Veruca watched as the Reaper floating between them twitched, twisting, the soul moving on its own in a determined way she’d never seen a soul move before.
“She may go to the queen and tattle on you, too. And who knows, perhaps this time her offer will be better and you’ll end up human once again, just like me.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Darcy cried from the open doorway, stomping in, still covered in blood, still free of the glamour that had kept her looking entirely human for so long. She reminded Veruca of a tropical bird, lovely and colorful, but Veruca just watched her approach, the myriad powers inside her warring, calling her attention, demanding she use them to solve various tiny, worthless problems that amounted to nothing.
She could finish the healing process, helping the siren’s body become whole, or call water to bathe her clean of blood. Telekinesis to bring her a chair in which to rest, mind control to force her to return to her human form. None of these would help or strengthen her position, but Veruca was starting to realize having this much power was going to be tiresome.
“He’s a liar,” Darcy said, stepping up next to Veruca as if they were united. “Kill him. He’s done the world enough damage, threatened the lives of too many.”
“But which of us is the true cause of your kind being imprisoned, banished, cast out? No,” Belial said with a small smile, even as his gaze darted toward Nysgrogh’s suddenly active soul. “That wasn’t me, was it, Darcy?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“What’s he saying?” Veruca asked, though the souls of mind readers in her reached into Belial’s psyche, catching snippets of what he was thinking, all of them coming back to her at once, leaving her a little nauseated. She wondered for a moment how he managed to live with this much input but realized he hadn’t taken it on all at once and had centuries of practice.
“He’s saying whatever he thinks you want to hear,” Darcy said, stepping forward, taking a breath. As usual, her soul telegraphed her intent and, when she cried out, giving Belial the order to cease speaking, Veruca held up her hand, stopping the barbs of the siren’s order easily.
“Hold on,” she said casually, though the souls inside her reacted, many of them shuffling forward, reaching their power toward Darcy, attempting to react to her own thoughtless words as if Veruca had put intent behind them. It was a struggle to keep them from hurting her or binding her to put her in her place. “Explain.”
Knowing she meant him, Belial grinned, brightening, and Veruca didn’t need any of the empathy humming in her chest to know that he was pleased she was playing along.
“I got the pleasure of stopping Nysgrogh’s second attempt at a coup, but her first was ended by her own greed, her own stupidity. How did it go, Darcy? I wasn’t there for the plotting, the planning, and I was forced to give over your witch, to release your necromancer, unable to get clear memories from him. Did you go to the queen, or did she? Which one of you discovered the hierean charm? Was there no thought to the risk that you might get caught? Or were you simply so blinded by the lure of power that it never occurred to you to reconsider the extremely stupid attempt at taking me down?”
“I believe it was a little of everything,” said a voice Veruca didn’t recognize, coming from a Fairy whose presence pressed against her like a weight, cowing even the eager and demanding souls living in her chest into dim silence.
****
Finn woke up first, which was probably thanks to Veruca’s connection to him, but it could have also been from the fact that he really had to take a leak. Thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t peed his pants, he pushed into a sitting position, looking around, feeling a distinct sense of dread, but not entirely sure why.
His memory was foggy, his body sore, but his necromancy was alive, vibrating through him with the need to run free in the bodies of the dead people spread about the pavement around him. He was hesitant at first, always inherently against the idea of controlling the dead, but when his lazy gaze fell on Stefanie’s stirring form, he jolted, giving in.
The zombies around him pushed to their feet awkwardly, stiffly as the dead do, and Finn made sure to order a handful of them to grab Stefanie, to hold her down. When she groaned in a surprisingly human way, he reconsidered slightly and had one of them press its hand over her mouth, lest she try to sass him. Getting to his own feet, crouching to check Benedict’s pulse to make sure he seemed okay, Finn darted off.
He was quick, but a lot happened while he’d been tucked up against the hedge relieving himself, and by the time he got back, Stefanie was struggling against her undead bonds, the banshee had disappeared, and Benedict had woken up, gotten to his feet, and drawn his gun. He glanced at Finn as he jogged back over and jerked his chin at the blood stain on the ground, keeping his weapon aimed low but ready.
“Any idea if she’s alive or dead?”
“No idea,” Finn admitted, scanning the area briefly. He knew Veruca was alive, but the banshee was a mystery. “She … actually, I don’t think she was here when I woke up.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I was a little, ehm. Concussed.” Finn shrugged, not sure he was qualified to make that diagnosis, but sure enough that the back of his head felt like a dented egg. “Veruca’s alive. We can go see her, if you’d like.”
“You want to bring this one?” Benedict asked, gesturing to Stefanie, who paused long enough to glare his way, but then continued struggling.
Finn brought over two more zombies to keep her down and shook his head. “Nah, she’ll just cause trouble. Actually…” Thinking ahead, something he wasn’t entirely used to, he tucked a hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the sack of pins he’d been given at Leo’s shop. He didn’t want to use them, hated the idea of stuffing them into eyeballs as had been suggested, but no one said his anchor had to be cornea-bursting. “Wanna do me a favor?”
It took a few minutes to get around to every zombie in the bunch, but he and Benedict split the anchors, both moving person to person as quickly as they could. Jamming the first few pins into the throats of the zombies was unsettling, but when the undead remained unreactive and the control he had seemed to strengthen, he lost his discomfort.
In the end, he found Leo had been right. These were a better option than twine tied about the neck and less gruesome than blood smeared across the face. Glad Stefanie wouldn’t be able to wrestle control back, or somehow get free and hose the zombies down to break his control, Finn grinned, arms akimbo.
“What about him?” Benedict asked, his tone a little softer.
Finn followed his gaze, staring at Donald’s body on the ground, realizing his necromancy had skirted it when rushing to inhabit all the corpses in the area. He sighed, feeling down in the dumps once again, and considered his options. None of them were good.
He’d raised friends, loved ones before, but this felt different. Donald was, as far as Finn was concerned, a force of nature. The man was a brick wall of strength, a soft teddy bear of decency, and good sport about all the times Finn had asked to see him naked. To invade his body and parade it around felt like betraying the man. But there were questions aplenty, and Finn had to assume it had been recently enough that Donald had died that he might be able to answer them.
Most undead seemed brainless robots, but he’d raised a few recently dead who’d seemed aware, who could emulate themselves well enough that one may never know it was really Finn in there. He thought fondly of Bea, the elderly lady he’d loved shortly before meeting Veruca and nodded, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out his tin of string. It was a better way to work, but Finn couldn’t bear to jam a pin into Donald’s neck.
Benedict stayed alert as Finn worked, as Finn slipped his soul into Donald and called him back to the mortal coil, watching unfazed as Donald’s eyes snapped open and he jerked up quick enough that he almost hit Finn in the chin with his forehead.
“Whoa, ease up, there, Donny. You can’t be hurt, but I’m soft and squishy.”
<
br /> “Jesus—Finn?”
“Just Finn,” Finn said with a grin. “I haven’t yet learned to walk on water. Though I can turn wine to piss with the best of them.”
Donald made a face, his discomfort so deliberate and familiar that Finn wondered for a moment if he’d managed to resurrect the man properly and perhaps the Jesus title was deserved. The only other time a zombie of his had been so independently personable had been when he’d accidentally raised a pixie and it had nearly gotten him killed out of spite.
“I feel weird,” Donald said, lifting his hands, flexing his fingers, and then pressing his palms to his face. Panic rippled across his features and he met Finn’s eyes. “I’m dead.”
“Sorry,” Finn said, not sure what else to say. He gave it a beat, calling Donald to his feet, but realized as he considered the order that it wasn’t entirely his idea. Somehow, like with the pixie, Donald was in his head, dead but still present and aware. Unsure how he felt about that, Finn shoved the uneasiness aside, and gestured off in the direction he could feel Veruca. “Talk while we walk. Tell us how you bought the farm.”
“I don’t … I don’t remember, but I think that fucking banshee is involved.”
“Darcy?” Finn asked, sure Donald was wrong. “Nah, she’s been helpful so far.”
“I don’t think she has. Something’s been off with her since the beginning. I could feel it—shit.” Donald paused, looking back and forth between Benedict and Finn. “I can’t feel either of you.”
Refraining from making the offer to let Donald feel any part of him he wanted, Finn remained quiet, letting the man have a moment. It took him another few steps to speak again, his tone more distracted than tough.
“She never felt entirely truthful, every time she spoke. The problem was that she didn’t feel familiar, either. I’ve come across a lot of creatures and every one has their own way of expressing emotion. Humans don’t feel like brownies who don’t feel like werewolves, etcetera. I couldn’t tell if maybe I just didn’t know how to read her, which happens. First time I met a hob, I thought it was depressed as shit, but it turned out that’s just how they feel all the time. Anyway…” Donald waved off his own aside, and Finn felt a fit of frustration wriggle through him. It wasn’t natural, not his own emotion, but it made him feel impotent and angry all the same, if only for a moment. He wondered if this was how Donald felt around others all the time.
“You didn’t mention it to Veruca?” Finn asked, fighting off the frustration, keeping the edge out of his tone.
“No, she … it didn’t… No.” He sighed. “Then, when the banshee came to me at the cabin and … and…”
Donald’s gaze fell, his expression puzzled, and Finn watched curiously, wondering what was going on in his mind. It took Donald a half block, before he looked up, shocked and horrified.
“She … I think she told me to kill Belial.”
“That can’t be right,” Finn said with a laugh, though he wasn’t entirely confident it was a stupid revelation.
“That could be how you ended up dead, though,” Benedict said, before gesturing through the front window of the house in which Finn could feel Veruca. “Why don’t we ask her?”
“I don’t know if we should go in,” Finn said, eyeballing the lovely lady standing at the back of the living room. She was dressed elaborately, like someone who’d tried to jazz up a Victorian gown with elements straight out of a Tolkein novel. She made him nervous and he worried for a moment that Belial didn’t look like he was in any shape to help should she turn out to be as powerful as Finn feared.
****
Veruca could feel Finn outside, his soul split into more than forty pieces, most of them clustered back where everything had started, outside the safe house. Benedict was there too, as well as—much to her surprise—Donald.
His soul wasn’t intact, wasn’t solid and strong the way it should be, but it was seated in his chest, tangled up with Finn’s in a clumsy mesh that made her own heart hurt. It was hard to focus on them with the Fairy sauntering toward her, though.
She was a bit taller than Veruca, slinky and severe like Morticia Addams, with pale skin, dark hair, and an elaborate hat perched off-center atop her glossy hair. Roughly the size of a top hat, covered in bright white, red, and black flowers, it seemed designed to feature the golden birdcage in the center. The cage was empty save for a swinging perch that glinted as the Fairy circled the couch to face Belial, and Veruca wondered as the woman swished her ornamented skirts if it had ever held a creature, be it earthly or fae.
“You’re looking sad, dear prince,” she said, lifting her hand to rest delicate fingers on her ruffled hips. Pausing as if waiting for an artist to sweep in and paint her likeness, she smiled down at Belial, the smile on her face speaking of familiarity rather than disdain.
Veruca looked between them, suddenly wondering if this Fairy’s appearance was going to be a problem for her.
“It’s been a busy few days. My dear Lady Nemhain, you’re looking spectacular, as always,” Belial said, sweeping to his feet in a way that tried hard to hide evidence of aching muscles and tired bones.
Veruca could almost feel what he must be going through. Even prior to stealing them from Belial, she’d taken on many a soul built for hard, intense physical contact and the come down after being so powerful could be a pain.
“Your silver-tongue remains dazzling as ever,” Nemhain said, holding her hand out so Belial could kiss her dainty fingers, even as she glanced over and caught Veruca’s eye. “I haven’t seen this many Reapers together since—well! Since the last time I saw you, my dear.”
Nemhain’s gaze went hard, darting away from Veruca to the middle distance between her and Darcy. Despite her earlier stirring, Nysgrogh’s soul went still, hovering just to the left of where Veruca had left it. Could a disembodied soul feel fear? Veruca wasn’t sure, but watching the way Nemhain eyeballed the long-gone Reaper, she was willing to bet Finn’s favorite piece of her lingerie collection that the answer was yes.
“I’m surprised you let her free,” Nemhain said, before reaching her hand out and wiggling her fingers to beckon. Nysgrogh’s soul flowed closer, like thick syrup through thin pipes, settling at her index finger as if it were a bird waiting for a treat. “Especially with how recently she made a mess.”
“What can I say?” Belial asked, straightening tall again and looking over the soul perched in the air. “I have a soft spot for the strong ones.”
“Clearly.” Nemhain slid her gaze to Veruca, lip still quirked. “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard good things, powerful things, things that make me think you’ll make a good replacement for Belial.”
“Replacement?” Veruca asked, shaking her head. “I don’t mean to replace him.”
“Then why do you stand in his place, fighting his battles, allied with the only creature who’s gotten close to taking his throne?” Squinting, she leaned in slightly, as if they could share a secret from across the room. “Do we dare assume you plan righteous betrayal? Could you be so cold-hearted for a human?” Then, her gaze darting sharply, she said, “Where do you think you are going, banshee? Do you not believe yourself important to this conversation? Or do you fear what the new Queen of Hell has planned?”
Veruca turned, realizing Darcy’s retreating soul had not been slow and fearful, but quiet and deliberate. The banshee grunted, her back bowing outward as if Nemhain had summoned her spine independent of the rest of her, and Veruca watched the siren’s soul shutter inside, Darcy’s essence curling and twisting as if it would braid itself back together and begin its acidic destruction of Magna once again.
“Plans have been made for you, my dear, very different plans than the last time we met, but Orlagh has allowed that I give the lovely new ruler first crack at you. What say you, Queen Veruca? How should she suffer?”
“New ruler?” Belial asked, as Finn knocked a knuckle on the front door, pulling Veruca’s attention.
****
“How�
��r’ya?” Finn asked genially, leaning in, scanning the living room, wondering why everyone looked like an estranged family who’d just been told they had to make nice and split the estate of dear, old, deceased Granddad. “Veruca, my love, I was hoping we could chat for a sec. No offense to the rest of you, I just miss her is all.”
“Not a good time, Finn,” Veruca said, her gaze intense. She looked angry, but there was something more there he couldn’t pinpoint. He’d seen her angry, determined, and barely restrained before, but something else crawled through her this time. There were beads of sweat on her brow and her tightly clenched fist was tense at her side. Barely sparing him more than a glance, she focused on Darcy, who’d hunched forward, grimacing and groaning quietly.
“She all right?” Finn asked, stepping in closer, worried for the girl, despite Donald’s unpleasant revelation outside. “Veruca?”
“You’ve chosen well,” said the fancy lady standing at Belial’s side, her voice rough, like a twenty-five year old who’d had a pack-a-day habit since she’d hit puberty. Finn didn’t like the feel of her attention, recognizing it from his experience with other powerful, beautiful women who only wanted to chew him up and spit him out. He could tell, though, that despite her attention, she wasn’t speaking to him. “Powerful, lovely, here—despite the danger—to offer comfort.”
“Finn,” Veruca said, her voice restrained. He felt something shove gently at him, like a giant, furry hand trying to push him out the door, and he jumped, worried the newcomer had some strange groping power he’d never encountered before. “Please, step outside.”
“There’s no need to leave,” the fancy lady said. “We’re all friends here. We can speak freely about your sad little empath. Isn’t that what you wanted to talk about, dear necromancer? Dear Finn. Invite him inside—the both of them! The pretty human mercenary and I have history to come, and I’d like to get an up-close look at him before he bows deeply before me.”
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