“It’s the smell. I need to get out of this room.”
“I know what you mean. It’s pretty nasty. I don’t know how someone can work in here.”
I looked at Charlie, a thin guy, probably in his late twenties, although it was hard to tell with the early pallor of decay tainting his face.
“He’s no Brad Pitt,” she said.
“All I need is an intact body, with no guts hanging out and no Frankenstein sutures. Charlie will do.” My determination surged now that we had a viable corpse. I really hoped that Charlie wasn’t some pervert or serial killer because reanimation magnified those tendencies.
“Wait. He’s naked. Please tell me you brought some clothes,” Kara said.
I laughed at her horrified expression. Creating a zombie wasn’t frightening enough, but a naked zombie, now that was truly worthy of terror? However, I too did not want a naked zombie running around and I patted my bag. I’d brought large sweat pants and a T-shirt, figuring they’d fit all but the most hefty.
“Here goes nothing,” I said. Controlling a zombie should be easy—well, okay, except Olive—and shouldn’t trigger the chagur. I crossed my fingers.
Kara shot me a quick look of concern from the other side of the drawer, then replaced it with a smile and a short shake of her head. My fingers tingled, and I clenched them tightly, digging my nails into my palms. I held my breath and felt my power ripple inside me. The ease at which I could retrieve it unsettled me. My power differed from a witch’s manipulation of elements. It was a force inside me, constantly bulging, seeking release, like a geyser expelling steam. My head felt bloated and febrile, my eyes ready to pop. I ran my tongue around the top of my mouth and let out my breath. Unlike the screw-up with Olive, my power tasted, felt normal, and I wrapped it around me. It was the best feeling I’d had in days, like coming home after a long vacation.
Kara regarded me with wide, worried eyes. “You sure about this?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. In the fog of my mind, I shared her fear, but the only emotion that emerged was anger, anger that she had questioned my power. She took a step back and clasped her charm. I shot power into Charlie.
Out of the corner of my conscious perception, I saw Charlie’s body shudder. Kara lifted a hand, the words of a spell poised on her tongue. Charlie bent at the waist and reached out to me, and I grabbed his cold hand. “Charlie, I’m Ruby. I reanimated you, called you in service to me. I’m sorry for disturbing you and won’t keep you awake for long. But I need your help.”
He moaned then made some incomprehensible childlike wail, opening and closing his mouth as if testing it out. I released his hand and let him bend his knees and elbows until he swung off the drawer and hopped onto the floor.
I held onto my power a few moments longer in case Charlie went berserk, then let it go, deflating me in the process, leaving me unsatisfied, wanting and needing more bodies. Two zombies would be more efficient in tracking Olive. Yes, more bodies . . .
“Ruby.” Kara’s voice, sharp and loud, brought me back to reality. “Get it together and deal with naked Charlie.”
I focused my gaze and saw Charlie opening one of the drawers, his lips moving around, trying to form words, finally garbling something that sounded distressingly like “eat”.
Kara lowered her hand, but I noticed her other hand clasped tightly around her charm. Now that my power had completely dissipated, I regretted the way I’d turned on her. “I’m sorry about . . .”
She waved off my apology, and I let it go for now, but later, I’d have to come to terms with the way my power had lashed out at her.
I approached Charlie, who was now poking at the body, pulled him back, and slammed the drawer shut. His lips trembled, and he whined. Unlike revenants who could feed off a necromancer’s power, a zombie needed flesh.
“What are you going to do about . . . food?” Kara asked with a disgusted curl to her lip.
“I’m going to try raw steak.” I desperately hoped steak worked, or I’d find myself trapping rats in the alleys, because the alternative was unconscionable. I’d put him back down before I’d let him feed on anything else.
Charlie moaned and ran his hands along the stains on the wall, confirming my worst suspicions, while Kara cast an avoidance spell around Charlie’s drawer. She clasped her hands. “There. By the time the spell wears off, they won’t understand why the paperwork doesn’t match up, and the overworked, underpaid lab tech won’t care.”
I pulled the zombie wear out of my bag and handed it to Charlie, who looked at the items, unimpressed with anything that wasn’t dripping with blood.
“Put them on,” I ordered.
He grumbled, but took the shirt and pants. We turned while he dressed, not sure why since we’d already been exposed to him in his full undead glory. When we turned back around, I tried not to cringe at his sad-sack appearance, the black sweats hanging off his emaciated frame, his shirt on backwards and inside-out. I almost changed my mind, and considered sending him back, but the need to find Olive bolstered my resolve. I pushed him out the door while wondering why, if I’d successfully managed to raise him, Olive had run off in a rabid frenzy. Was this how the demon side affected my ability, or had making the power sphere made me unstable? More importantly right now, would Charlie remain docile, or would he too freak out?
“WE MIGHT WANT to have Charlie walk in front of us,” Kara said, looking over her shoulder. “He seems way too interested in that dog.”
I veered around in time to wrestle Charlie’s flaccid hand off the yipping poodle’s scruff. Charlie’s red eyes crinkled, presenting such a forlorn expression. For a moment, I almost believed he only wanted to pet the little poochie-poo. Until he licked his lips. Yuck.
“Charlie, no eating until I say so,” I said, trying to feign a stern tone and feeling like I was scolding the poodle rather than a zombie.
Charlie mewled in response.
We turned onto my street, and I immediately spotted a black Beemer with midnight-tinted windows parked in front of my house and Ewan’s frame leaning against the side. The sight of him made me catch my breath and sent currents zipping through my body. He wore a sexy black leather jacket over a black Henley shirt and jeans. His gaze locked onto mine, and I slowed my pace. I wasn’t prepared to see him again after his fight with Ly, but Malthus had called, wanting to resume the conversation from the night before.
“This is going to be sooo interesting, and I’m truly tempted to stick around . . .” Kara said.
“Some friend you are. Moral support, anyone?”
“Let me think about that for a moment.” She studied Ewan’s implacable expression and watched Malthus step out of the car. “Um, I love you, you know that, but I’ll leave the demons—” she flicked her eyes to Charlie, now poking through the dirt around a small maple growing from a planter in the sidewalk—“and zombies to you.” She kissed me on the temple, waved to the demons, and made for her Prius parked down the street.
I watched in horror as Charlie lifted a worm he’d snared from the dirt, its squirming body covered in clumps of wet earth, and dropped it into his mouth. I harbored no delusion that the demons didn’t know Charlie’s origins the moment they laid eyes on him, but the situation was insane enough without Charlie broadcasting his zombie-ness in an act of culinary grotesquerie.
“Charlie, up the stairs,” I told him.
He was still chewing on the worm and pointed at the dirt, clearly wanting to dig for more. I was mortified at getting into a battle of wills one would normally have with a three-year-old in front of Ewan and Malthus. I pushed at Charlie with my power. He swallowed the worm, grumbling as he mounted the stairs.
I avoided meeting either demon’s eyes. They remained silent while following me into my house. I sent Charlie to the basement, which also served as a shelter for the occasional stray rat. The pe
rks of having an old house. I left the demons in the front room and went to fetch some drinks in the kitchen. After returning and pouring out the scotch, I slid into a chair and sipped the liquid.
“Desperate for company?” Ewan’s voice straddled a very fine line between humor and sarcasm. We hadn’t spoken since he and Lysander had punched it out. I was torn between wanting to surrender and thinking about advancing the battle line. Because, ultimately, wasn’t making peace the same as admitting defeat?
I looked at him, leaning against the fireplace mantel, and shot him a hairy eyebrow in response.
“What’s going on?” Malthus sat on my couch with his legs crossed. Malthus could sit in a ripped, moldy chair, and only needed to cross a leg or drape an arm to assert his dominance.
I gave myself a minute to soothe my nerves. My rational mind coaxed me to accept their help. They knew more, had more resources at their disposal. But emotionally, I struggled to separate Malthus from betrayal and Ewan . . . he just caused pain and gut-wrenching agony. Giving in, accepting their help, drove that pain deeper, and I didn’t know if my psyche could bear it. The emotions were too raw, especially after learning Malthus had agreed to the chagur. In my mind, that was the first order of business.
“Why did you agree to the chagur?” I asked, my voice quiet and serious.
He uncrossed his legs and gave me a thoughtful look. “Ivo wanted to execute you, and we arrived at a compromise.”
I grimaced. “Execute me without a trial or any legitimate reason?” I rubbed my forehead, still not quite able to process Ivo’s extreme measures. I thought I’d done a good thing by stopping Cael, but apparently I’d signed my death warrant.
“I won’t let him harm you. Nor will Xavier, for that matter. Despite the mistrust between us, you must believe that,” Malthus said.
I nodded. I’d witnessed his seething tolerance for Ivo at the hearing, yet I had to question what he’d compromised and how much further he was willing to go.
“I am sorry. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was a solution, at the time,” he said. And he sounded sincere.
A lot of things seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I stared at the spot on the floor in front of the fireplace where Ewan and I had made love, picturing his strong body over me, thrusting. Heat coiled in me, and my center throbbed. Fuck. Must he always have this effect on me?
“Ruby.” Malthus’s voice wavered just above a whisper.
I tore my gaze away and couldn’t stop it from colliding with Ewan’s face. A mix of anger and passion swirled in his eyes. I turned abruptly toward the fireplace and braced my hands on the mantel. I sighed and told them what happened with Olive. When I finished, Ewan cursed in demon and Malthus simply stared hard at me. “You tell us this now, three days later?”
“Yes,” I answered crisply. Malthus narrowed his eyes, but I wasn’t going to discuss it further.
Ewan finally spoke, dispelling our little standoff. “Seems our Big Bad has resurged and is signaling that he’s not done with us.”
“I’d welcome him with open arms, if not for Olive’s death. The more he sticks his neck out, the more chance we have of cutting it off,” I said, still not removing my gaze from the disapproval in Malthus’s expression. “Despite what Ivo thinks, you think he’s demon, right?”
He ignored me, whether out of spite, or because it was his favorite pastime. Instead, he asked, “What happened when you tried to reanimate Olive?”
I bit my lip, unsure how to explain the bizarre sensation that had coursed through me that night. “Something tainted the raise.” I shook my head. “When I made Charlie, my power felt completely normal, but with Olive, something else interfered.”
Like a musician, I was tuned to the macabre melody running through me and the occurrences with Lysander and Olive had jarred my necro senses with a seriously out-of-tune song.
“And with Lysander, what were you two doing when the assault occurred?” Malthus asked.
My face immediately erupted with volcanic heat, and I forced my gaze from straying to Ewan. “We’d just left the Alameda Marina.” If either of them had any idea where Lysander lived, they’d immediately deduce our intended destination.
“That’s near Lysander’s boathouse,” Malthus said.
Crap. I nodded, my face still trained on the mantel, then one of the details of the attack popped into my head and I turned to Malthus. “Lysander said the scent of the attacker reminded him of voodoo.”
Malthus’s posture immediately changed from poised to rigid, yet he waved a dismissive hand in front of his face, in contrast of his tense stance. “We don’t know for sure if that’s what he detected.”
“Vampire senses are pretty sharp.”
“But not infallible,” Ewan said, sounding annoyed.
I ignored him.
“We need to focus on locating Olive,” Malthus said. “Is that why you made—” Malthus paused, his lips twitching. “—Charlie, is it?”
I nodded. “I thought he could help us root out Olive.”
“I’m surprised you willingly created a zombie,” Ewan said.
“But it’s good you tested your power after what happened with Olive,” Malthus said, rubbing his chin with thumb and index finger. “You must continue to exercise your power in routine, normal ways, restore your confidence and demonstrate your control to others.”
I had to laugh. There was nothing normal about raising the dead.
Malthus rose off the couch, came over to me, and pulled up the sleeve that covered the demon mark. “Did you feel the chagur burn when you reanimated Charlie?”
I shook my head. “I barely noticed it.”
Malthus continued to study the mark then readjusted my sleeve.
“Do you think the chagur is affecting my ability?” I asked.
“It shouldn’t. It doesn’t cause your power to malfunction, only forces your return to the demon realm under the conditions described by Ivo.” His tone sounded firm, but I caught the briefest crease to his brow, which in Malthus’s body language, practically shouted doubt.
“You don’t think it caused me to lose Olive?”
He took too long to answer. Finally, he said, “No,” which I took to mean he wasn’t sure.
A loud thumping in the hallway drew our attention. Charlie charged into the room, clutching a torn rat in his hand. He smiled and offered the rat to me, pride in his decayed expression. I groaned and clapped a hand over my face. More shocking, Malthus laughed. “I don’t think you’ll need to hire an exterminator,” he said.
I pointed toward the hall. “Charlie. Basement.”
He whimpered and shuffled away.
“The situation with Olive may present us with an opportunity to track Cora’s killer, the, ah, Big Bad, as you call him?” Malthus continued, giving my arm a quick glance.
“Speaking of which, you didn’t answer me before. Why doesn’t Ivo believe another demon might be involved? Why didn’t you speak up?”
“You think, after your experience with Ivo, my conjectures would have swayed him?”
“Maybe.”
He shook his head. “No. Ivo was set on two things. Humiliating me and placing the chagur on you.” He spoke in bitter acceptance of Ivo’s actions.
“Why would he want to humiliate you?”
“It’s a long, sordid history, one we don’t have time to discuss right now.” Malthus tapped on his chin. “Our enemy seems to have recovered from the setback with Cael and is targeting supernaturals again. I want you working with Ewan on this.”
“Are the witches aware of Olive’s disappearance?” Ewan asked.
“Yes. Most witches check in with the coven periodically, as a precaution, especially after Adam and Matilda’s deaths. But they have yet to sound any alarms,” I answered.
&nb
sp; “The witches will attribute Olive’s death to another domino falling after Cael, and link it to us. Meanwhile Dominic is chomping at the fang, waiting for any evidence to blame you for the attack on Lysander. We must find Olive and discover her killer,” Malthus said. “Does Kara believe her death might have something to do with the current coven upheaval?”
“Possibly. But what I don’t understand is how Olive has remained reanimated. I didn’t make her a zombie. For all intents and purposes, she should be dead . . . dead.”
Malthus drew his brow in a severe line. “We’ll only have our answers when we find her.” For once, he seemed genuinely perplexed. Then, as if another thought interceded to relieve him of his dismay, he gave me a sharp look. “Did you speak to Greg?”
I paused for a surprised moment. Of course he knew about Greg. While the need to stay incognito had prevented Malthus from playing protective father to my mom, he’d probably monitored her life from afar, through Cora. Sometimes these miniscule glimpses into Malthus made me see him differently, made me sympathize . . . almost.
“He’ll let me know if he finds anything strange,” I said.
“You really think Charlie can ferret out Olive?” Ewan asked.
I shrugged.
“Whatever you do, don’t go looking for her alone. Call one of us,” Malthus said with grandfatherly sternness.
Of course.
Chapter Twelve
AFTER MALTHUS and Ewan left, I spent a couple of hours showing Charlie pictures of Olive. He responded to my efforts with the quintessential, mindless zombie expression, and I gave up and sent him back to the basement.
I stared into the depths of the freezer, searching unsuccessfully for a pint of ice cream squeezed underneath the frozen pizza and berry mixes for smoothies I’d yet to make. Tonight demanded ice cream. I called Charlie back. After about ten minutes, I heard him shambling in the hall. Damn, he was slow. Most of them were pretty fast, especially when they wanted to eat you. But Charlie didn’t seem to be in much of a rush to do anything. I poked his cheek. No visible signs of decay, but his eau de sewer was ripening. I either needed to find Olive or send Charlie back to the morgue soon. Otherwise, no air freshener in existence would salvage my house.
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