Page 9 of Deader than Dead

“A few hours at most,” one of them said. “Once we start removing fingers, they always talk.”

I backed away from the door, nausea threatening to make my breakfast reappear. I was under no illusions that I’d withstand torture. Not for long, anyway. And I doubted I’d make it as far as them removing fingers. They probably had far subtler methods of causing immense pain before it reached that point. Which meant they were right about one thing. Eventually, I’d tell them where the mask was and all my efforts not to let it fall into their hands would be in vain. Unless…

My hand went to the necklace I wore. I fiddled with it until the pendant clicked open, staring at the single pill that lay in the palm of my hand. It looked so innocuous lying there. Not like something that would kill a man—kill me—in a matter of minutes. It had amused me to walk around with a cyanide pill on my person. Like I was James Bond or something. I no longer found it amusing. I had a decision to make. How determined was I to not give up the location of the mask? Because there was only one surefire way of doing that and it meant sacrificing myself for the greater good. Was I brave enough to do what was necessary?

I forced myself to breathe evenly. If the answer to that question was yes, then I needed to get on with it. The door could open at any moment, and there was no guarantee I’d get another opportunity. It was now or never. Make or break time, and probably a thousand other cliches that I could come up with as a delaying tactic. It came down to one simple question. Did I have the guts to do what was required to thwart O’Reilly?

Chapter Five

John

“How long before he comes back to life?”

I flicked a glance at the woman wringing her hands. She was young, somewhere in her early twenties, her long blonde hair hanging loose around her face. She was a lot younger than the corpse staring up at me from the bed. I liked to think of myself as non-judgmental, but I’d have had to be blind not to notice the age gap. Not that being able to tell the age of someone who was dead was all that easy because… Well… because dead people didn’t look their best. But from the mostly gray hair, the prominent bald spot, and the considerable paunch of the corpse, I would have put him somewhere in his late fifties. Still, love knew no bounds, and his wife was obviously distraught, her eyes red-rimmed, and the hand-wringing continuing.

“It varies from person to person. Some come back instantaneously. Others take longer. Some can’t be brought back at all.”

Alarm flashed across the woman’s face. “What? I wasn’t told that when I spoke to the company.”

No surprise that Cade might not have mentioned the possibility that it could all be for naught. The man could charm the birds from the trees, but he wasn’t known for his honesty and candor, or his ability to turn down the opportunity to make a quick buck. He would have told her exactly what she wanted to hear, that I was a miracle worker, and then he would have rushed her through signing the online contract. “It was written on the contract that if a certain amount of time has passed since death, that the process is not always successful.”

“Oh.” She took a break from hand-wringing to fumble with her phone, presumably pulling up her version of the contract.

I went back to my preparations for the ritual, arranging the candles at specific points around the bed to align with the Earth’s ley lines.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

I tamped down on an eye roll as I moved a candle a millimeter to the right and lit it. I’d heard it all before. When they booked a necromancer, they expected a tall, dark-haired man with a long, black coat to sweep in. And I was supposed to have an exotic name like Xenos or Wolfgang. They might get tall—I was just shy of six-foot-three—but they got blond-haired, blue-eyed, and extremely fresh-faced, John Averill, dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans, instead. And while I wouldn’t have been averse to the long, black coat, I didn’t need any more stares on the tube than I already got, so I usually settled for a far less conspicuous leather jacket. I played along, though. More because it would have been rude to ignore her, than me needing to hear what I already knew. “No? What did you expect?”

“Someone more gothic.”

“Gothic, right. I apologize. I left my white face paint and eyeliner at home.”

She laughed, but the sound was far from convincing. I pulled down the sheet covering the corpse’s chest, the waxy skin cold against the backs of my fingers. “What’s your husband’s name?”

“Do you need to know that? Is that part of the process?”

“No, it’s not, but sometimes they can be confused when they come back, and using his name can help to ground him.”

“I see.” Her brow furrowed. “He will have all his mental faculties, won’t he?”

“If it works…” I put heavy emphasis on the if, in case she still wasn’t getting the message, “then nine times out of ten, they do.”

“And the other time?”

“They don’t.” It was better than telling her she could face seeing her husband as nothing more than a gibbering wreck. Sometimes they spoke a different language to the one they had in life. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. Sometimes they just sat up and stared. It was all in the contract she apparently still hadn’t read. “His name, please.”

She cleared her throat. “Alfred. Alfred Mobley. I’m Maria Mobley. Sorry, I probably should have introduced myself when I let you in. You must think me very rude.”

“Not at all, Maria. I understand how upsetting this situation must be for you. Losing a loved one is always difficult. You’re not alone with needing a few final moments with your husband.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “A few final moments… Right? That’s exactly what I need.” She tucked a long strand of hair back behind her ear. “If it works, how long will I have with him?”

At least she knew it wasn’t permanent. Cade must have told her that much. “It varies. Sometimes as little as half an hour. The average is about three hours. There have been a few cases where reanimation lasted longer, but that’s extremely rare.”

“Okay.” Her eyes went wide as I pulled a knife from the bag I carried. “What’s that for?”

“You may want to look away if you’re squeamish.”

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