Kara nodded and gave me a worried smile, different from the careless ones she tended to hide behind. The killings had deepened our friendship, but I wasn’t sure if we’d wedged ourselves into a morass with no clear outcome.
I pushed myself off the couch. “Let’s do this.”
We returned to the room and stood around Olive’s body. Kara leaned closer to her brutalized face and grimaced. “I want to find out who did this to her.”
So did I, but I hesitated. This should be easy enough. I’d created two supe revenants, managed to prevent them from eating people, and created a power sphere from the arcane energy of dead people. No sweat.
Unlike raising a revenant, this type of simple reanimation didn’t require a ritual or blood bond. All I had to do was drip some power into Olive’s corpse and let it inflate her. As if in response, my power bubbled inside me before I even summoned it, purring like a long-neglected cat. My chest shuddered.
I’d spent a good part of my life ignoring my power. Now I could no more deny it than a good glass of red wine. It was more a question of regulating my doses. I touched a clean part of her cheek and directed arcane energy into the corpse, then watched as it filled her.
Her eyelid flickered. Her mouth twitched.
Kara and I exchanged relieved smiles, then I cringed. Something felt wrong. The power turned rancid as it flowed through Olive and back into me. I wanted to spit it out. It tasted like disgusting sour milk. Images bombarded my mind, and I immediately blocked them out with scenes from movies. It was my way of preventing a corpse’s negative residual memories from exploding my brain.
Her torso shot up, and I stumbled back, plowing into Kara.
“Whoa,” she exclaimed against my back.
Olive bent at a stiff ninety-degree angle, her legs straight out in front of her, like a zombie Barbie that couldn’t bend her knees. In my panic, I allowed her to penetrate my mental blocks with an image, a figure in shadow. It vanished before I could make sense of it.
Kara and I watched her with tensed muscles. “Should I ask her a question?” Kara whispered.
Olive sat as still as a mannequin, and I leaned closer. She seemed okay. Maybe the weirdness I felt was the chagur, although my arm didn’t hurt. Olive kept her gaze on the floor then slowly lifted her head and stared at us with a red-rimmed, agonized expression, made more frightening by the blood trickling from the wound down the side of her face, in her eyes, and down her nose in a Carrie-esque makeover, post bucket of blood.
“Is she okay?” Kara asked from behind me, her soft whisper startling me.
Before I could answer, Olive jumped up, barreled into me, and scratched my face and nose. I squealed and tried to grab her greasy, sticky hands clawing at me. Kara clenched her shirt and tugged her off me, but Olive managed to grab a few strands of my hair, ripping them out of my scalp.
“Ah, fuck. Ow!”
“Can’t you tell her to stop?” Kara cried out. In response, Olive shoved her into a chair. Kara tumbled to the floor and the chair landed on top of her. I tried to shut Olive down, send her back, but my power bounced off her. What was going on?
She sprinted out of the storage room and into the store, toward the exit. She struggled with the locked door before smashing the glass. Then she stepped out through the opening, tearing her skin on jagged pieces of glass in the process. She disappeared before Kara could regroup and muster a spell to stop her.
“What happened?” Kara asked, her voice edging close to hysterical.
“She slipped.” The foul taste of my regurgitated power curdled inside me. I was tempted to wash my mouth out with soap even if it’d do no good. I needed a soul enema.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I couldn’t explain it to her. Was I slipping? Was this what happened when a necro started to lose it? Lose control of your corpse, then your mind? Or was the chagur fucking with me?
Whether attributable to necromancer breakdown or my new demon brand, my illusion of control had devolved into a farce. And now I had to confront the harsh possibility that I’d started down the same path Cael had traversed, one that had ended in the brilliant madness of necromancer dementia. I preferred to go down in a blaze and not descend into a pit of lunatic mediocrity like the necromancer Arthur, who had reanimated his niece and lived out his days with only a revenant to accompany his self-destruction, watching with dispassionate eyes as the madness ate away at each brain cell. But who knew what would happen? At this moment, my brain synapses were completely fried.
“We have to find her,” Kara said breathlessly, pulling me out of my mental downward spiral.
“She’s not a zombie. How did she stay reanimated?”
“Maybe you made a mistake.”
“No. I measured out my power with careful precision. Hopefully, the power keeping her reanimated will dissipate,” I said. Before she decides to nosh on any poor sucker who happens to cross her path.
Kara pulled out her cell. “I’m calling Jax,” she said.
“You think that’s a good idea? If Malthus finds out he snuck over here to help us . . .”
“What? He needs a permission slip to go out at night?”
Kara didn’t quite understand the demon protocols, but I’ve learned them the hard way. Still, Jax was a big boy, and if he wanted to risk Malthus’s ire, it was his decision. He’d helped Ewan and me track down a zombie after it attacked me. Maybe he could do the same with Olive.
Before I could further debate the merits of involving Jax—one of the few demons who could teleport—he appeared in front of the store. We joined him outside. I studied him while Kara explained the situation, trying to detect his reaction, but also wondering just how close he and Kara had become. Jax had a more exotic, island look than the other demons, with caramel waves of hair that dusted his shoulder and a physique that spoke more to running or swimming than swinging a sword.
While Kara spoke, he occasionally flicked his gaze to me and frowned. Finally, when Kara finished, he said, “You should tell Malthus.”
Kara looked at me, read the plea in my eyes—not yet.
She clasped his arm and turned him to face her. I could tell he was trying not to succumb to her pleading expression, knowing once he gave in, it was all over. Ultimately, all he could do was shake his head. “Fuck. Okay. I’ll help and keep it secret. If I can’t track her, and you haven’t found her in two days, then you’ll have to tell Malthus. And for Christ’s sake, don’t fucking mention me.” He muttered something else under his breath, and I was fairly sure I caught a “Marchios” and “kick my ass” in between a few demon curses.
Jax had an unusual ability to slow things down, different from the way other demons manipulated reality. Whatever he did, it allowed him to cover ground quickly. He did that now, leaving Kara and me feeling like someone had dumped us in a vat of Jell-o. He returned moments later, bringing back our equilibrium . . . but no Olive.
“Nothing. I’m sorry,” he said.
I stared in defeat at the small sign mounted above the front entrance to Kara’s bookstore bearing its name The One-Eyed Raven. I couldn’t shake the nagging thought that the Big Bad was reaching out to me via Olive, either to shake my confidence or send a message:
I’m still here and you can’t stop me.
Chapter Eight
I SPENT MOST of that night and the following day at Kara’s bookstore, helping her cast spells to track Olive. This tragic, freakish event had mounted an unexpected detour in our search for the Big Bad, but if her death was related, it could turn the otherwise colossal disaster into a fortuitous breakthrough. That was, if we could find her. After several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to try a more mundane method, one that didn’t involve spells or charms. Police.
I hated involving Greg. Not only because he was the police, but because he was a great guy, al
most a surrogate father. My mom had dated Greg until she’d botched it up, although I couldn’t lay the blame entirely on her. Greg had broken up with her. I guessed that dating someone who could raise the dead eventually wore on a relationship. She’d told him about us. He was the only human I knew of who was aware of necromancers. He seemed to take the knowledge in stride, but it couldn’t be easy reconciling the existence of zombies with his day-to-day work. I grew up with stories of monsters and supernatural beings, and when Mom and my grandmother eventually told me the stories were real, it wasn’t much of a shock. But it still made me look twice at the shadows.
I also hated involving Greg because he carried around a nice chunk of guilt over Mom’s suicide. She’d helped him track a serial killer by reanimating one of the killer’s victims. Unfortunately, the victim had overloaded Mom’s mind with horrifying memories until she sought escape through her own death. Both Cora and I had tried to relieve him of his guilt, to no avail. He was intent on preserving it. In some ways, we’ve all nailed ourselves to our own crosses.
I heard his one firm knock and smiled at the craggy but handsome detective who greeted me when I opened the door. He’d shed his worn-out coat for a worn-out suit, but for fifty-something, he held his own.
He returned my smile, but stayed rooted at the entrance. “Can we sit outside?” he asked.
I caught his quick glance over my head and the marked crease of his brows. Greg was almost as unreadable as Malthus, but I understood his reluctance to enter the house that held memories of the woman he’d loved and lost. Despite all the tragedy burrowed in all the cracks and crevasses of my house, the memories actually comforted me now. I’d never willingly leave or give up this old Victorian. Situated on the northeastern tip of Golden Gate Park, the two-story house blended modern upgrades with antique charm, and despite the crazy, and occasionally violent memories contained in its walls, the house served as my sanctuary, a place apart from the supernatural world.
I closed the door and sat next to him on the front steps. He stretched his long legs out in front of him. Fall had descended full force, replacing summer’s semi-gloss sunshine with a somber gray. Even the gusts that swept leaves across the sidewalk carried a dank, recycled briskness.
“How are you doing?” he asked, angling his head toward me.
“I passed my presentation for tenure.” One side of my lip curled in wry resignation. I’d meant to warn him about Olive, ask for his help, but now, with him beside me, the absurdity of the situation hit me. How could I explain this to him?
“That’s great.” He smiled and gave me a quick one-armed hug.
Maybe this was a mistake. Why had I asked Greg to come? What help could he really provide in helping me to find Olive? Greg, I reanimated a dead witch, and she freaked out and is now, as we speak, running around town, trying to find someone to eat.
“I love hearing about how well you’re doing with your career, but I know you didn’t call me here just to chat. What’s wrong?”
I turned to face him and squeezed my hands into fists, unsure of what to reveal.
“Should I be concerned about dead bodies roaming the city?”
I groaned and spit it out. “I reanimated a woman who we thought might help us, might have information on Cora’s killer.” I paused to check his reaction.
He pulled a toothpick out of his coat pocket and clenched it between his teeth. It was a nervous habit, one he seemed to do a lot whenever he was around me.
“Something happened,” I said.
The toothpick stilled, but he said nothing.
“Olive, the woman . . . um . . . she got away.”
“So a zombie is on the loose?”
“Technically, she’s not a zombie.”
He scratched his head, confusion clear in his expression. Who could blame him? As if the police manual covered the nuances between zombies, revenants and reanimated corpses.
“Can’t you track her? Don’t you control them?” he asked.
“Normally, yes. But I lost control of her.”
“Who is this woman?”
I sighed audibly. How much had Mom told him about the other supernatural races?
“Is she like you?” he asked cautiously.
“She’s not a necromancer, but . . .” I paused. “You know Kara?” When he gave me a small nod, I continued, “Olive was her roommate. Kara found her dead. While I have no definitive proof, Olive’s death may be related to Cora’s.”
“You still don’t know who killed Cora?”
“We have suspicions.”
While Greg lingered in the periphery of my life, more so since Cora’s death, I tried my best to protect him from the more gruesome aspects of supe shenanigans. I desperately wanted to unload about Malthus pulling me in multiple directions, about traveling to the demon realm, about the chagur, yet I also didn’t want to unhinge his grip on reality. It was better to let him deal with homicide and drug dealers and leave me with the zombies and murderous demons.
As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Don’t tell me. Knowing about you and your family and—” he exhaled—“vampires is more than enough for one lifetime.”
“My mother told you about vampires?” I asked, my eyes wide.
“Not exactly. The guy showed up one night when I was over at your house, fangs bared.”
“He revealed himself to you?”
He laughed. “I suspect he didn’t intend for me to leave the house alive.”
“So what happened?” I hung on his words, loving a rare glimpse into my mother’s life. But mostly I was enjoying not talking about my problem with Olive.
“Actually, your grandmother woke up and chased him off. She was a sight to behold.” He placed his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I miss them both. Your grandmother was a strong woman. So are you.”
He released my shoulders and stood. “I need to get back to the station. I’ll keep an eye or ear out for Olive. In the meantime, Ruby, stay away from vampires. They’re a nasty bunch.”
I laughed out loud, but didn’t bother explaining the irony. He wouldn’t share my amusement if he knew that, as soon as he left, I intended to head off to see a not at all nasty vampire.
MY LOGICAL RIGHT brain nagged me to call Malthus and Ewan, but I was still cagey after the demon council meeting and emotionally shattered after my last encounter with Ewan. I was hoping to locate Olive independent of them. But I needed help. The vampire, Lysander, had provided much needed support after I’d turned the Master Vampire, Dominic’s, former lieutenant into a zombie. Dominic’s position as Master gave him increased power and influence over vampires under his jurisdiction—most of the west coast—a power he often used to oppose and provoke the demons, who he considered the greatest threat to vampire dominance over the supernaturals.
The demons still didn’t know about me killing and zombifying the lieutenant, who was now dead, for real. Dominic and I had agreed to shove it under the rug. I think he wanted to keep the demons from breathing down his neck. Personally, I wanted to keep the vampires from breathing down mine—knowing full well the secret would come out eventually and when it did, my neck would receive its fair share of hot breaths.
Lysander held a unique position in the vampire community. While he’d removed himself from most of their politics, he still commanded an unusual amount of respect. If anything, I had to let him know about Olive, in case the vampires became the next targets, as well as solicit his help. That’s what I told myself anyway.
I waited until a little after five, the time Lysander rose from his sleep. I hesitated, my fingers in mid-text on my cell. The last time I’d seen him, so had Ewan—seen him holding me. That incident had cast a palpable tension over their friendship, unusual between a vampire and demon.
I hit send and waited only a couple of minutes before my cell buzzed
at his reply. Come on by. Just leave the zombies at home. I smiled despite myself and shed my doubts. It would be good to see him.
The bus ride passed quickly and I entered the vampire club. Because it wasn’t yet open, the space was empty of revelers and unknowing menu items. Lysander smiled when he spotted me traversing the empty dance floor. “Good to see you in one piece,” he said from behind the bar.
“So far,” I said, straddling a stool.
I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. Unlike most of the broody vampires, he transmitted an infectious charm. He wore a T-shirt decorated with a Japanese rising sun and black jeans. Lysander was the only vampire I trusted not to drain me of blood. In complete contrast to Ewan’s dark fuck-me sensuality, Lysander’s wavy, dirty blond hair and disheveled look exuded a potent mix of vulnerability and subtle sexuality.
“Want something to drink?” he asked.
“No. Can we talk? Privately.”
He nodded, threw the rag on the bar, and called over a woman who looked to be in her forties, her body covered in a multitude of dragon tattoos. As he relayed instructions, I tried to affect nonchalance, tearing at a bar napkin, already sensing the way his presence affected me. From the first time we met in the nightclub, he’d sent warm fuzzies scrambling through my body, and while I’d wanted to blame the drinks he’d served me, I knew better.
He turned to me and raised an eyebrow at the shredded napkin. I gave him a sheepish shrug, and he gathered the pieces and tossed them in the garbage. He wrapped his hand around my arm and led me outside. When my body came to full attention at his touch, I knew I was screwed. We walked down the block without a destination in mind, passing the now burned-down theater where I had confronted Cael.
“Did you hear about what happened with Cael?” I asked. I hadn’t filled him in on all the events personally, but the supernatural grapevine had a very extensive reach.
“I heard you took him out blazing. I think the supernatural community doesn’t know what to make of you. Your power is specific, but very powerful in its specificity.”
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