Necromancing the Stone (35 page)

So it was a summer-warm Friday when we found ourselves in our Sunday best seated around several rented tables. Lanterns were strung and lit, food was laid out, and flowers were everywhere. I sat at the head of the gathering, which was a motley crew of friends and creatures, with James to my right. He was still a little quiet and withdrawn, but I think he was pleased to be there.

I topped off his wineglass with whatever he’d picked out—I was somewhat amazed by the fact that he’d let us buy actual wine for once—and raised my glass for a toast.

“Some of you have wondered why we are here tonight and why I, of all people, am throwing a wake for Douglas.” There was a murmur of assent. “And I get it, it’s weird. But wakes aren’t really for the dead—they’re for grievers, the loved ones. Family. And I look out at this table, and I understand that even though Douglas may not have been the best person in the world, he most certainly left some great people behind.” I looked out at the crowd, at the gnomes already singing merrily over their cups, at the nymph adjusting the crooked flower in the Minotaur’s lapel, and at James, who couldn’t quite look up from his wine.

“So I’m raising my glass to the person who brought all of us together.” I lifted my wineglass and the others followed suit. “To Douglas! A bad man with good friends. May we all be as lucky.”

There were a lot of hear-hears and general revelry, and I think everyone finally grasped why we’d gathered. We weren’t celebrating Douglas’s life, not really. We were celebrating the beginning of our family.

Dinner was served, food was eaten, and a lot of wine was drunk. James and the others told a few of the less disturbing stories they’d collected featuring Douglas, and we laughed and talked until several of us couldn’t stand very well.

At the end of it, when cleanup had begun and a few people were sleeping on the grass, James came up to me. He looked like he was trying to say something, but couldn’t quite figure it out. Finally he gave up and picked me up in a giant bear hug instead. I think I would have been less surprised if he’d hit me over the head with a wine bottle.

“Thank you,” he said, and then he was gone before I could reply.

I stood there, surprised and a little bewildered in the midst of all the drunken revelry, and wondered at how interesting my life had become.

*   *   *

I stayed up long after everyone else had gone to bed. The night was clear, and the stars were shining as best they could with all those city lights running interference. I sat in the grass trying to sort out my warring emotions. I felt lonely and sad, because I missed Brid something fierce, but I also felt full and happy and loved from the evening’s festivities. Sometimes life offers you up that kind of dichotomy, that soul-shearing rift of two very different things happening at once. My mom refers to them as life’s growing pains, a phrase Brannoc had unknowingly echoed the last time I saw him, and they aren’t pleasant.

I whistled and Stanley came tromping out of the woods. I needed a little company. I patted his velvet nose, and he told me how happy he was to see me. Then he chewed on some grass, out of habit more than anything.

I felt something land on my shoulder.

How you holding up, Meat?

“Okay, I guess. I don’t know. I think I’m still trying to decide how I feel about things.”

Humans. What does it matter how you feel about something? Is that going to change what happened? If you decide you don’t like it, will history do some song and dance and change around to make you feel better?

“I guess not.”

Then why bother? You’re not a hatchling anymore. You know the world isn’t always sunshine and roses.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s human nature to try and understand our part in it.”

No wonder you guys never get anything done.

*   *   *

A week later, I got my first tattoo. I’m not much of an artist, so I didn’t bother trying to sketch anything out. I was a little nervous, but committed, and grateful that the tattooist didn’t blink when I told her what I wanted. I guess they hear all kinds of strange requests in their line of work.

“How big you want it?” she asked, pulling out some sketch paper. We figured out the details, and I came back later to get it done. And yes, it hurts. Tiny needles are jabbing into your skin—that’s not a pleasant feeling, people.

She smiled when she was finished and sat back, satisfied with her handiwork. “I’ve done a lot of good-and-evil chest pieces,” she said. “You know, an angel on one side, a devil on the other. Sometimes it’s swallows, or some other animal, but this is the first time I’ve done one with pandas.”

I got up and looked in the mirror. On the right side of my chest, a happy bust-style portrait of Ling Tsu the panda with a background of bamboo. On the left side, the same image, but zombified. Of course I knew it was exaggerated—Ling Tsu hadn’t been rotting, his eyes red, his mouth snarling, and his ear falling off.

“I like pandas,” I said, poking at the tattoo with my finger.

She slapped my hand. “Don’t do that.” She rattled off the aftercare, smearing ointment on my chest before wrapping me in Saran Wrap. After she was done, she cocked her head. “Usually, people want the good side over their heart, you know.”

It was kind of hard to explain why I’d chosen to place it where I had. I guess because the zombie Ling Tsu wasn’t a representation of evil in my mind. He was a reminder to do good, of what was right and what was wrong and how fuzzy that line might become if I let it.

I shrugged at her and put on my shirt. “I’ve got a thing for zombies.”

She snapped off her gloves. “Who doesn’t?” she said, and grinned.

Acknowledgments

I can’t believe I made it to book two. Seriously. For a little while there, I had doubts. But some excellent people helped me, so I feel they should be thanked here. To my family and friends—you are amazing. The amount of support I get is unbelievable and I can’t get over how lucky I am to have you all. There would be no silly books without you. And I think it goes without saying (but I’m going to say it, just in case) that every book is dedicated to my mother, even if her name isn’t there. She got me through college and the stress of the first book, people.

Thanks to Team Parkview and my writer friends, especially Jen Violi, Sonja Livingston, Casey Lefante, Jason Buch, Léna Roy, Danny Goodman, Abby Murray, and Jeni Stewart. Hugs and bebidas, friends. To Brent McKnight (and occasionally Melissa) for showing up and helping me make time to write. Special thanks to all my gnome-namers—Matt Peters, Leeandra Nolting, Rory McMahon, Mark Babin, Bill Loehfelm, Nick Mainieri, & Jesse Manley, just to name a few. I can’t remember who suggested what, so if I forgot you, just pencil your name in here __________. To Erika & Eric at Imaginary Trends for making such amazing T-shirts for me, and for J’romy Armstrong for helping keep that particular dream alive. Of course, great love and thanks to Devon “Porkchop” Fiene, for lots of reasons, but mostly for telling me to write faster. Tiny & Erica Crane—you know why. I have the best friends on the planet.

A special shout out to
The Normal School
and her fine staff—specifically Kirsten Sanft, Matt “Manbraska” Roberts, and Steven “Mansas” Church. Keep up the good work and thanks for being part of my street team. Bradley Bleeker and Aaron Carlton should get mentioned for great webpage shenanigans. I owe you some many waffles and chickens.

To the bestest agent in the world, Jason Anthony, who only complains a little about my freakish typos, mistakes, and the occasional use of made up words like “bestest.” Maria Massie for fancy tackling foreign markets for me, and of course to the rest of the Lippincott, Massie, & McQuilkin team for your continued support. Sylvie Rabineau, Jill Gillet, Valerie Mayhew, and the RWSG agency team—thanks for all your hard work.

To everyone at Holt—thanks for making this such an amazing year. A girl couldn’t ask for a better publishing experience. My editors, Reka Simonsen and Noa Wheeler, are fantastic. They send me cookies and oranges and silly emails and remind me to breathe and I couldn’t imagine two more helpful and wonderful people to work with. You two should get some sort of award for dealing with me. Lastly, from team Holt, I want to send my appreciation to Rich Deas for creating such awesome cover art for me. If I ever meet you, I will hug you, and it might be a little awkward, but you’re just going to have to accept it.

Finally, I’d like to thank all the readers, bloggers, booksellers, and librarians out there—thanks for putting my book in people’s hands, and thanks all those years for putting books in mine. Awkward hugs all around.

About the Author

Lish McBride was raised by wolves in the Pacific Northwest. It rains a lot there, but she likes it anyway. She spent three years away while she got her MFA in fiction from the University of New Orleans, and she liked that too, although the hurricane did leave much of her stuff underwater. She enjoys reading, having geek-laden conversations about movies, comics, and zombies with her friends, and of course trying to wear pajamas as much as humanly possible. Currently, Lish lives happily in Seattle where the weather never actually tries to kill you, with her family, two cats, and one very put-upon Chihuahua. She is slowly building her lawn gnome army.

Text copyright © 2012 by Lish McBride

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

McBride, Lish.

Necromancing the stone / Lish McBride. — 1st ed.

p.       cm.

Sequel to: Hold me closer.

Summary: Six weeks after escaping from the necromancer Douglas, Sam LaCroix is under the protection of the Blackthorn pack of werewolves and fey hounds and unsure if his necromancer rival is dead.

ISBN 978-0-8050-9099-4 (hc)

[1.  Supernatural—Fiction.   2.  Magic—Fiction.   3.  Dead—Fiction.   4.  Werewolves—Fiction.   5.  Seattle (Wash.)—Fiction.]   I.  Title.

PZ7.M478267Nec 2012       [Fic]—dc23       2011043448

eISBN 9780805097368

First hardcover edition 2012

eBook edition September 2012