Chapter 11

"The end... motherfuckers." Oh, sweet relief. I fucking finished.

I slammed the laptop shut after making sure that I saved the file and the email to Keeks went through. Then I stood and stretched, my bones cracking and my muscles protesting from being stuck in the same position for hours on end.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or cheer. I'd finished enough books to know that there was a definite ebb and flow to the creative process, but there was always a punch of anxiety that this would be the one that did me in. The one where writer's block and that blank page with its taunting black cursor would win. But no. I took that story and I made it my bitch. Now the publisher could get off my back, and maybe I'd be able to write my new passion project in peace.

No shade to Rebel and her boys. I'll always love them and I wrote a hell of a sequel, but that hadn't ever been the plan. Theirs was a stand-alone story until the publisher insisted I give them more. Nothing was worse than creatively thinking a project was finished, only to find out you had to go back and mine the empty, well, mine, for more gold.

Forgive my less-than-stellar metaphors; my brain was absolute sludge. I needed a drink—or ten. Probably a shower. Definitely a meal involving a vegetable, or at least one that didn't come out of a cardboard box. But first... fresh air.

I'd been cooped up in my room for days. I needed to remind myself what the sky looked like. Maybe touch some grass. What was that thing the guy in Die Hard said? Make little fists with my toes in it. Or did that only work on carpet after traveling? Whatever, it sounded good. It was supposed to help with something, and frankly, I could use all the help I could get.

I was always more zombie than human after finishing a project. I needed a day or two to return to myself and the world of the living. Lucky for me, I didn't see any of my men lurking in the hall or near Blackwood's front door. Not that I didn't want to see them, but after days of obeying my wishes and giving me space, they deserved me at my best, not barely able to function. A walk would set me back to rights. There was an undeniable pang of guilt, though. I knew they'd want to see me as soon as possible. Which meant I should make the most of this walkabout. Clear the cobwebs from the social function portion of my brain and make sure I could give them all of me when the time came.

If I was being honest, I wouldn't reject any of them if I saw them. A neck rub from Tor with those enormous hands would probably send me into some kind of pleasure-induced seizure. The problem was, I wouldn't be in a place where I could reciprocate, and turnabout was fair play, in all things.

The cold winter air bit at my skin as I strode aimlessly through the grounds, not making eye contact with any of the residents if at all possible. I needed somewhere quieter, less populated. You'd think the fucking snow would keep them indoors. You'd be wrong. Supernaturals ran hot by nature. A little snow was the equivalent of a balmy breeze to most of them.

I huffed, kicking at the bare branches of a bush that had grown enough to encroach on the path.

"Hey!" a tiny voice squeaked, reminding me once again that more than just the residents of Blackwood called this land their home.

"Oops, sorry!" I called, cheeks burning with embarrassment as I walked a little faster.

By the time I reached the crest of yet another fucking hill, I was huffing and puffing because of the speed I'd used to escape my shame. But everything came to a standstill, shame forgotten, as my blood ran cold at the sight of the kirkyard only a few feet from me.

I hadn't meant to come here.

The scene of the crime. Or rather, the scene of my attempted murder.

My eyes were drawn immediately to the slab of stone that Sam had used as his altar. It was still stained with pools of my dried blood. Though it had snowed on and off the last few days, the wind had blown most of it to the ground, so the dark blotches stood out in sharp relief against the gray and white of the snow and stone.

It was clear no one visited this place, not even a groundskeeper. And why would they? If you died at Blackwood, you were already one of the forgotten. A shiver worked its way down my spine. That had very nearly been me.

A low hum built inside me, reminding me of something I'd been neglecting since my attack. My work with the lost souls of Blackwood. Even if the Ripper was gone, they still had something keeping them here, didn't they? Maybe it was up to me to help them cross over. Or something. I was still super hazy on the details of what I was supposed to be doing with my power.

From what little I've pieced together, necromancers weren't exactly heroes. Granted, the only thing I really had to go off was my father and his culty minions. And then there was my mom. Was she a telepath? Was that where I got my set of pipes? When a necromancer and a mind-melter love each other very much... for all I knew, my dad killed her right after I was born. Sacrificed her to the goddess Death.

Yeah, I definitely couldn't use my father as the exemplar of my kind. That seemed like a one-way ticket to, well, here, I guess.

Maybe I did belong locked away at Blackwood. My kind didn't seem like they were born to be do-gooders. Could a necromancer be a good person?

Why did it suddenly feel like I was debating major philosophical points with myself? This was not the relaxing stroll I'd planned on, but I guess I'd been avoiding dealing with all these unanswered questions about myself. And you could only live in denial for so long. So... what the heck was I? And did I get a say in what that looked like?

Ugh, as far as I knew, I was the only one of my kind at Blackwood, unless you counted Hades, and he wasn't a necromancer so much as a whole-ass god. So that was more like comparing apples to pomegranates. Heh. See what I did there?

Dr. Masterson really had her work cut out for her if she thought she was going to help me be any kind of productive member of Blackwood's community. So far all I'd been able to do was get haunted, kidnapped, and toss souls into inanimate objects. I couldn't even solve crimes.

Crimes that were kinda sorta your fault.

Fuck off, inner me. No one asked for a guilt trip today. Sam might have only ended up here because he had me in his sights, but that didn't make me responsible for all his other victims.

Still, maybe I should try to help them. Just to even out the karmic scale. If there was such a thing as a karmic scale. Not all necromancers, am I right?

Taking a deep breath, I shored up my strength and walked into the cemetery, my blood buzzing from the energy within the gates. When I found a grave without a soul attached to it, I perched on the headstone and closed my eyes.

"Okay, everyone. The Dahlia Moore spiritual helpline is now open for business. Step right up."

It didn't take long for the energy surrounding me to change. The air all but sizzled with the arrival of not one, not two, but thirteen mother-effin' ghosts.

For a split second, I really regretted my cattle-call approach. But then I realized none of these souls carried any of the tells associated with the malevolent spirit. The only reason I was overwhelmed was because of the sheer volume of them surrounding me. I wondered if there was such a thing as a spirit circuit breaker. A way for me to control how many of them came through at one time so as not to short myself out.

"One at a time, guys," I said, holding up my hands as they advanced.

The group of them stopped with my gesture, which reminded me once more that I could do a lot more with them than simply talk. If I needed to, I could send them packing.

Feeling a whole heck of a lot better, I sat up a little straighter. "You," I said, pointing to a man who looked a little bit like a pilgrim in his black-on-black-on-black garb and heeled shoes. If the sixteen hundreds had a Vogue, this guy would have been the centerfold.

The rest of the gathered ghosts looked around as if wondering who the you I referenced was. The man in question pointed at himself.

"Yes, you," I confirmed with a nod. "The John Smith looking motherfucker."

"My name is Edward."

"Of course it is."

"Edward is a family name. It's one of the most honorable things a man can do for his child, pass on his father's name."

I rolled my eyes. "Okay. Whatever you say, Ed. What are you hanging around this cemetery for?"

His face contorted into an ugly sneer as he floated a little closer. "I need a witch to finish my great work."

"What great work was that? Because it probably took some pretty bad shit for you to end up in Blackwood."

"A curse set upon the family Reeves."

"Why do you want to curse them?"

"They besmirched my good name."

"Besmirched, huh? How so?"

"They told all and sundry I raped their daughter."

"And did you?"

"Well, yes."

"NEXT!"

"But you didn?—"

"NEXT!" I grabbed him by the energy ball that was his soul and tossed that asshole straight back into his grave. "Straight to the trash," I grumbled. Four of the remaining ghosts vanished, and I rolled my eyes. "Oh good, I love when the trash takes itself out."

Another ghost, this one a woman with some serious Farrah Fawcett hair, floated closer.

I raised a brow at her. "What sort of help are you looking for?"

She closed the distance between us, her cold energy making me shiver, but now that I'd met one or two in the flesh, I recognized her as a succubus. "I need you to tell me what time that sexy Thor look-a-like takes his showers. I keep missing them, and I have so few pleasures left. I used to date a Viking once upon a time. I'm desperate for a peek at a Scandinavian foot-lo?—"

Straight to the trash once again. "NEXT!"

No one seemed eager to step forward this time, so I pointed at my next victim. "You, Willy Wonka with the hat."

A man in a purple leisure suit and matching top hat floated into my ‘office.'

"This better be good, mister. I'm not here to help rapists or perverts."

"I need you to find the bundle I hid under the floorboards of my room. Find it and destroy it. That's the only evidence they'll ever have?—"

I held up my hand, sensing where this was going. "Evidence for what?"

"To prove I killed that shifter pack in Sydney."

"That was you?" one of the other ghosts asked, sounding far too fucking reverent for my liking.

He grinned and dusted off his nearly translucent lapel. "Never even saw it coming. Only one who's ever come close to being as seamless as me was her," he said, jutting his chin toward me. "A whole cult with just a scream. I'm in awe."

Anger built swift and furious within me. "I was already going to give you the brush off for being a murderer, but you really sealed your fate with that one." This time, instead of shouting next, I let out a frustrated scream, tossing my arm away from me as if sending a shower curtain flying open. The ghosts scattered, gone as if they'd never been there at all.

Hopping off the gravestone, I crossed my arms over my chest and began pacing through the rows, grumbling to myself. "These clearly aren't the ghosts I am supposed to be helping."

"Well, young lady, what do ye expect? They're villains, all of them."

I turned around to find a nearly corporeal man standing at the entrance to the Mackenzie poltergeist's tomb.

"Let me guess, you're Mackenzie?"

He chuckled, his raven-winged top hat catching my eye as he removed it with a bow. "Adonis D. Edman, at your service. Mackenzie's likely out pinching the bottoms of every lass he can find right about now. He loves to leave a mark, he does."

There was something about this spirit that was different from the others I'd encountered thus far. He was almost solid, for starters. And I couldn't seem to get a read on his energy the way I could the others. It was closer to static than anything.

"Were you a resident here?"

He shook his head. "I lived in the village. Just a normal man made magic by the hand of death. My purpose here on this side of the afterlife is to share the lore of Briarglen and warn people of the perils of venturing into Blackwood territory."

"So you're like the town crier?" I joked, thinking he certainly looked the part.

"More like a messenger, if ye will."

Something about that title sent chills skittering down my spine. I couldn't shake the sense that a skeleton had risen from the bowels of its grave to score my back with the tips of its bony fingers.

Death was here in a way that was becoming all too familiar.

"And do you have a message for me, Mr. Edman?" I asked, knowing in my gut that's exactly why he was here.

He grinned wickedly, his weirdly mirrored irises flashing. "The Ripper wasn't the main event. He was the appetizer. An amuse-bouche, if you will."

"What?" I asked as the words sank in. "My bouche is not amused."

His smile remained fixed in place. "No, lass. Nor should it be. He was a sign of ill tidings indeed."

"For a messenger, you sure speak in riddles," I muttered, hating everything about where this was going.

"She's already here, slinking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment. If you're not careful, you'll walk straight into her web. Mothers are like that, you know."

My blood turned to ice, and I froze in place. For a second, not even my heart seemed to beat. "Wh-what was that?"

Adonis doffed his cap once more. "Heed my warning, lass, and watch yer back. It won't be long now. Not at all."

With that, he started back the way he came, whistling a jaunty little tune as if he hadn't just turned my shit upside down.

A soft touch brushed the back of my neck, and I screamed bloody murder as I whirled around, ready to cut a bitch. But instead of a psychotic killer, I found my psychotic lord of the underworld.

Hades smirked. "What's the matter, baby doll? You look like you've seen a ghost."