Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1)

by Kerry Blaisdell

  “It’s okay,” he murmured, sliding his hands over my shoulders and back. “Everything will be okay. We’ll figure it out. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this safe, this protected, this…turned on. Crap. I started to pull away, but Jason’s arms tightened, the erratic thump of his heart next to my cheek and the swelling in his shorts telling me he was as aware of me as I was of him.

  He shifted me slightly, tilting my head back so he could look into my eyes. The steering wheel at my back kept us close, and though I knew it was wrong, I was still glad.

  “Hyacinth. I—” He shook his head. “It’s not Geordi. He’s a great kid, but I’m not doing this only for him.”

  His expression was serious. Intent. He was going to kiss me again, and God help me, I wanted him to, more than anything. I couldn’t. I had to stop him, stop this, before it went too far and I fell for him—if I hadn’t already. So I searched for something to say to push him away.

  “Who are you?” He froze, and I pressed my advantage. “Why did you come here with me? Why are you in my life in the first place? Why won’t you tell me who you really are?”

  My success was momentary. He tangled his fingers in my hair and pulled me closer. “Because when you know, you’ll never let me do this again.”

  And then he covered my mouth with his, nudging my lips apart, urgent and demanding, until I opened to him. I think I moaned. Or he groaned. Or both.

  Thank God Geordi was a sound sleeper, because everything was suddenly hot and hard and…Jason. I felt him putting himself into the kiss, showing me what he hadn’t been able to say for the past six months. Whatever role he’d been playing, whatever the reason for it, this was the underlying Jason. The friendship—the emotion—the reasons I’d liked him and enjoyed being with him—they were real and true, regardless of anything else.

  He broke the kiss, breathing hard, eyes so dark I lost myself for a minute.

  “Um,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He brought my head back to his shoulder, smoothing my hair while our pulses slowed. At last he said, “You need to eat.”

  I nodded. Between the crying and the making out, I didn’t have the energy to argue. Behind us, Geordi stirred, lifting his head to look around blearily.

  “Hungry, kiddo?” Jason asked, and Geordi nodded, then stretched, giving no indication he thought it odd I was on Jason’s lap.

  Jason said to me, “There’s a place around the corner. I think they make hamburgers. We can leave the car here.”

  Geordi got out without prompting, and I started to open Jason’s door, but he stopped me.

  “I might be doing this for you—and believe me, sometimes I wonder why—but if anything you do hurts Geordi…”

  His voice trailed off, but I got his meaning. Warning received.

  Then he added, “And if, after everything I’ve done, you do go and get yourself killed, I’ll never forgive you.”

  If he only knew.

  ****

  Dinner revived me. There were grape leaves stuffed with lentils, raisins and rice for me, and something resembling American hamburgers for the guys. Jason tried to order me a burger, but I refused. Lentils have lots of iron, more per calorie than beef. Of course, meat was hard to beat for protein, but I’d have to try. And, God forbid, if I needed cholesterol—well, I’d eat more eggs. Which, come to think of it, would help with the protein, too. But I had a suspicion it was the “red” in red meat I needed. Some sort of blood out, blood in ratio, which sounded as far-fetched as anything else, but I couldn’t shake the conviction.

  By the time we finished, the sun was long gone. I’d already decided the next thing was to visit the library at Pamukkale University, where I could print out all the photos I’d been taking. Plus, I could finally find out the significance of September fifth, and do more in-depth research about the region, in case anything led me to the Rousseaux. It was too late to go tonight, though, so I told Jason we’d go in the morning.

  As always, he said, “Sure,” and paid our bill, and we headed for the hotel.

  Not only that, but he invited Geordi for a “sleepover” in his room. Maybe to give me time alone. Or maybe he thought I might freak out and frighten Geordi more. Whatever the reason, Geordi was over the moon, and the idea worked for me. I had my own plans.

  I couldn’t just abandon Eric. He might not belong on Earth, and he certainly needed help, but whatever Nadezhda had planned, it couldn’t be good. Plus, if I could learn what kept him here, and why he was so sick, it might help me figure out my own long-term possibilities.

  I turned out my light and waited an hour, until I was sure the guys were asleep, then crept through the bathroom to Jason’s room. Sure enough, they sprawled on the bed, snoring in unison, Jason’s arm flung out with Geordi’s head on it. I moved to the dresser and carefully lifted the car key, then froze when Jason stirred. But all he did was roll onto his side, his arm curved protectively over Geordi.

  And just like that it hit me. My own personal lightning bolt. What if Jason didn’t just “keep in touch” with Geordi? What if he adopted Geordi?

  I backed away, closing both bathroom doors. I left my room and tiptoed downstairs, thinking hard. Leaving Geordi at all was horrifying. But Jason had put his life on the line to keep us safe. Who better to keep keeping Geordi safe? It was obvious they’d bonded. And no matter what Jason said about coming to Turkey for me, he clearly had Geordi’s best interests at heart.

  Of course, that didn’t necessarily translate to, I want to be a single dad. But I had a while yet to work out the details.

  The night was warm, and in a city this size, there was still plenty of traffic and activity. Too late, it occurred to me I was a woman alone, out after dark, in a Muslim country. At least I’d foregone my usual shorts and tank top, instead choosing capris and a more modest blouse. But I should’ve brought a scarf to cover my head.

  I couldn’t go back, though. I’d made my escape, and my sense of urgency about Eric grew. The night deepened, and I had no idea what Nadezhda planned, or when she’d do it.

  I did have an idea about where, though. One of the things Hierapolis is famed for is its necropolis—a City of the Dead. Apparently, a very diverse one. Christians, Jews, Muslims, and members of virtually every other religion, came there to die, over many centuries. Sarcophagi are next to burial mounds are next to house-shaped tombs. If Nadezhda had marshaled the Dead to “help” Eric, then what better place to harness their energy?

  The drive across the valley only took ten minutes. Less traffic than during the day, and I can be a lead-foot myself on occasion. I parked near the North entrance and got out, grabbing the flashlight from the trunk. So far, the moon illuminated the path, but it was good to be prepared. I passed the unmanned gate—no surrounding fence to keep late visitors such as myself out—and aimed for the outskirts of “town,” about one and a half kilometers southeast, up the colonnaded main street. Easy enough in the day, somewhat creepier at night, and it was a relief to leave the wide-but-deserted areas and enter the more protected necropolis.

  However, as soon as I did, I realized the flaw in my plan. While it made sense that Nadezhda would bring Eric here, “here” was a maze of graves and tombs—around twelve hundred of them—spread out over roughly two square kilometers. It would take hours to wander all the way through, but I had to try, so I took a deep breath and picked a direction.

  The bulk of the Dead, as with the Living, are commoners, buried in individual or family graves. Tombstones and markers, when present, were eroded and hard to read, but I saw a truly fascinating mix of faiths, nationalities, occupations and ages. No wonder the Dead didn’t want to leave—this had to be one of the most cosmopolitan cities for their kind, anywhere.

  Adding a socio-economic upgrade to the mix were sarcophagi, sunk into the earth, or roofed and raised on substructures, many with decorative marble fronts. Some were so large and elaborate, they put my apartment to shame, and I
wondered at the wealth and status of their inhabitants. If you’ve got an eternity stretching in front of you, why not spend it in style?

  Less ostentatious—but not necessarily lower in class—were the tumuli, dirt mounds nearly invisible in the dark, whose small, earthen entrances would open onto passages leading to vaulted underground chambers. Who knew what treasures lay within—the most modest exteriors often hid the richest finds.

  Of course, these tombs had been pillaged—or, if you prefer, “excavated”—many times over. But it was a long time since I’d been around this many graves. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it—the hunt, the exploration, not knowing what lay inside, but knowing I’d find something.

  With a pang of regret, I pushed on. This wasn’t the time, but maybe I’d come back once Michael had the rock back. One thing at a time.

  Besides graves and tombs, the necropolis also contains other points of interest. There’s the nymphaeum, a huge fourth century fountain that sent water from the springs down to Hierapolis, and also the Sacred Pool, in which visitors can still swim among submerged Roman era marble columns. Near this was an actual ruined church, and I crossed myself as I passed. Old habits. Or maybe it was the atmosphere, the dark and the stars above, the ancient bones below. Everywhere I walked was quiet, and peace, and…nothing else.

  No Dead, no Nadezhda, and patently, no Eric.

  So much for my hunch.

  After an hour, I found myself near the ruined Temple of Apollo, supposed founder of the City. I’d been so sure I’d find Eric here—briefly I considered packing up and heading back to Denizli. After all, as I kept telling myself, he wasn’t my responsibility.

  Right. He’d saved our lives by leading me to his car. I at least owed him for that.

  I’d been standing there lost in thought for several minutes, when I noticed it—a whisper-soft vibration, familiar, but not as strong as when the rock was close by.

  Shit.

  I spun around, trying to sense its location. The moon was far overhead, the sky lit with stars. In some areas, the necropolis was bright as day, in others, the mounds and structures cast sharp-edged shadows, dark as pitch, blacking out whole sections. By my best guess, it was close to midnight. I could’ve used the flashlight, but in this place, it felt disrespectful.

  So did the racket I was making. I forced myself to stop, to stand still and focus, until I attuned myself to the air and the water and the earth. There. To the left—south, I thought—a low hum, like a faint, elemental tuning fork.

  Turning toward it, I picked my way over the uneven ground, around graves and crypts and rocky outcrops, tracking by feel as much as sound. Sometimes I lost the vibration and had to backtrack, but eventually it grew, getting stronger as I stumbled along.

  I was past the Temple now, on a hill that seemed to have sprung full-blown in front of me. The mountains blocked the moon, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. The vibration was less intense than when I held the rock in my hand, but I felt it nearby, possibly right in front of me. I slowed, feeling my way even more.

  I was in some sort of building or stone walkway. I use the term “in” loosely as, like everything here, this was a ruin, walls and ceiling crumbled, floor uneven. I hurried along as best I could, heart thudding, the vibrations increasing by the moment.

  It’s here—I’m going to get it back.

  I turned a corner in what must have once been a passageway through the structure. The hum was louder now, although still not strong. I turned another corner—so close—

  And came smack into a dead end, a walled-off stone arch.

  Damn.

  I stepped back, looking on either side, and discovered the arch butted up against the hill itself. Perhaps there was a cave—I was sure the vibration came from the other side. The walled part looked newer than the rest, the stones rougher and less worn, the joins between them tighter. Much tighter. Whoever sealed it really didn’t want anyone getting through.

  No. I didn’t come this far to be thwarted again. Frantically, I scraped at the bricks, trying to get purchase in the cracks, or find a hidden lever to open the wall. Which sounded pretty Hollywood when I thought about it, but I had to give it a shot.

  Nothing.

  There had to be another way inside. I reversed direction, until I was outside the structure, then scrabbled onto the hill, looking for an entrance behind where the arch should be.

  Sharp grasses cut my fingers until they bled, but I couldn’t find it—not even a mole hole. I wanted to weep with desperation, but I couldn’t stop, couldn’t let myself give up, and I scraped harder. I could barely feel the vibrations now. I sank to my knees, fingernails black with dirt.

  It’s here. I know it is—let me find it. Please let me find it.

  So intent was I on finding the rock, I forgot all about my original reason for coming tonight. Which made it doubly heart-stopping when a sharp cackle came from beside me.

  I shrieked and fell back onto my rear, looking up to find Nadezhda grinning at me, her teeth oddly white in the pitch-black. “Ah, you haf come for him.” She moved aside.

  Whether it was a trick of the moon, or a gap in the mountains, I don’t know, but this area was lighter than where I’d been searching. There, in a hollow on the nearest hillside, a small circle had been cleared of rocks and grasses. Around this milled many of the Dead I’d seen before, or at least, many dressed the same, in turbans and loin cloths or peasant rags. They danced in seemingly random fashion, forming an irregular mass within the circle.

  In the center, a man was tied, spread-eagle, completely naked. A man with light hair and eyes I knew would be filled with cynicism, though at the moment, they were closed. A man whose gaping chest wound looked blacker and more rotten than the last time I saw it.

  I might not have found the rock. But apparently, I’d found Eric.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.”

  ~The Bible, 1 Corinthians 15:26

  “What are you doing to him?”

  Fear made my voice sharp in the hollow night, and I lurched forward, only to have Nadezhda’s hands clamp like vises onto my arms.

  “I help him. You see.”

  “Help him what? Die more?”

  “Da.”

  “What?” I twisted to escape, using my whole body for leverage, but her bulk was about as movable as a tank, and she simply ignored me.

  “Is time. Vatch.”

  Helpless, I did.

  The mass of spirits began to dance faster, whirling, arms and legs waving frenetically. There was no clear pattern, but soon groups of two or three began to break off from the pack, approaching Eric, then dancing away at the last moment. Occasionally, one of them bent over him, but I couldn’t see what they did. Each time, Eric jerked convulsively, straining against his bonds, only to loll back weakly seconds later.

  “Stop them!” I cried, struggling harder. “They’re hurting him! Let me go!”

  “Nyet.” Her voice was calm, authoritative, her grip unrelenting. “He dead, da. But he no complete dead. Zey complete it for him. You vatch—zey help.”

  Horrified, I stilled, trapped as much by her hands as by what I saw. Even if she’d let me go, I couldn’t look away. Eric—please—I’m here, I’m with you. You’re not alone. I won’t leave you.

  The dancers’ ghost-clothing whipped to a frenzy as they gyrated on the hillside. The women’s hair whirled around their heads, long braids slapping their partners, or loose locks vibrating in clouds that obscured their faces. The men’s hips thrust back and forth, the sexuality of their dance older than the oldest ancient rite. Arms and legs pinwheeled everywhere, obscuring Eric. All at once, a dozen of the dancers descended on him, crowding close. They bent forward, en masse, and then—

  He screamed.

  I’d never heard a dead man scream. It was…awful. More painful than fingernails on a chalkboard, more anguished than a mother losing her child. And it went on and on and
on, until I thought my head would split, then my heart.

  “No!”

  I finally wrenched myself free. But I was too late—the spirits straightened and stepped away, the dancing stopped, and Eric’s screams died to a low moan.

  “Let me through!”

  The mass of spirits blocking my path turned as one, and I got a good look at them. Their grinning teeth were black with ghost-blood, and bits of putrefied ghost-flesh smeared their faces, like children who’d got into the jelly jar, their grotesque smiles a mad caricature. The bile rose from my gut, sick and sour—my hands and feet went cold and useless, my head swam. I swayed, pulling back, I had to get away—they were reaching for me—

  No. They were…helping me. The mass parted, gentle hands pushed me forward. I staggered, then fell on my knees and touched Eric’s pale, damp face.

  It was cooler. Much cooler. I looked at his bare chest, expecting at best to find the wound as rotten as before, and at worst, to see it newly ravaged by ghost teeth, leaking fresh, red blood.

  Instead, it was almost gone.

  Before my eyes, the skin knit itself together, covering what appeared to be healthy flesh and organs. Dead, but healthy. The healed areas showed a faint network of scars, but his skin was pink and clean, the blue of his ghost-veins making him look even more alive.

  He was also still naked. I glanced around. The Dead dispersed, occasionally glancing my way, but otherwise seeming respectful. Nadezhda waddled up and cut Eric’s bonds with a knife produced from her skirt, then handed me a blanket. I spread it over him, then moved to his head.

  “Eric,” I said softly, and his eyes fluttered open.

  He stared as though not recognizing me. Then he smiled. “Mon ange.”

  I laughed through my tears. “I keep telling you—I’m not anyone’s angel.” I searched his face. “How do you feel? What did they do to you?”

  He frowned. “Don’t know.” He focused on Nadezhda.

  “Zey eat your vound,” she said matter-of-factly. Her calm glance met my no doubt sickened one. “Zey dead—proper dead. Him, no. Vhen he die, he should pass from zis vorld, but he trapped. His vound, it lives. Grows—feeds on his soul. Ze Dead take vound into zemselves, a little bit each. So small, it no hurt zem. It vill die, and he vill heal. He proper dead now.”