by Casey Lane
She shook her head firmly, meeting Ezri’s gaze in the antique mirror before them. “No, where do the bad people go. The killers, the murderers, the people who hurt children. The people like Dylan. Where did the gods send them?”
Ezri set the brush down, running her fingers through Neoma’s hair, separating it into different sections. “Most evil creatures get sent to Hel.”
Neoma frowned. “Hell? Like with fire and the devil?”
Ezri shook her head. “In Norse mythology, Hel is a person, the goddess of the underworld. She punishes evil-doers.”
Neoma swallowed hard. “What about the others?”
“The others?” Ezri asked, braiding a small section of Neoma’s hair.
“Yes, you said most of the bad people go to Hel…where do the rest of them go?”
Ezri’s mirror image looked away, her mouth flattening, as she seemed to war with herself over some internal decision. Finally, she said, “Some of them don’t go anywhere. They stay here on this side of the veil, walking among the living.”
Neoma’s eyes grew wide. “Like zombies?”
Ezri gave a lopsided smile. “More like a cross between a zombie and a vampire.”
Neoma, once again, caught Ezri’s gaze in the mirror, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “Zompires. They don’t sound very scary.”
Ezri laughed half-heartedly, and Neoma joined in, but it was hard to laugh when they both knew something scary was always lingering just outside. They grew quiet for a time as Ezri began to braid another small section of Neoma’s hair.
“Are zompires real?” Neoma finally asked.
Ezri’s mirror image shrugged. “My mom said they were.”
“Did she ever see one?”
Ezri’s eyes flitted up to meet hers before returning to Neoma’s hair. “You knew my mom. She was always telling wild stories that my great-grandmother supposedly told her. No matter what we were talking about, she always knew somebody who knew somebody who’d had that happen to them. Who knows how much of that was real or true.”
Neoma thought on it for a moment. “Do zompires look like zombies or do they look like vampires?”
“My mom said that it depended on circumstance. Some looked human; some had chalk-white skin as thin as parchment paper, others had skin that was gray like smoke. The ones who perished at sea were a deep blue.”
Neoma’s look was skeptical. “Like an avatar?”
Ezri giggled. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch that movie. Yes, like an avatar but way scarier.”
“Do zompires eat brains or drink blood?”
“She said they survive off flesh and blood and that they bring pestilence and madness wherever they go.”
Neoma frowned. “What does pestilence mean?”
“Disease. Sickness.”
Neoma thought about it for a minute. “Do they bite people like vampires or chew on people like zombies?”
Ezri snickered, daggering her fingers into the younger girl’s ribs until Neoma was screeching with laughter, begging her to stop. “When did you get so bloodthirsty? I thought elementals were supposed to be gentle, nature-loving, creatures?” the young witch asked.
Neoma shrieked with laughter, snatching at Ezri’s fingers, before looking up at her, eyes suddenly serious. “Do you think Dylan brings my blood to the zompires? Do you think that’s why he takes my blood?”
Ezri’s expression was stormy. “I think Dylan is a-a jerk, and I think that Ruby only makes him worse.”
Ruby. The name was familiar, not a memory exactly, but maybe the echo of one, close but just out of reach. Maybe if she just thought on it hard enough, she’d remember. Ruby. Ruby. Ruby. Who was she?
Ezri secured another braid before resting her chin on Neoma’s shoulder. “You can’t hide from him forever. You need to tell somebody.”
Neoma’s stomach churned. “They hide my scars. Nobody will believe me. Especially not Cain. He thinks Dylan is perfect.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. Cain loves you and Dylan, and he just deals with the rest of us. Look at this room he made you. He would have never done this for any of us. Your room is a fairy tale. It’s a room for a princess.”
“I hate it. I’m not a princess. I’m a witch. A warrior. I am descended from Vikings. Not some delicate creature to be pampered. My father doesn’t care about that. He won’t hear that. Having my father’s undivided attention isn’t a good thing, Neoma. Why do you think Wren left?”
Neoma didn’t want to think about that. She couldn’t. She didn’t know why he’d left her behind, but she did know things would be different when he came back. Dylan would never challenge Wren, not now. Wren was strong, stronger than anybody and Dylan was barely a wolf. He was just a slave to the blood.
Ezri leaned back against her headboard and Neoma deflated against her. “Can zompires be killed?”
“Yes. But it’s not easy. Only a person whose heart is pure can kill a zompire.”
“How?”
“They have to chop off their head and cut out their heart and pack their mouths with dirt before burning the body.”
That sounded like an impossible task. What constituted a pure heart? “I wish Dylan were a zompire,” Neoma confided. “Then Wren could kill him.”
Ezri rested her cheek against Neoma’s hair for just a moment. “Neoma, next time Wren calls, you need to tell him what Dylan’s doing. He’ll come home. Wren will believe you.”
“No. Wynnie says that Wren keeps us safe. I’ll be okay until he comes back. It won’t be much longer now.”
“Neoma…”
Neoma ignored her, sitting up once again. “Tell me the story your mom told you, about the zompires.”
Ezri looked conflicted like she was deciding whether she should keep arguing. Then she was sitting forward, grabbing the next section of Neoma’s hair, her voice soothing as her hands worked.
“Some people think they’re restless spirits, others think they are simply evil but my mother said that magic isn’t always black and white. She says the human texts get it wrong.”
A shiver ran along Neoma’s spine, but she let herself get lost in Ezri’s voice. “Get it wrong?”
Ezri nodded. “It’s not always a punishment. You don’t have to be a bad person to become one of them. Sometimes it’s a curse. A curse passed down through generations of a particular bloodline.”
“Everybody in that family becomes a monster when they die?”
“No, not everybody. Only those born with the caul will come back afflicted.”
“What’s a caul?”
Ezri’s mouth turned down at the corners. “It’s when a baby’s born still in its amniotic sac. It’s protective bubble.”
“That means it’s going to be a zompire?”
Ezri shook her head. “Not exactly. My mother said that becoming a…a zompire…could only happen if there is a perfect storm of events. The bloodline. The caul. A tragic death. Planetary alignment. It’s why the creatures are so rare.”
“But your mom said she’d seen one? A zompire?”
Ezri gave a stilted nod in the mirror. “In the village where she grew up back in Norway when she was just a teenager.”
“What happened?”
“The town where my mother lived was beautiful…quaint. A small fishing village with red and white cottages dotting its coastline and a view of the mountains in the distance. The people of the village were kind but superstitious, often looking for people to blame when the boats returned with less fish than the men anticipated.
“Two girls lived in the village, Malfred and Freydis. They were the daughters of a widower, a fisherman with a large boat that always seemed to bring back a good haul. For years, the girls lived in the village, oblivious to the talk surrounding the death of their mother and the ugly whispers that their father had murdered her, sacrificed her to Odin in exchange for nets that were never empty.
“One day, when the girls were just six and eight, t
heir father set off in his boat, despite the storm brewing out over the water. Hours later, when the storm made land, their father was still not home. They sat, huddled together, listening as the rains battered their cottage and the seas raged just outside. When the storm passed, and the sun rose once more, the girls went to the dock, hoping for a miracle. Instead, they found that the sea hadn’t returned their father, only pieces of his boat.
“The girls were sent to live with their grandmother, a powerful witch from a long line of witches, who practiced the old religion from her small shack on the outskirts of the village. The villagers were afraid of their grandmother, believing the woman’s bloodline was cursed…so they shunned her, only coming to her when they needed her help.
“The villagers turned their backs on the girls just as they once had their grandmother. The old woman paid little attention to those who lived in the village. She called them simple and fragile and the worst kind of humans. She cared only about helping the girls develop their magical gifts which had laid dormant for far too long.
“Their grandmother was strict. They were to practice day and night. They were no longer allowed to attend school. The old woman kept them cloistered away from the humans, away from their friends, away from boys. The oldest sister, Freydis, was responsible, working tirelessly to please their grandmother, while the youngest, Mal, ran wild, causing trouble at every turn.
“Freydis tried everything to bring Mal to heel. The older girl would make Mal combs out of seashells and dolls from sticks and twine, but nothing could make her behave. She was obstinate. Each beating she received from their grandmother, only seemed to make her more willful, more stubborn, more determined to prove she would do as she pleased.
“And on and on it went, Freydis desperate to please the old woman, learning every lesson she could and Mal defying her grandmother at every opportunity.
“Until Freydis fell in love with the butcher’s son. A tall boy named Tori, with hair as black as tar and eyes the color of sea glass. Freydis didn’t want to defy her grandmother, she wanted to be good, but when Tori asked to meet, she just couldn’t say no.
“Mal thought it was very romantic, unrequited love, meeting in secret, falling in love in the shadows of an abandoned cottage. Each night Mal would scheme, finding creative ways to help her sister be with the butcher’s boy and each morning Freydis would return with stars in her eyes.
“Until one day they were caught by the boy’s father, who accused Freydis of putting a love spell on the boy, claiming no son of his could ever love a girl such as her. He dragged her through the streets and dumped her on her grandmother’s doorstep, telling the old woman that he’d have the girl burned for a witch if she dared go near his son again.”
“Three days later, Mal woke to find Freydis sitting in her bed, gaze fixed to the wall as if she’d been awake all night. But the girl wasn’t awake. She was dead. There was no visible cause of death. It was as if she’d simply willed herself to die. Mal was heartbroken. She and her grandmother buried Freydis in the tiny cemetery far outside the village and Mal vowed to be better, to do better, for her sister.
“The sightings started just three days later. People claiming Freydis still walked among the living, looking for her revenge. They told wild stories, speaking of how Freydis would come into their children’s rooms, whispering in their ears, feeding their nightmares as she fed off their blood. Each night, another child woke to find a wound at their neck and the token the monster had left behind, a doll made of sticks and twine, a gift for feeding her hunger.
“Parents began to keep their children with them at night, sleeping with their little ones tucked between them…but somehow she still fed and the more she fed, gorging herself on the blood of the children, the more the entire village seemed to suffer. The parents of the chosen children soon succumbed to a mysterious illness that seemed to eat away at them. The elders in the village began to go mad, seeing things that weren’t there, hearing voices in their heads, voices that told them to do bad things.
“Mal begged her grandmother to help her sister. To help the village…but the older woman said it was out of her hands. That only a hero with the purest of hearts could kill the thing her sister had become. Mal knew she was no hero and her heart was anything but pure…so she turned to the boy—the butcher’s son who’d loved her sister—and once again she schemed.
“Mal cast a spell, her first, using the boy to lure her sister back to her grave. Just as in life, her sister couldn’t resist, drawn to Tori as if they were simply two halves of the same person. Mal barely recognized the creature before her. She’d once been so beautiful. But now she was sickly, pale, her eyes so black it was like looking into a void.
“The creature who was once her sister never spoke aloud, but her hateful words echoed inside Mal’s mind, each one burrowing into her brain and taking hold deep in her subconscious until her mind was nothing but the sound of angry bees, a white noise that blotted out all but the pain. Just when she was sure she couldn’t take it one moment longer, it was gone.
“The butcher’s boy had severed the creature’s—her beloved sister’s—head with a blade he’d stolen from his father. Together, Mal and Tori cut its heart from its chest, placing it in the creature’s hands before packing dirt from her grave into her mouth. When they finished, they placed the body in a small boat, setting it aflame and casting it out to sea.”
When Ezri fell quiet, Neoma asked, “What ever happened to Mal?”
Ezri blinked as if she was coming out of a trance, giving Neoma a tiny smile. “I don’t know. My mother moved away.”
“She never went back?”
Ezri shook her head. “No. When she had my sister a year later, she was already living here in the states. I think my mom must have been close to Mal and Freydis because she would always get very sad when she told the story. That’s why I liked her other stories better. I wanna hear about goddesses with swords and magic, not zompires who never got to be happy.” Ezri pointed Neoma towards the mirror. “There now you look like a Viking queen.”
Neoma smiled at her reflection. Ezri had weaved two small braids down either side of her head and one huge braid down the middle, just like in the movies.
“Come on; I’ll walk you home. Cain and Alis should be home by now.”
Neoma meant to say okay, the words just forming when things began to grow fuzzy, and Ezri slowly faded away.
Hadley’s voice filled her ears. “That’s very good Neoma. You did so well. You can open your eyes.”
* * *
She did as Hadley asked, frowning at the water pouring in sheets across the window panes. It was raining again. Hard.
Welcome back, little one. Shhh.
Isa looked at Hadley; concern etched on her face. “Are you okay?”
Neoma looked to Rhys, whose grip tightened spastically around her ankle. He looked haunted, like something he’d seen had confused or frustrated him. Something was wrong. He watched her, head tilted and eyes narrowed, somehow seeing something the others hadn’t.
Neoma plastered a serene smile on her face, doing her best to look as blank as possible. “I’m fine. Can I go play now?”
Wren frowned but nodded. “Sure. Go play.”
She stood, before turning and reaching for Rhys’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Rhys stared at her hand for a full thirty seconds before he reached out and took it, letting her drag him up the stairs, not stopping until they reached the top.
“What does any of that mean? Is she trying to tell us that this…zompire…is what’s attacking her? Hurting her?” Neoma heard Isa ask.
“And what does it have to do with Dylan?” There was no missing the frustration in Wren’s voice.
“Ezri obviously thought the memory was important. We need to know more about these creatures.”
“Who’s Ruby?” Isa suddenly asked. “Do you know her? Could she help us solve this riddle?”
“When I went to the witch that told us to fin
d you, she said Dylan had done something to Ruby. That she’d fallen for my brother and then disappeared. Since the last time I saw that witch, a spirit psychically attacked her; I think it’s a dead end. Oggie said he’d be here by tomorrow morning. If anybody knows what we’re up against, it’ll be him.”
Rhys looked at Neoma. “We need to talk.”
Before Neoma could agree or disagree that voice filled her head once more.
You’ve opened the door, little fae, now I can walk through it whenever I choose. Now they’re all mine.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wren
Gen and Hadley took the kids to lunch so that Wren, Isa, and Rhys could rest before their run that night. But Rhys refused to stay home, claiming he wasn’t a baby or an old person and he didn’t take naps in the middle of the day.
Wren had no intention of sleeping. Neoma’s session had left him on edge, hovering between guilt and fury. Isa led him upstairs, insisting that he slip off his shoes and lie down beside her. She snuggled herself against him, surrounding him with her scent, with the warmth of her body, her hands petting along his arms and back. “Talk to me, baby.”
His kneejerk reaction was to shake his head. He didn’t want to talk about the responsibility and the rage eating through his stomach…but he did. The words just poured out of him as she scraped blunt nails along his scalp and back. It was like she’d entranced him somehow, coercing him into confessing every dark thought. When he fell quiet, she kissed the top of his head, letting him curl himself around her.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke, Isa was still beside him. He lay on his side, facing her, but they were no longer touching and he felt the loss. She’d pulled the blackout curtains closed, trading the rain and shadows outside for the warm glow of the lamp on her bedside table.
He didn’t move, gave no indication he was awake. He just wanted to look at her. It was quickly becoming his new favorite pastime. There was nothing overtly seductive in her clothing. If anything, she looked ready for bed. Her hair was loose and fell in thick, dark waves against delicate shoulders. She wore an oversized black Nirvana band t-shirt and what looked like nothing else.
