Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Two weeks later
“Such a good song,” she said, after an uncharacteristic stretch of silence.
“‘Caught Up In You?’ I like it, too. It’s got a great early eighties vibe.”
“Yeah,” she said dreamily.
While the song played, she told me a story about a man who’d loved to belt out the song in bed. She’d pause the story periodically so we could sing the chorus together then continue her tale during the slower parts.
“He’d time it so that he,” she cleared her throat, “you know, ended on the very last line. I took it as a personal challenge to ensure he didn’t, but damned if the man didn’t succeed nine times out of ten.
Our third, Stephan—you remember I told you I was in a polyfidelic relationship back then, what they call polyamorous now—was just as astonished as I was.
It didn’t matter who he was with, George nearly always got the bedtime brain sparkles at the conclusion of that blessed song.
” She sighed and stared up at the stars through the bug-splattered windshield.
“Wish they’d released an extra-extended version. ”
A deep male voice from the backseat said, “Kill me please.”
We ignored him. “How long were you with George and Stephan?” I asked.
“Three glorious years.” She settled Meredith’s terracotta pot in the cupholder.
The shrieking Mictlan mandrake lost it at midnight if she wasn’t with Ida, which meant everyone else lost their hearing.
“I got a job offer in another city, and while it was nice being with the boys, I think I always knew they were meant for each other without me. They asked me to stay, but it was time. You know I didn’t like being confined to one place back then.
I was a tumbleweed just waiting for a wind.
” Ida’s eyes went glossy. “But if I’d wanted a commitment, they would’ve been a great choice.
We exchanged Christmas cards until George’s death ten years ago.
Stephan followed him a year after that. Broken heart, they say. ”
“No need to slow down. I’ll throw myself out the window,” the voice in the backseat said. “Better yet, use this silver-coated bullet I took off those Org goons. It’ll be lights out forever for me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, witch?”
Again, we ignored him. “Just when I think I’ve heard everything, you come up with another story, Ida.
You should write your autobiography and get it out there.
You could hook up with one of those internet people who push books.
I can see it now.” I affected an uptalk lilt, “‘Welcome to Book-Talk-Chat-Gab. Our guest today is the faaabulous Ida Summer. She’s plugging her memoir, Tumbleweed Waiting for a Wind.’”
“Hard to write about my life. Too much stuff from our side of the world,” Ida said with a laugh. “Humans would think it was fiction.”
“That, and no reputable bookseller would sell that kind of smut,” the voice muttered.
“Sure they would. It’d be an instant bestseller,” I said.
Ida was right about the “our side of the world” stuff, though.
Humans would be astonished to discover that the author was a bona fide necromancer with an elemental witch best friend and a pet mandrake that could scream the paint off an old barn.
Not to mention the magical black cat and ecological anarchist gnome neighbors…
“Gods, you’re probably right. Sex sells,” the voice grumbled.
Ida hummed “Hold On Loosely,” duh-nuh-nuh-ing along with the guitar riffs. “So, how long do you think it’ll take us to get this plant for Cecil?”
“Procuring a cutting of the Curio rowleyanus itself isn’t the problem.
Last time the mother plant gave me one willingly, even eagerly.
I’m just not sure if Dominick the cemetery ghoul will welcome us now that I don’t have Sexton’s ‘protection.’” I used quotation fingers around the word—one handed, since I was driving.
“Have you spoken to your grandfath—to Sexton since you sent that twerpy little demon to his well-deserved end?” Ida asked.
“No,” I said, wishing she wouldn’t bring it up.
I’d taken out—killed, not banished—Gnath, a troublemaking demon working with Sexton, and cut off my grandfather forever.
He hadn’t tried to contact me since, which should’ve been a blessing but left me feeling hollow.
The fact that he hadn’t even tried to apologize for his actions told me I’d never been important to him in any real way.
“You should’ve banished Grandpa Demon along with the other one,” the voice from the backseat said. “Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”
If only it were that easy.
“We’re here.” I pulled the Mini right up to the cemetery entrance, put it in park, and left the engine idling. “Ida, you know the plan.”
“Stay in the car unless shit goes sideways with the ghoul,” she said in a pleasant, sing-song voice.
“Exactly. And you.” I spun around to glare into the backseat.
A remarkably spry, considering the grave injuries he’d endured only two weeks ago, Mason Hartman sat squished between Fennel and Cecil.
The boys were kicking back in their respective kitty carseats, half asleep.
Mason had eschewed his normal business suit and was dressed as if he were going to the gym—black sweatpants and T-shirt, diving watch that cost more than my car, high-end running shoes.
Ordinarily, Mason’s looks brought to mind a younger Idris Elba—elegant, stylish, handsome. Tonight, with his head squished against the roof and knees hiked up to his chest, the shifter was less Elba and more pissed-off wolf crammed into a circus cage.
A growl rattled in the back of his throat. “What about me, witch?”
“The plan, Second,” I growled back. Mine was less snarly since I wasn’t a wolf, but he got the message. “What is it?”
“Stay in the car even if shit goes sideways with the ghoul,” he said, with marked resignation. “My job is to protect you from demon hunters and challenging shifters, nothing else.”
“Exactly.” I spun back around and stared out at the silent, deserted cemetery. There was no one around, but that didn’t mean the ghoul wasn’t there.
“This is a bad idea, isn’t it?” The voice was Mason’s, but it could’ve been Ida’s—or mine.
“The worst,” I said, and got out of the car.
Mason used the handle to push down the driver’s seat until the headrest hit the steering wheel then hung his head out the window. “So, why do it?”
“Because Cecil likes this Curio rowleyanus the best. I’m the one who killed the original, so I’m replacing it.”
“It’s a plant,” he replied drily. “Buy some seeds.”
Cecil made a murderous chittering sound, and Mason eyed him over his shoulder. “No offense, gnome. I’m just looking out for Alpha.”
If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never get used to Mason Hartman calling me Alpha, but by some miracle—or curse—of fate, that was what I was. His alpha.
Fennel bounded onto Mason’s back and out the open window, landing at my feet. “Meow.”
“Where?” I asked him.
“Meooow.”
I cursed. The level of screech in his meow told me the ghoul was closer than I’d suspected.
Fennel slinked along beside me as I approached the front gate. I planted my feet, toes edging the consecrated grounds, and spoke solemnly into the warm, June night: “Dominick, dark sovereign of the Peaceful Dunes Cemetery, I humbly request a moment of your time.”
A figure peered at me from behind a mesquite tree, deep within the cemetery.
He wore a long, hooded cape, less like a monk’s cloak and more like a video game designer’s idea of a medieval ranger.
I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a leather quiver filled with feather-tipped arrows strapped to his back.
“Dominick? Is that you?”
The ghoul’s voice whispered in my left ear. “Do you think I have domain only of this cemetery, Sexton’s grandchild?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Goddess, graveyard demons were creepy bastards.
“No, I do not,” I said, when I was sure my voice wouldn’t tremble. “Would you care to share the coordinates of your full territory so I might address you more accurately?”
Ha. Got him. Demons didn’t like giving out personal information because they knew it could be used against them—after all, they did it to others all the time.
“No,” he said icily.
Dominick stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed like an Old West undertaker in a cape-like overcoat, shirt and vest. I’d never seen him in ancient, sentient robes like Sexton, but he probably had them tucked under there somewhere.
Interestingly, what the ghoul wasn’t wearing was an assassin’s cloak.
A glance at the trees showed the hooded man still there, watching us. Watching me. Was he one of Dominick’s minions? Did ghouls have minions?
I wished there was someone I could ask about these things. Ida knew some things, but she wasn’t an expert in hellish creatures. It was at times like these, when I needed information about a world I didn’t understand, that I cursed Sexton the most.
The ghoul’s hand was on my shoulder before I saw him move, and fingers like daggers made of blunt bone sank into my muscle. A single earthworm wriggled from the cuff of his coat and inched up one side of my neck. I didn’t shudder or flinch, but the effort took most of my focus.
“What are you doing here, underworld witch?”
Didn’t like that nickname any more than I’d liked the other one, but I wasn’t picking a fight with him over it, either.
Mason growled from the car but didn’t get out.
Finally someone who stuck to the plan.
Ida stuck her head out the passenger window. “Hey! You okay over there?”
“Fine,” I said, in a voice so steady even I was impressed.
“Are you … fine?” The ghoul asked.
I disregarded the question, since I was pretty sure it was rhetorical. “If you aren’t pleased with the title I used, is there a more polite one you’d prefer?”