by Ty Drago
“Sounds risky,” I said. “What if your mom or dad saw the fax before Julie?”
“I used this code. Stupid, really … but it worked. It was gibberish, with only every third letter being important. Julie would circle them and put the message together. Then she did the same when she wrote back.”
I held up the paper. “This isn’t in code.”
“No,” she replied, taking it from me. Was she crying? In the candlelight, I couldn’t tell. “Julie’s upset. She skipped the code this last time.”
“Your folks are splitting up.”
Helene nodded. “Because of me. Because I disappeared. Mom just can’t let it go. I’ve been on posters, milk cartons, supermarket bulletin boards, you name it. It’s been two-and-a-half years, and my dad’s had enough. He … can be like that sometimes.”
“Julie’s right,” I said. “You could fax her a note. Your mom, I mean. Let her know you’re okay.”
But Helene shook her head. “You don’t know her! If I do that, it’ll only encourage her … shift her into high gear. She’s already looking for me hard … maybe too hard. And I don’t have to tell you what happens if she gets too close to the truth.”
She didn’t. I’d seen it too many times.
“This sucks, Helene.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
She looked at me with about a million things in her eyes. “I’m going to ask my boyfriend for help.”
Before I could respond to that, we heard fast footsteps in the corridor outside my room. A moment later, the tattered curtain was shoved aside and a figure appeared, stooped and panting.
“Steve?” I asked.
Steve Moscova waved a hello, struggling to catch his breath. “Where …” he gasped, “… is …” he gasped again, “Tom?”
“In his office?” I suggested.
“Just … came from … there. It’s empty.”
“Try the cafeteria,” Helene suggested.
Or he might be somewhere with Jillian. Like Dave might be with Sharyn.
Time’s … they are a-changin’.
“We’ll find him,” I told Steve, standing up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” the boy asked, his eyes shining behind thick glasses. “Nothing! Quite the opposite!”
I started to ask what that meant, when he held up the Anchor Shard. It caught the meager candle glow and reflected it a thousand times over, filling the room with light.
“I know what this is!” Haven’s Brain Boss declared triumphantly. “And I know how we can use it … to end the war!”
Lilith Cavanaugh
Four nights later, darkness hung heavily over Peaceful Rest Cemetery northeast of Philadelphia. A crow, which had been taking advantage of the worms revealed in a mound of freshly turned earth, sensed something and took to the moonlit sky, screeching in protest.
A moment later, a slender, white hand tore through the loose dirt, reaching skyward.
The skin was purple, the nails almost black as they clawed first at the air and then at the ground, seeking purchase. Gradually, the hand revealed an arm, then the arm a shoulder, then the shoulder a head.
The being that had once called herself Lilith Cavanaugh dragged her new host clear of the freshly dug grave. She didn’t gasp or pant; she was well beyond breathing.
The Queen stood and took stock. The body she wore was fresh, no more than a few days dead. That was excellent. What was rather less excellent was how much larger everything looked: the trees, the shrubbery, even the tombstones.
I’m in a child!
A little girl, perhaps five years old at the time of her death. Young and strong, as hosts went, but too small for practical purposes such as conducting press conferences, attending city council meetings, or even shopping for adult clothes.
Except that really isn’t an issue anymore … thanks to the Undertakers.
She spotted two men standing over yet another recent grave. They carried shovels and, even in the darkness, the Queen recognized them as Malum.
“You there!” she called.
They turned. Both wore weeks-old cadavers, their bodies bloating and their eyes bulging as decaying flesh released gases into their tissues. At the sight of her, the fools snarled.
Lilith went toward them.
“What are you doing here, child?” one demanded.
They don’t know who I am! She couldn’t project her Cover, not while wearing a body as small as this; she’d look like a circus freak with her adult head and shape trying to fit over this tiny frame. Still, they should have recognized her Self. That is, if they’d bothered to look.
“I asked you a question, girl!” the speaker barked in his moist, somewhat slurred voice. His vocal chords were rotting.
The Queen snatched the shovel from his hand and impaled him with it, nearly cutting him in two.
There’s your answer, fool!
Then she faced the other one, who retreated several steps, his eyes wide. “Mistress!” he said in English. “But you’re supposed to have been buried here … in this grave!”
“Perhaps I was,” Lilith told him, still brandishing the shovel. “Being trapped inside a coffin, I couldn’t readily tell. However, as you can see, I’ve Transferred.”
He stammered. “But … how? Where … did you … find—?”
Lilith swung the shovel and lopped his head off. “This is a cemetery, you thundering buffoon! It’s full of bodies!”
She gazed down at her handiwork. Two minions. Both utter idiots. No doubt sent to dig her body up and spirit her away to—where?”
She picked up the second one’s head and spoke in her native language. “Where. You. Take. Me?”
The fool answered at once. “Your. House. Mistress. We. Seek. Your. New. Host.”
“Seek? You. Not. Find. Host?”
“Not. Yet. Mistress.”
With a growl she dragged the parts of both bodies across the grass and buried them in the hole she’d dug herself out of. Perhaps they’d be resourceful enough to Transfer to one of the other nearby cadavers and dig themselves out. If not, well maybe she’d send someone back for them in a week, or a month, or a year.
Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.
It took her most of the night to make her way home. She tried to stay clear of people, to keep off the streets as much as possible. Those few humans who spotted her and called to what they thought was a lost child were ignored. One or two got close enough to see that she was dead. Those she killed.
Finally, exasperated and furious, the Queen rang her own doorbell. It was opened by her latest assistant—the same female minion who’d been beheaded by Tom Jefferson during that disastrous encounter some days ago.
“I told you to take it around—” the woman began in English. Then she stopped and, to her credit, spotted the Self inside the little girl on the front stoop. “Mistress?”
Lilith pushed into the foyer, seized the assistant, and tore her limb from limb.
It was untidy, but satisfying.
Then she piled the parts in her living room and went to the kitchen. A newspaper lay on the table. She read the front page. It was…enlightening.
From under the sink she withdrew a wooden box. This she placed atop the newspaper and opened.
John Tall’s face, now a few days further decomposed, looked sightlessly up at her.
“Hello, John,” she said.
“Hello. Ms. Cavanaugh.”
Ever respectful, this one.
“Lilith Cavanaugh is dead,” she said.
“Do. Not. Understand.”
“So … while you’ve been languishing under my sink, none of your brethren saw fit to confide in you?”
“They. Ignore. Me.”
“Do they? Well, I won’t. John, I’m dismayed to report that Lilith Cavanaugh has been publicly ‘killed.’ That Cover is now useless. As is this house, I suppose. Without a will, it’ll likely be sold at auction. I hope I was given a res
pectful funeral, at least.”
“As. Do. I. Ms. Cavanaugh.”
Lilith regarded the head of John Tall’s most recent host. “You failed me.”
“Yes. Mistress.”
“But you aren’t alone. They all failed me. I’ve had to dig myself out of a grave. Also, my sister is dead. I just read that in the Inquirer, which my assistant was kind enough to leave on my table before I dismembered her.”
Tall didn’t reply, probably didn’t know how to. Lilith didn’t blame him. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was feeling herself.
Finally, the head in the box said, “Undertakers.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. For. Failing. You.”
“I know you are, John,” Lilith said thoughtfully. “And, as things stand, I’m considering offering you something I never offer anyone: a third chance. My command in this world will have to change. It wouldn’t do to have anyone believe Lilith Cavanaugh has somehow risen from the dead and, sadly, as we both know, a new Cover is impossible. I’ll need to keep to the shadows and avoid humans altogether. I could use your help with that.”
“Honored. Mistress.”
The phone on the wall rang. Lilith frowned. Then she left John in his box and answered it. “Yes?”
“Ms. Cavanaugh?”
The voice, raspy and clearly dead, was unfamiliar. Malum, to be sure, but none that she personally knew. “Perhaps you haven’t heard: Lilith Cavanaugh has passed on.”
“But the Queen of the Malum is alive and well.”
Lilith’s patience, already a bit thin, broke altogether. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“My name is Gregory Gardner, Mistress. Until quite recently, I served your sister.”
“Then you’re no ally of mine. I suggest you run … and keep running. You might get quite far before I finally catch you.”
“I could do that, of course,” Gardner replied. “But then I happen to be in a situation that you might find interesting enough to earn me a pardon.”
“Unlikely. But explain.”
“Certainly, Mistress. I am in a position to provide you with the location of Haven, the Undertakers’ secret headquarters.”
The words were like music. For the first time, the dead little girl smiled. “Stay on the line.”
She put the phone down. Then she reached into the open box and lifted out John Tall’s head.
“Mistress?” the decapitated man asked.
“I’m sorry, John,” Lilith said, carrying him across to the kitchen counter. “You’ve just been replaced.”
Then she put Tall’s head into the microwave, set the timer to one hour and pressed Start.
The minion was, of course, incapable of screaming—at least audibly. But his Self screamed. It screamed heartily as the radiation ate away at the already rotting tissues that were his only remaining sanctuary.
Lilith watched for the first couple of minutes, until the head in the microwave exploded like an overripe melon.
There’s my version of a “Ritter,” Mr. Jefferson.
Then the Queen returned to the phone and pressed it to her small, dead ear. “You have my attention, Mr. Gardner. Tell me more.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deepest thanks go out to the Washington, DC offices and staff of Senator Robert Menendez of New Jersey for their counsel and assistance with the research that went into this novel. I’d also like to thank Elizabeth Roach, director of the Senator Page Program for her advice and insight into the daily lives of senate pages. Any mistakes I’ve made are mine and not theirs.
Ty Drago
In addition to the first two books in UNDERTAKERS series, RISE OF THE CORSPES and QUEEN OF THE DEAD, Ty Drago is the author of PHOBOS, a Science Fiction whodunit and THE FRANKLIN AFFAIR, an historical/mystery about Benjamin Franklin. His short fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the 2009 anthology YESTERDAY, I WILL …, and he has written articles for WRITERS DIGEST. His first UNDERTAKERS novelette, NIGHT OF MONSTERS, is currently available for FREE on Smashwords.com and barnesandnoble.com.
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