Hold Me Closer, Necromancer

by Lish McBride

  I put the butter knife down. I was still freaked out of my mind, yes, but over that lay a thin patina of shame.

  “Sam, if you don’t get off the counter and free me from this humiliation, I will gnaw your damn ankles right off!”

  Body or no body, it was still Brooke. Only Brooke could be so bossy at a time like this. I climbed off the counter and reached down for her head, stopping to ask, “You’re not going to bite me, are you?”

  “In your dreams, slacker.” Her lip curled. “I don’t know where you’ve been. You’re probably as dirty as this floor.” Then she squinted her eyes shut and yelled, “Now, pick me up!”

  I gently placed my hands on the sides of her head, arching my palms so they didn’t touch her hair. I almost dropped her again. Brooke’s expression could have frosted the surface of the sun. I manned up and got a better grip, lifting her head and placing it on the counter next to the coffeemaker.

  “Ew, Sam, come on,” she said, her tone full of exasperation. “I am not an appliance. Look, I know this visit isn’t ideal, but I’ve had kind of a crappy night, so how ’bout taking me into the living room, ’kay?”

  I picked her up again, trying not to poke her in the eye, and placed her head on the plaid easy chair. Frank skittered over to a spot on the living room floor, cuddling the shampoo to his chest all the while. Ramon sat on the couch, and I took a seat on the coffee table.

  “What, um, happened?” I couldn’t think of a gentle way to phrase it, so I just asked.

  Ramon threw a pillow at me. “Dude, leave her alone. Let her catch her breath….” He fidgeted. “You know, if she can. I’m sorry, Brooke, I don’t really know how to handle…this.”

  “That’s okay, Ramon. Frank, breathe.”

  Frank straightened up, eyes popping, but his breathing did slow down.

  “I don’t know, Sam.” She shook her head and almost rocked off the chair. I rushed forward and propped her back up.

  “Thanks.” She looked around the room, searching, though I’m not sure what for. “One minute I was watching Mansquito on Syfy, which was as awful and intriguing as it sounds; the next, it had gone to commercial and I was like I am now.”

  Frank perked up. “You were killed because you watched Mansquito?” He paled slightly. “Oh, man, I watched Mansquito. Do you think I’m next?”

  We all turned and stared at him. “What? Brooke’s head is sitting in your easy chair and we’re talking to it, and you’re looking at me like I’m crazy?” He squinted his eyes shut and huddled around the shampoo bottle.

  I looked back at Brooke. She was staring at my Hellboy poster like she hadn’t seen it a thousand times. Her lip was trembling. Freaky or not, severed or otherwise, Brooke was my friend.

  “Don’t call her it, Frank.” I nudged him with the toe of my shoe, hard. “Shut up and take it like a man. She’s still Brooke. You’re lucky to have her, head or otherwise.” I nudged him again. “Now apologize.”

  His cheeks went red. “Sorry, Brooke.”

  “That’s okay,” she said with a sniff.

  The silence was awkward. “So you didn’t see anyone come in the house? Didn’t accidentally take a bunch of painkillers and then fall on a knife?”

  “I don’t know, Sam. I think I felt a hand on my shoulder, but I’m not sure. Then…nothing.” She pushed out her lower lip in thought. “Well, nothing until I woke back up and I was, you know. This.”

  The edge of her neck appeared so clean and straight that it looked as if the rest of Brooke was hidden in my chair, like we had cut a hole in the plaid so she could hide in there for a haunted house stunt.

  Brooke cleared her throat. The noise snapped me back into the moment. I had been staring like an ass.

  “So, um, Brooke, can I get you anything?” I asked.

  “Water would be super, actually. Thanks.”

  I filled a small glass for her, grabbing a Plumpy’s emblazoned straw as an afterthought.

  Brooke took a sip and thanked me. I resumed my seat on the coffee table and set her glass to the side. Where did the water go? Come to think of it, how did she clear her throat?

  “So…” I drifted off because, honestly, I couldn’t really think of anything to say. Next time a talking head ended up in my easy chair, I would have all sorts of points of reference, but at that moment, I was completely at sea.

  Brooke saved me from an extremely awkward pause. “Sam, I’m supposed to give you a message.” She stopped to puff a strand of hair out of her face, which completely blew my mind. Where did the air come from? She had no lungs.

  “Well, I was supposed to give you a message, but ass-face said he couldn’t trust me to get the stupid thing right, and I was like, well, duh, like I’d want to do anything for you anyway. I mean, he cut off my head! What a douche bag. Like I’m supposed to turn into his little messenger girl just because he brought my head back. I mean, I would have been all alive if that psycho hadn’t killed me in the first place—”

  “Who gave you a message?”

  She stared at me in exasperation. “The guy who woke me back up. Geez, Sam, get with the program here.”

  “Brooke,” I interrupted, “I don’t mean to be rude, but what message?”

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s in the box.”

  She kept talking to the boys as I went over and searched the empty container. Tucked into the corner was a piece of expensive-looking stationery that had been folded in half. All it said in a loose sprawling cursive was “Two o’clock, Woodland Park Zoo, Asia exhibit. Come alone, or I’ll send another message.”

  I flipped the note over. “There’s no signature,” I said. “Not surprising. Talk about zero manners,” Brooke said. “Martha Stewart would so bitch-slap that guy. And it would most certainly be a good thing.”

  Carefully, I collapsed onto the couch next to Ramon and handed him the note. I closed my eyes and leaned back, head resting against the wall. “I am so screwed.”

  “Ugh, you are such a baby,” Brooke said. “Try being just a head for a little bit. Then you can complain.”

  5

  She’s a Lady

  Brid woke to the taste of blood and the scent of wolf. Normally a comforting smell, but now it made her uneasy. If they were close enough to smell, they should have been close enough to reach out and touch, or at the very least, call with her mind. But Brid could tell she was alone, and with the heavy musk of wolf around her, that shouldn’t be.

  She tried to sit up. The world became tilted and queasy. She put her head back down on the cool surface of the floor. Squashing the flood of panic, she willed herself calm. First, the facts. She could panic when she knew what kind of mess she was in.

  It hurt to open her eyes, and she felt dizzy. A concussion? The blood in her mouth didn’t taste fresh, so whatever had hit her had struck a while ago. She should have healed a concussion by now. But she hadn’t, so either she’d taken on more damage than she knew, or something was interfering. Her stomach burned, her throat felt torched, and then she smelled it. Aconite. She’d been drugged, then. Drugged and beaten. Not good. And cold. Damn it. She’d been drugged, beaten, and stripped. That did not bode well at all.

  Brid rolled quickly onto her side and retched for what felt like a very long time. When she thought she could manage it, she sat up. She leaned against cold bars and opened her eyes.

  Bars. She’d been put in a cage. She touched the floor. Iron. Being enclosed in the stuff would keep her from her swords. She could, however, just as easily bend the iron like it was wicker. Sometimes it was good to be a hybrid. She stood up, reaching for the bar closest to her, and frowned. There at the top were runes done in silver, the wards drawn with a cold fire. She felt the chill of the symbols with the tips of her fingers and frowned. Somehow, someone had built a cage not just for a werewolf but specifically for her or someone like her.

  Shit.

  And then it hit her. The wolf smell. Her eyes burned with a red flame, fueled by hatred as the name slid between clenche
d teeth. “Michael.” Then she smiled. Flip the situation on its side, and this could become a chance at revenge. Things were looking up.

  She studied the room. It seemed she was being kept in a basement, no windows, solid concrete floor and walls. The cage only took up about a quarter of the space, but it was a big area. Manacles were attached to a few of the walls, some of which bore the same silver-drawn runes that were on the cage. Unpleasant. And sitting in the corner was a heavy wooden table with restraints that she didn’t like the look of. Another table stood against the wall behind her. On it glass beakers were neatly arranged next to a Bunsen burner. Someone had hung a small chalkboard next to the table. Brid didn’t recognize any of the symbols on the chalkboard. The lighting was bright, fluorescent, bathing everything in stark reality.

  All in all, the basement looked like someone couldn’t decide whether he wanted a torture chamber or a laboratory so he’d made both. Every scent she got felt tainted with death, incense, and old blood. Enough blood that Brid felt that the sooner she got out of here, the better. The drain in the floor wasn’t giving her delighted butterflies either. There was something disturbing about this particular basement having an easy-rinse floor.

  The only other things she could see were a few shelves piled high with old books and what she thought might be a small refrigerator under the stairs. She could hear the soft whir of a motor, and the size looked about right for a mini fridge.

  Brid stretched, feeling a pleasant pull through her body as she did. She walked closer to the bookcase to get a better look. The books on the shelves were old enough that most of the leather bindings had lost their print. The few words she could read made her stomach twist. They looked like grimoires, but not like any of the ones Brid had seen before. Admittedly, she hadn’t seen many, and most of those had been in the hands of witches who avoided black or tainted magic.

  Brid stilled. She heard voices above her, both male, one the grinding bass of Michael. The other soothed her ears even though she didn’t recognize it. The stranger sounded angry, but that smooth voice still rolled around in her mind, lulling her. Brid fought to keep her muscles tense. Usually if someone you didn’t know used those tones, they meant to ensnare you in some way. Quickly she curled up on the floor, trying to appear relaxed and dozing. Brid wanted to hear as much as she could.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so pissed.” That was Michael. “If you didn’t want me to do it, why’d you build the cage?”

  “Your actions were premature. Premature and stupid.”

  “What’s the difference? You got what you wanted, right?” Michael sounded sulky. Brid suppressed a grin and kept listening.

  “I wanted a hybrid,” the other man shouted, “not the heir to the damn throne.” His voice quieted. “No one in Brannoc’s line—I thought I made that perfectly clear.”

  A mumbling noise from Michael, then, “A mutt is a mutt.” Brid heard a thump, and a whimper from Michael. When the man started talking again, his voice grew soft enough that even Brid had to strain to hear it.

  “The difference, Michael, is that I will be first on Brannoc’s suspect list. The difference is, we wanted someone they wouldn’t notice until much later.” Brid heard another thump and whimper. “The difference is that you took a perfectly respectable plan and pissed all over it.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “You never do. I will clean up your mess, but—and I will say this only once—do not become more trouble than you are worth.”

  The voices quieted. The man wanted a hybrid from one of the weaker families. Less noticeable, easier to handle, that was the implication. Well, if he thought stealing one of the others would have gone by without notice or care, then he was ignorant of how the pack functioned. Even before the attempted coup, a missing member would draw attention. After the coup, security was tight, and the weaker members drew the most attention when they vanished. Predators always cull the weak before the strong. The other hybrids were younger than her, mostly. Kids. The pack wouldn’t take that lightly. And her father would hunt down anyone who took one of his own. And “own” extended far beyond his off spring.

  Whoever the other man was, he’d never been pack.

  Brid heard the slide and click of several locks from the top of the stairs, then muttering. Did the man have the door booby-trapped? Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “The bitch was sniffing not two feet from me,” Michael said. “What was I supposed to do? Hide?” He snorted. “I was upwind. She’d have run straight to her freak family.”

  “Please stop yammering, Michael.”

  There was an audible click as the werewolf shut his jaws. Brid cast around in her memory, trying to pull out her last action. She’d been jogging in the park, burning off some excess energy. One of her dad’s conditions for her to stay in the city was that she had to exercise every day. Gyms reeked of sweat and cleaning supplies, and if she wasn’t careful, people noticed her. Especially when she lifted weights. So she usually ran. If she didn’t, she’d have to change more, and that was harder in an urban setting. But she hadn’t seen Michael in the park. She’d stopped when a strange smell had hit her. She remembered jogging in place, trying to catch it. Then she’d pretended to tie her shoe. After that…nothing.

  The stranger spoke again, this time much closer to the cage. “You were lucky. I heard the last time you scuffled, this slip of a girl wiped the floor with you.” Brid could hear a faint trace of amusement. He was provoking Michael.

  Brid heard Michael spit. “She cheated.”

  “How?” the stranger said, laughter definitely in his voice now. “By being better than you?”

  Michael growled as he walked up to the bars. He grabbed Brid by the neck, pushing her body farther into the cage before pulling her back and slamming her into the bars. She let him do it. Even with limited movement, the force of it hurt like hell. But the drug made dodging chancy, and this way a piece of him was in the cage. Her turn.

  Brid grabbed his arm and bit down hard before pulling back with her head. A chunk came free, and Brid rolled to the center of the cage. She opened her eyes. She spit the chunk of flesh out of her mouth and onto the floor, an insult Michael was sure to get. Wolves did not waste food, not ever. Only humans killed for sport. By refusing his flesh, she was implying something unsavory about Michael. Like weakness.

  Michael howled as he yanked his arm free. Blood poured down. He ripped off his T-shirt and held it to the wound, glaring at her the whole time.

  Brid smiled at him, wide and toothy, like a yearbook photo. She knew how that smile would look coming from a mask of blood—his blood. Even naked, injured, and locked in a cage, she had gotten the best of him, and he knew it.

  He came at the cage again. “Michael,” the stranger said, the command in his voice absolute. He was not imposing physically. Medium build, not too tall. Dark hair cut in a Caesar style. He had pale skin, as if he didn’t go out much and didn’t care how he looked at the beach. Clean-shaven with a good mouth and solid jawline. Even his nails were spotless and well kept. Brid realized that everything about the man should have added up to handsome, and yet he didn’t appeal to her. Something about him turned her system off. He emanated power, though, and Brid suspected that attracted more than enough women to keep the man company.

  Michael stilled at the man’s tone and glared at her. “Mongrel bitch,” he spat.

  Brid sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest, rolling her eyes at his childishness. Just the kind of action that she knew would piss Michael off.

  Michael’s lip curled back, showing his teeth. He was still trying to dominate her even now. No matter how many times she’d won, he just kept on trying. But he wasn’t the dominant wolf here, she was, and she let that knowledge show in her face. Michael broke first. Brown eyes turned away, and a single earthy-brown curl dropped onto his forehead. Not for the first time, Brid wondered why the goddess had wasted such beauty on a total ass-hat.

  The man
leaned against the wall, content for now to observe the argument.

  Michael kept his eyes averted. “I should have been next in line.”

  Brid released her knees and leaned back, palms on the floor. “Please. You were by no means second on the list. Or third.” She mused on that. “Maybe in the top ten, but barely.” Michael had always relied too heavily on his biceps while ignoring his brain. Brid watched the muscle clench in his jaw. He’d never been able to understand that in wolf packs, were or otherwise, it wasn’t always the biggest who ruled. Strength didn’t mean much when everyone was strong. Her brothers could change all the tires on her dad’s truck without a jack.

  She didn’t flinch as Michael launched himself at the cage, angry and thinking only of her throat in his mouth, she was sure. She clucked her tongue at him. “That’s no way to get what you want. Go ahead, open the door. Who knows, with all the aconite you’ve given me, you might even stand a chance.”

  Michael slammed his fists on the floor and howled, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth. The other man walked up behind him and placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Instead of reacting like Brid imagined he would—taking the guy’s hand off at the wrist—Michael actually calmed, his brown eyes softening and losing their focus. Interesting.

  “I think,” the man said, “that now would be a good time for a constitutional, don’t you?”

  Michael nodded his head absently. Then he got up and walked out the door.

  Brid couldn’t remember Michael ever acting so docile, even before he’d gone rogue. Only a pack leader should have had the power to subdue him like that, and even then it probably would have taken longer. Brid made no outward move; she kept her position open and unconcerned, her brain filtering through all the information she had, and each thought placed the man in front of her higher up on the fear scale. Michael had the potential to cause problems, but Brid didn’t fear him. She’d kicked his butt too many times for that. The man in front of her, however, was cause for concern. Lots of concern.