Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things (Dead Things Series Book 1)

by Martina McAtee

  She was relieved to find Romero still alive and curled up with Neoma on the sofa in the atrium. She took a long shower, changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt and grabbed her sketchbook. She skipped the kitchen, heading out the French doors of the atrium to the covered courtyard on the side of the house. Romero watched her with his one sad eye. He heaved a sigh hopping from the sofa and limping along behind her.

  The courtyard was her favorite part of the house. There were big comfortable chairs and a loveseat, even a fire pit. The shape of the house kept it hidden from the street. Gardenia and night blooming jasmine overwhelmed the trellis enclosing the space in a pocket of huge flowers and dizzying fragrance. Tiny white twinkle lights surrounded the perimeter and a white chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  Normally, she wouldn’t touch the overhead light; it drew nothing but moths and mosquitos. Not tonight though, tonight was perfect. The gentle breeze made the temperature tolerable and the rustling leaves provided a sort of white noise she found soothing.

  Romero flopped himself down with another longsuffering sigh. She curled up on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her, the soft light making shadows jump around her. She smiled to herself. She was getting used to it, living here, in this space with all these people.

  There was always somebody home, somebody talking, people yelling, somebody watching television. Somebody, usually Isa, was always cooking. Even on nights when the wolves would run, Kai and Quinn would commandeer the living room for movie night or video games. They would pop popcorn and order pizza. Neoma would sing. When the run was over, Donovan would barrel through the door and jump on the sofa between Quinn and Kai snatching the controller and stuffing two slices in his mouth at the same time.

  People lived there, interacted with each other, talked to each other, fought with each other. She didn’t think she’d adapt so quickly. It scared her in a way she’d never had to think about before; the fear of having something to lose. Thinking about it made her feel shaky, like it drew her magic to the surface, so she tried not to think about it, tried not to get too used to it. She embraced the quiet moments, just to prove she could still be alone if she had to. It never paid to rely on anybody.

  She opened her sketchbook to find a blank page but froze at the first image. It was a little girl in a pinafore and a bonnet. She’d drawn the picture months ago, talking to the imaginary girl as she drew. She’d felt stupid the first time she’d done it, talking to the grave, pretending they answered back, but her drawing came out with so much more detail, she couldn’t see the harm. She chalked it up to artistic process.

  Now, she traced the lines of the girl’s face wondering how much of that really was her imagination, not wanting to acknowledge the enormity of the answer. Now that she knew what she was…what she could do…it made her throat feel tight. Her mind pulled up images she didn’t want to consider. What would this little girl be if she called to her, pulled her body from the ground like the others? Would there be anything left. Would it even matter? How far past the veil, did her reach extend?

  She shook her head at the thought. She hadn’t had her powers then. She barely had them now. It seemed a small consolation, considering how many bodies she’d brought back only to be slaughtered a second time. This power made no sense. It seemed vicious and cruel. She sighed; she came out here to not think about this stuff.

  She smiled at Romero, “You are going to be immortalized today.”

  He was unimpressed by the news. She started sketching the dog, eyes darting from him to the page as she crooned at him, telling him he was a good boy. She swallowed the lump of sadness that seemed to stick in her throat. Was pulling him back mean? She looked at his paw. Was somebody else suffering because of her?

  She heard Mace before she saw him, his heavy booted steps clunking along the porch. A full body shiver rolled along her skin like somebody walked over a grave, her magic acknowledging his. He didn’t make his presence known so she pretended she didn’t see him, continuing her masterpiece.

  He finally said, “You sure that’s a good idea? Perhaps we should ban you from drawing for a bit. I really don’t want to stab anybody in the head tonight.”

  She grimaced, “Relax, lurker, can’t resurrect what’s already resurrected.” She flipped the sketch so he could see Romero’s face before turning it back to herself and picking up where she left off.

  “You really shouldn’t draw in this light. You’ll go blind.”

  “I don’t even need the light. I could do this blind.”

  He grinned at her cocky reply but she wasn’t lying. She looked at the dog out of habit, one she’d perfected to appease random art teachers.

  “What’s got you up so late, Beautiful?” he asked.

  Her pulse fluttered under the casual compliment but she snorted. He was beautiful; beautiful and evil, she reminded herself. He ate people, deprived them of moving on, crossing over, being reborn.

  He gestured, asking to sit; she shrugged, swallowing hard as he jostled her around to fit himself into the small space directly beside her instead of one of the available chairs. Her magic jumped, she knew he felt it too. His cheek twitched, he pressed himself closer. She huffed in frustration. If her power desperately wanting to merge with his wasn’t proof her magic was an abomination she didn’t know what was.

  “So, just thought you’d sit outside alone in the black of night with your undead dog, drawing in your sketchbook on a school night?”

  She blinked at him with mock innocence, “But I’m not out here alone, I’ve got you.”

  He smirked but said nothing.

  She risked a glance before asking, “Where’ve you been, out terrorizing the local villagers?”

  “I assure you, the villagers are all safe. Well, from me anyway.”

  His eyes fell to her sketchpad, a gleam lighting his eyes. She tried to slap it shut but she was too slow. He held the page down, head bent, looking his fill.

  “Lovely,” he said, voice close enough to make her jump.

  “May I?” he asked, holding his hand out.

  She took a deep breath and handed him the sketchbook, refusing to look at him while he moved through the images, “These are the pictures you sketched in the cemetery?”

  She looked up, startled, “How did you know that?”

  His eyes never left the page, “I told you, I saw you.”

  “You said you saw me the day of the funeral,” she stared hard at the side of his face.

  “I may have seen you around before then,” he told her, vague.

  She shook her head but said nothing. He was already a killer and a liar, now she could confirm stalking as well. She should be mad but why bother. She needed him. The thought felt like a boulder in her stomach.

  “Did you know I used to talk to them?” she asked.

  She watched him in profile, he smiled, “I heard you, yes.”

  “Did you think I was crazy?”

  “At the time, a little; knowing what we know now? No.”

  “Do you think I saw them, somehow? Like, do you think what I am…do you think I saw them in my mind?”

  “You’re a reaper,” he said with a shrug. “You are always going to feel the pull of the dead. It’s who you are. It’s tied to the type of magic you have. It’s possible you were channeling these people as you drew them.”

  Ember looked over his shoulder as he flipped each page, sadness sinking into her bones as she thought about all the people whose lives she’d inadvertently invaded. The dead deserved peace.

  “Don’t you think this is ghoulish? Don’t you think it’s an invasion somehow?”

  She expected his usual flippant answer but instead he said, “I don’t know. There has to be a reason you were given these powers, right? Perhaps, some greater purpose.”

  “If there is a greater purpose, why are reanimators forbidden from practicing what t
hey do?”

  He said nothing for a long time, “The people who make the rules, they serve themselves first. Ember, you have no idea what you are. The power you possess…” he trailed off for a minute. “The Grove keeps the reanimators close under the guise of protection, protection of the people, of the magical community but, in truth, they use their powers for their own gain. It’s possible they could come for yours as well. It doesn’t make you evil, it makes them evil.”

  “Allister said they are there to protect us. Is Allister wrong too?”

  “I don’t know Allister, Luv, but I do know the Grove.”

  She rolled her eyes, “Now we are back to luv?”

  He grinned, “Do you prefer beautiful, then?”

  She scoffed, picking invisible lint off her t-shirt, “I’d prefer the truth.”

  He turned in the tight confines of the loveseat, gaze meeting hers with an intensity she’d only imagined in fantasies she’d never dare admit aloud.

  “Okay, then. November Lonergan, your hair is too orange, your eyes are such a strange shade of purple I’m surprised New Orleans didn’t burn you as a witch. You have too many freckles and that gap in your teeth is…distracting.” Ember’s face flushed. It was like she was back in sixth grade listening to her fellow classmates mock her. Her throat tightened, tears pricked behind her eyes. She didn’t need to listen to this. She couldn’t even look at him as she stood to go.

  Long fingers curled around her arm, tugging her down, his voice dropping low like he was revealing a shameful secret, “Back in New Orleans, I would get lost staring at your face for hours. You always looked so alone and sad and, frankly, a little angry. But then, sometimes, when you thought nobody was looking, you would twirl around or sing in front of your window and I would find myself thinking about you long after you’d disappeared.”

  Ember’s fingers clenched spastically on her thigh but he wasn’t done. “I wanted to know what your hair felt like beneath my fingers.” He tugged one buoyant curl. “I thought of your lips and if they were that red naturally or because you always seemed to be chewing at them.” She was almost positive she’d stopped breathing. “Ember, luv, I’ve lived a long time and I’ve seen tens of thousands of people, but not one of their faces fascinates me like yours. You are strange and broken and more powerful than you could ever begin to imagine and you were born to force the world to kneel at your feet, so cut the bullshit because one day the world will love you.”

  She didn’t move, paralyzed. “The world will love me?” she asked dully, mesmerized by this pretty boy and his pretty words. She knew better than to trust him, but in that moment she just didn’t care.

  “I can’t love you, Ember. I have no soul. But in the last hundred years or so, you are the first to make me wish I could.”

  Her gaze rose to his. “You have no soul,” her voice sounded as raw as the words themselves. She cleared her throat and tried again, “Did you ever? Have a soul? Is it true what Quinn says? Were you really so…evil that hell didn’t want you?”

  He sat back, giving her the space she’d wanted just moments ago. Disappointment flooded through her.

  A shadow flickered across his face, before he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, “Quinn gets his information from the human internet. The internet gets its facts from old wives tales and dusty old books written by crusty old professors who like to theorize.”

  This was the first time she’d ever heard him sound anything but smug. She leaned forward, hand touching his knee, “So…it’s not true? You didn’t d-deserve this? Was it like a curse?”

  His fingers found another curl, eyes haunted, “This isn’t a fairy tale, Ember. I played my part in making me what I am but I had my reasons. The why of it really doesn’t matter.”

  She gripped his arm this time, “Of course it does.”

  He moved forward, his hand at her neck, pulling her towards him, “Don’t romanticize me, Luv. I’m not some wronged hero. I may not have been born evil, but I became it. Make no mistake, Ember. The things I’ve done would most assuredly give Lucifer pause to grant me admittance to the underworld now. I’ve earned the reputation that proceeds my kind. I’ve earned it a hundred times over.” He let her go, “Use me, Ember. Let me help you learn control but don’t for one second let me charm you into thinking I can be saved.”

  His words felt like a slap, “So somehow, no matter how grotesque my magic seems, it must have a higher purpose, but your magic, equally as bad, has damned you forever? Doesn’t seem very balanced to me.”

  “Don’t let their party line fool you,” he told her. “The Grove doesn’t care about the balance. They don’t care about dark and light. They don’t care about good versus evil. The Grove cares about power and you, sweet girl, are powerful.”

  She said nothing for a long time. They both pretended not to notice as she leaned against him. She let herself imagine it was her magic clinging to his and nothing more.

  Romero’s heavy panting had a sort of hypnotic rhythm to it. His white fur was clean and fluffy but his bath revealed his left paw was little more than raw tendon and bone. He didn’t seem bothered by it but it must hurt.

  “Do you think he’s sad?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He looks sad to me. Do you think he was happy on the other side and I ripped him from, like, doggie heaven?” She refused to look at him as she spoke.

  He looked over at the dog. “He doesn’t look sad. He looks pensive, like he’s got a lot of heavy thoughts on his mind. Maybe you just raised a very introspective dog.”

  “You still think he’s going to die?” she asked, stomach clenching at the thought.

  “He’s already dead,” he told her. “You’re magic should wear off eventually and when it does, he will return to the other side,” his voice wasn’t unkind.

  “You said he would be gone before sundown.”

  “Yes, I did. It appears I was wrong. As I said, you are more powerful than you know. But, a reanimator’s magic will always wear off eventually.”

  “Is there anything I can do about his paw?”

  “Our magic deals with the soul, not the body.” His lip curled in a sneer, “For that, you need a witch.”

  “I don’t have one of those handy.”

  He was quiet for a while, eyes roaming her features. “Technically, you do.”

  She wrinkled her brow, “Huh?”

  “Your uncle. He’d help you if you asked.”

  “Even if I’m not a witch?”

  “I don’t know, Luv, but it’s worth a try.”

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea of asking her uncle for anything. With her uncle came Astrid and Allister and even Stella. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  “It’s late. Don’t you have school in the morning?”

  She shrugged, “We both have school in the morning and also, I’m pretty sure it is morning. Besides, I don’t want to go to sleep. I think the sun will be up soon.”

  He propped his feet up on the table in front of them, she followed suit. She let herself lean heavier against him, dropping her head against his chest, eyes heavy. It took her a moment to realize that there was no sound.

  “You really don’t have a heartbeat.”

  “No, I don’t. It’s a side effect of being dead.”

  She sucked in a breath at that information. No wonder his skin was so cool.

  “But you breathe, I can feel it.”

  “Reflex. Habit mostly. If I was to be in a situation where my oxygen supply stopped, I’d be fine.”

  “Being supernatural is so weird.”

  “Mm,” he agreed. She felt his cheek resting against her hair and she opted to forget the real world, just for the morning. She could be herself when the sun came up. The real world would still be there.

  38

  TRISTI
N

  Tristin woke before the others, flipping on the tiny coffee maker and hopping in the shower. She woke her brother with a pillow to the face. “What the hell, Tristin.”

  “Get up, shower. We need to somehow make you presentable enough to get the gatekeeper’s attention.” She wasn’t in the mood for her brother’s lollygagging about. They had things to do today.

  Quinn woke, bleary eyed, hair standing on end like a baby chick. He rubbed his eyes. “Coffee,” he croaked. “My kingdom for a coffee.”

  Rhys was quiet but that was hardly unusual. He stalked around the small room, taking up more space than the others, still shirtless.

  Once Kai showered, she forced her brother to sit as she attempted to make him look…well, pretty. When she was done, Quinn whistled and Rhys refused to look at him, which was the only real confirmation Tristin needed. Tristin pronounced him fit for seduction and they piled into the Suburban once more.

  Navigating a college campus seemed much easier in teen movies and television shows. The campus was the size of four Belle Haven city blocks and looked like it should have its own subway line. There were students everywhere, playing Frisbee, riding bikes, clutching coffee cups and toting laptop bags. They scurried around in ratty clothes and pajama pants.

  The global apathy by the student body annoyed Tristin. Kai didn’t seem to share her opinion, head on a swivel as he took it all in, elbowing Quinn occasionally to show him something noteworthy.

  They went virtually unnoticed on the large campus and it took an hour of asking around before anybody knew where to find Professor Denning’s old office.

  As Ember predicted, a young good-looking man sat just inside the doorway marking the office. A pretty blonde girl leaned over the desk partially obscuring their view. “So, are you coming to the party tonight?” she asked.

  “I doubt it. I can’t keep going out like this. Some nights, I don’t even remember how I got back to my room, if I even wake up in my room.”