Painter of the Dead (Shades of Immortality Book 1)

by Catherine Butzen

  Her eyes darted to the mummy before she could stop herself—poor old THS203, his bandages completely ruined and his hands and feet mangled, but still seemingly grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. What exactly were you supposed to do in a situation like this? She didn’t know.

  Before she could formulate a reply, Seth worked up enough breath to speak. He was still bracing himself against the marble, but he squared his shoulders and looked at Zimmer. The dried clay crusting on his wounds cracked and dropped, littering the snow around him with dark fragments.

  “Why are you doing this?” he said hoarsely.

  Zimmer’s jaw tightened. “Don’t be cute,” he said. He glanced back and forth between Seth and Theo, rolling a fresh spark between his fingertips. “Or is this for her benefit? Should I hang you two upside down over a shark tank and explain my plan in complete detail?”

  “I know your plan,” Theo interrupted. The sound of her voice surprised herself. “You’ve gotten hold of old magic somehow. You want to use it, maybe sell it—who wouldn’t pay to live forever? So you set me up as Seth’s accomplice and robbed the museum.”

  “Sort of.” Zimmer whisked the spark away and picked up the crackling mummy. “Money was never part of it. This is just old-fashioned petty revenge.”

  Seth’s expression was stony, but he was beginning to waver a little. Theo quickly moved to his side and wrapped an arm around his waist. After a moment’s hesitation, she felt the stiff muscles relax as he leaned into her. “I don’t know why,” he said finally. “I never did anything to you.”

  “Of course you didn’t, ‘Seth.’ The past is the past, right?” Zimmer picked a scrap of ancient linen off the corpse and flicked it over his shoulder. “But you took my toys. Maybe you can be reasonable enough to help me get them back.”

  As he spoke, his fingers tightened on the mummy. Bandages shredded and dry, leathery skin crumpled under his grip. Seth jerked, and Theo couldn’t hold back a gasp as she felt one of his ribs collapse into his side. She tightened her grip and braced her feet, barely keeping them both upright.

  “I can’t,” Seth said raggedly. “They were made for me. You might have old magic, but you’ll never be able to use them.”

  “Really,” Zimmer responded. “Maybe I’m a little fuzzy on the details after so long, but I remember one part pretty clearly. It was made for the son of Merenptah. Two people qualify, and you know it.”

  Seth’s back stiffened, and his jaw worked silently. “You’re lying,” he said finally. “Meren wouldn’t do this. We were brothers. We were friends.”

  “And then you screwed me over.” Zimmer’s voice was flat. “You took the shabtis. They were mine and you took them. Do you know where my body is? I don’t. I’ve been in this one for more than thirty years, and you know how much of a pain in the ass it was to get? I’ve been living this way for millennia, and half the time, I was convinced I was insane! Not all of us get your magic memories!”

  He took a deep breath, visibly fighting to keep his temper under control. “I lost my mind because of you, and when I finally tracked you down, you were living the high life thanks to my work. You better believe I’m your brother, because nobody else could hate you as much as I do right now.”

  Theo’s first thought was that he was delusional. Her second thought kicked that first thought hard and pointed out that she was pretty far beyond doubting the potential bizarreness of a situation at this point. She’d accepted Seth, seen him die, made love to him, and built a golem to hunt him down when he was in danger. A long-lost brother—or the soul of one inside the Columbian’s head of Security—wasn’t impossible anymore.

  Not only the head of Security, though. Her stomach lurched at the thought of it. He’d tried to move into her body, back at the museum. And his body—the one that sprang to mind when she thought of him—wasn’t his either. He’d lied about everything. He’d lied about his own face.

  “I don’t believe you,” Seth said tightly. “It’s not possible.”

  “Then that’s your problem.” Zimmer tore a strip of papery bandaging from the mummy’s arm. “See, you owe me something, Seth. You owe me a prayer. I didn’t let you last this long out of sentimentality; without that prayer, these won’t do a thing.” He kicked one of his failed statuettes, sending the lump of clay splatting against a tombstone. “I could have been a king, little brother. I want what’s mine.”

  “I”—Seth shook his head—“I can’t. Even if you are my brother, you’re not the Meren I knew. He made those shabtis to save my life, and you’re standing here threatening me.” His pulse was wild and erratic under Theo’s arm, and she leaned into him a little more, trying to give him some comfort.

  He looked down at her for a moment, his eyes dark mirrors in the light of the dying fire. “And you pulled her into it,” he added, throwing the words at Zimmer. “I won’t help you. Ever.”

  Zimmer had no answer. For a moment, he struggled to form words—rage and confusion fighting each other in his expression. Theo’s heart leaped as seconds ticked past without a reply. Maybe—

  Then he shrugged again and snapped off one of the mummy’s fingers.

  Seth reeled and almost fell. Purple-red stains bloomed under his skin as his right hand wrenched, twisting and breaking of its own accord. He sagged against her, cradling his damaged limb to his chest, pain drawing deep lines on his face.

  Theo’s first urge was to scream, but she bit down hard and stifled it as she struggled to keep them both upright. Her blood was running cold. Meren-Zimmer had his hands on the trump card, and she wanted to yell, curse, tear the mummy out of his hands, do something, anything!

  If Zimmer got the shabtis working, her brain whispered, he wouldn’t hurt Seth anymore. He would have his own supply of bodies and could live forever on his own terms—or whatever he wanted. He wouldn’t need to hurt them.

  But did that mean he still wouldn’t?

  He had admitted to stealing bodies. She didn’t know how much of his story was fact, but whether or not the accusations he’d aimed at Seth were true, he had still done to someone else what he’d tried to do to her. In his own words, he’d confirmed it—he’d been in that body for more than thirty years. But he was forty, or a little over.

  Bile rose in her throat.

  If this was true, then he was the kind of man who’d steal a child and put his body on like a new shirt. With Seth dead and the shabtis in his hands, why would he need to change?

  The thought hardened like concrete, immovable and impossible to ignore. There was the thing claiming to be Meren, the mind inside the body—and then there was the real Mark Zimmer, the child. The Meren-self was shouting at the slumping Seth now, demanding the secret of the shabtis, and the face, voice, and name he was using had been stolen from someone else. More thoughts whirled: the sacred power of the name, the importance of the body and the heart, the horrible question of how many people had been killed by the man in front of her. How many bodies did you need in order to last four thousand years? Two hundred? Three hundred?

  Another finger snapped, and Seth couldn’t restrain a scream. Sweat was pouring down his face, and in his pain, he snarled like a dog at his onetime brother.

  “Fuck you,” Meren said shortly as he dropped the severed finger to the ground. THS203, sprawled facedown over Meren’s shoulder, was looking less and less like he had ever been human. Anhurmose was dying twice, at the same time.

  She couldn’t let that happen. But the way to make him stop was to give up the shabtis, and that would leave the two of them facing a more powerful opponent. Yet shabtis weren’t invincible, and if she could bring in help…

  Falling to her knees and begging would be too obvious. Meren had known her while he was Zimmer. But he hadn’t thought she’d be so much trouble…had seen her as a pawn… How he’d gotten that idea she didn’t know, but she had a chance to play to his assumptions.

  It took no effort to get the tears started. Letting out a gulping sob, she pushed Seth back
against the marble slab and pulled away from him, covering her face. “Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can’t do this.”

  “What are you—” Seth began. His eyes widened. “Theo, don’t!”

  “You think he’s not going to figure it out?” she screamed. “What’s going to happen to Aki? Sandy? Dr. Van Allen? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this psychopath was following you! You’re going to get them killed!”

  Seth recoiled. Theo’s heart stuttered in her chest as she saw the expression on his face and in his eyes: hurt, surprise, and fear, all plain and unguarded. He wasn’t a statue of a pharaoh anymore. Pharaohs were glacial, with a serene countenance and sometimes the merest smile like they knew something you didn’t. Now she didn’t know who looked worse, Seth or his corpse.

  “I didn’t know,” he managed to say. “Theo, I swear to Neith, I didn’t know.”

  Theo’s heart broke again, but she had to keep going. The tears were coming whether she wanted them to or not. “I can’t believe this happened. I was so stupid! So much for motion in art!” Her eyes burned, and her fists clenched involuntarily. “If he gets it to work, he’ll leave us alone. And I can pretend this never happened, and you can—I don’t know—live one more life and die like you were supposed to!”

  She turned her back on him, mopping her face with the back of her arm.

  “You can’t use his shabtis, and you can’t make new ones. Not that way.” She met Meren’s eyes. “But I can.”

  “Now you’re lying,” Meren said flatly. Theo’s throat tightened. “He won’t share the formula with his own brother. You think I’d believe he’d give it to you?”

  Her hands were shaking. She jammed them into her pockets.

  “The body of the son of Merenptah,” she recited. Meren started as the implication of her words hit him. “Khnum is my father; Neith is my mother. I am pure. I am known to us here as I am known to those who have brought me into this world—”

  “Quiet!” Meren barked. Theo clammed up. “He told you? He told you!”

  His eyes were wide, but he didn’t seem angry. On the contrary, a grin was appearing on his face. “I take it back. He’s the most sentimental moron in the history of humanity. Giving up a sacred formula to the first woman you’ve fucked in, what, a hundred years?” He shook his head. “You need therapy.”

  “Ri ata,” the voice insisted.

  “Theo!”

  Seth’s shout dragged her back to the here and now. “Theo,” he continued as she turned reluctantly to face him. “Don’t help him. You’re going to create a monster. You’re going to take a monster and make him worse.”

  “I want it back how it was before,” she said. “I can’t take this…this magic stuff anymore, Seth. You put my family and my friends in danger by telling me this. I’m going to do what you never could and fix this!”

  Theo turned back to Meren, who was certainly enjoying himself. He liked seeing his brother get cut down to size. “You’ve already got the materials,” she said. “I’ll make you your shabtis. Then you can leave us alone.”

  “Okay,” he said simply. Theo’s heart leaped. “But before we do anything impulsive, I have an idea.”

  There was a rattle and crackle of dry, dusty bones as Meren dropped the mummy of Anhurmose to the ground. “Hey, bro,” he drawled, cracking his knuckles as he looked at Seth, Theo momentarily forgotten. “Talk about an out-of-body experience, huh?”

  He dipped a hand into his pocket and brought it out again, carrying a fistful of dust. Seth’s back stiffened. Meren sprinkled the dust over the mummy, and a light breeze sighed through the graveyard, plucking at their hair and clothes.

  “Da-medu en Meren,” he began. His voice was flat, his eyes distant as he concentrated on the words. He was a schoolboy in front of the board, rattling off the state capitals in a monotone that proved only that he’d done the homework, not understood it.

  Harsh syllables tumbled over each other like a collapsing stack of blocks. Seth wavered, streaks of red and purple blooming under his skin as veins burst, still clutching his wounded arm and seemingly struck dumb. His skin had an unnatural sheen and cracks appeared at the corners of his mouth as he tried to speak. The hollows under his eyes were becoming cracks too, and those cracks were widening. Skin shivered and broke. A curl of hair snapped and fell to the ground, where it shattered into a hundred little ridged pieces.

  Theo couldn’t keep in a scream as Seth Adler collapsed into pieces. This wasn’t like the smooth column of dust he had become in the art room: his body was breaking apart. His stunned expression crumbled in on itself, one staring eye turning brown and cracking in two as it landed in the dirty snow.

  And the mummy moved.

  No eyes, no tongue, no breath, but it was moving. Its one good arm twitched faintly, a spastic motion that looked like nothing more than the animatronics Sandy cobbled together for fun. Sticklike fingers clutched at the dirty snow.

  It. It it it. Him.

  “If you’re going to throw up, don’t do it here,” Meren said. “The groundskeepers don’t like finding puke on graves.”

  Theo lurched and forced herself to turn around, leaning her forehead against the cool marble. Vomit splattered against the stone, followed by specks of blood. She’d bitten her own tongue and hadn’t realized it.

  “Now,” said that voice from behind her, “I believe I was promised ushebtis?”

  Kill him. Stab him. You’ve got the knives! Kill him!

  But her hands wouldn’t move; her fingers wouldn’t flex. The thoughts raged in the back of her head, less words and more a half-coherent shriek of rage, but they were wrapped up in a body that couldn’t seem to get the message. When she finally pushed herself into motion, all she could do was wipe her mouth.

  “Ushebtis?” Meren prompted.

  Never.

  “…Yes,” she managed. Stiff-legged, she shuffled over to the box of art supplies and pulled out a fresh hunk of clay.

  “Ata. Ri ata. Ri! Ri!” the wind whispered. The voice badgered her, puffs of breeze batting at her hair and clothes, as she folded her hands around the clay to warm it. “I want.”

  Theo almost dropped the clay. The voice was speaking English? What was it trying to tell her? She rolled the stiff lump between her palms, trying to warm it, and concentrated. “Can you hear me?” she whispered. “What do you want?”

  “Shabtis,” Meren said promptly. “I thought that was obvious.” But behind his words came the little voice, stronger now, swirling around and reaching for her.

  “I want. I want. Ata ri. Go home. I want. Ata ri.”

  Theo swallowed. Meren was rotten with magic and couldn’t seem to hear the voice; was she going crazy? He was looking at her oddly, though, and she held up the lump of clay for inspection. “I don’t suppose you have a hair dryer?” she said. “This stuff is almost frozen solid.”

  “Sorry, no,” Meren said. “Try this.” He dropped a six-inch knife into her hand. “I wasn’t able to take over your body before, but I can still burn you like a Fourth of July hot dog. So no creative ideas. Got it?” He grinned. “Besides the shabti, of course. Creativity is important there.”

  He was standing on a grave. The moon was behind her, but Meren’s face and form were in shadow as the massive shape of the marble slabs blotted out most of the light. Her makeshift fire had burned itself out, leaving a smell of smoke in the air. What she wouldn’t give to put him in that grave right now.

  The knife made it easy to work. Shavings of clay littered the ground around her as she carved, and a crude face and form began to emerge from the shapeless lump. Biting her lip, she etched the symbols into the cold surface, running syllables through her mind. They were keyed to more colors, but she’d copied the inscription so often she barely needed them. Goldenrod, slate blue, kelly green…no. Meren was looking at the mummy. She wiped out the third symbol with her thumb and substituted another. Alizarin crimson, that was the ticket…titanium white…life returned to its
home…

  She hoped that the gods wouldn’t stand on grammar. It was cobbled together out of phrases from exhibition pamphlets and textbooks, but it would have to do.

  A rustle and a crack. Faint panting. The sick feeling rose again, and she clamped down on it. Don’t look at it. Don’t look at him.

  “And the heart?” she said as she gouged out the space in the clay chest.

  “Right here.” Meren opened the cooler and pulled out another heart. He passed it to her and wiped his gloved hands in the snow, leaving behind streaks of red.

  “Bird?” she asked conversationally.

  He shook his head. “Cat.”

  “Was it dead when you found it?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “No.” Theo wiped the cold sweat off her face, leaving behind streaks of dirt and blood. Without flinching, she pushed the squishy lump of flesh into the shabti’s body and smoothed the clay. “Finished.”

  Meren twisted his free hand; the shabti lifted out of Theo’s hand and sailed across the small space toward him. He caught it neatly and turned it over, examining it.

  “You really do know them,” he said softly. “You’re okay, Theo.” For a moment, his expression eased, and he looked like the Mark Zimmer she’d been used to. “I’m sorry you got pulled into this. Whatever he told you, it’s a lie, I promise. He stole them from me.”

  She looked him in the eye. “I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice wavering. “But I don’t care. I want this to be over.”

  “It will be soon.” He squeezed the shabti tightly. “Unless you’ve decided to screw me over.”

  Theo’s nails bit into her palms. “I wouldn’t,” she said.

  “Promise me.” He pointed to the shuddering mummy, its jaw working as it tried to speak without lips or tongue. The only sound it could make was a dry, rustling noise like autumn leaves. “Promise me,” Meren repeated softly, “on his life, because if you’ve gotten this wrong, he’s dead. When the sun rises, the last of that spell will be broken, and my worthless son-of-a-bitch brother gets to cross over whether he likes it or not. If you want to see him out of there before the sun comes, promise.”