun—and it is not much of a guess who you are.”

Oosterhouse was fading quickly now, the air chilling as he pulled heat energy to stay visible. I didn’t have the strength to hold him there. “I need to rest before I can open the Veil,” I said. “Tell us where to look for the Jackal, and when we find it, I promise I’ll send you on.”

The shade sighed, the ghost of a gesture of resignation. “You truly do not understand how powerful you are, young lady. What a shame the Brotherhood of the Black Jackal has re-formed only to become petty criminals. With the knowledge I passed down to them, and your gift … oh, the wonders you could—”

“I agree, she’s amazing,” Carson said. “Which won’t do anyone any good if she keels over from the effort of keeping you here. Tell us how to find what we’re looking for.”

Oosterhouse gave him a glare colder than the plummeting room temperature. “Very well. As it happens, I will still need to guide you once you find my grave. Find the artifacts that lie with my bones, and I will show you the Jackal.”

And with that, he faded completely, leaving nothing but an icy fog that vanished in a swirl of heat from the radiator.