Precinct 13

by Tate Hallaway

  “No one can find her. She’s not coming to the radio, and Dispatch just suggested that maybe she went off duty without telling anyone. Her radio is switched off, and there’s no answer on her cell.”

  “That’s not like her.” Hell, I could hardly even imagine her off duty at all.

  “I know,” Jack said. “Where did you last see her?”

  I tried not to stammer, but I felt so guilty having left her in the middle of a fight like that. “She…she was with the zombie. He was attacking. She told me to leave. I called Jones for help. I assumed that was where he was while I was stuck in the coffin.”

  The cop who had been helping us covered her radio with her hand and said, “That was outside of Big Tom’s again. I responded to that. At one point there were six of us on it, but then it went down hard and didn’t get back up. Stone said she was going to take it to a cemetery.”

  “A cemetery?” I asked her. “Why not back to headquarters or to the funeral home?”

  Jack answered, “Graveyard dirt. It’s to make sure the zombie stays dead this time.”

  “She’s an efficient person,” I said. “Which graveyard is closest to Big Tom’s?”

  “Riverside,” said the officer, reaching for her microphone again. “I’ll send a car.”

  “I could fly over, if you wish,” Valentine said into my ear.

  I almost said yes without thinking. I was worried about Stone, but she was a golem. I didn’t know if that meant she was indestructible, but she was tough. The police were headed that way already, I could hear their chatter on the radio. “Only if you want,” I said, turning to give his cheek a light stroke. “You’ve done so much already.”

  He leaned into my hand. “I don’t mind when you ask, love.”

  “It would be very easy to take advantage of you,” I said, letting my hand drop.

  A wicked smile flashed briefly on his lips, and then he leaned very close. “I dearly hope you will. Later.” He nipped my ear playfully. Breaking contact, he said, “I’ll check on your friend—unless, of course, you wish me to keep an eye on our bastard prince?”

  Jones would hate the idea of Valentine babysitting him, and for some reason that tickled me. “Ooooh,” I said with a mischievous smile of my own, “do that!”

  Jack and I ended up in the back of Peterson’s squad. The sirens blared and cars moved out of our way as we raced down the street. Though Peterson was a careful driver, I held on tightly to the roll bar and kept my eyes straight ahead.

  Staring at the back of Peterson’s head reminded me how much fun he and his partner had smashing cows’ heads. I wished I’d thought to have Valentine ask Brooklyn why she’d killed Olson’s cattle. I supposed that their mutilation could have been part of the plan to get one hundred percent, but Olson’s ranch had been far outside the city limits. Though all his neighbors agreed that they’d seen lights, it seemed to me that crop circles were the sort of thing that drew a lot of skepticism. Most people understood them to be hoaxes, and those who didn’t thought they were the work of space aliens, not magicians.

  If Brooklyn and her brother didn’t kill the cows, who did?

  The car slowed as we hit the unpaved Cemetery Road. Ahead, two Pierre patrol cars were parked on a small berm in front of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the cemetery grounds. Through the slats, I could see a series of plots. They were fairly modern, shiny granite squares placed in orderly rows. There were few trees, so the snow had completely melted to reveal thick, well-manicured sod. The blades had even begun to green in places.

  Devon met us on the gravel road leading to the gate. “That’s Spenser’s squad all right,” he said, nodding to the car positioned closest to the gate. “I found my bottle hidden in it. Stone must be here somewhere.”

  Hanson, who’d come out of the other patrol car with Devon, said, “I called the cemetery director. He said this place is about thirty-five acres.”

  Jack pulled his Yoda hat from the pocket of his coat and scrunched it onto his head. “There are two likely options,” he said. “If this was the cemetery the zombie was supposed to be buried in later today, Hannah would try to find his plot. Dirt from that specific spot would be the most powerful deterrent. However, if she just picked this place because it was closest, then she’ll go for the oldest section. The older the dirt, the stronger the magic.”

  “Let’s split up,” suggested Peterson.

  “Let’s not,” I said. “Let’s be smart about this. There’s no way Stone would assume that she’d luck out and hit the very cemetery the zombie belongs to. Plus, it’s impractical to fireman-carry a corpse from plot to plot hoping to stumble upon an open grave, which might not even be the right one. If you talked to the cemetery director and he didn’t mention talking to the cops already today, then she’s gone to the oldest section. Let’s all go together. If the zombie is awake, she might need all our help.”

  Jack called up the cemetery’s website on his phone. He found a map and showed it to us. “Looks like we’re headed there.”

  I might have guessed that direction, anyway. In an otherwise barren expanse, cedar and yew bushes grew to tall, spiky spires marking the spot someone had once planted a small offering to a loved one. The gate was open, so we followed a curving path. The wet had turned the gravel into a tan slurry. Stepping into a water-filled rut, I wished I’d worn boots instead of Converse.

  “You didn’t bring the dragon,” Devon noted, coming up alongside me. He was a little less disheveled than he had been this morning. He’d changed into a clean white T-shirt and a brown bomber jacket. He had dark sunglasses over his eyes. With the shades, he almost looked the part of vampire.

  “Why would I need him when I have such a strong, capable vampire-werewolf like yourself?”

  Devon grimaced at my over-the-top fake flirt. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t really exist.”

  “Oh, he does,” Jack piped up from behind us, sounding a little morose about the fact.

  I was about to ask him what he meant by that tone, when a loud caw came from the clump of trees ahead. Several magpies zoomed toward us, zipping this way and that, clearly agitated.

  Jack started to run toward where they circled. “I sent Sarah Jane ahead. The Outlaws must have found Stone!”

  Devon could move faster than the rest of us. I was just beginning to trot when I heard him say, “Oh shit.”

  We came into the clearing a moment later. Devon knelt beside a pile of dirt. I thought, at first, we’d found an open grave. My eyes slowly made sense of what I saw. A muddy hand, an arm stretched out imploringly toward something it couldn’t quite reach, attached to a body not made of flesh and bone, but dust, clay, and dirt. It was the hair I recognized: a tangle of ungainly dry brush. Wild and messy, I wanted to fix it for her.

  It was Stone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Devon’s hands shook as he reached out to touch the mound of dirt’s shoulder. “Someone did it,” he said softly. “They finally did it. They erased your letters. Fuck.”

  Jack suddenly gripped my arm, pulling me back from the mud-body. A bird screeched in fear. “The zombie couldn’t have done that. Not even accidentally.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need magic,” Jack said.

  I heard the snaps of holsters opening. Peterson and Hanson pulled their guns and began scanning the area. Jack gripped my elbow tightly, as we frantically searched for the culprit among the marble obelisks and eroded, listing limestone markers.

  A mausoleum’s door hung open, crooked on broken hinges, its lock shattered. I pointed it out to Jack. We crept forward. Noticing our movement, the two officers flanked us, training their weapons on the opening.

  My snake tattoo constricted. That was all the warning we got before a magical pulse knocked us off our feet. It felt like a slap of a giant hand. My butt landed in the squishy grass and the cold shock dazed me.

  A figure emerged from the vault.

  Leaving the morgue had not improved the necro
mancer. He was naked, except for the torn and filthy Tweety Bird pajama bottoms, which he’d wrapped like a loincloth around his privates. His chest cavity had been sewn closed with clumsy, wide stitches. The tattoos met unevenly now, like two sections of badly aligned wrapping paper. Stringy, dingy blond hair clumped around an ashen face. Eyes were dark pits, empty and hollow.

  The zombie had looked more alive.

  Shots rang out as Hanson emptied a clip into him. The necromancer staggered. I could see flesh tear as bullets exited, but there was no blood spatter. A rigor mortis grin jerked onto his face, as he righted himself. The voice that came from his mouth was not generated by functioning vocal cords. It sounded like the garbled static you hear as you dial past radio stations. The words were unintelligible, but the effect was immediate.

  A howling wind slammed us down. The impact forced the air from my lungs. Pressure pushed against my chest, sinking my back deep into the spongy grass. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I choked.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed movement. Devon flew at the necromancer, tackling him. The moment the necromancer’s skull cracked into the marble of the crypt’s wall, I was able to suck in a huge gasp of breath. Jack and the cops did the same.

  The fight was not over, however. Though it looked like Devon slammed a limp, unresponsive body repeatedly against the stone structure, I could feel a deeper, magical battle. Dark clouds gathered and wind swirled in every direction. A moan alerted me to the approach of the zombie.

  He’d brought friends.

  At least a half dozen slow-moving but tenacious zombies shuffled toward us from every direction. Devon might be strong, but he could never keep that many zombies at bay. Not if we had any hope of keeping the necromancer from being able to focus his magic again.

  Jack clasped my hand. He knelt in the grass and helped me sit up. “We’ve got to do something,” he croaked.

  But I didn’t know what. I knew that swearing made my magic come, but I had no idea how to direct it at someone or something. Even so, I tried an experimental, “Shit.”

  Nothing.

  Hanson reloaded. From a pouch on his utility belt he pulled a handful of glittering bullets. Silver? I looked at Devon and the necromancer. They were a tangle of arms and legs. Would silver stop zombies? Would it hurt Devon, too? I hoped to hell that Hanson was a crack shot.

  His partner, Peterson, meanwhile, took the direct approach. He pulled his nightstick from his belt and went in swinging. His stick cracked against fragile bone and sinew.

  The magpies seemed to approve of Peterson’s strategy. With a triumphant caw, they dived and swirled, picking at zombies, pulling hair and plucking at eyes.

  Still holding my hand, Jack closed his eyes. “We can try to use our power together,” he suggested. “Clear your mind.”

  How was I supposed to do that with all this chaos? But I tried. Remembering how it had felt in the necromancer’s apartment when I’d seen the words on the trapdoor, I let my eyes unfocus.

  I felt nothing.

  To be perfectly accurate, I did feel the water seeping through the fabric at the knees of my jeans. I also had a strong sensation of the wind whistling past my ears, and the horrific sounds of the battle raging all around me.

  I couldn’t even sense Jack’s power shifty-thing.

  We were doomed. “Ah, hell,” I whispered, completely dejectedly.

  That, apparently, was the right thing to say.

  Sort of.

  A pulse of light, like a shock wave, blasted from where I sat. It moved outward in an expanding circle. Unfortunately, like a bomb, it knocked down everything in its path. Jack was thrown off his feet, along with the cops and the zombies. When the negative air pressure rushed back toward me, even the magpies fell out of the air.

  With a surprised and horrified glance in my direction, the strength drained from Devon and he faltered, crumpling. He clutched desperately at the necromancer and consciousness before collapsing in a heap.

  The only people left standing were me and the necromancer.

  Oops.

  When the necromancer turned his deadened eyes toward me, I started swearing up a blue streak. I used every word that my father had told me ladies never uttered in polite company. I tried out adjectives I’d only heard on the Comedy Channel and combinations of verbs that I knew for certain were simply not physically possible.

  Why wasn’t it working?

  The necromancer continued to advance. I screamed obscenities into that death grin. I scrambled to my feet, but not before his hand closed around my wrist. His grip was like a vise.

  I heard a strange rattling hiss. Like the last time the necromancer cast a spell, it seemed to come from some otherworldly place. I braced myself, expecting another blast of magic. Instead, I felt the tattoo under my skin squirm and stretch.

  As the necromancer dragged me toward the open mausoleum door, the snake’s head pulled itself from the flesh of the back of my hand. I could see it slowly taking on dimensions, the black scales filling and expanding.

  The necromancer never noticed it until it reared back and sunk its fangs deep into his forearm.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The noise that shook the trees sounded like the universe unraveling. My arm felt as though someone had shoved a hot poker under my skin all the way up to my shoulder. I added my feeble scream to the din.

  In front of my eyes, the necromancer…dissolved. Like an old film melting in a projector, holes of light dotted his body and began to grow. Soon, there was nothing left. The bright, hot white light faded. My arm felt scorched; it hung uselessly at my side.

  I dropped to my knees. Then I let myself fall the rest of the way to the ground. Exhausted, I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again, Valentine smiled down at me, his head cocked to the side like a curious dog. “You need to start inviting me to these little parties of yours,” he said drolly, as he helped me to my feet. “I’m getting tired of arriving late.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Sorry.” I carefully removed my coat to examine my arm. It was numb, though the sensation of pins and needles slowly returned to my fingertips as I massaged them. The tattoo remained, resettled into its usual position. There was a red-gold sheen along the curve of its body, as if it were still burning slightly.

  Hanging on to Valentine’s shoulder, I watched as Jack and the others were similarly helped upright by a troop of officers and paramedics. A group of the latter clustered around Devon, who cupped his eye as though it were injured.

  I overheard someone tell him, “The loss of vision in that eye is likely temporary.”

  Christ, I’d blinded the vampire.

  “I need to figure out how to control my magic,” I told Valentine.

  “Obviously,” he drawled.

  “Is everyone okay?” Before he could even reply, the image of the pile of mud and twigs came rushing into my mind. “Oh! What about Stone? Is she…Can they fix her?”

  “Probably,” Valentine said casually. “At least, it’s possible if they call the right person. The question is, will they?”

  “What? Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Your fairy princeling seems to think it’s unethical.”

  My anger gave me the strength to pull away from the shelter of Valentine’s arm. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Careful,” he said with a tease in his voice. “Watch your language. You don’t want to blow the place up again.”

  “Oh, we’ll see about that,” I fumed.

  My anger only spiked when I found Jones crouched next to Stone’s remains. His head was bowed and his hat was against his chest, as if in respect. Bile rose in my throat. “Jones, you piece of…”

  Valentine’s hand clapped on my shoulder, cutting me off. “Seriously”—this time there was real warning in his tone—“be careful. We don’t need a war with fairy over his untimely demise, as satisfying as that might be.”

  “His mom doesn’t even like him.” My eyes fixed on a spot on t
he back of Jones’s uniform. If I could control my magic, I’d be burning a hole right through his heartless chest.

  Valentine’s voice sought to soothe, calm. “Regardless, the good folk are capricious in their affections; Maeve might hate him today, but still choose to avenge his death with a mother’s fury.”

  I didn’t want to talk about reasons to spare Jones’s life. I stood over him, careful not to disturb a single rock in Stone’s pile. My hands balled into fists at my hips. “What is wrong with you?” I demanded. “She was your friend. Wasn’t she? At the least she was your partner.”

  “She died in the line of duty,” he said. His voice was scratchy with emotion. “It’s an honorable death.”

  “Bull—” At the harsh intake of Valentine’s breath, I stopped myself. “That’s just a copout. You don’t want her reanimated because she’s unnatural.”

  He didn’t deny it. Instead, he stood up to look me in the eye. I could see wetness at the edges, but his expression was tightly controlled. “She was an exemplary police officer. She deserves an honorable end to her career.”

  “If her career is so awesome, why end it at all?”

  Jack and Peterson joined us by Stone’s body. Devon, led by Hanson, made his way into the grove as well. Everyone watched Jones.

  “I don’t want to,” he said. He scrubbed his face and his shoulders slumped. “But she’s rogue.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Jack answered, “When her maker died, she was supposed to die as well. Traditionally, golems don’t have souls. They’re made for a purpose, and when that job is over…” He shrugged, not looking at the dirt at our feet.

  “She obviously had a soul,” I said.

  Devon surprised me by adding, “And a purpose.”

  When I turned to regard him, I could see the damage my magical blast had done to his eye. The iris had whitened and the pupil had shrunk to a tiny pinprick.