Chapter 5

CHAPTER

FIVE

Death.

It hangs in the air like a poison, a noxious shroud that spreads out like spores and crawls up the walls. We didn’t have to go far into the old factory before it landed on us like a disease, causing us to change our approach.

The fence surrounding the place had long ago lost any ability to keep people out, the barbs at the top stripped away and falling in lazy spirals. Several spots around the bottom of the failing perimeter were bent back and split, easy enough to slip though. The true defense was where the artifacts were supposedly stashed.

Ushen’s intel was always reliable, but sometimes the details weren’t exactly correct. In this instance, the wendigo was mistaken about there being a third floor. There were only two floors above ground, which were barren landscapes of crumbling flooring and rotting machinery.

There was, however, a dark basement that would be perfect to hold goods they didn’t want found.

It was also where the death smell was coming from.

Because of course it was.

I was less than thrilled about going into the dark, especially when I knew dead things were down there.

Sure, I charged into vampire dens often, and was—dare I say—pretty damn good at it. Zane’s previous mention of my “training” (which still bothered me) was rooted in the specifics of vampire extermination, and I had years of honing those skills to become a professional fang murderer.

The first rule of killing unnatural dead things was simple:

Prepare.

Before any of us dashed into the unholy hiding places of the damned, we had to stock up on all the fun equipment needed to not only turn the bloodsucking beasts into soup but to also keep ourselves alive.

Guess what I hadn’t done before we left?

Sharp stabs of ice had begun to form at the base of my belly, crystalizing up my spine once I realized the smell was too strong for it to have been an animal. It was a body, a person, somewhere in the darkness that we had to wander into.

And my stupid ass wasn’t prepared for it to be anything other than regular dead.

The awful embarrassment of my lapse in training compounded with my ever-present unhappiness about being in the dark made the back of my tongue acidic, along with my attitude.

Zane was blissfully quiet, and didn’t remark on my heart hammering through my ribs as we made our way down. The metal stairs rattled as we descended, one of the steps falling below after we passed over it. Grit slid under my boot as we stepped onto the bottom floor, the light stopping just shy of the basement entrance.

“You have your owl’s eye drops so you can see better?” Zane asked, his voice echoing up the groaning stairwell.

“Of course not,” I answered like a viper strike. “I would only have enough for one eye anyway. I’m almost out.” I fished my phone from my pocket and tapped the front-facing light on, handing it to Zane. “Point that over my shoulder as I lead. I need my hands free.”

“Is your charm sensing anything?”

The magic detector charm was humming in the baseline aggravation of being next to me, perpetually warning me of my own death magic. There were no spikes, no pulses, nothing to indicate anything obviously magical.

“No. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t magic-suppressing charms or something in there.” I pulled my gun free and checked the bullets, grinding my teeth that they weren’t blessed. If it was a vampire den, it was going to be a rough ride. I told Zane over my shoulder, “Follow my sightline.”

Zane gave a single nod, calm and cool wandering into the darkness that reeked of death.

We entered slowly, Zane following my sweep of the area with my phone’s light. The basement was a long stretch of open floor with support beams, dusty crates and machine parts. Decades of spider lineage hung from the corners and draped over busted gears, rodents taking up residence in the machines and wooden crates.

The dirt under our footsteps crunched and scraped along the cement floor, dusty footprints made by modern footwear led further into the belly of the basement. Had the place not been monopolized by the foul odor of decay, we probably would have picked up the stench of old grease and animal waste.

Zane followed behind me, matching my pace, the light following wherever I aimed the barrel of my gun. Darkness and death made my heart bounce around my torso like it was a rubber ball thrown by a sadistic child. A scratching sound of a fleeing mouse caused me to whip around and aim, cussing at it, myself, and the world.

“Ahead,” Zane told me once my heart was done having an attack. “There’s a body lying near a beam.”

I followed where he aimed the light, the cause of the death smell coming into view.

At the far end of the basement, near some busted crates and a tangle of wires, the top of a man’s head was poking out from behind a cement beam. A pool of dark, sticky mess haloed out from his hair, the exit wound obvious even from a distance.

The body was too still to be anything dangerous.

Relief washed over me like an ocean wave warmed by a summer sun. There were no undead things lurking in the dark just out of view, nothing that was hungry to stab its teeth into my neck. That warmth would be short-lived as we pieced together the scene around us.

We approached careful and cautious, mice no longer terrifying me for sport, until we could get close enough to take in more of the scene. The man was an imp; two black, short horns among the messy hair on his head. Remnants of broken wards were scattered across the ground, crystal and gem fragments catching the light in earthy rainbows. A string that had once been a simple binding spell was tangled up and tossed aside.

Someone stormed through here like a tornado and destroyed everything.

They also knew how to dismantle spells, which meant this guy might be worth knowing.

In the mess of broken rocks and shattered bits of charms, drops of blood arced around the beam and led back in the direction we had come from. Seemed like one of the charms may have worked before it was torn down, probably a tripwire reaction paired with a defense ward.

The magic itself couldn’t physically harm anyone, but the force of an expanding ward with some knives or a box of nails attached would fling them at you like a soundless bomb.

Deadly shit if you knew how to set it up.

Our poor imp had been shot between the eyes, probably only a day prior, the look of surprise still stuck to his face.

Beyond the crime scene were long trails of pushed dirt, evidence of something massive being wheeled around and moved.

Like crates filled with important, illegal goods that were now long gone.

“Shit,” I breathed. “I think someone else had the same idea.”

“I imagine Marthas has plenty of people who would want to come after his stash,” Zane mused. “But does anyone in particular come to mind?”

“No one that would want to start a war.” I put my gun away and kicked at the shoe of the dead guy. “That’s one of his guys for sure. Someone surprised him.”

“There’s a lot of charms and wards here.” Zane kneeled and picked up a piece of rock. “Tourmaline. It still buzzes a little bit with the protection ward that was attached. That’s impressive.”

“Marthas can afford the pricy witches.”

“Can we get a tracking spell? Maybe whoever was here can be traced.” Zane tossed the rock down and stood, knocking dust from his jeans.

“We’d need fresher blood or some hair for that. These drops are too old.”

Zane stood over the body of the dead imp, giving him a passive once-over.

“I think even with the brain damage, you’d still get some useful information from him.”

I knew it was coming, but I still groaned my frustration to the ceiling.

“It’s the best lead we have, hunter,” Zane reminded me. “Otherwise, the trail is as cold as he is.”

“Yes, yes, funny vampire. I get it.” My hands started to tingle with the phantom sensation of feeling them turning to bone. “I can agree with the idea and still hate it.”

“It won’t be as bad as the first time.”

I stared at the dead guy for a long time, only a little distracted by the smell and my creeping dread.

“I don’t like how the necromancy magic makes me feel,” I said to the dead body and therefore Zane by proxy.

“I can ground you, and keep you from reaching too far into the void.”

“How?”

“My purpose is to be the grounding rod and to protect you.” Zane nodded to the body. “Put your hands on him, let the magic travel through you into the beyond. I’ll be right here.”

Shards of rock poked through my jeans as I kneeled, the sticky smell of death cloying and invasive. Tiny pinpricks of magic danced over my palms and the tips of my fingers as I reached for the body, hungry for the excuse to come out to play.

“Did Sandros—” I started to ask, feeling unsure if I should. I knew Zane could feel my guilt nipping at me for being such a jerk earlier with my questions.

“Go ahead.”

I wiggled my fingers as I asked, “Did he ever get the weird skeleton hands?”

“No, but he also wasn’t fighting the magic either.”

“Fair.” I adjusted in the dirt, exhaling all of my feelings out through my lips. “God, I hate this.”

“Focus.” Zane took a knee beside me and placed my phone down near the body. The light remained bright, casting stark shadows across the floor, cutting the body into fragmented angles. “Don’t resist the magic. Let it guide you.”

I shut my eyes for a few moments, willing my heart to slow down. Butterfly wings and sticky ant feet danced up my arms from the pads of my fingers, the death magic humming as I hovered my hands over the body. My charm was pissed, warning me constantly that the magic I was summoning was dangerous.

I didn’t know why it made me feel worse, why that dumb little thing warning me of my own magic prodded a tender spot in my process, but each little buzz was like a kick in my side.

Zane wordlessly held his hand out, taking the thing as I ripped it from my pocket.

The dead imp’s body wasn’t cold; it was the same temperature as the floor under me, which somehow made it more disgusting. I had expected him to be icy, or like he’d somehow feel dead. He didn’t feel like anything.

His sweater had been soft, but his body was void of anything else.

Magic crawled up my arms, stopping just short of my elbow in freezing, slithering tendrils. I wanted to shake my hands out like they had fallen asleep, it felt like they had bugs living just under the skin. My molars hurt from grinding my teeth, and I wanted to wiggle and fidget like I was in the doctor’s chair again.

“Focus, hunter,” Zane’s voice came again.

“It feels awful. Why does magic feel so damn gross?”

“Because you’re fighting it. Relax. It’s not going to hurt you.”

I scoffed, wincing as the magic tendrils tightened and summoned more ants to torture me. “We just talked about skeleton hands, Zane. Forgive me if I’m not thrilled with this whole fucking process.”

Something heavy and cold settled on my right shoulder, a familiar feeling that lived far back in my memories. The temperature was wrong, far too chilly to be the warmth of a supporting hand, but it was there all the same. Zane gave my shoulder a squeeze, the connection of Thrall and Necromancer sliding into place.

The tendrils on my arms relaxed, the ants washing away into soft streams of trickling water. My palms stopped itching. My fingertips cooled like I was tracing the water’s edge. I took in a full breath, the smell of death lost.

I shut my eyes to the living world, and was plunged into darkness.

I sank my hands into black waters and the center of my chest knocked once.

The hand on my shoulder kept me steady, steering me through the sensations.

The void is yours to command something whispered in my head, sounding eerily similar to the red-eyed shadow I had seen before. It was…comforting…hearing his voice again.

The tendril magic spiraling up my arm squeezed, tugging my arm through the darkness of the endless nothing. It pulled me, guiding me through the void like I was a lost child. Cold understanding rippled as my fingertips touched the top of a buzzing energy.

Fear, loss and panic called out from that simple touch, my body lurching.

There , it whispered. There it is.

It.

I knew what “it” was in a sickening, nauseating wave of realization. Such an overly simple yet insulting dismissal of someone’s essence, their embodiment, their soul .

Don’t fight it, the red-eyed shadow warned me as my fingers curled back, my stomach churning. Focus. Focus ? —

If there was a proper way to rip a soul from the void, I sure as hell didn’t know it. My body was shaking, sick and crawling with guilt as I grabbed onto the dead man’s soul and dragged it through the veil, the tendrils gripping my arm a vise of icy malice. A searing pain clawed down the center of my chest, my arm plunging into frostbite as I pulled the soul kicking and screaming into the corpse.

Dead eyes opened wide, milky and blue; a scream pierced through dry lungs.

Zane pulled me back up from where I was slumped, cold sweat raking my body.

“Breathe, hunter,” he was whispering to me. “Well done.”

“Why did that suck so much worse than last time?” I fought a shiver that ran down my spine. “Ugh, I might barf.”

“His soul was deep. There was no death magic lingering like there had been last time.” Zane squeezed my shoulder, fingers frozen. “You did this on your own.”

I felt the soul vibrate in my hand, the control slipping for a moment.

Dead eyes stared up at me, groaning whispers stuck in the corpse’s throat. His limbs jerked like he was struggling to get the muscles to work, confusion inching over his features.

“Am I…” the corpse managed, mouth dry and tongue thick. “Am I dead?”

“Yeah,” I answered with a wince.

Its milky, pale eyes swiveled in my direction. “Like… dead -dead?”

“Pretty dead, I’m afraid.”

Disappointment twinged with horror twisted its decaying face.

“Oh. That kinda sucks.”

“I’ll let you go back to the void, just answer my questions,” I promised. “I need to know what you were guarding here. Was this where Marthas kept his stash?”

The corpse’s eyes floated around the room, deep pops sounding from its stiff neck as it turned its head.

“Oh yeah…that old, creepy factory. Yeah, he kept stuff here…” it trailed off, stiff arms jerking as it tried to move its hands.

“What was here? What were you guarding?”

The dead man manipulated its arms up to its torso, patting itself down with clumsy, jerky movements.

“How did I die?”

“You got shot,” I placated. “You gotta try and focus, man. I don’t know how long I can hold this spell. What were you guarding at the old hat factory? What was here?”

“Old, ancient stuff,” it said, brows lowering in thought. “That guy did shoot me…I remember the gun, the bang. I tried to tell him it was already gone but…” One hand lifted, touching the ripped skin of the bullet wound.

“Gone?” I asked. “The artifacts weren’t here anymore?”

“No, they got moved. Boss moved them to the club yesterday, but that guy…he wouldn’t listen to me. I tried to tell him that but…”

“Club? You mean Rubber—Oh dude!” I turned away in disgust as the corpse slipped his finger right into the bullet wound in the center of his forehead.

“Gods,” the corpse marveled. “Right between the eyes!”

The soul in my grip shook with my distraction, slipping between my fingers. I gripped tighter, the pressure of tendrils tensing my jaw.

Zane reached over and pulled the hand free, forcing it back down to its side with a muted crack.

“If you throw up on me, I’m leaving you down here,” he warned me.

“Saint, that was nasty.” I swallowed down any sickness lingering and focused back on the dead guy. “Did they take the artifacts to Rubber Gloves?” It nodded at my question, so I added, “Where in the club?”

“I don’t know,” it said softly. “Never had club duty.” The features on the man’s face lifted as much as the state of his decay would allow, devastating hope in his sad, dead eyes. “You’re a necromancer, right? Can you bring me back? Undo this?”

“No, I’m sorry.” I adjusted my fingers around his soul, and felt the grief trail up to punch my heart.

“This is it for me? This is everything? I wanted to travel…I have a new motorcycle I only got to ride once.”

Regret and heartache rippled out from him in a radioactive beacon of sadness, scorching me with the burn of loss. The soul in my hand fought against me, seeking the void, seeking escape from this torture of realization. Zane tightened his grip on my shoulder, and I struggled to keep my control over the magic.

“Who shot you?” I demanded. “Rivals? A double cross? Who was trying to get these artifacts?”

The corpse’s face crumpled like it was trying to cry, but no tears could ever fall.

“I can’t believe I died for…what? Marthas ? That guy is a dick!”

His soul slid in my grip, the tendrils on my arm tugged so hard I almost toppled over. I fought against it, my chest burned with the strain.

I struggled to keep my hold, my arm shaking like his soul was made of steel.

“Listen to me,” I managed through my teeth. “Tell me who killed you, and I’ll make sure to take them out for you.”

Its attention moved back to me, searching for solace. “You will?”

“Yes. Tell me.” I wrung my eyes shut as pain seared up to my elbow. “Who killed you?”

The dead man lifted its hand and placed it on mine, the sensation almost as horrible as the bullet wound situation.

“Human. None of our guys. He had—it…scar…”

The corpse groaned and began to flail, eyes rolling back into its head. A quake radiated up from my palm, I felt the soul begin to sink.

“Don’t fight it,” Zane warned me. “Let it go.”

“I’m not done.” I gripped the soul in my hand as hard as I could and jerked it forward, the corpse screaming in agony.

“Hunter, let the soul go.” Zane pulled at my shoulder. “You’re not strong enough yet to keep a soul out too long.”

“Just a bit longer.” I set my jaw, almost blind from the searing pain. “I know I can get more information. I just—have—to?—”

The corpse screamed; fueled by anguish and magic, splitting into octaves that only existed in the realm of the dead. A force knocked me into a backwards tumble, the soul in my grasp falling away. The icy tendrils that had wrung themselves tight around my arm slid off, the rippling pulse of the void fading into shadow.

Everything fell silent and deathly still for a few moments, until I became aware I was panting hard from exhaustion. I was lying on my back, something hard and cold under me, the light of a phone casting a pale glow over a cracked ceiling.

I pulled in a breath, the exhale stuttering and shaking.

“That. Sucked.”

“I told you not to fight,” Zane scolded from under me, pushing me off onto the dirt as he sat up. “You’re too fucking stubborn for your own good.”

“I wasn’t fighting it, I was controlling it,” I shot back, rubbing the back of my head. “I knew he had more information to give. If I could have just held on a little longer?—”

“You’d be worse off than you are now,” the vampire interrupted, catching my arm. My black, bony fingers mocked me as I stared at them.

I sighed.

“Crap.”

“Yeah.” Zane deadpanned. “Crap.”

“Can you do the Thrall magic thing you did before?” I wiggled my bony fingers at him. “Like you did after my first attempt at the museum with Mia?”

“My ‘Thrall magic’ is not kicking your ass when you do stupid things.” Zane placed my skeletal hand in his fleshy one, his fingers curling around it gently. “You could have hurt yourself fighting against the pull of the void. You need to listen to those tugs, move with them until you get the strength to bend them.”

“I don’t know how I was able to find his soul so fast,” I mused, watching the skin of my arm start to reform over bone, crawling like spiderwebs up my wrist. “I thought it would take longer.”

“He was still fresh—the blood and bone guided you.” Zane’s brows twitched, a wince creased his forehead. The bruising of exhaustion around his eyes seemed to darken.

“I guess it gets harder to track as they decay then?”

The skin of my hand crawled over my knuckles, and I could feel how cold Zane’s palm was.

“Extremely. The more of the physical body that rots, the deeper into the void the soul goes.” He spread my fingers as the skin stretched over it, giving my hand a once-over before letting it go.

“So, like a pile of bones would be a no-go? Mummies and old shit is just off the table?” I flexed my hand and watched my fingertips grow pink from the blood rushing back into place.

“For you.” Zane stood, knocking dust from his jeans. “Powerful necromancers can train to bring back whispers to the ancient dead. The Goddess’s inner council was supposed to be able to animate and talk to mummies, but I’ve never seen it myself.”

“Inner council, huh?” I grabbed my phone and dusted myself off as I got to my feet. “That sounds ominous.”

“They’re from hundreds of years ago, hunter. Don’t get excited.”

“Aw. Fighting a council of necromancers sounds badass.” I aimed the light at the now still body of the imp. We stood there staring down at the poor, informative corpse for a few heartbeats. “We should move him, right? Feels weird to leave him down here to rot after we talked to him.”

“Grab his feet.” Zane looped his arms under the imp’s and lifted after I grabbed his ankles. Balancing my phone light while piloting a dead body out of the darkness was trying, but we managed to do it without tripping over anything. We left the poor bastard just inside one of the busted doors with his arm in view, hoping that someone would spot it from the distance and make a call.

Hopefully no one was waiting for him, but if they were, at least they’d know what happened to the guy now. It was my good deed for the year.

“Are we heading to the club the imp mentioned?” Zane asked after we vacated the property. “If it’s one of Marthas’s places, we’ll need some glamour.”

“Yeah, my glamour contact was the guy we beat up after he jumped me, remember?”

Zane tilted his head in remembrance. “Oh, right.”

“We’ll have to do this old school and just keep a low profile. Stop fucking laughing, I can be covert when I need to be.” Zane snorted a dismissive response and I continued. “We won’t go totally empty-handed in the glamour area though. Dex has glamour tech that will mask us from cameras, so at least we have that.”

“So, we’re going into a club, having no idea the layout, relying only on some homemade glamour tech you buy off a black-market dealer that barely tolerates you based on intel you bought with human flesh from a wendigo diner cook?” Zane lifted a brow. “Did I miss anything?”

“You forgot that I fucked the club owner’s boyfriend while high in his other club.”

“Right.” Zane sighed. “How could I forget that?”

I slapped him on the arm. “Chin up, vampire. We have more fuckery to accomplish.”