by Jodi Redford
He stopped stroking her back as her statement registered. “Relative?” Tipping his gaze down, he caught the disbelief swimming in the blue depths of Jemma’s irises. “Are you saying that zombie was a family member?”
“It was Uncle Harold.”
Oh shit. He’d just lopped off her uncle’s head. Sure, not like he’d had any choice, but this definitely wasn’t a story he planned to recount at the next Finnegan family reunion. He extricated himself from Jemma’s limbs. “I think you need a drink.” Actually he did too, but there was a good chance they’d be taking a long road trip in the immediate future, which meant he needed to stay sober.
He crossed to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. After pouring two shots into a glass, he returned to Jemma. She took one look at the offering and shook her head. “I’d like to keep my wits about me in case any more of my dead relatives decide to stop by and say howdy. Or bite off my ear.”
“You’re safe for the time being. It’ll take at least a couple hours for the next grave to be unlocked and at least twice that long for its occupant to pick up your trail.”
She gaped at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He averted his gaze and instead stared out the adjacent window at the soggy landscape. This all had to be more than her mind could process, and it’d only become more overwhelming once she heard the whole story. But better for him to lay it on her now, before taking her to Clarissa. The Beaumont coven mistress didn’t have the patience to slowly ease people into anything.
Returning his attention to Jemma, he nodded his chin toward her glass. “Drink. You’ll need it for what I have to tell you.”
“Nothing’s going to shock me at this point. Compared to having my dead uncle try to take a chunk out of me, pretty much everything else pales in comparison.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Heaving a frustrated breath, Jemma took a sip from the whiskey and nearly choked on a rasping cough. “God, that’s awful.”
“Give it a sec.”
“Griff…please, I just need to understand what in the world is going on.” She looked at him, pleading, and his insides turned to mush. He’d always been her willing slave, incapable of denying her a damn thing. No point trying to change that status now.
“Jemma, you’re not who you think you are. You’re not what you think you are.”
Frown lines scrunched toward the bridge of her nose. She plunked the glass onto the coffee table. “What do you mean?”
“Your parents told you they adopted you from a young unwed mother. That’s only partly true. They didn’t tell you that the girl was living with a band of gypsies at the time and she wasn’t your actual mother.”
She stared at him mutely, her mouth hanging open.
Hell, if he didn’t know the entire truth, he’d find it unbelievable too. “Your real mother’s name was Lillian. She was murdered during an attempt to steal you. Lillian’s people put you in the care of the gypsies. They tried their best to protect you in the beginning, but it eventually became clear you needed a better cover.”
“A better cover for what?”
“Who you are.”
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth before shaking her head. “But I’m just me. Not anyone particularly important.”
Christ, she couldn’t have it more wrong. She was everything. And that was just in regards to him. Aside from that, her importance to the world was staggeringly scary. “You come from a long line of very powerful witches. Trust me, the untapped potential within you is mind-boggling.”
Her nose twitched, a tried-and-true warning that Jemma had an argument in the brewing stage. “Where are you coming up with this shit? So help me, if you’re fucking with me right now, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I’m not. And I know this stuff because I was assigned to watch over you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Griff, I’ve known you since college.”
“I was assigned to you then. Now do you want to know who you are or continue arguing instead?”
“I’m not argu—” She sighed, apparently clued in by the arching of his eyebrows. “Fine. Continue.”
“You were born Jemma Beaumont. Your grandmother—Rose Beaumont—was the founder and leader of the Beaumont coven in Savannah, Georgia.” He searched her face for any spark of recognition. Though Jemma had been separated from her coven sisters for nearly twenty-nine years, the magical connection she shared with them was strong. It wasn’t unheard of for coven members to mentally interact with each other over time and space. Perhaps she’d subconsciously communicated with them without realizing it.
Jemma continued staring up at him, her expression blank. So much for any lingering psychic ties she might have with the coven. “This is all fascinating, Griff, but what does it have to do with my dead uncle showing up in your bedroom this morning?”
“When Rose was alive her biggest rival was a woman named Antoinette Delacroix, better known as Bloody Nettie. Antoinette performed darker magic than your grandmother. Voodoo so steeped in evil it ate away her soul.” He shuddered in remembrance of the tales he’d heard of Antoinette’s black rituals. “When Rose found out Nettie had discovered a spell that would permanently unlock the doors of death, freeing every corpse from its grave and granting Antoinette unholy power over the dead, Rose knew she had to stop her.”
Jemma gulped. “Hell yeah. A mass legion of dead Uncle Harolds running amok? Not a pretty sight. So what did Rose do?”
“She cobbled together a counterbalancing spell and proceeded to work on another that would rob Nettie of her powers for good. But Nettie caught wind of Rose’s scheme and sent one of her raised dead to murder Rose while she slept.” He heard Jemma’s hard swallow, and grimaced. Unfortunately, there was no way to paint this picture in a prettier light. “Antoinette was only partly successful. She did manage to kill your grandmother, but Rose lived long enough to enact her own death spell against Bloody Nettie.”
“Why the hell didn’t she just do that to begin with?” Jemma tossed her hands up with a grumble.
“Trust me, Rose would have. But the laws within magic can’t be trifled with. Rose was a white witch. Practicing the black arts in any form produces undesired consequences. Furthermore, killing a voodoo queen with that dark magic would only rob Rose of her powers, which it ultimately did.”
“But she stopped Bloody Nettie and her army of zombies. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“It isn’t that simple. Nettie will never rest until she gets her way.”
Jemma’s eyes threatened to bug out of their sockets. “Never rest? The woman is dead, for God’s sake.”
“Dead, but still around.” He scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck when Jemma frowned. “She’s a ghost. A very mean, vengeance-seeking spirit, which only complicates things further.”
“Call me crazy, but a ghost who enlists dead people to run her errands is complicated no matter if she’s the wicked bitch of the west or not.” Jemma snatched her glass of whiskey. She slugged down the remaining liquor and sputtered. He started to reach for her but she waved him off. “Okay, what exactly is Bloody Nettie’s grievance against me that she had to dispatch dead Harold to come after me?”
“She needs you.”
“For what?”
He unscrewed the cap from the whiskey and topped off her glass. She’d need another fortifying dose of alcohol.
“Raising her legion of zombies.”
Chapter Three
“Oh man, this keeps getting better and better.” Groaning, Jemma plopped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her palms. Griffin settled beside her and curved his hands around her shoulders, his heat branding her through the T-shirt. Despite the insanity that’d become her world, his presence soothed. Good ole Griff. He’d always been her rock. He massaged circles across her shoulder blades, working his own brand of magic. Her muscles started to give and she exhaled weakly. “Mind explaining to me how I’m able to ra
ise zombies?”
“Technically you can’t—that’s Nettie’s department. But once freed from Rose’s counterbalancing spell, Antoinette would be able to finish unlocking death’s final door. Your blood is the only thing that can break your grandmother’s spell.”
She dropped her arms and peered up at Griffin. “My blood? Oh man, I don’t think I like the sound of that. Especially if it involves killing or maiming me. You know, two activities I typically try to avoid.”
Griff’s expression remained pensive. Not exactly confidence inspiring. “We’ll keep you out of Nettie’s reach, just like we’ve always done. Rose’s spell will stay intact and everything will be fine.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a big, bad voodoo ghostie and her legion of zombies thirsting for your blood.” She shivered at the horrific vision playing out in her head.
Griff leaned down and cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet the fierce determination in his stare. “The only way Nettie will ever get to you is over my dead body.” He sealed his promise with a quick kiss before standing. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to hit the road.”
“Where are we going?” Not that it mattered. Anywhere free of zombies was fine by her.
“Savannah.”
She blinked at him. “Are you nuts? That’s ground zero—where all of this crap started.”
“The coven house is the safest place for you now.” Griff cleared his throat, his gaze skittering to the bottle of whiskey, then the floor, until finally resting on his running shoes.
His shifty behavior stirred her suspicions. “If it’s so damn safe, why do you look uncomfortable as shit with the idea of taking me there?”
“Don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with you.” The red flush crawling along his neck hinted otherwise.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s behind your nervous Nelly routine.”
“Nothing.”
She tightened her jaw. “You always were a crappy liar, Trudeau.”
“Damn it, Jemma, we don’t have time—”
“I mean it, I’m not budging.” She latched onto the cushion beneath her butt, just in case he doubted her sincerity.
A weary sigh snaked from Griff. “I swear you were put on this earth to test me.” Digging his knuckles into his forehead, he paced in front of the sofa. “Our…intimate relationship…isn’t going to go over well with Clarissa, the coven’s mistress.”
His admission left her puzzled. “Why should she care? It’s none of her damn business.”
Griff wouldn’t meet her eyes, and her doubts started buzzing louder than a swarm of killer bees. Releasing the cushion, she shoved to her feet and glared at him. “Should I be asking what sort of relationship the two of you share?”
“It’s complicated.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There isn’t time to explain it now. I need to dispose of your uncle’s corpse and then get packed.” He pivoted and strode down the hall to his bedroom. She stared at his retreating rear end and imagined the faceless Clarissa squeezing a handful of his butt while he plowed into her. Jealousy speared her heart.
Great, her best friend and lover had a chick on the side, and an evil ghost needed her blood to start a zombie uprising. Far as discoveries of the day went, both majorly sucked.
They arrived on the outskirts of Savannah shortly after five. Griffin rolled his window down and inhaled the sweet, grape-soda scent of the wild kudzu growing rampant along the roadway. It’d been nearly a year since his last trip to the city. At the moment, he’d give anything to be anywhere else.
Jemma had remained unusually quiet during the majority of the drive. Her silence was unnerving, to say the least. He tore his attention from the road and glanced at her. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
She turned, her expression revealing the parade of questions no doubt marching through her mind. “You knew exactly how to kill Uncle Harold.”
His mouth twisted in a grimace. Fuck, why didn’t I just keep my trap shut? Hoping to steer her away from the loaded minefield their conversation was veering toward, he attempted to distract her with an undeniable fact. “Baby, he was already dead.”
“Fine, so you re-killed him. Whatever. What I want to know is where you got all this inside scoop on zombies, witchcraft and voodoo. Are you a witch too? Is that why the coven assigned you to me?”
He returned his focus to the windshield. “No. To both questions.”
“You’re keeping something from me and I don’t like it.”
Fear held his tongue hostage. In the back of his mind he’d always known the day would come when he’d have to explain to Jemma about who he was. What he was. But once she discovered the truth, their lives would be forever changed. A selfish part of him wanted to prolong the illusion of normalcy they’d built together. It was the only thing he had. The only thing that’d given him something to live for. “Sweetheart, you’ve processed an awful lot of craziness today. How about if we just take the rest one step at a time?”
“So you are hiding something from me.”
He stifled a groan. What karmic debt was he paying that life saddled him with two temperamental witches? Fortunately, the avenue of moss-draped oaks that marked the entrance to the Beaumont coven house popped into view. “We’re here. We’ll finish this conversation later, all right?”
He turned onto the graveled lane, his fists tightening on the steering wheel as he imagined the tongue-lashing Clarissa had in store for him. The twin flames flickering within the gas lanterns that flanked the opened gates instantly flared in recognition of their arrival. No backing out now.
His Pathfinder cleared the bend in the drive, and the coven house was revealed in all its antebellum glory. He rounded the horseshoe drive and stopped in front of the massive columned porch. A full spread of desserts and lemonade had been set out near the doors, presided over by a lush arrangement of lilies. Peach Templeton was making her way through a plateful of cookies while she rocked in her customary spot. She straightened her spectacles and treated him and Jemma to a good inspection when they abandoned the vehicle and approached the porch steps.
“Ms. Peach, you’re looking lovely as always.”
Grunting, the elderly woman finished munching her iced oatmeal cookie, the crumbs sprinkling the front of her violet pantsuit. “Boy, your eyesight must be failing worse than mine. I’ve shrank another inch and if my boobs sag any farther I’ll never see my bellybutton again.” Her squinty gaze shifted to Jemma. “You Rose’s offspring?”
Looking slightly bemused, Jemma nodded. “So I’ve been told.”
“You’ve got the same nose.” That declaration made, Peach bit into her next cookie and resumed her rocking.
A creak sounded on the floorboard beside Griffin, and he glanced over to find Clarissa eyeing him coolly. Garbed in skintight black leather pants and a tank top sporting a neon purple pentagram that clashed violently with Clarissa’s waist-length red tresses, the coven’s mistress struck an intimidating pose. Undoubtedly she’d planned it that way.
Clarissa moved her attention to Jemma. The iciness in her blue irises melted a fraction and the rigid line of her lips softened. “Welcome home, Jemma.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Clarissa Miles.”
After an awkward hesitation, Jemma accepted the handshake. The second Clarissa lowered her arm Jemma’s chin adopted a stubborn slant. “I think you and I need to get something clear.”
Apparently picking up on the strong waves of tension radiating from Jemma, Clarissa arched her eyebrows. “Okay.”
“You had Griff before me—I can respect that. And I’m sorry if you feel like I’m poaching on your territory, but the fact is I’m not giving him up without a battle. So bring it on.”
Ah shit. This time Griffin gave his groan full reign.
Peach lowered her cookie. “Gloria, get your ass out here. We’re gonna see us a catfight.”
The fur
ious slap of what sounded like flip-flops preceded Gloria Jones’s appearance in the mansion’s doorway. Panting heavily, Gloria eagerly ping-ponged her gaze between Clarissa and Jemma. “I’m putting my money on the new girl.”
Peach snorted. “Are you forgetting the way our Clarissa took down Amber Piedmont?”
Gloria’s mouth popped into a big O. “Do I still have time to change my bet?”
A long-suffering sigh floated from Clarissa. “Accidentally turn a debutante into a pig and no one lets you forget it.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squinted at Gloria and Peach. “Sorry to disappoint you two bloodthirsty hags, but there will be no catfight.”
“You’re as much fun as a hangnail.” Pouting, Peach crammed the remainder of her cookie in her mouth.
Rather than returning her focus to Jemma, Clarissa glared at Griffin. “Couldn’t keep your dick in your pants, could you? I hope it was worth it, because we’re all probably going to die due to your lapse in judgment.”
Griffin blinked, speech momentarily failing him. He’d expected Clarissa’s anger, but not this deluge of irrational outrage.
An irritated noise sprang from the back of Jemma’s throat. “You’re being just a tad overdramatic, don’t you think? It isn’t like Griff and I having sex opened the portals of death or something.”
Clarissa’s lips pinched tight. “Actually, it did.”
He stared at the shock freezing Jemma’s features and figured his face must be wearing an identical expression.
Oblivious, or more likely unconcerned with the bombshell she’d just dropped, Clarissa continued ranting. “The only way you were able to stay hidden from Nettie all these years was because your magic was locked away. But then Free Willy over there sticks his dick where it doesn’t belong, and suddenly your energy signal is shooting through the universe. There might as well have been a flashing marquee over Griffin’s house saying Here I am, zombies—come suck my brains out.”