Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  "Try me."

  Without warning, he rose from his seat, stepping around Edie and into the nearby darkened hallway. By the time she was standing, too, he had already come back from one of the bedrooms, an electric guitar in hand.

  Although she was more familiar with basses, right away, she recognized it as the one on the poster she'd spotted on her way in—black, with big, sharp horns and an angular head. Except ... it wasn't the same guitar, not exactly. The frets were slightly different, and the neck was slimmer. Super wizard, she was pretty sure the style was called. It must be an Ibanez, but she couldn't be sure beyond that.

  "My Genesis. It was a gift from her and my ex-wife. I had it strapped to my back while I was trying to save her.” He looked down at the guitar with equal parts awe and horror. "I felt her die, but ... then I heard her voice behind me, and..."

  Adam held the guitar up, and a strange periwinkle mist streaked from the head to the pickups, stroking the strings with a barely audible zing. The guitar shook, and he held it tighter, closer, like he was trying to wrangle a small child.

  "I'm trying!" he whispered heatedly. To the guitar. "They said they'd help!"

  Edie eyed him for a moment before she realized what must be happening. The energy coming off the guitar as it glowed and "talked" was undeniable.

  "I know, just wait a second," Adam mumbled, then looked up apologetically. "Sorry about her."

  "Can you ... understand what it's saying?" Marius asked.

  "Not it. She. I can hear her; it's Elle's voice. She's ... I don't know." The guitar protested again, and Adam shivered. "She says she's trapped."

  "In your guitar," Satara murmured, slowly standing. She crossed the room and held her hands out. "Can she hear us? Can I hold you, Elle?"

  The guitar whined again. Adam sighed. "She said, ‘Yes, please.’"

  Satara took the guitar gingerly from a reluctant Adam, eyes following the pale mist as it pulsed and skimmed along the instrument’s surface. "If she says she's trapped, then she is not possessing this guitar. A possession is purposeful, a choice the spirit makes. Like Ghost."

  "Ghost is not possessed." Cal rolled his eyes. "You make her sound like some cheesy B-movie shit! She's just haunted."

  "A spirit attached to an object is not the same as a spirit living within an object, manipulating it. Ghost is possessed." Satara raised a brow at Cal, then looked back at the guitar. "But this is not a possession, and it isn't a haunting either.”

  “Can she feel where she is?” Marius asked. “Can she confirm she’s in the guitar?”

  Edie felt the dead girl's next answer rather than heard it—a crawling sort of feeling at the base of her skull, like a subsonic noise. Adam translated: "She said she’s inside it. She can feel it."

  Satara looked the Genesis over one last time before handing it back. "When her spirit left her body, you must have been able to store it in the guitar somehow."

  "Can hellerunan do that?" Edie asked, looking Adam over before glancing down at her own hands.

  He echoed the word in confusion. "Hellerunan?"

  "You typically have domain over death, or a transferal of life energy, rather than souls themselves, but..." Satara spread her hands. "These kinds of things are possible. Liches do something similar with their own souls when they create skálpar.”

  Marius shook his head. “But I’ve only ever heard of spirits being trapped in items specifically designed for trapping spirits, not everyday objects.”

  “There are probably a lot of things hellerunan can do that are just … lost to history at this point. They were almost all wiped out, after all. Maybe this was one of those things."

  "Maybe," Cal said, rubbing his chin. "Maybe it’s kinda like what your dad used to do, E. ’Member I told you? When he used to store spells in items. No one else was able to do it like that ... and o’ course the bastard never told his secrets. But that don't mean he's the only one who could figure it out. Even by accident." The revenant gestured to the guitar. "Woulda never guessed it could be done with human souls, though."

  Adam slung the guitar across his back again and grimaced, clearly struggling to keep his head above water. His voice cracked as he spoke. "What … what the hell is going on?” Then, quieter, “What the hell am I?”

  It took a moment for Edie to realize that everyone was looking at her. She supposed it made sense, considering she was the only other hellerune, but she wasn't used to being an authority on anything.

  She cleared her throat. "You're something called a hellerune. A long time ago, the goddess Hel gave some of her followers mastery over the, um, 'ebon' magics: blood, death, shadow, and ... plague, I think. They were really powerful, but eventually, people started seeing those kinds of magics as evil and decided to hunt them down. Which is not good news for the descendants of those original followers, since we don't exactly get to decide whether we're hellerunan or not..."

  Adam stared at her. "It's genetic?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  From his back, the guitar sung faintly. He shook his head, glancing to the side. "It must be skipping generations. My father didn't need dark magic to be a monster, but … I would've known if he had it."

  "You don't have to be a monster," Edie said. "Actually, I strongly encourage you not to be. Being a hellerune is, you know, what you make of it."

  Cal looked up at the kitchen light, hands on his hips. "Well, at least we know you're not all plugged up like Edie. The magic seems to be comin' to ya pretty easily."

  "I— I guess so." It was Adam's turn to look at his hands, whispering, "This ... has to be some crazy-ass dream. This can't actually be happening."

  But when he met Edie's gaze again, she could see a familiar light in his eyes. He didn't want to believe it, sure, but what she was telling him was answering questions he'd probably had for a long time.

  No wonder he was so precarious, as Basile had put it.

  "We can explain more later," Cal said, taking a cigarette from his back pocket and clamping it between his teeth. "Lord knows there's plenty shit to wade through. Let's work on fixing the girl right now."

  Adam glanced at the revenant nervously but conceded with a nod.

  "How old is she?"

  Tears welled in his eyes. "She's twenty-two."

  "What about her body? What's the condition?"

  "Um ... well, she's intact. Nothing broken, I don't think. But— but I couldn't tell you anything else." Adam gestured toward the fridge hopelessly. "I haven't opened it to check on her. I ... I didn't want to see."

  Cal sighed, gnawing on the filter of his cig. "Probably for the best. Means you kept the cold in."

  "It's good that you put her in the fridge," Satara said, taking her seat again. "The dead should be kept somewhere cool, but freezing her would have damaged her cells. At this point, her body is probably relatively pristine."

  Adam touched the guitar strap across his chest. "It was her idea."

  "Smart girl." Cal huffed. "Being in a well-preserved body is probably a lot nicer than being in a rotted one. Ask me how I fuckin' know."

  "H-How do you know?" Adam returned weakly.

  Edie reached out and stopped Cal before he could weaken his glamour. This poor guy had been through enough in the past twenty-four hours without seeing a rotten corpse in his kitchen. "We'll explain later. Like you said, Cal."

  "Hmph. In any case," the revenant continued grumpily, "magic isn't really my wheelhouse, but I know what I need to know. A couple anti-decay spells and I think I can keep her fresh for as long as we need."

  Adam frowned. "Wait, what do you mean?" It took a moment for him to connect the dots. Slowly, his face brightened. "You think you can put her back in."

  "Worth a try," Cal said with a shrug.

  Marius had begun to pace up and down the kitchen. "Would she be a revenant, then?"

  "Nah. It's that ‘transferal of life energy’ thing Satara was talkin' about earlier. Revenants are made with energy taken from a sacrifice, not your own sou
l." He jabbed himself in the chest with a frown. "Me, Cal, now—that's not who this body belonged to before. I got no idea what will happen. Satara?"

  "I'm not sure either. If we can connect body and soul properly, maybe we really can bring her back to life, fully."

  “It’s unorthodox,” Marius said. “In the old stories, you can never truly return someone to life in that way unless you get their soul from Hel, or whomever is holding it.” He glanced at Adam, then Satara. “But since we have her soul here, perhaps…”

  “We won’t know until we find out.”

  The guitar on Adam's back twanged, and he touched the chest strap again. "Even if there's some way you can do that, she's still trapped ... she's still stuck inside the Genesis."

  He was right. They needed to get her out of the guitar first. If Elle's soul was stored in the Genesis the way Dad had stored spells, there had to be a way to take her out. If it was the same principle, there was no point in storing something you couldn't retrieve later. There had to be a way.

  They just needed someone who could separate her soul from the guitar.

  "Don't worry, Adam," Edie said with a smile. "We know a good exorcist."

  Chapter Nine

  The gray light filtering through the Baccarat condo's huge windows was cold and drab, and it made Indriði long for her house in Anster.

  It was useless to get homesick now, of course. The weather here was disgusting, but it would certainly be no better in Massachusetts, and she couldn't go back there when she had so much to do elsewhere. In New York, she was surrounded by culture, art. Still, she missed the quaint charm of her little New England city and the honeylocust trees that had shrouded her lounge.

  At the very least, she had escaped the lower Baccarat's silks and crystal. The hotel was nice and all, and certainly an appropriate display of wealth and power, but a bit too old-fashioned Parisian for Indriði's tastes. Having a residency on the upper floors had its perks, and one was decorating it however she pleased. This new lounge showcased the furniture she’d been able to move from Anster—as well as some new pieces—adequately enough. Sleek, clean, modern. She'd even managed to find a fitting place for her harp, right next to the baby grand piano.

  And, for now, she had found a fitting place for herself: reclining on the sectional while her new steward fixed her a cosmopolitan.

  When word of Roggvi's death had spread, a light elf noble had generously gifted her a servant from their household. At first, Indriði had been grateful … but it wasn't long until she'd realized the "gift" had been more of an underhanded slight than anything.

  Ilphas Miravn hadn't yet lived away from Alfheim long enough to lose any of his elven features and resembled a locust; tall, thin, all awkward limbs and bony elbows and knees. The elf was absolutely ravenous to do things for her and yet too incompetent to do any of them right.

  Kindly put, he didn't measure up to Roggvi. But then, the old dwarf had been with her for centuries. There was a chance Ilphas would become less tedious. Not a good chance, but a chance nonetheless.

  As the elf fumbled around in the kitchen, he tried to make some limp conversation, despite being out of her line of sight. "Such strange weather we're having, isn't it?"

  "Mmm. You have no idea. It's supposed to be summer here."

  "Summer, ma'am?" Clang, crash.

  What he was doing with the pots and pans when he was supposed to be making a cocktail, Indriði had no idea. She tipped her face toward the ceiling and closed her eyes. "Summer. The Midgardian season."

  "Oh, yes, the season. Of course. The weather in Alfheim scarcely changes."

  "Mm-hmm."

  "Except sometimes during the afternoon—a warm rain to encourage rest and breeding." Clang.

  Indriði simply kept her eyes closed, willing him not to speak further. The Lord of the Elves, Yngvi-Freyr, also happened to be the god of virility. If Ilphas launched into a tangent about breeding, she'd have to freeze him in time and make her own damn drink.

  He couldn't let the silence go unbroken—of course—and the limp conversation made a comeback. "And your day, ma'am?"

  "It'd be better if I had a cosmo, Ilphas..."

  A hurried wave of banging and clinking issued from behind her, but at least the blessed sound of ice in the shaker accompanied it. She desperately needed to have her bar moved in here. "I've heard word that Miss Daschla's work is going well, what with the rallies and the red cloaks and the— Is ... is it the orange liqueur or the raspberry? Bugger."

  Indriði sighed. "Yep. She's doing great."

  "And what of your other endeavors, ma'am?"

  She opened her eyes, mulling the question over. The projects she'd set in motion here were developing well. Progress on finding the new hellerune was moving briskly forward, and Scarlet's Watchers were falling in line. Thankfully. For a second there, she had wondered if Scarlet would go running back to Zaedicus. She hadn't expected the human-wight to be so apprehensive when it came to the Blood Eagles—after all, she'd had no reservations before this point, and they had an important job to do here.

  "Ma'am?" Ilphas's voice came from in front of her this time, and she opened her eyes to see him holding her finished cosmo in one spindly hand. His skin was pinkish, tinged with green at the joints; spines climbed from his wrists to his elbows, and his deep brown irises were so large his eyes had hardly any whites. As she took the glass, he drew himself up again, smoothing back his oil slick hair and small antennae.

  Indriði took a rejuvenating sip of her drink. "Roggv— Ilphas. Why are humans so ... weird?"

  Ears that looked like locusts' wings, diaphanous and speckled, flicked outward in confusion. He blinked. "Ma'am?"

  "You think you understand a human and then they spring these random convictions on you ... ones that don't even make any damn sense. They change their minds so arbitrarily. Why is that?"

  "I don't follow, my lady." He sat on a nearby footrest, long legs folded close to his chest.

  "You should have seen how Scarlet balked when she realized what the Blood Eagles were. You would've thought she hadn't been working for the New Gloaming for years."

  Ilphas bared his fangs awkwardly. "I confess I know very little about humans, much less why they do what they do..."

  "Humans have mistreated each other for eons. For Web's sake, Scarlet herself has been commanding the Watchers for months now. She takes pleasure in it. She's killed. The Watchers wiped out an entire homeless camp a few weeks ago." Indriði took another deep sip. A little heavy on the vodka, but maybe she needed it right now. "But Nazis are too far? A bunch of rallies and a couple fistfights, that's what makes her squeamish?"

  "Well—"

  "Granted," she continued, "the Blood Eagles are absolute idiots. Practically useless at the moment, let's be honest with ourselves."

  "Perhaps she—"

  "But they're not here to make decisions. Good lord, can you imagine? I've told her that." Indriði rubbed her forehead. "And she won’t have to think about it for very much longer, if everything goes according to plan. All she needs to do is turn her head and look the other way."

  Ilphas opened his mouth to say something else but was cut off by a loud whoosh from the kitchen, like the sound of a whirlpool. Both he and Indriði were on their feet in a second, though once she understood what was happening, she was frankly more interested in her drink.

  A flash of crimson filled the kitchen archway, and a few moments later, two figures clad in silver masks and raven feathers stepped into the lounge, their hands already resting on the hilts of their sheathed weapons.

  Just as she'd suspected, the Wounded himself wasn't far behind. He strode into the room, scanning his surroundings with a look that could only be described as disgust. As he turned toward the window to take in the Manhattan skyline, the claymore strapped to his back whacked against a jeweled ewer resting on a table and sent it spinning toward the floor.

  Ilphas gave a strangled noise and dove for it, but the Wounded turned and caug
ht it in one hand without missing a beat. As he slid it gently back into place, he looked at Indriði.

  "Such excess."

  The last time she was face to face with Lord Sárr, he had looked a little worse for wear, but he was even more ashen now—exhausted. His hair had grown slightly longer, a startling silver against his black leather armor, and his gray eyes were ringed with dark circles.

  At once, Ilphas was beside himself. He fell to his pointy knees before the Wounded Lord and bowed his head, ears pinned back.

  But for Indriði’s part, Sárr didn't scare so much as annoy her. He hadn't even sent word ahead that he'd be showing up. She crossed her arms, lifting her glass to her lips. "What do you want, kid?"

  The only reaction her jab elicited was a brief glance toward the ceiling. "I knew that you and Daschla would disappoint me here somehow, Norn, but I never thought it would be so soon."

  "I see." She sighed. "And what, exactly, have we done to evoke your awesome rage?"

  Rather than answering, he glanced around the apartment. “Where is Scarlet?”

  “She’s out. She’ll be back later. So. What is your problem?”

  Sárr’s guards stayed put as he stalked across the lounge, past a quivering Ilphas. Once he reached the windows, he folded his hands behind his back and half-turned to her. "My agents have reported back to me about something called the ‘Blood Eagles.’ And how fortunate, for I heard nothing about them from you."

  "Don't you have people who can bring you up to speed on this? I'm kind of busy, Sárr."

  "I understand the cause they serve," he continued firmly. "But I have yet to understand what it has to do with the New Gloaming. With your commitment to me. To our master."

  Indriði sighed. "Don't tell me you're about to get all missish on me, too."

  "This has little to do with my feelings, Norn. They aren't needed, they aren't wanted; focusing on them is taking up resources. We already have plenty of skilled fighters at our disposal."

  That was certainly true. She glanced at the silver-and-black-clad guards across the room. It didn't please her to admit that she wasn't one hundred percent sure where those fighters came from, but they just kept coming—when one fell, another was always right behind to take their place. She had her suspicions and theories, but Sárr was keeping this one close to the chest.