Chapter Nine

This was going to be a fucking disaster. Brandon paid the fare for the Bainbridge Island ferry, wondering how the hell he'd let Stef talk him into this little excursion. The last time he'd had any dealings with a real necromancer, it was, well, Last Year, and it didn't bear thinking about.

Aunt Vivi was no more a necromancer than Sparky is a cat.

Brandon clamped down on that thought so fast that he accidentally slammed on the brakes.

"Whoa, dude." Stef braced himself with a hand on the dashboard. "Everything okay there, pilot?"

"Sorry." He steered them into lane five and decided a better use of his time would be to fret over whether they'd make the next ferry or not. A fire burned in his gut, hotter than any Tums or Mylanta could put out.

"I haven't been to Bainbridge in years," Stef said, the opening salvo of a long story about family vacations and an uncle who would buy teenaged Stef bottles of wine until his mother found out and threw a fit. That led to another story about his sister, who thought Stef had a crush on her boyfriend until they had a knock-down, drag-out fight when Stef called the guy a douche to his face.

And that led to another story about… Brandon sort of lost track, although the underlying themes of family and passion were both distracting and comforting. He was left with the impression that Stef's family loved each other very much and that family dinners were very loud affairs.

If Stef noticed that Brandon didn't have much to share, it didn't seem to bother him. Brandon's family were mostly free agents. His mother lived in a gorgeous condo in Honolulu; Dad and his lady friend du jour were based in Houston, a town Brandon could never be bothered to visit. He had no siblings, and his extended family was just that: extended. More of a spider's web than a close-knit group.

That's probably why he went along with Aunt Vivi's bullshit plan. He'd been so desperate to feel like part of something he'd— "Oh hey, do you want to go up to the top deck?"

"Sure. I'll get seasick if we stay down here in the car."

Taking the stairs fast, as if Aunt Vivi herself were behind him, Brandon led to way to the upper deck. He and Stef claimed a booth and settled into the orange-upholstered seats, an empty table between them.

"This trip's too short to bother with food," Stef said. "We can grab lunch after you talk with Clancy."

The sound of the man's name made Brandon's stomach flip. "Sure. Sounds good."

So does death by firing squad when you think about it.

They sat in silence for the rest of the trip. Brandon watched the water, taking surreptitious glances at Stef. Stef sat with his eyes closed, yesterday's five o'clock shadow more of a full-on beard now. The map app said it would take less than ten minutes to get from the ferry landing to Clancy's house. They should be there between eleven fifteen and eleven forty-five. Brandon didn't want to cut things too close, but if Clancy had a noon engagement, they'd have to talk another time.

Not that he'd ever have the courage to do this again. Maybe courage was the wrong word. Maybe desperation was closer. Desperation, with a side of plain old fear.

Soon — too soon — they made their way back to the car. Almost time now. The ferry bumped against the dock on the Bainbridge side of the Sound. Brandon gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and Stef was caught up in a text debate with Andrea, the other vet at his clinic. Brandon knew that because Stef muttered to himself as he read and typed. So far, neither was winning, and when his map app gave him instructions, he focused on the road ahead.

All the way to a Starbucks.

"Is that weird?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"What?" Stef looked up from his phone. "Why are we stopping? I thought we were meeting Clancy."

"This is the address. Apparently he wants to meet us at a Starbucks."

It was that or the pizza parlor next door, and the pizza place wasn't open.

"Unexpected," Stef muttered, climbing out of the car.

Brandon chewed a Tums and took a couple of deep breaths, hoping that it would calm his nerves. No such luck. With all the enthusiasm of a kid on the way to the principal's office, he followed Stef into the Starbucks.

The place looked like every other Starbucks, muted earth tones and chrome with no cues as to location, as if the brand existed in its own plane. A handful of people occupied the tables: a couple who'd clearly spent the night together, two single dudes tapping away at their laptops, and one man sitting alone at a corner table.

"That's him." Stef nudged Brandon with his elbow and headed in the direction of the guy in the corner. Before following, Brandon took a moment to get a look at Clancy the Necromancer.

He felt vaguely… disappointed.

He didn't know what he'd expected. Devil horns, maybe? Or a Goth-inspired tuxedo with fake fangs, ruby cufflinks, and black fingernails?

For sure not an aging hippie with a loosely braided ponytail and a matching braided goatee with beads at the end of the braid. His dingy white tee shirt had long sleeves with patches at the elbows, and if he didn't have a pair of jeans on, Brandon would have been shocked to his soul.

Clancy gave Brandon the same level of scrutiny despite the fact that it was Stef who'd pulled up a seat at his table. Brandon approached more slowly, wondering whether Stef would follow if he took off running. There was something about Clancy's ordinariness that unsettled Brandon.

He'd come prepared to be freaked out, but he'd expected Lord Voldemort, not Shaggy from Scooby Doo.

Well, since the only way out was through, he'd best ball up and get it over with. "Been waiting long?" he asked, pulling a chair back from Clancy's table and taking a seat.

"Go get yourself a coffee, Barros, and bring one for Brandon here." Clancy spoke without looking away from Brandon.

It wasn't a stare that Brandon could hold for very long.

"Sure." Stef got up and put a hand on Brandon's shoulder.

"Latte, please," Brandon murmured. "Two shots. Nonfat milk." Stef squeezed his shoulder and headed for the counter.

"So, Brandon Charles, I understand you want to be a necromancer when you grow up." Clancy spoke easily, as nonthreatening as could be, but still Brandon's gut clenched.

"Not exactly."

"Good."

Okay, that was unexpected, too.Brandon leaned forward, forearms on the table. "It's just that I seem to be able to bring the occasional dead animal back to life. I'm not doing anything deliberate, but I'll go for a run and something undead will follow me home."

Clancy shivered; Brandon couldn't tell if it was fear or desire. "Accidental necromancy." Clancy's laugh made Brandon's skin crawl. "John Dee himself couldn't have done such a thing."

Brandon shrugged as if that would help him get rid of the goose bumps. "Pretty sure I've never met anyone with that name."

Clancy's laugh took on more humor, and the beads in his goatee rattled. "John Dee has been dead since 1608, although there are some who argue he never really died. Nevertheless, you'd know him if you met him." Clancy paused, mouth moving as if he savored something. "But why are you here? You bear a shadow…" His brows drew together and he licked his lips. "Yes, a heaviness. What have you done?"

Brandon knew the answer to his question had to do with Last Year, and he was just as sure he wasn't going to answer. Fortunately, Stef returned with their coffees, giving Brandon an excuse to sidestep the question.

Instead, he took a sip of his latte, the familiar Starbuckian toasted coffee flavor something of a comfort. Once he had himself settled, Stef stepped into the conversational breach.

"I'm sure Brandon's told you why we're here," Stef said.

Clancy nodded, his expression benign.

"He's had this issue, bringing small creatures back to life, and I offered to help him return those creatures to their previous state."

"You want to know how to kill them?" Clancy asked smoothly. Brandon stiffened, but Stef waved the question off.

"They're already dead. We just want to deanimate them." Stef ran a fingertip along the edge of his paper cup. "I'm a vet, and while I haven't tested the theory, I'm pretty sure that medical means won't work."

"Dr. Stefanos Barros, DVM, caretaker of our neighborhood wolves and shifters."

There was something threatening in Clancy's tone, but Stef just grinned. "And the occasional sasquatch."

Clancy grew somber. "I can teach you what to do on one condition."

"Sure. Name it."

Stef agreed too quickly, making Brandon clench his fists.

"All right, pet doctor. Here's what we'll do. You two will follow me to the beach, where we'll begin our lessons."

"Lessons?" Brandon did not want to commit to too much. "What are you talking about?"

Clancy tilted his head, making his beard beads clink together. "Does it matter? Either you do what I tell you or spend the rest of your life being followed by those who should be dead."

"But I don't want to be a necromancer." Brandon spoke loud enough to draw the attention of one of the laptop dudes, who glanced his way before continuing to type.

Clancy gave him a sympathetic smile. "Too late, my friend. You must master your skill before it drives you mad."

"Jesus." Brandon covered his face with his hands. The guy talked like a mix of Obi-Wan Kenobi and The Dude, and Brandon refused to take him seriously.

"That's what I was afraid of," Stef said quietly, and Brandon stifled the urge to snarl. Stef wasn't the one he should be mad at. If he wanted to get mad at someone, it should be Aunt Vivi.

Who'd disappeared after Last Year without leaving a forwarding address.

"Well, I mean, you could raise her," Clancy said.

Brandon lowered his hands until they were just covering his mouth. "What did you say? Are you reading my mind?"

Clancy's smile sent shivers down his spine. "Of course not. I'm a necromancer, not a clairvoyant. I'm just pointing out the obvious. You had some latent tendencies toward necromancy and someone close to you tapped into those tendencies and strengthened them significantly. The shadow you carry is plain to see, and it's just as obvious that you don't know what in the hell to do with it. Follow me to the beach and we'll start acquainting you with yourself."

"No sir." Brandon wanted to run screaming. "I'm a programmer for fuck's sake."

"Working for SPAM isn't a bad way to make a living. Right, pet doc?" Stef murmured something affirmative and Clancy continued. "They'll pair you with someone with different skills, like, say, a hero who can shoot fire from their palms. You'd be assigned tasks like clearing a pod of revenants from a graveyard. As someone who controls the dead, you'd make them all stand still while your partner burns them out."

"That's fucking nuts." Brandon pushed away from the table. "If it's all the same to you, I'll take my chances with the critters. Stef?" He wanted to get out of there in the worst way, bad enough that he was tempted to leave Stef behind if the man didn't move fast enough.

And Stef didn't stand up. "I still want to know how to deanimate the ones you've raised."

"That's too bad," Clancy said. "Your friend needs to start training with me before I'll give that particular secret away."

Shaking his head, Brandon headed for the door. "Come on, Stef. Taxi's leaving."

He was outside before Stef responded, and he had the Lexus in reverse before Stef opened the door and scrambled in.

A car pulled into the parking lot, temporarily blocking his exit. Brandon waited, watching the rearview mirror, while Stef got buckled in.

"That went well," Stef said once they were out of the parking lot. His tone implied that, in fact, things hadn't gone well at all, something Brandon couldn't argue with.

"Let's just get back on the ferry. We can… I don't know… go back to the house and do some more research."

"Sure." Stef already had his phone out. "There must be some other way of doing this."

Brandon was halfway to the ferry terminal when a phone chimed. It wasn't Stef's and it wasn't Brandon's usual ring. "The SPAM phone."

Disgusted, Brandon fished the thing out of the Lexus's glove box. There was a text from Clancy.

I'll be here when you change your mind.

"Which will be never."

"What?" Stef asked.

"Nothing." And it was nothing. Brandon wasn't going to work for SPAM, and he wasn't going to learn anything more about being a necromancer—any more than he already did know, at least. He was going to write code for Microsoft and live with Layla and hopefully spend more time with Dr. Stefanos Barros.

But he was not going to be a necromancer.

The ride home was fairly silent, but it was a companionable silence. They both had stuff to think about, and Brandon figured their ability to hang out without filling the air with chatter boded well for their future.

He was a little put out when, after parking the Lexus behind Layla's Tesla, Stef gave him a long kiss and said he needed to head to the clinic. "Andrea did emergency surgery on one of her oldest patients, and I told her I'd hang out with the pup for a while so she could get a break."

"I get it. Just… I don't know… give me a call later?" Even as the words left his mouth, Brandon blanched. How pathetic could he possibly sound?

Stef didn't seem to mind. He put his palm against Brandon's cheek and gave him another kiss. "I'll be in touch."

They left it at that. Stef climbed into his Prius and Brandon watched him drive away. He was in something of a daze after all that had gone on, which is likely why he didn't notice the man standing right inside his front door until the guy smacked him upside the head with a rolling pin. It dropped him to his knees, giving the guy and his buddy a chance to jerk Brandon's hands behind his back and zip-tie them.

"Now," Rolling Pin Dude said. "You're going to get up when I tell you to, and we're all of us going to walk through the kitchen and into the garage. You'll get in the truck like a good boy, and you won't cause us any trouble."

Brandon's ears were still ringing from the knock to his head. "And if I don't?" he managed.

"Well, then I guess your pretty girlfriend will hate us even more."

A third man stepped into the kitchen doorway. He had Layla by the arm, an ugly pistol aimed at her head. Tears streaked her face and she was shivering hard.

"Leave her alone," Brandon said, all but puking with fear. Who the hell were these guys? "If it's money you want, I'll have to Venmo you."

That made Rolling Pin Dude laugh. He wasn't particularly tall, his belly hung over his belt, and his cheeks had a doughy appearance. Not threatening in the slightest, yet he had Brandon ready to wet himself. "Nah, we're after something that can't be bought. We want you, Brandon Charles, and now we've got you."

"Fine, you've got me. Leave Layla alone."

Rolling Pin Dude patted his shoulder. "You're so noble, but we can't leave her here to call the cops before we're out of the driveway. Either she comes with us or we kill her. So, you know, it's your call."

Brandon didn't have any context for this. He blinked, trying to make sense of why he was kneeling with his hands bound, deciding whether they should kidnap Layla too. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her. "I can't let them kill you."

She made a sound that was laughter mixed with tears. "Thanks, I think."

With that resolved, Rolling Pin Dude and his partner jerked on Brandon's arms to get him to standing, then the three men marched Brandon and Layla into the garage. The man with the gun waved them into the rear seat of a black Cadillac Escalade, and one of them dragged a black bag over Brandon's head. He couldn't see, and his hands were cramped, and the thought that he'd somehow dragged Layla into something dangerous made him sick.

This had to have something to do with Last Year. Of that, he was certain.