To Kill the Dead (Hollowcliff Detectives Book 3)

by C. S. Wilde

  A waterbreaker who could not die.

  Chilling fear rolled down his spine as he closed the book, a fear he couldn’t quite understand.

  He needed logic. Mera always tried to see things reasonably, sometimes too reasonably, but right then, he had to do the same.

  Assumption: a child had seen a male who could not die nearly two thousand years ago, before the Great War that banished waterbreakers to Atlantea. Said male also happened to be a siren with runes stamped on his body, but only witches used tattoos to enhance their own magic.

  A siren warlock?

  It sounded impossible, not to mention unheard of in every way. Bast needed more.

  A lot more.

  Jumping to his feet, he headed to the historical books section—Corvus and Ben on his heel. He’d started there originally, but couldn’t find anything worth the bother. Now, he had an idea of what he might be searching.

  “Library,” he whispered into the shelves. “Find me a book about a waterbreaker warlock.”

  A silver glow exuded from the shelves before a group of books dashed into the air, fluttering like happy birds. Finally, one of them dropped into Bast’s hand. It had a red cover with a golden title in the middle.

  “The Tale of the Defunct Lad.”

  Corvus’ upper lip curled in confusion. “What’s that doing in the historical records section?”

  “Probably been misplaced,” Ben argued, though his light-gray eyes shone with curiosity. “You should scold Mrs. Fray.”

  “Usually, I’d rejoice in such a task, but Mrs. Fray has been losing her sight lately. I might have to send her to a hospital to get it fixed.”

  “The magic searched for ‘waterbreaker warlock’ and this is what it found.” Bast ran a hand over his loose hair. His bun had undone itself a while ago, and he hadn’t bothered to tie it back up. “In my line of work, we call that a lead.”

  Sitting back down, he opened the book. The yellowing pages scraped softly against his fingers.

  “Hear, hear, the story of he who became dead. Hear, hear, the story of Azinor, the defunct lad.

  Far from Atlantea his mother lived. Many said the bub had been self-conceived. She didn’t name him, all she called him was son, and when she died, alone in the world he was slung.”

  “That’s terrible rhyme, really,” Corvus remarked before nodding to Bast in a go ahead.

  “Upon her watery tomb, the bub asked, ‘Mother, what’s my name?’

  To his surprise, she confessed, ‘My child, it is a fact. You’re Azinor, the god of death.’

  Terrified, to dry land he travelled. In the witches’ borough he learned of his affinity with the afterworld, a sort of divinity.

  ‘I’m the god of death,’ he claimed, yet the witches laughed.

  ‘Many hear the dead,’ they said. ‘You’re not special, young lad.’

  Angry at the witches, he did not cower. Azinor searched forbidden runes to give him power. To faraway lands he travelled, in forgotten temples he searched, until hidden secrets he unraveled.

  The price was high. The runes absorbed his life, thus Azinor became ‘he who could not die.’”

  Silence reigned in the library as the story sunk in their bones.

  “Wait. The runes took his life?” Corvus blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open. “Does that mean he killed and raised himself?”

  Ben’s forehead crumpled. “That would technically make him a necromancer, wouldn’t it?”

  “Don’t be daft. Forbidden magic is about death. Waterbreaker magic, similar to our own, is created from life. They don’t align.” Corvus crossed his arms, raising his chin as if he’d won an argument. “If this Azinor fellow experimented with forbidden power, his waterbreaker magic would have nullified it, rendering it useless.”

  Bast swallowed, his throat feeling rough, like sandpaper.

  He’d come here to find Poseidon. Instead, he’d gotten to Azinor, a siren warlock who defied the basics of how magic worked. To top it all, Mera was chasing a strange and powerful necromancer in Clifftown.

  Halle. Too many coincidences that didn’t connect properly.

  He scanned the book for an author name, yet found none. Maybe reading on would give him some clues.

  “One day, a beautiful maiden sung atop a stone. Her sight so magnificent, Azinor’s heart was gone. Little did he know, his new love was King Wavestorm’s sister, Astred the Dove.”

  Bast pushed his chair back, the wood screeching loudly against the stone floor. Utter horror stabbed at his chest.

  Too many fucking coincidences.

  “The Great War began because of Astred the Dove,” he muttered, and when he turned to his brothers, they seemed as flabbergasted as he was. “Mrs. Fray catalogued this correctly. It isn’t a folk tale.”

  “Fuchst ach.” Corvus’ wings flashed into existence and he boosted up, lining the high bookshelves nearly up to the ceiling. Grabbing a book, he winnowed next to Bast, instead of falling back down.

  A tang of bitterness flowed through him.

  Corvus’ magic was more subtle than Bast’s, and it allowed him to easily winnow. Yes, his brother would eventually tire, but he could use his magic a lot more than Bast before reaching his limit.

  Corvus set the heavy tome on the table and leafed through it, pointing to a page.

  “An advisor to King Wavestorm claimed Astred had been murdered by a band of rogue witches.” He pointed to a picture on the page. The sketch depicted King Wavestorm standing in a mighty hall next to an unnamed man.

  The male had an intense stare, no hair on his head, and no runes tattooed on his skin—especially around his neck.

  Hiding them wouldn’t have been hard, however. There were spells for that, and since a waterbreaker warlock would have called too much attention to himself, Azinor must have decided to hide his powers from the world.

  Funny how he’d gone down in history nameless. Well, not funny, actually. More like a calculated move.

  “Mad with grief, the king attacked Evanora, the witches’ borough.” Corvus read the text next to the picture. “He started in the village where the assassin witches lived, then went on with his army to kill twenty-thousand Evanorans with the macabre.” He stared at them intently. “All of this on the first day of war.”

  “A moment, brothers.” Ben frowned. “If Azinor was a necromancer, how come there’s no mention of the dead during the war? He would have weaponized his power, wouldn’t he?”

  “He raised himself,” Bast deduced. “The story doesn’t say he could raise others. It’s possible that his water magic limited him.”

  Leaving the history book behind, Corvus snatched The Tale of the Defunct Lad from Bast’s hand.

  “No one knows truly if Azinor or the witches made the princess bleed.” He continued. “The king advanced in Tagrad, his army at full speed.

  ‘My grand vizier, here are my fallen. Make them like you,’ he pled.

  But how could Azinor create so many undead? He searched for runes, yet none took effect. Time ended, leaving Azinor wretched.

  Thousands of lives, so high was the cost, and thus, Wavestorm’s war had been lost.”

  The great offense. When human technology aligned with magic to help Tagrad fight back—iron shields and bullets proved to be a mighty force against the macabre.

  “Those from land chopped off the king’s head, but when they killed Azinor, he came back to life instead.” Corvus kept reading, almost as if in a trance. “‘Revenge will be mine!’ he raged, so the Night King trapped him in a cage.”

  “Huzzah, great-great-whatever grandad!” Ben cheered.

  Ignoring his brother’s remark, Corvus flipped the page.

  “Off to the deepest part of the trenches they went, where they locked him in a prison at the end of the descent. Waterbreakers were banished, we must admit. Now the snake lives forever in its pit. It’s a tale so very sad. Thus ends the story of Azinor, the defunct lad.”

  His brother closed the book. A deep silen
ce, thick and heavy like tar, filled the vast hall.

  Azinor was a necromancer who couldn’t raise the dead. A certain relief washed over Bast. Maybe the baku didn’t connect to Mera’s case after all.

  “These are concerning discoveries,” Corvus noted. “If Azinor touched the Crown of Land and Sea—”

  “It means he escaped his prison,” Bast completed the thought.

  Mera often used an expression: Poseidon in the trenches. Azinor had been imprisoned in the trenches.

  Now more than ever, Bast knew who their enemy was. Even if he had no evidence, he was certain sarking Poseidon and Azinor were the same person. Yet, why did the malachai taunt them?

  Was it because of Mera?

  Certainly, she belonged to the Wavestorm line, but so did her uncle Barrimond, who currently ruled over Atlantea. Or so they assumed. Mera never had an opportunity to go back home and check, since one, she was a banished princess, and two, she couldn’t blow her cover.

  Bast on the other hand…

  “If we can prove Azinor’s prison is empty, we prove the story is real.”

  Corvus seemed to read his intentions, because he immediately shook his head. “That’s madness, you baku.”

  “Yes, but to dig deeper into this case, I need proof.”

  A frown creased Ben’s forehead. “What on Danu are you two talking about?”

  “Halle.” Sighing in defeat, Corvus rubbed the back of his neck. “Bast wants to go for a dive.”

  Chapter 8

  The rent for Fred Johnson’s apartment had been paid in advance, and since his parents hadn’t cleared out the place, it remained in pristine condition.

  Hopefully, Mera and Julian could find a lead on Green in there.

  The apartment block was located near the center of town, in a fancy building with a doorman dressed in a white uniform at the entrance. He greeted them with the usual apprehension people showed when dealing with the police, then called the landlord, who led them to the apartment.

  “Such a shame,” the middle-aged man said as he opened the door. “Fred was a good boy.”

  More like a selfish murderer who’d bitten off his ex-girlfriend’s face, but whatever.

  The two-bedroom apartment was neatly decorated. One of the walls was made of stone, and the open kitchen’s gray marbled top must have cost a fortune.

  As soon as the landlord left, Julian whistled. “We’re in the wrong profession, Mer.”

  She peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which showed the city. “Stay sharp.”

  “Always.” Julian strolled through the living room, pausing to pat the black leather sofa. “So, Johnson was thirty years old, with no history of heart problems, but he died of a heart attack. Strange, isn’t it?”

  Mera nodded as she scanned a bookshelf for clues. “And there were no traces of drugs or poison in his system.”

  “Maybe the sample was tainted. You know, since he’d been dead for a week before you killed him. Again.”

  Shaking her head, she glanced at him. “His blood was stale. The lab would have caught something.”

  Mera checked the kitchen cupboards to find a few canned products. The fridge was packed with beer bottles, old cheese, and expired yogurt. For someone with such a spotless apartment, Fred Johnson spent little time inside.

  Once finished with the living area, Mera went on to the master bedroom, while Julian took the guestroom.

  The undead’s king-sized bed had been neatly made, two pairs of fancy leather shoes aligned side-by-side next to it.

  “All clear,” Julian called out from the opposite room. His heavy steps thumped toward the bathroom. “Guy was a neat freak. The entire apartment is spotless.”

  Mera went to Johnson’s closet, which was filled with expensive tailored suits. “You got that right. I fear we won’t find any clues in this place.”

  “I know we will. If anyone can bring the necro-jerk to justice, it’s you, Mer.”

  The faith he had in her…

  She smiled, a comforting sensation settling in her chest, only to disappear as fast as it came when she remembered what Julian had told her the day before.

  “It’s not fair he gets to have you to himself.”

  Mera needed to make amends as friends, but she used to have a gigantic crush on her former partner—well, former-current-partner-strictly-for-this-case.

  Had that flame truly died now that Bast was in the picture?

  Focus on the case, she told herself.

  Turning back to the bedroom, she figured there wasn’t much there to investigate. A lone nightstand next to the bed held a lamp and nothing else. She strode back to the massive bed to check under it.

  Nothing there, either.

  Standing up, Mera fisted her hands on her hips. “Did he have a maid?”

  “His boss said he worked long hours,” Julian replied from the bathroom, his voice bouncing off the tiled walls. “Seeing how spotless this place is, I’m guessing the answer is an absolute yes. I’ll add her to the list for interrogation.”

  Mera opened the nightstand’s wooden drawer to find a pack of condoms and an eye drop bottle. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Julian’s laughter reached her from the bathroom. “I can feel the engines in your brain whirring from here.”

  Poseidon in the trenches, he knew her through and through.

  “As a banker, Johnson worked constantly under pressure. The guy was practically a robot.” Mera opened the nightstand’s second drawer, which was empty. “Odd that he didn’t break at some point. I’m thinking he found release somewhere, and I doubt it was with Morgan.”

  “What do you mean?” Julian’s voice grew louder as he approached.

  “Did you read the coroner’s report? His arteries were squeaky clean. His heart simply stopped beating.” She lifted her shoulders. “Also, bankers are famous for partying hard.”

  “That’s a stereotype.” Julian leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “But you’re thinking it’s a new drug in town. One that can’t be traced.”

  “So are you,” she countered. “I just wish we had proof.”

  Mera closed the nightstand’s drawer, and a strange sound came from it, like something small scraping against the wood.

  Odd, since the drawer was empty.

  Opening and closing it again, she tried to listen for it. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  Maybe her siren’s hearing caught sounds Julian couldn’t. Maybe she was losing her mind. Removing the drawer, Mera shook it. A dim, rattling sound came from inside the wood.

  Bingo.

  The drawer had a fake bottom, but it seemed stuck. Placing it on the floor, Mera stamped on it. Hard.

  “Shit, Mer!” Julian hissed. “This is destruction of property!”

  She didn’t care. Mera kicked it again, and again, until the drawer splintered into many pieces.

  She pushed the wooden shards aside with her feet, clearing the view to what had been inside the drawer’s bottom.

  Julian frowned. “Is that what I think it is?”

  A smile formed on her lips as she picked up a small plastic bag with one red pill inside. “I sure hope so.”

  Their steps echoed down the Final Ward’s empty corridors.

  Dr. Stone had informed them she’d set up a lab in room 301, so she could study Morgan’s case with more resources.

  Pushing open the lab’s white door, Mera and Julian crossed the threshold. Both of them paused to stare at the big space walled by whirring equipment.

  With more resourced, indeed.

  Dr. Stone sat at a small table on the left, bent over a microscope. She didn’t bother turning to them. “Detectives.”

  On the other side of the room, a man and a woman, both wearing white robes, worked at a station next to a bulky machine. They looked up from their clipboards with a hint of annoyance in their eyes.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Mera said.

  “No need to apologize,” Dr.
Stone stated matter-of-factly, her focus still on the microscope. “These are Doctors Pascal and Hendricks. They’ve volunteered to help.” She waved at the physicians.

  “It’s an honor to work with Doctor Stone,” the man said with a slight bow of his head. “She’s top of her field.”

  “Indeed,” the female added. “I suppose, in a way, we’re working with you too, detectives. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Julian countered politely.

  The two physicians nodded, then turned their attention back to the machine.

  “I can’t take all the credit, of course,” Dr. Stone clarified, still focused on the microscope. A soft smile hooked up her left cheek. “I’ve had some enlightening conversations with Stella. I can’t believe you know her, Detective Maurea. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is.”

  The doc’s unkempt hair resembled a cuckoo’s nest, and her white lab coat, which covered her jeans and T-shirt, smelled old. Like she hadn’t washed it since the last time they’d seen her. Her shirt didn’t go amiss, however. It read, ‘Going viral doesn’t mean what you think it means.’

  “Stella is one of the best healers out there. I’m glad she could help.” Mera removed the plastic bag with the pill from her pocket. “We found this in the undead’s house. Our lab checked it, but it seems to be a normal headache pill.”

  The doctor raised her head, watching Mera through narrowed eyes. “You found it like this?”

  “We did.”

  “Normal pills don’t come in suspicious plastic bags, do they?”

  “They most certainly do not. Also, this one was hidden inside the false bottom of a drawer.”

  Processing her words with a nod, the doctor motioned for her to approach. She adjusted her latex gloves before snatching the bag from Mera’s grasp, analyzing it with curiosity. “I’ll test it and let you know.”

  “Thanks.” Mera pointed to the equipment on the lab. “It seems you’ve been busy.”

  “I want to do right by my patient. Something tells me you can relate.” The doctor’s voice wobbled with grief, the same grief that tormented Mera.

  With a nod, she swallowed down the knot forming in her throat.