Necromancy Read online

  The woman rose gracefully from her chair, followed by Harrington. In a foreign accent with strong British overtones, she said, “Close your mouth, child, you’re gawking.”

  Lizzie snapped her mouth shut. She pressed her lips tightly together, considered whether any other answer was possible, and finally asked, “You’re Matylda?”

  “I am.” Matylda’s gaze slid away. “Of a sort.”

  Lizzie’s gaze flicked between Harrington and Matylda. She’d been worried that if Matylda was touched by the necromancy book’s magic, she would be altered in some terrible way. She looked pretty good for a dead woman. Other than a paleness bordering on unnatural and a thinness accentuated by her loose clothing, she looked almost…alive. Properly alive, not dead and alive again.

  Except what had she meant when Lizzie asked if she was Matylda? What kind of answer was “of a sort”?

  Lizzie was doing a poor job of hiding her distress—or her sneaky boss was mind reading—because he urged her to sit down with what might even be an expression of concern on his face. Lizzie had secretly (not so secretly) harbored the suspicion that Harrington could mind-read, so she knew which way she was voting.

  “I’m good standing. Now what aren’t you telling me?” She felt Pilar touch her back in support.

  “Your aunt’s initial appearance was problematic.” This came from a third party, someone in the periphery of the room.

  In a chair near Harrington’s fireplace, Ewan, the library’s chief of security, lounged like a man without a care in the world. Lizzie knew better. He wasn’t relaxed, and he certainly wasn’t a man. She’d caught a glint of green when his creepy dragon eyes flashed, and she knew he was ready to spring into action.

  “Problematic how? And why are you here?” There was a hint of accusation in her tone, but heck, the guy was security, so who could blame her? This was her aunt.

  But only “of a sort,” according to the woman herself.

  She shifted her focus back to Matylda. Lizzie wasn’t a huggy person, but she wanted to hug her aunt, even if she wasn’t a hundred percent alive. Matylda was the only family connection she had with any magic, and Matylda had always been good people.

  “He’s here to protect you,” Matylda said in a much-too-calm voice.

  “All of you,” Ewan added.

  “Oookay,” Lizzie said. She moved to close the gap between herself and Matylda, but Pilar stopped her with a very firm grip on her arm.

  Matylda wasn’t a danger. Not now, whatever she’d done earlier. But common sense prevailed, and Lizzie waited for the story.

  Her posture perfect and her speech precise, Matylda said, “When I initially appeared, before I was fully formed and before my ghostly being had yet to attach itself to my physical form, I attacked a member of the household.” She clasped her hands together, the only sign that what she was saying made her uncomfortable.

  Lizzie blinked. “Attacked?” That could mean a lot of things. Pushed, slapped, punched—though none of those options matched the ladylike woman standing before her. Maybe it had been worse? More along the lines of seriously injured, maimed…killed?

  “One of the security staff,” Harrington said.

  “He’s fine,” Ewan added. “It was one of my clan.”

  The breath Lizzie had unknowingly held as soon as talk of an attack began whooshed out of her lungs. That was good news. The dragons in Ewan’s clan were hard to hurt, and Lizzie didn’t see a frail woman making much of a dent in one of those scaly, fire-breathing guys.

  Matylda said, “I injured him.”

  “Oh.” Lizzie’s dismay leaked into that one word more obviously than she’d have liked. Matylda looked—sounded—so coherent, so rational. So human. “But you’re better now.”

  “Perhaps. Ewan or one of his staff will keep me company for so long as I remain in this condition.” Matylda made a moue of distaste. Over the added security or her condition? “What we need to know, and quickly now that introductions have been completed, is what you did to hasten the spread of the magic.”

  “Ah.” Where to start? The multiple sensing wards? Turning the main lights back on? “Well, we did turn the lights on, but that can’t possibly—”

  “No,” Harrington said. “What type of magic did you do? Did you touch the book? Or try something…unusual?”

  Lizzie was known for being rather creative in the magic department. It usually served her well, but even she—as new to magic as she was—knew better than to chuck some newfangled mojo at a dangerous black magic book. “No, of course not. I did cast three—”

  “Four,” Pilar corrected.

  “Right. Four sensing wards in a pretty short window of time.” Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “In retrospect, maybe not so clever?”

  “Maybe not so clever,” Harrington agreed with a mildly censorious look directed at Pilar.

  “She’s not my keeper,” Lizzie said, “so stop it.”

  Harrington didn’t get a chance to reply, because his phone rang. He frowned, clearly considering not answering it, but picked it up. “Max. How can I help you?” Polite, but the tone was frosty.

  He listened and then turned away. His voice low and urgent, he asked, “Are you armed?”

  The hairs stood up on Lizzie’s arms.

  “Can you retreat?” Harrington paused. “Shoot it.” He turned to Ewan with a grim look. “Shoot it again. I’m sending Ewan.” Turning to Lizzie, he added, “And Lizzie.” He kept the phone to his ear but covered the mouthpiece. “Lizzie, Ewan, the courtyard, now. The effects of the book have spread to the courtyard. A Lycan in wolf form has cornered Max.”

  Matylda had damaged a dragon. Lizzie didn’t like to think what kind of damage a zombified Lycan to do to a human. Except she did think about it, and the adrenaline hit a millisecond later.

  “Shit,” Lizzie said as she spun on the ball of her foot and took off at a sprint behind Ewan.

  He was faster. Much faster. He wasn’t human, and preternatural speed seemed to go hand in hand with shifters’ other gifts.

  Vivid images of Max facing off against a zombified Lycan wolf lent her some additional speed, but not dragon speed. There was enough time for her to panic on more than one level before arriving. What pack did the wolf belong to? Would John be placed in danger by her actions today?

  Ever since she’d joined the Lycan world, she’d been much too immersed in its tangled politics. If they had to kill this wolf, would it cause a war? If he’d already been dead, were they really “killing” him? But that thought faded in the wake of a much more disturbing one: could they kill him?

  But then she pivoted back to Max. God, Max… Would Max still be standing when they arrived? What would she tell Kenna if Max was injured or worse? He was one of her best friends, her unborn child’s father, and quite possibly the love of her life (if she’d ever pack up the last of her failed marriage baggage).

  Max was Kenna’s John.

  A rush of panicky adrenaline took Lizzie the last few feet and through the door to the courtyard.

  She didn’t know what to expect from an undead wolf that wasn’t a wolf at all but Lycan. Confused, violent, and…?

  What she found had her stuttering to a halt.

  A crazed wolf’s muzzle foamed. Blood and saliva mingled to create a sickly cotton-candy color. Flecks of spittle dotted its darkly matted chest fur and forelegs. Matted with Max’s blood? Kenna’s?

  Max was close, too close to the snapping jaws of the beast.

  Kenna… Lizzie jerked her head away from the wolf to find her friend only feet away, bloodied but alive.

  Lizzie turned to the wolf, ready to—what, bind it? They couldn’t kill the thing. But then she saw the improvised hobble around the wolf’s hind legs. Her heart stuttered in her chest and then resumed its frantic pace.

  Even partially contained, the wolf was still a terrible hazard.

  And Kenna was feet from it. What the hell was she doing here?

  Get the pregnant woman away from the
scary wolf.

  Lizzie rushed to her friend’s side and grabbed her elbow. With a solid yank, she pulled Kenna to her feet. “Kenna,” Lizzie called, but in vain.

  Kenna’s huge, dilated eyes didn’t blink or shift. All of her attention was focused on the wolf.

  Lizzie shook her hard. “Kenna. Inside, now.”

  Ewan was manhandling the creature into some form of submission when the unthinkable happened: the bound wolf began to burn.

  Brilliant flames engulfed him, and waves of heat pulsed through the courtyard. Ewan pulled away unmarked. Dragons didn’t burn easily, but the wolf… The wolf burned.

  Waves of heat washed over Lizzie, the light seared her retina—and she did nothing.

  Her brain couldn’t quite manage to process that what was unfolding in front of her. Her world turned dull and muffled, the only light that of the flashing flames.

  Two seconds, three, she stood there, caught in her own disbelief. Slowly, the filters her mind had erected fell away. She heard the screams first. Then came the smell.

  The terrified, tortured shrieks pulled at her gut, twisting and turning it. Or perhaps it was the acrid scent of burning hair and flesh. She swallowed quickly, trying not to retch.

  She wrangled control of her stomach then spun in a circle. There had to be an answer, a solution, something to stop the fire.

  She spun around twice before landing on her friend.

  Her fire witch friend. It had taken that long for the pieces to fall together. She chalked it up to shock. Watching, smelling, hearing a creature burn and regenerate in an unending circle could do that to a girl. She pressed her hand hard against her stomach. She would not puke.

  Kenna, newly awakened to her fire witch powers, had set the undead creature alight with magical fire. How? She had barely lit a candle this morning. Her fear must have enhanced her power, removed her control, triggered some reservoir of power.

  One horrific problem loomed: the wolf couldn’t be killed. It was already dead. Unless… Was this the answer to IPPC’s undead problem? Could fire, more specifically cremation, be the solution?

  But as those thoughts flew through Lizzie’s mind, the animal’s tortured wails continued. It burned…and regenerated and burned and kept burning. It seemed there was no end in sight to its magical store. Whatever had fueled the creature’s reanimation kept on ticking, at least enough for it to repair the burn wounds. That poor, frightened animal.

  Lizzie clenched Kenna’s arm and lost the battle to still her stomach’s rioting protests. Acidic bile burned her throat as she retched. She pinched her nose, cupped her mouth, and refused to be caught in this terrible moment.

  Ewan was busy tending to Max; she needed to sort this shit out now.

  Except she needed Kenna to fix it. Kenna had started the fire; she needed to put the flames out.

  Lizzie twisted Kenna’s arm, trying her damnedest to block out the terrible sounds the animal was making and get her friend’s attention.

  In her peripheral vision, she could see that the creature regenerated just enough to maintain its wolfish form, certainly enough to fuel the fire, because the flames continued to flare brightly in the corner of her eye and the stench of charred hair and flesh saturated the air.

  The damned necromantic magic was keeping pace with Kenna’s fire, neither extinguishing the flames nor letting it run its course. If there was a living being behind these actions and not just a little black book of nasty, he or she was a sick bastard. What was to be gained from this horror show?

  Lizzie shook Kenna’s arm hard and moved to stand in front of her. “Kenna!”

  Finally, Kenna blinked. Then her eyes widened. What little color remained drained from her face as she stared over Lizzie’s shoulder and watched the tortured, shrieking creature. She started to tremble and then shake violently.

  “Kenna.” Lizzie placed a hand on either side of Kenna’s face, covering her ears. She could feel the dampness of tears on her own cheeks. Her friend needed to get it together and end the animal’s suffering.

  Except it wasn’t an animal. He wasn’t an animal. He was Lycan, like John. Locked in the body of that wolf was a man. But thinking that was going to make Lizzie lose her shit.

  Kenna kept staring at the flames, but she wasn’t doing anything. She wasn’t stopping it.

  Lizzie dodged to continue blocking Kenna’s persistent gaze. “You have to stop the fire. That thing—it can’t die.” She pressed her hands hard against either side of Kenna’s face and forced their eyes to meet. “Listen to me. Listen! You have to stop it. He’ll keep burning. He won’t die.”

  Kenna shook her head, confused.

  Lizzie pushed her face closer to Kenna’s. “It will keep burning and living. You have to stop the fire.”

  But Kenna just shook her head.

  “Kenna. Look at me. Can you try?”

  Kenna’s reply was faint, and Lizzie had to strain to hear. “I can’t.” Kenna’s lips trembled, and she said it again, stronger, louder. “I can’t stop it.”

  “Yes. Yes, you can,” Lizzie yelled. Because if Kenna would just hear her, she’d try.

  “A fire extinguisher.” Kenna gasped. “Just like”—she hiccupped and struggled for breath—“just like any fire… Lizzie, I didn’t mean—”

  A fire extinguisher? If that was the only choice, then Lizzie would damned well find a fire extinguisher. She ran back to the house. As she flew by the wolf, she saw Ewan rolling on the ground with him, trying to smother the flames.

  Thank goodness for dragons and their affinity for fire.

  Forty-five more seconds. The wolf—the Lycan—burned for forty-five seconds.

  Lizzie knew because Kenna told her. After Lizzie had separated Ewan from the beast. After the wolf had been drenched in foam. That was all her friend kept saying. That she’d counted. That it had been forty-five seconds.

  Lizzie didn’t have time to deal with a shell-shocked Kenna, not immediately. She had to get medical care for Max, who had a serious injury to his arm and was still bleeding profusely despite Ewan’s attempts to stanch the flow.

  It had been Max’s blood that coated the Lycan’s fur, not Kenna’s. So as Kenna continued to mutter, Lizzie had to leave her for the more seriously wounded.

  Once Frank, their resident healer, had carted Max off to the infirmary, securing the wolf more permanently became a priority. Lizzie checked in with Kenna again, and while she was no worse, she was also no better. Lizzie had to get the wolf secured, so she could lend some much-needed comfort to her friend.

  The only truly secure room was located in the basement, closer to the book. Not gonna happen. Stashing a violent undead creature within close proximity to the book that had brought him back to life was begging for trouble.

  Ewan and Tavish, one of his security team, had muzzled the wolf and were restraining him.

  Tavish frowned. “Transport is always risky, and if he escapes—”

  “Wait,” Lizzie said as she approached the two men. She didn’t get too close, because even a muzzled Lycan locked in some kind of wrestling hold by two human-form dragons was treacherous. “You can’t be thinking of loading him up and driving him out of here. What about contagion?”

  Which then brought Max front and center, because he’d suffered deep tissue damage from a Lycan bite. If zombie-ism was catching, then Max was about to face some serious life changes.

  A weak, panicked laugh escaped before Lizzie could swallow it back. Life changes, right? Great way to frame Max’s personal crisis. A possible zombie infection and looming parenthood seemed to be all scrambled together in her brain. Not funny.

  “Calm down and take a breath,” Ewan said.

  Lizzie blinked. Was he talking to her? She was the queen of crises, having survived far worse than the little skirmish she’d just witnessed. Heck, she hadn’t even been in danger of getting zapped into another plane of existence or torn apart by unfriendly wolves. She had a handle on the situation. She had to.

&nb
sp; Ewan refrained from rolling his eyes, but Lizzie could see exasperation flicker across his face. She knew that look all too well—and the dragons claimed they didn’t have much in common with Lycan.

  “It’s not contagious, Lizzie. It’s magic.” Ewan shook his head. “We do need a secure destination, though. We’re not sure if simply removing him from proximity to the book will be enough, or if there’s a time component.”

  “You think once the dead are made undead, they’ve got magic stored?” She gave him an uncertain look before adding, “Like a battery?”

  “Any chance you guys can argue about this while we drive around the block?” Tavish asked. “Because I’m thinking that’s the fastest way to test the proximity versus battery-operated theory.”

  “Battery-operated?” Lizzie snorted. She had to be punch-drunk tired to find that funny. To find anything funny at this point. Although she had just laughed hysterically about Max possibly being infected by a zombie bite. She wasn’t herself.

  The zombified Lycan had been roasting only minutes previous. Humor shouldn’t be anywhere near the four of them, although it helped that any visible evidence of the ordeal had vanished. The wolf’s skin and fur had completely regenerated.

  As she inspected him, Lizzie made eye contact. What she saw, or rather didn’t see, sobered her instantly.

  “No one’s home,” she whispered.

  “Right, I’m taking Sparky here to the car,” Tavish said. “Someone get the door for me.”

  Ewan relinquished control to Tavish and then opened the door. As he waited for his second-in-command to haul the surprisingly subdued wolf inside, he said, “Unlike your great-aunt, when his body regenerated, there was no consciousness to fill it. He’s all survival and instinct at this point. If Frank hadn’t sedated him, I’m guessing he’d still be trying to disembowel us or rip our throats out.”

  On that disturbing note, Ewan tugged the door shut behind him.

  With the wolf temporarily managed and Max in the infirmary, Lizzie turned her attention to Kenna.

  Kenna had been present for everything—the restraining of the wolf, carting Max off to the infirmary, the dragons discussing the Lycan’s containment—but she’d barely moved. Roasting an (almost) living creature and watching it burn could push a girl into a state of shock.