Page 7 of Mostly Shattered

“He’s a class act, that one.” Anthony stands and reaches his hand toward me. “I’ll say it again, I promised you when we were little I’d never let you die. I intend to keep that promise.”

“If you turn me into a zombie, I’m going to be pissed,” I tell him as I let him pull me to my feet and guide me away from the bench.

The easiest—and I use that word with massive air quotes—path to immortality comes with curses. Vampires and werewolves come to mind.

“Are you sure? I hear necromancers can be real party animals.” He holds my hand against his arm, patting my fingers.

“I hear their partiesare dead,” I quip.

I glance back for one last look at Paul. He’s looking in our direction.

“You have good taste. I’ll give you that much,” Anthony says. “Almost perfect, except for the dad thing. Could you imagine having a kid?”

Yes.

I force a laugh and shake my head. “Never.”

Some things are not meant to be.

He walks a little faster, pulling me with him. “Can I help you pick out a mausoleum? We could make it into a clubhouse.”

“Are we twelve?”

“The real parties are six feet under the mausoleums,” he says. “We can dig a tunnel and tap into the supernatural city underground. A quick drop down a hole and we’re clubbing with hot warlocks.”

I have no clue what he’s talking about. Before I can ask about his joke, he picks up his pace.

“I have a great idea. You distract the parents and make your funeral arrangements to keep Uncle Mortimer happy and distracted. I’ll sneak into our father’s office to check the company manifests, and then we’ll hitch a ride with a shipment to Africa. We’ll leave tonight. Let’s see how far we can get before they send someone to collect us.”

“Africa?” We near the street, and I see a town car slowing as if on cue to give us a ride.

“Sure. I always wanted to check a grootslang off my list.”

“List? What list?”

“I have a contest going with some guys from school to see who can encounter the most supernatural creatures. Goblins, trolls, etcetera, are all give-mes, so meeting one of those is worth one point. But a grootslang or ninki nanka? No one has those.”

“And this is a game you play?”

“Sure. Hand me your phone.” Anthony pulls open the car door.

I hesitate, so he takes my phone from my back pocket and then waits as I slide into the seat.

A car honks behind us as Anthony stands in the doorway, not getting in. I watch my brother look up from my phone to give the upset driver a cocky wave before sliding into the back seat next to me. He slams the door shut. The privacy window separates us from the driver, and Anthony knocks on it to tell the driver to go.

I feel the car move as I watch Anthony play with my phone. He waves his hand over the screen and a blue glow comes from the device.

“Give me your hand,” he instructs.

I obey the request.

Anthony presses my palm down on the screen. I feel a sharp jab the base of my thumb and jerk my hand back. A dot of blood mars my skin, matching aspot on my phone. The blood soaks into the device, and a series of three long beeps sound.

“All set,” Anthony says.

He doesn’t give me my phone back as he scrolls.

“What’s set?” I stare at the bead of blood on my hand.

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