After a shower scalded off the night’s miseries, I skipped the pajamas and flopped naked on the futon without bothering to lower it. Honestly, I reserved the bed setting for off days and other special occasions. Otherwise, I was usually too tired to make all the heave-hoing worthwhile.
The massive screen extending from the wall across from me on its full-tilt mount was my one splurge, a fifty-inch UHDTV with soundbar. I might not have the gumption to sit through the whole feature, but I could let it lull me to sleep. And I did. Like the dead.
Right up until a brisk knock sent me rolling out of bed with a muttered curse, ready to gouge out the eyeballs of whoever expected me to put on pants at this hour. Surprise! I was tired, and I wasn’t putting in the effort. After wrapping a sheet around my torso, I opened the door with a squint for the bright hall lights.
Midas, whose eyes bore fresh shadows, said, “You need to get to Perkerson Park.”
Dread squeezed my heart in a merciless fist. I was in over my head and sinking fast. “Let me get dressed.”
Midas dipped his gaze to where my fist clutched the sheet then glanced away just as fast. “I’ll call Ford.”
“It won’t take but a minute,” I protested, shocked to find I had followed him out into the hall when he fled my seminudity. “Just wait.”
Without a backward glance, Midas left me standing with a fistful of sheet and hit the elevator.
“This is the job,” I reminded myself. “Sleep is never guaranteed.”
Urgent texts from Bishop yanked me out of bed a few days a week, and I hadn’t been half as grumpy about those times.
Ending the free show, I returned to my apartment to scrounge up jeans and a tee from the armoire I kept hidden behind the fabric draping the walls. About to pull on underwear, I wobbled off-balance when a second knock on the door startled me. Clutching my sheet, I rushed to answer it. “I thought you…left.”
Ford stood there, his eyes wearier than they had been, his clothes more rumpled, but he still found a smile for me after he noticed what I was wearing. He glanced away, but slower than Midas.
“Nah.” He jangled his keys. “I had to see Mrs. Randall. Shonda’s mom. She babysat two of my brothers.”
“I didn’t realize you knew the victim.” I bit my tongue to keep from reaming him out for not mentioning that, or the victim’s name, during our cozy ride. “Personally, I mean.”
“I didn’t really.” He bowed his head. “There was more of a chasm than gap in our ages.”
Having fae roots meant gwyllgi lived a long time. Necromancers averaged five hundred years or so, but it was believed that gwyllgi could clock two or three times that if dominance fights didn’t kill them first. The gap between Ford and his siblings could span decades or more.
“I’m sorry in any case.” I hitched my sheet up higher. “I’ll get dressed, and then we can go.”
“How did you…?” He flared his nostrils, and then his eyes held comprehension. “Midas told you.”
“Midas told me to go to Perkerson Park, not what was waiting there.”
“Take your time getting ready,” Ford said, eyeing the hallway with mild interest. “There’s no rush.”
No rush was code for no survivors. “I would invite you in but…”
“I’ve been in plenty of these units. Hard to keep modest without walls.”
At the rate I was flashing skin, I wouldn’t label modesty as one of my virtues. “I’ll be right back.”
After I shut the door, I dropped the sheet and pulled on fresh clothes. Since popcorn hadn’t happened, and the taco was best forgotten, I pocketed two individual baggies of the trail mix I whipped up once a week before joining Ford in the hall.
“Here you go.” I tossed him one then opened the second for myself. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”
Ford nodded his thanks then dug in. “What’s in this?”
“Pecans, almonds, cranberries, buttercrunch toffee covered in dark chocolate, and a pinch of sea salt.”
A slow whistle parted his lips. “Are you sure you should be eating beforehand?”
I cradled my bag to keep it out of his hands. “I notice it’s not slowing you down any.”
“I’m a hunter. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies, caused my fair share too.”
I had too, but I wasn’t in any hurry to admit my sins. Or share my chocolate. “I’ll manage.”
“All right.” He crunched his way through his entire stash before we hit the elevator, which I took as a compliment, then stuffed the trash in his pocket. “You ever been to Perkerson Park?”
“I stick to Piedmont.” I let him push the buttons, otherwise it would have been obvious I had to search for them. He didn’t need to know I could count my total number of elevator trips on one hand. “Perkerson’s near Capitol View, right?”
“Yeah, south of the BeltLine.”
“I didn’t realize how many parks Atlanta had until I moved here.”
“That’s why they call it a city in a forest.”
“That’s why the gwyllgi are so at home.”
“Who do you think fought to keep every inch of green space we have?” He snorted. “Humans?”
“Got beef with humans, huh?”
“Every ecologically minded species does, or they should.” He eyed me. “You’re descended from them?”
“Yep.” I hadn’t studied the Whitaker family tree enough to get specific, but there were human ancestors in their branches. “I’m Low Society.”
He pondered what that meant before it clicked for him. “Linus is High Society?”
“Yep again. His bloodline is one hundred percent dyed-in-the-wool necromancer.”
“Your line is half and half?”
“Originally, yes. Now? I can’t do that math without a genealogy chart and a calculator in front of me.”
“It’s the same for us. Our original line stems from a pack of gwyllgi who left Faerie to roam Earth. They interbred with wargs, and that’s where we came from, what gave us our toehold as a species, and the ability to argue with the powers that be we belonged here and not there.” We hit the lobby, and he led the way to the exit. “For a while, we kept that mix, but these days we’re true mutts. Gwyllgi, warg, human, and who knows what else.”
“That doesn’t divide your society?”
“Why should it?” He laughed. “Your Society are the separatists, not ours.”
He wasn’t wrong. The Society frowned on its necromancers mingling with other species. Vampires were the sole exception. They were our creations, and therefore immune to the unspoken rule.
Less our than their.
Only the High Society had enough magic to turn willing humans into vampires. Low Society practitioners didn’t have the juice to perform resuscitations.
All the magic in me I owed to Ambrose. Every last ounce. I had been born without a single drop.
And I had proven I was willing to go to any lengths to rectify that.
Careful what you wish for, you just might get it…and spend the rest of your long life regretting it.
“I didn’t mean to step on your toes,” Ford ventured when I didn’t offer a comeback.