“St. Patrick’s is waiting for a reliquary to be returned. A former client had need of it, but met with misadventure. Thus, it has remained in my care until I can see it returned.”
“Doesn’t sound so hard.” I narrowed my eyes.
“It is not. However, I cannot return it myself. First, can you imagine the humans’ reaction should they see a box floating waist-high from here to the cathedral? Second, as a ghost, I cannot enter Holy ground. Neither can that one,” Crane rolled his pale eyes over to Kerry. “You carry far too much taint, nephilim.”
“I’ve got something else to do anyway.” Kerry shrugged.
“That’s no concern of mine.” The ghost opened one of the desk drawers, pulled out a cardboard box about the size of a brick, and held it out to me. “I assume you accept this task?”
“Yes.” I took the box. It was heavier than it looked.
“Go in the cathedral, find the Pietà, and lay the box at Christ’s feet. Now, is that all I can do for you?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” I took a deep breath. “Do you know anything about four humans who call themselves The Alchemists?”
“Your necromancer Khaydari worked for them until his death.” Crane shrugged. “My business is with the dead, boy, not the living.”
“Then check your mirror for a girl named Astrid Kasparian,” Kerry growled deep in his throat. “She was murdered by one of them sometime within the last twenty years.Her father’s name is Wilhelm and she was neph. He showed me her photo. Is that enough to go on?”
“I will try.” Crane raised a pallid eyebrow, but did what Kerry asked.
No argument came from the mirror closet this time, and Crane returned in seconds, looking a whiter shade of pale than he had before. Rather than a piece of paper, his palms cupped a small, spherical jar made of a shiny black stone.
“Is that a regret, too?” Gigi asked.
Somehow, I didn’t think so.
“A death cry,” Crane replied. “This dear girl’s soul screamed out in such agony at the time of her death that all else was obliterated. Any regrets she may have had. Any last wishes. Any final thoughts strong enough to linger. She was either betrayed by one she loved or heinously wronged.”
“Any clues about who killed her?”
The ghost studied the onyx jar, his irises rolling until they disappeared and only the translucent whites showed.
Ugh. Like that’s not creepy. No wonder ghost stories never end well.
“None that I can find,” Crane said at last, his eyes normal again. “A death cry is pain made solid, nothing more or less.”
“What would happen if you took off the lid?” Only Mira would think to ask that.
“Have you ever heard a banshee’s scream? Or a harpy’s? Imagine that magnified ten times over.”
I shuddered. I’d never had to deal with a harpy, but a banshee’s cry? That was a sound you heard in your nightmares—right before the monster eats you up.
“You could ask the Witch of Endor, however,” Crane said. “She communes with earthbound spirits.”
“That holds her spirit here?” I nodded at the jar.
“Yes.”
“Witch of Endor?” Gigi repeated. “Where could we find her?”
“She has a shop near the 50th Street subway station. I do not know what price you may pay for her services. She is not as … reasonable … as I am.”
Crane floated over to the mirror and returned the jar.
“I choose to pay in deed,” Kerry said. “Who is the one you need freed and where do I need to go?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Crane shook his head. “In the case of a death cry, I never charge. ’Tis bad karma.”
