Graves Pact (Matthew Stinson) - Matthew Stinson Page 0,1

I know I’m about to see something weird. Just tell me.

“You’ll see,” Phil said. “I want a fresh take on it. Keep your eyes open.”

He turned to our left as we reached the second floor. Firefighters went about the routine clean-up barely bothering to notice us as we slipped into the unfinished office. It had no carpet, but the contractors hadn’t pulled out the old cabinets and countertops in the kitchenette yet. Those furnishings survived, bearing the scars of a quickly suppressed fire.

“So, there was a fire. Why am I here? Arson isn’t my area of expertise,” I said as I scanned the cabinets, the faux-wood grain surface warped and bubbled from intense heat. “I do forensic accounting. We don’t do arson. Locals should handle this.”

Phil gave me a flat look, my prodding merely annoying the man. “There was a body as well. Check out the back.”

I paused and waited for more, but I knew he’d said all he was going to say. A dead body changed everything. With the death on the Air Force base, it wasn’t a matter for the local police. It became federal jurisdiction. He already said the Air Force’s OSI wasn’t equipped to investigate it as a result of the base closure, which put it squarely on the FBI.

I relented and walked back past a fire marshal into what I assumed was once a bedroom for a pair of airmen or privates or whatever they were called. The scent of smoke grew stronger. That and something else. Something unnervingly familiar. I shuddered as I identified it.

Blood.

From bare concrete floor to the unfinished drywall ceiling, soot blackened most of the room. The unburned portion looked like the psychotic finger paintings of a mass murderer with blood as the chosen medium. At that moment, I knew for certain why I was there over any other agent from our field office. I’d known since I got the call.

“Oh,” I groaned, “it is like the ’91 case.”

As a fraud investigator, I didn’t get into the field much, but as a new agent, I had worked in vans doing surveillance and stake-outs. During such an outing two years prior, I’d gotten a chance to show off some of my esoteric knowledge on the occult. Fortunately, that case didn’t even scratch the surface of the supernatural world, but it gave me a chance to showcase my skills. Phil took notice. I was pretty sure he was the one that got me the promotion that led to forensic accounting where I belonged.

“Yup,” Phil said as he stepped into the empty doorway behind me. “The body was right in the center, chest cavity completely empty. We’ll have an ID as soon as they run the dentals. Hopefully. Looks like blood on the floor there. We got lab guys working on samples. That’ll be a few days.”

“Only a few days?” I asked with a little surprise. “What makes this case important enough to jump ahead in priority?”

“This case could hold up the base closure,” Phil replied. “That could cost the government a lot of money.”

I nodded. Even with direct access to the FBI labs, it would take days to get through the backlog of cases. The convenience of the higher priority also came with the added pressure of the attention of the Department of Defense. Oh joy.

The sprinklers had done their job and soaked the room, raising my concern about the physical evidence. Though it had been smothered, I could see where fire had scorched half the room. Soggy, charred pieces of the mineral fiber ceiling tiles littered the floor.

Despite the detritus, I could still see parts of a summoning circle on the floor, little more than red-brown stains of indefinable geometric shapes. Aside from that tell-tale sign, I counted seven brass plates scattered around the room, far from where they would’ve sat during the ritual. I spotted a half-spent black candle among the debris in the room.

My heart quickened. Holy crap. Someone tried to cast a ritual spell here. I kept my face neutral. Phil and the rest of the normals in the world didn’t believe in magic. It was better that way for everyone. The ’91 case was just some occult junkie with no real knowledge of magic. This actually looks legitimate. This isn’t like the ’91 case. It’s worse.

“It’ll probably be animal blood,” I said. “Goat or pig most likely. It’s a bit of a strange order, but any butcher shop will have it. Some cultural dishes call for it. Or