Ungrateful Dead Read Online Free PDF

I’ve had fuck all luck getting in touch with her.”
    Anna nodded. “And your client…”
    “Not giving you anything until I’ve spoken to them, Anna. Sorry.”
    Before she could reply, one of the boys shuffled into the kitchen, his eyes alight with a feverish excitement. “It’s the same as the Skinner girl, boss,” he said.
    Anna stood up straighter, if possible. “When’s the coroner coming?”
    “He’s stuck in traffic on Sturgeon Street.”
    When the coroner arrived, Anna would kick me out, denying me any chance to indulge in some morbid bystanding. “Who’s the Skinner girl?” I asked.
    “Prostitute we fished out of the river two weeks ago,” Anna replied. “She’d been sliced up around the stomach and her throat was slit. Looks like your Rhian has been butchered the same way.”
    “A cutting remark, Anna.”
    “Excruciatingly unfunny, Banning.” She sighed, tugging her ponytail. “Look, Ethan, I’m going to need information, you know.”
    “Using my first name. You’re trying to seduce me, Detective Radcliffe.”
    She ignored that. “I want your client’s name, and any further information you have pertaining to the dead girl. Think you can manage that?”
    I shrugged, getting that she wasn’t really asking. “I’ll be in touch.”
    “I’ll wait by the phone.” She turned her back on me, already forgetting me.
    I left her in the kitchen, wishing I had a chance for one more look at the dead girl. As I walked past the bathroom, a shiver crawled down my spine, like icy little fingers. Something dark inside me licked its lips at the thought of seeing the hooker again, soaking up the aura of death and pain again, but officers blocked off the bathroom. They swarmed around it and left me with no option but to head out into the steamy summer afternoon.
    I know it sounds fucked up. And I’m not into dead girls. Seriously. Last autumn I worked a missing persons case in Shoregrave, murder capital of the country, and ended up dealing with the kind of fucked up shit you usually only see on bad drug trips. I learned a lot. Like that wraiths were real and ghouls wandered the graveyards at night, and that ghosts came back for revenge if you killed them violently enough.
    And that demons could hide in your bathroom and jump down your throat.
    I leaned against the wall of the building, rolling myself a cigarette. Demons. Yeah, I’d had a demon inside for a few sick minutes. Then the wraith had sucked it out of me – mostly. I think. I don’t know. All I really know is since then, I’ve been living on coffee, cigarettes, and nerves, feeling dangerous. Hearing a Voice in my thoughts and dreams that isn’t mine. A Voice that wants blood and guts, violence and misery.
    I’d laid low at first, hoping the Voice would leave. I didn’t take any cases, didn’t go anywhere. I just sat in my living room watching the twenty-four news channel and feeding the Voice. Terrorism, natural disasters, pandemics, rape, and murder… the Voice loved it. Bounced off the walls of my mind with it, while I clutched my head and drank more coffee. Nasty, but it kept the demon part of me occupied while the human part tried not to go on a killing spree.
    Eventually, I ran out of money and realized the Voice wasn’t going anywhere. I was stuck with a perpetual reminder of my trip to fucking Shoregrave.
    And that’s why I was chasing down missing prostitutes – sorry, dead prostitutes – and hankering after one last look at Rhian Ellis’s cold white flesh.
    I shook off the feeling as best I could and left the apartment block. Outside the afternoon faded into dusk, and the air felt heavy with humidity. Dark storm clouds filled the sky. I hoped the rain would cool things off. I couldn’t think in the heat.
    I rolled myself a cigarette and headed down the block to my car. This was a shitty part of town, row after row of boarded-up stores and graffiti-scarred apartment blocks. Garbage cans overflowed and reeked of wet rot. A