Free The Voodoo Killings by Kristi Charish Page A

“Where and how much?”
    “Five hundred. Two hours, a couple songs. Frat house up at the university.”
    Nate groaned. “You’re whoring me out to university kids again?”
    “Guitar lessons are hardly whoring you out. Scheduling a DeadMen Tell No Tails one-night-only reunion concert? That would be whoring you out.”
    “You wouldn’t dare,” Nate said, though he didn’t sound so sure.
    “Skip the gig tomorrow night and you’ll see just how far I’ll go to make rent.”
    “Turncoat,” he said.
    “Get over it. You like talking shop, and chances are good they’ll buy you beer.”
    Nate rolled his eyes but didn’t offer up any more arguments. “Any other jobs in the pipeline?” he asked.
    I shrugged. “A D&D group e-mailed me about you.”
    Nate made a derisive sound. For someone who loved video games as much as he did, he harboured an unnatural hatred of Dungeons and Dragons.
    “I made a point of explaining I can’t make you play D&D—”
    Nate stopped me dead by pulling the ghost equivalent of a three-sixty in the bar’s narrow back hall, his body turning translucent grey as he searched for whatever scent he’d picked up on. I had to jump out of the way to avoid getting frosted by a stray arm. “Hey!”
    He whispered, “You didn’t tell me Mork was here. Sorry, Kincaid. You know my Mork policy. I’m riding your coattails till that asshole disappears.”
    “Nate! Don’t you dare—” But it was too late. Before I could dodge out of the way, Nate dissolved into fog and dove at me.
    I winced as the ice cream headache hit. Damn it, I hated it when he hitched a ride. “Get out of me, you little toad!”
    No answer. I swore again. “As soon as I sit down at the bar, I want you the hell out—”
    “Want whom out?” a male voice, just shy of nasal, said behind me.
    I half jumped, and spun. Mork. Lounging in dark corners. Typical. And I could have sworn he hadn’t been there a second ago.
    I was the one who had nicknamed him Mork, after the alien on TV I remembered from reruns when I was a kid. His real name was Michael, but the nickname had caught on. Like Nate, Mork hadn’t changed his shag haircut since the late nineties, but what set himapart from the rest of his high school grunge cohort was his uncanny knack for taking that Seattle stereotype to the point of absurdity. Tonight, for example, he wore a leather duster with a pair of ripped blue jeans and a pair of yellow Doc Martens. Underneath the coat I caught sight of blue scrubs: med school dropout meets grunge cowboy. The look brought to mind an old Stephen King novel, the scary one about the dark tower….
    Mork grinned. His teeth were straight and bleach white—easily his best feature—yet he somehow managed to make good teeth cringe-worthy.
    I don’t know what was worse, Nate hitching a ride or Mork being so close.
    “Trouble with your scaredy ghost?” he said.
    “Nate’s fine, thanks. He just doesn’t like you.” I felt the mental kick from Nate but ignored it.
    A slow smirk spread across Mork’s face as he gave me the once-over. A chill ran down my side, and for a second I thought it was Nate, until I realized a draft was coming from an open side door I’d never noticed before. It wasn’t hidden, exactly, it just blended into the wall. I glanced inside: a walk-in fridge of some sort.
    I was about to say something less than pleasant when I noticed the portable cooler in his hand.
    And that was why everyone, including Lee, put up with Mork. Mork was creepy, but he knew his brains. Clean, professional, no questions, and—most importantly—no trail. Where did the brains come from? Who knew? Scratch that. Down here, who cared? My best guess was that Mork was a coroner’s assistant.
    I nodded at the cooler. “I take it that’s for me?” I said.
    His smirk didn’t falter as the steel cooler clanked to the floor. He flicked the lid up and, using the tip of his boot, slid it across the floorboards towards me.
    “Watch it,