“I’m still lost on the ship part,” Veruca said, patting his wrist. “I don’t believe we’ll be able to sail one up to the tenth floor.”
“Ah, right. Well, then I got nothing.”
“I’m sure Benedict and Donald will have some advice. Maybe it’ll even involve you getting naked.”
“Your mouth to God’s ears.”
****
They sat in the coffee shop next door to the hotel, Veruca keeping a bead on the siren to make sure she didn’t leave her hotel room before they could get hold of her.
“We could see if Leo has anything to combat the powers of sirens,” Donald suggested.
Benedict shook his head. “That level of soul magic is … dangerous. We both know someone who would likely have something that could help, but I’m betting you’re not interested in giving her a call.”
“I’m sure I’m not,” Veruca said, knowing exactly whom Benedict meant and agreeing with his assessment. “She might be worse than the damn siren.”
“That’s a hard line to cross, but I’m inclined to agree, despite the pains in the ass sirens tend to be. Intense, powerful soul magic is nothing to sneeze at.”
“You sure you haven’t gone up against one before?” Veruca asked with a small smile.
Benedict shrugged. “Maybe I have and I’ve just forgotten.”
“Fair enough,” Veruca said. Her eyes strayed to Finn’s hands and she smiled at the way he fiddled with his napkin, folding it absently as if he could form it into an origami animal. She’d yet to see him accomplish more than an abstract tent-shape, but he had surprised her before.
“So we need a way to speak to the siren and hear her speak to us, but without letting her actually make any sound that could affect us. Could we persuade her to write something out for us if we managed to muzzle her?” Donald asked.
Veruca shook her head. “She barely wanted to answer a question, and clearly wants nothing to do with us. I’m sure if we bind and gag her she’ll feel even less inclined.”
“We could slip a note under her door, asking politely for help?” Finn said, and Veruca wasn’t sure for a moment if he was joking. “Will you come with us to Fairy, and little Yes-No boxes? Like that?”
Veruca chuckled. “I don’t think she’d listen to us then, either.”
“Who would she listen to?” Donald asked.
“I know a Gavel who might be able to persuade the siren, but I can’t say she’d be interested in aiding us petty mortals. Plus, you’re looking to help Nature and she’s Water, so she’d probably take offense if we end up needing to kidnap one of her own.”
Putting aside her question about what exactly a Gavel was, Veruca considered their options quietly, frustrated that this damn situation was creating problems within problems.
“Who wouldn’t mind being bothered, who wouldn’t ask anything in return, and who could stand in the face of a screaming siren and not be persuaded? That’s the person we need to get,” Veruca said with a sigh. She hadn’t ordered coffee but felt restless nonetheless. Everything that had happened since Belial had knocked on her door with the task of finding the banshee had left her stressed and unsure. The possible revelations about Belial, the fact that she was unwillingly aiding a proper Fairy under the noses of both the queen and Belial, and the fact that the entire search seemed to be going nowhere were all stacking up to bring her down.
“I think I know who could help,” Finn said slowly, pulling Veruca’s attention. He looked thoughtful for a moment, before a smile tugged at his full lips and he lifted his hand to wiggle his fingers.
****
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself,” Veruca mumbled as they pulled into a parking spot.
Finn patted her knee and then ran his hand up just high enough to give her thigh a hearty squeeze. “Don’t worry, my love, you’ve got a lot on your mind. That’s why I’m here, to pick up the slack. Though,” Finn said, lowering his voice a touch and leaning in close. “If you really need my help, there’ll be nothing slack about me. I’ll even remove my slacks, to really be sure.”
Veruca chuckled, cupping his cheek and giving him a light kiss. “Later, darling. I need you to raise the dead now.”
“Rats,” Finn muttered, feeling a little pouty as he followed Veruca’s lead and climbed out of the car.
Benedict and Donald met them at the door to the mortuary, letting Veruca lead them inside. Both stayed quiet and looked pleasant, and Finn did the same, though he was sure neither one of them felt as uneasy over the situation as he did.
Raising the dead was nothing new, nothing difficult, not after all the training he’d been through. A demon directly working under Belial had whipped Finn’s butt into shape, making him decent enough at calling corpses to his bidding that he nearly never got chewed on by undead teeth anymore.
He didn’t like doing it, though, and was still sort of hoping Veruca would take over and handle it. Since their souls were linked, she’d stumbled on the ability to draw power from his and raise the dead just as he could. He still had yet to be brave enough to try any of the fancy things she could do, but in his quiet moments he convinced himself it wouldn’t work anyway.
“Lorin,” Veruca said warmly as the plump, older woman with graying hair and smile lines approached them all. “How have you been?”
“Good. It’s been awhile since you’ve been in.”
“Luckily, yes,” Veruca said, and Finn wondered what their history was and why it pinched Veruca’s smile ever so slightly. “Have you got someone in mind for us?”
“Of course, just this way. Gentlemen,” Lorin said, nodding to Finn and the others as if she’d just noticed them.
Leaving Veruca to control the situation, Finn only nodded back, following the women when they turned toward the back of the building. Like the few other funeral homes Finn had been in, this one had a small hive of offices off the entrance to a storage room that looked ominous in its plainness.
Finn doubted anyone passing by it would realize that beyond the door was a freezer full of human remains, but he knew, and he didn’t like it.
“Is this common?” Benedict asked quietly as they went, catching Finn’s attention. “Do you guys hang out often with morticians?”
“I don’t think she’s a mortician,” Finn said thoughtfully, before shrugging. “And I try to steer clear of the dead, regardless.”
“Aren’t you the necromancer?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m constantly raising the dead. You’ve got a gun and I bet you don’t shoot every bottle off every fence you come across.”
Benedict’s smile went slightly squinty with confusion and Finn nodded heartily, considering the matter closed. Donald snorted quietly, and Finn turned defiantly back to the task at hand. When he remembered the task at hand was stepping into a freezer so he could puppet a dead person out of the funeral home and eventually into a fancy city hotel, he couldn’t help but wince.
He had the tools that Leo had given him, but the very idea of jamming sharp metal into an eyeball—even a dead one incapable of feeling pain—made him queasy. Regardless of what might be the better option, he was determined to use his tried and true method of string. The fact that he no longer had to tie bits of yarn to his own fingers to accomplish his goal was a bonus.
He’d learned a lot about raising the dead since meeting Veruca, but thanks to how his necromancy worked, he’d always sort of known that connection was necessary. His magic needed something to ground it, to lead it where it needed to go. He could sense the dead, even without that aid, but to actually prop up a corpse and make it dance or sing, he needed something to tie it to himself.
He’d chosen string, since you could break up bits of the whole. He’d heard most anything could work, though. Veruca had mentioned she’d once been sent to collect a young necromancer who’d used mud to raise the dead, though he’d done it for nasty, personal gain and had to quickly be stopped.
The string he had tucked away in an old mint t
in held special significance to him, as it had belonged to a lovely old woman who’d cared for him deeply and saved his life in a way.
“Here you go, darling,” Veruca said as they stepped up next to the body he was about to be responsible for.
“You’re sure no one’s gonna miss him?” Finn asked.
Veruca rubbed his back gently as Lorin answered his question.
“No, he’s to be cremated later tonight. His family isn’t local and, honestly, I’m not sure they would miss him even if they were. He’s being interred here, despite the fact that they’re in Alabama.”
“That’s sad,” Finn said, the idea making him melancholy. Perhaps he’d come visit the man once all was said and done. “What’s his name?”
“Gil,” Lorin said, the twitch of her eyebrow making Finn think she was puzzled at his interest. “Do you need that to … to raise him?”
“No, Finn’s just a soft soul. Do you mind giving us some room?” Veruca asked, making it clear that Lorin didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Unbothered, the older woman nodded, heading out in silence.
It was quick tying the strings he’d brought around the corpse’s ankles, wrists, and throat. As the blood-tinged twine knotted at the nape of poor Gil’s neck, Finn felt every muscle in his body tense. The blood connection made everything stronger, more intense, and made him feel for the tiniest of moments as if he were invincible.
It was a lie his power told him, trying to convince him that its eager greed for control of the dead could set him up as something more than he was. It teetered, vibrating in his chest, giddy for release, knowing that it was finally about to be let free—or, as free as it could be, curled through the chest of a corpse and under Finn’s control.
“Rataa,” Finn whispered, using the power words he’d made up for himself when he’d been an abused teen. “Istell.”
His power surged forward, tugging at his breast with explosive force, making him grunt ever so slightly. He had to take a deep, shaky breath to overcome the residual feeling of urgency still shivering in his chest. Gil wasn’t the only vessel in the room and his necromancy knew damn well it had the power to raise every corpse in the place and send them marching out like a nearly indestructible army.
“Smooth,” Benedict said when Gil’s eyes opened. He sounded impressed, Finn thought, but not overly, like maybe he’d seen this often enough that it was interesting but had lost its novelty.
“It’s weird,” Donald said, standing off to the side. He had his arms crossed over his chest and was frowning deeply. Finn wondered what it was like for an empath to be around a zombie, if the zombie had feelings or if it was a void. To Finn, depending on how fresh the corpse, it was a mixed bag. When he’d raised a lover shortly after she’d passed of old age, there had been residual energy or soul or whatever powered emotions, and he’d felt like he could read her the way Donald read the living. With most zombies, though, if they were strangers and had been dead for a while, they were no more than puppets.
Giant, creepy, possibly cannibalistic puppets.
“Right,” Finn said, wiggling his fingers absently. “Get up. Let’s get you something to wear. You’ve got a job to do.”
The order wasn’t necessary, Finn knew, but he felt more comfortable, more concrete in his control speaking his intentions aloud.
Gil did as Finn suggested, swinging his legs off the side of the metal table and getting to his feet. Finn hadn’t considered every little step, though, and therefore didn’t think to have Gil grab for the sheet that covered his pudgy middle. It slid to the floor with a whump, leaving Gil to walk completely naked toward the metal table stacked with clothes. Benedict snorted, unbothered by the zombie striding purposefully toward him and stepped out of the way to allow Gil to pass.
“A little nudity never hurt anyone,” Finn said, twitching his fingers to facilitate Gil getting dressed, and then turned to Benedict. “Right, friend?”
Benedict shrugged, not taking Finn’s waggling eyebrows as an invitation to strip down, which Finn felt was a little rude. He’d have done so without hesitation if Benedict had even casually hinted at the possibility.
As if sensing his disappointment, Veruca patted Finn’s shoulder. “I’ll get naked for you later, darling.”
“A proper lady, this one,” Finn said, squeezing her close and kissing the top of her head.
Chapter Fourteen
Finn sat next to Veruca, her hand in his, as the zombie made its way upstairs without them. He didn’t have a solid plan in place and still wasn’t entirely sure why Veruca couldn’t be the one to raise the zombie and send it upstairs, but she’d left the task to him and he trusted her judgment.
Gil got upstairs without incident or notice, mostly due to the fact that he was so freshly dead, but Finn liked to think he added a certain spice to the movement of the undead that helped them appear normal. He had Gil scratch his cheek here or there, adjust his shirt once in a while, and even pick a wedgie, just in case there was someone monitoring the elevator cameras.
Not that he knew there were cameras in the elevator, but the zombie’s butt was boxer-free, so in the end it was all worth it.
He strolled down the hall toward the siren’s room, feeling pretty smug about himself and his ability to control the dead—a feeling that had been absent most of his life—and paused in front of the door, before reality crept in.
“What if she doesn’t answer?” Finn asked, opening his eyes and turning to Veruca.
She shrugged. “You never know until you try. Go ahead and knock.”
Finn nodded, closing his eyes again and doing as she said. He gave the knock a jaunty rhythm, hoping she’d want to come see who was visiting just based on the pleasantness of the sound. There was a long pause, just as there had been when he’d been at the door in person, and Finn felt his confidence crumble a bit.
Then the siren opened the door, the same disaffected look on her face as before. Without expression or interest, she waited silently for Gil to speak, apparently unbothered by the intrusion of yet another stranger.
“Hey, I know you’re not in the mood for company, but I’ve got something to ask you and I’m hoping I can come in.”
“For a moment,” she said, turning and walking away to leave the heavy door to swing closed.
Gil caught it, stepping in before letting it fall shut and leaving Finn feeling an odd sense of Déjà vu. “Thanks,” he said, tucking Gil’s hands in his pockets as Finn tried to make the zombie look as unthreatening as possible. Rather than answering, the siren did as she had before, opening her mouth and wailing out a long note that, despite the implication, Finn found delightful.
When she turned and began talking, Finn grinned, knowing Gil was following suit, and waited until she’d finished issuing an order similar to the one she’d given earlier. Rather than heeding it, Finn just lifted Gil’s hand, gesturing vaguely to the siren’s mouth.
“That was lovely,” Gil said, echoing Finn’s eagerness. “Really, I can see why sailors of old would throw themselves into the sea to, eh, to come meet you, or whatever. Not that you’re not enticing without the singing, but the singing really seals it, you know?”
The siren frowned, her ocean-colored brows drawing in close as she inspected Gil, confused by the turn of events.
“Get out,” she said, pointing at the door, as if the action would add weight her magic hadn’t. “Now, go.”
“I can’t do that, sorry. I’ve been sent here by—”
“I said get out!” the siren screeched, her demeanor changing in an instant. To Finn’s surprise, her appearance warped, too, her face lengthening, her jaw pulling open as her teeth seemed to sharpen and lengthen. Tiny and menacing, she launched herself forward, slashing at Gil’s chest with fierce nails that had mutated into bird-like talons.
Gil danced back, but Finn wasn’t quick enough to evade the full extent of her attack and, when he could spare a moment to look away from the raging siren, he found Gil’s shirt shredd
ed. Upon further inspection—as Gil fled the siren, darting to the side and around toward the couch, hoping to put it between him and the creature—Finn realized she’d torn flesh as well.
“Dammit,” Finn—and Gil—howled, both because he’d gotten the poor man’s body mauled and because he didn’t quite manage to skirt the arm of the couch as he’d attempted to do. Before he knew it, all Finn could see through Gil’s eyes was the ugly hotel room carpet. Swearing again, Finn flipped the zombie, hoping to get to his feet and try once again to talk the siren down. Instead, he was faced with her bony claws coming straight for his face, clawing over the dead flesh and leaving Finn blind in one of Gil’s eyes. To his astonishment, the siren froze above him, staring down at Gil’s ruined face with horror.
“Undead,” she hissed, before lifting both fists and bringing them down hard on Gil’s face. Panicked, Finn yowled—both through his own mouth, and the zombie’s—and reacted without thinking, lifting Gil’s hands to push at the siren’s face. He had no proper fight training, had never really been able to defend himself, except with words. The zombie was reacting too, though, his necromancy making it desperate, and before he knew it, Gil’s one good eye was showing him that he’d managed to get a pretty good grip on the siren’s throat, Gil’s thick fingers squeezing with all their undead might for long enough that Finn lost track of time.
The siren’s voice choked out with her last breath, and she clawed at Gil’s fingers, tearing his skin viciously. Her body gave a shudder before one hand swiped desperately at Gil’s chest, and she went limp little by little.
“Shit,” Finn said, opening his eyes to find Donald and Benedict watching him with interest. “Ehm. Well. She didn’t want to talk.”
“You okay?” Benedict asked, his tone reminding Finn of the disinterest the siren had held before she’d realized she’d let a corpse into her temporary home.
“I’m fine. Gil’s … in bad shape.”
“The siren?” Veruca asked, her gaze lifting toward the ceiling, making Finn think she was inspecting the siren’s soul through the many floors of the hotel.
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