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Undead Much

Page 27

by Stacey Jay


  CHAPTER 22

  “When we get the­re, I’ll ta­ke ca­re of wha­te­ver’s on the al­tar and do my best to dis­per­se the che­er­le­aders,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id, ba­rely pan­ting, even tho­ugh we we­re flat-out sprin­ting down the bi­ke tra­il be­si­de the ri­ver.

  We’d left the ma­j­orly sketchy si­de of town be­hind a few mi­nu­tes ago and we­re get­ting clo­se to the newly re­vi­ta­li­zed down­town area. The so­unds of pe­op­le drin­king and eating and dan­cing at the ne­arby bars and Ri­ver Mar­ket res­ta­urants got lo­uder with every se­cond. The zom­bi­es cer­ta­inly wo­uldn’t ha­ve any tro­ub­le fin­ding fresh me­at on­ce they we­re out of the­ir gra­ves. We had to hurry.

  “You and yo­ur zom­bie pet sho­uld pro­bably ta­ke Aaron if he’s re­al­ly chan­ne­ling so­me­one el­se’s ma­gic.”

  “I’m not a pet,” Cliff grow­led. “And he is chan­ne­ling Jess’s ma­gic.”

  “So it’s still tal­king?”

  “Mo­ni­ca, ple­ase.” I wis­hed she wo­uldn’t ta­ke her an­ger at me out on Cliff, but the­re wasn’t ti­me to ha­ve a he­art-to-he­art abo­ut it. “I be­li­eve Aaron is chan­ne­ling Jess’s spi­rit. The­re’s no ot­her exp­la­na­ti­on for how a guy with no his­tory of even dab­bling in the black arts wor­ked all this big-ti­me ma­gic. Be­si­des, Et­han sa­id Jess was still un­cons­ci­o­us, right?”

  Mo­ni­ca had cal­led Et­han to gi­ve him the 411 and ask him to bring help ASAP. He’d sa­id he and one of Jess’s gu­ards we­re on the­ir way and they’d call for mo­re bac­kup en ro­ute. They’d se­en no re­ason to le­ave mo­re than two gu­ards with Jess sin­ce she was still blac­ked out, ho­oked up to a do­zen dif­fe­rent mac­hi­nes, and on the ver­ge of go­ing in­to a co­ma, if the SA doc­tor’s spe­cu­la­ti­on was cor­rect.

  Wo­uldn’t that be high irony af­ter what she’d tri­ed to do for Aaron?

  “That still do­esn’t pro­ve anyt­hing,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id. “I’ve ne­ver he­ard of a li­ving per­son chan­ne­ling anot­her li­ving per­son.”

  “It’s be­ca­use Aaron was ter­mi­nal­ly ill. That’s why-”

  “Wha­te­ver. Let’s just get the­re and ta­ke ca­re of this mess.” Mo­ni­ca cut ac­ross a patch of stiff de­ad grass, ma­king me je­alo­us of her sho­es. The who­le run­ning-in-socks thing wasn’t wor­king for me. Heck, the who­le run­ning thing wasn’t wor­king for me. I co­uld ba­rely bre­at­he. I had to start tra­ining har­der. Or may­be sle­eping mo­re.

  Or may­be fi­gu­re out anot­her way to fe­ed my pet zom­bie.

  Cliff was ta­king his sha­re of my energy. I co­uld fe­el it now, a subt­le draw on my re­ser­ves that I nor­mal­ly wo­uldn’t even no­ti­ce, but it ma­de me worry if I’d be strong eno­ugh to ta­ke on Jess. Or Jess in Aaron, or wha­te­ver. I me­an, I was a heck of a Set­tler, and we had the sa­me witch blo­od, but she’d be­en tra­ining to use hers for ye­ars, and I knew next to not­hing abo­ut re­al ma­gic. Set­tler com­mands didn’t re­al­ly co­unt in my mind, sin­ce they we­re only use­ful with the de­ad.

  It ma­de me worry I was go­ing to fol­low in po­or Bob­bie Jane’s fo­ots­teps, that I was get­ting re­ady to fight the fight I co­uldn’t win.

  No, no way. My in­ner vo­ice re­bel­led aga­inst the con­cept of fa­ilu­re, but the rest of me co­uldn’t qu­ite get on bo­ard the po­si­ti­vity tra­in. Po­si­ti­vity is dif­fi­cult to ac­hi­eve when it fe­els li­ke yo­ur lungs are abo­ut to col­lap­se.

  “I may ha­ve to ta­ke ca­re of Aaron alo­ne. I think Me­gan’s go­ing to be busy.” Cliff, li­ke Mo­ni­ca, was not at all out of bre­ath. But then, he didn’t ne­ed to bre­at­he. Lucky. “The­re’s so­met­hing un­na­tu­ral abo­ut the circ­le.”

  “Ye­ah? What?” Mo­ni­ca as­ked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Cliff sa­id de­fen­si­vely. “But Me­gan’s go­ing to ha­ve to use her po­wer, her full po­wer, and she do­esn’t ha­ve much prac­ti­ce. So I think the rest of us sho­uld just stay out of the way.”

  “Stay out of the way?” Mo­ni­ca la­ug­hed. “And just let the zom­bi­es ta­ke over-”

  “Me­gan’s go­ing to stop them. If we just let her hand­le-”

  “Me­gan al­re­ady got her­self kid­nap­ped and ne­arly kil­led. By a che­er­le­ader. Call me crazy, but I’m not go­ing to trust her to ‘hand­le’ anyt­hing.”

  Ouch. But she was right. I’d de­fi­ni­tely had bet­ter days. Bet­ter we­eks, for that mat­ter.

  “You’re go­ing to ha­ve to trust her. You don’t ha­ve the po­wer to-”

  “Cliff, it’s okay,” I sa­id, ta­king Cliff’s hand, kno­wing it wo­uld calm him the sa­me way to­uc­hing him cal­med me. Un­for­tu­na­tely, Et­han pic­ked that mo­ment to pull up be­si­de us. His Mi­ni Co­oper jum­ped the curb and rol­led ac­ross the fro­zen grass with eno­ugh spe­ed that for a se­cond, I didn’t know if he was go­ing to stop be­fo­re he plo­wed right in­to me and Cliff.

  I qu­ickly drop­ped Cliff’s hand, but it was too la­te. Et­han’s ьbers­cowl as he and the man in the pas­sen­ger’s se­at jum­ped out of the car left no do­ubt that he’d wit­nes­sed what he saw as anot­her sign of my bet­ra­yal. But he didn’t say a word abo­ut it. He didn’t even lo­ok at me as he and the tall black man-who lo­oked va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar from SA he­ad­qu­ar­ters in Lit­tle Rock-cros­sed the grass.

  “This is Cruz. Cruz, Me­gan and Mo­ni­ca, the ot­her Set­tlers,” Et­han sa­id.

  “And I’m Cliff,” Cliff sa­id, re­ac­hing out to sha­ke Cruz’s hand. Cruz nod­ded and clas­ped Cliff’s hand in his, thank­ful­ly not se­eming to no­ti­ce that Cliff was de­ad.

  “Cliff?” Et­han as­ked, fi­nal­ly tur­ning the full for­ce of his gla­re in Cliff’s di­rec­ti­on as he con­nec­ted the dots. “You’re the guy from the ot­her night. The zom­bie from my grand­pa’s farm.”

  “Unset­tled. Not re­al fond of the zom­bie la­bel,” Cliff sa­id, gla­ring right back at Et­han.

  “I don’t ca­re what you’re fond of.” Et­han step­ped clo­ser to Cliff, lo­oking re­ady to smash the shor­ter guy’s fa­ce in. “I don’t know what you are, or why you’re he­re, but-”

  “He’s he­re to help me,” I sa­id, step­ping in bet­we­en them. “He’s a se­er and he’s not go­ing back to his gra­ve un­til we get all this black ma­gic un­der cont­rol.”

  “He’s a zom­bie, Me­gan,” Et­han re­pe­ated, lo­oking me stra­ight in the eye, the exp­res­si­on on his fa­ce le­aving no do­ubt as to what he re­al­ly wan­ted to say. For­tu­na­tely for me, he was too well man­ne­red to call me a dis­gus­ting zom­bie-kis­sing che­ater in front of Mo­ni­ca or Cruz. Still, the lo­ok con­nec­ted li­ke a suc­ker punch to the gut, ta­king the last of my bre­ath away.

  “Du­de’s a zom­bie?” Cruz as­ked, so­un­ding surp­ri­sed but not hos­ti­le. “What kind of zom­bie? I’ve ne­ver se­en-”

  “It’s not go­ing to mat­ter what kind of zom­bie if we don’t get down the­re,” Cliff sa­id, po­in­ting to­ward a bunch of flic­ke­ring lights abo­ut a half mi­le away. “They’re star­ting the spell-can’t you fe­el it?”

  And I co­uld, li­ke a hund­red lit­tle ne­ed­les scra­ping aga­inst my skin, pro­mi­sing pa­in and ple­asu­re all at the sa­me ti­me. I clo­sed my eyes and shud­de­red, not li­king the chur­ning de­ep in my bo­nes one bit. I co­uld fe­el the black ma­gic cal­ling to me, cal­ling to the dark part of my po­wer I’d fi­nal­ly set free up on the ro­of. It wan­ted to be free aga­in, wan­ted to jo­in in the-

  “Then let’s go,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id, snap­ping me out of my da­ze. God, I had to fo­cus. And ke­ep a tight re­in on my po­wer. No mat­ter what Cliff sa­id, I knew let­ting the “other” part of me out to play wo­uld be a very bad idea. “Whe­re’s the rest of our bac­kup?”

  �
�Cruz is it.” Et­han step­ped away from Cliff, but the angry buzz of energy bet­we­en the two re­ma­ined. “With the cri­sis in Ca­rol, SA re­fu­sed to send an­yo­ne un­til a dis­tur­ban­ce down he­re is con­fir­med. Bar­ker and Smythe are wa­iting for a call from Cruz.”

  “I’ve got my cell,” Cruz sa­id, his fri­endly fa­ce of­fe­ring re­as­su­ran­ce I wis­hed I co­uld cling to. “As so­on as I see a circ­le or an Out-of-Gra­ve Phe­no­me­non, I’ll be on the horn. You’ve got my word.”

  “By then it will be too la­te,” I sa­id, des­pa­ir blo­oming in my chest.

  “What abo­ut Kitty?” Mo­ni­ca as­ked, the an­xi­ety cle­ar in her vo­ice as well. “Su­rely she’d be ab­le to see that-”

  “I co­uldn’t get Kitty on the pho­ne. We’re it,” Et­han sa­id with a no­te of fi­na­lity that put an end to any furt­her dis­cus­si­on.

  “Okay then,” Mo­ni­ca sa­id, get­ting her all-bu­si­ness fa­ce on. “Then let’s get mo­ving.” She he­aded off the tra­il and down the snow-dus­ted hill, ta­king a stra­ight shot to­ward a circ­le of cand­les bur­ning be­ne­ath the brid­ge. “Me­gan and her zom­bie can co­me in from the so­uth and the three of us ta­ke the north?”

  “So­unds go­od,” Et­han sa­id. “Wa­it for a sig­nal, Me­gan. With only fo­ur of us, we’ll be bet­ter off if we surp­ri­se them and at­tack all at on­ce.”

  “Okay, be ca­re­ful.”

  “Ye­ah, you too,” Et­han sa­id be­fo­re he, Cruz, and Mo­ni­ca ve­ered north and Cliff and I ve­ered so­uth. His chilly to­ne ma­de it pretty cle­ar he ha­ted my guts and didn’t ca­re if I was ca­re­ful.

  Still, I tur­ned to lo­ok over my sho­ul­der as Cliff and I hur­ri­ed to­ward the ri­ver­bank, unab­le to ke­ep from trying to catch Et­han’s eye one last ti­me. My he­art did a ce­leb­ra­tory to­uch­down dan­ce when he tur­ned aro­und at the exact sa­me mo­ment, a wor­ri­ed lo­ok on his fa­ce.

  He ca­red! He still ca­red!

  Ethan tur­ned back aro­und fast, but I’d al­re­ady le­ar­ned what I ne­eded to know. We still had a chan­ce. If we co­uld ma­ke it thro­ugh to­night, may­be I co­uld ma­ke him un­ders­tand, and he’d for­gi­ve me and we’d-

  “Get down!” Cliff tack­led me to the gro­und, pres­sing his hand over my mo­uth as we rol­led. Thank God my sho­ul­der was fe­eling the ti­ni­est bit bet­ter, or the­re was no way I wo­uld ha­ve be­en ab­le to ke­ep from scre­aming and we wo­uld ha­ve be­en spot­ted for su­re.

  Or may­be not. The girls hud­dled in the dark­ness a few fe­et away so­un­ded pretty fre­aked out. They might not ha­ve no­ti­ced if we’d wal­ked right in­to the mid­dle of the­ir circ­le and set up a pic­nic.

  “Are you su­re you’re okay, Aaron?” Lee Chin’s vo­ice was sha­king, but at le­ast she wasn’t crying, not li­ke se­ve­ral of the ot­hers. Po­or che­er­le­aders. Ap­pa­rently evil witc­hery just wasn’t as much fun as they’d tho­ught it wo­uld be.

  “Just shut up and light the al­tar. Hurry.” Aaron so­un­ded… so not right, kind of li­ke a cross bet­we­en a trac­he­otomy pa­ti­ent and a garg­ling don­key.

  “Aaron, I think you sho­uld go to the doc­tor. The­re’s so much blo­od and yo­ur he­ad lo­oks-” Da­na’s words en­ded in a strang­led so­und as Aaron’s hand re­ac­hed out and latc­hed aro­und her thro­at.

  “Don’t think. Light. The al­tar. Now.”

  “I’m out of he­re,” Fe­li­city sa­id, bac­king away from the clutch of sha­dows. “This isn’t what-”

  “Le­ave and you die,” Aaron sa­id, the chil­ling no­te in his vo­ice eno­ugh to fre­eze Fe­li­city in her tracks. “Get in po­si­ti­on and light the al­tar. The­re are Set­tlers on the way. They’ll es­ca­pe the bin­ding spell un­der the brid­ge so­oner or la­ter. We ha­ve to be re­ady.”

  Crap! The cand­les un­der the brid­ge we­re a trap. An­yo­ne who got clo­se to them wo­uld be stuck the­re. I star­ted to get up, to try to warn Et­han and Mo­ni­ca and Cruz be­fo­re it was too la­te, but Cliff grab­bed my hand and sho­ok his he­ad, po­in­ting back to­ward the co­ven. Re­luc­tantly, I re­la­xed back on­to the gro­und. He was right. Shut­ting down this spell was my first pri­ority.

  “So what’s the plan?” Cliff whis­pe­red, so clo­se to my ear it felt li­ke he was spe­aking di­rectly in­to my mind.

  The plan. Okay, we ne­eded a plan. Too bad it was so hard to think with the smell waf­ting from the al­tar. It wasn’t even lit yet, but al­re­ady I co­uld fe­el the dark po­wer of the herbs sli­ding ac­ross my skin, cal­ling to me, ma­king me want to jo­in the circ­le and dan­ce un­til the de­ad be­ne­ath us ro­se from the­ir mass gra­ve.

  I sho­ok my he­ad, for­cing away the se­duc­ti­ve vo­ice in my he­ad, pra­ying Cliff wo­uldn’t fe­el my we­ak­ness. “Wa­it un­til the al­tar’s lit and they step back, then rush the cen­ter and grab the ing­re­di­ents and scat­ter them in the ri­ver. I’ll ta­ke ca­re of Aaron,” I whis­pe­red.

  “You’re go­ing to ha­ve to use yo­ur po­wer on him aga­in, yo­ur full po­wer, I’m not su­re how, but I know it’s the only way to avo­id using that spell I-”

  “Right,” I sa­id, still un­wil­ling to even think abo­ut that just yet, but kno­wing bet­ter than to ar­gue with Cliff. He’d be­en right too many ti­mes for me to do­ubt him. If he sa­id I ne­eded to use my full po­wer, I wo­uld, but only as a very last re­sort. “But we’ll both ha­ve to be fast. We can’t let them start chan­ting or we’ll be trap­ped out­si­de the circ­le.”

  “Ever­yo­ne ta­ke yo­ur bla­de and cut yo­ur right hand.” Aaron to­ok a long, li­qu­id bre­ath as Fe­li­city flic­ked her ligh­ter open and to­uc­hed it to the al­tar, sen­ding the herbs fla­ring to li­fe. “Now re­pe­at af­ter me.”

  Crap! They we­re star­ting the chant. We had to mo­ve. “Co­me on, hurry.”

  “No, wa­it,” Cliff sa­id. “So­met­hing’s not right, so­met­hing’s-”

  “The­re’s no ti­me.” I was on my fe­et and run­ning to­ward the circ­le be­fo­re Cliff co­uld mut­ter anot­her word of pro­test.

  “Drop the kni­ves,” I yel­led as I bre­ac­hed the ed­ge of the circ­le, knoc­king Da­na to the gro­und as I rus­hed to­ward Aaron, only stop­ping when I saw the si­ze of the hu­ge kni­fe in his hands. Yi­kes. Se­ve­rely wrec­ked by his fall from the ro­of or not, he co­uld still do so­me da­ma­ge with a we­apon li­ke that.

  “Oh. My. God. This is so pre­ci­o­us.” Blo­od bub­bled from a ho­le in the si­de of Aaron’s neck as he ma­de a so­und that va­gu­ely re­semb­led la­ugh­ter.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, that wasn’t the gros­sest thing abo­ut the du­de. Now that the fi­re was lit, I co­uld see that the back of his he­ad was smas­hed flat, and shiny gray stuff was drip­ping down his neck in­to the col­lar of his shirt. His eyes, on­ce a gor­ge­o­us sha­de of blue, we­re now clo­udy and shot thro­ugh with red, and his mo­uth was fil­led with blo­od that le­aked down the si­des of his lips every ti­me he spo­ke. He was, in short, one of the sca­ri­est fre­aking things I’d ever se­en, es­pe­ci­al­ly when he smi­led.

  “You’re he­re to sa­ve the day.” His grin fa­ded a watt or two. “I can’t be­li­eve you fi­gu­red out whe­re we we­re so qu­ickly. I’d be imp­res­sed if I didn’t ha­te you.”

  “The fe­eling’s mu­tu­al.” I ga­ve him my full at­ten­ti­on when it be­ca­me cle­ar the rest of the girls we­ren’t ma­king any mo­ve to­ward me or the al­tar.

  The al­tar that Cliff was sup­po­sed to be dis­mant­ling even as I spo­ke. Gah! Whe­re was he? It was li­ke he’d just di­sap­pe­ared, which did not gi­ve me a warm, fuzzy fe­eling in­si­de or lend me much con­fi­den­ce abo­ut tel­ling Aaron to sur­ren­der. Still, I tri­ed to ma­ke my vo­ice as scary as pos­sib­le when I is­su­ed my ul­ti­ma­tum. “You’ve
got one chan­ce to stop this. Put the kni­fe down and turn yo­ur­self in to SA cus­tody.”

  “Or what?” Aaron to­ok a me­na­cing step for­ward, but I didn’t flinch.

  “Or you’re go­ing to die for re­al this ti­me,” I sa­id.

  “Be­ca­use you’re go­ing to kill me? You, Me­gan Berry, Miss ‘I can’t kill the­se bugs for sci­en­ce class, will you ple­ase do it for me’?” He la­ug­hed aga­in, but this ti­me the gig­gle so­un­ded way too fa­mi­li­ar, sen­ding a chill down my spi­ne. “I’m imp­res­sed. You’ve be­co­me so dark. Gu­ess that witch blo­od is wor­king for you. If you’d dis­co­ve­red it so­oner, may­be we co­uld ha­ve be­en fri­ends for re­al.”

  It was crazy, but the lo­ok in Aaron’s eyes, the so­und of his la­ugh, the way his vo­ice flo­ated up at the end of his sen­ten­ces-he just didn’t se­em li­ke Aaron any­mo­re. He se­emed li­ke-I me­an, I’d ra­ti­onal­ly known he co­uld be chan­ne­ling Jess’s spi­rit and her ma­gic, but I hadn’t ex­pec­ted… I hadn’t re­al­ly tho­ught…

  “Jess?” I as­ked, my fre­aked-outed-ness cle­ar in my high, thin vo­ice.

  “Jess? Oh no! Jess, is that you in Aaron’s body?” Aaron’s hands flew to his ra­va­ged fa­ce and his eyes grew wi­de with fa­ke shock be­fo­re nar­ro­wing in hat­red. “Yes, it is. I got stuck he­re when you kil­led him, you bitch. He was chan­ne­ling my spi­rit to ra­ise the li­ving Un­de­ad. When you pus­hed him off the ro­of, I was trap­ped in­si­de his body! A fre­aking de­ad body! And, un­li­ke you, I don’t get off on de­ad guys.”

  “But I-”

  “You pus­hed Aaron off the ro­of?” Lee Chin as­ked, hor­ror cle­ar in her vo­ice.

  “You kil­led Aaron?” Ka­te and Kim­berly bre­at­hed at the exact sa­me ti­me.

  The ti­de was tur­ning, and not in my fa­vor. I had to talk fast.

  “No, I didn’t. Aaron was trying to kill me. I was only de­fen­ding myself. He’s the one res­pon­sib­le for his own de­ath.” I tur­ned back to Jess/Aaron. “Just li­ke yo­ur mot­her wo­uld ha­ve be­en res­pon­sib­le for her de­ath, if she had even di­ed,” I sa­id, gamb­ling that what Aaron had sa­id abo­ut Jess’s mot­her not be­ing de­ad was the truth.

 

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