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The necromancer raised his arms in a welcoming gesture. Clenched in his left hand was a ritual knife. “Alone, girl, and I'll let your pet go.”
“Like you let Samson and Igor go?” I called, balling my hand into a fist. Caelan echoed me with a snarl.
Ingram’s eyes narrowed.
The zoo had been constructed before lawsuits changed safety rules: it wasn't as steep or guarded as it would have been if built today. Climbing into the desiccated moat was easy. Caelan took me on his back and we were down. From there, it was a short spring onto the flat land. Without a gardener’s maintenance, small trees had taken up residence in the area, that is, until the necromancer moved in. Not a single leaf hung from their withered boughs.
We stopped beside one tree. Using the knife as a pointer, Ingram offered Caelan a chance to leave. Tail lashing, the wolf curled back his lips. As one, the other wolves returned the gesture.
“I noticed your sister isn’t here this evening.”
“She’s resting,” I said. “This isn’t the place for a pregnant woman.”
The man swore. The wolves swayed with the necromancer’s emotions, mindless, unbreathing creations unless he instructed them otherwise. He rubbed the feather on his ear. “She's a real piece of work.”
I frowned, unsure if I should step closer to get in range of bleeding Ingram, or stay where I was. For now, I decided to play nice. He hadn't done more than call us, and I wasn't eager to unleash the creatures beside him, especially without evidence that the wendigo was inside him.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
He twisted his wrist toward me, using the blade’s edge to underline a name inked upon his skin: Rhetta Pavlou. “She's my wife,” he said. "My bride, my servant, my doll.”
“No,” I said, “No, she’s not. She wouldn’t.”
He laughed, a thunderous crackle through the air. “Were you ever able to make her do anything she didn’t want to do?”
Rhetta had come back from death, hadn’t she? She was undead, a creature a necromancer could command, right? It wasn't because she wanted to. No. Not my own sister. She wouldn't have served Ingram Hayes this on purpose.
I held my tongue.
“I thought so,” Ingram continued. “She does what she wants, girl, and what she wants is her freedom. She'd kill for freedom. As long as she offered a replacement, I agreed.”
“Why get rid of her for me?”
The necromancer wore a pointed smile. “Werewolves are creatures of magic. Can't wield it any more than a fish can cause a tsunami. We need a conduit, and a particular type at that.”
Pain flared up my arm. My body tensed, flinched away from the source with a startled cry.
Ears flat, tail tucked, Caelan dropped my wrist from his mouth. He licked the blood off my shaking fingertips. Hand clutched to my chest, I understood his intent, wanted to act strong, but the only words I could vocalize for a few raw seconds were four letters long.
The necromancer stilled. The color of his eyes snapped to a striking emerald. He drew a dagger along the skin of his forearm, chanting soft French.
Emerald flames whipped around his feet. The dead marched.
Caelan crouched in front of me, snarling. All but Winnie leaped. He disappeared into the writhing mass. Every so often his head would burst through, but another would cover it and he'd be back in the fury of limbs.
The lone holdout stood on her hind legs, head at a funny angle. Behind her, the necromancer turned his arm over the fire. Flames licked his bleeding forearm. When the first drop hissed to emerald smoke, Winnie darted forward faster than I could run, crushed me against her chest and threw me before the fire at Ingram’s feet.
The man set his foot on my knee and stooped.
Long fingers lifted my chin. “There’s still room on my shelf for you, doll.” Ingram, more accurately, the thing possessing him, moved to kiss me.
I slapped him, hefting a hot stone from the fire’s edge into my bitten hand and smashing it into his chest.
The rock hit him at the breast bone in a flash of embers, but no blood raced over his inky designs. Grimacing, he wiped it off. This close, Ingram’s facial structure seemed in double, as if a second skull with different features pushed against his skin.
Icy fingers closed around my throat. I inhaled sharply, once, twice, his grip tightening. I clawed at him, but my nails couldn’t break the skin. He lifted me into the air, higher and higher, the muscles of his arms convulsing, changing forms as if it were a trick of the light.
Within seconds, the wendigo stood gigantic and naked in place of the necromancer. Veins throbbed beneath its ashen, tattooed skin. Every rib, every bone, was visible, pulled together by sinewy muscle and coated in a waxy pallor running from its head to its hooved hind legs. Its skull was elongated, cervine. Tined antlers curled away from its ears. Its head tilted into a smoking, throaty wail. It grinned, mouth filled with rows of razor-edged teeth.
