Darkness Calls by Marjorie M. Liu

preferred to imagine (which was that some genius inventor had made his home in this concrete tomb and assembled, in wild fits of mental operatic fury, his own collection of devices meant to change the world into an odder place than it already seemed to be).
    The basement smelled like damp concrete and motor oil. My cowboy boots were loud on the floor, and Dick Van Dyke’s voice echoed merrily through the shadows; the Mary Poppins sound track, Chim-Chim-Chereeing against steel pipes and iron gears. I followed the music to a room that was a good distance from the stairs, watching shadows move through the light that spread from the crack around the half-closed metal door.
    I peered inside. First thing I saw was row after row of racks holding wooden flatbed containers filled with soil and careful rows of small green plants. Sunlamps hung haphazardly from chains and ropes strung from the ceiling. In the aisles, on the floor, were some very pretty rag rugs—homemade, I knew—and several cardboard crates piled high with brightly colored yarn and bolts of cloth.
    I heard muttering beneath Dick Van Dyke’s voice. Choice expletives. I pushed open the door a little more and saw a dark aura thundering above a bowed brown head covered in a red knit cap. Grizzled hands flexed, and a tool belt hung low around narrow hips.
    The zombie was watching Mary, who seemed completely oblivious to his presence. She was singing along with the music, barefoot, standing on her toes as she carefully, and with a great deal of affection, watered her marijuana. She had pulled back her wild white hair, stuffing it into a bun, and her arms were bare. No trace of fat, just sinew and bone. Old track marks covered her pale skin. Grant had found Mary in an alley, years ago, almost dead from an overdose. Nursed her back to health. The old woman had never left. I wasn’t certain she could.
    “Jesus Christ,” Rex muttered. “Holy fucking shit.”
    “Yes,” I said, surveying the illegal growth. “Remarkable how this happens.”
    Rex turned, giving me a dirty look—though his aura betrayed his fear, flaring in all directions like rockets powered the shadows in his soul. He was the oldest of the zombies who had come to be converted by Grant—oldest, in that his parasite was old—and while I distrusted the idea that any demon could willingly desire a change in its nature, I was convinced of this zombie’s devotion to Grant. For now, that was enough to let him live.
    “I just found this new stash,” Rex said, like he thought I would try to blame him. Make good, finally, on my longstanding threat to exorcise the shit out of him and feed his writhing body to the boys.
    “Last week it was the south side of the basement,” I replied mildly, watching Mary, who was now singing along with the always-melancholy melody of “Feed the Birds.” “Any clues yet to where she’s getting all the equipment?”
    “Fuck,” muttered the zombie. “Take your pick. Just one of her harvests could pay for an army of little helpers.”
    “No one else has been down here. I’m certain of it.”
    “Whatever.” Rex rubbed his jaw, aura settling; assured, maybe, that he was not going to immediately meet his end. “If the police ever find out, Grant’s ass will burn. All of us will.”
    “No one would blame Grant,” I said, but I knew that was not the point. Grant loved Mary. He had saved her life. If she went to prison for selling drugs, it would hurt him in ways I did not want to contemplate. Problem was, Mary and marijuana were like conjoined twins: where one was, so was the other, no matter how impossible. The woman loved her weed.
    Mary still ignored me. I thought about all the effort it had taken to get rid of her last harvest, and sighed. “Someone tried to shoot me this morning.”
    Rex laughed. “Lovely. Did it make you feel closer to your mother?”
    I punched him. He staggered to one knee, clutching his face. I bent close and, in a loud, sickly-sweet voice,