Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  Silence fell between them again. After a minute or so, they came across a bench, and Adam veered off the path toward it. He took deep breaths as he sat.

  "Feel a little better?" Edie asked, taking the spot next to him.

  "A little." He crossed his legs at the ankle and stretched out, sighing. Slowly, though, his miserable expression returned. "I was having a nonstop panic attack, and now I'm having a nonstop panic attack but outside."

  "At least we’re away."

  She hesitated, thinking of all the questions she'd wanted to ask him earlier. One in particular was at the forefront of her mind, but she wasn't exactly sure how to approach it. At length, she peered at him.

  "Adam ... you were defending Cal just now, but you keep acting all suspicious of him. Why? Why are you so afraid of him?"

  He blinked. "Afraid?"

  "It's pretty obvious. Cal noticed, too. He told me."

  Adam shifted uncomfortably and didn't speak for a close to half a minute. Finally, his shoulders sank, and he sighed. "Yeah, I guess it is pretty obvious. He just gives off a certain ... vibe. The way he moves, the way dresses, the way he talks. The way he smells. It's all— It reminds me of someone."

  Edie took a shot in the dark based on some of the things he had said throughout the day. "Your father?"

  "Yeah." Adam scrubbed his face. "I didn't mean to make him uncomfortable. That was shitty of me. I usually wouldn't be such a dick about it, but I … I feel like I'm losing my mind."

  "I know exactly how you feel." She paused for a moment before adding, "You can, um, talk to me about it if you want. You don't have to. But you can."

  Adam scanned the park. There weren't many people around, but he seemed more at ease that way. “I’ll tell you some other day, maybe. Just … let’s say he was abusive and leave it at that.”

  "Is he still alive?" she asked softly.

  "I don't know. I haven't spoken to him since I left. My mom's tracked me down and called a few times in the last ... twenty-five years, but it never comes to much. It's just awkward." Adam shrugged limply. "I don't really care if he's alive or dead anymore. When I was younger, I'd have given anything to kill him, but..."

  "Yeah," Edie said, "a lot of your songs kind of, uh, give that impression. Plus, I mean, the fact that you named yourself after the only movie monster famous for having daddy issues.”

  Thankfully, he was amused instead of offended, giving a tiny chuckle. "There are a lot of reasons I chose that name, not just that. Have you ever read the Mary Shelley book?"

  "Eh ... I have a hard time paying attention to books. I didn't do great in school."

  "That's fine. I was just a really weird teenager, I guess." He cracked a weary smile. "The monster that Frankenstein creates actually gives himself a name in the book, y’know."

  Her eyebrows shot up. "Really? What is it?"

  "His name is Adam." He gestured to himself. "When I was young, it seemed like a sign. I felt just like him. A mistake. Made out of parts that didn't fit together right. Then, when I came out wrong, I was rejected. Desperate to find a place to belong. Trying so hard to be a good person and sometimes seeing no point. Feeling like I was dead before I was even born."

  It sounded to Edie like he needed some serious therapy, but she was hardly one to judge. "So, you always felt like an outsider," she said. "I guess I can relate. When I was a kid, everyone my age thought I was a weirdo ... although even as an adult, I'm not exactly popular."

  Adam fingered the tattoos on his wrist in thought. "I wonder if that has anything to do with our ... powers. You know, the hellerune thing."

  "Nah, I'm just kind of a freak. My powers didn't actually show up until a few months ago, when I touched my dead hamster." She looked down at the tattoo on her own wrist—ingwaz, the beginning. "Even after that, it was a real bitch to figure them out. It still is. But yours seem to be, um ... active."

  "I’ve touched dead things before, but my powers—” He loosed an unhinged laugh. “That still feels so weird to say. My powers were definitely around before then. I just ... buried them as deep as I could, however I could."

  "You've used them before, then?"

  "A bit. I could do weird little things. I … I knew I was different, but I always brushed it off." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "It wasn't until a little over a decade ago, I think, that it started getting really hard to ignore. But I couldn't figure out how to use it, even when I really, really needed to. When—" He cut himself off with another sigh.

  Edie raised a brow and waited for him to go on.

  "It was Mikey," he said after a moment.

  "Mikey Mausoleum? Your drummer?" It took her another moment to realize what he was talking about.

  Around a year after Death Benefits had broken up, she remembered her dad telling her Mikey had overdosed and died. If she wasn't mistaken, there had been some speculation that it was a suicide. Dad had been pretty upset about it, so it had upset her, too, even though she hadn't understood the full context. That had been only a year before Dad had died, now that she thought about it.

  "I was there that night," Adam said softly. "I got a weird voicemail and a text from him, so I went over to his place. And I found him, unconscious. I called 9-1-1, but I knew they wouldn't get there in time. His heart was barely beating." He closed his eyes. "But when I touched him ... when I touched him, I could feel that I could save him. Like if I tried, I could keep him alive for a little bit longer."

  Edie nodded. She'd done the same thing for Mercy months ago, but she knew this story didn't have a happy ending.

  "I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I had to try. But I couldn't get it. No matter what I did, I kept slipping, or my magic came on too strong, and..." He hung his head, and she could hear him starting to choke up for the first time since they'd left his apartment. Even talking about his father hadn't gotten such a reaction out of him. "I couldn't do it. Just like with Elle. It was the same fucking thing; I couldn't do it."

  She reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I had to do that once, too, for my friend … if Cal hadn't been there to guide me, I probably wouldn't have been able to save her. It's not your fault you didn't know what to do."

  Adam looked up at her, tears sticking to his dark lashes. His hand shook in hers. "I would have done anything to keep him away from those pills. Anything I needed to do. He and I … if it was because I married Karen, we could have talked. We could have worked it out."

  At that, Edie tilted her head. This was starting to sound less like a good friend had died and more like ... something else. She searched his face for a moment as she considered this.

  Every Death Benefits fan had heard the rumors that Adam and his drummer had been in a secret relationship in their early career, but she’d always brushed that theory off. It seemed disrespectful to speculate on other peoples' lives like that, especially when one of them was a dead guy. Now, she couldn't help but wonder.

  Would it be rude to ask? She waffled before saying to hell with it and taking a leap of faith. "Were you two ... together?"

  There was a brief silence, and Adam drew away, hands fidgeting in his lap. "We … for a while, yeah. We were together. It wasn't really anything serious. We were both in awful places in our lives. We dated around, sometimes came back to each other, but we never really talked in depth about it. I mean … you didn’t. It was the nineties. HIV was still killing people. Mikey and I tried to be careful, but if you were bi and you ever wanted a girl to touch you, you never fucking talked about it. Eventually, I met Karen, and it ended for good."

  "You weren't still...? I mean, you didn't..."

  Adam frowned. "Are you asking if I still had feelings for him?"

  She shrugged in response.

  "Not romantically, but he was still my friend. Things were pretty much how they had always been. But the thought that he never moved on, that it might be my fault that he ... did what he did? I can't handle it."

 
; Edie shifted on the bench, her mind buzzing with about a million more questions than when she'd started. Best not to acknowledge that she was comforting one of her musical idols on a park bench as he cried about his ex-boyfriend, or else her mind would explode. "Sorry, this is a little off-topic, but— You like men and women?"

  "What, you don't?" he returned.

  "I don't really like much of anyone.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “If I decided to be with someone, I guess I’d choose regardless of what gender they were." She considered him. "But why not come out now? No one cares anymore."

  "It's still scary. I had a hard time even admitting it to myself. I've just been ... terrified of what people will say. What if I do it wrong? Like, what if I'm too old to get the culture and stuff? And what if—" He cut himself off and said no more on that subject. Instead, he mumbled, “Maybe don’t tell Cal.”

  Edie squawked. “What, you think he’s going to hassle you for being queer? If you ever heard the way he talks about Cillian Murphy, you wouldn’t be so worried.”

  “Oh. Interesting.” Adam was thoughtful for a moment before sighing miserably. "I just overthink everything. I'm worried about ... everything. I've always been terrified that I'll end up a monster like my father. That I'll hurt someone. I was told that meant I had OCD, but I don’t know if that's even true. If I always sort of knew something was wrong with me—if I always knew I had these powers—then maybe that fear isn't as irrational as everyone says."

  "If your powers make you a monster," she said, "then I'm a monster right along with you. Do you think I'm a monster?"

  "I don't know."

  She rolled her eyes. "The truth is that our parents were terrible. My father ruined lives; yours traumatized and abused you. Basile's mother created him so she could be a queen forever. But the people we come from don't have to be where we go. Genetics aren't destiny. Being a good person or not is a series of choices you make. Some of those choices are easy … some suck, or are painful, or expensive. But no one else makes them for us, parent or not."

  Adam looked down at his lap, fingering his wrist again. "That's not necessarily true. The hellerune thing ... if I don't learn how to control it, my powers could make that choice for me. I could fuck something up and hurt people."

  "We’ll work on that," Edie said, then huffed. "At least you have access to your powers, even if you can't wield them right. I was, like, magically constipated for months."

  He simply smiled in reply.

  "And," she added, "I hope you like free tattoos."

  "I guess I couldn’t complain, considering. Why?”

  She glanced down at her wrists. "Uh ... you'll know when it happens."

  Chapter Twelve

  Scarlet tapped her pen on the blank sheet of paper, head in one hand, trying desperately to concentrate. Penning letters by hand was loathsome, but she still kept a few old friends here and there who couldn't be reached by email. She was starting to think nothing would come of her effort, however; the light that poured through the windows of Indriði's home was cold and harsh and, for someone who preferred the dark, not exactly conducive to focus.

  She'd have liked to claim that the apartment's lighting was the reason she spent most of her time in the Baccarat bar, but, though wights tended to prefer the night, there were no real drawbacks to being in daylight—just that it was annoying, and would probably give her a headache if she got too much of it. No, the real reason she haunted the bar was more humiliating than that.

  For the first time in almost a century, her slow climb up the social ladder had ground to a sickening halt.

  When she'd been assigned to command the Watchers, she'd had such hope. She'd worked her ass off to impress, and when she'd been asked to leave Anster, it had felt like her tenacity and ambition were finally being rewarded.

  Now? It seemed Indriði didn't care how hard she was working, or what progress she was making. She was so focused on Daschla's little side project that it was like Scarlet didn't even exist. And Daschla herself had made it very clear that she thought Scarlet was insignificant.

  It drove the vampire mad. She had traded Zaedicus's tiresome attitude for more of the same garbage. Being around other powerful women was supposed to have given her a place at the table. But it hadn’t. She should be part of the conversation. Under her command, the Watchers had been the catalyst for a Gloaming-occupied Anster.

  The only one who seemed to care about what she was doing was the Wounded. Whenever they spoke, he looked her in the eye; he listened, he considered her input, he trusted her to do what she needed to do.

  That was what had given her the confidence to tattle to him about the Blood Eagles.

  The Wounded had given Indriði a stern talking-to, according to Ilphas. He had let her continue with her pet project but demanded that she divert more time and attention to the New Gloaming and the Watchers. He had even waited for Scarlet to come home so they could go over her plan of action.

  He saw the leader in her. The Gloaming Lord that should be. In return, Scarlet would bring this city to its knees.

  And that was what it needed, wasn't it? She didn’t have to wait for Indriði's permission. She was ready to execute her own plan. If it happened to interfere with Daschla's little human club? Oh well.

  The vampire rose to her feet, abandoning her attempt at letter-writing. There were more important things to do—memos to send, orders to give, supplies to prepare. If she started carrying out her plan now, New York City could be occupied within a week.

  As she reached for her laptop, however, she heard the apartment door open. Daschla's voice called out, "Hello?"

  Scarlet quelled her disgust and reluctantly changed course, heading toward the lounge. As she entered, the blond bitch was peering around the room, two of her red cloaks stationed just outside the open door.

  When she saw Scarlet, her expression flattened. "Oh. Hello."

  "Hello." The vampire refrained from going for the throat, managing to keep her tone friendly, if a bit strained. Daschla's attitude sickened her, and she was a human, not to mention a century her junior—but a secret, shameful part of Scarlet still longed for her approval. "Can I help you with something?"

  There was no attempt to reciprocate even the facade of civility. "No. I'm here for a meeting with Indriði. Where is she?"

  "A meeting?" Scarlet frowned. "What for?"

  "Assessing the state of the Gloaming in the city. Determining what's next. Important things like that."

  Flames licked Scarlet's heart. "I wasn't informed of any meeting."

  "I guess you weren't invited." Daschla shrugged. "I'm sure that elf will be taking notes. Maybe you can ask for a copy."

  "Unless you two are going to be talking about your rallies," the wight returned, "I should be involved. I command the foot soldiers at our disposal, remember."

  Daschla sighed wearily and passed her. "How could I forget, Scarlet? You tell us every two minutes." She sat on the end of the sectional, setting her purse aside and crossing her legs. "I know it's exciting to finally accomplish something in your life, but parading it around doesn't make it more impressive."

  There were no words. It would be so easy to dart over to his worthless, weak child, grab a fistful of her hair, and yank her head right off her shoulders. The pop of her vertebrae separating, the wet, rubbery snap of her tendons and skin being pulled apart—

  Remember the spire. Just imagine her hanging from the spire.

  Scarlet turned away and fled to the washroom, locking the door behind her. She turned the tap and held her shaking hands under the cold water, then ran them up and down her bare arms. For someone to speak to her like that, and to know she could do nothing to punish them ... it transported her to another time and place.

  The baron had taken everything from her. First, he had taken her life: when a brutal illness had swept through her village and killed most of the females, he had done nothing, nothing, to help the people who needed him most. The
n, he had taken her death. Improper burials in shallow graves had caused unrest; women, gray-skinned and thin, tattered and starving, had risen en masse from the ground. He had been there to collect them and bring them to his castle.

  Then, her freedom: he had groomed, fed, and dressed her and the others. He gave them a home, luxuries they never could have dreamed of in their human lives. But his price was undying loyalty, and the penalties for angering him were even more sickening than playing sycophant.

  Some escaped the horror by needling him into killing them; others allowed him to cloud their brains with hypnotic magic. Some, like Scarlet, gave in to his fantasy. It was easier to pretend she was important and treasured than to face the horror going on around her.

  Eventually, she was the only one left. It was only then that she saw the baron for what he truly was: a pathetic old man who was, as it turned out, easily ended. As she walked the world, she soon found there was an overabundance of male wights who were just as beastly and just as easy to kill.

  She let them believe they were above her. She nestled herself in their courts and jumped through their hoops, found her way into their chambers and war rooms. In the end, they all made one final mistake. And they all died for it.

  No one would ever dominate her again, man or woman. She had sworn to herself.

  And yet.

  Scarlet looked up as she heard someone else enter the apartment, heels clacking, happy greetings. The fire in her chest was gone, and her heart and lungs felt like stone. In the mirror, her face was devoid of emotion.

  She turned off the tap and left. If Indriði didn't want her present, she would have to say it to her face.

  But when she entered the living area, there was none of the stony silence she'd gotten from Daschla. Indriði smiled and waved her over. She even ordered Ilphas, who must have come in with her, to add a third glass to the cocktails he was making.

  "Scarlet! I'm glad you're here," the Norn said. "I have some news."