by Kelly Gay
I chewed softly on the inside of my cheek as she grabbed a small dagger from its sheath and then sliced her palm without hesitation. Blood flowed bright and red into the bowl. After enough collected, she leaned forward and poured the blood into the corpse’s mouth.
The paper inside crackled as though on fire.
Carefully Liz made an unbroken blood line from the corpse’s mouth, down the neck, along the shoulder and arm to the palm. Then she sat back down and placed her own wounded palm into the corpse’s, making an unbroken blood link—her living blood flowing into the body of the dead nymph.
The blood line began to glow. Very subtle, but there. The connection was made. Liz was feeding her life force through her unique blood, reanimating the dead.
Slowly, very slowly, the body softened against the floor, no longer stiff but still gray and sunken and … dead.
The nymph’s jaw popped suddenly, and she gasped, drawing in a long, wheezing breath as air filled her collapsed lungs. Liz continued chanting, her eyes closed, and her posture confident.
Like a puppet on a string, Daya Machanna sat up straight. Several vertebrae cracked, each sickening pop echoing off the walls and making me wince.
Hank’s arm rubbed against my shoulder. My fists closed at my sides as I resisted the urge to grab his hand out of pure horror. The corpse’s eyes snapped open, unfocused and grayed over. A ring of blood painted her lips, a trickle forming at one corner.
“Tell us what is left,” Liz said calmly, opening her eyes. “Tell us your last moments.”
Daya’s jaw worked, opening and closing with a horrible breaking sound. Her blood-wet lips smacked together like a fish. Sounds tried to come out, humming deeply through her throat, but not reaching fruition. After several disgusting seconds of smacking and moaning, she had voice. Scratchy, wheezing, but audible.
“Darknessssss … hurtssssss …”
“Your life was taken from you, Daya,” Liz told her. “You must remember what happened. What do you see?”
After a false start and blood spurting out of her mouth like spittle, she murmured, “Terrace. Touching the sky. The darkness. Red like fire … like fire.” Daya coughed up blood. Her hand moved slowly to push some of it back into her mouth, her expression appearing more sentient, more aware that she needed to keep this blood, that she liked this blood.
“Then what happened? What came next?”
“Light.” Gasp. “The ring and … the light … mine … it’s mine … into the hand that …” She froze. “DAMN YOU!” Hank and I jumped. Red spittle flew across the circle. “I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”
The blood line glowed brighter.
“EVEN FOR A CAUSE! FUCK YOUR STUPID CAUSE! I WANT MY LIFE BACK!” The nymph’s body doubled over. Liz’s face became strained. I stepped forward, but she put out a hand, signaling me: not yet.
A dirty haze began to grow in the back corner of the room.
“What cause?” Liz pressed. “What cause, Daya? Tell us and he will answer for your death.”
A wet, guttural scream issued from the nymph’s throat. Her hair covered her face. She remained doubled over, her voice a hostile whisper. “For the star, he says … the star, the star, the stupid, fucking star.”
The cloud in the corner grew thicker and brighter. I leaned into Hank, sensing the presence of smut. “I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
Daya began mumbling, her head still down, forehead against her knees, her hand still in Liz’s and the line glowing a bright, angry red.
Liz’s face paled.
Something was wrong. My fingernails dug into my palms. Shit. I realized we were witnessing a very rare event, one of the cons of raising the dead—the birth of what some might call a zombie. If the dead had arcane knowledge, if somehow that knowledge remained in their short term memory, they could suck the necromancer dry and raise themselves. And, in most cases, there was no way to tell beforehand if the dead had that kind of knowledge or not. “Daya must be a mage,” I said. “She still has some of those memories. She knows how to reanimate herself. Liz!”
Hank and I ran to the circle, scattering the salt with our shoes. Nothing happened. “Break the link,” I said. “We have to break the link.” I grabbed Liz’s hand, smudged the line, and pulled her away from the nymph’s grip. Their hands wouldn’t budge and the blood line kept repairing itself. Damn it!
I got behind Liz and wrapped both arms around her slim waist, prepared to pull her entire body out of the circle, when the nymph lifted her head and glared at me. Bits of the bloodsoaked paper stuck to her lips and chin. Her dry tongue darted out and licked at the lifeblood. Daya’s eyes burned red and scornful.
And then she smiled. She fucking smiled at me. A corpse.
“I’m coming back,” she hissed.
3
Liz went limp. I screamed at her to stay awake as Hank nudged me aside, attempting to pull Liz’s hand away from the corpse’s steel-like grip. The rest of Daya’s body remained bent over so far, her head touched her knees. Hair covered her face from view, but it was the raspy, guttural chanting that made me worried. I scrambled out of the way on my hands and knees as Hank leaned over, his strong arms wrapping around Liz’s tiny form.
The smut cloud in the corner drew closer. Daya was drawing on negative energy to aid her cause. The hairs on my arms stood. My heartbeat thudded loud and heavy in my eardrums as I pulled my 9mm from the holster and fired at the corpse, thinking it might be enough to distract her while Hank pulled. Each bullet slammed into her torso with a thunk.
Three shots and nothing happened.
“Goddammit!” Hank pulled at Liz so hard he had her off the floor, his feet slipping in the dust and salt. Daya was not letting go. The only way to stop her was to break the link.
I scanned the room, betting my ass the ITF seminar had never covered this. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed the corpse from behind, hands under both armpits, and pulled. She reeked of rotting flesh from the debris pile and her own decay. My stomach shriveled into a hard, tiny knot. Her tangled, matted hair stuck to my mouth. I spit the hair away from my lips and then gritted my teeth, pulling hard. Daya’s dead ass rose off the floor, but she refused to let go of Liz’s hand.
One look at Hank’s widening eyes, and I knew the smut cloud was right behind me, drawn ever closer by the chanting. Shit! I released my hold and pulled the Nitro-gun, doing the only thing I could think of and hoping I didn’t injure Liz in the process. I pressed the nozzle against Daya’s bicep and fired twice.
The newly designed nitro capsules sank into her flesh, the housing disintegrating as it went, releasing a shot of nitro into her body and instantly freezing the skin.
The nitro spread, traveling up and down her arm lightning fast. Just before it reached her wrist, I stepped down with all my might, severing the frozen limb at the joint. Severing the bloodline.
Hank and Liz fell back, the dead hand still gripping Liz’s.
The corpse’s red mouth slowly dropped open, milky eyes trained on me, as a desperate, enraged scream pushed out of her mouth along with bits of blood and paper. The sound raised goose bumps over much of my skin.
Despite the fact that my entire body was begging me to physically shake off the traces of her that clung to my skin, hair, and clothes, I stood my ground, breath coming out ragged, and kept my weapon trained.
Daya turned in despair, her gaze seeking the energy that would’ve helped reanimate her. She groaned and reached out with her good hand, her look becoming heartbreaking as she realized her chance at rebirth was slipping away. Blood tears swam over her eyes as they turned opaque, and her body hardened, collapsing to the floor.
For a long time no one moved or spoke.
“Get this fucking thing off of me,” Liz muttered, weakly flinging at the severed hand latched to hers. Hank raised them both to a sitting position, his arms still wrapped tightly around her. Once they were up, he scooted out from behind her to pry the
stiff fingers from Liz’s open hand.
I holstered my weapon, hands shaking, and grabbed my phone to call paramedics, squinting at the numbers and the blurry display.
“What are you doing?” Liz asked.
“Calling the medics.”
She shook her head, looking like I’d felt earlier after the hellhound jumped me. “No. No medics. Elliot will be here soon. I called him earlier …”
A crack of bone made me jump. Hank’s skin went a shade paler and his throat worked with a hard swallow. He’d had to break the corpse’s finger bones. “Sorry,” he murmured, finally freeing the hand and tossing it toward the rest of Daya as though it was a hot potato.
“Who the hell is Elliot?”
“My new apprentice.” Liz made a slow fist, opening and closing several times to aid in circulation. “And I’m fine, okay? You don’t need to call the medics.”
“You’re not fine. That … thing … almost killed you and—” My sight went blurry again.
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna cry,” Liz joked, but her ragged breathing and pale skin told me she was putting up a brave front.
“Ha ha.” Yeah. So the shock of nearly raising a zombie and losing my friend made my eyes a bit glossy. I didn’t feel like crying; more like decimating the damn wall with my bare hands. The thought manifested in a warm wave of humming energy through my veins. My fist closed around my phone. I heard a small plastic crack and eased up. Now was not the time for one of my accidental power surges.
“Hell no, I’m not going to cry.” I shoved the phone into its holster on my hip. “Why? You still have that stupid bet with the cold cell nurse? Whoever sees Charlie cry first wins?”
She gave a small laugh. “It wasn’t my idea. But, hey, odds are in my favor. Figure I have a better chance of witnessing the monumental event than she does. You could try to squeeze out a tear. Mama needs a new pair of Donna Karan featherweight frames in brushed copper.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have enough eyewear to open your own LensCrafters.”
The banging on the door made me jump. A voice shouted Liz’s name.
Liz sighed. “That would be Elliot. Hank, would you let him in?”
Once Hank unbolted the door, Elliot rushed in with a gallon jug of orange juice in hand. He looked wide-eyed and rumpled like a kid who’d just gotten out of bed, but ready and willing to take on the world, despite the fact that he also seemed scared shitless.
Smart kid. I liked him already. It was the people who weren’t scared of anything that worried me.
“Shoot,” he breathed, surveying the scene. “I missed everything.” He bent down to help Liz to her feet and I saw one corner on his shirt had been tucked into the edge of blue-striped boxers. “Man.” His wide eyes were locked on the corpse. “What happened to her hand? And why is she all wrinkly?”
“How old are you?” I asked.
He straightened, his hand on Liz’s elbow to keep her balanced, to a height just shy of six feet. “Eighteen.”
“Don’t you raise your eyebrow at me,” Liz said at my pointed look. “The kid begged me for two years to apprentice. Kept telling him, when he was eighteen.” She threw a frown his way. “Thought he would’ve given up, but as you can see luck was not on my side.”
Elliot grinned, revealing white teeth and a cute, boyish charm that probably got him into loads of girl trouble. “That’s really code for she loves me.”
Liz snorted and swayed on her feet. Her fingernails dug into Elliot’s arm. “Okay. Wow. Seeing stars here.”
“Come on, let’s get you out of this room and into some fresh air,” Elliot said.
After they were gone, I stepped to the built-in shelving unit and snagged the video camera, leaning my hip against the counter and rewinding the tape, trying to concentrate on the task as the guilt formed in my gut. “I should’ve known she was a mage,” I said.
“It’s a risk every necromancer takes. No one can see auras on dead people, Charlie. Not even you. And it’s not like we had time to find out who she was beforehand. If we’d done that, we wouldn’t have gotten any information from her at all.”
Hank wasn’t looking at me. He was staring down at Daya’s corpse. I knew how he felt. Powerless. Daya wouldn’t have died in the first place if we’d been able to do our damn job and figured out who was kidnapping and killing Elysians. Seeing her wanting her life back, wanting what anyone would want … Yeah. Been there. Knew what that was like.
“At least we got the call instead of the ITF,” I muttered. Score one for the new federal agents.
Except for one “capture alive” case, the only other case we’d worked since taking on our new role two months ago had been a “kill or be killed” situation. Sounded harsh, but I—and obviously a lot of other people—believed that what we did was a necessary evil. There were things, even after thirteen years of integration, that posed too much of a threat to society, things that didn’t require capture or a trial, things that often preferred to fight to the death, things better left to … well, us.
The tape stopped rewinding. I turned the power off to save the battery.
“So now we know where our missing Adonai went. This”—Hank stared down at Daya—“is the seventh body in less than two weeks. Dumped in the trash … discarded.”
His profile went grim and utterly determined, lips drawn into an angry line, the muscle in his jaw flexing beneath day-old stubble. He dragged his fingers through his hair and then propped both hands on his hips. The air became charged with rage for these victims. He stood there like some dark avenging angel.
Like all sirens, Hank’s beauty bordered on fantasy, and he oozed masculinity like a sweet, beguiling perfume, but the last few months of being cut off from his siren power, had done something to him, had made him colder, harder, unpredictable, and, if I wanted to be honest with myself, scarier.
* * *
My friend at Animal Control arrived as Hank and I were leaving the warehouse. After showing Tim the hellhound and making him swear on his entire collection of autographed Atlanta Braves baseball memorabilia to send the beast back to Charbydon, I joined Hank in the parking lot with Liz and Elliot.
It was drizzling.
I sensed it before I ducked under the lopsided door.
Interesting phenomenon, the rain. It had to pass through the darkness, and each drop carried with it some gray, some primeval Charbydon power. When a drop hit the ground, it dispersed the darkness in a tiny puff, like smoke. The thing was, there were so many drops going on at once that it created a fog over the ground. And as long as it rained, those little whiffs of “smoke” kept being hit back down, or trapped once more into the rain. The more rain, the more “Charbydon Fog” as we’d begun calling it.
I turned up the collar on my jacket and hunched my shoulders, not happy at the thought of darkness splatting on my head and shoulders, not happy that my body responded, got a little energized by the raw, arcane power around me. Part of me was Charbydon now. And there was nothing I could do about the near-constant tingle I got from the darkness overhead. Made me wonder how all the other local Charbydons were feeling. Probably pretty damn good.
Atlanta had become a paradise for the Charbydon races; the forty-mile radius of darkness that spread from the grounds of Mott Technologies and outward made the city a dark replica of their home world. They’d tolerated the sunlight before, but this … this was like their own little hell on earth.
My feet stirred the thin layer of fog on the ground as I made my way across the derelict parking lot toward the dark silhouette of Liz’s van and the small overhead light spilling out from the vehicle, leading me like a lighthouse beacon. I rolled my neck, trying to ease the anxious feeling the darkness spawned in me.
All I wanted was to get out of this and somewhere I could think straight without this constant reminder that I was different, genetically altered to bring darkness to Atlanta.
Yeah. City in crisis? That was me.
Despite the press conferen
ces and the constant assurances that the darkness had been the work of one power hungry Charbydon noble, many here held the entire Charbydon race responsible. And that idea was constantly fanned by those who’d been against the integration of our worlds from the beginning.
The tension wasn’t as bad as it had been in the first few weeks, but two months wasn’t a long time; the tension was still here like a living current just below the surface. Recently the focus had turned to asking: how does a city survive without sunlight? And that question was being addressed by the world’s best and brightest—Titus Mott.
Since most of our food sources came from other places anyway, we didn’t have to worry about produce and fresh foods; those continued to be trucked in as usual. But we did have to worry about sunlight deficiencies, the effect on sleep cycles, and the constant drain on electricity. The government was urging citizens to take frequent trips outside the forty-mile radius, and depending on where you were, that could happen almost daily or only on the weekends. The point officials tried to make was that it was doable. We could handle this until a way to get rid of the darkness was found. Travel outside the city. Sunlamps. Vitamin D pills, mandatory lights-out for residential districts and businesses on off-hours to save on power … Whatever it took.
And I refused to believe that Atlanta had become the new hell. The light would come back. My genetically altered blood had brought the darkness into this world, and it would be my job to take it out. I just wasn’t sure how to make that happen … yet.
Liz sat in the passenger seat of her van, Elliot hovering nearby. Her white throat bobbed as she chugged the OJ, drinking like a person starved. A third of the gallon was gone before she stopped and noticed me standing there. “What? I need vitamin C.”
A deficiency all natural necromancers were born with and one that got worse after a ritual. She seemed none the worse for wear except for the big elephant lurking over us that no one spoke about—how much of her life force this had cost her.
