How to Claim an Undead Soul (The Beginner's Guide to Necromancy Book 2)

by Hailey Edwards

  He rubbed his chest with the heel of his palm. “Would that work?”

  The poor guy sounded so hopeful, I almost hated to burst his bubble. Almost. “That’s going to be a hard no.”

  “I don’t have a binder,” he confessed. “I don’t even own a plastic sleeve. I’ve never wanted to keep anyone.”

  “Boaz,” I whispered, but he must not have heard.

  “Amelie warned me I was suffocating you.” He palmed his nape and scrubbed a hand over his bristly hair. “Tell me when to poke air holes in the lid, even if you have to poke air holes in me to get my attention.” He tried for a charming smile, but his eyes were too raw to make it stick. “The army proved I’m trainable. I’m willing to learn if you’re willing to teach me.”

  “We’ll have to figure it out together.” One day at a time. “Even if that means figuring out we can’t be together.”

  A fraction of his confidence made a reappearance. “As long as you’ll still love me.”

  “Boaz,” I told him with complete honesty, “I would have no idea how or where to stop.” Just what flavor of love existed between us required more extensive taste testing. “Are we still on for our date?”

  “Do you mean are we still going out on the town, after which I will expect no sexual favors in exchange for providing you with dinner and entertainment? Yes. We are.”

  “You are a true gentleman, Boaz Pritchard.”

  “Can I pay you a dollar to say that again so I can record it?” He palmed his cell and wiggled it at me, his good mood restored. “Mom will never believe a girl said that about me without being coerced.”

  “Except if you give me a dollar, that’s bribery. Pretty sure that’s the same thing as coercion.”

  “Hmm.” He tapped the phone against his chin. “I could tickle you until you say it.”

  I took a cautious step out of range. “So now you’ve escalated to threats?”

  “What are a few threats between friends?” He rushed me, scooped me up and dumped me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His fingers proved they still remembered all my most ticklish spots. The crease at the bend of my knee, the spot where my neck met my shoulder. My ribs. Goddess, my ribs. “Am I a gentleman now?”

  “No,” I howled between bouts of laughter. “You’re a holy terror.”

  “Hey, that’s not nice.” He smacked my butt, a stinging punishment. “Only my sister gets away with calling me HT.” He clomped up the steps with me writhing on his shoulder, and Woolly—the traitor—dialed the porch light up to blinding in greeting. “Aww shucks, Woolly. I missed you too.” And because he was an unrepentant flirt who couldn’t help himself, even where houses were concerned, he tacked on, “Your foundation is looking mighty fine tonight.”

  The curtains in the front windows rustled in her version of tittering laughter.

  “Woolly,” I panted, breathless from laughter and the bite of his hard shoulder in my soft gut, “I could really use a little help here.”

  The front door swung open before we reached it so he could walk right in, potato sack and all.

  Glowering up at the chandelier in the foyer as we passed beneath it, I growled, “That’s not what I meant.”

  Once we hit the living room, he set me on my feet. “Get dressed.”

  Rubbing my stomach, I noticed he was dressed as casually as me. “Is this the dress code?”

  “Nope.” A smug grin curved his lips. “I have to go home and pretty up for you before we leave.” A trace of his earlier caginess returned. “After Taz texted me about the missed lesson, I figured I should go pry you from Linus’s clutches before I changed, in case things got messy.”

  The idea of things getting messy between Boaz and Linus was laughable. Boaz was a hunk of muscle trained for war, and he was a natural-born brawler. Then again, Linus had a wraith on his side. Maybe the match would be more even than I’d first thought.

  Thinking of the wraith left me with the unhappy reminder that Linus would be given a blow-by-blow accounting of our evening thanks to Cletus.

  “Shorts, dress, pants, skirt...?” I rolled my hand. “What’s appropriate?”

  “Wear whatever you want, whatever makes you comfortable.” He backed out onto the porch. “I’ll match our plans to your outfit.”

  Woolly closed the door behind him with a sigh from the nearest floor register.

  “Okay, you’ve got a point. That was a dreamy thing to say.” I just wished he hadn’t had so much practice in saying them. It was hard to know how many of his lines were off the cuff—he really did have a silver tongue—and how many were taken from his well-worn playbook. “I hope he wasn’t in the mood for steak and lobster.”

  After hours spent hunched over a table with a pen in my hand, I wasn’t in the mood to be restricted again. Not in how I dressed or in how I ate. Casual suited me just fine. I did give a nod to the fact it was a datelike thing by wearing a swishy navy sundress with moons and stars embroidered on the hem. I kept my shoes flat and my hair down, and I skipped the makeup since I would make a hot mess of it without professional help.

  Boaz took longer with his primping than any woman I had ever known, so I decided to wait for him on the porch to enjoy the cool night air. I plopped down on the slatted bench seat and kicked off the planks, setting the chains jangling until they fell in sync. I tipped my head back at the same time I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

  Turning my head, I spotted Linus strolling across the lawn, heading for the curb like he had a ride to catch. The urge to apologize for Boaz pushed me upright, and I smoothed a hand down my dress, pressing all the wrinkles flat. By the time I looked up with a hello in my throat, he was gone.

  Seven

  A shrill whistle let me know my date had arrived. Considering motorcycles didn’t have horns, I figured this was the equivalent of Boaz parking outside my house and honking. I wasn’t sure if I ought to be offended I didn’t rate a pickup at the door or relieved that he really was treating this like any of a thousand other dates he’d been on. As much as I didn’t want to be lumped in with all the others, there was a certain thrill in finally living what I had fantasized about for half my life.

  I took the path leading toward the garage and stumbled at the sight of Boaz. He always had cleaned up nice. His tan cargo pants had been pressed, and his mossy green button-down shirt brought out the warmth of his eyes. With his milk-chocolate irises striated with lighter bands, they always reminded me of swirled caramel. As appealing as he was with his lips quirked up in one half of a knee-melting grin, it was what squirmed in his arms that held me transfixed.

  “Kittens?” I couldn’t stop myself from rushing over or snatching the miniature orange tabby crawling up his shoulder. “Where did you find them?”

  “They swarmed me when I opened the garage.” His gaze raked down me, and he moistened his lips. “You look good enough to eat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Big Bad.” I curtseyed. “Is this the part where you ask if my grandmother is home?”

  “Sorry I didn’t pick you up at the door. I meant to but…” He lifted his hands, a kitten in each. “I wasn’t sure what to do with all this.”

  A flutter behind my breastbone announced his lumping me in with past girls was forgiven and forgotten, as if that had ever been in question.

  “Have you seen the momma cat?” I peered around him into the garage where Jolene and Willie stood together companionably in chromed silence. “We should probably leave the kittens how you found them.”

  In this neighborhood, with so many Society residents sprinkled throughout, there was always the possibility the momma cat was someone’s familiar. If that was the case, the kittens were hereditary familiars and would mature into more powerful foci than their parents. Most likely, the fuzzballs were slated for kids waiting to begin the bonding process.

  All High Society darlings were raised alongside their animals. All budding practitioners were expected to bond with their familiar, the true first test of their p
otential. That connection, once cemented, used a trickle of the child’s life force to slow the animal’s aging process.

  Keet and I hadn’t bonded before he died. There hadn’t been time.

  The upside of having a psychopomp was while other necromancers worried their familiars might die from accidents as mundane as getting backed over in the driveway, mine was already dead. Undead. Whatever. I would never have to part with him as long as I was around to revive him.

  “There’s a box in the back.” Boaz aimed a kitten’s pink nose in that direction when he lifted his arm. “Can you get it down? We’ll dump the little guys in there then make our escape.”

  “It depends.” I handed him the kitten back and sidled between the bikes to the back wall. “What’s in there? Knowing my luck, it’ll be your weights left over from high school. Or your football gear. Or your baseball gear. Or your soccer gear. Or—”

  “I get it,” he grumbled. “I took over your garage.”

  Among other things. Boaz had been taking over small corners of my life for as long as I could remember.

  “I let you do it.” I grasped the box and gave it an experimental wiggle. “I could have stopped you if I didn’t want your junk all over the place.”

  A curious note spiked his tone. “Why didn’t you?”

  I liked having a part of him with me. I liked sneaking out here smelling jerseys that carried his scent, sleeping in them when I could get away with it. I liked knowing he would have to come back, if not to see me, then to dig through his stuff.

  “Here goes nothing.” I pointedly ignored the question. “Oh, hey. This isn’t so bad.”

  The box was large, but not so big the momma cat couldn’t retrieve her babies. Nothing rattled inside, and it weighed much less than expected. It must be an empty waiting to be refilled.

  Years ago, I found an outfit from his toddler days used to wipe up an oil spill. Another time I’d found his lion costume from an elementary school play used as an animal skin rug. And once, I found a onesie with his name embroidered on it used to coddle a greasy carburetor.

  Odd bits of his life had a way of ending up here, part of my collection, making me the curator of his personal history. I was the world’s foremost expert on Boaz Pritchard.

  I set the box on the concrete and folded open the flaps. A worn sketchbook held together with rubber bands sat in the bottom. When I lifted it out, I saw there were more pieces of paper stuck to the back. The brand was familiar. Maud had used it. I did too. But we never let them degrade to this ragged state. She was meticulous about keeping her supplies in good repair, and I had learned to retire sketchbooks before they fell apart too.

  Flipping it front to back, I spotted no name or signature to identify the owner.

  “Have you seen this before?” I held it up in one hand while I carried the box to Boaz with the other. “It looks like one of ours. Maybe Maud left it out here.”

  It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibilities that it could be from when I was younger, something I doodled in for practice. She kept my art, my stories, my scribbles, all locked away in her library. I had blamed sentimentality, but I was beginning to grasp the truth, thanks to Linus.

  “Yeah.” He nuzzled a kitten and avoided eye contact. “I know who it belongs to.”

  This couldn’t be good news, and I had a sinking feeling I could guess the owner.

  “I found Linus up that old oak in our backyard once. He was staring in your window.” He toyed with the jellybean pads on one fluffy paw. “I yanked him down so fast he saw stars.”

  “You’re telling me Linus climbed a tree?” Try as I might, I couldn’t picture him communing with nature by choice. Or committing willful acts of athleticism. “How do you know he was looking in my window?”

  “He was sketching you,” Boaz answered flatly. “He didn’t even try to defend himself.”

  “Me?” There must be more to the story, like a homework assignment or maybe a gift he’d been working on for Maud.

  “I was so pissed I stole his sketchbook. I would have burned it, but his mother being who she was, I figured it was smarter holding on to it until she made me give it back.” His lip curled at the yellowed papers. “He never demanded to know what I did with it, and he never asked for it back. His mother never called either. I must have forgotten about it and tossed it in with some of my junk at some point.”

  Well, that explained why the temperature dropped around Linus when Boaz was in the same room.

  “Why didn’t you tell Maud? Or me?”

  “I’m not a snitch.” He glanced up, a piece of white fur stuck to his lip, offended. “Besides, I handled it.”

  “I have to give this back to him.” I ruffled the pages with my thumb. “Maybe it will smooth things over between you two.”

  “I don’t lose sleep over what I did,” he told the tuxedo kitten determined to use him as a scratching post. “He violated your privacy, so I returned the favor.”

  Yep, here was the root of their mutual animosity laid bare and left to fester.

  “All the same.” I heaved a sigh. “It’s the right thing to do.” I dropped the now-empty box at his feet. “Can you manage the kittens while I put this somewhere safe?”

  “Sure thing.” He was already tucking each furry body in gently. “Cats love me.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” That’s why he looked like he’d lost a fight with a very small demon.

  Leaving Boaz to his delusions, I waffled on where to stash my contraband. I considered the carriage house, but Linus wasn’t home, and letting myself in while he was gone felt like a further invasion of his privacy. I could leave it leaned against the front door, but I worried dew might damage the fragile papers. After such a long separation, I expected he would be eager to see his drawings again.

  When no bright ideas winked into existence above my head, I returned to Woolly. The sketchbook had been missing from his collection for this long. Surely Linus could wait a few more hours for a reunion. The porch light flickered in question, and I patted the doorframe on my way into the living room.

  “We found an old sketchbook of Linus’s out in the garage. I’m just putting it here until I get back.” I placed it on the coffee table, then blew the foyer chandelier a kiss. “Don’t wait up.”

  The crystals tinkled with amusement that put a smile on my face too.

  I was determined not to let anything ruin this evening. Not ex-girlfriends. Not kittens. And not old grudges.

  By the time I had checked the wards one last time, a nervous habit, and strolled back down the walkway, Boaz sat astride Willie with a helmet dangling from his fingertips. He wore a new leather jacket, this one a matte black that absorbed the moonlight, and I took a minute to zip up my own battered hand-me-down before I accepted the helmet, settled it on my head, and mounted behind him. His wide palm settled on my bare thigh, and a breath shuddered from my lungs.

  “You’re living dangerously,” he murmured. “I like it.”

  I popped his hand, earning a husky laugh that thrilled, and kept to myself that I’d learned a long time ago I could ride bikes in skirts or dresses all I wanted as long as I wore spandex shorts underneath.

  “Arms around me, Squirt.” He still hadn’t moved his hand. “Don’t want you falling off.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice.

  I linked my fingers at his navel then rested the side of my helmet against his back. I held on tight, a grin stretching my cheeks as Willie roared to life between my thighs. The vibrations rattled my fillings when he revved the engine, and a laugh burst out of me. He glanced back, his eyes warm, and I did my best to burrow so deep he would never be rid of me.

  This much, at least, hadn’t changed. He’d always loved taking me on rides, and I’d always loved going. That’s why, financial reasons aside, I had glommed onto Jolene at the first opportunity. Riding her was like wrapping myself in the thickest, warmest blanket of it’s gonna be all right I could imagine.

  Miles flew past in a gust o
f cool, spring air before Boaz coasted to a stop in front of one of the older bars in the area. Smart man, wooing me with history. This place was steeped in paranormal energy, and the air crackled with possibility.

  The Black Hart and its grim past was, on occasion, part of the walking tour at Haint Misbehavin’. As the story goes, the original owner bricked his mistress up in the basement when she tried to leave him. On clear nights after the bar closed, tourists and locals alike swore they heard his wails of grief at having killed the love of his life.

  A flicker of doubt crossed his features. “Does this work for you?”

  “It’s perfect.” I smoothed my dress and finger-combed my hair. “They have the second-best burgers in town.”

  Boaz slid his palm across mine and meshed our fingers. A zing of excitement raced up my arm, but the frantic thudding in my chest eased once I reminded myself we’d held hands a million times for a million different reasons.

  Never because he took you out on a date, a gleeful corner of my mind reminded me.

  He chose a booth in the back and let me in before capping off the end of the bench with his massive body and throwing his arm around me. “What looks good tonight?”

  “I like their loaded potato skins and their big bacon burger.” I plucked the lone menu from the salt and pepper stand and pushed it over to him. “It’s got jalapeño aioli, bacon, buffalo sauce, bacon, and a honey chipotle sauce along with the usual suspects. And bacon.”

  “Good call.” He was looking at me, heat in his eyes, when he said, “I like spicy.”

  I dug my elbow in the soft spot above his hipbone, but he remained unrepentant. Being with him was as easy as breathing. Except when I wanted to strangle him. Then it was as easy as him not breathing.

  Being on the receiving end of his charm almost made me feel sorry for anyone who got hit full force without any preparation. No wonder women tripped over themselves to get where I sat tonight.

  “Evening, folks.” A red-haired waitress who looked vaguely familiar bumped a hip against our table. “Hey, Boaz. I didn’t know you were back in town.”