Shallow Grave (The Lazarus Codex Book 3)

by E. A. Copen

  “Very well then.” The Archon nodded to one of his goons. “I believe this concludes our business, Khaleda?”

  She glanced at me and closed the envelope. “Yes, it does.”

  “Peter, show her out?”

  The goon on the right left my side to escort Khaleda from the ship.

  Now that she was gone, I could either look at the Archon, which was getting really old really fast, or I could see what I could learn about the kids. The distant looks in their eyes, their non-reaction to everything going on around them, fast breathing, dilated pupils… It all pointed to them being drugged. But why?

  “What did you do to them?” I nodded to the kids.

  “Let’s just say the mushrooms on that pizza are a little more potent than what you’d get at your favorite pizza chain.” He walked over and closed the box. “They won’t feel any pain. That is, until it wears off in a few hours.”

  “Pain from what?”

  The Archon opened a drawer in front of him and searched it. “Before dusk tonight, I need you to remove their souls and place them in a box that I will provide.” He pulled out a butcher’s knife. He placed it on the countertop in front of him with a finality that made my heart pound. “And then, you will kill them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I stared at the butcher knife resting on the counter. Ceiling lights reflected on the blade in blurry, white dots. The one remaining goon on my left breathed noisily, a wet, rasping sound. He’d have grabbed me before I could lunge for the knife and that was the only reason I didn’t try. Nothing he could do would stop me from picturing the knife buried deep in the Archon’s chest.

  I licked sweat from my upper lip. “You promised me no one else would die.”

  He shrugged as if it were nothing. “I lied.”

  “And what’s to stop me from taking that same knife and killing you?”

  He chuckled. It sounded like gas escaping from under ice. “And what makes you think a simple butcher’s blade will kill me? I’m an Archon.” He spread his arms wide. “Go on, Lazarus. I’ll give you one free try. Hit me with a spell. Stab me with the knife. Go ahead.”

  Bad guys don’t give the good guys a chance to kill them for free if they think it can be done. Just the same, I’d been able to kill his pet. It’d taken a supercharged obsidian dagger and a hell of a lot of preparation, but I knew it could be done. Under his skin, his heart beat just like mine. Stop it, and he’d die, right?

  “Dominique died easy enough,” I pointed out. “I stabbed him. He died. You broke his neck, he died.”

  “Dominique was no Archon,” the Archon snarled. “He was a Horseman, one of the Undying, yes, but still very mortal. I simply pushed the soul out and used the body for my purposes. I never made him into what I am.” He dropped his arms. “You can’t kill me. Gods, monsters, demons, and men have all tried and failed. What makes you think you’re so special?”

  “Mister Rogers.”

  “What?” The Archon twisted his lip, raising half his mustache.

  “Somebody didn’t spend enough time in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe as a kid. No wonder you’re so screwed up, buddy.”

  “Enough!” He slammed a fist onto the counter, making the knife jump. “You gave me your word, Horseman. Go back on it, and I’ll be forced to act. These children will be dead by sundown, their souls sealed in this box.”

  He placed a carved wooden box onto the counter next to the knife. A suspiciously familiar carved wooden box. I stared at it, blinking. It couldn’t possibly be the same box. I’d left that box in Faerie. In the Shadow Court. Hadn’t I? And what the hell would someone like him be doing with a sheut box?

  The Archon pushed away from the counter and snapped his fingers. His goon jumped into action, undoing all the buckles and restraints that still held me to the bed. I could’ve undone them myself, except my arms still felt all floppy. While his thug worked, the Archon slid by just out of reach. I never took my eyes off him, giving him my best threatening glare. At least until the goon tipped the gurney and dumped me on my ass. Using shaky arms and the back of the sofa the kids were sitting on as leverage, I pulled myself up. The Archon stood halfway up the stairs. His goon joined him.

  “I’m going to lock this door behind me,” the Archon announced. “And I will ward it behind me. I encourage you not to try and open the lock, Lazarus. It will deactivate just before sunset. I suggest you finish your work before then. The children will only be numbed another hour or two at most.” He stepped onto the next stair.

  “I know what you are.”

  He paused. “Do you? And what am I?”

  “A bully. And bullies always get their comeuppance.”

  The Archon grinned, a genuine grin, the kind grandmothers had when they watched their grandchildren play. If said grandmother was a snake guarding tomorrow’s meal. It scared me. “Perhaps, but not today. Today, I win.”

  I listened as the hatch opened, watched as he and his goon went through, and waited for it to close again. Hopelessness settled into my gut, an icy, aching, gnawing feeling. He was right. He’d backed me into a corner where, no matter what I did, an innocent was going to die. Probably more than one. But I wasn’t killing anyone.

  I turned to look at the kids on the sofa, suddenly thinking about my own impending fatherhood. What kind of world were they coming into where monsters preyed on innocent children, feeding them drugs and then killing to fuel some kind of spell? It wasn’t any sort of world I’d choose to bring a child into. Yet, if I got involved with my son or daughter, this would be their world. Always in danger, always a possible weakness of mine to be exploited.

  Icy tendrils of dread wrapped around my heart. Khaleda had been right. Love was a weakness. One I couldn’t afford. Good thing I wouldn’t have to worry about it much longer.

  I did have to make a decision. Helping the Archon was off the table, no question about it. I wasn’t killing kids. As much as it hurt to think of Emma and Moses dying, they’d never want me to hurt someone to save them. Especially innocent kids. I didn’t think there was anything I could do to stop the Archon from doing it himself or ordering one of his goons to kill them—and me—but he wouldn’t be able to get another Horseman before the blood moon rose. That meant no souls for his spell. Whatever he was trying to do would fail. Dead or not, I’d take some small satisfaction in knowing I’d been the monkey wrench in his plans, one of his own making.

  My eyes fell on the carved box, and I pulled myself across the room for a closer look. The wood was dark and smooth, stained cedar maybe. A small copper clasp held it closed. Hieroglyphs decorated the top. I traced my finger over them, reading the familiar riddle. I only understood Ancient Egyptian because of a soul I’d absorbed. It’d saved my life on my first and only visit to the Shadow Court. During that visit, I’d killed their queen and inadvertently caused the death of their knight, a sin for which I was apparently still paying. This was the same box I’d used to do it.

  Why did the Archon have the Shadow Queen’s box? For a minute, I panicked, worried a part of her might have survived contact with the ironwort, but I’d watched her burn. If there was anything left of Nyx, it was neither body nor soul because I had killed both.

  Nyx was holding a contest to find a husband. She had no heir, and her hold on her court seemed to be through fear rather than any real love. They’d be obligated to try and avenge their queen, but the Shadow Court wouldn’t contract out to someone like the Archon for that. He’s too big for something as petty as revenge. This spell he’s working has a purpose though. What spell requires twelve souls, twelve blood sacrifices and a box that used to hold a Faerie Queen’s soul?

  I didn’t know, but I had the distinct feeling that if I could unravel the why part of the puzzle, I’d be well on my way to finding my way out of that mess.

  Exhaustion took over, and I found a seat on the sofa that was unoccupied, the box resting in my hands. Voices in my head told me it was hopeless. I should take the knife and just finis
h myself off rather than give the Archon and his goons the satisfaction of killing me. Watching the light reflect off the knife against the panicked breathing and soft whines of the children only seemed to make those voices louder. I pushed them away. If I died now, it might save me whatever pain was coming, but it wouldn’t do anything for those kids. They’d come down in a few hours, scared, confused and lost. Finding my body wouldn’t help them, but if I was there with a plan, even if it was a bad plan, I could give them something.

  Hope is its own power. Hope is the desire to make something happen, the belief that it can, and the will to make it. It’s hope that gets us through the darkest moments. It gives us strength when we’d otherwise be weak. Hope for the day gets us out of bed in the morning, puts us in the car to work, lurks in the back of our minds as we slog through every single day of thankless work only to drag ourselves home and go to bed, hoping tomorrow will be different. Even if nothing ever changes, if there’s hope that it will, we can carry on. Hope put a man on the moon. It could sure as hell get three kids and me through the next twelve hours better than despair.

  Come on, Laz. Get moving. I lifted a hand into my vision and forced my hand to make a fist. First one, then the other. It took a good half hour to get my body completely back under my control, but I did it, however weakened it left me.

  During that time, the little boy fell asleep. One of the girls started giggling uncontrollably while the other suffered through terrible tremors and fits of crying. I got up from the sofa and went into the rear of the cabin where I found a queen-sized bed with a down comforter. I pulled the comforter off and went back into the main room, wrapping it around the trembling girl. It seemed to calm her down a little, so I went back to get another blanket, spreading it over the boy and the other girl.

  That done, I set myself to disposing of the last of the pizza to make sure no one got any more of it. The box wouldn’t fit into the tiny trash can, but I did find the sink had a garbage disposal. I tossed the pizza into it, then started tearing the box to bits and shoving it down into it as well. When it clogged up, I figured that was its own brand of justice.

  I raided the kitchen drawers next, looking for anything that was useful. Even if I couldn’t think of an immediate use for something, I pulled it out and placed it on the countertop to take inventory. MacGyver could probably turn the paper towels, toilet cleaner, a permanent marker, a couple of spoons, and a strip of aluminum foil into a nuke, but MacGyver I was not. I had, however, spent a number of years in prison. I knew how to make a good shiv and hide it.

  With all the items spread out on the counter in front of me, I got to work, taking apart what I needed to using the end of a spoon as a screwdriver. What I couldn’t unscrew to get apart, I pulled, tugged, or otherwise bent. Every nail or staple I pulled out got collected in a pile on the counter. Once that was done, I got to work taking apart the pipes below the sink. They were in cheap plastic fittings just sort of shoved together, which meant they weren’t too hard to pull apart with a little brute strength.

  The first kid spoke as I was on my hands and knees, carving a circle into the floor with the butcher knife the Archon had left. “Who are you?” The little boy’s big, brown eyes focused on me, his face pale, expression terrified.

  I put the knife down so I wouldn’t frighten him and turned, placing one hand on my knee. “My name’s Laz. What’s yours?”

  “Spencer. Spencer Hawkins.” He glanced around, his little head making jerky movements that reminded me of a bird. After he took in the cabin, he looked back to me, eyes wet. “I want to go home.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Some bad guys took me, trapped me down here.”

  “How come?”

  “They want me to hurt you. If I don’t, they’re going to hurt some people I care a lot about.”

  His breathing got quicker. He licked his lips. “Are you gonna?”

  I shook my head and pointed a thumb toward the ceiling. “I don’t hurt kids. Not even if Voldemort up there threatens me.”

  “He’s not Voldemort,” Spencer said, sitting up, so the blanket fell off his shoulders. “Magic is pretend. My dad said so.”

  I cringed, remembering that talk with my own father. It hadn’t worked out well for either of us. I wound up messing around with forces I didn’t understand and rose the family dog from the dead, resulting in me getting my ass handed to me. A grown-ass adult beat me until I was unconscious, raving about how evil I was the whole time. Guess that’s why I could never stand the idea of adults hurting kids. I’d been on the other end of it more than once.

  But my dad’s disbelief in magic wasn’t uncommon. Most folks didn’t believe, and that lack of belief was slowly choking magic out of the world.

  “Well, far be it from me to question your dad, but I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, kid.” I flashed a single rusty nail and then palmed it just like Pony’d taught me. “See?”

  Spencer frowned. “That’s not magic. It’s in your hand.”

  I scowled. If I’d had my powers, I’d have done something way more impressive. Kids should believe in magic. That was just an unwritten rule. It bugged me that he was so convinced it wasn’t real. At his age, I still thought I’d grow up to join The Avengers.

  “Look, kid,” I said, turning back to finishing my circle, “whether you believe in it or not doesn’t matter. The guy who took you does, and he’s willing to kill you to prove his point. You and them.”

  “You too,” the boy said in a tone that was normally reserved for grade school bullies. “Where are we anyway?”

  “Boat. Lake Pontchartrain I think.”

  “Magic is real.” The little girl with the heavy comforter had a mousy voice. Her face colored when I looked up at her.

  “What do you know?” Spencer shot back. “You’re just a stupid girl.”

  I put the knife down. “Hey! That’s not nice, Spencer.”

  The kids ignored me, choosing instead to engage in a back-and-forth bickering fest of yeah-huhs and nuh-uhs. My fingers involuntarily formed into claws and I ground my teeth. There were times I was glad I had a decade on my kid sister because we never argued like that.

  Their argument got loud enough I was worried it’d draw some goons down to the cabin and I didn’t want them interrupting me before I was ready. I was just about to jump up and crack their heads together so they’d shut up when the girl drew her hand up from under the comforter gripping a flaming red ball of energy.

  “Is so!” she screamed and unleashed the fireball on the cabin.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Spencer let out a yelp and lifted his arms as if to shield himself from the blow. An iridescent green wall of energy sprang up between his two outstretched hands. The girl’s ball hit it, and his shield absorbed the blow, the energy rippling over the surface.

  I blinked. Holy shit. These brats were mini-wizards. It made sense, I guess. I’d been about that age when my powers started to manifest. Maybe that’s why the Archon was targeting them. Not only would their souls be more potent since they were innocent kids, but if they had magic, their blood could be used to unleash one hell of a spell.

  Before either of them could get off another spell, I jumped to my feet and walked over to grab them both by the backs of their shirts. “Enough! Magic’s not a plaything! You—” I lifted the girl a little higher. “—don’t throw fireballs at anything you don’t want to kill. And you—” I turned to Spencer. “—quit being mean to girls.”

  “She started it,” Spencer protested.

  “I’m about to start something if you don’t lay off her.” I dropped them both back to the sofa with a satisfying plunk. “How old are you two?”

  Spencer crossed his arms and turned away. “Ten.”

  “I’m twelve,” said the girl. “My name is Violet by the way. And how do you know about fireballs?” She didn’t even take a breath between sentences.

  “I’m a necromancer,” I told her and then looked away. “Or I used to be. But I know a l
ittle about it. Maybe we can use your powers to get out of here.”

  Violet shook her head. “I tried that before. The spells just bounce off the walls. It’s like they’re immune or something.”

  “Warded, more like,” I grunted and touched the wall, searching for the familiar buzzing of a ward there. But I didn’t have my powers anymore, so I felt nothing.

  “What’s she do?” Spencer nodded to the other little girl.

  She was awake now too, staring forward, the blanket gathered over her chest. Unlike the other two who seemed to have forgotten we were in a life or death situation, she shook, terrified.

  I squatted in front of her. “Hey there. My name’s Lazarus. What’s yours?”

  She blinked, and two tiny hands shot out from under the comforter making graceful movements. Sign language.

  My repertoire of ASL vocabulary was extremely limited, but I had raised a deaf shade once. The widow that’d hired me for that case had taught me a few things, but effective communication with this little girl would require more than an afternoon’s crash course.

  Still, I had enough knowledge to answer in sign: “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Her shoulders quivered, and she flatted out one palm, making a writing gesture with her other hand.

  I didn’t have to speak ASL to know what that meant. I went and got the paper towels and the marker, handing both to her. “Best I can do.”

  She wrote a word on the towels and showed it to me. Brooke. Her name was Brooke. She understood me, or could at least read lips well enough, which was a relief. She just couldn’t answer.

  “Do you have any powers, Brooke?” I asked her.

  She glanced at Spencer and then at Violet before lowering her head and shaking it back and forth, her cheeks coloring.

  “Are you sure?” I bent down to catch her eye. “Don’t let these two intimidate you. I promise, no one will laugh at you.”

  Big, blue eyes lifted to mine, unsure. Then she looked to the ceiling, closed her eyes, and all hell broke loose. The lightbulb shattered. The microwave started beeping. Something in the room let off a shrill screech that sent us all scrambling to cover our ears. All of us except for Brooke.