Ignoring my phone, I switch it to ‘do not disturb’, staring pensively at the screen. Technically, I’m obligated to answer calls from the MPP, but who’s here to prove I’m ignoring it? It’s possible I’m immersed in a raising or banishing, although normally all necro activities are registered through the MPP so they can take their piece of the profit. I could be on vacation. Maybe I just forgot to take myself off the rosters temporarily. That being said, I’ve always prided myself on my professionalism and there’s only so long that I can practice avoidance. This is the third call in as many days that I’ve not returned. Eventually, there will be sanctions if I don’t answer a summons, or formally declare myself inactive. Calculating my current bank balance in my head, I sigh in surrender and thumb my phone screen on, knowing I should at least prepare myself for whatever’s coming.
A small tickle of awareness whispers through the fine hairs at the base of my neck, like walking through an invisible cobweb that clings to your body and resists being brushed away. Craning my neck, I lean around the chair and scan the square outside to see if Jonathan has made a move. Instead, a slight movement catches my peripheral vision inside.
There. Sitting across the room. And staring directly at me.
Bright green eyes, reminiscent of Hades’, focus intently on my face in an unblinking stare. Small plumes of heat creep across my cheeks as I shift abruptly, realizing I’m sitting with my knees wide open while wearing a skirt. Shit. I go to drop my legs and realize my tablet is covering my lap and my skirt is covering my knees. No harm, no foul—although I shift again slightly to straighten my spine, and take my own turn examining him.
Short, dark curls crop across strong brows, while full lips cheat the sharp jaw and cheekbones from severity. There’s a rough quality in the slightly crooked nose, which looks like it’s been broken at least once, and some five o’clock shadow that makes him more wicked than attractive. A black turtleneck tucks into worn jeans, set off by high laced black boots with steel tips. Fashion statement or function? Hard to tell, but my stare seems to be all the invitation needed as he rises from the chair and heads my way.
No, no, no, that’s not supposed to happen. You were not being summoned, although he is quite fine to look at.
“You must be Taryn.” He acknowledges my name with a nod as I frown, trying to figure out if I should know him.
“Umm, hi.” My hand flutters in a self-conscious half-wave as my gaze travels up the lean body. “I’m sorry. Should I know you?”
I hate being at a loss for a name, it seems so rude. But I really think I would have remembered that face if we had met before. I’m not usually attracted to the classically pretty boys. I like the guys that smell like trouble—like he does.
I try to take a small sniff, and end up inhaling deeply of the raw edge of burnt leather tempered by eucalyptus and wintergreen, before sighing in pleasure. That’s a smell you’d like to wrap around you on a chilly night with a bottle of red wine for comfort.
“Did you just sniff me?” Amused eyes cause me to flush more deeply as I try to look offended, knowing he caught me with my nose where it doesn’t belong.
“No! Of course not. It’s allergy season, you know. Lots of pollen.” I wave my hand vaguely again, knowing I must look as ridiculous as I feel. “How can I do you?” Oh my god! Stop blathering. “I mean, what can I do for you?”
Thank God no one else was around to witness my blunder.
“Why don’t I get you another tea and we’ll talk?” Without waiting for an answer, he heads toward the register while I sink further into the chair, trying to disappear, then quickly straighten, rearranging my dress more demurely around my legs so that I don’t inadvertently embarrass myself further with a peep show.
Dear lord, my mortification knows no end.
More cookies slide onto the small table next to me while the steam from a fresh cup of chamomile calms me. A loud screech disturbs my first sip as a simple cafe chair lands in front of me, straddled by long, denim-clad legs.
“We need your help.” Ahh… Mr. Green Eyes finally gets to the point.
“Who are we? And perhaps more importantly, who are you? I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” I take a sip of my tea, giving the cookies some wistful side-eye, and pretending they don’t exist as I’ve reached my cookie quotient for the day.
Luckily, I was never stellar at math, and my fingers inch ever so slowly toward the plate.
“We are the MPP. I’m Treat Ashworth.” One strong hand diverts my own from its path to cookiedom, and engulfs my fingers in a strong, warm grip.
Well, cookies be damned. My cheeks blossom with warmth once again as his citrine eyes darken slightly, and my tongue moistens suddenly dry lips. Treat Ashworth is a legend in the slayer community. I know because Roger used to reference him incessantly in the short time we were together. Admired by men, fantasized about by women, only to be eclipsed by…
“Is this seat taken?” Another loud screech announces a new arrival who can only be Trick Ashworth.
Disheveled blonde mohawk? Check. Hazel bedroom eyes? Check. Full lips and teasing smile? Check. Trick is like the brightly polished version of Treat. I’ve only seen him in photos, but everything I’ve heard over the years, along with the resemblance to Treat in the full lips and shape of the eyes, assures me that I must be right. What on earth are two of the country’s best slayers doing here? With me.
“You must be Taryn.” It’s like a strange case of deja vu as his hand also engulfs mine in warmth.
“She sniffed me.” Treat’s words are bland, his tone amused, as he watches his brother straddle his own chair in a similar fashion.
“Yeah? Well, she’s still alive, so apparently you’re not completely toxic yet.”
“I have allergies.” My words are plaintive as I try to hold my breath, so as not to be accused of sniffing Trick, too.
Of course, I just end up limiting my air until I’m practically gasping for breath, and inhaling a lungful of something spicy like vetiver tempered with musk, and that same undertone of wintergreen. As heat pools between my thighs, I realize I’m going to hell. Who knew hell smelled like wintergreen?
“Sure, I get it.”
Reaching across, Trick snatches a cookie off the plate as I watch it crunch satisfyingly between bright white teeth. I’m mesmerized as his tongue flashes to catch the sugary remnants from his lips, and I wonder how it would feel sweeping across my own. The sparkle in his eyes shows he knows exactly what I’m thinking as I turn back to Treat, who watches us both, resigned.
“Can we save playtime until later and focus, please?”
As sensitive as I am to smell (I can’t even walk into a candle store), I’m also a sucker for a sexy voice. Treat has that deep, low-pitched baritone rumble like a saxhorn, that has a tendency to make me sweat in all the right places.
Realizing where my thoughts are drifting, I try to focus on the men before me and get to the crux of why they’re sitting here, rather than why I’m acting as awe-struck as a teenager meeting their celebrity crush.
“How can I help you?” There, I sound aloof and uninterested. No fan-girling necessary. “I see I just missed a call from the MPP. I was about to check in.”
Treat’s smile is mocking. He knows I’ve been avoiding their calls and apparently they’ve sent him as an emissary to ensure I’m paying attention.
“Have you noticed any excess activity lately?” Treat’s words are serious and I pull my thoughts to business.
“Not really.” I search for examples of recent paranormal activity. “A spectral cat visited me last night. It disappeared by morning. I saw a dog last week. And maybe a few rabbits before that…” My eyes widen as I realize I have been seeing the souls of dead animals more frequently in the last three weeks. Not that animals don’t die naturally in the wild, but it’s unusual for them to seek me out. Usually it’s only when something is awry in the unnatural world. “Oh, I completely missed the pattern.”
“Not surprising,” Trick says soothingly, scooting his chair closer to mine. “When we’re out of work mode, we choose to ignore what we don’t need to see. Has there been a pattern to the general area? Can you tell if they died a natural death?”
“The dog was miles away, near the shopping center. Rabbits have been popping up here and there around town. The cat was in my bed.”
Treat and Trick’s eyes meet, as if silently exchanging thoughts, but cautious about sharing those thoughts with me. Now that I knew what we were talking about, a little shiver of fear swept down my spine. Animals usually stay near the site where they’re killed. That one ended up in my bed meant that whatever killed it was close to my cottage. My tea turns to acid in my stomach as I contemplate what’s killing animals throughout town.
“You heard about Zombiegate, right?” Trick’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“You’re kidding.” I deadpan.
“Nope. And from what we can tell, someone is raising zombies close by.”
“Jesus.” I flop back in my chair, stunned at the implications.
If you’re in a more rural community like I am, it’s easy to ignore how much activity has increased in some more heavily populated areas. Even after two months, the situation is still somewhat volatile. Here are the facts: someone recklessly revealed one of the most highly kept secrets of the MPP to the public—and no matter how much PR we threw at it to defuse the situation, you can’t force people to unsee it.
Throughout the decades, the Magical and Paranormal Police had carefully fostered the belief that it was difficult to raise a zombie—something that the average person could never do. A belief that benefited us. But now that someone has shown the public just how easy it is, zombies have been popping up with increasing frequency, straining the overworked ranks of slayers and drawing banishers into a more precarious position.
Raising the dead—easy. Slaying or banishing them—not so much.
A fact that was conveniently omitted by the asshat who shared his ‘discovery’ on the internet. Why? Because the zombie he raised killed him before he could finish telling the story. And while the MPP had the video pulled within minutes of its release, like most things on the internet these days, it’s impossible to keep screenshots and downloads from popping up again like cockroaches. Here’s a tip—never post anything online that you don’t want to come back to haunt you one day. Zombiegate had become the paranormal world’s virtual skeleton in the closet.
The Necromancer ranks are a relatively small and tight-knit group. As an adjunct of the Magical and Paranormal Police, it’s our job to keep the things that go bump in the night away from the notice of the public. While we normally see an uptick in paranormal activity every year at Halloween, this year looked like it was going to break records—all thanks to some bone-headed frat boy who thought zombies would make a great mascot.
Was it really so long ago that I was so young and casual about death? I mean, death is a natural part of life. But it’s supposed to be permanent. The truth is that the unfortunate trend to raise the dead for all kinds of mundane reasons has become quite a profitable side industry.
People will find a million self-serving reasons to disturb the dead, especially if there’s money, reputation, or power involved. Need closure to say I’m sorry for misdeeds perpetrated while the deceased was alive? (The dead don’t care). Or the chance to convince someone that you’ll always love them, the affair was all just an unfortunate mistake? (Fuck you). Then there are the requests for help to find important paperwork, possessions, recipes (yes, I know Grandma’s sour cream bundt cake won four blue ribbons, but you’ll never do it justice).
Yet, no matter how much warning they’re given, it always shocks people when the dead look… well, dead… and not like some shiny vampire from a fantasy book, when they insist on bringing them back for their own personal gratification.
Here’s the truth. Death is messy. And dirty. Hold the halo.
Ghosts, at least, stay closer to their original form while zombies are far from the angelic spirit that has crossed over. With zombies, there’s very little reasoning. They operate solely on hunger and sense memory. The protocol for raising any spirit is clear—reanimate the soul, retrieve necessary information, banish back to the other side. The longer a ghost lingers, the greater the chance for it to become corporeal, hence a zombie is born. Once a zombie is sub-sentient its independence grows stronger. After a certain point, they can’t be controlled, except through hunger for food, drugs, or sex.
Still, money is money, and the MPP is not above funding other experimental projects by safely raising the dead—for a price. But for every soul raised, one needs to be banished. That’s where I come in. I’m a master necromancer. I can raise and banish without losing control. Sloppy necromancers are the ones who lose the reins and need a slayer to save their asses when they inadvertently turn a ghost into a zombie.
The stories about Slayers being the chosen ones are highly exaggerated. It’s more about skill. Zombies are extremely difficult to kill. Even when dismembered, the body parts can work independently and will do everything to reunite with their missing pieces. Slice, dice, and incinerate. That’s the slayers’ code of ethics.
For necromancers, there’s a moral obligation. There’s no legal path to raising a zombie, mostly because all reanimation requires a necromancer to recall part of the soul, and since 1841, The Soul Reanimation Act has prohibited the destruction of souls. This was enacted after some diehard revolutionaries took Napoleon on one last glory ride for a shot at a new French republic. It never occurred to them that a reanimated Napoleon might not follow their plans. Luckily, the island of St. Helena was not heavily populated. By the time a banisher arrived to work their magic, a zombie Napoleon was too strong to send back to the grave.
It took four slayers two days to dismember and burn the body. That’s when his body was formally reburied on sacred ground in 1840. The church demanded one million dollars in recompense for the destruction of his immortal soul, a fortune in those days. Pretty ironic since Napoleon had continually downplayed the pope’s authority during his reign. Payback, as they say, is a bitch.
“So now what?” I ask as Treat and Trick start collaborating over something on Treat’s cell phone screen, ignoring me in the process.
“First, we protect you. Someone got very close last night. We’re here to make sure they don’t get closer.” Treat’s serious gaze is reassuring until Trick chimes in.
“Next, we hunt.”