Free Bone Gods by Caitlin Kittredge

said. “I’m not a nonbeliever, Pete, all cold dead flesh and electron microscopes, but I’m not big on blind faith.”
    “Finally something we agree on,” Pete muttered. Nasiri went a short way down the corridor to a set of offices, leading Pete to the one with her nameplate.
    “It’s too bad we didn’t work together. I think that would’ve gone well.” She unlocked her office from her keyring. “I’ll just get you those photos.”
    Nasiri disappeared into her office, and Pete leaned against the wall, wondering if anyone would noticed if she smoked. As if her tête-à-tête with McCorkle hadn’t driven the stake in far enough, Nasiri had made sure. This wasn’t her world any more. The Met thought she’d gone over to the side of kooks and crime scene ghouls, and Pete couldn’t even explain herself without sounding like exactly that. What would she even tell the rational and the plodding of London’s finest? Magic is real and your nightmares have teeth ? That was a fast trip to a psychiatric ward if she ever heard one.
    Pete stuck a Parliament in her mouth and tongued the filter, but didn’t light it. Overhead, the fluorescent tubes buzzed, an insect heartbeat, flickering off and on, creating a shadow pulse. What the Hell was taking Nasiri so long?
    Far away a door banged open and shut, and gurney wheels clattered on tiles. Pete felt the small part of her mind that sensed the tides, the flow and flux of the Black, unfold and send trembling fingers forth.
    The hall lights snapped on, off, on, and Pete watched through the open door of the autopsy bay as they gave the skinhead’s lumpy form under his sheet dimension and life.
    Snap again, and when Pete’s eyes adjusted to the light a shadow stood in the door of the autopsy room, no shape really, just a thin slice of darkness the size of a man, whose presence sent needles of ice through Pete’s mind. The thing peered at her from a tear in the Black, a bleeding intersection of the daylight world and what lay beneath.
    She didn’t stay frozen, like she had when the owl fixed its gaze on her. Pete snatched her pepper spray from her bag and aimed a concussive stream of it at the figure. “Come on then!” she shouted.
    The hall lights snapped. The pepper spray spattered across the tile floor. The doorway was empty.
    Nothing waited for her, just on the other side of the Black. The lights stabilized, and the mortuary hallway remained bland and sterile as ever. Pete felt her heart drumming at a thousand RPMs, and her blood was rushing so loudly in her ears it came in like a radio station. She didn’t hear Nasiri until the doctor tapped her arm.
    “Everything all right?” Nasiri extended a plain brown envelope, inter-office mail for the Wapping police station. “You look a bit startled.”
    Pete shoved the pepper spray into her back pocket and took the envelope in one smooth montion. The last thing she needed was Nasiri thinking she saw things. Her opinion, and that of the entire CID, was already low enough. “Just thought I heard someone back there in the autopsy.”
    “The bodies don’t generally get up and walk about on their own,” Nasiri said. “Though if they do, you’ll be my first call.”
    “Cheers.” Pete walked slowly leaving the mortuary, keeping her face calm and trying not to let the throb of her heart vibrate her. She hadn’t imagined the thing in the doorway—her skin was still prickling with the fever of close proximity to the dead, and not just the dissected skinhead on the table. Whatever had tried to push through had been of the Underworld, and it had wanted her badly enough to manifest in broad daylight, inside a building full of steel and computers, anathema to ghosts. Wanted her , not just whatever member of the living it happened on first. Pete wagered that whoever they were, Gerard Carver’s killers knew she was in the mix. It took her until the tube station to shake off the cold.

CHAPTER 10
    Lawrence didn’t call the next