Voodoo shanghai, p.1
Voodoo Shanghai, page 1
VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2020
Copyright © 2020 Kristi Charish
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Vintage Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, in 2020.
Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Voodoo Shanghai : a Kincaid Strange novel / Kristi Charish.
Names: Charish, Kristi, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190137363 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190137398 | ISBN 9780345815927 (softcover) | ISBN 9780345815934 (HTML)
Classification: LCC PS8605.H3686 V67 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Cover design by Five Seventeen
Cover images: (woman) © John Fedele / Getty Images; (powder) © RedGreen / Shutterstock.com; (swamp) © Krystian Piątek / Unsplash
v5.4
a
For anyone who’s been ghosted and wondered why
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Joss Paper Blues
Chapter 2: The Ungrateful Dead
Chapter 3: Lonely Hearts and Hungry Souls
Chapter 4: Tying the Dead Up in Knots
Chapter 5: Cold Hearts on the Ghost Town Tonight
Chapter 6: Carrots and Sticks
Chapter 7: Cold Enough to Wake the Dead
Chapter 8: Quagmire
Chapter 9: Blinded by the Light
Chapter 10: Runaways
Chapter 11: Foxes in the Henhouse
Chapter 12: Portland After Dark
Chapter 13: Lost Loves and Things Left Undead
Chapter 14: Talking Dead
Chapter 15: Too Much of a Good Thing
Chapter 16: Bait and Switch
Chapter 17: Scapegoats
Chapter 18: Fast Ride
Chapter 19: Rich-Girl Blues
Chapter 20: Hungry Ghosts
Chapter 21: Ghosted
Chapter 22: Hook, Line and Sink Her
Chapter 23: The Devil I Know
Chapter 24: Hungry Hearts
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
JOSS PAPER BLUES
I closed my eyes as I stood in the bone-chilling November night, willing the heady, sandalwood-cored incense burning in my pentagram to distract me from the twelve Singaporean mourners as they let out another concerted wail of despair.
Nope. No good.
Despite the relaxing fragrance of the joss sticks—the scent of burning spices and wood, the warmth of the smoke against the crisp night air—it was no use. Not even the soothing incense could help me focus as the circus of a funeral unfolded.
I winced as another puff pastry hit me in the back of the head, throwing my concentration off once again.
Goddamnit…
“You don’t understand!” cried Mrs. Young, an attractive fifty-something Singaporean woman. I’d challenge anyone to peg her a day over thirty-five. She slumped into a cushioned lawn chair, her black mourning dress striking an artful balance between sexy and elegant as its crinoline-lined skirt flared out. The Youngs’ house staff had carted dozens of the chairs into the Seattle botanical gardens earlier this afternoon, especially for this evening’s event.
“She won’t let us sleep more than a few hours—she’s relentless!” Mrs. Young said, fixing pleading, red-rimmed eyes on me. Despite her impeccably made-up face, she hadn’t been able to conceal her grief.
I took that as a good sign that the grief was genuine, at least to some degree. I supposed that put the Youngs on the better side of my usual clientele for this sort of thing.
We all winced as another dish smashed to the frost-covered ground near our feet, originating from my pentagram of chrysanthemums just an arm’s throw away. The flowers were an elaborate piece of trickery devised especially for this evening’s event. It was November and the real beds of chrysanthemums were long dead, the tops shrivelled and pinched off by gardeners weeks ago. But, as the Youngs had said when they hired me, that was what twenty-four-hour, all-seasons florists were for…and twenty-four-hour caterers, and twenty-four-hour delivery people…
My pentagram of chrysanthemums was punctuated with strategically placed incense to keep, well—
There was yet another, louder crash as an entire table loaded with Singaporean delicacies was overturned, and then a young woman’s scream pierced the air. “Mommy? Mommy! I can hear you!” the young woman shouted.
Mrs. Young collapsed into another round of sobs, covering her face with her hands. Mr. Young, looking just as sleep-deprived and out of sorts, placed a supportive hand on his wife’s shoulder before fixing his own red-rimmed, grief-stricken eyes on me. The image he cut now was a far cry from the composed business professional who had contacted me in desperation a week before.
“You have to do something,” he pleaded.
Well, at least the three of us were in general agreement on that small detail. Now, if I could just get them on board with the rest of it…
“Mommy? Daddy? I’m serious! Get over here, right now, and let me out!” The shout was followed by another table overturning and the sound of stamping feet.
Goddamnit. She was making a mess of my pentagram. If only the Youngs had listened to me about the funerary tables—I’d told them the elaborate layout wouldn’t— Damn it!
I ducked just in time to miss an airborne egg tart. It skirted my hair, almost clocking me.
—wouldn’t suit the occasion and would only add ammunition…
The egg tart landed at Mrs. Young’s feet, and she lifted her tear-streaked face from her hands and fixed her sullen eyes on me. “Please, Kincaid Strange. Can you please make Astrid behave?” she whispered.
I closed my eyes and nodded as a breeze blew more of the thick joss smoke my way, its soothing warmth mixing with the icy night air, and I braced for another round with Astrid.
Oh gods, zombies and ghosts, let the joss smoke stay my temper. Seriously, I really need the help right now.
As if in answer to my plea, a pastry hit me in the cheek. I wiped whipped cream and chocolate icing off my face.
Well, so much for the universe helping me mend broken family relationships…
“I’ll take care of it,” I told the Youngs. I turned on my heel and strode back to my pentagram of Chinese incense and white chrysanthemums less than ten feet away. It held one Astrid Young, the recently deceased twenty-one-year-old daughter of the wealthy and powerful Young family, currently summoned as a zombie for the evening by yours truly and throwing the mother of all temper tantrums.
“Astrid,” I called out. “I’m coming back in to talk.” I reined in my own temper and ducked as another puff pastry sailed towards my head and the mourners let out another choreographed wail. Another hothead at this seance wouldn’t help one damn bit.
An imported troupe of professional mourners, fresh chrysanthemum blooms purchased from what had to be every high-end florist in downtown Seattle, pastries and other delicacies flown in from a Paris bistro Astrid had been fond of, joss incense sticks specially blessed by the monks from a Buddhist monastery the Youngs supported…
An awful lot of money and trouble could have been saved if I’d been able to run this seance in the privacy of their own garden.
Then again, after meeting Astrid’s ghost this evening, it was probably for the best that I hadn’t raised her anywhere near her family home.
For that matter, was I ever glad I’d gone with a zombie and not a ghost, as the Youngs had requested. After less than a minute of meeting the recently deceased Astrid, I’d patted myself on the back. Zombies are physical, more easily contained…
“No more pastries, Astrid, I mean it!” I called out as I carefully eased myself over the chrysanthemums and joss smoke. The white blooms were only now starting to freeze and crack in the evening chill. There was only so much the portable heaters could do to keep the cold at bay—and the Otherside from the summoning didn’t help.
A pork bun, still warm and smelling of spices and delicious roast pork, hit me in the face.
Your fault for asking, Kincaid. I swear to god, though, if she throws another one of those at me again, I’m going to start eating her funerary offerings.
We’d see how she liked that.
Though she was trying, Astrid couldn’t cross my barrier of chrysanthemums and joss smoke—no normal ghost or zombie could. Chrysanthemums repulse the dead, which is probably why they were historically used as a funeral flower in Asia.
But that didn’t stop her from throwing things across.
I ducked as a teacup sailed my way this time, full to the brim.
“Nope, not done yet,” I said under my breath. Needless to say, the story the Youngs had spun me about Astrid’s ghost’s violent tendencies had flagged some serio
Whatever it had been that led to Astrid’s premature demise—the Youngs’ parenting, Astrid’s disposition, her love affair with fast cars or some unholy mix of the three—what I was faced with now was a desperately spoiled and angry zombie unlike any I’d come across before.
And so here we were at the botanical gardens, complete with imported mourners, the best designer funerary finery money could buy and the distraught Youngs. A funerary shrine erected for Astrid, or her zombie at any rate, so she wouldn’t feel “threatened” by the confrontation.
I was grateful that her family had refused to cremate their daughter’s remains, a common practice for Buddhist families. Otherwise I’d be dealing with an angry ghost. A very angry ghost. Maybe even a poltergeist—and they’ve been known to break out of pentagrams.
I strode to the centre of the pentagram where a beautiful young woman stood, every muscle in her dead body balled up and tense with anger and fury. She was just out of her teens. Even as a corpse, she was stunning. Her milky, porcelain complexion was a shade or two paler, her eyes had dulled to a murky, watery brown, but her black hair was still shining—no doubt in part due to the hairdresser Mrs. Young had flown in from Singapore for the sole purpose of attending Astrid.
“I already told you, I don’t want to talk to you,” Astrid shouted as I kept coming.
I ignored her. She couldn’t hurt me, not really, not inside my own pentagram and sporting my bindings. Where the hell had things gone so wrong for Astrid? She’d led the life of a modern-day princess, the cherished only daughter of an obscenely wealthy and not unkind family. Her birth, unlike my own, was probably a joyous occasion with all the accoutrements rich people have for that sort of thing.
“I’m warning you, get away from me!” She grabbed a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
I mean, Astrid could have been anything she wanted. An actress, a model, a businesswoman at one of her parents’ many companies.
“It’s no use, Astrid. We are going to have a conversation. A civil one, so can you stop— Shit!” I ducked behind an overturned table as the Dom sailed my way. This was getting ridiculous.
“Last chance, Astrid!” I shouted, and tapped into the Otherside I still had stored from the raising. I eased myself around the table. Thankfully, Astrid had run out of culinary projectiles.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” She turned to face her parents. “Mommy! Daddy!”
Yeah, I’m starting to think that’s where a lot of your problems started myself.
“Make the awful practitioner go away!”
I thought I heard Mrs. Young renew her sobs, but it was hard to tell over the mourners. Crying was standard at these funerary proceedings, the Youngs had assured me, but the wailing, hair pulling and shaking fits were an extra expense, completely worth it for their precious daughter.
The Youngs didn’t respond to her cries. It’s so refreshing when people take my professional advice seriously. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot. “There’s an easy way and a hard way to do this, Astrid,” I said.
Not getting the reaction she’d hoped for from her parents, Astrid fixed her watery brown eyes on me. They turned a reddish orange, and more than one of her zombie bindings flared.
Oh, that was not a good sign…My Otherside sight firmly in place, I concentrated on my wayward socialite, looking beyond the bindings I’d set to animate her corpse all the way to the ghost trapped and temporarily tangled amongst them.
Astrid’s ghost flickered between the normal, dim Otherside gold of a ghost and the bright, anger-fuelled, blinding orange gold of a poltergeist, courtesy of the Otherside her anger siphoned across the barrier every time she had a spectacular temper tantrum. Like she was about to do now.
“Stop that,” I warned, holding my ground lest I give Astrid the wrong idea…Despite what my five-foot-three, slip-of-nothing frame suggested, I was not weak. Astrid’s ghost was most definitely exhibiting some serious poltergeist tendencies—hurtling objects towards unsuspecting staff, scaring guests off—safe-ishly contained in the zombie bindings for now.
Poltergeists are an intriguing type of ghost once you get past the violence and mayhem. For the most part, ghosts can’t do much this side of the barrier. Oh, they can move the odd thing around, even turn on radios or TVs and possess the occasional pay phone, but it takes a hell of a lot of effort, and the more they try to affect the world of the living, the faster they burn out.
But a poltergeist is a different beast entirely. Poltergeists are typically the ghosts of evil and wretched people—the ones who have no regret over the horrible things they did in life. Scratch that, they regret not having caused more damage. The only thing their souls derive pleasure from is making the living utterly miserable. Bonus points if you manage to kill someone—and trust me, they are a damnably clever bunch when it comes to murder. They tend towards spontaneous carnage; patience and planning aren’t their strong suit. Though I’ve seen enough cleverly laid traps—bricks above doors, oil spilled at the top of a flight of stairs—to know that when they put their dead and vengeful minds to it, just about anything is possible.
Gideon, the ghost of an evil sorcerer and my recent teacher, had been an eye-opening lesson in just what the dead can get away with when they put their minds to it. And time is something the dead have on their hands.
But poltergeists are the ghosts of people who were bad, evil. Unrepentant souls whose first love is causing pain—emotional, physical, take your pick. Serial killers, criminals, occasionally politicians and lawyers…those are the kinds of people who become poltergeists.
Unlike a poltergeist, Astrid had moments of lucidity and could hold a semi-civil conversation, though those moments were quickly disappearing as the anger took over…
By all accounts, Astrid had been a selfish, spoilt bitch, but she wasn’t evil—she’d had no interest in hurting people. As a ghost, she wasn’t really interested in hurting anyone either; otherwise she’d have dumped scalding tea over my head, not thrown puff pastries.
Could someone be so spoilt, so selfish, so obsessed with self-gratification, that it drove them to become a poltergeist?
“You call these pork buns!” Astrid screamed, grabbing one from the ground.
A philosophical question for another day…
“Oh, hell!” I dodged another onslaught of Singaporean delicacies. They sailed over the chrysanthemums and joss sticks and rained down on the troupe of mourners instead. I had to hand it to them, they were as professional as Astrid’s mother claimed—they didn’t miss a beat or a wail as they gracefully dodged and swerved around the flying pastries.
Damn it, zombies were usually so obedient when I raised them. I’d never actually had a zombie I’d summoned put up a fight.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I whispered as I grabbed hold of Astrid’s bindings and drained the anger off. And Astrid stopped, just as she’d been about to throw another bottle of Dom at her parents.
Shock stilled her features and she fixed her eyes on me. “You! How dare you?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a very important ghost, yada, yada, I’ve heard it before. Now, like I said earlier, we’re going to sit down and have a civilized conversation about your ghostly activities—”
But Astrid wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. She turned to the audience whose numbers she knew she had.
“Mommy, Daddy,” she intoned with a practised mix of sorrowful begging and whining. “How could you?”
Normally, I’m all for letting the dead vent at their still-living relatives, but in Astrid’s case? “Astrid,” I warned. “Talk to me, not your—”
“How could we what?” Mrs. Young cried out.
Goddamnit. And there we went, talking to the zombies. Not even my good clients could follow one simple rule…
I mean, what is it about talking to zombies when the practitioner tells you not to? Is there some kind of Otherside lure the dead use to rope their family members into an argument they can’t possibly win?
Don’t argue with the dead. The dead don’t change. They’re set in their patterns. You won’t win, it’s like the house in poker.
“You know exactly what you did!” Astrid reached for another pork bun, but I stopped her with a quick tug on her bindings.
