Necromancing the Stone (8 page)

Brannoc slid into the seat next to me and ordered a beer. “How you holding up?”

I let the coaster go, watching it fall and settle onto the bar. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I have no idea what I’m doing.” I rested my chin in my hand. “I’m still trying to figure out how this whole thing works.”

Brannoc handed Aengus money in exchange for the beer. “And you’re afraid you might screw it up.”

I nodded and put a straw in my soda. “There has got to be someone better qualified for this position.”

Brannoc took a sip of his beer. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’m going to get someone hurt.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but when you’re in a position of power, that’s always a possibility. People rely on your choices, and sometimes the outcome of those choices isn’t favorable and someone suffers because of it. That’s life.” He put his beer down. “A good leader learns from those mistakes. He doesn’t quit out of fear of them.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did, but that’s okay—your fear is natural. What you have to remember, Sam, is that there is always someone who knows more than you, or is stronger than you, but that doesn’t always mean that they are better qualified.”

“That actually sounds like the definition of better qualified.”

Aengus came up to us and wiped the bar with a rag. “Whining, though more acceptable from youth, is no less unbecoming.”

I frowned at him. “I wasn’t trying to whine.”

“Then you were accomplishing it quite well without even making an attempt.” He left to pull a beer for somebody else.

Sometimes I hate it when people are right. “Sorry,” I said.

Brannoc shrugged. “The person you were describing—more power, more knowledge—could be Douglas.”

I grimaced.

“I know,” Brannoc said, “but it makes my point. I encourage you to continue to learn and push yourself, but knowledge and power don’t make you good at this, not on their own.”

I had a hard time picturing myself as the best suited for anything at all. What did I know about being a member of the Council? The last job I had involved a spatula and a name tag. “Then what does?”

“Caring about the people asking you for help, trying to do your best by them, and putting them before your own wants and needs. That is the kind of person who should be on the Council.”

I glowered at him. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Brannoc laughed and clapped me on the back. For a brief second, he reminded me of Sean. “If I was just trying to make you feel better, I’d have encouraged you to run while you still could.”

“Great,” I said, “now I feel worse.”

8

SLOW RIDE

James avoided looking at Douglas while unpacking the supplies he’d brought. The cabin he was in, though cleaned by a service on a fairly regular basis, had very little actually in it and so had to be stocked with all manner of things that Douglas would need.

“Usually you discuss changing tactics before you implement new plans,” Douglas said idly, seemingly unconcerned. Something about the way James was handling things was different, and it was niggling at him. Douglas abhorred niggling. A niggle meant he had missed something small, which meant it was easily overlooked and hard to correct. Details can make or break any plan, regardless of size. So he kept picking at the niggle, hoping to find where it led.

“You left it to my discretion.” James’s gaze never wavered from the cabinet as he organized salt, chalk, and any other thing that needed to be handy. “I understand that you’re anxious to get things moving at a quicker pace, but please remember that you do prize me for my ability to anticipate your wishes.” James threw an icy gaze at the third member of their party—just a quick flicker—before returning to his chore. “It’s an ability I have proved time and time again to be an asset your other assistants
lack
. Need I remind you of Michael?”

“You’re right. It’s just that I can’t remember the last time you disobeyed an order,” Douglas said as he watched James shift the items yet again. “I think that cabinet is as orderly as it’s going to get.”

“You can always kill her later.” When Douglas didn’t immediately nod his head in approval, James shrugged, his face set in a distinct pout.

“What is the saying? If you keep making that face, it might freeze that way?” James’s sulking always amused Douglas.

“Fine, you didn’t like how I carried out your errand. But it certainly didn’t warrant your bringing in a replacement.” He waved his hand at their company, currently slouched next to Douglas.

Douglas patted the head of his new underling sitting at the table. Not his best work, but reliable, and that went a long way. “Oh, come now. We both know he won’t replace you, and you’re being silly to even look at it like that. Remember, right now you technically belong to Sam, and so your ability to answer my beck and call is a bit hampered. After I resurface and claim what is rightfully mine, then of course there will be no need. But until then…” Douglas didn’t expect James to clap or cheer or anything ridiculous like that, but he had expected a small smile, perhaps, or some hint at expectation. Instead he saw only that same frustration and concern.

James set some more chalk and yet another container of salt on the counter before turning his attention to the new subordinate. “Are you sure Minion won’t draw undue attention?”

Minion looked at James, a wooden expression on his face as he contemplated what James had just called him. “My name is—”

“Your name is Minion while you’re here, and you’ll bloody well like it,” James spat.

Minion nodded. “I understand.” He turned, his expression still that unreadable blankness. “Master, he makes a good point. People like to take my picture. And won’t I be missed?”

Douglas rolled his eyes. “Have a little faith. I’m not going to take Minion anywhere he’s going to be seen. As for being missed, I told his people that he was going on some mystical retreat to get in touch with himself or some such nonsense.”

Minion nodded. “That was wise, Master,” he said slowly. Of course, he said everything slowly, so it was hard for Douglas to tell if this particular utterance was any slower than usual.

James continued to storm about the kitchen, closing doors a little harder than he needed to, slamming a box of new trash bags and dish soap down on the counter. “Seriously, what did you do wrong with him? It’s like the muscles in his face are frozen. How does he even get work like that?”

“That’s not fair,” Minion said. “I do plenty of good work.”

“Please,” James said, “the last good thing you did was
My Own Private Idaho
. You’re just a guilty pleasure now. An institution of ridiculousness.”

Minion sulked, or at least Douglas thought he might be sulking. His expression hadn’t changed, but his shoulders appeared to slump a little.

“Now, now, children, let’s not fight.” He glanced at James. “And don’t mention that movie. That’s when the … accident … happened, and it upsets him. While I don’t really care for his feelings, I’d like him to be functional and useful. Otherwise what’s the point?”

James crossed his arms. “What kind of moron tries to do that with a bottle of Jäger and a stuffed deer head, anyway?”

Douglas gave a slight shrug. “I was told it was a cast game of truth or dare that got out of hand. Besides, it was the toaster that really overdid things.”

Minion nodded somewhat sullenly. “We are but dust in the wind, dudes.” He brightened. “But the Master brought me back so that no one would be deprived of my work. Right, Master?”

James sneered. “Is that what they told you?” He looked Minion up and down. “And you believed it. Of course you would.” He leaned in, sticking his face up close to his object of ridicule. “I caught a matinee of that movie, and you know what? I couldn’t tell the difference between the scenes when you’re alive and the scenes filmed after the incident.” He gave the last two words air quotes.

“That’s because Master does such good work,” the zombie returned, a note of blind devotion in his voice.

James harrumphed and went back to straightening things and preparing the cabin. “Despite having to divide my time, I still think I’m more useful than he is.”

“Really, James, this behavior is quite unlike you.”

James didn’t answer. Instead he kept putting away groceries and slamming doors, but his expression lost some of its angry sneer.

Douglas rested against the counter. “This has nothing to do with Sam’s sister—I simply wanted to have someone around to do legwork for me. I don’t know if he’ll be recognized, but it would be far worse if I was, and it’s easier to explain away a celebrity sighting than if I was seen. I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”

James slowed down. “Yes, I can see how that might be a touch awkward.”

“Exactly. And might I also remind you that you can’t always run off and do things for me, either? Sam might start asking questions.”

James didn’t meet his eye, but Douglas could see brief flickers of indecipherable emotion on the boy’s face as he thought it through. But he wasn’t a boy anymore, was he? With a shock, Douglas realized that James was acting like a hurt teenager. His kind aged slower than humans, making it possible for them to stay with a family line for generations. Douglas watched as James pushed his hair out of his eyes. Late teens, but
pukis
or not, the angst and mood swings were certainly there. He felt something in him relax. Of course, that was why James was acting so odd. Stupid of him not to figure it out sooner.

“What’s your next move, then?”

Douglas grabbed a fake apple out of Minion’s hand and put it back in the bowl, twisting it so the bite mark was hidden. “Those are wax, Minion.”

The creature looked confused. “It’s not an apple?”

“No.” He watched in disgust as Minion spit the wax out onto the floor. “How exactly do you function in Hollywood?”

James calmly advanced on Minion before he could answer and smacked him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. “Bad Minion! We don’t spit on the floor. Now clean it up.”

The creature hung its head. “Yes, sir. Sorry,” he added shamefully.

“I’m beginning to understand why you always say it,” James said with a scowl as he oversaw Minion’s work.

“Say what?”

“That good help is hard to find.”

Douglas nodded. “It is a rather limited commodity, isn’t it?”

9

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

When I got home from the Council meeting—and after I had accompanied Kell and Pello to a disastrous meeting with our underwater contingent—Ramon and I finally got to break in the new half-pipe. He also got to break in a new skateboard, a welcome-home gift from me. The last one had met an unfortunate end while trying to save my hide. I didn’t do anything fancy—I’m not the best on a board. Ramon is, though. When I needed a break, I sat in the grass and watched him go, twisting and turning in the floodlights we had up, and I realized how lucky I was to see that again. As guilty as I felt for complicating Ramon’s life, it could have been worse, and it could have been just me on that half-pipe.

I climbed into bed after that and settled down into my blankets, thinking the whole time how great it was going to be to do this in a new bed. With a new mattress. Maybe with Brid in it. Heaven.

My phone went off at some point. I didn’t know what time it was, only that it was still dark and I was exceptionally groggy. I answered with a curse.

“Sam?” My name came out as more of a sob than a question. It took me a second to recognize the voice as Brid’s. I wasn’t used to hearing her cry.

“Brid? What’s going on? What’s wrong?” Late-night phone calls are never good, especially if someone is crying on the other end of the line. Panic chased away the last remnants of sleep, and I sat up and got out of bed, trying to talk to Brid while I searched for my pants. I knew there was no way this conversation was going to end with me going quietly back to bed.

“My dad.” I couldn’t understand anything after that. Just sobs and mumbled words. I heard howling in the background. The sad, mournful sound of it crawled up my spine.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said. And then she hung up. I was left in the darkness alone, except for the growing pain in my chest. I felt a little like howling myself.

*   *   *

My Subaru station wagon, though a fine and practical vehicle, was not built for speed. Douglas’s old Mercedes-Benz Coupe, however, was. With James at the wheel, his driving gloves on and his manner relaxed in a way that told me he was indifferent to the speedometer, I was starting to understand how this car had once been envisioned as a racecar. Even though we were traveling mind-screamingly fast, I was willing the car to move faster. The downside to the Coupe is that it seats only two people. Ramon was trailing behind us, clinging to the back of Sean’s motorcycle. I couldn’t imagine going that fast on a bike. Of course, if the boys crashed, they would probably get up and walk away. I would have to be scraped off the asphalt with a spatula.

We had left Frank at home. I didn’t think it was a good idea to bring a fragile human amongst upset werewolves. The fact that I was just as fragile didn’t give me any comfort.

It usually takes about thirty minutes to reach the Den. James made it in fifteen. He slowed the car as we pulled into the parking area of the large cabin. I looked up at the house that was usually so welcoming. I felt none of that warmth now. The motorcycle slid in noisily behind us. Sean didn’t even come to a full stop before he jumped off the bike and ran to the house. Ramon caught it, barely, and set the kickstand. Then, with him and James by my side, I walked up to the Den.

The front door hung open, and the entryway was quiet. I shouted hello, but no one answered. I’d never seen the Den quiet or empty. It was both now. Ramon placed a hand on my shoulder.

“They’re in the woods,” he said. Before the words were even out of his mouth, Sean was sprinting toward the edge of the forest.

I glanced at him.