Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us (2 page)

McGowan snarled at her, “Don’t act slutty.”

She turned toward him and marched across the room, saying, “Don’t act like such a father. I’m a grown woman so I get to be as slutty as I want.”

McGowan rolled his eyes as she turned to Paul. “We can finish talking about salt, silver and iron—and my ass—later. I’ve gotta go.”

She turned and headed toward the front door. Paul got up to follow her, but McGowan stepped in his way. “You can’t leave. We’ve got a lesson.”

Paul said, “I’ll be right back,” then stepped around McGowan and into the hall just in time to see the front door closing. By the time he got out the front door Katherine was thirty feet up the sidewalk.

“Katherine, wait,” he called.

She hesitated, turned and waited for him, and as he approached her he realized the other, more reserved and distant Katherine had returned. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

She eyed him warily, suspiciously, thought about that for a moment, then said, “You’re a necromancer. None of us really understands what that means, and I think that’s probably a very dangerous thing to be. And I’ve thought about that a lot, and I really don’t need a dangerous man in my life. Been there, done that.”

She turned away from him, but he caught her arm. “What does that mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned and marched away, marched like a soldier going to battle, making it clear she didn’t want Paul to follow her.

~~~

With the Summer Queen standing beside him High Chancellor Cadilus watched Katherine’s image in the scrying bowl as she marched up the street. When Paul turned and returned to the Old Wizard’s house, she said, “I am pleased. You have . . . unusually adept talent on the Mortal Plane.”

Cadilus nodded respectfully. “I’ve spent centuries developing the conduits needed to function there. I’ve set the spells myself, and I’m using some of our mages to maintain them.”

She smiled, and he knew by the absence of flames in her eyes that she was pleased. “I see you’re driving a nice wedge between the two young people.”

Again, Cadilus nodded. “As you requested, Your Majesty, though I must move cautiously and subtly to be certain the Old Wizard doesn’t detect my interference.”

She turned away from him, saying, “What spells are you using?”

A set of tall French doors appeared in the wall in front of her, and she stepped through them. Cadilus followed her out onto a balcony overlooking the countryside of Faerie. “Just a simple spell to make her doubt him, and to question her own feelings. Those short-lived mortals don’t truly understand the nature of a necromancer, so it’s not difficult to introduce doubt into the equation, leavened by a bit of suspicion and paranoia. The effect of my spells wanes when she’s protected within the wards of the Old Wizard’s home, or if, for any other reason we can’t reach her. But when she emerges and one of my assistants regains access to her, the spells are quickly reinforced.”

She turned toward him and smiled, her emerald green eyes bathing Cadilus in the glory of the Summer Queen. “You have done well. Separated and untrusting, those two young mortals are weaker. We’ll need that weakness when the time comes. Have the Realms calmed?”

“On the surface, yes, Your Majesty.”

Her eyes narrowed unhappily. “That doesn’t sound . . . comforting.”

Cadilus shook his head. “The young man is a necromancer, which explains some of his unusual abilities. The mortals all now accept that he’s not a demon, though I wonder if a necromancer can really exist without some demon blood in his veins.”

As he spoke the shadows of undeveloped, primordial Sidhe spirits coalesced about the Summer Queen’s flame-red hair. “The Netherworld is quiet, Your Majesty, with no overt unrest. But when I look closely there is a certain watchfulness there; I suspect some high-caste nether beings are quite interested in this necromancer, and I find their anticipation discomforting.”

The flames had returned to her eyes, and the spirits fluttering about her had become unsettled. “And let’s not forget the Morrigan,” she said.

Cadilus nodded. “Yes. The triple goddess is . . . aroused, though quiescent. But the mere fact that she is focused on the matter, that she finds it of such keen interest . . . I know not what to make of that.”

“Perhaps you should have a word with the
black
.”

Cadilus grimaced, and Magreth frowned sympathetically. “Yes, my dear Cadilus, an unpleasant task, and difficult, and so a task I can only trust to you.”

Cadilus sighed. “I’ll have to think carefully how to approach them. And who among them to approach. And what inducement I can offer such unstable creatures.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” she said. “The
black
are, after all, most effective when focused on the right target.”

~~~

Anogh waited impatiently in the old fortress. He sensed that Taal’mara was near, and the prospect of seeing her again sent his heart racing. He stood on a high balcony looking out upon the territories of the non-aligned fey, ruled by neither Court, beholden to none, the home of the wild fey: leprechauns, brownies, sprites, pixies, banshees—and most dangerous of all—the
black fey
.

“My darling,” Taal’mara whispered behind him as her arms encircled his waist.

He turned slowly to face her, still held within her arms, wrapped his own arms about her and reveled in her beauty. Her almond shaped eyes had dark, vertically slit pupils framed by amber irises, offset by the pale white skin of true Sidhe royalty. Her dark hair cascaded past her shoulders in a wealth of ringlets and curls. And she’d chosen a diaphanous gown that thrilled and excited him with delightful hints of the pleasures that awaited them both. Their lips met, a long, delicate kiss. It had been months since their last assignation, and Anogh just wanted to hold her for a moment, to glory in the scent of her, the nearness of her.

When their lips parted she whispered, “I’ve missed you so.”

“And I you,” he said.

“If only we could be wed, then we’d no longer need to meet in secret, to steal hidden moments, concealed trysts, veiled glances at some event we must both attend.”

Anogh sighed wearily. “We’ve talked of this a thousand times. Ag would never allow the Summer Knight to wed the Winter Princess. If he knew his daughter had given her heart to me . . . it could mean war.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “Yes. We must content ourselves with our little stolen moments.” She stepped out of his arms, took his hand, turned and led him into the bedroom . . .

. . . Anogh stared at the portrait of Taal’mara. It was the only pleasure not denied him in more than six hundred years. She had stolen his heart then, long ago, and Ag had stolen her from him.

“And so my brother knight weeps for his lost love. How touching!”

Anogh turned slowly toward the sound of Simuth’s voice. The Winter Knight strode toward him across the Hall of Memories, a broad grin splitting his face. As always, his rapier hung at his side, and also, as always, he wore a cloak of arrogance and cruelty. “Does her image make your heart beat fondly, even after all these centuries, my brother?”

“You know nothing of my heart,” Anogh said coldly. “Nor of any heart, for that matter . . .” He spit sarcasm in Simuth’s face, “. . . my brother knight.”

Simuth’s grin disappeared. “Do not mock me, oh tenderly devoted knight, he who still foolishly loves a princess dead now for more than six centuries. Bring forth my ire, and you’ll regret it dearly.”

It was Anogh’s turn to grin. He called forth his own rapier to hang at his side, took a menacing step toward the Winter Knight with his hand resting casually on its hilt. “My oaths bind me only so much, my brother knight. They will not prevent me from spoiling your lovely smile, should you choose to be the aggressor.”

Simuth stepped back, successfully hiding his fear, though Anogh saw it plainly. “You have only begun to pay the price of your folly with Taal’mara,” Simuth snarled. “Six hundred years is nothing, Anogh. I have all eternity to watch you squirm.”

Anogh smiled coldly. “Perhaps you do, Simuth. Then again, perhaps not.”

~~~

When Paul returned to McGowan’s kitchen Colleen was waiting for him, seated at the table with a steaming cup of tea in front of her. As he sat down opposite her she swept her hair back from her face, but it refused to obey and fluttered forward, almost as if it were elemental with a mind of its own. It draped about her shoulders, bright red locks intertwined with small silver charms. If he looked away from her, looked slightly to one side so she was only visible in the periphery of his vision, he got the distinct impression her hair drifted on a light breeze. But when he looked directly her way there was no such breeze, and her curly red locks lay static and immobile, though even looking directly at them he still had the impression of motion.

“Walter sends his apologies,” she said. “He’s been called elsewhere, so I’ll work with you today.” She lifted the cup of tea to her lips and blew softly at the steam. “He said Katherine was teaching you about salt, silver and iron. Tell me what you learned.”

Paul repeated the points Katherine had made about salt and silver. “I don’t think she was finished with silver, and she really didn’t talk about iron.”

Colleen fingered one of the silver trinkets in her hair. “For we mortals, silver has two primary uses. It’s an excellent focus to contain spells, or to hold power for later use, though that’s a bit advanced for you at this stage. More importantly, silver will burn the flesh of a nether being, and spelled silver can annihilate a netherlife that’s crossed to the Mortal Plane.”

“That’s why my bullets had an effect on that Tertius in Katherine’s home, right? But why the iron? Why does Devoe mix iron in the bullets too? He said something about the fey.”

Colleen spoke thoughtfully. “I don’t know Mr. Devoe at all well, but apparently he can be a very dangerous man. And Walter swears by him. And you say he mixes iron in his ammunition?”

“He told me so himself. Iron and silver.”

“That means he wants to be prepared to kill fey as well as demons. Iron doesn’t exist in Faerie in any form, and cold iron burns the flesh of the fey the way silver burns that of a demon. The royal Sidhe are immortal. They don’t age and die, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be killed, though we only have rumors as to how. It must involve iron in some way, but just shooting one with an iron bullet, or stabbing one with an iron or steel knife; that alone won’t do it, though it will give them considerable pain and grief until the bullet or knife is removed. It’s rumored beheading is involved, but again that alone won’t do it. And again that’s only unconfirmed rumor.”

“They can survive being beheaded?”

Colleen looked into her tea thoughtfully, and Paul wondered if she would now teach him how to read tea leaves. “The royal Sidhe are reputed to be able to heal any wound, given time and power. But then I’ve never killed one, or beheaded one, nor has any mortal I know of, so it’s all speculation.”

She changed the subject abruptly. “I don’t sense your arcane abilities as I did a few weeks ago. You’ve been practicing, eh?”

Paul had become quite adept at the fire spell. He could turn it on and off at will, could control its intensity and the size of the blaze, could even hold fire cupped in the palm of his hand without the need for something like paper to burn, and could do it without burning himself.

“Ya,” he said. “You want me to demonstrate?”

Colleen glanced at the ceiling, the table and the floor, and her eyes widened. “No fire spells.”

Paul shook his head. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

She grinned. “Not for some time yet, young man. Let’s go out on the patio. Things are less flammable there.”

~~~

She was such a lovely child, blonde hair, blue eyes. The first time he’d seen her she’d worn a gray pinafore over a pale-blue dress, with white knee-high stockings and shiny black shoes—very
Alice in Wonderland
. He loved
Alice in Wonderland
, not the story but the girl. He wished Alice was real so he could love her, truly love her.

“Alice,” he said to her, as she sat shivering in the passenger seat next to him. He reached out and ran a finger along her jawline.

“My name’s not Alice,” she said, her voice barely more than a squeak. “Y’all got the wrong girl. Let me go. Please, let me go.”

It had been trivial to spell her, though the spell itself was not trivial. He had to control her, make her walk willingly into his car, make her cooperate; do as he said without screaming or crying out. But at the same time her perception of the situation must not be masked. She mustn’t be absolved of the fear. The fear was too important, the terror too much a part of his need. He wished he could spare her that, but his soul would never allow that.

He caressed her cheek again and she shivered, tears streaming down her face.

She pleaded, “I ain’t who you think I am.”

She had a deep, south Texas accent, and the
am’s
came out more like
ayum
, a good syllable and a half.
I ain’t who you think I ayum.

Someday she’d be a pretty little cheerleader in high school.

No,
the voice said. It crawled across his soul like sandpaper on old wood.
She’s not going to high school.

He turned down a street not far from her home, pulled off to the side of the road and killed the engine. It was early evening, dark, just after dinner, a residential street. This wouldn’t take long.

“No,” she said. “No . . . no . . . no.”

“Alice,” he said, though now his words carried the timbre of the
voice
within him, a harsh growl. “This is how it must be.”

He reached out, his actions no longer his to control, gently caressed the girl he loved and released the
voice
within his soul.

She screamed, she cried and she struggled. She fought, but he was careful not to harm her in any way, not in any physical way, not in any visible way. There mustn’t be any outward signs of trauma or harm.

As she struggled he leaned across the seat of the car, cupped the back of her head in one hand and tilted her head back. She opened her mouth to scream, but in the same instant he opened his mouth and covered hers with his. Then he exhaled, and as he leaned away from her a black shadowy stain extended from his mouth to hers, flowing from him to her, entering her soul. For just an instant she looked at him with blood-red, goat-slitted eyes. Then a spasm shook her, and she thrashed about, shaking and coughing and gagging. She struggled for what seemed an eternity, but really only the blink of an eye for mortal men. And then she died, and her death washed over him, filled him with sorrow. It would have been wonderful if he could have loved Alice a little longer, just for a time, the two of them.