Chapter One
Giant aluminum balls hung around me even though I was standing in the cemetery not long before dawn. I didn’t know who hung the balls, but I wasn’t too bothered.
Winter in New Orleans was festive. We might have draugr and a higher than reasonable crime rate, but damn it, we had festivities for every possible occasion. Gold, silver, red, blue, purple, and green balls hung from the tree. Samhain had passed, and it was time to ramp up for the winter holidays.
November--the month after Samhain--was uncommonly active for necromancy calls. Unfortunately, a certain sort of person thought it was festive to summon the body and spirit of Dear Uncle Phil or Aunt Marie. Sometimes the relatives were maudlin, and sometimes they were thinking about the afterlife.
Now, the dead don’t tell tales about the things after death. They can’t. I warn folks, but they don’t believe me. They pay me a fair amount to summon their dead, so I always stress that the “what happens after we die” questions are forbidden. Few people believe me.
Tonight, I had summoned Alphard Cormier to speak to his widow and assorted relatives or friends who accompanied her. I didn’t ask who they were. One proven relation was all I needed. Family wasn’t always just the folks who shared your blood.
Case in point, the faery beside me. Eli of Stonecroft was one of the people I trusted most in this world—or in any other. I closed my eyes for a moment, which I could do because he was at my side. I was tired constantly, so much so that only willpower kept me upright.
“Bonbon,” Eli whispered. His worried tone made clear that a question or three hid in that absurd pet name.
Was I going to be able to control my magic? Did he need to brace for draugr inbound? Were we good on time?
“It’s good.” I opened my eyes, muffled a yawn, and met his gaze. “I’m still fine.”
Eli nodded, but he still scanned the graves. He was increasingly cautious since my near-brush-with-death a couple months ago.
My partner stood at my side as we waited in the cemetery while the widow, her daughter, and two men spoke to their reanimated relative. Mr. Alphard Cormier was wearing a suit that was in fashion sometime in the last thirty years.
Why rouse him now? I didn’t know and wasn’t asking.
“Twenty minutes,” I called out. I could feel the sun coming; I’d always been able to do so—call it in an internal sundial, or call it bad genes. Either way, my body was attuned to the rising and falling of the sun.
“When he is entombed, we could--”
“No.” I couldn’t force myself to glance at him again.
I was bone-tired, which made me more affectionate, and Eli was my weakness. Cut-glass features, bee-stung lips, and enough strength to fight at my side, even against draugar, Eli was built for fantasy. His ability to destroy my self-control was remarkable—and no, it wasn’t because he was fae.
That part was why I wasn’t going home with him. Trusting him, wanting him, caring for him, none of that was enough to overcome the complications of falling into his bed. Sleeping with a faery prince had a list of complications that no amount of lust or affection overcame.
“I won’t get married,” I reminded him.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mr. Cormier asked, voice carrying over the soft sobbing women.
The man with them handed Cormier something metallic.
I felt as much as saw the dead man look my way, and then his arm raised with a gun in hand. The relatives parted, and there was a dead man with a gun aimed at me.
“Fuck a duck. Move!” I darted to the side.
Eli was already beside me, hand holding his pretty bronze-coated sword that I hadn’t even known he owned until the last month. “Geneviève?”
“On it.” I jerked the magic away from Mr. Comier.
It was my magic that made him stand, so I wasn’t going to let him stand and shoot me.
REST, I ordered the dead man.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. They made me. Threatened my Suzette if I didn’t . . .” His words faded as my shove of magic sent him back to his tomb.
I could hear the widow, presumably Suzette, sobbing.
“I do not believe those gentlemen are Mr. Cormier’s relations.” Eli glared in the direction of the men who had hired me to raise a dead man to kill me. They’d grabbed the two women and ducked behind mausoleums.
“Why?”
“They seem to want you dead, buttercream,” Eli said. “If they were his family, that’s an odd response.”
A bullet hit the stone across from me. Shards of gravestone pelted me. Oddly the adrenaline surge was welcome, even if the bullets weren’t. Nothing like a shot of rage to get the sleepiness out.
“Not why that.” I nodded toward the men who were staying crouched behind graves. “Why go through the hassle? Why not simply shoot me themselves?”
“Dearest, can we ponder that after they are not shooting at you?”
I felt my eyes change. As my rage boiled over, my eyes reflected it. They were my father’s reptilian eyes, draugr eyes. The only useful thing he’d ever done was accidentally augment the magic I inherited from my mother. Unfortunately, the extra juice came with a foul temper—one that was even worse the last few weeks. After I’d been injected by venom, my moods were increasingly intense.
I wanted to rip limbs off.
I wanted to shove my thumbs into their eye sockets and keep going until I felt brain matter.
Before the urges were more than images, I was moving from one spot to the next.
I could flow like a draugr. I could move quickly enough that to the mortal eye it looked like teleportation. I flowed to the side of the shooter and grabbed his wrist.
Eli was not far behind. He didn’t flow, but he was used to my movements and impulses. He had his sword to the shooter’s throat a moment after I jerked the gun away from the man.
“Dearest?” Eli said, his voice tethering me sanity.
I concentrated on his voice, his calm, and I punched the other shooter rather than removing his eyes. Then I let out a scream of frustration and shoved my magic into the soil like a seismic force.
The dead answered.
Dozens of voices answered my call. Hands reknitted. Flesh was regrown from the magic that flowed from my body into the graves. Mouths reformed, as if I was a sculptor of man.
“You do not wake the dead without reason,” I growled at the now-unarmed man who dared to try to shoot me.
Here, of all places. He tried to spill my blood into these graves.
I stepped over the man I’d punched and ignored the cringing, sobbing widow and the other woman who was trying to convince her mother to leave.
And I stalked toward the shooter in Eli’s grip.
“Bonbon, you have a scratch.” Eli nodded toward my throat.
“Shit.” I felt my neck where Eli had indicated. Blood slid into my collar.
I stepped closer to the shooter. “What were you thinking, Weasel Nuts?”
“Would you mind covering the wound?” Eli asked, forcing me to focus again.
His voice was calm, but we both knew that I could not shed blood in a space where graves were so plentiful. I’d accidentally bound two draugr so far, and blood was a binding agent in necromancy. Unless I wanted to bring home a few reanimated servants, my blood couldn’t spill here.