“Found one!” The kitchen door slams into the wall behind it as Melanie bursts in, holding a book aloft over her head and smirking.
Martin drops the knife he’s holding; it skitters across the counter from him. Gerard almost reaches out to catch it, then stops himself—he’s still got a scar from the last time he tried that. Instead, he turns to Melanie. “What’ve you got there, Neens?”
Melanie pushes the door shut and throws the bolt, then drops the book triumphantly onto the table. “Haunted bookstore. The ghost threw every book in the section onto the floor except this one, so I took a look at it while the others weren’t paying attention.”
Now that it’s stopped moving, Gerard takes the knife by the handle and prods the book lightly with the tip. Thankfully, it neither starts bleeding nor attacks him back. “Does it have a label?”
“No, so I don’t think it was one of his, but the ghost wouldn’t touch it. And when I asked the owners, they’d never seen it before.”
“Yeah, all right, that tracks.” Gerard picks up the book and turns it over. It’s pretty typical of the sorts of books they deal with all the time—well-worn but not battered, slight foxing at the bottom right corners of both covers, a few loose threads dangling from the spine. The edges of the pages are tinted; probably at one time they were a vivid red, but it’s faded over the years to a sort of maroonish-rose. He definitely can feel the power emanating from it, but he can’t tell what power. Carefully, he opens the cover—they all know not to read past the title page if they can help it—but the title doesn’t mean anything to him. “The Transvaal From Within?”
“That’ll be a Slaughter one, then,” Martin murmurs. He hasn’t looked in the book’s direction, focusing instead on packing up the beginnings of the meal he was working on before Melanie’s unexpected entrance.
Melanie hitches herself up to sit next to him. “How do you know?”
“Get your ass off the counter,” Martin says automatically. Melanie, in the true manner of baby sisters since time immemorial despite their age gap only being a matter of weeks, crosses her arms over her chest and sticks her tongue out at him. “Uh, that one’s about the Boer War, I think. War’s usually the Slaughter.”
Gerard closes the book and runs a finger over the cover, instantly regretting it. “Oh, ugh. It’s bound in human skin.”
Melanie makes a face. “Great. Just great. I hope it’s not the ghost’s skin. Oh, maybe that’s why it couldn’t touch it—or wouldn’t. Because it didn’t want to damage its own body?”
“Melanie, if you were dealing with a ghost that’s bound to something like this—” Gerard waves the book in Melanie’s direction, scowling to try and hide the unease and genuine fear twisting in his gut.
“I’m kidding, Gerry. Jeez. Anyway, I got some good footage from this thing, so…doubt it.” Melanie snatches the book from Gerard’s gesticulating hand and holds it out to Martin. “Here, is it the Slaughter?”
Martin sighs heavily and slides his glasses off his face. His eyes go unfocused, and Gerard feels every single one of his joints ache—a neat little side effect of the protective charms etched onto his skin that he’s conveniently failed to mention to the others—as he draws on the Eye’s power. It fades quickly enough, though, and Martin swears in Polish as he puts his glasses back on. At least, Gerard assumes he’s swearing. It sounds profane, but since he’s never picked up any phrases in Polish beyond how much is that book and don’t mind my brother, he’s just lonely, Martin could be saying anything.
“What is it?” he asks, reaching for the book again.
“Slaughter.” Martin pulls it out of Gerard’s reach and tosses it onto the table. “And the Flesh.”
Gerard blinks. “Fuck.”
“It’s a twofer?” Melanie whistles and actually slides off the counter. “Shit. Lucky thing I didn’t read it. Guess that explains how I could feel it, though.”
“You underestimate yourself.” Martin nudges her gently, then reaches into the cupboard over the stove and pulls out what’s ostensibly a stockpot, which he sets on the table next to the book. “Anyway. We should be able to handle it the usual way.”
Gerard reaches for his coat, which he’s casually tossed over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and fishes out the brass lighter with the eye design Melanie gave him for his birthday a few years back. Presenting it to her, he says, “I believe the honor of starting goes to you, Ms. King.”
“Hmm.” Melanie takes the lighter and flicks it a couple times, making sure it’s filled, Gerard guesses. She looks at the book, then back and forth from Martin to Gerard. Finally, she starts singing “The Golden Vanity”—not one of their usual, but it’ll work. Gerard and Martin join in when she reaches the chorus, and Melanie smoothly hands the lighter off to Martin.
Martin sings the second verse, then passes the lighter to Gerard for the third. As they all sing the last line of the third verse, he gives the lighter back to Melanie, who’s ready with The Transvaal From Within; she flicks the lighter on again and touches it to the corner. The book catches easily, and Melanie holds it over the pot as she continues singing.
It’s an odd ritual, but it works, so none of them question it; the only times Gerard has ever been hurt burning a Leitner has been when he does it on his own and doesn’t give himself the time to at least do part of it properly. It’s best when it’s all of them, of course, but he can do it on his own in a pinch. They each take turns singing a verse of a shanty or some other song of the sea—it works best when it’s something with a chorus they can all sing at the end, but as long as they all join with the last line of each verse it’s usually all right—and set the book on fire after the last one of them has sung. Strangely, no matter how long or short the shanty is, the books always seem to burn exactly as long it lasts, then finally crumble to ash when they hit the last note (they experimented once with a book, little more than a chapbook really, that belonged to the Lonely, and a rousing rendition of “Drunken Sailor”; despite the fact that they got progressively sillier with potential fates for the eponymous sailor, they managed to keep it going for half an hour and the book burnt the entire time).
Gerard doesn’t understand how it works, or why, but it’s kept them safe this long.
They hit the final note, and Melanie opens her fingers to allow the last corner of the book to drop towards the stockpot. It crumbles into ash as it falls, and then there’s nothing but silence.
Gerard peers into the pot at the fine layer of powder at the bottom. “Have you ever considered straining that and making soap out of it?”
“Looked into it. It’s got to be hardwood ash.” Martin gives him an exasperated look. “And do you want to scrub the dishes with the remains of the Flesh?”
“Well, when you put it that way.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melanie says flippantly. “Gerry’s never washed a dish in his life.”
“I’ll get you for that,” Gerard promises.
Martin rolls his eyes and puts the stockpot in the sink, then sets the water running. Over his shoulder, he says, “Go wash your hands. I’ll have food ready in a bit.”
Melanie and Gerard both know what that really means, but Melanie waits until they’re in the bathroom to say quietly, “Is it just me, or is he getting bad again?”
“It’s not just you,” Gerard replies in an undertone. “Think you can spend the night?”
“Was already planning to figure out how to convince him it’s his idea for me to stick around so I don’t do something stupid like go back and see if there are more books of power in other sections of the bookstore. Not that I would, but if I can make him believe I might and he thinks it’s too dangerous for me to be alone, maybe I can at least con him into a manicure. You?”
“Like I have so many other options.” Gerard cuts off the water and reaches for the towel. “Come on. Let’s go take care of our brother.”