Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  He was ready for her when she lunged at him, her claws slashing through the air. With a grunt, he planted his boot in the center of her chest, causing her to stagger back against the bar. It was only when she dodged to the side that he noticed she was barefoot; as she pranced toward the balcony, she tracked New Gloaming blood across the tile.

  Oh no you don't. He took off after her, diving and catching her by the waist before she could reach the balcony doors. As they hit the floor, she rolled from his arms but was up a second later and bearing down on him, bracing against his shoulders, pinning him down.

  With a hiss, she opened her mouth wide, her teeth turning to spikes. Claws dug into his shoulders, sending dull pain through his body. He went for another left hook, but she turned in time, wrapping his wrist in a crushing grip.

  "Someday," she breathed, looking down her nose at him, "you're going to come up against something you can't shoot or punch. And what will you do then?"

  He searched her pale, grinning face as he considered his options. Some revenants could shapeshift into animals, change their size to become giant, sink through the earth to escape, even control the weather. Magic coursed through his veins like adrenaline—he, just like every other necromancer’s zombie, was made of it. But it had never come easy to him.

  "What will you do once your bullets are gone and your finger bones are dust, thrall trash?" she asked again in a whisper, grin widening.

  Best to just stick to basics. He bucked, jostling her partially off him, and kneed her hard in the stomach. She doubled over, and he pushed her to the side, sending her sprawling across the tile.

  "Probably something like that."

  Cal dragged himself up off the floor, snatching a handful of her hair before she could recover. He pulled hard and transferred the hold to her throat, planting a foot on the other side of her and leaning down. She'd have to fight him if she wanted to stand up.

  With his free hand, he drew the sawed-off, pressing the barrel against her forehead.

  "You know," he mused, tone casual, "I hate your guts, but I expected more from ya. Nazis, really?"

  Scarlet bared her teeth. "You wouldn't understand the purpose of Daschla's little exercise. The Wounded didn't understand either, but he let her continue. Power is power, I suppose. You should know that."

  The only thing he knew was better than to humor whatever crazy shit she was talking about. "I'll make this simple. If you want to live, you'll have to give back what you took from me. I want my memories."

  "Why?” She smirked. “It's not as if you were using them.”

  Cal shook his head, moving the shotgun to her stomach and firing. The boom echoed deeply through the room. Wooden shrapnel exploded, eddying through the air. Chunks of flesh, shards of bone, and bloody mist blew out her back.

  She gasped in pain. He could see clean through her middle now. Her satin dress hung in singed tatters around the massive hole, but she was still just as alive as she'd been a moment ago. "Creature," she hissed.

  "Now you know I mean business. So start talking."

  Her glare sharpened. "As if I would ever give anything to a man holding me by the throat."

  "This ain't about that—power. Not everyone is like you, you evil bitch." Cal set his jaw, moving the barrel back to her forehead. "This is your day in court. So testify. If you can't give me what you stole, then tell me it. Now!"

  Beneath the still-hot steel of the barrel, her black eyes sparkled. A slow realization seemed to come over her face, and along with it, a genuine smile. "You really don't know about them, do you?"

  Cal could feel his brow twitching. "Them? Who the fuck is them?"

  A real, gleeful laugh echoed through the bar, and she dug her claws deeper into the meat of his forearm. "You've been dead for so long, they probably hardly remember you. But they're better off anyway."

  Something tickled the back of his mind. He was overcome with the feeling that he should know who she was talking about—that if he'd really dug, the memories had still been there, just deep and buried. But not anymore.

  Suddenly, he felt their absence freshly. A piece of him missing. Again, he was choking down the smell of that alley she'd dumped him in. He could hear broken glass shifting, feel the bite of cement against his skin. That filthy, violated feeling was creeping back in.

  And she was laughing. That was real—she was laughing at him now. It was almost deafening in his ears, echoing in his skull. The only thing he could think was shut up, over and over and over again.

  Fury came in like a boiling wave to wash away all other emotions. His vision was red. He could feel her larynx collapse as he crushed it, cutting off that ungodly sound.

  He'd never squeezed a more satisfying trigger.

  She slipped from his grip into a pile at his feet. There wasn't much of her head left. Finding all her pieces would be a hell of a job, but he wasn't about to leave that open as a possibility. He leaned over the bar to grab one of the few bottles that had survived their fight and poured it out over her, then reached into his back pocket and flipped open his lighter.

  Cal lit a cigarette for himself, then tossed the lighter onto the remains of the vampire. Wights burned like kindling.

  As the flames climbed, engulfing her, he didn't move, taking a long drag. She was dead—for good this time—but she'd left him with more questions than answers. Answers were what he needed.

  He glanced down at himself. Answers and a long shower.

  As Edie flung open the door to the forty-seventh floor, a wave of blue-white light filled the hallway beyond, blinding her momentarily.

  When the light faded, Satara stood there, brandishing her weapons, unveiled with her braids writhing—amethyst blood streaming from her wounds but still very much alive.

  Thank the gods she was okay. Edie was beginning to have her doubts.

  Her relief was short-lived, however, when she saw what the valkyrie was facing off against.

  At the end of the hall, two hulking forms were recovering from her burst of energy: half man and half spider, in the style of centaurs. Their human chests were bare down the center, but a shiny, sticky substance crawled across their ribs and pectorals, like a living organism trying to pretend to be clothes. Their faces were handsome, but their eight spindly legs did them no favors.

  The one in front was armed with a spear. The other, standing before the door to the apartment, held a staff, and Edie could see him beginning to conjure a spell in the form of a shadowy ball.

  Before she could react, an opaque black shadow streaked across the floor from somewhere behind her. It stopped behind the witch-spider and grew vertically, adopting the form of a man's silhouette. It took Edie a moment to recognize the length of the silhouette's hair and the cut of its jacket, but by the time she realized it was supposed to be Adam, it had already knocked the staff out of the witch-spider's claws.

  "Watch out," came Adam's voice from behind her. A high note keened from the Genesis, and a blast of purple-edged shadow magic flew past, slamming into the spear-spider.

  It was only then that she realized the silhouette wasn't the actual Adam but a copy.

  Could she do that?

  She'd have to test it out later. Instead, she called on her familiar death magic, blue flames engulfing her fists.

  Beside her, Marius's weapons burst to life, and he followed Adam's blast of magic closely, throwing himself into the fray with his typical fervor. He batted the spear-spider's weapon away with his shield as if it was a mere nuisance, letting it glide across the lucent surface with a sizzle before swinging onto the creature's back.

  Satara kept her eyes on the man-spiders, shield up, but she shouted across the hall at Edie, "You came!"

  "Why didn't you meet us?" she shouted back, firing a blast of magic that hissed between Basile and Elle as they surged forward. Elle picked up the witch-spider's staff and snapped it in half, but it didn't seem to need it, shadow magic crawling up its arms like a second skin.

  "I got caug
ht up." Satara paused to deflect a bolt of purple magic. "They jammed the elevator, so I've been fighting my way down the stairs, but there were too many."

  “Here, take this!” Edie tossed one of the opal necklaces to her. “You’ll need it!”

  Suddenly, an inhuman screech tore her attention away from the conversation. She looked over just in time to see Marius plunge his sword into the spear-spider's thorax, slicing through him like butter. The spider bucked violently, sending Marius tumbling across the floor and, in the relatively tight hallway, right under the witch-spider's feet.

  He summoned a shield to protect his head and tried to roll the other way, but the witch-spider boxed him in with his many legs. Edie's heart raced watching him struggle to get out from under the powerful body, but she couldn't unleash the full strength of her magic here—there wasn't enough room, she'd hit the others.

  A moment later, Elle crashed into the witch-spider’s flank with enough force to knock him onto his side, eight legs skittering as they tried to find purchase.

  Marius ducked and jumped up, curls falling in his face. He didn't miss a beat, turning back to help Elle in her new endeavor of dismantling the spider leg by leg. A loud sizzle and another inhuman shriek cut the air as Marius's blade sliced through the shiny exoskeleton.

  Meanwhile, Basile, his human glamour gone, was using his wispy spirit magic against the wounded spear-spider. He was too close to be struck effectively with the spear, so the spider had attempted to back up, and they fought in a corner now.

  Edie jumped in, calculating how she'd have to move to avoid the reach of the spear, but as the spider raised it, a wintry frost enveloped his arm, slowing the movement. Thanking Satara internally, she dove under the spear and slammed into the spider's human torso with a death-magic-fueled punch.

  The spear-spider crumpled under the assault from both her and Basile. Dark purple blood spattered Edie's pants and boots as the witch-spider's head was severed. She hardly knew who was doing what anymore, lost in the heat of battle.

  All she knew was, seconds later, both man-spiders were curled, dead, on the tile, a large pool of blood forming beneath them.

  And the way to Indriði was clear.

  Without further ado, smearing the crystal handles with blood, Edie threw open the doors to the queen's ivory tower.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The inside of the apartment was creepily silent, like a tomb after the loud, hot battle in the hall.

  As Edie crept from the entryway into the living area, she wasn't surprised to see it was ultramodern and chic, in Indriði's typical style. The Baccarat residence made Matilda's place look like a grandma's cluttered cottage. Even the Norn's old townhouse paled in comparison. Leather, chrome, and furs decorated the room. White shelves displayed artifacts of great wealth but, to Indriði, these things were commonplace. Afterthoughts.

  It was Indriði herself, however, who drew the most attention, cutting a commanding figure—despite her short stature—in a screaming-red fitted blazer, pencil skirt, and pumps. Her throat and ears dripped with diamonds and rubies, and her voice dripped with venom as she said, "Great, you've finally arrived."

  She raised her hands, and that familiar sizzling clap cut the air.

  Edie braced herself for the horrible feeling of time skipping in frames ... but the skip never came. The time magic washed over her, tickling her skin unpleasantly but otherwise rolling off like nothing.

  So the opal pendants worked. Good.

  Watching Indriði's expression shift as she realized what had happened was almost worth all the pain it had taken to get here. Her pale eyes widened, face slack and innocent for a moment before it screwed up in annoyance.

  Quickly, she schooled her expression into one of unconcerned smugness, lowering her hands. "Bravo," she said as she clapped mockingly. "Or brava. So you stole some jewelry. It really won’t make a difference once the Wounded shows up.” A pause. “You know, I'm surprised you're here instead of at the rally. Everyone there's expecting you, after all."

  "I'm here for my rightful property," Satara replied, veiled now but giving off an icy light. "And for vengeance."

  Indriði quirked a brow. "How special." She pursed her lips and glanced to the side, at a tall, skinny light elf Edie hadn't noticed before. The one from the old burying ground, if she wasn’t mistaken. "Ilphas, be a dear and mix me a Manhattan."

  The ljósálfr snapped to attention, dark eyes so wide the whites of them could be seen. His antennae flattened against his head, and he hurried to the sleek bar not far from them. While he busied himself with the bottles and glasses, Indriði sprawled out on the pure white sectional, loosing a sharp whistle. A soft skittering came from the hall leading to the bedrooms, then a familiar fuzzy sapphire-and-orange body appeared.

  Percy!

  The Norn lifted her feet and, when Percy shuffled under them, rested them on his back. The poor little spider shifted uncomfortably, but Indriði didn’t seem to notice or care.

  With a smirk, she drew a knife seemingly from thin air, testing the point and twirling it between her fingers idly. A blade of dark metal, etched with runes. Edie recognized it immediately. The knife she'd used to torture Astrid.

  "I'm guessing by the guitar that you must be Adam." She nodded to him, eyes glinting. "I heard you made quite a splash in the realm of lost souls. It's good to finally put a face to a name. Too bad you ended up being such a disappointing investment. And that EP you put out last summer sucked."

  The Genesis vibrated hard in Adam's hands as Mikey's spirit vented his displeasure with a few angry chords.

  "Oh, shut up, you hunk of junk," Indriði sneered. "As if I need a lecture from a gender-confused ghost trapped in a piece of furniture." With a chuckle, she addressed Elle: "You know, if your dear old dad had just agreed to join the Gloaming, you would be alive right now, instead of stuck inside a rotting corpse. All the cheeseburgers your fat ass could eat."

  Elle scoffed. "At least I have an ass, unlike whatever that washboard on your back is."

  The elf, Ilphas, emerged from behind the bar to deliver Indriði's Manhattan into her waiting hand. The Norn sighed happily and took a long sip, ignoring Elle in favor of sizing up Basile. He hadn't replaced his glamour, still a grinning skeleton in a cassock, but cold loathing rolled off him in waves.

  It was as though she smelled it in the air—like a shark scenting blood. "And of course, how could I forget the un-child. Father Bolet, the lich prince, desperately searching for meaning to his pathetic existence without his mommy." She tilted her head, cooing mockingly. "But what will happen when the sarcophagus opens and Her Majesty inevitably joins the Gloaming?"

  "Frankly, ma'am," Basile deadpanned, "fuck you."

  "Who even asked for this lame-ass roast session?" Elle said.

  "What about you, Edie, babe?" Indriði continued, undaunted. "Funny, you're usually inseparable from your slave. Did you finally get tired of the big stupid zombie, or is he running your errands?"

  Before Edie could open her mouth, Marius jumped to Cal's defense. "His name is Cal, and he's not a slave."

  "Nice comeback, vivid. Oh, wait..." A smarmy smirk spread across her face. "I guess I can't call you that anymore. Tell me, does the armor feel a little heavier when you have no right to wear it?"

  A blade sprang from Marius's hand in a helix of light, but he held back, jaw working as Indriði laughed at him.

  Finally, her gaze rested on Satara, icing over with genuine hatred. Her lip curled, parting, showing brilliant white teeth as her first word began to form. "Astrid—"

  With one swift movement, Satara launched her silver spear, nailing Indriði in the center of her chest with a wet crunch. Blood burst, staining her shirt the same color as her blazer, soaking the sectional and pattering to the rug in bright, vivid blooms.

  The Norn's eyes widened, the whites veined with pink. Percy scrambled out from under her feet to hide behind the couch, and Ilphas followed suit, folding himself in half with his pointy
knees to his chest.

  "Don't say her name." Satara's voice was steady. "You don't deserve to have that name on your lips."

  Edie's heart flipped as she watched Indriði struggle there like a pinned insect, the color draining from her face and into the couch cushions. To finally see the same fear and pain in her eyes that she'd seen in Astrid's...

  The satisfaction was short-lived. With a growl, Indriði raised her hands, grinding her teeth in concentration. Rapidly, the blood that had soaked into the sectional began to recede; the pink returned to her face, and a moment later, the spear was launched backward, out of her chest. It landed at Satara's feet with a deep clang.

  "Did you honestly think that would work?" The Norn rose to her feet, seething. "Do you know who I am? What I possess?"

  Elle stuck her tongue out. "Uh-oh, I think she wants to talk to our manager."

  "I know what you possess," Satara replied. "Give me my battlemother's shield and spear. Now."

  "Your battlemother was a murderer!" Indriði spat, her smug mask slipping. Strands fell from the white lock of her cropped red hair into her face. "And you will be, too."

  Edie's cheeks and ears were suddenly hot, her vision throbbing. "Get a fucking grip. Soldiers die in war, it happens all the goddamn time. I'm pretty sure most moms don't go on murderous rampages because of that, and your son wasn't more important than any of theirs. And by the way, your kid got ferried to fucking Valhalla, you psycho. What more do you want?"

  "You should be honored," Marius ground out.

  "Honored?" Indriði's face was almost as red as her hair now, and her eyes flew wide as she laughed. "Do you even know what Valhalla is? In Odin's hall, warriors tear each other apart in battle like animals. They maim and torture and rape each other, for hours—and then, the next day, they do it all again. And again. And again. In perpetuity, until Ragnarok comes and they're called to battle one last time before they're finally. Fucking. Set. Free."

  No one spoke as she paced to the window, but Edie stepped forward, thinking to corner her, and the others followed suit.