Page 43 of Nearly Dead

“Your demands in the council chamber were clear.You want answers.This is how we get them,” he says.“We need more proof before we accuse Leviathan of dark deeds.”

He means more proof than the word of an unstable hybrid monster who might be hallucinating.

I resist pointing out that necromancers probably only perform dark deeds.I mean, angry spirits, zombies, controlling the dead?These don’t sound like passive “nice” activities to me.

Come on.He calls himself Leviathan after a primordial sea serpent.His real name is probably Lester Wigglesworth or something.What kind of person decides their immortal life path is playing with dead things?

“Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?”I grumble, only realizing I said it out loud after it’s out of my mouth.

“Fate is not a choice,” Zephronis says.“It is a duty.”

I think the word he’s looking for is burden.

“The goblins’ fixation on you is not in itself unusual.They’re curious, mischievous creatures, but not stupid.They don’t go against their own self-preservation,” he continues.“Their daring to enter a master vampire’s home to attack you after you have transformed is strange behavior.Understanding the original connection may reveal why their interest has intensified.”

I take a deep breath.I’m tired of talking about it.“Alright.Let’s do it.”

Zephronis moves to stand behind us, placing one hand on my shoulder and one on Lorelai’s.“Close your eyes,” he instructs.“And remember, Tamara, you are observing only.You cannot change what has already happened.”

As I close my eyes, I feel Lorelai reach for my hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.There is a strange pulling sensation, as if I’m being tugged sideways through reality.I open my eyes to peek, but I’m in darkness surrounded by the sound of soft breathing.

ChapterTen

Lorelai’s Apartment, Twenty-Eight Years Ago…

The magic is cold, coming from where her hand touches mine.

It latches onto my skin like smoke trailing from a dying candle, sinking into my pores.I can’t feel Zephronis’ touch on my shoulder, but his magic pulses like a tether between then and now.His magic’s warmth contrasts with the icy pressure traveling up my arm, pulling me deeper into Lorelai’s memory.

I blink, and I’m no longer in the library.

The world reforms around me in disjointed pieces.A cluttered apartment.Cheap baby furniture.A bassinet.The air smells like essential oils, lavender and vanilla.Moonlight filters through thin curtains, catching the edges of a butterfly mobile spinning lazily above a crib.The wings are glass, delicate and glimmering, each one casting tiny rainbows on the walls like protective spirits doing their best in a world that doesn’t believe in them.

And there sits Lorelai, rocking in the chair beside the empty crib.

She’s younger with dark hair.Her face is unlined, but she wears exhaustion like armor.She rests a hand on her pregnant belly.

“I tried to keep you,”Lorelai whispers.The words don’t come from her mouth, but instead they come through the memory like echoes, vibrating against the air like meditations.“Davis gave me support, but he couldn’t give me time.He had a family.Responsibilities.”

The memory shifts, and suddenly Ifeelher pain.Her stomach drops, the pregnancy vanishing.I don’t just see it, I absorb it.Her love.Her regret.Her loneliness and frustration.Her absolute terror.She reaches through the slats of the crib, resting gently on the chest of the fussy baby inside.

Me.

Tiny.Mortal.Vulnerable.Pink and flailing with infant fury.I’m not in my body.I hover just above the scene, a ghost in a memory that shouldn’t exist.

“They came after you,”her voice continues as if she’s meditating like the wizard told her to do.Her voice cracks.“The werewolves in the park.The vampires… One offered me a million dollars.When I said no, she threatened to rip you from my arms and drink you dry.Necromancers sent spirits to watch you sleep.”

The walls of the apartment shudder slightly, like the memory itself is reacting to the wizard’s command.I can’t hear Zephronis, only her.Her hand drops from the crib, and mother and baby are both sleeping.

I’ve heard this story.Lorelai told me as she zoomed through California traffic.But hearing is different thanfeelingit.

The air thickens.The kind of thick pressure that forces itself against the skin before a storm hits.The hairs on my arms stand up.The silence shifts.

Something is coming.

At first, it’s just a flicker at the edge of the room.A ripple of shadow that doesn’t match the moonlight.Then, like spilled ink, the darkness spreads, crawling up the walls, slipping under the doorframe, pooling in the corners.

Shadows slip under the door.Small, twisted creatures with wrinkled skin the color of bruises.

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