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“James mentioned he crashed at your interview’s home,” I said. “Who knew about your meeting?”
Caelan frowned. “Suppose I’ll be inquiring after my team.”
After tonight, I needed to engage in serious research and some lighthearted viewing to keep my spirits lifted. Sam and Dean Winchester marathon weekend sounded excellent, provided I survived the rest of the week.
A breeze carried decay through the painted gates. We stood once more over the body. I bent and closed the werehyena’s eyes. “So, we’re dealing with a necromancer and some type of demon or demon-like thing,” I began. “That explains how James kept talking after you annihilated him. Doesn’t explain the whispering in my ear, though.”
Caelan’s eyes as he turned contained a flash of predatory fascination. “It does what now?”
I rubbed my arm. “Whispers. Touches me in my sleep, sometimes, unless the latter’s my overactive imagination. I felt it in Stag Hill stronger than ever, calling my name, running its claw down my back when there was nothing around. The feeling disappeared when we neared James, or I was too distracted to notice. I heard it again in your truck.” Sirens howled through the uneasy peace. “It’s quiet now.”
“When did this start?”
“End of January. We’d received a heavily damaged painting at work. I was assigned to the restoration.” Embarrassed, I ground a pebble underneath my shoe. “I began having these horned up dreams starring this green-eyed nobody from a night circus. At first I thought, whatever, it’s a dream and it’s pretty damn hot. Good for me, right? But the man kept appearing. His face changes from night to night, he was even Keith, once.” Blushing, I quickly added. “Not you. He’s never looked like you.”
“Should I be offended, Miss Davins?”
“Nah, I haven’t gotten much sleep since meeting you. I’m sure you’ll turn up.”
His smile grew then quickly faded. “How do you know it’s the same man?”
“No matter his face, his eyes are the most intense emerald. Over time, my dreams decayed. What he did gradually darkened and now when I close my eyes what I see is dead and what I—Shit!”
A werewoman's pale face leered out from the darkness over Caelan’s shoulder. Right arm a twitching nub, eyes clouded and fangs bared, the woman lunged forward in a frayed skirt and blouse. I pushed him aside and flung the flashlight at her. It cracked her gnashing teeth and clattered to the pavement. Touching her fangs as if in disbelief, she staggered to a halt.
The sheriff regained his balance, held up a hand to halt my apology and walked behind her quicker than she could shamble. She made a weak lunge for him. He dodged and knocked her over the werehyena. Her chin bounced off the corpse’s chest, where she lay dead and cold as ice.
Caelan nudged her heel, waited, then gathered both her feet into his hands and dragged her toward Stag Hill.
Her toes flexed. One bruised knee twitched. The sheriff released, moved to her reanimating torso and dragged her back beside the hyena.
Dead.
Alive.
In the span of three feet.
“High number of victims, electrical interference, high level corpse management: I’d say the Second Head’s running quite the black magic carnival. Would have laid the spell a week in advance and triggered it this evening: anything dead within the established perimeters, free for possession. Anything outside the limits, dead again.” He gestured at the darkness. “Mighty impressive cast range. Can’t fathom why he’d let us escape.”
Underneath a night sky that added shades of bruises to my bloodstains, I searched the road for stragglers. “What do we do?” I called to the sheriff, whose attention remained fixed on the twinkling, peaceful entry to Stag Hill.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Kill the necromancer before he kills you.”
chapter 16
AND THEY CALL FOXES SLY
Wind billowed the woman’s sleeve. She lay in disheveled repose, blonde hair knotted against a fragmented skull. I straightened her body and brushed her curls over the damage.
Caelan cleared his throat, but a screaming howl stopped whatever he’d been about to say.
The thread from death to undeath had unraveled to its limit. Despite knowing this, at the piercing cry I scrambled about ten feet away from the bodies.
The sheriff scanned the road and woods, but the night where we stood had crept into normalcy: crickets and spring peepers, a fox's stiff bark, the click of a doe’s heels as she crossed the road behind the tailgate.
Rubbing his tattoo, the sheriff leaned against the dented hood and looked me over from ratty ponytail to chipped toenail polish. “If you’re planning on partnering with me, you need to understand this kind of danger is regular and expected.”
“And inevitable, in my case.”
