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to him as Jane threw open the gates of the graveyard and ran toward us. When I reached the figure, he was face-down next to a gravestone that was splattered with flecks of blood.
    Please don’t let him be dead, whoever he is. I need answers.
    I reached for the figure, but an overwhelming smell rose from him and I gagged. Patchouli, just like the scent we used to trap and control ghosts for the Department of Extraordinary Affairs. The only person I knew who carried that much on him was …
    “Connor?” I said, rolling the figure over.

4
    It was Connor, not that I would have recognized him at first glance. He had a thick, unkempt beard now and his hair was a gnarled, matted mess, even the signature white stripes running through it. Blood covered his face.
    “Oh, my God,” Jane said. “Is he alive?”
    “I think so,” I said. “Give me a hand.”
    Jane joined me and we sat Connor up until he was able to rest his back against the wall of the mausoleum. Every move caused him to groan and hiss out in pain. But even though most of his face and his eyes were swollen shut, he was smiling. He was barely able to open them, but when he did, there was madness in them.
    “I had ’em on the ropes, kid,” he croaked out. His voice sounded tired, his words thick, as if he were speaking through a mouthful of blood.
    “Uh-huh,” I said, taking a closer look at his face. Once I got past the blood, the damage looked like it might just be a few scrapes, cuts, and swelling. “Forgive my skepticism, Connor, but what ropes did you have him up against? The soft, fluffy kind? It looks like you’re the one crumpled on the ground. I’d say the spirits had the upper hand.”
    Jane and I each grabbed an arm and stood Connor up. He winced. “Matter of perspective, I suppose,” he said, fighting to keep his balance.
    I looked around the graveyard. Already the limited power of my commands was wearing on the ghosts, and all around us the ethereal figures of the long-dead began to once again crawl their way out of their graves.
    “Let’s move him,” I said to Jane. “Now.”
    She hesitated, uncertainty showing in her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to not move someone this badly injured? He’s really hurt, Simon.”
    “Look around us,” I said. “I’ll take my chances with whatever injuries he has over what this crowd will cook up for vengeance if we don’t get out of here stat.”
    Jane gave a pained smile. “Fair point, sweetie.” She put one of Connor’s arms over her shoulder and started carrying him out with me.
    “Thank you,” I said. Our group limp toward the open gates was maddeningly slow. “Besides, he’s my partner. If I let him die here, I’ll be the only one left to finish all that paperwork and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.”
    “Yer all heart, kid,” Connor said, laughing through gritted teeth. It sounded like the rattling of bones.
     
     
    Rule one while hailing a cab with a bloodied man? Let the woman stand alone at the curb to flag one down. Connor and I waited in the shadow of the church. As soon as a cab pulled over, Jane got in as Connor and I scrambled out of the shadows toward it. I helped the barely conscious Connor get in, then jumped in after him, slamming the door shut behind me.
    The driver looked back at the three of us with skepticism on his face, but when I shoved a fifty through the partition at him, he was happy to take us up the West Side Highway to Connor’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. As soon as the cab started moving, Connor passed out and we rode in silence until the driver turned onto Fifty-fourth and pulled up in front of Connor’s apartment building between Tenth and Ninth avenues.
    I found Connor’s keys in the pocket of his blood-covered trench coat and cycled through them until one of them unlocked the door leading into his empty lobby. We leaned him against the elevator wall as we rode up, thankful that no one was around. When we reached Connor’s floor, Jane and