Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Julian fails to keep his dream and his boss alive
When they got back to his apartment, Julian had Shorty put the old guy on his leather sectional. “Stay a minute and watch him,” Julian said.
In the bathroom mirror, he winced at the bruises on his jaw and ribs.
The Brit had hit harder than expected. That had been a shit show.
He’d intended to slip in, grab the old man and get out, but his guys tangled with a big guy outside and then, seeing the people surrounding the necromancer, the candles, chanting, he’d almost called it off.
This was the same room where he’d found Ramon.
But Shorty had barreled in knocking people left and right, so Julian had followed. He spat blood into the sink and rinsed.
When he emerged into the living room, Shorty was hovering over the old man on the couch.
“Go. I think we’ll be fine,” Julian said.
“You want me to tie him up?”
He rolled his eyes. “He’s unconscious and like a thousand years old. I will handle him. Stay in the hall. Someone may decide they want him back.”
“Sure, Boss.” Shorty looked like he wanted to ask about the hotel, the candles, the shaking walls—but the door snicked closed leaving Julian alone with the necromancer.
Even after everything he’d seen, he couldn’t quite believe it. As far as bringing people back from the dead, Julian still didn’t believe the old guy could do it, but that’s exactly what he needed.
Pulling the bronze disk from his pocket, he studied it. Whatever power it held was gone, just engravings in a circular pattern. On the couch, the man hadn’t twitched.
He sat on the ottoman in front of the unconscious man.
“Don’t die on me now.” He rubbed the sore spot on his jaw.
“What were you doing for them? Some reanimation bullshit? Okay, yeah. That’s what I want, but still.
” He might as well be talking to a corpse.
“Mister? Wake up, damn it. I’d use a taser on you if I didn’t think you’d croak.
Wake the fuck up!” Julian jumped up and paced, stopping when he heard a knock.
“Boss?” Shorty called through the door.
“I’m fine,” he barked. He’d send Shorty home soon. Because he didn’t need a witness when he went down to his storage unit in the basement. Finding his open bottle of Tito’s, he poured a generous glass. He drank and walked—thinking better when he moved.
He was so close to settling this. Earlier, he’d pulled the body out of the freezer and covered it with a sheet. With the magic disk and the old man, they could bring Ramon—or some semblance of him—back. Hopefully.
Truthfully, he didn’t want Ramon back. He was sorry he died, but the guy was an idiot. But Julian was a dead man without him.
His options were few. He could tell Cesar what happened and face his wrath.
Or stage an accident—but the crew knew Julian had gone after Ramon.
To a hotel that Julian secretly owned. Yeah, that would not play well.
And running meant being hunted down. Bringing Ramon back—even a shell of his former self—was the only way.
Until a week ago, his world was fine. Violent, stressful, busy, and frustrating at the same time. But fine, normal even. He’d taken the train up to Jersey alone. The old man got updates via email, but Cesar preferred old-school face-to-face meetings. Easier to be terrifying in person.
The meeting with Cesar had gone well enough that he didn’t even ask about his son. Which was a good thing. The elder Castenada was well aware of his son’s odd proclivities, but Ramon’s most recent obsession was more off the chart than usual. Julian had come home to a worried crew at the office.
“What’s going on?”
Shorty scuffed his feet. “Boss.” Julian was only “Boss” when Ramon wasn’t around.
“We wanted to go with him, but he ordered us to stay here,” another guard piped up.
“The boss said it was fine. He’d found the girl he’d been looking for. He was excited to see her,” Shorty explained. “I never thought the boss would vibe on someone so hard.”
“Vibe?” Julian scowled at him. “What are you, nineteen? Cut that shit out. Where the fuck is Ramon?”
“That funny hotel on Pickett.”
God damn it. “Stay here. I’ll check on him.” If Ramon was fine and simply getting his rocks off with this woman, then he’d be super pissed if Julian busted in on his fun.
The hotel lobby was still dusty and deserted.
Julian rang the bell, but a low vibration shook the desk. A rumbling that had him taking the stairs two at a time. He searched the hallways, listening for the intermittent roar of disturbance. He found the source on the third floor.
The door to the room was closed but swung open at his knock. Candlelight bathed the room in flickering light. The spare furnishings were gone and Ramon sat cross-legged on the floor, his naked form illuminated by the shimmering candlelight.
“Oh shit. Come on, Ramon, let’s go.” Julian stepped into the room. Ramon didn’t respond. He seemed quite content, his eyes closed as though meditating. Julian looked around for his clothes. “Boss.” He spoke softly. “Boss, wake up. Ramon.”
Ramon’s eyes opened, and even in the dim room, Julian could tell there was something wrong. He looked as high as a rockstar in mid-tour—face flushed, sweat running down one temple, his lips chapped and dry. How long had he been here?
“Don’t come in.” Ramon’s voice croaked. “You’ll ruin it.”
Julian was already in. He certainly intended to ruin whatever bullshit party was going on.
The bathroom door opened, and Ramon’s woman came flying out of the room, hands like claws, her lips pulled back in a grimace. Not really wanting to shoot her, Julian pointed his gun at the ground as they connected. Her momentum was enough to send them both back against the wall.
A crack of what only sounded like thunder split through the room, followed by a blinding light. The woman rolled out of Julian’s grasp, muttering and chanting.
He slammed his eyes shut against the flash and stayed down. Squinting, he barely made out Ramon sprawled on the floor.
Crawling toward him, Julian looked up at a noise. In the corner of the room, a thing lurked. It was on two legs, its massive head bent forward as it scraped the ceiling.
Four bulging eyes glowed in its scaly head. It was so grotesque, it was almost comical. Except for the stench of death permeating the room.
Julian moved slowly, still edging toward Ramon. As soon as he touched him, he knew he was dead. He grabbed Ramon’s wrist and scrabbled for the door. Keeping an eye on the creature in the corner.
Suddenly the monster’s big hand gripped the top of the woman’s head and twisted. A sickening crunch of bone and cartilage signaled her death. She crumpled to the floor as the glowing eyes focused their deadly gaze on Julian.
He heaved and cursed as he tried to drag Ramon through the door. Preparing himself to die a horrible death, Julian was almost glad it was over. It hadn’t been a happy life. Not for a long time.
Over the monster’s roar, he heard footsteps. A man in a bathrobe leaped over Ramon’s body, sword raised. He stabbed the beast’s leg, shouting something. The thing went up in flames. Heat blasted the room. Julian wasted no time—he grabbed Ramon and ran.
It was the next morning when Julian realized three things—monsters were real, his dead boss was in a freezer, and he had no idea what to do.
Now he sat in his ergonomic, designer chair, leaning back to study the old guy on his couch. Julian’s eyes closed. He was so tired.
Last week, he’d lied to the men about Ramon and searched Ramon’s house alone.
He’d found Ramon’s notes claiming the old guy with the sword was a necromancer.
Working from memory, Julian researched everything he’d seen in that hotel room.
The candles, the symbols on the carpet, even the chanting.
Julian cursed Ramon’s stupidity. But then he set about doing the same thing.
In less than a week, he’d gone from skeptic to desperate believer.
The more he thought about it, the more insane it sounded.
He was jolted out of his thoughts by a knock at the door—Shorty’s voice on the other side. “Ah, Boss?”
Sighing at the light coming in from his east window, he roused himself. He must have fallen asleep. “Shorty, you can—”
Pulling the door open, he saw dark skin, gold eyes, and then pain burst from his nose. He stumbled back into the apartment.
Blood spurting over his hand, he flailed a fist toward his attacker. It went wide. Another punch clocked him under the chin, knocking him to the floor.
His eyes streamed, his hands groped at his nose to stanch the blood. It was a wise decision to stay on the floor. Though he did look longingly at his gun several feet away. “What the fuck do you want?”
The man leaned down and picked him up like a toy, setting him on his feet. Viselike fingers gripped his throat, the nails—claws?—gouging his skin. Julian blinked into golden eyes. Was that a tail swishing behind him?
The thing holding him smiled. A beautiful smile. Straight white teeth, wide lips. Julian’s vision started to gray out. Behind them, a distinctly British voice. “Abraham, we do need him alive. At least for now.”