Chapter One

Was there a cute saying for when something happened four times? Like "Third time's the charm," but for four? Nothing came to mind, but the fourth time a zombiefied critter followed him home, Brandon was pretty damned sure he had a problem.

It all started when he moved. New place, new life, new leaf, right? Brandon took up running because, after Last Year, he felt the need for speed.

He liked running the way he liked green vegetables—a necessary evil, but one that could sometimes be almost pleasant. Every day he talked himself into the recommended number of vegetable servings, and every day he went for a run.

If nothing else, that hour he spent pounding over the tree-lined trail gave him a break from thinking about certain events, certain horrible, traumatic events from Last Year. Those mental capital letters should have made it easier to stuff the memories into the back corner of his brain, though it didn't always work.

Running helped, and coding was good, too. Lining up the zeros and ones distracted him enough that at least he didn't notice the heartburn. As much. He'd thought heartburn only affected middle-aged men and pregnant women, but apparently it could be a problem for twenty-something tech bros with baggage they could never really forget.

Pounding along the cedar path, Brandon occupied himself with cataloguing every twinge of discomfort. He'd cut his hair too short for a man bun and now his bangs flopped in his face, and his nose and fingertips were numb. Because dang. While Virginia got chilly in the wintertime, it had nothing on the combo of cold and damp here in his new digs in Redmond, Washington.

As soon as the dust settled after Last Year, he'd applied for a job at Microsoft. In theory, he could have worked remotely from his condo on the James River, but hell no. He wanted out of Richmond, and Redmond was about as far as he could get while staying in the continental US

Near the end of the trail, he picked up his pace, letting the endorphins wash over him. A narrow path created by use rather than by planning led from the park to the road. Brandon's house was less than a quarter mile away and he'd gone about half that distance when he noticed a distinctive sound.

Creaking. Rustling. The occasional squeak. Some combination of all three had him stop in his tracks. Where is it? He didn't want to turn around, but he knew he had to.

With his jaw locked so tight he could have ground his teeth to dust, he glanced over his shoulder. A cat stood some six feet behind him. Rather, what was left of a cat. Its fur was matted, it hobbled along on three paws, and worst of all, its ass-end was level with its forelegs, giving its body a distinctive V-shape.

"Roadkill alert," he muttered, his feet slowing to a stop. The thing's eyes were glazed, its jaw hanging loose. With a sigh, he kneeled down. "Come here, kitty."

Its weak mewl was almost more disturbing than whatever had happened to its spine. Carefully, Brandon lifted it. The cat couldn't have weighed more than a couple pounds. "Did you leave your guts out on the road?"

The critter didn't respond to his question. He could have left it there on the street, but then it would probably get hit by another car, and that seemed unfair. Brandon had been raised to clean up his own mess, and this poor thing was definitely his doing.

Brandon was a necromancer—of a sort. Untrained, uncontrolled, and randomly able to raise the dead. Ever since Last Year, he could bring things back to life without benefit of spell or incantation.

Just him, minding his own business, somewhere in their general vicinity. None of that abracadabra bullshit his Aunt Vivi had insisted on.

But he wasn't going to think about Aunt Vivi. Nope. Not today. Not ever, if he could help it. Necromancy and heartburn were his souvenirs from Last Year, and damned if he could figure out what to do about either of them.

Adding a fourth critter to his menagerie, however, made it clear he was going to need some help.

His housemate Layla would most likely insist on it. She stood in the driveway, plugging her Tesla into the charging tower near the garage. "What in the actual fuck?"

The answer to her question was obvious, so Brandon kept his mouth shut.

"You did it again, didn't you?"

"No, Layla. This time I lit candles and pranced around naked in hopes I could resurrect this poor creature."

Her frown might have intimidated him except for the curiosity in her gaze. "This might be it. I'm not sure I can deal with your… gift."

Brandon stopped, shifting the cat into one arm so he could wipe the sweat off his forehead with the other. "You do you, princess." Because ffs. He let her get away with paying a ridiculously low rent, mainly because it helped to have another human rattling around the place. She had long legs, long blond hair, and the kind of Scandinavian skin that always looked lightly tan, and while she was objectively pretty, she had too many X chromosomes and not enough Y for him. In general, they got along great.

Deciding to treat her threat to move as another in a long line of dramatic performances, he said, "I'll put this one in the room with the others. There's a guy I met… well, I used to know him." Last Year. "He might be able to help."

She leaned closer without moving her feet. "That was a cat, right? Won't it try to chase the robin?"

So far his menagerie—two squirrels and a bird that might have once had a redbreast—had peacefully cohabitated in their spare bedroom. They didn't eat, so there was no poop to clean up, and so far none of them had started tearing up the carpet, trying to build a nest. Mostly they just wandered around the room looking confused, though she did have a point about adding a cat to the mix. "Only one way to find out."

She still didn't move, standing between him and his front door with a glare that was probably meant to scare him off. "You were supposed to be my gay best friend. We were supposed to get manicures and drink champagne while discussing Real Housewives or Fire Island or something. I did not sign up for Macabre Central."

"Look, if they don't get along, I'll keep Sparky here in my room or something." The cat's name had come to him unbidden, so he went with it.

"Sparky. Nice." She chuckled, a white flag if he'd ever seen one. "You owe me big for this, Brandon Charles. Taylor Swift tickets at least."

He cut across the grass to get past her. "How 'bout tickets to Tay's concert film plus dinner at Seastar?" Because the way to Layla's heart was through expensive sushi.

She followed him into the house, attempting to negotiate terms, but then the cat gave a weak mewl and Layla made a horrified face. "Oh god. What? I hope it's… peaceful… you gotta call that guy." Brushing past him, she all but ran through the door.

Brandon couldn't quite stifle his grin. Layla had her issues, but she was a likeable person and the closest thing he had to a friend in this town. He hoped she'd never make good on her threats to move out.

The house was small compared to the new-construction wannabe-mansions surrounding it, but for two people plus a menagerie of zombie critters, it was fine. It had clean, mid-century lines and plenty of windows that let in as much light as the semi-permanently overcast sky could give.

Either through foresight or laziness, Brandon had held on to a stack of moving boxes, so with Sparky the zombie cat in tow, he went to the garage to retrieve one. He made the critter a bed, complete with pillow and blanket, and gingerly brought it to The Room.

And yes, the room where the zombie pets stayed was now The Room, the way last year was Last Year. Brandon was nothing if not consistent.

He slowly opened the door. The Room was the smallest of their four bedrooms, with two windows on the wall across from the door. Three smaller boxes were lined up on the floor under the window, though the squirrels were currently curled up together in one corner and the bird was perched on the windowsill.

Setting Sparky's box down, he backed out and pulled the door almost closed, peering through the gap to see if there was going to be trouble. Sparky poked its head up over the edge of the box but then apparently decided there was nothing to see and retreated. Brandon closed the door completely and rested his head against the doorframe. He told himself he was listening for any drama, but really he was trying hard not to panic.

One was a fluke, two was an unlucky break, three was harder to ignore, but four? Four was a pattern, and unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life like some kind of undead Pied Piper, he needed to figure out what was going on.

But he should take a shower first. He didn't want to be all sweaty when he called Mack. "It doesn't matter," he said out loud. "The dude is in fucking Louisiana. He won't smell you from there."

Palming his phone, Brandon tried for three slow, deep breaths. He'd read that was a good way to get rid of anxiety, but all it really did was make him lightheaded. Still no sound from The Room. "Okay, guy. Let's do this."

Opening his contacts, he scrolled down to Mack Moore, the only person from Last Year who he kept in his contact list. Mack came from a family of vampire hunters and worked for the TTGB Division of SPAM. If anyone knew what to do with a zombified cat, it would be him. Brandon tapped call.

"Yo." The voice was vaguely familiar, though the heavy bass beat behind it made it hard to be sure.

"Mack?"

"Yeah. Who's this? Brandon?" The thumping disco music grew quieter. "Are you okay?"

Brandon had to blink away a sudden squirt of something suspiciously like tears. "Yeah, sure, fine. I'm fine." Liar. "I just got a quick question for you."

"Hit me."

"So not to put too fine a point on it, but I seem to be raising animals from the dead."

"You what?" Something thumped and then the sound was muted, as if Mack had covered the phone with his hand. "… again, Hal, and I swear I'll…"

Brandon didn't think Mack was talking to him, but it was hard to tell. "What?"

Another thump, and then Mack was back. "Sorry about that. You said you were raising animals from the dead? How?"

"I don't know." Brandon had to stop and clear his throat to keep his voice from squeaking. "Three—I mean four times now, when I've been out for a run, I've had critters follow me home. They're zombies without the brain-eating."

A loud squawk from inside The Room distracted Brandon from whatever Mack said next. He poked his head in to find Sparky crawling out of its overturned box and the squirrels eyeing it from the corner. The bird still perched on the windowsill, evidently unfussed by Sparky's arrival. Figuring they couldn't kill what was already dead, Brandon closed the door.

"Sorry, Mack. I missed that."

"You need someone skilled at necromancy, but I'm going to need to do some research to find a resource in your area. In the meantime, maybe take one of the creatures to Dr. Stefanos Barros. He's a vet who takes care of both mundane and supernatural patients, so he might have some idea about how to, uh, deanimate them."

Brandon knocked his head against the doorjamb a couple of times. "Sure. That's what I need, I guess." Though deanimate came dangerously close to kill, and both gave Brandon a really bad feeling.

"Okay, I'll text you Stef's number, and I'll be back in touch when I find you a necromancer. Might take a day or so, but don't worry. Hal and I are on it."

"Thanks, man." Brandon had to clear his throat again.

"When you call his office, tell his receptionist this is a SPAM case, and that should get you in. And, dude, don't be a stranger. If you ever want to talk about—"

"Hey, thanks again, but I gotta go. If you text me the vet's number, I'll give him a call." Because hell no, he did not want to talk about Last Year, not with Mack Moore or with anyone else. They ended the call, and less than a minute later, his phone chirped with an incoming text.

Dr. Stefanos Barros, DVM

(425) 818-1369

Hoping it wouldn't make things worse, Brandon called the number.

If Brandon had felt squeamish at all about dropping SPAM on someone, the receptionist put him at ease. Her voice didn't change a bit when he told her. In fact, she sounded even warmer and told him to bring his pet in right away.

It took some maneuvering for Brandon to get his Lexus out of the garage, given the Tesla's position in the middle of the driveway, but he managed without driving too far onto the lawn. Sparky was in its box on the back seat, covered with a fleece blanket, and it seemed happy enough—or at least the pathetic mewling had stopped.

The vet clinic was off the main road, almost completely hidden by a stand of evergreen trees. Most were tall, with graceful swooping branches, but some were shorter, their bristly needles a yellow green. Back in Richmond, Brandon hadn't paid much attention to the local flora and fauna, but this place intrigued him. He'd never realized there were so many variations on the basic Christmas tree idea.

The lot was only about half full. He parked, and when he went to get the cat out of the back of his SUV, he was greeted by a baleful stare. The cat's eyes were a murky gray color, but there was more spirit there than he'd seen before.

More annoyance, too.

"Come here, Sparky," he said. The cat wrinkled its nose at him, either because it didn't want to be handled or it didn't want to be called Sparky. Too bad. Lifting the box carefully, he kicked the door shut and managed to set the lock without dropping the box. They passed a woman who was leading her German shepherd to her car. Sparky gave a strangled yowl, prompting the woman to side-eye the cat.

"Sure, Karen," Brandon murmured. Sparky might be reanimated roadkill, but it was his reanimated roadkill, and no one was going to disrespect it while Brandon was around.

They made it into the clinic lobby without further adventures. The receptionist had a head full of curls and two-inch fingernails painted an elegant lavender. Standing, she barely cleared the reception desk, but she stood on tiptoe to peer into the box. "You're the one with the SPAM case, right? Let me see what you've got there." She reached into the box and scratched the top of Sparky's head. "I love it! What a good kitty you are. I don't suppose this one wants any treats?"

"Can't hurt to try."

Sparky nosed the cube of freeze-dried chicken, as if intrigued by it but unsure of how to proceed. It seemed less keen on the whole head scratch thing, but it did tolerate the attention without hissing or spitting.

Can a dead cat hiss and spit? Just asking that question made Brandon shake his head at how far his life had gone awry. So, so awry. Before he could dive too deep into that particular wormhole, a man stuck his head out from the back room.

A dark-haired man, with the kind of five o'clock shadow that George Michael had made famous. Brandon swallowed hard.

"Hi, I'm Stef. Come on back. Melody cleaned room five for you, and I'll just be a couple minutes. And Roxie"—he glanced at the receptionist—"you can head out. This'll be the last client of the day."

The vet disappeared from sight, and after giving the receptionist a smile as awkward as the flutter in his belly, Brandon followed. Mack should have warned me the guy was as hot as a hydrothermal vent.

He entered a short hallway with a series of numbered doors, found room five, and took cover, his ears ringing from that surprising surge of lust. This was not a pickup zone. He was only here so the vet could help with the zombie critters. The guy was probably married with five kids. You aren't here for a hand job or a blow job or any other kind of job.

He whimpered. All of those things were absolutely true, but a dick wants what it wants.

And right then, Brandon's dick wanted Dr. Stefanos Barros.