Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1)

by Kerry Blaisdell

  Every now and then, I looked up to find Jason watching intently. At first, he seemed surprised, but as the meal progressed, so did his expression, moving from concern to a full-blown frown. By the time we got to the fourth course—the owner’d really outdone himself—I’d had it.

  I threw down my fork. “What? Is there sauce on my face? Why are you staring at me?”

  He lifted his hands defensively. “Nothing. No biggie. I’ve just never seen you eat meat.”

  “What?”

  I looked at my plate. It was true. Lost in the amazing tastes, and the feeling of finally getting the food I needed—the right food—I hadn’t paid attention to what I ate. The evidence lay before me, in the bits and pieces I hadn’t gotten to yet. I saw steak, and sausage, and—bacon. I hadn’t eaten bacon in fifteen years. And yet, looking at the scraps, I wanted more. My body craved it with a ferocity I couldn’t control.

  God help me but I wanted to lick my plate.

  I shoved my chair back and ran out to the sidewalk, then stopped, drawing in deep breaths of the cool morning air. I stared at the street and the ocean beyond. I’d been so focused on checking in with Geordi and Eric, I hadn’t checked on myself.

  Since smacking back into my body, I’d been really pushing myself. I’m not exactly “driven”—that’s more Lily’s style. But when I have a goal, I stick to it. I’d done one or two quick check-ins amid the chaos, but now I did a thorough self-examination.

  My wound really did feel totally healed. There was no pain, no shortness of breath or signs of weakness like I’d noted in Eric. In fact, I had none of the outward symptoms of rebirth that Michael had warned me about. But on the inside—on a much deeper level than even my wounds went—I realized I’d been feeling weak. Disoriented. Not fully alive. If I’d thought about it, I’d put it down to not being alive.

  With my stomach now full, of meat, I did feel alive. Totally, completely, one hundred percent. The obvious conclusion was that, in order to recover from death, I needed meat. Red meat. In all its cholesterol-rich, animal-protein-and-iron gory glory. As a vegetarian, I’m careful to eat iron-rich plant foods, and take supplements. But I gravitate more toward dairy. A great source of protein, but the calcium interferes with iron absorption.

  In a well-duh moment, I realized if I was going to regenerate a dead body into a live one, it made sense I’d need iron for new blood, to replace all I’d lost. And animal protein had to be better at repairing tissue and bone than legumes. I may not eat meat, but I do recognize that humans evolved on that model.

  Damn Michael and his “side effects.” I ignored the fact that I’d badgered him into sending me back. Much easier to get pissed that he hadn’t known I’d be a magnet for dead folks, and would need the very food I loathed, to keep myself going.

  I turned around to find Jason and Geordi watching me worriedly from the table. It must have taken a lot for Jason not to run out after me, and I was grateful he’d stayed with Geordi. I took a deep breath and returned to my seat.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I guess all the stress just got to me.”

  “Okay,” Jason said, but I’m not sure he or Geordi believed me.

  ****

  A short while later we paid the bill—thank God for the euro—and left the café. Breakfast was like a mini-vacation, but now I had to face reality. Unfortunately, my reality involved hunting demons and snatching their new best toy out of their very own sandbox. All while a giant clock ticked over my head, counting the seconds until I had to abandon Geordi.

  Jason must have seen something in my face because as we started down the road, he pointed to a small street on the right. “I think if we cut over here, we’ll save about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully, and Geordi perked up when he realized he’d get to see more of the island.

  We turned onto the street, but after a block, the pavement petered out, T-ing into a dirt track running roughly east-west. To the right, it went another hundred and fifty meters or so, before ending in a clump of low, leafy trees. To the left, it edged an expanse of rich brown soil, also dotted with trees, then curved south, hugging a high brick wall. Behind this appeared to be the backyards of the residences we had passed on our way in to the town, and at the track’s end, I could see a narrow swathe of the main drag leading back to the harbor.

  Jason and I turned toward it, when Geordi cried out, “Look, Tata!”

  I faced the direction he pointed but didn’t see anything worthy of a seven-year-old’s interest, unless it was the potential for bugs in the trees. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “There—next to that church! Can we go look? Can we?”

  I squinted, but beyond a misshapen pile of pale yellow boulders near the largest clump of trees, I hadn’t the faintest clue what he meant. “What church? What are you talking about?”

  “In the cave—the stones are the church, and there’s a cave. Jason told me about the caves on Malta. Didn’t you Jason?” Without waiting for an answer, he tugged my hand. “Some of them go on and on forever, and no one’s ever found the end. Let’s go—can we? Please?”

  Of course I’d encountered standing stones throughout my travels. Generally, they marked the entrances to caves or tombs, or sometimes, they served as religious structures. Had Jason told Geordi anything like that? Was that why he called them a church?

  Though the sun was at our backs, I felt heat rolling toward us, as though it reflected off the boulders. It must be later than I’d thought. A movement caught my eye, and a man appeared from behind the largest boulder, moving toward the track. He wore work clothes, heavy boots, and a dark knit cap, pulled low. Probably the farmer who owned the field to the left, or perhaps someone who lived in the houses nearby.

  Except… Suddenly he bent low, pawing through the grass in front of the stones, looking for all the world like a giant furry caterpillar, hunched over and hunting for something on the ground. Maybe it was the skull cap. It looked wildly out of place in the sub-Saharan heat.

  “I think that’s private property,” I said uneasily. “We can’t just explore someone’s farm.”

  “No,” Geordi said. He widened his stance and planted his feet on the ground, and I recognized the stubborn set his jaw got when he was about to mutiny. “It’s a church, not a farm.”

  “Sweetie, there’s no church there. There’s not even a building.”

  “Jason said we could explore! Didn’t you, Jason? You promised!”

  Jason looked at me, then ruffled Geordi’s hair. “Not today, kiddo. Maybe we’ll come back when your aunt’s finished her, er, job.”

  “NO—I want to go now!”

  He darted up the track, but Jason caught him and held tight, ignoring Geordi’s flailing limbs. It was a good thing he’d come along, because I doubted I was strong enough to restrain a really determined seven-year-old.

  I glanced at the man by the stones, and found he’d caught sight of us. He still squatted, but now with a spiderlike stillness, very predatory, and a cold chill pricked my skin.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  I walked quickly away, and Jason fell into step behind me, Geordi still windmilling in all directions, despite Jason’s iron grip around his midsection.

  “What is it?” Jason asked between huffs.

  “Nothing. I…just got a creepy feeling.”

  I looked back. The man had risen and moved further up the track, studying us intently. Even over this distance, I knew his gaze was unblinking, recording everything about us. Maybe we were just trespassing. Or maybe I should have listened to my instincts back when they said get the hell away from the Rousseaux. Fool me once, and all that. I quickened my pace, and Jason somehow managed to keep up, even lugging Geordi.

  “Hyacinth, it’s just a farmer.” Nevertheless, he cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder, then tightened his hold on my nephew.

  “Uh-huh.” From behind us, I felt…something…a disturbance, like the breeze, only it crackled as it came closer.
The air shimmered, and heat burned, as if we were on the plains of Africa. My skin crawled, and I started to run as fast as I could for the busy street ahead.

  “Hyacinth—wait!”

  I ignored Jason, and though I heard him blow out an exasperated breath, I also heard his sneakers on the rocky dirt, picking up the pace. My heart pounded—his had to be about ready to explode. The heat wavered around us—I could actually see it now, shiny and bright and deadly. It felt like the heat that had rolled off Claude, which scared the crap out of me.

  We’d almost reached the corner—somehow, I knew we had to get around it, out of sight of the man—

  I heard a thump! followed by the sound of gravel skittering. “Hyacinth!”

  I skidded and looked back—oh God—Jason had tripped, landing on Geordi, clouds of dust kicked up around them. He started to lift himself up, then glanced over his shoulder at the farmer, who didn’t seem to have moved. Without knowing why, I opened my mouth to scream, to tell them to run! But I was paralyzed—my lungs seared by hot smoke—I couldn’t make a sound. I stood rooted to the spot, watching in horror as the roiling air raced forward.

  NO!

  As though the thought forced them down, Jason curled back over Geordi. There was so much dust—I couldn’t see—it looked like he was shielding Geordi with his body.

  I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly I had a vision of a cold clear wall surrounding them. Instinctively, I concentrated, thinking it stronger. If I’d had time, I would have felt foolish, like a kid using “the Force” on a heavy object. But I didn’t have time to think, only to do—the energy crackled faster, closing in on the two people I cared most about. I zeroed in on them, picturing the wall, feeling its strength, protecting them with everything I had.

  And then the energy hit them. I registered something like a sonic boom! and the shimmer, the heat, the crackle, everything exploded into a million shiny shards of light, the force hitting me in the face and knocking me flat. I coughed and gagged, clouds of dust swarming over me like millions of minuscule bugs. I pushed up, staring hard down the track. As the dust dissipated Jason and Geordi sat up, coughing, but looking none the worse for wear, and my heart started beating again.

  Thank God.

  I looked farther along, to where I’d last seen the man standing. He was gone. There was absolutely no sign of him. Which should have been a relief, except that I didn’t know where he’d gone, or if he’d come back, or even who—what—he was.

  Had I killed him? Or imagined the whole thing?

  Was he a demon? In league with the Rousseaux, or working on his own? Had he known something about me specifically, or was he picking up on my “radar”?

  And if I had killed him, how had I done it? That’s certainly not what I was going for, demon or not. I looked at my hands, my arms, my body. Where had that clear wall come from? I hadn’t consciously created it, and yet, I’d seen it, known I could manipulate it. But I didn’t know how I’d manipulated it.

  Which made me more than a little scared…of myself.

  What the hell had I done?

  Chapter Eleven

  “If this is dying, I don’t think much of it.”

  ~Lytton Strachey (1880-1932)

  We made record time back to the boat. Lucky for me, Jason and Geordi apparently didn’t feel the energy field or whatever it was, or the bubble wall that deflected it. When Jason quit coughing from all the dust, he stood and offered Geordi a hand. He did look once more to where the farmer had been, but his back was to me, and I couldn’t tell if he thought anything unusual had happened or if it was just curiosity.

  Meanwhile, Geordi’d given up on the tantrum. I guess being hauled kicking and screaming down the track, then landing hard on the gravel with six and a half feet of Jason squashing him, was enough excitement for one morning. He accepted Jason’s help up but walked the rest of the way under his own steam.

  I had a hard time not running. I kept looking over my shoulder, and when we hit the main drag, every person we passed, and every honking car made me jump. Jason shot me some odd looks, but mercifully didn’t say anything. Probably because he didn’t want to worry Geordi.

  As it was, I speed-walked. Jason had no trouble keeping up, but Geordi’s short legs meant he had to jog. When I got to the pier, and it was obvious no one—or no thing—was in hot pursuit, I relaxed somewhat. I still had no clue what exactly I’d done back there, but I wasn’t about to look a gift like that in the mouth.

  Jason gave Geordi a push up the gangplank, watching until he was safely on the boat. Then he leaned against a nearby joist, breathing hard. “Jesus, Hyacinth. What’s the rush?”

  His tone was casual, but I detected an edge to it, like something about the incident upset him. Probably me and my crazy-ass flight from a harmless farmer.

  But I can be casual, too, when it’s called for. “We need to get going.”

  He pressed his lips together, then drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Hyacinth. We have all day to get to Turkey, and we still need supplies. What was that about? Would another thirty minutes have made that much difference?”

  Crap. I’d forgotten about the supplies. I scanned the dock, then the marina beyond. More and more people filled the sidewalks, some looking like tourists, others like natives, and not one of them wearing a t-shirt proclaiming, I’m a Demon!

  I turned back to Jason. “I don’t know. It might.”

  His jaw clenched. I could almost see his temple throb. “Going to tell me why?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  He opened his mouth. Clamped it shut. Ground out, “Fine. But I still need to refuel. There’s a pump on the dock. I’ll drive the boat over, and we can leave when I’m done.” He pointed to a service building at the end of the marina. “There’s a convenience store in there. We at least need bottled water and snacks.” His gaze travelled over my body. “Get yourself some meat.” Then he turned and stomped toward the boat.

  I hurried over to the store and bought over-priced supplies, including some pepperoni sticks. I told myself they were for Geordi, but even I didn’t believe me. When I came back, Jason was still refueling, but I noticed Eric sitting on the end of the dock, propped against a low rail.

  His back was to me, gaze focused out to sea. He still looked pretty bad, but on dry land, at least he wasn’t as green. If he could float above the deck, it might solve the whole motion-of-the-ocean problem, but apparently, it didn’t work that way.

  Maybe Michael would know what was wrong, or at least, why Eric was still here. But if I told him, what would he do?

  In the first place, he’d discover my newfound affinity for dead folks. If I knew one thing for sure it was that Michael had his own agenda. Maybe my “talent” wouldn’t interest him, or maybe it would. Until I knew more, I didn’t want to advertise it.

  The second outcome of telling Michael was that, probably, he’d whisk Eric off to wherever he was supposed to be, and that would be the end of it. I’d never see him again, unless we crossed paths after my own death became official. Right now, I couldn’t honestly say I was ready to give him up. That may sound selfish, but I’d never been half-dead before. Having a friend on the Other Side was something I clung to as I tried to carve my way through my new, freakish existence. But if Michael could help Eric—could somehow heal him and make him whole again—did I have the right to seal his fate without at least asking what he wanted?

  With a sigh aimed at my own dratted conscience, I moved to the pier next to him and sat on the edge, dangling my feet over the side. “How are you feeling?”

  He didn’t seem surprised by my presence, and I wondered if he knew I was there all along. “Bon. The mal de mer is better, although it may return when we are back on the boat.”

  “Good. And your wound?”

  His lips thinned. “The same. It is nothing. Do not concern yourself.”

  “Obviously, that’s not going to happen.”

  He held his torn shirt tightly
closed. “If you are thinking to check it again, do not bother. It is just as bad, and there is just as little that you can do.”

  “Maybe I can’t help. But…I might know someone who can.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Who? Your friend over there?” With a slight jerk of his head he indicated the refueling station, where Jason was replacing the nozzle in the pump.

  I glared at Eric, momentarily forgetting my noble purpose. “There you go again! Why do you keep referring to Jason like he’s some kind of criminal? He’s not.” I paused. Eric was a cop, after all. “Is he…?”

  Eric glanced at Jason, then pursed his lips. “Ne te fâche pas. I have no knowledge, personal or professional, that your friend is guilty of wrongdoing. But that does not mean he is not guilty, of something.” He frowned, considering. “I do not know why, but I feel as though I have seen him before.”

  “Maybe he looks like someone you know. Don’t cops meet tons of people all over the place? They must all run together in your mind.”

  “Perhaps.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he let it drop.

  I cleared my throat. “What I started to tell you was that I have a…connection, of sorts, who might know something about your wound, or why you’re still here.”

  He studied my face, and I felt heat creeping up my throat to my cheeks. “Eh bien. This is not a new acquaintance. Why have you not spoken of this before?”

  “I don’t really know if he can help.” I broke from Eric’s intent gaze and looked at my shorts, fiddling with the hem. “The thing is, he might…take you away…if I tell him about you.”