by Becca Andre
“I do know that, and if you weren’t so damn proud, you’d admit it.”
“So you betrayed me.”
“I did not! I lied to you about who Ian really was. That’s it. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew how you would react. I wouldn’t have been able to make things right. The bullets, the salve…you.”
“Me?”
“Your gift is killing you.” That wasn’t what I’d meant when I said you, but I didn’t have the nerve to admit it. “I’m the only one who can save you.”
“And I’m proud?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t, but my pride is warranted.”
He shook his head and looked away. “You’re not going to make me smile.”
“That’s fine. All I want to do is make you listen.”
“People were murdered.”
“Yes. But I didn’t kill them. Actually, Ian didn’t either.”
“You’re being delusional.”
“Neil did it. He took advantage of a broken man.”
Rowan finally looked at me. “You care about Ian.”
“I promised to help him find his daughter. I keep my promises.”
“Because of the blood oath.”
“Because it’s the right damn thing to do!”
“Your compassion is going to get you in trouble.”
“Well, excuse me for caring. At least I don’t lock myself in an unfeeling sheath of control.” I regretted the words the moment I spoke them, especially when he looked away.
“I’m sorry.” I raked my hands through my hair. “God, that’s all this will ever be: me endlessly apologizing to you. I am delusional,” I finished in a mutter and turned away. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Addie, wait.”
I stopped, though I didn’t turn.
“Compassion is an admirable quality, when applied with reason.”
I stood still, absorbing his words. Was he apologizing? “Self-control is just as admirable.” I faced him. “But it’s also okay to feel.”
“For some.” He looked away, but I still caught the glance he gave the headstones.
I couldn’t stand to see him hurting, but I didn’t know what to say to make it right. Without thinking, I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his waist, my cheek to his chest. Heart in my throat, I waited.
He hesitated and my breath caught. Would he push me away? Tell me to go?
His arms came around me, his hug as tight as my own. I squeezed my eyes closed.
“You pity me,” he whispered. “I knew you would, when you found out.”
“I…care about you.” Care wasn’t the word I wanted. But I’d put enough on the line when I hugged him. I wasn’t ready to go any further. “Dumbass.”
He snorted. “Your terms of endearment could use some work.”
“Don’t start, Hot Stuff.”
His hug tightened, and for one blissful moment, I simply held on.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. Again.
“I forgive you,” he whispered.
“For Ian?”
“For everything. You don’t have to apologize anymore.”
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized just how heavy that weight had been on my soul. I pressed my forehead against his collarbone.
“Are you crying?” he asked after a moment.
“I’m stronger than that,” I said into his shirt.
He cleared his throat.
“Are white lies still acceptable?” I asked.
“Define white lies.”
I leaned back and looked up into his eyes. A slim band of orange encircled his pupils and I wondered what emotion the fire rode. The curve of his lips indicated that it wasn’t a bad one.
“You know,” I said, “like if I accidentally scuffed the Camaro and blamed it on highway debris.”
He glanced over at his car. “Have you hurt my baby?”
“Goodness, no. It was hypothetical. Bad example.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “What if Cora buys this ugly dress, then asks me if I like it?”
He snorted. “White lies are permitted in the interest of self-preservation.”
“Good.” I returned my cheek to his chest, and he wrapped me in his arms. Closing my eyes, I listened to his heart beat beneath my ear. The December wind whispered through my hair, but I was no longer cold.
Ian opened the cooler and held the door, allowing me to shine my flashlight inside. I knew the Nelson Funeral Parlor contained mortuary drawers—I’d seen them—but peeking in a necromancer’s cooler was always an iffy thing.
“Show me,” Ian said, an edge to his voice. It had been a struggle to get him to wait, but the parlor had held visitations every night this week, and I didn’t want to chance upon someone working late—even if it was unlikely at one in the morning. I’d also wanted to wait to make sure there’d been no repercussions like extra security after Neil’s funeral home had been destroyed. Unfortunately, his body hadn’t been discovered in the ashes.
I walked into the cooler, trying not to think about the last time I’d been in one of these. I hadn’t forgotten though. That’s why I had a folding, multipurpose tool in my coat pocket—along with a selection of vials hidden on my person. Better safe than—
The door snapped closed behind me and I whirled with a gasp.
“What?” Ian asked. “It wasn’t that loud.”
“You just locked us in here.” There was no interior latch here, either.
“You’re with me.” He smiled.
“That hasn’t worked out very well for me in the past.”
His expression turned serious. “I’ve given you my word. No harm will come to you that I can prevent.”
I decided not to call him on the value of his word, but that didn’t mean I trusted him—hence the multipurpose tool in my pocket. Maintaining my silence, I turned back to examine the shelves. I found the clay urns where I had seen them before. I’d been right. The “M” engraved on the side was an exact match to the one on his cufflinks.
Ian didn’t speak. He stepped into the beam of light and laid his hand on the jar on the right. “Mine,” he whispered, then moved his hand to the other jar.
I held my breath, watching his expression.
He fisted his hand and turned away.
“Ian?”
“It’s empty.”
“You’re sure?”
“Check for yourself.”
I eyed the jar. It had pleased me that the jars were opaque. I didn’t want to look inside.
“Hades’ blood.” Ian pulled the jar from the shelf. Removing the lid, he turned the jar upside down.
I tensed, half expecting a desiccated organ to drop at my feet. Nothing fell out. He turned the jar toward me and I shined the light inside. Empty.
“Does this mean she was never Made?” I asked as he returned the jar to the shelf.
He braced his hands on the shelf and bowed his head. “Foolish.”
I was about to take exception when he continued.
“He’d put her in one of his own jars.”
“Right. He married her.”
Ian sighed.
“Well, at least take yours.” The Final Formula had regenerated Ian’s heart, but even he was unsure about what power remained in the original organ. And that was just his necromantic concerns. I could think of several alchemical applications. “I’ll check the shelves.”
“He wouldn’t keep his own here. It’s not secure enough.” He picked up the jar and removed the lid.
I averted my eyes. “I’ll still check.” Turning my back, I swept my flashlight over the shelves.
“If you’re going to do necromancy, you need to get pa
st this squeamishness.”
“I don’t want to be a necromancer. I just want to stop the bad ones.”
“Mmm.” He shook out the freezer bag he’d brought. We didn’t want to take the jars since Xander might notice their absence.
Had I offended him? I didn’t glance over to check his expression, but continued my inspection. There weren’t a lot of items on the shelves: a few boxes—I wasn’t about to look inside—and a couple of bottles of chemicals that required refrigeration. There were other jars. Some looked as old as Ian’s while others were the more familiar Mason jars. The newer jars even had labels. Labels with names. I was pleased to see that most had yellowed with age, but two looked new.
I stopped and shone my light on the first jar. Dennis Everman. I’d never heard of him. Hopefully, the poor guy was no longer a necro’s slave.
I moved my flashlight to the next, illuminating the label. Megan Fields.
“Oh my God.”
“Addie?”
“It’s that reporter.” Now I understood the about-face on the bullets. Xander had taken matters into his own hands. He’d made her a lich. Damn it, Rowan. Why wouldn’t you listen to me?
“Huh,” Ian said.
I turned, catching his face in the beam of my flashlight. “You don’t look surprised.”
“In my day, if a powerful necromancer didn’t rule, he still controlled those with influence—for a limited time.”
“Liches rot.” I eyed my undead companion.
“Then. Now you can give them the Final Formula.”
The fine hairs along my arms stood. Ian had once told me that when he lived, creating a lich was a relatively simple matter. He didn’t even need to take the heart.
“You once claimed that Neil is as powerful as you. How do you know?”
“I’ve tasted his blood.”
My own blood ran cold. “He blood bound you.”
“He did more than that.”
I looked up. “He soul bound you?” When Neil died, so would Ian—permanently.
Ian sighed. “I pulled him from flames, too.”
That didn’t please me, but I couldn’t fault Ian for it. “What did you do with him?”
“He was burned. I left him on his uncle’s doorstep.”
I grimaced. “His uncle doesn’t think much of him.”
“I know the family, if not the man. He won’t allow a power like that to perish. If nothing else, he will see the potential in Neil’s future offspring.”
“Once he gets the ingredients, Neil will be capable of brewing the Final Formula.” With its regenerative powers, the Formula would repair whatever was wrong with Neil’s magic. “He’ll become a necromancer of your caliber. And with the Formula, the liches he creates won’t rot. They can remain in society, under his control.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
“Work?”
“I believe we have a necromantic family to take down…and a daughter to find.” I met Ian’s bright blue eyes. “I’ve got a few potions to try.”
“Blood alchemy?”
I arched a brow. “You ready for an all-nighter?”
Ian’s cheeks dimpled. “Yes, Mistress.”
Acknowledgements
Once again, allow me to take a moment to acknowledge all the wonderful people who helped me get another book out into the world. I’d to thank:
My critique partners: Kendra Highley, Lindsay Buroker, and Kelly Crawley. Thanks for plowing through another rough draft and helping me make it better.
My beta readers: Scott Andre, Maria McConnaughy, and Cindy Wilkinson. Thanks for getting your comments back so quickly.
My editor, Shelley Holloway, who teaches me something new each time.
Glendon Haddix and the team at Streetlight Graphics for the cover art and formatting.
And you, kind reader, for giving my stories a try. I really appreciate the reviews, comments, and emails. Thank you!
About the Author
Becca Andre lives in southern Ohio with her husband, two children, and an elderly Jack Russell Terrier. A love of science and math (yes, she’s weird like that), led to a career as a chemist where she blows things up far more infrequently than you’d expect. Other interests include: chocolate, hard rock, and slaying things on the Xbox. She also finds writing about herself in third person a bit strange.
For more on the world of the Final Formula, upcoming releases, and random ramblings, stop by www.beccaandre.com
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