Grave Witch

Intense eyes at that—frost blue, but right now burning hot with outrage. I jutted out my chin, matching his glare.

“Detective Andrews?” I asked again, and received a grunt in reply. Oh, yeah, he’s a real conversationalist.

“I’m Alex Craft with Tongues for the Dead.” I held out my hand, letting it hang in the narrow space between us. We were much closer than we needed to be to shake, and his gaze flicked to my outstretched palm before he grasped it.

For a shocked moment, I didn’t understand the press of material against my skin. Gloves. He wore gloves.

The handshake started firm and grew to painful as he squeezed the bones in my hand.

I smiled at him. I wasn’t male, and I wasn’t interested in an immature squeezing game. I had my own childish game.

I thinned my shields, visualizing the mental vine wall uncoiling, creating small holes between my psyche and the land of the dead. I was still wearing the charm bracelet, but I sidestepped its beneficial defenses by actively reaching for grave essence. I siphoned enough chill to lift the hair off my neck, for it to crawl down my arm, over my hand, and into the detective’s hand.

His blue eyes flew wide as the unexpected touch of the grave wound up his arm. He jerked his hand from mine, falling back a step.

My smile never slipped as I slammed my shields back in place. “Since I’m just a hack magic eye, perhaps you can explain why Coleman’s body was never alive, yes? No?”

He blinked, but I didn’t wait for a reply. Turning on my heel, I marched out of the room.

He didn’t stop me this time.

John caught up with me outside the elevator. The shiny bald spot in the center of his head glowed red, but his gaze dragged the floor. “That wasn’t smart.” His whisper was hoarse, as if he was choking down what he really wanted to say.

I tossed my visitor’s badge on the front desk and rounded on him. “Why isn’t this your case?”

He didn’t answer. A cough sounded behind me. A shoe squeaked. Crap, I was yelling. I took a deep breath as the heavy metal doors of the elevator slid open.

I waited until we were inside the elevator and the doors were closed before speaking again. “Why didn’t you just tell me it wasn’t your case?”

“I’ve got my own curiosity, and you’re lucky he didn’t arrest you.” John frowned but looked up to meet my eyes. “I see you finally started wearing the glasses.”

My fingers moved to the thick black frames. “I’m a fan of seeing. I just need them the first hour or two after using grave-sight.” I paused. He’d changed the subject.

Twice. Did I really want to push it? Yes, I did. “Who is this Andrews guy?”

John slipped between the doors before they were fully open and set a quick pace to the police station lobby. He reached the front door before pausing. “Falin Andrews transferred into the department a week and a half ago. You want to know how he got this case? Ask the chief. Now, are you coming to dinner?” He glanced over his shoulder, and his mustache twitched. “Maybe Maria will let us snag some of her upside-down cake before the meal.” He winked and rubbed a hand over his expanding middle.

I smiled despite myself. Leave it to John to go from angry to thinking with his stomach. I had to admit, though—cake sounded divine. My steps were lighter as I walked to the door. Cake might actually make this whole day better.

I got a good look out the window in the door, and my optimism died. Outside, reporters crowded the steps.

News vans lined the road.

“Should we try to sneak out the back?”

John shook his head. “I’m parked out front. You remember the magic words?”

“Yeah. ‘No comment.’ ” And since the press got wind of my part in Amanda Holliday’s trial, I’d had a lot of practice saying them. But walking into an onslaught of microphones? Not exactly my idea of fun. John waited, watching me. I made a last-ditch effort to smooth my unruly dishwater blond curls and forced what I hoped was a camera-worthy smile. At least I had on a halfway decent outfit—my favorite pair of black leather hiphuggers and a red lacy tank top—so I wouldn’t look terrible on camera. “I’m ready.”

He pushed open the door, and the reporters surged forward.

“Detective Matthews, are there any new developments in the Coleman case?” A perky redhead shoved her mic forward.

John stepped around it without a word.

“Are the police seeking magical consultation on the governor’s death?”

A mic appeared in my face, and the dark-skinned man holding it asked, “Were you able to talk to Coleman’s ghost?”

They were guessing, just digging. I wasn’t going to be the one to give them anything. I shoved the mic aside.

“No comment,” John barked, guiding me down the first set of stairs.

The reporters made only a marginal path for us. Microphones cut between us, stranding me several steps down from John. I glanced back, but our goal was to reach the bottom. He’d catch up. More questions cut through the air, mics and cameras popping out of the crowd.

I was halfway down the stairs when the air behind me dropped ten degrees and corpse-cold fingers landed on my shoulders.The hands shoved, hard. I plummeted forward, throwing out my arms to break my fall. My wrist popped as I landed on it, but that didn’t stop me. Momentum hurtled me ahead, and my skull cracked on the next step. My knee bounced off the cement. I rolled the rest of the way down the stairs and landed on my ass just in time to see a bullet sail through Death’s incorporeal chest.

Chapter 3

“Get off me.” I shoved the EMT’s hand aside, and a jolt of pain washed up my arm with the movement.

Hot saliva filled the area under my tongue, bringing with it the burning taste of bile.

I swallowed it.There was no time to throw up, no time to let the pain pass. I had to keep moving. Keep pace with gurney. Keep the thread of magic steady. Something warm and sticky dripped into my eye. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, leaving a fresh streak of red on my forearm—the smear of blood was barely worth noticing compared to the other blood on me, most of which wasn’t mine.

No, not my blood. John’s. From a bullet aimed at me.

“Miss, please,” the EMT hounding me said. He reached for my shoulder. “You need to follow me—”

I shrugged him off. “If I release this charm, we’ll have an artery geyser. Again. Back off.”

“You—”

I wasn’t listening. All my attention was on keeping my fingers in contact with the charm. Thankfully, one of the reporters had been carrying a healing charm. The charm had kept John alive while we waited for the paramedics, but it wasn’t designed to hold an artery intact.

Above my hand, John’s face was pale, damp. Come on. I milked my nearly depleted ring for more energy, boosting the borrowed charm.

Time moved in uneven jerks as I stumbled beside the gurney, away from the Central Precinct steps, toward the street. Then we were at the ambulance, John being lifted inside. I followed, sliding across the metal bench opposite the paramedic. The doors slammed and the ambulance lurched into motion, the screaming siren filling my ears.

As the medic strapped an oxygen mask over John’s face, I siphoned the last drop of magic from my ring.

Then there was nothing else.

Blood bubbled around the edges of the charmed disk.

Damn. “He needs a clotting spell.”

“I thought—” The medic looked at the overloading charm, then grabbed a large adhesive bandage with an OMIH symbol stamped on the front. “On the count of three. One …Two …”

Three.

I jerked my hand away, taking the disk with me. The wound in John’s throat oozed in the second before the medic slapped the charmed bandage in place.

It shouldn’t have oozed. Arteries spray.

A monotonous screeching filled the air. The heart monitor—flatlined.

No.

The medic ripped John’s shirt open, exposing his chest. Then he twisted, grabbing a pair of defibrillator paddles. He pressed them to John’s skin. “Clear.”

John’s body jerked. Blood soaked into the gauzy charm at his throat.

My tongue filled my mouth, too big to swallow around, to breathe around. The monotonous beeping didn’t let up. Please no. I couldn’t watch, couldn’t look away. I grabbed John’s hand. It was damp, clammy.

“Clear!”

The medic knocked my arm aside, then pressed the paddles to John’s chest again.

His torso vaulted a few inches in the air. The beeping broke, erratic sounds echoing in the small space.The electronic beep fell into a steady pattern again.

I let out a breath, and as if on cue, John’s chest also lifted.The oxygen mask over his face fogged. His breath rattled, his chest lifting in shallow lurches, but he was breathing. I looked away.

“That bullet was meant for me.”

“What?” The medic glanced up from where he was adding gauze to the charm on John’s neck.

I shook my head. I wasn’t talking to him. My gaze locked on the dark figure in the farthest corner of the ambulance. Death leaned against the back doors; his corded arms were crossed over the expanse of his chest.

His eyelids hooded his gaze, but I could feel him watching me.

“Don’t do it,” I told him.

Death didn’t move, but the medic leaned over John’s body. He looked from me to Death’s corner—a corner which probably appeared empty to him.

He pulled out a penlight, flashing it in my eyes.

“Ma’am, can you please focus on my finger.”

I did, but for only a moment before my gaze snapped back to Death. “He won’t die,” I said.

“We’re doing everything we can,” the medic said as he examined the gash in my forehead.

I met his eyes then, my hand gripping John’s clammy palm. “He won’t die.”

———

“I tripped. I told you.”

“You want me to believe you just happened to trip out of the way of a bullet?” Officer Hanson tapped his ballpoint pen against his notebook.