Séance

A college séance years ago summoned a demon—one that's now killing off a group of friends one by one. Can Tom Jurgen stop it in its tracks before the next victim dies?

Séance, Part One

“This all happened four years ago.” Marcus Keene was in his 20s, African American, with a short beard and a small gold ring in his left ear. “In college. The U of C.”

I nodded. We were talking via Skype, in the office I share with my girlfriend Rachel in our apartment. I was doing a lot of that these days, with social distancing and all. A lot of people did, even private detectives like me. “What can I do for you?”

“It was this party. Late at night, lots of wine and weed. Just a few of us friends, five or six, in Charmaine’s apartment. Midnight, one or so? We, uh . . .” He hesitated. “Figured a séance would be fun. You know about that stuff, right?”

All too well. My work as a P.I., like my former job as a reporter, has brought me into contact with all kinds of supernatural occurrences and beings. I’d gotten a reputation for it—and clients to match. “Go ahead.”

“Anyway, it was just a goof at first. We talked to Warren’s grandmother. She told him—it was Natalie talking—that he was embarrassing the family by studying English. We laughed, but Warren got mad. But there was no way—I mean, his grandparents really wanted him to go into law, like his mother. But there was no way Nat could have known about that.” 

Marcus shook his head. “Anyway, we went on. It got a little silly. They were just pretending to talk to the dead, making stuff up. Like Anis was being Abraham Lincoln and talking about killing vampires, like in that movie?” He laughed. “But then something—the candle flickered, and it went out and then it started burning again. And Charmaine was . . . crazy.”

He rubbed his forehead and took a gulp of water from a nearby bottle. “She said her name was Azar, and she came from hell. And now that she was out, she was going to kill all of us.”

Marcus shuddered. “We freaked. Warren blew out the candle and turned on the lights, and Natalie slapped Charmaine’s face. Hard. Then she started having a seizure. We were all set to call 911 when she snapped out of it. She didn’t remember anything. It was—weird.”

“I’m sure it was.” I’d encountered my share of demons from hell and other dimensions. I sipped some water myself.

“We all went home and forgot about it.” Marcus sighed. “I didn’t even think about it at all. Until the other day.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Warren sent me an email. Charmaine—she killed her boyfriend. And then she killed herself. But before that, she wrote the word ‘Azar’ on the wall. In blood.”

Séance, Part Two

So, not your standard cheating spouse case. More your standard “Tom Jurgen, detective of the supernatural” case. We discussed fees, and he promised to send a retainer to my PayPal account. Yes, I actually have a PayPal account. It seemed safer than handling checks these days.

“So what’s the case?” Rachel carried a mug of coffee to her workstation on the far side of the office. She’s my girlfriend. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, long legs, and slightly psychic powers, which come in handy when she helps me with my cases.

“Possible demonic possession. You know. The same old thing.”

“Better than vampires.” She sat down and fired up her computer.

I turned back to my computer. Marcus had already paid the retainer into my account, and emailed me a list of names from their séance:

Warren Pierce. He’d apparently listened to his grandmother and become a lawyer. His phone number and email address went to one of Chicago’s biggest law firms.

Frank Starrett. He’d studied economics. No phone number or email.

Anis Welch. Art history major. No contact information.

Natalie McGinnis. She worked at a PR agency.

Joseph Busch. No information.

Charmaine Attlee. Dead.

I went on the internet to check out Charmaine. The Chicago Tribune website had a short article three days ago: “Murder-suicide in Evanston.”

Charmaine Attlee, 26, had apparently stabbed her boyfriend, Brian Anderson, 27, to death, then stabbed herself. No forced entry, no note, and no history of conflict, according to the story. They’d been discovered by Charmaine’s sister Neva after not hearing from either of them for three days. Which meant the killings were almost a week old.

No mention of “Azar” scrawled on the wall in blood. Maybe the cops had left that out—just in case some psycho tried to confess to the killings. It happened.

Still, I wondered how Warren Pierce had gotten word of it. Since I had his number, I called him first.

“Warren Pierce, how may I help you?” Marcus had given me a direct line.

I introduced myself. “Marcus Keene is . . . concerned that Charmaine’s death is connected to a séance he and your friends were part of in college—“

“Yeah. That’s why I called him. Weird night. I mean, my grandma told me to become a lawyer, and, well, here I am.”

“Do you remember Azar?”

“Oh, yeah. That was wild.”

“Do you remember what Charmaine said as Azar?”

He hesitated. “Something about coming from hell. It wasn’t her voice, it was like the voice from The Exorcist. She—it—was pretty scary, I don’t mind saying that. Then Charmaine was—rolling her head, jerking around, puking. We tried to hold her down, and Joe was going to call an ambulance, but then she was all right. A little groggy. We helped clean up, and Nat helped her into bed, and then we went home. Natalie called her the next day to make sure she was all right, and Charmaine didn’t remember anything. So we figured she’d just gotten too drunk. We were drinking a lot in those days.”

I remembered a certain amount of drinking at DePaul when I was studying journalism there. No séances or demons, though. Apparently I didn’t get invited to the best parties. “So you called Marcus when you heard about Charmaine?”

“I sent him an email.”

“How did you know about the word ‘Azar’ on the wall? It wasn’t in the story online.”

“Neva called me. Charmaine’s sister. She was pretty shaken up, but not hysterical or anything. But she saw it, and asked me what it meant. I told her, uh, I didn’t know.” He hesitated. “But I remembered. That’s why I emailed Marcus.”

“Have you heard anything from Azar since that night?”

“No. Thank god.”

I read him the list of names. He didn’t have any contact information for most of them—just Natalie McGinnis, like Marcus. I thanked him for his time and asked him to call me if he remembered anything else.

Then I called the PR agency and got through to Natalie. I’d searched Facebook and found her profile. Young and blond, with a tight smile and smooth shoulders in a blue tank top. Her photos showed her with family and friends at the Taste of Chicago, a national park somewhere out west, eating in restaurants and drinking in bars—all the usual stuff you post when you’re young and carefree.

She’d read about Charmaine, and still sounded shocked. When I told her about Azar, though, she gasped and didn’t speak for so long I wondered if she’d passed out and dropped the phone.

“Hello? Are you all right?”

She caught her breath. “I just—I dreamed about Azar last night.”

Oh hell. “What happened?”

Her voice trembled. “I was in Charmaine’s room, and we were doing the séance, and then she started talking like Azar. Then she turned into Azar. Big and green, with three horns and two forked tongues. Like, seven feet tall. It kind of roared, like, ‘I have come from hell! I will own you! All of you!” Another pause, breathing hard. “Then I woke up.”

“This is the first time you’ve had that dream?”

“Y-yes. What do I do? Is it going to come for me next?”

I wished I knew what to tell her. Find an exorcist? Throw out all her knives? Drink lots of coffee? “I . . . don’t know. Let me run down a list of names with you.”

Natalie knew the bank where Frank Starrett worked. No idea about Joe Busch or Anis Welch. I calmed her down as best I could. Which wasn’t much. Sometimes I do more harm than good. 

I started a search on the internet while I called Marcus and Pierce back. Neither one of them had dreamed of Azar, and both wanted to know why I was asking. I stayed vague, not wanting to spread more panic.

The only “Azar” I could find was some politician. There were variants—Azaroth, Aezorith—but nothing that seemed helpful. 

So I called the bank where Frank Starrett worked as a mortgage VP, up in Rockford. Yes, he remembered the seance, and he’d read about Charmaine’s death. No, he hadn’t dreamed about Azar. No, he didn’t know how to contact Joe Busch, the last name on my list. Yes, he was suddenly very nervous.

Starrett did remember that Busch had been a philosophy major, and that his hometown was Western Springs. And his middle name was Quinn. That wasn’t much to go on, but maybe it was a start.

Time for lunch. I made myself a sandwich and read the news on my laptop at the kitchen table. The COVID-19 lockdown was still on. You couldn’t go to the store without face masks and gloves. Idiots were protesting the restrictions, demanding “liberty.” The president was still trying to reopen the economy. The death count was flattening out in some states, rising in others. But the Brookfield Zoo had a nice webcast of penguins wandering out of their habitat.

Rachel made her own lunch—cheese and crackers. She’s a vegetarian. “It’s my turn to make dinner, isn’t it?” She groaned.

“We’ve got that split pea soup from last week. All you have to do is take it out of the freezer.” We take turns making dinner. I’d actually made the soup, but this didn’t feel the right time to remind her.

“That’s about as much cooking as I can handle right now.” She shoved a cracker into her mouth and crunched loudly.

“Tough gig today?” Rachel’s a graphic designer. She can work from home even when we’re not sheltering in place.

“Just this whole quarantine thing. You want to go for a walk later? We can stay six feet away. I’ll wear my cutoffs.” She grinned and licked her lower lip.

I smiled. “It’s a date.”

“What’s with your case?” She made a cracker sandwich.

“It’s . . . interesting. And a little scary." I gave her the story. "Hey, have you ever held a séance?”

She snorted. “Are you kidding? You know the kind of people I hang around with.”

“Are they for real? Séances, I mean.”

“Of course. Maybe. Sometimes.” She shrugged. “I had this one, uh, friend who really liked them. This is before I met you. Sometimes I think she was joking with us. Other times?” She shrugged. “We did really talk to the dead. It got creepy.”

“Like grandmothers? Or Abraham Lincoln?”

Rachel shook her head. “It was all just random. Whatever spirit happened to be close. Some of them didn’t even speak English.”

“No demons?”

“Not while I was there. After the first few times I got bored, and a little nervous. Too close to necromancy for my delicate tastes.”

“Hah.” I’ve seen Rachel stare down vampires. Nothing delicate about her. I took a shot in the dark. “Ever heard of a demon called Azar?”

“Yeah, I used to date him.” Rachel sounded like she wanted to punch me if the table wasn’t in her way. “What, just because I’ve been possessed once or twice—not to mention kicking one in the crotch that one time—I’ve got every demon in hell on my speed dial?”

I shook my head. “I have to find a guy named Joseph Q. Busch and find out if he’s having dreams about Azar—that demon I asked you about? And warn him. And Anis Welch. She was an art history major, so unless she’s with a museum or teaching at Podunk University, I’ve got no idea what she’s doing now. At least it’s not a very common name, like Joseph Q. After that, I don’t know. Figure out some way to protect Natalie McGinniss?” I shook my head. 

Rachel squeezed my hand. “You can’t save everyone.”

I knew that all too well. “But I have to try.”

Séance, Part Three

So after lunch I looked for Joseph Busch online. I figured with a middle initial “Q” and a starting point in Western Springs, a Chicago suburb, I might have some luck.

I was wrong. I found a lot of “Joes” and “Josephs” with a “Q” and even with “Quinn” as a middle name. Too many of them were from genealogy sites, dead for years. Others were scattered across the country. I tried calling or emailing as many as I could, but by 3 p.m. I’d gotten nowhere. I managed to talk to a handful of people who had no idea what or who I was talking about, but nothing panned out.

I had similar luck, or the lack thereof, with Anis Welch. Maybe she’d gotten married and changed her name. I’m used to striking out dozens of times or more, but it was never fun.

With nothing else to do, Rachel and I went for a walk. As promised, she wore her cutoffs. I tried not to stare at her legs.

We wore masks and gloves, and although we didn’t stay six feet away from each other, we kept a decent distance from other people. Shoppers carrying grocery bags, joggers huffing and puffing, cyclists in the street, and the homeless guy in front of our local grocery store. I gave him a dollar, and we stopped in to buy vegetables, fruit, rice, and pasta. Also beer.

The sun was bright, with a few clouds in the sky. A warmer day than usual, although the weather report said it would cool off tomorrow, with rain. Welcome to springtime in Chicago.

We rounded the block and started heading back home, paper shopping bags in our hands. Rachel breathed in as much fresh air as she could through her mask. “This is nice.”

“Yeah.” I wanted to hold her hand, but that would have crowded the sidewalk too much. She held back, letting me walk ahead. “I’d go first, but you’d just be staring at my butt.”

“You know me too well.” I laughed, and Rachel laughed, and for a moment things were all right, even in the Coronavirus-infested world.

Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Maybe spam? But I had to answer, just in case. “Sorry. —Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Jurgen? This is Joe Busch. What are you looking for me for?”

What the—? I perched on the edge of a short iron fence. “Is this Joseph Quinn Busch? You were at the University of Chicago  four years ago?”

            “Uh, yeah. That’s me. What’s going on?”

He didn’t sound hostile. Mostly puzzled. “How did you get my number?”

“Your email went to my cousin. It sounded kind of weird.”

            “Sorry. Here’s the thing—” A woman walking a labradoodle glared at me through her wide sunglasses as I sat forward. “Uh, there was a séance a couple of years ago? Do you remember that?”

“Yeah.” Busch paused. “I remember that. Weird night. So what?”

“Can I ask where you are right now?”

“Uh, I live in La Grange.” Another western suburb. “With Anis. I’m a contractor. Not much work these days, so I’m home most of the time.”

Wait a minute—“Anis Welch?”

“Yeah. We live together.”

Okay. “Great. Uh, congratulations. Anyway, here’s the thing . . .”

Halfway through my explanation, Busch shouted: “Anis! Come here!”

Rachel leaned next to me on the fence. A little too close for social distancing, but what the hell. 

            I held the phone next our ears—I didn’t want to put it on speaker on a public sidewalk—as a sharp female voice came on the line. “Yeah? What? What’s going on?”

            “Ms. uh, Anis? I’m a private detective, working for Marcus Keene—”

“Yeah, Joe just told me. What is this? I read about Charmaine. We weren’t great friends or anything, but I remember that night, and—well, that’s when Joe and me—anyway, what are you talking about?”

Rachel smirked. I tried to focus. “I’m worried that somehow Azar is back. That demon? Do you—”

“What? I dreamed about him last night. Or something. I don’t know. I’ve been having nightmares for a week. Joe can tell you—”

            “She wakes up all the time.” Busch’s voice was shaky. “All sweaty. Shouting. Words—I can’t even understand it. I thought she was just babbling, but sometimes it’s she’s like speaking in tongues, you know? And she doesn’t remember any of it when she wakes up.”

“I just did that one time.” A long, long pause. “Sorry for what I said, Joe.”

            My skin felt cold. “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on. Natalie McGinnis told me she’s also had dreams about Azar. This is—I don’t know.”

            Busch asked, “What do we do? What the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. Maybe sleep in separate rooms? With the doors locked? “Joe, have you been having nightmares too?”

“Uh, no. I sleep fine. Except when Anis wakes me up.”

So was the demon targeting only females? But why now? After— “All right. I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you. Just–—be careful.”

Busch groaned. “Thanks. I guess.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Rachel and I stood up. I grabbed my bag of groceries. “Something’s wrong.”

“You think?” She lifted a hand to punch my shoulder, but lowered it as a jogger ran past us. “Wear a mask, asshole!” she shouted. The jogger flipped his middle finger at us.

Rachel laughed. “Let’s go home.”

Séance, Part Four

So back in the apartment I grabbed a Coke and sat down at my computer. And tried to think of what to do. When Rachel came into the office in sweats, I turned. “Hey, who was your friend who had séances?”

“Uh . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Jasmine.”

“Any chance you could find her? Or someone else who knows about séances?”

Rachel groaned. “I have work to do!” 

“I’m sorry!” I managed not to pound my fist on my desk. “I’m just trying to save people’s lives!”

We were both under a bit of stress from the lockdown.

“Okay.” She glared. “Give me a few minutes. But you’re heating up dinner. I’ll make sandwiches.”

I nodded. “Fine.”

In the meantime I started calling everyone on Marcus’s list. Marcus first. “Look, Natalie’s had a dream about Azar, and so did Anis. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just trying to contact everybody before something bad happens.”

“Uh, okay.” Marcus sounded puzzled. And nervous. “I don’t think I’ve had any nightmares lately. I’ll ask my girlfriend. Is Anis all right?”

“She’s living with Joe Busch. So far she’s fine.”

“Really? I always though they didn’t . . .” He laughed. “That’s good, I guess. Glad they’re okay.”

I called Warren Pierce after that. “What do you mean, it’s back? I thought it was just a goof, just that one night. But . . .” He took a deep sniff. “I don’t know what to do.”

            “Let me know if you have any nightmares about the thing. Any time, day or night. Right now it only seems to be coming to the women in the group.” That could change, but I didn’t want to panic him. 

“Oh-okay.” He caught his breath. “Thanks for calling.”

Frank Starrett next. He was leaving for the day, and he thanked me for my warning. But he didn’t sound very concerned. 

Natalie McGinnis after that. She was working late. “Anis? Oh my god! Is she all right? We were—well, not best friends, but—wait, nightmares about Azar? Like me?”

“Apparently. Look, I’m concerned that the demon seems to be targeting women in their dreams. You, Anis, Charmaine.” I bit my lip. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry. I’m looking into this—”

“How do you know so much about demons and séances?” Natalie was sobbing softly. “I’m scared. Who are you?”

“This is what I do.” Sometimes I even save people. “I’ve got some experience. Stay safe, and I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.” She gulped. “I though this virus was the only thing I had to worry about.”

“Yeah.” I wiped my forehead. “Me, too.”

During dinner—my split pea soup and Rachel’s sandwiches with cheese, avocado and tomato—Rachel’s phone buzzed. “Hello? Oh. Hi, Jasmine! How you doing?” 

I set down my sandwich as Rachel put us on speaker. “Just great! Hiding in my bunker under my pillows, fighting with my cats, binge-watching everything I can find. Have you watched Normal People yet? It’s great.” 

“Yeah, it’s on our list.” Rachel grinned. “Look, sorry to bother you. I know it’s been a long time—”

“Yeah, you kind of dumped me years ago. That’s okay. Sometimes things get too intense. What are you up to these days?”

“Oh, I’m just doing graphic design and websites, and stuff like that, you know? Boring.” She rolled her eyes. “But my boyfriend’s a private detective, and that keeps things interesting. Which, by the way—”

“Boyfriend? I thought—well, that was a while ago, huh?”

I lifted my eyebrows. Rachel glared and mouthed Shut up! “It’s about séances. We used to do them, remember?”

“Sure. You up for one tonight? I’ve got a Zoom session set up. I’ll send you an invite.”

You can do séances on Zoom? Of course. You can do everything on Zoom. 

“Wait.” I leaned closer to Rachel’s phone. “Jasmine, this is Tom. Rachel’s boyfriend. Can I ask you a question?”

            “Tom?” She laughed. “Of course. Nice to meet you. We’ll have to have coffee some time, after all this is over. All three of us.”

“Nice to meet you too.” I avoided Rachel’s eyes. “So, uh, is it possible—have you ever  . . . accidentally or otherwise . . . summoned a demon in a seánce?”

“Huh.” Jasmine paused. “I’ve never heard of that. But I suppose it’s possible. Anything could be floating around in the ether.”

That’s what I was afraid of. We hung up.

“Okay, here’s the thing.” Rachel sighed and picked up her spoon. “Yeah, we were girlfriends for a couple of months. It was fine at first, but then it got—like she said, too intense for me. We’re still friends, obviously, I just haven’t talked to her in a long time. And yeah, by the way, I’m bi.”

“I know.” I took a bite of my sandwich. “It kind of turns me on.”

She glared. “I knew you were going to say that. Jerk.”

I held up my hands, ready to duck if she threw her spoon at me. “Sorry!”

“But you knew?” She wiped her lips with a napkin. “I mean, I don’t care. But how?”

“I’m a detective, remember?” I finished my share of the soup and picked up a sandwich. “Mostly just the way you talk about friends. Like Carrie, no. But—who was that girl? Naomi? Felt like it.”

Rachel sighed. “Yeah, Naomi was nice. Right out of college. But I had boyfriends too.”

“I know.” Rachel was still somewhat secretive about her past, even after living together for several years. “I’m just glad I’m here with you. Uh, good sandwiches, by the way.”

She took a deep breath. “Thanks. I think there’s ice cream before the séance.”

Séance, Part Five

We sat in front of my laptop in the living room at 8:30, lights off and a few candles glowing. I wasn’t sure they were necessary, but it seemed like the right atmosphere for a séance.

We logged on and said hello to Jasmine. She was Black, slender, in a tie-dyed T-shirt with her hair pulled back in a red kerchief. Other people logged in, until we had a group of eight, including Jasmine. She introduced everyone, we all said hello, and then Jasmine leaned back and closed her eyes. 

“Empty your minds.” Her voice was a little above a whisper. “Breathe deep. Focus on nothing and everything. It’s like meditation. Let your mind roam without controlling it or thinking about anything. Just . . . go with the flow.”

Rachel and I looked at each other. Then we closed our eyes and held hands. 

Jasmine turned on some soft new age music. Lots of harps. I tried to concentrate on my breathing and nothing else. My thoughts drifted. I wondered what would happen if I fell asleep.

Then Jasmine’s voice again, soft and delicate. “Is there a spirit nearby?”

We waited. Two minutes, three. Jasmine repeated the question. Then Edwin, a young Asian man, said, “It’s me. Suzanne.”

I opened my eyes. Edwin bent forward until I could only see the top of his head. “Suzanne. I died in 1987. I miss my husband, Cezar. I can’t find him here. Can anybody find him?”

Jasmine spoke: “Cezar? Are you there?”

Silence. Edwin’s head came back up. He wiped his eyes. “She’s gone.”

Then Kristen spoke, a middle-aged white woman. Her eyes were closed. “I’m George. I don’t know when I died. It was a long time ago. I just want to talk to someone.”

“Talk to me, George.” Jasmine’s voice was soothing. “Tell me anything you want.”

They talked for ten minutes. George was apparently a farmer who’d died in the 19^th century. He told us about his life growing up in Missouri, his wife, his crops, his children . . . Then abruptly he just said, “I’m done. Thanks.” And Kristen blinked, as if waking up.

The session went on. No demons. The creepiest part was when Gregory, an African-American man in his seventies, lifted his head up. “Mommy? Mommy, are you there?” No one answered.

After an hour and a half, Jasmine rubbed her eyes, looking tired. “I think that’s it, friends. Thank you for coming. Let me know if you want to attend another gathering. Good night.”

One by one, they clicked off. Jasmine stayed. “So, Rachel. And Tom. How was that?”

“Was that pretty typical?” I asked. 

“Yes. You rarely get the great historical figures. Just spirits of ordinary people. They’re lonely. Sometimes they just want to talk. Like George.” She pulled her kerchief off. “Oh, I should mention. You were guests tonight. If you want to attend another session, it’s $35. Per person.”

“Uh, thanks. How often do you do these?”

            “Every night. Unless I’m too tired. Sleep well. Rachel, we have to get together soon! I want to hear everything.” Her eyes flicked toward me. Then she blinked away.

Rachel blew out the candles while I turned on the lights and got us some beer. “So what do you think?”

She shrugged. “It’s real. I felt lots of psychic energy, even through the computer screen. Nothing here, though, thank god.”

“That’s good.” I sipped my beer. “It was . . . interesting.”

I’m in my 40s, and I’ve faced enough dangerous situations that I’ve been forced to confront my own mortality more than I wanted to. Was this what I had to look forward to? Wandering alone in the ether for eternity? As much as I never want to die, this didn’t seem much better.

Rachel turned on the TV. “What do you want to watch?”

“Anything.” I scooted next to her and put a hand on her knee.

She kissed my cheek. “Real Housewives it is.” 

I stifled a groan.

My phone buzzed at 6:30 the next morning. I rolled over and sat up before it could wake Rachel. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

Marcus. “Natalie’s dead.”

Oh hell. “How do you know?”

“Warren called me. He saw it on the news.”

Warren Pierce. “He’s up early.”

“I guess he has to get to his office early. I don’t know. What’s going on, man? I’m scared.”

“Me too. I’ll get back to you.”

I pulled on a T-shirt and staggered to the office, leaving Rachel sound asleep. On the internet I found a brief news story: Natalie McGinnis, 28, had jumped off the balcony of her Lincoln Park high-rise condo, landing with a splat on top of a parked cab. 

Damn it.

I’d talked to her. She was scared. Could I have stopped this? Maybe not. But it didn’t make me feel any better.

I went back to her Facebook wall to scroll down her posts. The first one made my fingers freeze.

On a black background, one word: AZAR.

Goddamn it. I slammed my fist on the desk. 

“Tom?” Rachel was at the door. “What’s the matter?”

“Natalie McGinnis is dead.” My head sank. “Azar got her.”

“Oh, no.” She knelt next to my chair and held me as I cried.

Séance, Part Six

So after cleaning up and taking a shower, I dressed and managed to eat some Lucky Charms while Rachel made coffee. It was early for her to be up, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. She ate toast and drank coffee with me. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Not really. I’ve seen people die, some of whom I could have saved. It was never easy. 

After breakfast I carried my mug of coffee back into the office and called Warren Pierce. “Hello, Warren Pierce, how may I help—oh, Tom Jurgen.”

“Yeah. I understand that Natalie McGinnis is dead.”

“Oh god. Yes. I saw it this morning. I called Marcus right away. What’s going on?”

“Why call Marcus? You called him before. With Charmaine.”

“Because—I don’t know, we were all friends. I guess he was just the first person I thought of. Why?”

“Just . . . curious.” It was better than “suspicious.” Something about Warren’s interest in both deaths was making me wonder. “Can you give me Neva’s number? Charmaine’s sister?”

“Uh, sure, I’ll send a text.”

I checked the clock on my computer. 7:32. Neva might not be awake yet. I decided not to bother her too early. Instead I went on a deep dive for information about Warren Pierce.

His LinkedIn profile had his full résumé, including his law degree from the University of Chicago. He’d posted articles on tax and estate law, and volunteered his services pro bono to a number of charitable institutions around the city. In his profile photo he was sitting at a desk in front of a window with a wide view of Lake Michigan. He was clean-shaven, with short brown hair and dark brown eyes.

No Facebook profile. I searched for Neva, and found her after a few minutes. Different last name—Karville—but she had Charmaine listed as a friend. I clicked over to Charmaine’s profile. 

Her “About” page showed that she’d gone to Lane Tech High School before the U of C. She’d worked at a small accounting firm in the suburbs. I scrolled through her pictures. She was short and blond, with a wide smile. Her photos featured beaches, birthday parties, nieces and nephews—and two shots of Warren Pierce.

In one, they had their arms around each others’ shoulders, holding drinks and laughing. The other showed them sitting across a table from each other, eating dinner, smiling.

Then I searched again for Natalie McGinnis on social media, scrolling slowly this time. After a few of her puppy pictures, I found one with her and Warren hugging.

It was still too early to call Neva. But Marcus Keene was already up. “Hi. I have a question—did your friend Warren date Charmaine? Or Natalie?”

“I don’t think so. Not in college, that I remember, but I haven’t heard from him in—wait, what are you saying?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Even though I’d already leaped. “Why would he call you about Charmaine and Natalie, though?”

“He’s—he was sort of attached to me. Not sexually, just like he wanted me to be his best Black friend. Or something like that. He calls me or sends me an email every couple of weeks. Complains about his job, bad dates, stuff like that.”

Warren had said they were all close. But different people have different perspectives of their friends. Still . . .

I thanked Marcus and hung up. Tried to think.

Azar had killed two people. Women. Was it targeting all the women in the group? That left only Anis. I had to warn her. But what the hell could I say?

At 9 a.m. I couldn’t wait anymore. I called Neva. She was awake, and she answered quickly. I explained who I was and apologized for bothering her. Told her I was sorry for her loss.

“Th-thank you.” She sniffled. “I don’t even know how to do a funeral these days. Our parents are gone. I guess I’m glad they didn’t have to go through this. All of this.”

“I understand.” I paused as she blew her nose. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. I hope they don’t upset you too much.”

“Is this about Charmaine?”

“A little. But I’m not trying to dig into her life. Do you know a friend of hers, Natalie McGinnis?”

“I think I remember her name. From college. She hung out with a group of friends at the U of C.”

“Yeah.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Natalie is dead.”

“Oh no! What’s—what happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The reason they’re connected—aside from being friends—is that she posted the word ‘Azar’ on her Facebook page before she died.”

Neva shrieked so loud I almost dropped my phone. “What the —? That’s—it’s—oh god, oh god . . .” She gasped for 10 seconds. I was afraid she might throw up. 

Finally she caught her breath. “I’m sorry. It was just—so horrible. What’s Azar?”

          Again I hesitated. “This is going to sound crazy, but it might be a demon that Charmaine and her friends contacted during a séance at college.”

“Oh.” A deep breath. “Yeah. Charmaine loved all the occult stuff. I never believed in it, really, but we did one together too, one time, and it was pretty weird. I don’t know what to think now.”

“Do you know if she was having nightmares about Azar?”

“I don’t—yeah, I talked to her a few days before—before it happened, and she said she wasn’t sleeping good. Bad dreams. But she didn’t say anything else.”

“Can I ask you—did your sister ever date Warren Pierce? He was one of her college friends.”

“Warren? Y-yeah. About a year ago. It was—okay at first, I guess, but then Charmaine broke up with him. He was drinking a lot, using coke, and stuff like that. He was—he sort of stalked her for a while, but I never heard anything about him after a few months. Do you think—”

“I’m not sure.” I cut her off before she could speculate too much. “Did you know Natalie McGinnis?”

“Not really. I met her once or twice. Nice girl.”

“You wouldn’t know if she was involved with Warren?”

“No idea. Sorry.”

“No problem. Thanks for your time. Again, I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Th-thank you.”

Rachel came into the office in jeans and a sweatshirt. “Getting anywhere?”

“Maybe. Warren Pierce dated Charmaine, and apparently didn’t take it well when they broke up. And there’s a photo of him on Natalie’s Facebook page.”

“Huh.” She set her mug of coffee down next to her computer. “You’re thinking he’s somehow using Azar to kill them? Because he’s mad at them for breaking up with him?”

“I don’t . . .” I stopped. “Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking.”

I called Joe Busch again. “How is Anis?”

“More nightmares last night. This is getting crazy. Neither of us can sleep. Do you know anything?”

“Did she ever date Warren Pierce? He was in your group—”

“Oh hell. Honey? Can you come in here?”

A moment later Anis was on the line. “Warren . . . we never really—I mean, we did it a few times. In college. I was drunk—I mean, not that drunk, I knew what I was doing. But he was kind of weird, especially after the séance. So I kind of stayed away from him after that. I’m sorry, honey, it didn’t mean anything—”

“It’s okay. You told me all about it a long time ago . . .”

I waited a moment to let them gather themselves. When Warren cleared his throat, I asked, “So when you say he got weird—what do you mean? Did he stalk you?”

“Kind of. I kept seeing him everywhere I went. He called me in the middle of the night, twice, but then he stopped. Eventually I stopped seeing him everywhere. But last week—he sent me a friend request. So I accepted it. And we chatted a little. He said he’d heard about me and Joe—”

“Is this when the nightmares started?”

She paused to think. “Uh, yeah. I think so. Yeah.”

It was Warren. Somehow. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” As soon as I figured out what the hell I was going to do.

Séance, Part Seven

“This is so Nero Wolfe.” Rachel snuggled against me on the couch as I set up the laptop. 

“Nero Wolfe? He’s fat. Why can’t I be Hercule Poirot?” I lit the candles with a cigarette lighter.

“Because this way I’m Archie Goodwin, instead of that stupid Captain Hastings.” She elbowed my ribs. “Don’t worry, you look fine.”

Jasmine came on first. “Hello, Tom. Hi, Rachel.”

“Thanks for doing this, Jasmine.” I sat back. “I don’t know exactly how it’s going to go, but—Hi, Marcus.”

Marcus Keene was next, followed by Frank Starrett. Then Joe Busch and Anis. Everyone said hello to each other, and for a moment it was like a normal Zoom session. Then Warren came in.

He smiled. “Hey, everybody! What’s going on?”

“Thanks for coming, everyone.” Yeah, I did feel like a detective hero drawing all the suspects together, at least in a row at the bottom of the screen. Except I didn’t feel very heroic. I tried to hide that. “At the risk of sounding like, uh, Nero Wolfe—” I glanced at Rachel. “This is the situation. Four years ago you guys held a séance in Charmaine Attlee’s apartment room, and summoned up a demon named Azar. Now Charmaine’s dead, along with Natalie McGinnis. Both of them left the name ‘Azar’ behind when they killed themselves. Charmaine and Natalie both had nightmares about Azar in the nights before they killed themselves. And Anis is having nightmares too. Is that right?”

Anis unmuted herself and nodded. “Yeah.”

“So that’s one common denominator. The other one is Warren. You dated all three of them at one point, right?”

Warren blinked. “Yeah. So what?”

“And when they dumped you, you stalked them.”

He sat back. “Now wait a minute—”

I had the power to mute him, and I did it. “What I want to do tonight is recreate that séance, find Azar, and send him back to hell before he can hurt anyone else.”

Joe Busch leaned forward. “I’m in.” Anis, her face pale, gulped and nodded.

“Me too.” Marcus ran a hand over his scalp.

Frank Starrett shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

I unmuted Pierce. “Warren?”

He clenched his jaw. “This is BS. I don’t believe in any of it.”

“Then it won’t hurt if you stay, will it?” I tapped Jasmine’s picture. “Are you ready? Folks, this is Jasmine. She does séances. Anytime you’re ready.”

I watched Warren as Jasmine went through her intro. He ducked down, and I thought I heard a snort. He rose back up, wiping his nose, glaring at his screen. “All right.”

Rachel and I held hands. The candles around the computer flickered. Marcus stared straight ahead, breathing heavily. Anis and Joe Busch held each other. Starrett simply stared into the screen.

After a few minutes of silence, Jasmine spoke. “Is there a spirit near?”

No one spoke. Not a surprise. Starrett didn’t seem to be taking it seriously. And Warren was obviously fighting. 

Then Jasmine said, “I’m calling on Azar now. Azar, are you nearby? Speak.”

Rachel and I squeezed hands, waiting. What if nothing happened? What if this backfired? It never happened to Nero Wolfe, but—

I held my breath.

Then Warren l lurched back, his body jerking as if he was having a seizure. “Ah—ah—oh! Ahhhh . . .”

His face twisted, red and suddenly sweaty, and his neck bent. His eyes narrowed to black dots.

“Warren?” Jasmine tried a hushed tone. “Warren, are you—”

“I am Azar!” The shout threatened to blow out my laptop’s speakers. I leaned back. Rachel stayed perched on the edge of the sofa. Yeah, she’s braver than me.

“Warren!” I forced myself to lean forward. “Push Azar out! Make him go away!”

His face loomed into the screen. “I’ll never go back!”

I gripped the edge of the table. “Warren! He’ll kill you. Just like he killed Charmaine and Natalie. Don’t let him control you! Get rid of him!”

Warren sat back. At the bottom of the screen, everyone watched, shocked and frightened. Especially Anis and Joe. 

Warren’s shoulders squirmed. Tears streamed down his cheeks—tears of rage. He opened his jaws wide, exposing yellow teeth and a blood red tongue. “No!” Whether it was Azar or Warren, the scream was thunderous. “No!”

“Jasmine! Can you do anything?” She was a medium, so maybe . . .

Jasmine glared at me. “I don’t—I’m not an exorcist!” But she leaned her face forward. “Spirits don’t stay where they’re not welcome. Azar, you are not welcome here! Go back!”

Joe clutched Anis around the shoulders. Marcus’s face shook. Starrett looked stunned, as if he’d wandered into an ongoing crime scene. Rachel squeezed my hand so tightly I had to pull away.

Suddenly Warren’s eyes blinked. His sat back, his face going pale. He wiped a hand across his nose. “What—what?”

“Warren?” I lifted a hand. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head wildly. “Goddamn you. All of you. If Charmaine hadn’t—done that—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t . . .” He started crying. “I never wanted to be a lawyer!” He reached out of the screen and yanked up a bottle of vodka for a long gulp. “But when my grandmother—my grandmother . . .” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I hate this! I hate you! I hate all of you!”

“Warren . . .” This came from Marcus. “She was a ghost. It was just a goof. You didn’t have to—”

“She was my grandmother! I couldn’t—goddamn it. I tried, I tried, but every day it just got worse.” His face started getting red again. “Then I started dreaming about that thing, that—Azar? And I was back in that room, with all of you, and that’s when my life turned to hell.”

“So that’s when you decided to take revenge?” I asked. “On the women who dumped you?”

Another gulp of vodka. “I got fired. Laid off. Whatever you want to call it. Because of this damn coronavirus. I got fired from a job I hate, because of Charmaine and her stupid games!”

Rachel and I looked at each other. Now what? She shrugged, helpless. Great. 

I turned back to the screen. “Warren? What Jasmine said. You have to let Azar go. Get him out of your system. You can do this.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Yes. No. No, no, no . . .”

His face turned dark red, and his eyes started to glow. He lurched back, his body twitching. “Yes. Yes!”

Azar again. Did I screw up?

Jasmine came on. “You are not welcome here. Go, Azar. Leave this realm.”

“No.” Warren’s voice was a hoarse grunt. “No. Not before—until—”

His body jerked back. The vodka bottle flew sideways, drenching his screen. Warren shrieked in agony, clutching at his hair. “Ah! Fuck! Shit! Ohhh . . .”

Then he collapsed backward, leaving an empty screen.

I picked up my phone. “Does anyone know his address? I have to call 911.”

Anis spoke in a whisper. “I have one address. It’s in the city, it’s old, I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“Why should we—” But Joe stopped. “Okay. That’s fine.”

Anis read me the address from her phone. I called 911.

The police would have lots of questions. After the call and before we signed off from the Zoom séance, I advised everybody to tell the truth, and refer any questions to me. “They won’t believe you—they don’t usually believe me. But it’s safer to go with what you know instead of trying to lie.”

“Uh, right.” Marcus Keene looked nervous as everyone else clicked off. “I’m kind of sorry I started this.”

“Not your fault.” At least we’d saved Anis. I hoped.

Jasmine was the last one left. “That was—intense.”

“Yeah. Do you think Azar is gone?”

She rubbed her eyes. “I felt . . . a presence. It seemed to vanish when Warren dropped from sight. But I can’t be sure.”

Of course not. “All right. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.” She winked. “Nice seeing you, Rachel.”

“Yeah, same here.” Rachel stood up as I shut down the laptop. “Beer.”

I nodded. “Lots.”

My phone buzzed a few minutes later, just as we were sitting down to another episode of Real Housewives of Wherever. I sighed, grabbed my beer, and headed into the office. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Jurgen? This is detective Chelsea Porter of the Chicago PD. You called in a 911 on Warren Pierce?”

“That was me, yes.” I sipped my beer. “Is he all right? We were on a Zoom call together—”

“He’s dead.”

Oh no. “Warren Pierce was possessed by—or channeling—a demon named Azar, who killed Charmaine Attlee and Natalie McGinnis, and was on its way to killing a woman named Anis Busch, or Anis Welch. They were all friends at the U of C four years ago, and there was a séance—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Shut up.” Porter groaned. “Okay, come down to police headquarters first thing tomorrow—and be ready to tell the truth. This sounds crazy.”

I stifled a sigh. “I know. For what it’s worth, talk to detective Anita Sharpe. She thinks I’m crazy too.”

Sharpe and I had worked together on vampire cases. She’d vouch for me—even if she didn’t like me that much.

“All right. Nine o’clock.”

I yawned. “I may be a little late. Tough day.”

Porter hung up.

Right away my phone buzzed again. Marcus Keene. “Everything all right? I just talked to a cop on the phone. I told him—what you said. He sounded annoyed.”

“They usually do.” I rubbed my forehead. “I’m going downtown tomorrow morning to try and sort this out. Let me if know if they keep harassing you. I can’t promise anything, but at some point, they sometimes listen to me.”

He sighed. “Okay. Send me your bill.”

Most of his bill had been covered by the retainer. But I thanked him and headed back to the living room.

“Oh, look!” Rachel pointed at the TV. “Pool fight!”

The real housewives were splashing and tugging at each other’s bikini tops. Ordinarily I would have been fascinated. Right now, though?

I stood up again and headed for the kitchen, even though I didn’t need another beer right now. Instead I sat down at the table and found Joe Busch’s number.

“Hello? Oh, hi, Tom.” His voice was low. “Anis is asleep.”

“Is she all right?”

“I think so. She’s not talking, or rolling around or anything. Just quiet. Like, for the first time in a few days. I’m watching her.”

Good. “I hope this is over.”

“Yeah. Me too. Thanks, Tom.”

“Call me if anything changes.”

“I think she’s fine. It was weird, right?”

I nodded. “Definitely.”

Back in the living room, I slouched on the sofa. Rachel glanced at me. “Everything okay?”

“I think so. Anis is asleep, and I have to go talk to the cops tomorrow morning. And . . .” I reached for my beer. “Maybe Azar’s gone. But Warren is dead, so . . . Not quite the win I was hoping for.”

Rachel stroked my arm. “Not your fault.”

“Yeah.” I leaned my head on her shoulder. “I just hope for good dreams.”

# # #

Chicago Lockdown

In the midst of the COVID-19 lockdown in Chicago, Tom Jurgen must contend with a surge of vampire activity that could destroy the truce between humans and vampires in the city.

Chicago Lockdown, Part One

"I found toilet paper!" I dropped the shopping bags, locked the door, and took off my Snoopy facemask and yellow dishwashing gloves.

            "My hero!" Rachel ran from our office. "How'd you do it?"

            "I'm a detective, remember?" I headed to the bathroom to scrub my hands while Rachel stacked the packs of TP on an ever-growing pile next to the toilet. Then we carried the groceries into the kitchen. Rachel ran to restock the bathroom, even though we already had enough TP for months as far as I was concerned. But I'd learned not to argue with her about it.

            Chicago had been on lockdown and social distancing status because of COVID-19 for weeks. Two weeks? Three? I didn't know how many. I barely knew what day it was. 

            Fortunately, as a private detective, I can do a lot of work from home online or on the phone. If I had to do a surveillance, I could stay in my car. I just wasn't meeting clients in cafes or questioning people in bars anymore, because they were all closed. 

            Rachel, my girlfriend—red hair, hazelnut eyes, slightly psychic powers—is a graphic designer who usually works from our shared office anyway. 

            So we were safe, with me going out every few days for supplies.

            The entire city was tense. Death counts from the coronavirus were rising every day, people were clamoring for tests along with TP, and the president's tweets and daily press conferences only made things worse. 

            In the meantime, Rachel and I were grouchy with each other, arguing more than usual as we worried about our friends and relatives. My mom was still okay in the suburbs, along with my brother in California and his family. Rachel's mother was sharing conspiracy theories and quack cures on Facebook, and probably ignoring social distancing guidelines. They didn't have the best relationship, but she was still Rachel's mom. So she worried.

            It was my turn to make dinner, although I'd started pinto beans and brown rice in the crock pot a few hours earlier, but Rachel helped, chopping vegetables and adding spicese. Then we opened beers and sat in front of the TV watching Andy Griffith. It was better than the president's press conferences.

            Then my phone buzzed. Anita Sharpe, Chicago PD. 

            "Good afternoon, detective! How can I help you?"

            "Vampire attacks are up." Her voice was low and hoarse. "We need you to contact your pals and do something about it."

            Oh, hell. 

            I'm not a regular P.I. My cases frequently involve supernatural creatures and activities—like vampires. A few years ago, a quiet war had broken out between vampires and the cops. Sharpe and I had worked together as part of special team of cops to fight the vamps. A lot of people got killed—including a good cop friend of mine. Elena Dudovich—before a shaky truce had been drawn up. 

            Unfortunately, I was the mediator of that truce—the liaison between two vamps who administered two sections of Chicago, Clifton Page and a female vampire named Anemone. 

            I got along well enough with both of them, but interacting with vamps always made me nervous.

            "The problem is that the city closed down the blood distribution centers." Sharpe sighed. "We told them not to do it, but the mayor's office didn't listen. So the vamps don't have anywhere to go."

            Part of the truce was establishing sites where vamps could get blood so they wouldn't have to feed off humans. But if the centers were closed . . . "That is a problem."

            "Yeah. Your problem."

            "Great." I groaned. "Okay, so I'll do what I can."

            "What's up?" Rachel nudged me when I hung up.

            "Vampire trouble." I stood up. "Can you help me set up a Zoom session?"

So I left some voicemail messages, and after dinner Rachel helped me set up the Zoom session on my laptop. At 8:30, a few hours after sundown, I logged on and waited. Rachel sat behind me for technical support. And to make sure I didn't say something stupid.

            At 8:32 Anemone appeared on the screen. "Hi, Tom." She smirked. Short black hair, dark glasses, and the body of woman in her early thirties—whatever age she'd been when she was turned, years ago—in a loose black T-shirt that dangled to show a magenta bra strap on one shoulder. "Good to see you. What's up?"

            "Let's wait for—oh, hello, Mr. Page."

            Clifton Page, the other leader of the Chicago vampire community—at least as far as anyone could be in charge of a bunch of blood-hungry vamps. He looked in his distinguished sixties, although he was close to 100 years undead. He was generally sympathetic to humans. He even had a human girlfriend. "Tom. What can I do for you?" Candles glowed behind him. 

            "The cops are telling me there's an uptick in vampire attacks."

            "Well, you closed the distribution centers," Anemone snapped. "With what little blood they gave us. What do you expect us to do?"

            "Social distancing makes it easier to attack and escape," Page pointed out. "I don't kill anyone or make any new vamps, but—"

            "Same here," Anemone said. "But that means we have to attack more people to stay undead. This whole pandemic is making it hard for everyone."

            Even vampires. That was irony for you.

            "Is there any way you can communicate with your people? Tell them to back off a little?"

            "It's not like we can control them much anyway, you know?" Anemone shrugged. "Make suggestions? Maybe. But us vamps don't follow orders very well. Get the centers open again. Then maybe they'll listen. Maybe."

            "All right." I nodded. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, can you try to ask them to lie low?"

            Anemone grimaced. Page looked at his ceiling for a moment.

            "I'll help." He leaned forward, his eyes taking over the screen. "In exchange."

            Uh-oh. "What?"

            "Jillian . . . she has the virus."

            Jillian Donovan. Page's human girlfriend. Oh hell.

            "I'm so sorry." Rachel leaned over my shoulder. "Is she—how is she?"

            "She's at Northwestern Hospital. She can still breathe on her own. We talk every night, and as much as I can during the day. But she's getting worse." He sat back and reached for his wine. "That's my price. Get her released from the hospital. So I can save her."

            Save her. Turn her into a vampire? Even if I could manage to get Jillian released . . . "I'm not sure if I can do that."

            "Do it. Or I'll go to the hospital and do it myself." Page crossed his arms. "I won't lie low while my lover is dying because the humans can't cure her." 

            I hesitated. "I won't just turn her over to you. Even if I can work it out with the hospital. It has to be her choice."

            Page scowled. "Fine. Just let me talk to her. Face to face."

            What if she refused? I couldn't take Page in a fight, even with the biggest stake I could find and a shotgun filled with silver bullets. But I needed his help. "I'll—have to see what I can do. But if works, will you help us?"

            Page's nod was curt. "What I can." He vanished from the screen.

            "Well . . ." Anemone smirked. "That's what happens when you get involved with humans. You're cute and all, Tom, but most of you are too much trouble." She sat back. "Call me when you've got this worked out. We can talk."

            The screen went blank.

            "Great." I picked up my phone. 

            Rachel punched my shoulder. "I'm going to watch TV." She headed for the living room.

            I gripped my nerves and called Sharpe. "Are they on board?" she barked.

            "Not entirely." I took a deep breath. "Page wants a patient released from Northwestern. His girlfriend. He wants to, uh, save her from the coronavirus."

            She groaned. "You mean . . ."

            She'd once been tempted to let Anemone turn her into a vampire, to end the first vampire war. She'd backed out, and that's partly how I ended up as the vampire ambassador. But she had an idea of what being turned would be like. Agony and thirst, at least right away, then learning to control the instinct to hunt for blood. 

            "Yeah." I sighed. "I don't like it either. But I don't know what our other options are if we want to shut this down before it explodes again. We need his support, and that's want he wants. And the centers have to open up again. That's the deal."

            "Yeah." She sounded like she was chewing her lip. "Okay. Not my call. I'll have to move it up the chain. Thanks, Jurgen. Stay close to your phone."

I opened beers as Rachel tried to find something to watch on TV. One channel, another . . . AMC was actually showing the Bela Lugosi Dracula. I was ready get my laptop to surf the internet when Rachel's finger paused. "Hey, look at this!" Rachel laughed. "A new show! Real Housewives of the Coronavirus!"

            "It was only a matter of time." I sat back. Every other show and movie reminded us of the outbreak anyway.

            Fifteen minutes in, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I picked up.

            "Mr. Jurgen? This is the mayor."

            What? The mayor of Chicago? Calling me? What did I do? I waved Rachel to turn the show off. "Uh, yes, madame mayor. What can I do for you?"

            Rachel's eyebrows rose in alarm. I put the phone on speaker. "I have my, uh, associate here, Rachel, if that's all right."

            "Tell me about this demand from your vampire friend."

            I described the situation. "We need the city to reopen the centers. So we need both of them in on this. And he sounds ready to just attack the hospital and carry Donovan away. Which would be harder to cover up, and could get people killed."

            "He wants to kill her to save her life? By making her a vampire? I'm supposed to sacrifice a citizen to a vampire who wants to kill her?"

            "It'll be her choice. That's what he said. Then we can talk about reopening the centers."

            The mayor groaned. "All right, let me get back to you."

            We hung up. I picked up my beer. "The mayor has my number."

            "Just so long as she doesn't end up drunk-dialing you in the middle of the night." Rachel picked up the remote.

            My phone buzzed again. Rachel glared at me. "Why don't you go into the other room if I can't watch my show?"

            "All right, all right!" Like I said, we were getting grouchy with each other. "Tom Jurgen here."

            Sharpe. "Jurgen? You're on. The mayor's working it out. Northwestern Hospital, 30 minutes."

            Oh boy. "Right. I'll be there."