Living with the Dead

FINN



NO ONE THOUGHT IT WOULD WORK.

Hope Adams had put Finn in touch with a necromancer named Jaime Vegas. Finn thought the name sounded familiar, though he wasn’t sure where from.

She’d promised to walk him through it over the phone, but warned him the task was difficult enough for experienced necromancers, let alone one who’d never actively practiced the art. As Damon would say, he didn’t have the juice.

From what little Finn had learned so far, most necromancers saw ghosts all the time, not sporadically at murder sites. Of course, no one—not even Damon—suggested Finn lacked the power to pull it off. They were just very, very cautious in their optimism.

Finn had passed those warnings on to Robyn and she’d been quicker than anyone to assure him that she understood, that if it didn’t work, that was okay. Which wasn’t true. Yes, she’d understand. But it wouldn’t be okay. Not for her. Not for Damon. Not for Finn.

They tried it in Robyn’s apartment, just the three of them: Finn, Damon and Robyn. He’d followed the ritual and then . . . A flicker of images, like a film strip on fast forward. It lasted only a second or two, and when his vision cleared, he was in a strange apartment, sitting in a leather beanbag chair.

Finn touched the chair. He could see his fingers make contact, but couldn’t feel the leather. He poked it. His fingers passed through, the leather still smooth.

From the other room, he heard . . . his voice. Singing. A song he didn’t recognize, in a timbre he didn’t recognize. A sob. Then a cry that he knew—even if he couldn’t make it out—was Robyn saying a name. Damon’s name.

He pictured Robyn leaping from her chair, her face . . .

The apartment next door went silent, and he imagined her throwing herself toward him. His arms outstretched. Robyn in them. Robyn kissing him. But not him. Not really him.

He imagined it and . . .

He stopped imagining it.

As he sat there, trying not to eavesdrop, an idea wriggled up from the deepest part of his brain. It had been burrowing there since he’d first realized he might be able to let Damon into his body.

It wasn’t so much an idea as an impulse. One that if he decided to follow through on, he knew he couldn’t think too much about. Do it or don’t.

He pushed to his feet. At the door, he reached for the knob. His fingers passed through. He paused a moment, staring at it. From the next room came a chuckle, then a snuffle—a laugh breaking off in a sob. Finn squared his shoulders and stepped through the door.

Down the hall. He paused outside the elevator, but had no idea how that would work, and wasn’t about to shimmy down elevator cables. To the stairwell then. To the lobby. Out the front doors.

He stopped in the doorway. Did he want to do this? It felt like the right thing to do, and he supposed that was what counted. As for what he wanted, he honestly didn’t know anymore. It had been too long since he’d considered it.

He did know one thing. He was tired. Tired of being in Los Angeles. Tired of solving cases no one seemed to care about. Tired of the whispers, the looks, the laughs. Tired of being different. Tired of being alone.

A shoe squeaked behind him. Before he could turn, a man walked through him, striding down the sidewalk, briefcase swinging.

Finn made it a dozen steps before a voice called, “And where do you think you’re going?”

Finn turned. To his left was an abstract sculpture. A woman in jeans, boots and a T-shirt sat on it, reclining against a curved piece of steel, her face in shadow.

“I’m talking to you, Detective,” she said.

She stretched and stood and, for a moment, Finn saw the girl from the photograph in Sean Nast’s office. Nast’s little sister. But this woman was older—at least Finn’s age, with dark eyes, not bright blue. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

“I asked where you think you’re going.” The woman walked toward him, her foot passing through a discarded soda bottle. A ghost.

“It’s okay,” he said, because it was all he could think of. A polite nod, then he turned to head on his way.

“Actually, it’s not okay.” The woman walked in front of him and turned around. “You can’t leave Damon in your body. An insanely noble gesture, Detective Findlay, but you can’t. The Fates let you pull off the body switch, but it’s temporary. I’m here to make sure of that. And neither of us, I’m afraid, has any say in the matter.”

Finn stepped to the side. The woman put out her hands and murmured something. The air between her hands glittered, then shimmered, a sword taking form. A huge one, with glowing symbols etched into the metal.

“Pretty, huh? Being a necro, you know what this is, right?”

Finn shook his head.

The woman sighed. “It’s the outfit, isn’t it? I know, they keep trying to make me wear the uniform, but those wings are just so damned uncomfortable. Have you ever tried sitting with wings stuck to your shoulders? And the halo? Does nothing for me.”

“An . . . angel?”

“Don’t sound so skeptical. You’ll hurt my feelings.” She lifted the sword. “Point is, this baby has a point. A very sharp one. And you do not want to feel it. So we’re doing this the easy way. We let Damon and Robyn have their reunion, and you go back into your body, and nobody gets hurt. Got it?”

Finn said nothing.

“Damn, you’re stubborn, aren’t you?” She stepped closer. With the boots, she was almost as tall as Finn. “You’re going back, Detective. That’s not an option. If you get away from me, I hunt you down and introduce you to the sword. And don’t ask me to look the other way and let you go, because it won’t help. In minutes, they’ll have another angel here to dump you back into your body before Damon’s allotted hour is up, and I’ll get my ass kicked for screwing up. No one will thank you for that, least of all me. So you are going back.”

“Can I—?”

“No. Whatever the question is, the answer is no. Your life isn’t over, you have to finish it. That’s not up for negotiation. The most I can do is extend Damon’s visit a little. Take you for a walk, get caught up in the chitchat, give him a couple of hours . . .”

Finn could tell arguing would do no good. He did hesitate, though, enough to make the angel sigh and lean on her sword, toe tapping. Then he nodded.

“Good man. We’ll go this way. I thought I saw a park. If we catch a mugging in progress, I might be able to use my sword. Not a full-fledged soul-chopping, mind you. But a little nick that’ll sting like a son of a bitch. Always fun.”

They turned onto the sidewalk.

“I hear you met Sean the other day.”

Finn glanced at her.

“Sean Nast.”

“Right . . .”

“Did he seem okay to you? His dad has been worried. Well, we both have actually. Sean’s a good kid, but he really doesn’t belong in the Cabal and Kris hates seeing . . .”





ROBYN



Robyn was burning her scrapbook. It was a grand symbolic gesture that should, she admitted, have an equally grand setting—curled up by a massive fireplace, feeding pages into the blaze. In an apartment, it wasn’t nearly so grand . . . or so simple. She had a metal garbage can by the open patio doors, a fan blowing the smoke out and wet towels draped over the smoke detectors. And she had to remove the newspaper clippings from the plastic pages before lighting them. But she did have a glass of wine beside her, which helped the atmosphere.

It took nearly an hour to go through the scrapbook, back to front. Then, finally, she held the first clipping. Damon’s death notice. She looked at it, at his unsmiling face, at the cold harsh facts of his death . . . and she held the lighter to the corner.

As she watched the article crumble into black ash, she smiled. She’d kept that article as her last memory of him . . . and now it wasn’t. She had a new one—of Damon right here, in this room, holding her, talking to her, singing to her.

It had been strange at first, seeing him in Finn’s body. But all she’d had to do was close her eyes and it was Damon. His voice, his touch, his kiss and, most of all, his words.

She’d envied people who had last moments with their loved ones, a chance to say final words before they passed. But even then there would be things they hadn’t realized they wanted to say until it was too late. She’d gotten that chance and she would never forget what a blessing it was, no more than she’d forget who’d given it to her.

Even just telling her Damon was still “alive” in some way, that he still lived, still existed, had been an amazing gift. Relaying his words to her would have been wonderful. But Finn had done more. And he’d paid the price, exhausted and weak, still dragging himself into work the next morning, determined not to hand her case off to another detective.

When the doorbell rang, Robyn dropped the last corner of the article into the garbage can and hurried to the door. No one had buzzed from downstairs, so it must be Hope, having forgotten to stick the apartment key on her ring again.

Hope had moved in yesterday. Robyn had invited her to stay with her for the rest of her work exchange. There was nothing keeping Robyn in L.A.—once the issues with the case were resolved, she could return to Philadelphia and get a new job there. But Hope had come here for her, and now she’d stay for Hope. Hope insisted Karl was just on a business trip, but Robyn got the feeling there was more to it and that her friend could really use the company.

When she checked out the peephole, though, it wasn’t Hope.

“The landlord let me in,” Finn said when she opened the door. “I brought those papers you need to sign.”

“I’d have come to the station,” she said, taking them.

He shrugged. “I was in the area.”

“Do you have time for a coffee?”

Finn hesitated. “He’s not with me.”

“I know that.”

She stepped back and waved him in. He paused another moment, then followed.



THEY HAD THEIR COFFEE on the patio. Robyn hadn’t used it since she’d arrived—couldn’t even remember opening the door until today—so they’d had to drag out chairs from the kitchen. Now she sat there, enjoying the sun and realizing, to her shock, that she had an amazing view. Patio chairs were going on the shopping list. Maybe even a table.

As they drank, Robyn said she’d decided to go with Hope to the council meeting that weekend. She’d told Hope she wanted to meet the delegates to assure them they weren’t in any danger with her knowing their secrets. And maybe they could use a little PR assistance, someone to advise them and craft cover-up stories. Being non-supernatural herself, she was the perfect person to help them navigate exposure threats from the human world.

She hadn’t told Hope that part of the plan. It seemed a bit foolish. Presumptuous, maybe. Now she bounced it off Finn, and he said it sounded like a good idea. So maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.

“About this meeting,” he said, setting his mug on the railing. “Is it open to any . . . supernaturals? I was just thinking, maybe I should go to one. Introduce myself. Offer my help. See about getting some help myself from other . . . necromancers.” He stumbled over the word, clearly not comfortable with it yet. “That Jaime Vegas woman I talked to is supposed to be a delegate of this council.”

“Then she’ll be there. And I’m sure you’re welcome. It’s in Portland. You can come up with us, if you like.”

He nodded and sat there, still nodding, gazing out over the city for at least a minute before saying, “It would just be me, Robyn.”

“What? No Damon? Forget it then. You’re uninvited.” She gave him a look. “I know Damon will still be spending some time with you, helping on cases. I know that’s what he’s supposed to be doing when he’s here, helping you, not visiting his wife. I know he’s supposed to have only minimal contact with me, so we can both move on with our lives, and if he starts using his time here to hang out with me, he loses his day passes. You explained all this to me, Finn.”

“I know but—”

“But now every time I ask you in for coffee, you’re going to wonder if I’m really asking you, or I’m asking the guy who keeps me connected to my dead husband.” She sighed and cupped her mug between her hands. “I guess, then, maybe this isn’t such a good idea, us trying to . . .” She shrugged. “Stay in contact, whatever. Of course I wouldn’t mind keeping that connection with Damon. But to invite you along on our trip, just to—”

“You wouldn’t do that. I know. Sure, ask Hope about the meeting. If it’s okay with everyone, I’ll come along.”

He took his mug, lifted it to his lips, then frowned, as if just realizing it was empty.

“Got time for another?” she asked. When he hesitated, she took his mug. “I’ll refill it anyway.”





HOPE





Hope had returned to work at True News on Monday morning as if the last few days had never happened. That wasn’t easy. She’d dropped Karl at the airport that morning, wanting to run after him like a scared little girl, screaming “Don’t go! Don’t go!”

She reminded herself of how many other times she’d dropped him at an airport . . . and picked him up again when he came home. In two months, she’d do the same and she’d have booked that promised cabin in the woods for them, and everything would be as it was. Better than it was. But still she worried. They both did.

On the weekend, Hope was supposed to appear before the council and explain what had happened with Adele and the kumpania. With Irving alive and the Cabal not making any complaints, there was little threat of a full inquiry, but that worry had forced her to consider whether it was time to move on.

She’d never abandon the council. Whatever path she chose, she was keeping her job at True News, and if she caught a whiff of an exposure threat, it would go to the council. But maybe, for her, working for the council was like taking regular-strength Tylenol for migraines, and it was time to admit the remedy was no longer strong enough.

Today she was meeting Rhys. He was flying in to have lunch and pitch his proposal. She wanted to tell him about Neala’s last thoughts, her final, unspoken apology. Maybe it would help. Maybe it wouldn’t. But he should know she’d wanted to say it. Hope had news for him, too. News she hoped he’d already heard, because she hated to be the one to break it.

Adele Morrissey was still alive.

In the aftermath at the kumpania, no one had questioned her death. Hope had blown a hole through her head. It hadn’t occurred to her to check for a pulse.

Sean Nast had called last night with the news. Adele was brain dead, but being kept alive in a Cabal hospital until her baby reached full term.

Sean said rumors of it were already flying through the Cabal world. Whispers of a clairvoyant of unsurpassed power, gestating in a Nast laboratory. Another story to add to the others, omens and portents that already had supernaturals whispering and eyeing the skies uneasily. Even those who scoffed at such superstitious nonsense had begun to admit the recent rate of “unnatural” occurrences in their world was . . . discomfiting.

Twins born to two werewolf parents, the first known full-blooded werewolves.

Humans cracking the code of magic, conducting horrible experiments with child sacrifice.

A previously unknown supernatural race fully evolving in a few generations.

Coincidences easily dismissed, all of them. Nervous minds seeing correlations where none existed, viewing the world through the limits of time and experience, and mistaking rare events for unprecedented ones.

There had been female werewolves before, so surely there had been full-blooded werewolves. The cases just weren’t documented or preserved.

Humans had experimented with magic for centuries and small breakthroughs had been documented. This greater success only suggested latent supernatural blood in the caster.

Supernatural races did evolve and die out—they already knew that. Jaz and his brother had been genetic anomalies, not signs of an accelerated evolutionary pace.

Adele Morrissey’s child might not be a functioning clairvoyant, much less an über-powerful one. And even if he was, his conception was the result of twisted ambition and adolescent hormones, not divine—or demonic—intervention.

And yet . . .

Hope knew it might just be her overly active imagination. Maybe exhaustion and stress were making her see connections where none existed. Or maybe her demon blood knew—just knew—that all this meant something, that change was coming, that she would have a role to play.

A role for the good? She hoped so. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that when the time came, the choice might not be hers to make. And that scared her more than anything.