Page 82 of TBR: Dead But Well Read

“That’s because he really knows how to knock ‘em dead. Get it?” I wiggled my eyebrows, then winced when my scalp screamed in protest.

Rhodes and Evander dropped to the floor beside us. “What can we do? How can we help you?”

“I’m fine, everything’s fine,” I lied reassuringly.

“Feed from us. Take all of my energy if it will help you heal!” Lochlan pleaded.

“So, funny story, but I don’t know how to feed. I’m more of the feedee than the feeder.”

“But you said Saul fed you. How did he do it?” Rhodes pushed.

“I don’t know. He kissed me and then sort of poured it down my throat. A lot like funneling beer at a college party—not that I did that.” A migraine began jack-hammering my skull, making it hard to think. There was something important I needed to tell Saul.

“Uh, guys?” Evander’s whisper sounded like a scream, and I curled into the fetal position and covered my ears.

Why was everything so loud? And why did it feel like my skin was melting off my body?

Thud.

I’d come here because Saul was in danger. But why? It seemed like he was doing a lot better than me.

Thud.

There was something he needed to know.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I felt hands on my body and screamed in pain. Something was wrong. This isn’t what it felt like to die, and I would have known, since it wasn’t my first rodeo.

“You were too weak and scared to take your position! I’ve spent years working to claim it as mine and you think you can just pick it up on a whim? You and Philetus were both weak and unworthy of your bloodline!”

Thud.

I’ve been in this moment before. No, I haven’t. This is just déjà vu.

THUD.

“She’s stopped bleeding.” Rhodes’ words seemed to come from a thousand miles away. “I think she’s healing.”

“But ghosts can’t heal. They can’t make their own energy, that’s why they burn out,” Evander reminded them.

Lochlan lifted me from the floor. “We need to get her out of here and somewhere safe before they cause the tunnel to collapse.”

THUD.

“You don’t deserve the power you have!”

Everything inside me went still.

This was the second time I’d heard that voice say those words.

The first time had been the night I died, and my murderer had been the one to say them.

Memories of that awful night flashed through my mind, and one after another, the pieces fell into place.

My death was something I tried to never think about because I was disgusted that it had been such a dumb, pointless one. While I hadn’t been killed by Santa, the Easter Bunny, a Leprechaun, Cupid, or Sasquatch—I might as well have been.

That night, I’d decided to push myself to do something other than work, sleep, and read. An advertisement for an Amazonian art exhibit had caught my attention, and I’d attended.

---