Читать книгу Midnight Hunter - Kait Ballenger - Страница 9
ОглавлениеINTERRUPTIONS IN THE middle of a good lecture were the bane of Shane’s existence. He was fairly certain of that. He nearly swore as his thoughts jumbled. His words fell apart midsentence while the most gorgeous distraction he’d ever laid eyes on slipped into the back of his classroom. The door to the lecture hall thumped closed behind her in the relative silence of her fellow students scribbling notes. Vera slid into the back row, not bothering to look up at him.
He wasn’t normally one to call out students on being late, as much as their behavior frustrated him. He was easygoing by nature, but something about the casual way she strolled in, despite how she had basically cussed him out last night, bugged him. That, on top of the fact that he knew she had failed to turn in her midterm despite the leniency and extra time he’d given her, served to compound his anger until he couldn’t help himself.
“Ms. Sanders, thank you for finally gracing us with your presence.”
She glanced up from her notebook, her eyes wide with alarm at being called out on her tardiness. A pale pink blush crossed her cheeks, and he forced himself to look away and return to his lecture.
Yep, that was it. That building pressure beneath the fly of his jeans was the exact reason why, after last night, he’d decided that asking her for help had been an idiotic decision. Sure, if she did have any information on the local covens, getting that information would save him a ton of time compared to acquiring it on his own, but he could and would complete the job without her. The inclusion of a witch in a witch hunt—a witch who was his student and had a past history of run-ins with the Execution Underground, at that—was a no-go.
He had been thinking too much with the wrong head. He didn’t need Vera’s help. With only one murder, there was no indication he was battling time constraints or that the coven—or even a single witch—behind it would strike again, or at all. He pushed the case from his mind and refocused on his lecture. Crowley’s writings weren’t going to teach themselves.
As class ended, he waved a stack of freshly graded papers in the air. “Come get your midterms.”
A swarm of human bodies surrounded him, arms reaching to grab at the papers he handed out as he called his students’ names. When he’d nearly reached the bottom of the stack, he glanced up, only to find himself face-to-face with his favorite vice.
“Dr. Grey, I wanted to talk with you about last...”
Oh, no, not here. He shot Vera a look that said, Close your mouth now, if you know what’s good for you. “Ms. Sanders, my office. Now.” He dropped the rest of the papers on the desk and left the remaining students to fend for themselves. He threw his computer bag over his shoulder and strode toward the door, not bothering to look behind him to see if Vera was following. When he reached his office, he pulled the key from the back pocket of his jeans, unlocked the old wooden door and turned the worn brass knob.
Once he reached his desk, he tossed his computer bag down and turned toward the door.
Vera stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She twisted her hands together and bit her lower lip before she finally looked up at him. “If this is about my midterm, I...”
“What do you think you’re doing, bringing up last night in front of the other students?” he hissed.
Her eyes widened. “It’s not like I was planning to say, ‘Hey, Dr. Grey, remember that black magic you were asking me about at my apartment last night?’ I was trying to be discreet.”
He shook his head and ran a hand over his ponytail. “Not discreet enough. I can’t have anyone getting the idea that there’s something going on between us.” He waved his hand in the air between them to emphasize his words. It was especially vital considering he did want her, despite all logic telling him that was a bad idea. How many times had he fantasized about taking her on top of this very desk? It didn’t matter that there was only a few years’ age difference between them, since he’d finished his dissertation at Yale by the time he was twenty-three. A relationship, even a fabricated one, with a student would get him canned. And damn it, he loved his job and had always been a good, objective professor who would have shuddered at the idea of being involved with one of his students—until she came along.
Her jaw hardened. “Why? Because everyone on this campus thinks I’m easy, because of the way I dress and the fact that I work in a strip club?”
He frowned. What the hell was she talking about? “The reason why is because I’m your professor and you’re my student, so regardless of what you look like, how you dress or where you work, accusations of a relationship or even favoritism outside normal professional interactions would be the end of my career.” He slammed his hand on his desk and tried to keep his voice low. “And yes, your midterm is late, and you’ll be lucky if I even accept it now. I told you to have it in by the beginning of class.”
When he met her gaze, his breath and pulse stopped. Just stopped. As if he’d died for a moment, because he swore he saw a hint of hurt in her eyes, and fuck if he could have that. The mere thought that she might want him, too, killed him. He tore his eyes away. Damn, he was a fool. He was imagining things.
She unzipped her plaid backpack, reached inside and removed a paper, then slammed it onto the wooden surface in front of him. When she spoke, her words dripped with venom. “That’s the midterm you so graciously gave me extra time on, Dr. Grey. I’m sorry it wasn’t in by the beginning of class and that I was late to your lecture, but I thought I was doing something that would be of particular interest to you. But you know, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m attracted to you or your hunky nerd charm or anything, like every other female in your classes. I wouldn’t want to feed your enormous ego.”
For a long moment he was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure which surprised him the most. The fact that she had just called him a “hunky nerd,” that she was clearly implying a good chunk of the female student body was attracted to him—both of which were certainly news to him—or the fact that she had the balls to tell him he had a big ego. Did he have a big ego? He supposed most academics did like to hear the sound of their own voices, but he’d never really thought of himself like that.
She reached into her backpack again and pulled out a large mason jar. It landed on his desk with an audible thump. A large tarantula flexed its legs against the walls of the glass. “I’ll go ahead and give this to you. Consider it a witch’s version of an apple, Professor.” She turned to leave.
“What is this?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door. “If I have to spell it out for you, maybe you’re not as good a hunter as I thought.”
His eyes widened as he examined the spider. “Is this your familiar?”
She closed the door again and turned back around. “Don’t you think that’s a little too personal a question, Dr. Grey? You wouldn’t want to cross a professional line, but for your information, no, that is not my familiar. My familiar is a massive, overweight ball of fur who likes to lick his own balls.”
He stared at her. He wasn’t sure what the hell she meant by that.
“This is someone else’s familiar,” she continued. “I don’t know whose, but I was rudely awakened by the feeling of its legs trying to pry open my mouth last night.” She shivered. “So I thought it might interest you that someone was trying to use me as a receptacle for their black magic.”
Adjusting his glasses so they sat correctly on the bridge of his nose, he examined the familiar writhing inside the glass. The last time he’d seen one of these so-called “gifts” from the devil, he’d been in the middle of his training with the Execution Underground just after he’d finished his PhD. That particular familiar was a toad, and the warlock it belonged to had been detained for allegedly using black magic to evade the cops in order to continue running a successful drug business. The warlock’s drug trade had resulted in loads of humans becoming addicted to a type of cheap cocaine, which had been mixed with something that caused a flesh-eating virus. The Execution Underground refused to tolerate any supernaturals that hurt humans.
He extended his hand. “Will you sit down, please?” He continued to examine the familiar as she sat in the chair in front of his desk. “Do you have any idea who sent this to you or why?”
“No,” she said. “Not a clue.”
He looked up from the familiar then to watch her face. Damn, she was gorgeous. Hunky nerd? He couldn’t get past the fact that she really thought of him that way. He always thought of himself as just a nerd, plain and simple. God help him. “I’ll help you, if you help me.” He said it before he could stop himself. He had decided working with her was stupid, yet here he was, making the offer, anyway. That was exactly what the problem was: she muddled his decision making. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away when she so clearly needed protection. He wasn’t the type of man to do that. She may have been a witch and he a witch hunter, but regardless, he would not stand by while any woman, witch or not, was attacked. He would figure out how to control his inappropriate feelings.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Who says I need your help?”
“Why else would you bring this to me? Last night you wanted nothing to do with helping me, but I figure from the way you shivered at the thought of this tarantula possessing you that you’re either extremely afraid of spiders or afraid of someone using you for black magic against your will, and that seems like something that a normal person would want help from a witch hunter for.”
“You’re intuitive. It’s kind of disgusting.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But you’re right. It’s both. I just don’t like admitting I’m afraid of anything.”
One side of his mouth lifted into a half grin. He wasn’t surprised by that. She didn’t seem like the type to want to flaunt any weakness. Everything about her, even down to her sexy punk-rock appearance, screamed strength and resilience, and an assurance in her own self that only came from a person owning up to who they really were and not giving a shit what anyone thought. That was part of what drew him to her. “Arachnophobia is common, and as for someone trying to possess you with their familiar, I would be scared, too, and I’m not easily scared.” He smiled fully this time. “I’ll help protect you from whoever is after you, if you help me with my case.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”
She stared at his hand but didn’t take it. “I don’t know, Dr. Grey. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your career by getting too personal.”
As intuitive as she seemed to think he was, he couldn’t quite understand the emotion behind her voice. “We’ll be professional colleagues outside of the classroom, but when we’re here on campus, you’re still my student and I’m still your professor. We can maintain a distance we’re both comfortable with. You can call me Shane when we’re alone and Dr. Grey otherwise, if that makes you feel better.”
“And you’ll stop calling me Ms. Sanders when other students aren’t around, right?”
He nodded.
She reached out and took his hand. The feel of the soft skin of her palm against his jolted electric desire through him until he was certain his cock would break free of his jeans and push against the underside of his desk at any moment.
“We’ll have to experiment with different distances to determine what we’re comfortable with, Shane,” she said, emphasizing his name.
He gave a single nod. If he moved another muscle, he might pull her across his desk until she straddled him in his executive chair. Experiment with different distances? That sounded like some sort of naughty invitation, but he knew better. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested when she’d said he had a big ego.
Hadn’t she?
* * *
VERA RELEASED DR. GREY’S, er, Shane’s hand like it was on fire. Never in her life would she have said a handshake could be sexy, but somehow that one managed to be. And really? Had she really said that cheesy-ass line about experimenting with distance? Gosh, she hoped it hadn’t sounded as desperately horny out loud as it did now in her head.
It was bad enough that she was as stereotypically attracted to him as any other girl in his classes, but even worse that she continued to be even after he had made it clear he wanted to maintain a professional distance from her. Besides, they couldn’t be more opposite. Handsome business-casual professor. Gothed-out strip-club bartender. Professor. Student. Hunter. Witch. Intelligent PhD. Barely passing grades for a bachelor’s she would probably never earn if she kept going at this rate. The list went on and on.
Reminding herself that if it weren’t for the familiar sitting on his desktop, she wouldn’t be here, she sighed. “So what happens next?”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the edge of his desk, thinking. “First, I need to know about your involvement with the black-magic covens in the area. Since you’re helping me, you have my word that I won’t report any of your activities to the Execution Underground, but I need to know.”
She frowned and lied straight through her teeth. “I told you already—I’m not involved with them.” Considering his clear opinion of her already, she couldn’t bring herself to admit she had a problem, that she had fallen back into old habits just before he showed up on her doorstep and had been itching to go back again ever since he’d left. He wouldn’t understand. No one ever did.
He nodded. “Okay, so despite not being involved with them—and good for you for staying away from them. I know how hard it can be to break an addiction...” He smiled at her.
She nearly cringed. The kindness in his eyes, as if he truly was happy for her, killed her. But how could he possibly know how hard it was?
“Despite that...do you know anything at all about any of them? Heard anything through the magical grapevine, maybe?”
“Magical grapevine?” She chuckled. “Damn, you really are a nerd.”
He laughed. “Unapologetically.” He held his hand up, fingers separated in the sign of a true Trekkie.
She snorted. “Wow. Yeah, supernerd. Better not show that to your adoring fans in your classroom, though. You might break their hearts and crush their girlish dreams.”
He shook his head. “I still can’t wrap my head around that.”
She shrugged. “Of course you can’t. You may be smart, but like all other nerds before you, you’re some kind of idiot savant, completely oblivious to the hordes of big-boobed sorority girls who take your class because they think you’re cute. The fact that you haven’t realized their intention is to stare longingly at your tight little ass instead of caring about the subject matter would be unbelievable if it weren’t completely predictable.”
He stared at her as if she’d grown three heads. “I’m glad I’ve been blissfully ignorant until now. But, that aside, we have two orders of business—figure out where that familiar came from and who’s targeting you, and start digging deeper into this case.” He reached inside his black computer bag and removed a manila envelope. He pushed it across the desk toward her.
She picked it up, slid out a folder and flipped to the first page just as David Bowie’s “Fame” sounded from inside his shirt pocket.
“Bowie, huh?” Not a bad choice. Probably one of the most influential artists still alive.
He reached for his phone. “It’s one of my fellow hunters and I swear he has more David Bowie T-shirts in his wardrobe than Bowie’s had tours, and considering Bowie’s been famous since the seventies, that’s saying something.” He answered the phone. “Hey, Ash.”
She returned her attention to the folder. Inside lay an article from the Democrat and Chronicle. She scanned the headline and read through the brief paragraphs. She shuffled through the other papers—a toxicology report, lab results and a coroner’s report on the murder victim discussed in the article.
When Shane pocketed his phone again, she set the papers down on the desk in front of him. “So a guy goes cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs crazy and thinks his dead wife is haunting him just before he’s murdered? I don’t get what this has to do with black magic.”
Shane slid everything back into the manila envelope and slipped it back inside his bag. “I didn’t, either, at first. I thought maybe he was actually being haunted, so I brought it to the attention of our ghost hunter. We went to the cemetery where Mrs. Foley was buried to ensure she had fully been put to rest, but when we dug up her casket, her corpse, along with any other indication that she’d once been laid to rest there, was gone.”
Vera’s eyes widened. “So what are you insinuating?”
Shane shook his head. “I’m not really sure at this point, but it seems too bizarre to be coincidental. My theory is that a black-magic coven is using Mrs. Foley’s corpse, probably for some kind of spell. I’m wondering if maybe they used scare tactics on Mr. Foley before his death that made him think his wife was haunting him. Maybe they had a vendetta against him for some reason. This is all just speculation, though. Until now, I haven’t been able to gain access to the scene of the husband’s murder. I asked my division leader for the photos, but he asked Ash to set up an actual visit to the scene, which was what Ash was just calling about. Do you think you can handle it?”
She pursed her lips together as she considered. A murder scene that was less than a week old, quite possibly complete with bloodstains? She didn’t have a weak stomach, but that didn’t exactly sound like a stroll through the park. “As long as the body isn’t there, I should be fine. I need more mental preparation time for a dead body, though.”
Shane stood and grabbed his computer bag off the desk. “No dead bodies. Mr. Foley has long since been moved to the morgue, and Mrs. Foley died two years ago. I can’t promise it won’t be eerie, though.” He shrugged the bag onto his shoulder.
Following his cue, she grabbed her backpack and swung it over her own shoulder. She waited for him to exit, but he just stood there.
He gestured toward the door. “You go first. Head to the edge of campus—I’ll pick you up there. Look for the Chevy Volt.”
She laughed. It figured he would drive a Volt. She admired how environmentally conscious it was, but a Volt was like the Rolls-Royce of yuppie cars. “I can’t just walk out to the parking lot with you now? That would be a lot easier.”
Shane ran a hand over his ponytail again. She recognized it now as his nervous tic. Damn, how she would love to free that ponytail and watch his hair, just long enough so it framed his jawline, cascade forward, then run her fingers through it.
“I don’t want anyone to see you getting into my car in the employee parking lot.”
Fantasy officially destroyed. Vera rolled her eyes. Seriously? Did he have to be so adamant that she not be seen with him? He could at least let her dream of the things she could do with him for a few minutes without ruining it with his disdain. A girl needed a good fantasy once in a while. With a huff, she exited his office, very aware of the fact that he was still there as she walked away.
Behind the closed door.
She smirked. How appropriate.
* * *
SHANE BREATHED A sigh of relief once Vera was sitting safely in the passenger seat of his car, hidden behind the darkness of the Volt’s tinted windows. The last thing he needed was suspicion they were fraternizing, because guilt would be written all over his face if anyone asked him about it. They drove to the northwest side of town in silence. Mr. and Mrs. Foley’s building sat nestled in between a brick apartment complex and a vacant lot filled with shredded tires, the occasional fast-food wrapper and various other pieces of garbage.
Shane parallel parked on the street before reaching into the backseat and removing his weapons bag, where he stored all his normal Execution Underground gear while on campus. He couldn’t exactly be seen with a gun on his belt in the middle of a lecture. He unloaded his new Walther PPK from the bag. Jace had insisted he needed something more “interesting” than a standard nine-millimeter issue and had nagged Shane until he picked out the PPK. He had to admit, the gun had style. He secured the magazine, clipped his holster over his belt and tucked the gun inside. He left the massive textbook-size occult reference filled with all his notes inside the bag.
“Do you expect to need the gun?” Vera nodded toward the weapon on his belt.
Shane replaced his weapons bag in the back of the car before he opened his door. “No, I’m not expecting to, but I’ve learned during my time with the Execution Underground that you can never be too prepared.”
They both exited the vehicle. Yellow police tape distinguished the correct door when they reached the third-floor landing.
Shane tried the handle, unsurprised to find it locked. He sighed. “Shit. I forgot my lock pick in the car.”
Vera waved her hand in dismissal. “Step aside.” Placing her palm over the keyhole, she muttered a few words under her breath as purple light flashed from her hand. A small click sounded and the door popped open. Vera stepped aside, clearing the way for Shane to go first.
He raised an eyebrow. “A spell for breaking and entering?”
She shrugged. “What? You really thought black magic was the only slightly felonious activity I’ve participated in during my lifetime?”
Shane ducked underneath the tape. “Honestly, the extent of what I know about your file is that the Execution Underground detained you for black-magic use. I’ve never looked any further than that.”
She followed him underneath the tape, then stopped behind him. “Well, don’t bother looking. It was a stupid decision I’d rather keep buried.” She closed the door.
Shane surveyed the room in front of him. A slightly overstuffed Lay-Z-Boy and a small side table with a lamp sat facing a large flat-screen television. A small love seat, which appeared to have seen little use and looked as if it had been purchased straight out of a newspaper circular, stood against one wall. Hanging on another wall was a photo, presumably of the happy couple, showing a round-bellied Mr. Foley sitting with his feet propped up in the chair, the TV remote in one hand and a can of Budweiser in the other, his slender wife perched across the arm of the chair with her arms around his neck. She smiled toward the camera. He didn’t.
“This doesn’t look much like a crime scene,” Vera said. “Just an unoccupied living room.”
Shane nodded toward the hall. “That’s because Mr. Foley was found stabbed to death in his bed with a cheap kitchen knife. The only prints they found on the knife were his own and, oddly enough, Mrs. Foley’s.”
Vera shivered. “That’s so fucking creepy. How could her prints be on the knife?”
Shane walked toward the semi-dark hallway. “Mr. Foley didn’t exactly appear to be the type of man who would bother to cook himself a nice homemade dinner after his wife died. I could be wrong, but my guess was that whoever killed him wore gloves, and the knives just hadn’t been cleaned since his wife died.”
Vera frowned. “Gross.”
Shane stepped slowly through the hall, examining the floor for any stray fibers, herbs or possible leftovers from a black-magic ritual, signs the Rochester CSU wouldn’t have noticed or had otherwise written off as too unimportant to include in their report. When he reached the room at the end of the hall—which, based on its placement directly next to the bathroom, was likely the master bedroom—he paused. Light crept out from underneath the door, as if one of the policemen who had previously scoured the scene had left a lamp on. He pushed open the door.
The “Holy fuck!” that escaped his lips didn’t even begin to cover it.
He drew the Walther PPK and aimed. Atop the bloody mattress sat a woman who he immediately recognized as Mrs. Foley, and by Mrs. Foley he didn’t mean the corpse she should have been. Oh, no. Mrs. Foley looked exactly like she had in life, only with no color to her face and a flat dead look in her eyes because, well...she was fucking dead.
Her head snapped toward them. Vera let out a string of screamed profanities that would have impressed a sailor. Shane didn’t think. He squeezed the trigger off several times, aiming directly at Mrs. Foley’s head. His shots hit the dead woman point-blank in the forehead. Her body jerked with each impact. Blood and brain matter spattered onto the already-blood-soaked bed behind her. She fell back onto the mattress, twitching.
Shane released a long breath. Adrenaline filled his veins like a live wire. Holy shit. This was...
Mrs. Foley sat upright again, looking even more gruesome and disturbing than before. “This is for all the times you sat on your ass, Ted.” She lunged toward Shane as she spoke.
Shane repositioned his gun and fired. The bullet sailed straight into her chest, but that didn’t deter her. She tackled him full-on, with the power only someone who wasn’t concerned about pain was capable of. He toppled to the ground with Mrs. Foley on top of him as she attempted to claw his face with her fingernails.
“Every time I cooked you dinner, you never appreciated it, Ted!” she shrieked into Shane’s face. Her breath smelled like death warmed over.
Shane punched her in the jaw. It popped out of its socket, only to correct itself a moment later. Shit. He was fighting a battle he just couldn’t win. Using all his weight, he flipped the two of them over until he was on top. He slammed his fist into her face over and over again. Blood spattered onto his shirt from Mrs. Foley’s nose. The bones of her face broke as he hit her with blow after blow, then healed moments later.
“Vera,” he grunted through the hits. “Get me a...” He looked up, only to find Vera had disappeared. Shit.
That brief moment gave dead Mrs. Foley the advantage she needed. She popped him in the jaw with her small fist as she writhed out from underneath him. Not a strong enough punch that he saw stars, but enough to give him pause. Mrs. Foley scrambled to her feet.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Shane kicked the monster’s legs out from underneath her, and she toppled to the ground again. Diving behind her, Shane wrapped his right arm around her neck in a choke hold. She struggled and bucked against him.
“I hate you, Ted. I hate you!” she screeched. “You never gave me everything you promised. You lied to me.” She kicked and flailed, fighting against his hold.
Vera burst into the room, a large carving knife clutched in her hand.
Thatta girl.
“Try her heart,” Shane ground out through clenched teeth. The dead woman bucked against him.
Vera stepped forward, positioning herself over the woman. “I don’t think I can do it, Shane.” Her hands shook.
“Give me... Shit,” he swore as the back of Mrs. Foley’s head collided with his nose. A warm trickle of blood poured from his left nostril. He extended his free hand. Vera held out the carving knife, and he snatched it from her. He stabbed the blade straight into Mrs. Foley’s chest with a resounding roar. Bright red arterial blood squirted onto the wall, but the corpse continued fighting.
Vera screamed. Shane wrenched the knife out of Mrs. Foley’s chest and plunged the blade in again, only vaguely aware of the pulsating purple light emanating from Vera’s palms. A moment later Mrs. Foley’s body seized. Then her dead weight slumped against his chest.
Shane looked up, clothes and face covered in blood. Vera was standing completely still, the light from her palms dimming to a slow burn. “I...I...only stunned her,” she gasped.
Shit. That meant Mrs. Foley would sit up again any minute now. Shane swore. Only one sure way to kill any supernatural.
“Vera, look away.”
Her eyes widened until she looked like a cartoon character while she stared down at him. “Wh-what?”
“Look away! Leave the fucking room, goddamn it!”
She scrambled for the door and out into the hallway. Lifting the carving knife to Mrs. Foley’s throat, he sawed the blade against her neck. Dead or not, the sight of the blood and the sounds of her gurgling seared their way into his memory like a blazing-hot brand. When he had finished, he dropped the knife to his side and collapsed in a tired heap on the floor.
He’d just decapitated an innocent woman who had clearly been spelled, brought back from the dead and turned into a veritable killing machine that had orchestrated the death of her husband—and nearly him—all by means of the worst type of black magic possible: necromancy. As he lay on the floor, soaked in blood that wasn’t his own, he swore to himself that he would personally destroy the monsters responsible for this.
* * *
ASH DEVEREAUX GAPED like a wide-mouth bass at the sight of Dr. Shane Grey. Drenched nearly from head to toe in dried blood, which clearly wasn’t his own, Shane sat in his usual position in the control room with deep furrows cutting across his normally smooth brow. What the hell had happened?
Ash let out a low, long whistle. “What the blazin’ hell happened to you, Doc?”
Shane looked up at him with glazed-over eyes that Ash knew all too well. “Necromancy. Necromancy happened.” The words tumbled from Shane’s mouth as if they were detached from him somehow, as if he spoke without really knowing what he was saying.
Ash dared a glance at his fellow hunters. Jace sat beside Shane, the front of his trench coat also blood-soaked. “You, too?” Ash drawled.
Jace shrugged. “Me, too. Shane called me to help him dispose of the zombie’s body.”
Zombie? Ash stood silent for a moment, attempting to process Jace’s words. His brain tried to connect the clear reality that somehow Shane had needed someone to clean up a body for him. In all their time working together, he’d never once seen Shane covered in blood, let alone leave a trail of corpses, supernatural or not, behind him. For a moment he wondered if he’d taken one too many shots of Crown Royal and was drunker than Cooter Brown.
“That’s why we’re here,” Damon said, interrupting Ash’s thoughts.
David Aronowitz, their resident exorcist, stepped into the room. “What did I mis—fuck me. What happened?”
Ash shrugged. “That’s what we’re all tryin’ to find out.”
Shane slammed a fist onto the desk beside him. “I told you all already. Necromancy. Necromancy happened.”
The look burning in Shane’s eyes sent a shiver down Ash’s spine, and that was damn well saying something, considering he spent most of his time dealing with angry ghosts. Seeing a bloodbath the likes of which Shane had clearly just experienced—especially when it was your first—made any sane man madder than a soaking-wet hen, which was pretty fucking angry if you’d ever actually seen a hen soaking wet.
Jace clapped Shane on the shoulder. “Settle down there, kid. Here.” He pulled a flask from his jacket, unscrewed the cap and passed it to Shane.
Shane took a swig of what Ash knew was Jace’s regular Bushmills Irish whiskey, swallowing the liquid fire down like a champ. He handed the flask back.
Jace slipped the flask into his jacket pocket. “All right. That’ll calm your nerves some. Now, tell us what the fuck happened.”
