Page 27 of Her Majesty's Necromancer
"Blimey." He looked impressed and horrified in equal measure. It was an improvement over his anger. "A little thing like you can do that? Can he?"
"Not him."
He nodded, thoughtful. "That makes you a very powerful woman."
"So will you help us to stop the men doing this?"
"Do I have a choice?"
I thought about lying, but decided there was no point. "No. We need you to do this for us, and I can make you. I'm sorry, but I assure you that I will release you afterward."
The mist swept away and circled his body again. Ghostly fingers rubbed his chin. "What if you die before you can release me, Charlie? What happens to my spirit then?"
"I…I don't know." I glanced at Lincoln. If his books didn't specify then it was unlikely he would know. It was a question to ask my real mother—if she was still alive.
"Then you'd better not die," Gordon said.
"I don't plan to."
He studied his body, taking particular interest in the hook in the back of the neck. "Will I feel pain?"
"The dead feel nothing. You'll have a little trouble with controlling your movements at first, but it won't hurt."
"Good." Misty fingers passed through what would have been his hair, as if it were a long held habit from life. "I have a troubled history with pain. I don't like it, you see. A bad state of affairs for a soldier." He laughed without humor. "My weakness did this to me."
"Killed you?" I asked, startled. "I don't understand."
"Opium. Black tar. The soothing bliss of oblivion from the pain caused by my injuries. I got shot in the leg in Burma and couldn't cope with the pain upon my return to London. Opium offered the only relief."
"But you became addicted," I finished. "And your addiction killed you."
"I'd say so. I don't recall much. Out of my mind, you see. Opium does that to a fellow."
Lincoln touched my arm gently. "Ready?" he asked.
I nodded. To the spirit, I said, "The sooner we start, the sooner we can finish. Float into your body."
He looked uncertain, but tried it anyway. Once the entire mist had disappeared, the body jerked on its hook like a recently caught fish. He stretched his fingers and lifted his head. The skin on his face was so pale it almost glowed in the wan light, and the blank eyes made the cavities seem more sunken. Even as I acknowledged each sign of death, the rest of the body came slowly to life, one limb at a time. Gordon's spirit seemed to be testing out each finger, every muscle, seeing if his parts still worked. It was both fascinating and gruesome. I couldn't turn away.
He reached back and unhooked himself. The body crumpled to the floor. Lincoln stepped forward and held out his hand. Gordon hesitated then accepted it. Lincoln helped the dead man to stand and steadied him as he balanced himself on legs that must seem both familiar and not.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
Gordon nodded stiffly. "I feel…nothing." His voice was as brittle as a dry twig. He lifted his trouser leg and studied a raw, pulpy scar on his shin. If I wasn't mistaken, the wound had been caused by a bullet. With a nod of satisfaction, he let the trouser leg go.
"You will regain some strength soon," I told him. "Indeed, you will become very strong. Stronger than you ever were in life."
The muscles on his face twitched, but I couldn't determine what expression he was trying to make. He studied his hands and I worried I'd told him too much. If he'd been an unscrupulous character in life, he might try to kill us.
I kept my distance. As long as I could speak, I could control him.
Lincoln too moved, but not toward the resurrected Thackery. He dodged past me and around the pig carcasses and lunged for the door—the door that was closing fast.
He didn't reach it in time. The door slammed shut and the bolt on the other side slid across.
We were locked in!
Lincoln pushed against the door but it didn't budge. I joined him and pounded on it. "Let us out! There are people in here. Living ones," I added weakly.
