To Kill the Dead (Hollowcliff Detectives Book 3)

by C. S. Wilde

  “What do you mean, it came back?” He scoffed. “It doesn’t have fucking legs, Sebastian!”

  Telling Corvus about the crown’s return meant telling him about Poseidon, and his brother didn’t need to know about him. Not yet, at least.

  “I have no clue how it came back,” he lied. “It’s why I need Madam Zukova’s help.”

  Corvus blinked, a sudden grief swallowing his features. “Do you think it might have something to do with Leon?”

  “Absolutely not.” Bast grabbed his shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “Our big brother is resting in peace in Danu’s realms. This has nothing to do with him, I’m certain.”

  “Good.” Clearing his throat, Corvus rubbed his hands. “This is quite exciting. My very first case with Detective Sebastian Dhay, baku extraordinaire.”

  Bast rolled his eyes, knowing that Mera’s ‘reinforcement’ would be more annoying than helpful, as usual. “It’s not your case, and you’re not a detective.”

  “Don’t ruin it for me.”

  “You realize you’re a king, right?” Bast pointed out the obvious. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

  “Yes, but they bore me to Danu’s hells. Besides, I promised your partner I would watch over you, so…” He motioned to the path ahead.

  Halle. Bast couldn’t do much to stop him. Corvus was the only fae in Hollowcliff—no, in all of Tagrad—who could be more stubborn than Bast himself.

  As they headed down the promenade, his brother told him about the daily challenges and struggles of being king in gruesome detail.

  “Why, the other day, a lord rebelled against me. I had to make him an example, you see. It certainly wasn’t my fault. I tell you, flaying his arm was more fun than the tedious balls and pointless politics involved with the job.”

  Bast half-listened to him while he searched for Madam Zukova’s stall. “You are aware that I’m an officer of the law, and torture is a crime?”

  “What crime?” He tapped his temple knowingly. “I restored the skin before shoving him in the dungeons, didn’t I? Treachery is also a crime, if you recall.” Corvus didn’t take a breath before continuing. “The fierce fuckery inherent to power is certainly a plus. The females open their legs just like that, brother.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s marvelous!”

  “Horny baku,” Bast grunted under his breath.

  The psychic’s stall wasn’t in its usual place. They had almost gone through the entire market, when Bast finally spotted a stand at the end of the promenade with a red velvet banner fluttering across the top.

  “Madam Zukova, greatest seer in world,” the silver embroidery proclaimed. Danu, he could even read her strong accent.

  Inside the stall, the old Sidhe analyzed a pookah’s palm. Madam Zukova was clad in a cerulean dress with golden embellishments on the hems, and shining gold jewelry on her wrists, neck, and ears. Her pink hair, woven into a low braid, cascaded down her back.

  “Be with you soon, yes?” The seer didn’t turn to them. Instead, she frowned at the pookah’s hand—paw would be a better word, since the creature resembled an overgrown rabbit.

  “It’s a bad idea, ser Pennysworth,” she told the pookah in her heavy northern accent. “This business will cost wealth you will not regain.”

  “But—”

  “I have spoken. Proceed at your own risk.” She held out her cupped palm. “That is twenty-five gold coins.”

  From the corner of the stall, Bast chuckled. “Upped your prices?”

  She smiled coyly as the pookah handed her a small leather bag. The creature then stood, bowed to her, and hopped away.

  “High demand, higher price.” The seer placed the leather bag inside one of the many hidden pockets in her dress. “Especially since someone spread news that I helped you solve Summer King’s murder.”

  “You mean you,” Corvus pointed out from beside Bast. “You are the someone who spread the news.”

  Madam Zukova chuckled. “You know me well, King of Night, although I don’t remember us meeting before.”

  “I don’t need to know you. All psychics are the same.”

  “I am businesswoman. There’s difference.” She patted the wooden chair facing her in a clear sign for Bast to sit. As he stepped forward, she analyzed Corvus, who remained at the corner of the stand. “You don’t enjoy being king.”

  A statement, not a question.

  “Anyone can see that,” he countered, though he didn’t sound completely certain.

  “We’re not here for you to cold read my brother.” Bast pulled the Crown of Land and Sea from the messenger bag.

  Madam Zukova nearly fell off her chair. “No. Take it away.” She gestured at the stall’s exit. “I want nothing to do with this.”

  “Please,” Bast insisted. “I’m ready to pay you heavily for it.”

  That got through to her. It always did.

  Staring at him, the seer sat up straight, taking a few moments to regain her composure. Finally, she nodded to the crown. “You believe it was Big Brother’s doom.”

  The memory of Leon stung his chest. Bast couldn’t explain how the seer knew his nickname for his oldest brother, but when it came to Madam Zukova, he couldn’t explain a world of things.

  “In a way, yes,” he admitted.

  “In a way, yes,” she repeated, cocking her head to the left. “Night Court’s blood didn’t help him, did it, Detective?”

  It did not.

  Nightblood was a curse and a gift; many things in one. It had destroyed Leon’s sanity, convincing him to kill their father and two brothers so he could become king. He’d almost killed Mera, too.

  Shaking his head, Bast cleared the memories from his mind. He couldn’t lose his focus.

  “I need to know who touched this crown, other than Leon, Mera, and I.” He handed it to the seer, but she didn’t take it. “I’m certain you’re the only faerie in Tagrad who can help me.”

  “Can is not same as will. For a hundred coins, I will help.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “Done.” Corvus pulled two fat, small bags from his pockets and tossed them at her feet.

  He couldn’t have been carrying them in his sleek suit, so he must have used his magic. The Royal House’s night was infinite, so it could technically work as a storage—if one knew how to make it work.

  Wonderful. Another thing Corvus’ magic could do that Bast’s couldn’t.

  Sure, Bast’s power was more volatile and destructive, but he preferred the subtleties of his brother’s abilities.

  “I have made my own bed,” Madam Zukova grumbled before leaning forward.

  When she touched the crown with the tip of her index finger, her body went suddenly stiff, and her eyes rolled back to her skull.

  Corvus stepped closer, genuine concern in his features. “Is she all right?”

  Bast had no fucking clue. “Madam Zukova?”

  The seer didn’t reply, she simply hissed through clenched teeth.

  “He’s free,” she managed after a while, her jaw chattering as if she’d been immersed in a freezing cold. “He’s death and he’s war. He’s weak, but growing stronger.” She fell silent for several moments, her body quivering. “The banished queen who never was is the key. He needs her.”

  Banished queen who never was?

  Banished princess.

  Mera!

  “How do we stop him?” Bast pushed, adrenaline shooting through his veins. “Tell me how to kill him!”

  “How do you kill he who cannot die?”

  Her body went limp and her chin touched her chest.

  A moment of gut-wrenching silence ensued, a moment where Bast couldn’t gather his thoughts, couldn’t figure out what to do. The sound of his thundering heartbeat echoed in his ears, his breathing rushed.

  Madam Zukova suddenly raised her head, taking a deep breath as if emerging from under water. Utter horror shone in her yellow irises.

  “We must run. Whoever he is, he brings the end o
f days on his back.” Jumping to her feet, she began packing her things, sniffing back tears while her hands violently shook. “Our poor princess is doomed.”

  Mera.

  She meant Mera was doomed.

  Bast stood up, resolve reverberating through every inch of his body. “I will die before I let anything happen to her.”

  “Yes.” Madam Zukova’s eyes glistened. “Yes you will, Sebastian Dhay.”

  Chapter 5

  Mera crossed the light blue halls of Clifftown General, searching for room 305.

  The hospital resembled a maze, which didn’t surprise her. A complex with some twenty floors, Clifftown General occupied half a quarter, being at least four times bigger than the second greatest healing center in Tagrad, Evanora General, in the witches’ borough.

  The immaculate halls reeked of disinfectant, but the scent of blood lingered underneath. Thank her siren’s sharp sense of smell for that—not.

  Metal plaques on the walls at corridor intersections guided visitors throughout the hospital. They led Mera to an open doorway with a sign at the top that read ‘Final Ward.’

  Human treatments alone weren’t enough to save most lives, but neither was healing, since a healer’s magic could wear out before a person recovered. So, the government came up with a solution: have a mix of both in every hospital and healing center. After that, mortality rates plummeted like a Nightbringer with a hole in its iron hull.

  Not everyone could be saved, though, and those cases usually went to Final Wards.

  A sick feeling settled in Mera’s gut as she ventured inside the open doorway. Out of all the wards in a hospital, here was where people truly came to die.

  “Not to worry, Detective,” the nurse at the reception desk had assured. “The patient’s status isn’t so severe. We sent the victim to the Final Ward because your partner requested we place her in an empty area. To avoid panic, of course. We haven’t had an undead attack in decades.”

  “My partner.” The word rang oddly in her ears, since Mera wasn’t talking about Bast. “Do you know when he arrived?”

  The nurse seemed to think for a moment. “I’d say no more than twenty minutes ago.”

  Now, heading toward room 305, a boulder of guilt weighed on Mera’s shoulders.

  Coming to Clifftown to see Julian was a bad idea. He must hate her for ignoring him for so long.

  Well, she needed to set things straight between them, not to mention they both had a job to do. Too late to back down now.

  Finally finding the right door, she knocked twice before entering.

  Morgan Schmid, the victim, was immersed in a bathtub filled with ice, her skin nearing blue, her teeth chattering. Black veins crept from under her garment up to her shoulder, heading toward her neck, while ropes tied her wrists and ankles together. Her dark hair was plastered to her face, almost hiding the graft on her left cheek. The patch of skin looked purple but other than that, and small scars, it had healed completely. The physicians had done an outstanding job fixing the wound.

  “Oh, good,” Morgan stuttered from the bathtub. “More company.”

  “Detective.” A short woman in white scrubs greeted Mera. “Dr. Jacinda Stone.” Adjusting her thick, black-rimmed glasses, she nodded to Julian who stood in the corner, holding a notepad. “As I informed your partner, we have put the patient on ice to slow down the infection.”

  Julian greeted Mera with a curt nod.

  Her traitorous heart raced at the sight of him. She took in his lemon-colored hair, his chiseled chin and straight nose, and the dark blond stubble peppering his jaw. His broad chest filled his white shirt and brown leather jacket in all the right ways.

  “Dr. Stone is a specialist in virology,” Julian explained, his voice mingling with the steady beep, beep, beep of Morgan’s vitals, which came from a machine attached to the tub. “She saved the patient’s life.”

  “For the time being,” the doctor corrected, then nodded to the woman. “Morgan is a strong girl. We have a long way to go, but I’m confident we’ll get there, won’t we?”

  “Whatever you say, Doc,” Morgan forced a smile through her trembling.

  “The dead man, Fred Johnson, was Morgan’s ex-boyfriend,” Julian explained. “He died of a heart attack a week ago.”

  “Fred said he wanted to be with me forever,” the victim muttered through her shivering. “He said, ‘But you’re too pretty, and I look like a monster. Let me fix that.’” A tear rolled down her still healing cheek.

  Pulling a chair from the left to sit next to the tub, Mera never broke eye contact with her. “I put a bullet through that bastard’s head.”

  The woman gaped at Mera before giving her a grateful nod.

  “We’re not completely out of the woods yet,” Dr. Stone remarked. “The infection is spreading, so I’m giving her antiviral agents mixed with a healer’s essence. It should work, in theory.”

  Mera looked up. “In theory?”

  “I’m a specialist in human virology, not forbidden magic. I’m lucky my guesses have worked so far. Besides, there haven’t been undead attacks in Clifftown for a long time, and even then, none of the dead had been infectious.” The doctor rubbed her forehead, letting out a wary sigh. “This is a first for many doctors and healers out there. We focused on healing her face wound first, but now we must fight the necromancer’s essence spreading inside her.”

  For Fred Johnson to be contagious, the necromancer had to be incredibly strong. Using their essence to raise the dead demanded an insane amount of energy, at least according to the books. Making said undead strong enough to pass on the necromancer’s essence was nearly impossible.

  “Her system should start fighting it soon,” the doctor continued. “She only needs time to recover, don’t you Morgan?”

  “I don’t think I have time,” the woman mumbled, her gaze suddenly lost. “I can sense her in my head.”

  “Her?” Mera asked.

  “Yes.” She turned to Mera, and the faint, lime-green shine rimming her irises became brighter. The glow was dimmer than Fred Johnson’s, yet it was still there, ready to take over once Morgan drew her last breath. “She’s welcoming me.”

  “She is?” All blood drained from Dr. Stone’s face. “The infection is attacking you, but also establishing a link to the necromancer while you’re alive? That’s impossible.”

  Clearly, it wasn’t. Mera had faced enough impossible things in her life to know they happened way too often.

  The fact remained: if Morgan didn’t fight the infection, she would die, only to rise again as the necromancer’s puppet.

  Hopefully, the meds would do their job before then.

  “Don’t listen to the voice in your head.” Mera held Morgan’s tied hands, drawing the woman’s attention to her. “Is there anything you can tell me about the necromancer? Can you see where she is?”

  Killing the witch might be the only way to save Morgan. When a necromancer died, the dead under their spell perished with them. Since Morgan was still alive, the infection inside her would simply go poof.

  “I can’t see where she is, but she didn’t raise Fred,” Morgan said, focusing nowhere in particular. “He woke up on his own.”

  Impossible.

  According to the books, a necromancer gave a chunk of their essence to any dead they brought back, which implied contact. Having a dead raise himself made zero sense, especially one who’d died of natural causes.

  Julian stepped closer. “Can you keep trying to find her location?”

  “Enough,” the doctor interjected. “My patient needs rest, and—”

  “I might die, Doc,” Morgan stated simply. “No, I’m pretty sure I will die. It has to mean something.”

  Mera squeezed her hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  She should know better than to make promises she couldn’t keep, but she would save this innocent woman, no matter what.

  If only she could tell Mera where to find the necromancer.

>   Closing her eyes, Morgan took a deep breath. A long moment passed before she bristled. “Master wants an outbreak.”

  “Why?”

  She frowned, her eyes still closed. “Chaos. She’s angry that Fred is gone. It cost a great deal of magic to create an infectious undead. Now she’s weakened.” The victim winced as black veins spread up to her chin, growing like onyx vines under her skin. “Stop! It hurts!”

  The necromancer was speeding Morgan’s death from a distance. If she could hurt a living person even while debilitated, Mera wondered what the witch might do once she regained her power.

  “I don’t understand much about magic, but surely it can’t behave this way,” Dr. Stone mumbled in horror.

  “It’s forbidden magic, Doctor,” Julian explained. “Everything goes.”

  “Look at me.” Mera cupped Morgan’s cold cheeks, addressing the faint green glow edging her brown irises. “I want to make a deal with you.”

  “Mer,” Julian warned.

  She ignored him.

  “This woman was not in your plans. She’s Fred Johnson’s work, isn’t she? The more energy you spend on her, the weaker you get. Am I right?”

  Morgan stared at Mera, her eyes unblinking.

  “Y-yes. Master says yes.”

  “As you’ve noticed, I’m an officer of the law.” Mera tapped her own temple. “I have access to Tagradian defense systems and databases. This girl isn’t valuable to you, but I am. My deal is simple. Her life in exchange for mine. Have her bite me, and then let her go.”

  Mera hoped her siren powers would fight the infection, somehow. In any case, she would perish a lot slower than a human. In theory.

  “This is a bad idea.” Julian protested, stepping closer.

  Morgan’s unblinking eyes stared at her for a while. “Master thanks you for the offer, but I can’t turn you.” Shaking, Morgan listened to what the necromancer told her next. “I won’t say it.”

  “Do what she’s telling you,” Mera urged, fearing the witch would hurt the poor woman even further.

  “She says she has bigger things in store for you.” Tears streamed down Morgan’s cheeks, her teeth chattering. “Things a lot worse than death.”