Page 16 of Deader than Dead

Crocodile studied me. Unless he’d done it while I’d been concentrating on Bellamy, he still hadn’t blinked. “And you’re basing that on…?”

“Rigor mortis,” I said. I let Bellamy’s arm drop back to the mattress to illustrate my point. “He doesn’t have it. Rigor mortis sets in around two hours after death and wears off anywhere between six to eight hours after death. Therefore, he’s either been dead less than two hours or over six.”

Crocodile shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Was that the only question he knew how to ask? I gave a humorless laugh. “Yes, it matters. What I do, bringing them back, only works within a set time frame. If they’ve been dead too long, it’s no good.”

“Just do what we hired you to do,” Crocodile demanded.

I lifted my gaze to the other three men in the room, standing taller and squaring my shoulders as I came to a decision. “I need the room. The process of reanimation requires complete concentration on my part.” Blank stares. “No audience,” I translated, in case the problem was lack of understanding.

Three heads turned in unison to Crocodile, the man staring at me with those dead eyes of his, evaluating, sizing me up. Eventually, he gave a nod. “We’ll be outside, so don’t try anything.”

What did they think I was going to do? Throw Bellamy over my shoulder and spirit him out of here before anyone caught wind of what I was up to? If I’d thought there was even the slightest chance of success, I might have considered it. But, fifteen floors up and surrounded by armed men, even I wasn’t that suicidal. Not to mention the three behemoths guarding the front of the building. Yeah, Bellamy wasn’t leaving this room. The most I could hope for was a few minutes of conversation before they realized he was alive. And that was if I could bring him back. And it was a big if, the lie they’d told about his time of death sitting heavy in my chest.

I waited until they’d all filed out of the room and the door had closed in their wake before upending my still unfastened bag and tipping its contents over the floor. While I arranged the candles in the positions they needed to be in, I talked, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the men on the other side of the door. “Well, Bellamy, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about meeting you, but I never imagined for a moment that it would be like this. Better late than never, I suppose. I knew you were out there. Did you live here? In London, I mean? If so, that stinks that we never met. Did you know I was out there, too? Were you looking for me?”

I wasn’t fooling myself he could hear me. He wasn’t in a coma. He wasn’t sleeping. He had no pulse. No heartbeat. No residual electrical activity in his brain. He was just dead. But it made me feel better. After all, a one-sided conversation might be all I ever got. “You probably want to know about me. My name’s John and I’m thirty-two years old. You look younger than that.” He did. “Funny, I’ve never dated a younger man.” And you probably never will, now. I shushed the voice of reality. There was no place for it in this room.

With the candles in position, I did a slow circuit to light them while keeping up my running commentary. “I live in Wembley. Close to the arena. What else? I’m an only child. My mum drives me insane half the time, but despite that, we’re quite close. She disagreed with me waiting for you.” I paused. “Which… given present circumstances, I guess you could say she was right.” I pulled a face. “I’m not going to tell her that, though, or I’ll never hear the end of it. I never knew my dad. He walked out before I was born, leaving my mum to bring me up on her own. I guess that’s why we’re close.”

I sighed. “I wish I knew something about you, apart from your name. Whether you’ve got brothers or sisters. Whether you grew up with both parents. I don’t even know what you do for a job. This is what I do, obviously. I’m sure you can imagine how well the mention of necromancy goes down on a first date. Although, to be honest, it’s weirder when they’re interested. Makes me think they’ve got a screw loose.”

The fact that Bellamy wore a T-shirt left me with two choices for baring his chest: use the knife to cut it in two, or undress him. It felt wrong to ruin his clothing, so I went for the latter, maneuvering him into a position where I could slide first one arm out from the sleeve and then the other before pulling it over his head. I folded it neatly next to him. “I wonder what our first date would have been like? Where would we have gone? For dinner? Or would we have done something fun? Do you like lobster? I know a great place that does lobster in central London. Pricey, of course, but that’s to be expected. I would have paid. One thing I’ll say about my job is that it pays well.”

Crouching down to reach my bag, I extracted the knife from the side pocket. My palm showed no sign of the earlier cut, the skin completely healed. It was a good job. If I healed like an average human did, I would have run out of places to cut a long time ago.

I drew the knife across my palm for the second time that day, blood oozing out. “I’m going to draw a symbol on your chest. It’s like a gateway to the other side. At least that’s my understanding of it. Your soul will travel back through it and into your body. I’d like to tell you it won’t hurt, but I don’t know that for sure. I’ve never asked.” Why hadn’t I asked? I guess because once my job was done, I left soon after. It was the spouse or the parents that wanted to talk to the person, not me. “I hope it doesn’t hurt, but if it does, I’m sorry.”

Just as I’d done earlier that afternoon, I flattened my palm to the sigil I’d drawn. I’d done it hundreds of times before, but it had never felt like this. Like my world had tipped on its axis and I needed this to work for things to be the right way up again. I closed my eyes and started to speak, the ancient words flowing from me like water. Voices answered, giving permission, but after less than a minute, I knew it wasn’t working. No warmth. No faint flutter. Nothing. Too long, said the voices. You’re too late, necromancer.

Despite what they were saying, I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, and I put everything I had into it, enunciating the words more clearly, and giving more of my life force than I ever had before. No good, necromancer. Too late. Too late. Dead too long. Give up.

I didn’t have to give up. I could… But no, there was nothing good to be gained from going there. It would only lead to more pain. I reeled back, panting and feeling weak from the energy I’d exerted. Yeah, they’d lied. Rigor mortis had already come and gone. I wouldn’t even get one conversation with him. All I would have was a name, a face that would probably haunt my dreams, and a chasm in my heart in the place reserved for him.

The tears that spilled from my eyes burned, the profound sense of grief that filled my chest seeming both completely ridiculous and completely understandable at the same time. I stared at him, the feeling of desolation, at having been abandoned, unmistakable. Annoyed with myself, I scrubbed at my face with my sleeve. I needed to get a grip. I needed to remember that on the other side of the door were multiple armed men, who probably would not be too happy that I’d failed to do what they’d hired me to do. I could fall apart later once I was out of here and in my apartment.

I blew out all the candles before rounding the bed, acting on impulse to press a kiss to Bellamy’s cold forehead. “Our first kiss,” I said. And our last. “I’m sorry, Bellamy. I’m sorry that we never got to talk, that we never got to find out how good we could have been together. It’s like they say, fate can be a cruel mistress.”

The door flew open, and I steeled myself for the shit to hit the fan. Maybe I’d be joining Bellamy in a permanent state of deadness and we’d be together in the afterlife.

Chapter Nine

John

“He’s still dead,” said Crocodile, in a perfect example of stating the bloody obvious.

I hated the fact that he’d stolen my last few moments alone with Bellamy. And I hated him. Him and everything he stood for. He might have been O’Reilly, or he might just have been another one of his minions. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. Not even about staying alive. These were the people who had killed Bellamy, and if I didn’t think that my knife wouldn’t have lasted two minutes against their guns, I would happily have cut them all down. I lifted my chin and looked him dead in the eye. “I told you it wouldn’t work if he’d been dead too long. How long has he been dead? Six hours? Eight? Longer?”

To my surprise, Crocodile answered. “Half a day.”

I ran a hand through my hair, not caring that it was the one with blood on it. “Then it was never going to fucking work, was it?” God, I was angry. I was angry that they’d wasted my time. I was angry that they’d put me through this for nothing. But most of all, I was angry that they’d given me that tiny kernel of hope. Was one conversation too much to ask for?

“Watch your mouth,” Crocodile said.

I rounded on him. “No, you watch yours. I don’t appreciate being sent on a wild goose chase, no matter who you are or how important you might think you are. If you’re going to fucking shoot me, shoot me, but don’t waste time with threats, because I’m done.” I finished my little speech with a glare cold enough to freeze molten metal.

Crocodile held my gaze, the two of us locked in a staring battle of which there could only be one winner, and it wasn’t me. Seconds ticked by. Even when one man cleared his throat, I didn’t look away, neither of us blinking this time. Finally, Crocodile smiled. “I like you. You’ve got balls. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a new job?”

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