Page 167 of Dead Vengeance

Jem cackles, warm and loud, a wonderful sound I never thought I’d hear again in the sea of grief and chaos. He drops down onto his knees, straddling Marsden, a hand tightening around his neck. “Tell that to all the other boys you did this to. All the other families you tore apart. All those kids you made run drugs for you before you set them up, murdered them, buried them, just like me.”

My heart stops. It’s so much worse—so much bigger than I could have imagined.

Jem’s smile is pure vengeance. “Bet you didn’t think I’d find friends even more powerful than you, did you?” His spare hand stretches out towards me. “Liam, hand me that stake.”

I search around in the direction he indicates, eyes lighting on a rusted piece of metal stuck into the ground that I hadn’t even noticed before.

There is no hesitation. I rip it out of the grass, half horrified, half fascinated, and hand it over. He twists it in his mortal hands, then presses it against the thin flesh of Marsden’s neck.

“Clothes!” he calls out.

“Naturally,” says Simon. With the swish of his hand, the threads of Marsden’s clothes disintegrate, blowing away on an unnatural breeze.

Jem moves instantly. He rips a line from Marsden’s chin all the way down, splitting his skin in half, tearing flaps wide open along his hips and collarbones.

The screams are loud enough to wake all of London, or raise any of the few dead who aren’t already standing here watching on as if this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in this graveyard. And perhaps it is.

“You fucked with the wrong god, Marsden,” Jem breathes through gritted teeth, ripping the point of the stake down his leg.

A deep, disembodied laugh fills the air. I look around for Tezcatlipoca. He must have chosen to stay invisible for a while, but he’s definitely very close.

“When he says he wants blood,” says Jem, tearing a seam down the other leg, “he wants blood.”

Blood is what he gets. It sprays everywhere. I have never seen a single more horrifying sight in all my life. Jem’s flaying him alive, quickly but carefully, taking his skin off in a way that looks practised.

“Liam,” Jem calls, that same kindness in his voice that he’s always kept for me, so at odds with his actions. “You’re going to want to put your hand over his heart right now.”

I stare down at the bloody and exposed ribcage in front of me. “My hand? On that?”

“It’s what Archer always does,” Simon agrees. “You’re going to transfer the life force from one body to the other.”

“I’m going to…” I stare down at the bloody mess, brain stumbling to keep up.

Life force. Right. That’s what Archer would do. Because he’s a necromancer.

Because I’m… a necromancer!

I’m totally a necromancer now, and I can do this.

I scramble to take my place between the bodies, one lifeless and so beloved by every person here, the other broken and bloody and screaming at the fate he brought on himself.

This is what I must do. I told Tezcatlipoca I would brave any consequence, and he’s given me this gift, so I will.

My hand finds Archer’s stilled heart with the ease of a lover, like coming home to a sanctuary. My other hand is slower to the chest of Marsden, repulsed, but I force it. Just before it touches down, Jem scoops my fingers up, his own slippery with blood. “It’s going to hurt, but you can do this. If anyone can, it’s you.”

The way he looks at me, it’s like I’m blasted back ten years, sitting in his room, listening to music, him giving me questionable life advice, but always the best big brother.

He’s back. Archer gave me that. Archer was willing to die for that. And I’ll be damned if I let a man like Marsden take his precious life.

I slam my hand down on the ribcage. The second I make contact, pain sears through my flesh like it’s blistering, boiling off. Marsden’s still screaming, his body shaking all over, and as Jem moves his gory work to Marsden’s arms, I wonder how much longer he can last.

I have to do this. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I have to do this.

I try my best to shut out the blood and horror and screams, force my hand to stay hard against the searing heat of the still-beating heart, imagining his energy racing through me, spilling into Archer’s body.

Then something shifts inside me. Something clicks. An urge, all natural, like breathing. Like magic, of the darkest and most painful kind, a strange and beautiful and ferocious energy shoots through my arm, through my chest, and down my other arm.

It’s working.