 
Zombie Moon Rising

By

Claire Farrell

A Peter Brannigan novella

Set in the same world as the Ava Delaney series

Peter Brannigan had forgotten it was Halloween until he noticed the zombie shuffling down his street.

Before Peter met Ava, before Aiden became a consultant to the Council, unlikely allegiances were formed.

Their world has always been full of magic and darkness, but zombie attacks are out of even the Council's league. Investigating the appearance of a zombie in his neighbourhood, Peter teams up with Aiden to find the perpetrator of black magic that few in Ireland understand, but he ends up facing choices that force him to question his own humanity.

Smashwords Edition

October 2013

Copyright © Claire Farrell

Claire_farrell@live.ie

Cover art © The Cover Collection | www.thecovercollection.com

Licence Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Peter Brannigan had forgotten it was Halloween until he noticed the zombie shuffling down his street. He dropped his house keys, blinked, then bent to pick them up. Terrific costume.

Late afternoon, and it was already dark. The air tasted of winter, and his hands were numb from the chill in the air. He was on his way home to face another night alone, and he probably had nothing in the house for trick or treaters.

When he straightened, the figure was closer, and in the light of a waxing moon, the fact that most of its head was caved in was plain to see. He squinted, pretty sure what he was seeing was unlikely.

Giggles from the far end of the street startled him, and a chorus of "Trick or Treat!" filled the air. The zombie, or whatever the hell it was, stopped walking and half-turned at the sound.

"Not tonight," Peter muttered, inserting a card key into the slot on his door. He didn't have time to take care of the second lock. Not with that... _creature_ shambling toward his neighbours' kids. They were pains in the arse and probably the ones kicking footballs at his back wall from eight am on a Sunday morning, but still, they were kids. They deserved the chance to grow up into adult pains in the arse.

He sprinted out of the garden, swearing under his breath. His neighbourhood had to have been built on a cursed graveyard or some shit.

He caught up with the... okay, fine, _zombie_ easily, but he had to hold his breath to ward off the stench coming from the thing. The zombie stared at him, just stared, but its eyes were blank and empty. Up close, its skull was mangled, as if it had been crushed by something heavy. Blotches of green and purple and red covered its face, and it was missing two front teeth. That sparked a memory of something, but Peter didn't have time to speculate. The kids had moved to the next house.

Apparently, the zombie had noticed them coming closer, too, because he stepped away from Peter.

"No!"

The zombie froze to the spot. Peter swallowed hard. He hadn't exactly come up against a freaking zombie before.

They looked at each other for a few seconds; Peter, warily, and the zombie as if it were trying to think really, _really_ hard.

"Fuck it." Peter rushed at the zombie and pulled it into a headlock, avoiding the gory open wound. He marched the thing toward his own house and away from the children. The zombie struggled, but it was kind of uncoordinated. Maybe its head injury had done something funky to its reflexes. Who cared as long as it didn't get to hurt anyone. He wasn't sure if the brains of children were actually a zombie's preferred food choice, but he wasn't inclined to find out.

He dragged the zombie into the garden and noticed his next-door neighbour standing at her window, staring at him with a look of familiar horror in her eyes. The old bitch still swore blind that he had killed his family, and he remained convinced she was the one sending anonymous letters of complaint about lowering the tone of the neighbourhood to his home. He made sure she got a good look at the zombie's crushed skull before using his second key on his front door.

One last glance at Mrs. Moore caught her blessing herself over and over again. Unable to resist grinning back at her, Peter waved. She stepped back from the window in a hurry. He shoved the zombie into his hallway, tripping it up so it fell flat on its face.

He slammed the front door behind them. The zombie struggled to get up, and Peter stood on the back of its neck, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with the thing. Feeling a little queasy, he leaned over to check for a pulse. Nothing.

He stared at the zombie, thinking hard. Okay, so it was definitely dead, definitely walking around. That head injury was the fatal kind. Now that he looked, he noticed the remains of some yellow powder on what was left of the zombie's forehead, and around its neck hung a leather pouch. The creature was dressed in a suit and tie, the likes nobody wore except in a coffin.

So what was it doing on _his_ street, in _his_ neighbourhood?

He fingered the pouch, wondering at its significance. The zombie freaked then, clawing and grabbing in a frenzy. Blocking the blows, Peter yanked the pouch from its body. Instantly, the body froze, lifeless, the way dead bodies are supposed to be.

Peter removed his foot hesitantly, keeping a careful eye on the dead body. Sniffing, he gagged at the smell. The eyes were open but milky, and it was as if the body was drying up before his eyes.

"Weird shit," he said aloud. "Always me, right?"

The house never talked back, but he sometimes felt as though it were listening. Especially at night when he drank himself to sleep. That was when the memories came. Maybe the visions. All of the blood, the dead bodies, and his son... held in the arms of a creature everyone insisted didn't exist.

On those nights, it felt as though the house itself relived every second of pain and fear, but it never revealed the faces he needed to see, the ones he was desperate to find. Only the people he knew and loved, begging for their lives. Only their bodies, empty shells he barely recognised. He fought hard against the dark memories threatening to overshadow the living versions still held safe somewhere in his mind. But over time, the good memories had been blocked too well by the final ones.

He rolled his shoulders, that dry ache in his throat again. Maybe he was drinking too much. Well, fuck it; he deserved it for the shit he was put through. The zombie sprawled on his floor was proof of that.

He needed an explanation, help, another person to acknowledge what he had witnessed. Not many options when it came to it. No friends anymore, nobody he could depend on. All he had were the beings he couldn't allow himself to trust. The rest of the world remained blind to what really went on.

He moved to the phone and called Koda, keeping an eye on the body in case it felt like getting up again. But that pouch... he shoved it into his pocket, saving it for someone who might know more than him. If whatever was hidden within the leather bag had enough power to wake a dead body, then he wasn't about to look inside. Experience had thought him that lesson the hard way.

Koda was an ancient dryad, a member of the Council besides, and the one who had hired Peter to take care of the matters the supernatural governing body were unwilling to openly deal with. Peter dealt with the things they didn't want to touch or risk any of their precious Guardians to, things that would have horrified him mere years before. Working for Koda kept him in the loop, kept him busy, and gave him tidbits of information that would someday lead him to the perpetrators of the crime that had befallen his family. Failure wasn't an option. And if anyone knew why a zombie had been wandering around untethered, he was relatively sure it would be one of the four Council members in charge of the supernatural species in Ireland.

"Peter?" Koda sounded surprised. Probably because the only contact they ever had was when he wanted Peter to do his dirty work. "Is there something you need?"

"Yep. I need to know why a fucking zombie is lying on my hall floor. 'Cause I can't figure it out, Koda."

A pause, then, "A... zombie? They don't exist."

"I'm looking at one right now. In my house. Right now!" Peter could hear his own voice growing high-pitched, but he didn't give a shit. Nobody warned him zombies were part of the job description. Nobody told him there was a chance the dead could return. If he had known that...

His hands trembled, but he wasn't sure if that was from the alcohol or the adrenaline. Probably both. His way to work was to not give a shit, to deal with every obstacle in the most violent way possible, but afterward, he couldn't escape the fear. He was only human, after all.

"I... are you sure? Isn't today your human celebration of all that is monstrous? Perhaps it's a mask or a—"

"Koda. A man with a collapsed skull just walked down my street. He has some kind of powder on his fore...well, face really, and he wore a pouch around his neck. I took it off, and he stopped moving."

"You're serious?"

"No, I just woke up this morning and thought, 'Ooh, you know what would make my day? Pranking Koda with a fake zombie.' Of course I'm bloody serious."

" _Necromancy_." Koda spoke as if it were a swear word. "Despicable. Only someone incredibly arrogant or desperate would attempt this under the Council's noses. How _dare_ he?"

"Think of anyone who ticks a box?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Just spit it out, Koda."

"I need you to visit with Eddie Brogan as soon as possible."

Peter's cheeks grew hot. "And is he arrogant or desperate?"

Koda sighed. "An unenviable mixture of both. This isn't official. I don't want to burn any bridges or cause any upsets in our chambers. Accusing one of our main consultants of having a hand in this isn't an option."

"Then what's the point?"

"The point is knowing what we're up against. Just drop in on him. Go easy. Don't act as though you're accusing him of anything. Just present the problem to him, and ask for his help. Tell me every word he says to you. Every single word. If he gets angry, leave immediately. He isn't a vampire or rogue fae, and he's certainly not some kind of lesser being, so don't take any chances. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, sure." Talk about an overreaction. Eddie Brogan was about the least intimidating creature on the planet. Besides, he had been the one to help when the other world, the one most humans never found about, invaded Peter's life. He had been _there_. And he had been the one to bring Peter to Koda, the one who spoke for him when the Council thought him too unstable to live. Peter had no clue why there was tension between Koda and Eddie, but it definitely existed, no matter how softly-spoken both men's words were. "I'll get on that tonight. So you're not familiar with the zombie thing then?"

"Hurry," Koda said, ignoring the question. "I'll send someone to investigate the body at your home."

Peter shrugged and hung up. One shot from a whiskey bottle, and he was ready to go. He stepped over the zombie and left his house. Probably for the best. The house wasn't welcoming at the best of times, but it felt positively icy when a dead body happened to be lying within its walls.

He reached into his pocket for his carkeys and groaned at the empty space in his driveway. If he was going to be running around the city looking for answers to the zombie question, then he needed to make an important call first.

"Yo," Dave the Mechanic said when he picked up, angry rock music blaring in the background.

"I need my baby, Dave."

"Brannigan?" Dave snorted. "It's time for your baby to rest in peace."

"You couldn't fix her?" Worry coloured Peter's tone. He needed that car. It was the only thing he had left that wasn't imprinted with death memories, the one possession that had kept its good memories intact.

"Of course I fixed her. She's waiting, but I'm pretty sure she'll be back here soon. Overdue a good going over, Peter. I'm telling you, the longer you leave it, the harder it'll be to—"

"Next time," Peter lied. "I'm on my way."

"You owe me a pretty penny, man."

"I'm good for it. I just forgot about her for a few days."

"Yeah, yeah. I know all about your few days. Just get over here before I go home. I'm tired, I stink, and the lady's impatiently waiting for me."

"Leave the car outside for me," Peter said. "I might not make it, but I need her tonight. Leave the keys in the glove box. I have the spare with me."

An hour later, he was back behind the familiar steering wheel, feeling more at home than he did in his own bed. Lisa's favourite scent was his air freshener, and the stereo blared songs his son had kicked his legs to in his car seat when they travelled together. If he didn't think very hard, he could imagine them with him, a family again. That's why he liked to drive for hours at night before succumbing to the ache in his throat. That's why he couldn't give up on a dying car. It was the only peace he had in his life.

# Chapter Two

Eddie Brogan's home was located on the upper floor of the bookshop he owned and ran. Whenever Peter stepped inside the bookshop and heard that little bell, his skin prickled, but he was never quite sure why. From the outside, the shop appeared small and ill-run, the kind of place that made you want to look elsewhere. Inside, on the other hand, was spacious, and the place was lovingly cared for. Eddie treated the books like treasures.

Peter strolled around the stacks as he waited for Eddie to finish dealing with a rare customer, a sweaty young man with darting eyes. He was probably looking to get his kicks from some kind of weird demon kink. The thought made Peter laugh. The customer glanced back at him and frowned before grabbing his purchase and holding it against his chest.

"Looking for something to read?" Eddie asked when the customer fled the shop.

Peter shrugged, staring at a book he found it hard to take his eyes away from. He never knew what he would find in that bookshop. "I have a weird problem," he said.

"Come over here," Eddie said.

Peter obeyed without thinking.

"What kind of problem do you ever have other than weird?" Eddie asked when he reached the counter.

Peter forced himself to smile. "Apparently, it's another one of those problems that isn't supposed to exist."

"Peter—"

"It's not that this time." _That_ being the fact the monster who had taken his son was declared non-existent by everyone he questioned. "It's kind of..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, feeling like a moron. People already thought he was crazy. If that body disappeared from his house, he was going to drink himself into a coma and be done with it. "Well, it's a zombie."

Eddie's blue eyes cooled. He wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't looking for it, but after Koda's anxiety over the phone, Peter was definitely looking for a response.

Peter raised his brows at the silence, silently urging Eddie to say something that would negate Koda's concerns.

Eddie pressed his lips together and resorted to fake-tidying the counter. "And I'm supposed to know about this?"

Peter gestured toward the books, shoulders relaxed. No need to freak out the magic-wielder. "Who else knows more than you?"

Eddie smiled, pacified. "Before you go throwing around the Z-word, tell me more."

Peter took a deep breath. Sometimes even he worried he was losing his mind, but he could generally tell if the things he saw were real or not. He recognised the hallucinations as something beyond reality, and that body in his house had looked pretty real. Smelled a little too real.

"Okay. I left my house, and I noticed this... _figure_ shuffling toward me. It didn't look alive, its head was caved in, it was wearing a suit and tie, it smelled, and it walked funny. I mean, come on, zombie, right? I felt like it was coming for _me_ , but I mean, usually things are coming at me, so maybe I misjudged the situation. Either way, it got distracted by some kids, so I grabbed it and forced it into my house."

" _Peter_." Eddie shook his head, his lips twitching.

"It wasn't a big deal. Didn't take much of an effort either. Anyway, it had some kind of powder on its..." His hand drifted around his forehead. "And a pouch on a string around its neck. I touched the pouch, and it went crazy. Now that I think about it, that was the first time it acted aggressively. Anyway, I ripped the pouch away, and the thing went dead again. Like normal. Except it's now stinking out my house."

"That's... odd." Eddie frowned. "And you came straight to me?"

"First I rang Koda to ask him what the fuck. He tells me zombies aren't even real, that maybe he'll send someone out later to check on the body." Peter pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples. Juggling two opposing forces like Koda and Eddie tended to give him a headache. "As if I'm going to sit there babysitting a dead body. I'm not in the mood for this shit, Eddie."

"Stay calm," Eddie said. "He's wrong. Sort of. What you're telling me about sounds like the reanimated dead. There wasn't life in the body, not truly, more like a shadow of the memories of its old life. Vampires are reanimated by blood, but they still retain their full memories and thoughts. This is an empty body that happens to walk around on the whims of another for a time."

"So what does this? What can make a dead body walk?"

Eddie leaned forward, his cool eyes serious. "Magic. Voodoo kind of magic, to be exact. Voodoo in the hands of the wrong kind of person, it seems."

"In Ireland?" Peter screwed up his face. "We're not exactly voodoo priest central."

"No," Eddie said. "Although, immigration has brought many new cultures and beings to our shores. Usually, the Council is fairly welcoming, but in this case, black magic being used this way could upset the balance. But you're correct. We're not a particularly desirable location for practitioners. In fact, I haven't met more than a handful of true priests and priestesses in all of my years."

"Anyone current?"

"Perhaps. There's a woman who might know more. She's known to the Council, or at least, they're quietly aware of her presence in the country, but she doesn't practice. Or so she claims. Although, I'm inclined to believe her. This is the first time I've heard of something like this occurring. And you say the body came after you."

Peter thought about that. "It could have been coincidence, but—"

Eddie nodded. "A coincidence like this would seem unlikely. Let's hope there are no Peter-shaped voodoo dolls out there. You need to deal with this now that it's personal. Forget the Council. They'll take too long, probably give the priest a quota of dead bodies." He made a sound of disgust. "Have you, to your knowledge, happened to piss off any voodoo priests lately?"

"That's about the only thing I haven't offended," Peter said with a grin.

"Small mercies." Eddie frowned. "I wonder where the body came from."

"Does it matter?"

"It might help. A clue. Something. If this woman can't help you, then I'm not sure where you can go from here other than tracking down more information on the body. Perhaps knowing his identity will help."

"I didn't check for ID. Who knows? Maybe it's a one-off." Peter felt way more confident now that he actually knew what was going on. Now it had been confirmed that what he saw was actually real. He could deal with real. Only by doling out some violence and imbibing a mind-numbing amount of alcohol, but still.

"Somehow I doubt that," Eddie said. "Unless this is a test. Perhaps it's someone dabbling in things they only pretend to understand."

"What, like teenagers with an Ouija board?"

"Let's hope so. Far more predictable to deal with. And the chances of them summoning something dangerous to the earth is significantly less than someone who knows what they're doing."

"I suppose the whole raising the dead on Halloween bit is a little immature."

"It's a good night for that sort of thing. Thinning veils and such. But I doubt this will be it."

"Why?" Peter asked. "If this is a good night, then chances are it's over, right?"

"Not so much. Once the water is dipped in, it overflows. One action leads to another, gaining more and more power. If this is a true black magic priest, then expect the power of blood to come into play. And it's almost a full moon, another significant time when it comes to magic."

Peter shuddered at the thought of blood magic. "Wait a second. What exactly do these reanimated dead... do? There's no brain eating, right? I'm not sure I can handle any brain eating. Tell me there's no brain eating of any kind."

"They do whatever their master tells them to do, as far as I'm aware. But Veronique will know more. I must warn you though. She is rather skittish."

"Have you met her?"

A book fell from a shelf. "Once. We weren't... compatible."

Peter stared at Eddie warily. At first glance, the man was small and unassuming. His ginger hair, freckles, and easy smile made him appear friendly and trustworthy. But sometimes, sometimes Peter caught a glimpse of something malevolent in his eyes. It wasn't obvious, wasn't always present, and Peter had long since chosen to ignore it, but it was yet another reminder that there was nobody alive who Peter could trust. Not one person.

# Chapter Three

Peter sat in his car for a few minutes and breathed deeply. Voodoo magic didn't sound like something he wanted to involve himself in. Not when nobody in charge seemed to know what the hell was going on. The unknown was a place of terror for him, held too many reminders of the things he already didn't know.

Sitting in the car calmed his racing heart enough to ring Koda and have a conversation without sounding like a scared child.

"He doesn't know anything about the zombies," Peter said before Koda could ask.

Koda's breath hitched. "I'd prefer you didn't use that word, Peter. We've had some... strange reports here, too. No idea of the root of the problem."

"I'm going to talk to a woman who knows about voodoo. See if she can shed any light on the subject."

"Be careful. If you suspect her, I'll have her arrested within the hour."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Steady on. I'm just asking questions. She's a source. That's all. I'm not accusing anyone."

"Very well. Let me know if you have news," Koda said curtly before hanging up.

With a sigh, Peter started the car and followed Eddie's directions. Koda was his link to the Council, but he got the feeling sometimes that the dryad didn't trust him at all, that maybe the only reason he tolerated his presence was because he was desperately trying to pry into Eddie Brogan's secrets. Not that Peter had learned any. Eddie held more cards close to his chest than even Peter. They weren't friends, he couldn't call him that, but he owed him, and that meant more to him than the jobs Koda handed him on occasion.

The address that Brogan had provided led Peter to a small block of Council flats. He knew of the area, and he knew he didn't like it. It was the same kind of place he had grown up in, a place he had run free and wild until he met Lisa. He hadn't exactly been growing into the best kind of man in those days. Not until her. Before then, his pain had festered into teenage anger and upset. She had been a white light in the darkness of his own making, and she had breathed goodness into him without even realising it. He had wanted to change for her, but he still didn't realise what he had until it was all gone.

He had settled down in so many ways for Lisa—and to gain her parents' trust and love. They had welcomed him, despite his past and upbringing, despite the trouble he had found himself in. Lisa's sister had been the only one who hadn't taken to him, but he had never cared. He had what he needed in their home. His own father hadn't bothered with him, and Lisa's father had become a replacement, a man he could look up to. The kind of father he wanted to be to his son. When he lost that, he lost himself.

A sweating junkie lay on the stairwell of the block Veronique lived, his eyes rolling, syringe still in his fingers. He could have died there, and people would have stepped over him, unwilling to get involved. Nobody cared about the place, and that meant the depths of darkness had free reign. Not that Peter could talk. The depths of darkness existed in his very soul and had done since the night he had lost everything, the night he had been left behind.

He trudged up the steps, uncomfortably aware that Veronique had him at a disadvantage. He didn't know her well enough to protect himself, and that made him edgy. People assumed he didn't feel fear, that maybe he had a death wish, but they were wrong. He was afraid of everything but pain. No pain could outweigh that which he had already experienced, and he didn't have anything left to lose. But he was terrified of dying, of not joining his family in whatever came next, or worse, having to face them knowing he hadn't protected them, hadn't yet found the vengeance he sought. Peter Brannigan was merely existing until he discovered the truth and made the murderers pay the price—after that, he could drift away for all he cared.

He walked along a balcony. One flat had the windows wide open and blared a Patsy Cline song from a tinny-sounding stereo. The next smelled like burnt rashers and toast. He bypassed a pram outside a door. A baby sat strapped in while gumming on an apple wedge, blue eyes barely visible from the woolly hat and scarf keeping out the wind. Peter's throat dried up.

"Need help?" he managed to call over his shoulder when he heard the child's mother step outside and shut the door behind her.

"I'm grand," she said. "Used to the stairs by now."

He helped her anyway, knowing she would have to wheel over the junkie otherwise. She didn't look at him as they carried the pram, and he kept his eyes on the baby, remembering things he thought he had forgotten.

"Boy or girl?" he asked when they reached the bottom.

"Girl. Thanks." She was away before he could say anything else.

Great, now he was the creepy man stalking women with small children.

Before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, he ran back up the stairs. The junkie grabbed his ankle. He broke free, resisting the urge to kick the man in the face.

"Any change for a... for busfare?" the junkie asked, struggling to focus.

"No, but I have one of those all day tickets." Now his car was back, he definitely didn't need the stress of riding Dublin Bus's finest.

"Ah, fuck off." The man, or maybe teenager now that Peter looked properly, rolled over on the stairs and proceeded to fall asleep, snoring heavily by the time Peter reached the top step.

He found the right flat and knocked at Veronique's door. He waited impatiently, inhaling scents he didn't recognise. A short, plump old lady answered the door. Her white hair was trimmed as short as possible without showing her scalp, and she wore no makeup. Her dark skin shone, and the heat of her flat blew outward, hitting Peter in the face like an invisible inferno.

"Veronique?" he asked.

Instantly, her stance switched to defensive as she looked him up and down. "Who you?"

"My name's Peter Brannigan. The Council sent me," he began, rushing on when her eyes widened. "I need help."

She glared. "Oh? And how can I help the like of you?"

"I saw a zombie today."

She threw back her head and guffawed so loudly, he felt it under his feet.

"It's true. It had a pouch that kept it moving and yellow—"

Her laughter stopped abruptly, her eyes turning murderously cold. "Vodun. A dark priest using something sacred to call on the forgotten god beast. So you come here? You accuse me? How dare—"

"Relax, lady. I just need information. Nobody's accusing you of anything, okay?"

"Who sent you here? Talking to me about vodun in public like it nothing. Get inside before someone hear."

Peter stepped through the doorway, knowing that was a mistake. He was breaking a lot of his own rules lately, trusting instinct instead of that cold, hard voice inside that helped him survive.

Veronique looked from side to side before shutting the door behind him. There wasn't much of a hallway to speak of, no stairs either. Just a living-room with a kitchenette, and a door that probably led to a bedroom and bathroom. The cluttered living room was tiny, and the smells from the kitchen were both delicious and nauseating. She waved the air with a brightly coloured cloth.

"You caught me unaware," she explained. "Been busy today. Now sit down and tell me what you know about vodun."

"Voodoo? Very little," he said, sitting on and then sinking into a cushy green armchair. The room looked like a rainbow had vomited all over it. Colour was everywhere, and no surface lay clear of a decoration or ornament of some kind. He didn't recognise most of the pieces, but he felt sure they had meaning. "Eddie Brogan told me the zombie was something to do with voodoo."

"And that thing sent you here." She screwed up her nose in disgust. "Bad company you keep."

"I don't keep much company."

"I can tell," she said, her voice lowering. "Your life is a dark hole, full of pain and loss. You taste like bitterness."

He frowned at her until she shrugged.

"I see," she said. "I see more than most people."

"What do you see?"

"Too much." She sighed. "People can't rest until they know what will happen next. They think we can pick and choose what we learn. So I pretend I don't exist."

"Eddie knew about you."

"He another one who know too much. I brought my baby here many year ago to escape the darkness in my village. Came all the way from Nigeria, thinking we could disappear, but we were the first of many. People looked at me and thought 'refugee', still do, and in a way, they were right. A refugee from darkness they don't understand. But my baby found a different kind of darkness, the kind that make you forget your trouble. I lost her, but she left me my granddaughter. I stay under the radar to keep her safe because when I die, she'll wake up and see instead of me."

Peter gaped at her. What had he said that invited her life story?

"Pah." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Now you're here to learn about vodun. I can't escape. Well, let me tell you this, it a sin to make the dead walk, to shame them that way, but it don't last long."

He breathed out a sigh of relief. "So it's over."

"I didn't say that. What would be the point then? Tell me everything."

Peter began again, telling her what he had told Eddie.

"And the dead boy didn't do nothing but walk around?" she asked. "Sound like a waste of magic to me. Do you have the pouch?"

He had forgotten he shoved it in his pocket. He pulled it free and handed it to her. She sucked in a breath and opened the pouch carefully. A puff of black smoke flew around the room, circling them like a tornado. She gripped her fingers around the pouch, but it was too late. They both choked on the smell, and the smoke became more like a grainy powder attacking his lungs.

"Anger in that," she gasped when the coughing subsided and the powder had somehow disappeared from the air.

"See anything?"

"Not a thing." She slapped her hand against her chest. "But it feel angry."

"That's not particularly helpful."

"Who am I to help you?"

He smiled, hopefully charmingly. "If this black magic kind of voodoo is as bad I'm hearing, then you'll want to stop it, right?"

She studied him for a moment before nodding. "If I were you, I'd look at a graveyard."

"Do you know how many graveyards are in this city?"

She shrugged. "Not my concern. If I want to find who waking the dead, I look where the dead rest. Come back to me if you find anything. I'm interested to learn who think they can command the resting."

Peter left Veronique's flat without having learned anything new except about the woman herself. The fool, giving her story away for free. He might not have trusted anyone else, but he sure as hell knew that there was nobody living who could trust him either.

# Chapter Four

Peter Brannigan returned home to discover his windows had been egged. "You little shits," he muttered. "I just saved your arsehole lives."

As soon as he opened his front door, a blast of death aroma hit him. Great. Still no sign of the Council sending anyone to remove the body.

He covered his nose and got to work. Making a list of nearby graveyards didn't take long, but the idea of trawling through the larger ones was a massive pain in the arse. What would he find anyway? An empty grave? How would that help? But he had nothing else to go on, and the zombie had been in _his_ area. He had no choice but to deal with it; the dead body was still in his hallway. He cracked open a few windows and waited until somebody came from the Council.

He had a drink, and the stench lessened slightly. Another drink made it bearable.

The caller ID on his phone made him wish he had poured doubles instead. Yvonne: sister of his dead girlfriend, aunt of his dead child, hater of his dead heart.

"I'm coming over," she said, pouring every ounce of disgust in her being into the words. It killed her to speak to him, but together, they might find the truth.

He eyed the body. "Not a good time."

"Do you have a woman in the house, Peter?"

He could just imagine the prissy look on her face. "No. A dead zombie."

A pause, then, "Oh. I met the seer last night. She seemed to like me. I think I can play her."

"I met a seer today," he said, eyeing the bottle of spirits on the coffee table.

"I'm getting more responsibilities." She carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "The queen's been hinting at rewarding me. It won't be long now. I'll find something."

"I bet you will."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

A knock at the door had him breathing out a sigh of relief. "Have to go. Guardians have come calling for the body." He hung up before she could respond with a smart remark.

He checked the peephole before answering the door, but he recognised the faces of the two Guardians standing there.

"About time," he said in greeting.

One, some kind of shifter, grunted, and his partner brushed past Peter. The shifter followed without a word.

"Why don't you come in then?" Peter said to his empty doorstep. "I'm good, thanks. And yourself?"

Both Guardians ignored him and set to removing the body in silence.

"Are we done here?" he asked as they carried the wrapped up body outside.

The shifter nodded, but neither of them looked back at him. Typical Guardians. Arseholes, the lot of them. All of the Guardians Peter had met so far had a serious superiority complex when it came to humans. It just killed them that Koda trusted him with the jobs they couldn't do.

He watched from his window as they loaded the body into a van. He wondered if Mrs. Moore was watching, too. He hoped she had nightmares.

When the Guardians left, he decided he couldn't put it off any longer and left the house himself. Usually, an excuse to leave the house made him happy, but the graveyard was probably his least favourite place on the planet. Looking for open graves didn't make it any more desirable.

He drove to the first graveyard, the one closest to his home. Probably wishful thinking, considering how small it was. But there he was, strolling around a graveyard on Halloween just inviting death by some kind of insane axe-wielding cannibal who probably couldn't be killed. The kind of thing Peter and his friends probably would have dressed up as back in the day. On Emmett's first Halloween, Lisa had insisted on dressing the baby up as a bumblebee. The memory was a blast of lucidity even stronger than the crisp breeze. How had Peter forgotten that?

He wandered among the headstones, trying to look as though he belonged rather than being the creepy weirdo seeking out an empty grave. He passed an elderly lady and tried to share a sympathetic smile with her, but she looked terrified and scurried away in a hurry. So, fine, he wasn't great at making people feel comfortable.

He soon grew bored. The graves rolled into one. Maybe it was just him, but he didn't feel like graveyards had a real purpose other than storing the dead. He couldn't stand by a grave and feel close to the person, and believe it, he had tried so very hard.

Clouds covered the moon, making it even harder to find his way. He covered three small graveyards before giving up and going home. It was too late to go breaking into graveyards on Halloween.

He spent the night drinking the thoughts of graves away, but it was no use. He would have to go _there_ the next morning.

***

Peter's head felt like it might split open the next morning. Instead of adjusting to his drinking sessions, he was pretty sure his body was protesting, putting up so much of a fight in a vain attempt to make him stop and treat it right. Not a chance.

He threw on the same clothes and left the house before he chickened out. He had to visit the largest cemetery on his list, the one he avoided as if it would kill him. And maybe one day it would.

He followed a familiar path through the graveyard. He couldn't do anything else until he visited the family grave that felt empty to him. Three bodies, but four names. People he had cared for, people he loved, people he owed. He had been in a drunken stupor when his son's name had been added to the headstone. Yvonne had slapped Peter's face when he dared complain, screeching at him that the boy was gone, and no amount of killing could bring him back. Peter wasn't trying to bring anyone back; he was just looking for peace.

He needed a drink.

He jogged away from the memories, running through the graveyard in an attempt to find an empty grave.

He found many. "Fuck," he whispered as he viewed an entire section dotted with dug-up graves.

"All died within the last week," a voice behind him said.

Peter spun around, ready to attack, but he recognised the speaker. Another Guardian.

"Oh, yeah? And what are you here for?"

The Guardian shrugged his broad shoulders. "Trying to figure out why a shifter I buried a week ago came back to attack me last night."

"You, too, eh? You're the new alpha, right?"

The giant nodded and held out his hand. "Aiden."

"Peter." He shook the shifter's hand as an afterthought. Good grip, released too quickly though.

"I know. Looks like Halloween was an interesting night for a lot of people."

"Yeah." Peter stared at the graves. "Any reports on the other missing bodies?"

"Not yet." Aiden kicked a lump of dirt. "This is fucking weird. I looked at him and thought, 'Zombie.' I shit myself, I swear."

"Definitely not what I expected to see. What did yours do?"

"Tried to strangle me." He shrugged. "We ended on bad terms. Yours?"

"Wasn't up to much." He stared at the shifter. "Supposed to be voodoo. I take it yours had a pouch."

Aiden nodded and pulled something from his pocket.

"Whatever you do, don't open it."

Aiden grinned. "Too late. Already choked on the red smoke."

"Mine was black. I'm going to take a look at the graves, see if I recognise any of the names. I'm thinking whoever went to all of this trouble had a reason for choosing these particular bodies."

"Maybe it was the way they died," Aiden said. "Or the kind of person they were in life."

"So many in the same section." Peter frowned.

"This is the newest part of the graveyard. They opened up this section recently. I have people looking into deaths and... undeaths."

"How did your shifter die?"

"Crash. On his way to prison. Huge pile-up on the motorway, almost everyone involved died, so I'm guessing quite a few of them are here."

"Prison? As in a human prison?"

"Hence the bad terms." Aiden hung his head. "I was trying to do him a favour. After what he did, ending up in the Council's cells wasn't going to lead to a good outcome. But he came back from the dead to kill me, so I suppose he didn't agree."

Peter blinked a couple of times. Weirdest conversation he'd had in, well, a few hours.

They walked around the graves together, looking at names, trying to find a clue of some kind.

"Very few women," Peter commented.

"So far. Haven't checked every graveyard yet. This is definitely the largest though. Most of the others are full. A couple of additions to family graves, for the most part."

Peter shuddered. Yvonne would hardly let him into her family's grave, and there was no telling where he would end up. Knowing her, she would probably cremate him and leave his ashes as far away as possible. He really needed to make a will. Maybe he could force his ashes to be left on the family grave, the same place his heart had ended up.

"Bad way to end up," Aiden murmured.

"Excuse me?" For a second, Peter was convinced the shifter had read his mind.

Aiden jerked his head at the open graves. "Ending up as a zombie or whatever. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"From what I've heard, it's not like you would know. I mean, it's just the casing of what's left behind. It's not the real thing."

"But somebody is making it happen. Taking these bodies and forcing them to—Wait, what the hell is that?" Aiden peered into a grave, frowning.

Peter stepped up to the grave and looked in. An open casket, but there was something left behind. He jumped down, landing on the coffin and almost falling right in. He peered at the satin cushion. "Looks like false teeth. Oh, wait, mine had missing teeth." He looked around, picked up something odd and flung it up at Aiden, laughing as the shifter lost his balance in his recoil away. "Relax," he called up, sinking his hands into packed dirt in an attempt to climb out. It wasn't as easy as he expected, and the shifter grabbed hold of his collar and hauled him the rest of the way.

"It's putty and a wig," Aiden said, shoving the thing at Peter. "And now I have death germs all over me. Thanks for that."

Peter threw the wig back into the coffin and wiped his hands against his jeans. "Mine was missing most of its head. This must have been what they used to make it look normal in the coffin." He squinted at the name on the headstone. "Patrick Talbot. Kind of sounds familiar, but I can't place it."

"Whatever. I had better get on. I need to track down whoever else is missing. What about you? Find out anything?"

"I talked to a Nigerian woman who knows things I don't. Don't suppose any of your family are African natives?"

"Only one is dead," Aiden said, his voice thickening. "I don't know much about my ancestry. Mind if I get that name from you?"

Peter considered this and decided he didn't want the Council's Guardians to take over his zombie problem. "Maybe two heads are better than one. I'm going back to see her. You can tag along if you want. Get some of the Guardians in your Circle to check out the names and see if they're connected or just random."

Aiden accepted the offer, took one last look at the graves, and followed Peter out of the graveyard.

"Think this woman can help?" the shifter asked.

Peter nodded. "Not much else to go on right now. She knows voodoo, so why not pick her brain some more? Until we learn more about the bodies, there's not a lot we can do."

"Wherever they're being kept must stink. I have the shifters doing what they can, but you would think they'd pick up on so much death." Aiden shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Unless the bodies have been divided somehow, but that would mean a lot of different storage. Money, time, a plan. And how did he get the bodies out of the graveyard without anybody noticing anyhow? Surely someone saw something. I'm going to have to go back on the police reports for the last week to see if I've missed something."

Peter avoided his eyes. Was he going to speak the entire time? His hands flexed into fists when Aiden sat in the front passenger seat. Lisa's seat. He was breaking his golden rule: Always work alone.

# Chapter Five

They had barely left the cemetery when Aiden's phone rang. It was a brief conversation, but the shifter fidgeted in his seat whenever he spoke.

"Stop at a shop," he said when he hung up. "Need to pick up a paper and check out the headlines."

Interest peaked, Peter obliged, and they both grabbed a newspaper to pour over.

Zombie Sighting Or Elaborate Prank?

They exchanged worried glances as they paid.

"Shit," Peter said when they returned to the car. "We weren't the only ones who had a visit."

"No, and get this, the witness claims she saw her abusive ex-boyfriend trying to get in her house. Her _dead_ ex-boyfriend. She hid in the bathroom until he went away. And from what the story says, he didn't come from our graveyard. I had a heads-up about other open graves elsewhere, but this one didn't even come from Dublin."

"Are there many more?"

"Some, but no more than one in each graveyard. Ours was the only one with mass theft going on." The shifter's countenance remained worried.

"So there's something important about our graveyard. A big batch of bodies... What do you think, drawing attention to cover something else?"

"Possibly," Aiden said, staring over Peter's head as if considering the outcomes. "Looks like we were led there, though, right?"

Peter made a face. "It would make sense. I take it your people are on clean up."

"Yep. No sign of the bodies though. No other references to zombies in any emergency calls last night. Not genuine ones anyway. I just don't get the purpose of this."

"Eddie Brogan reckons it could be kids dabbling, but the woman I met took it a bit more seriously."

Aiden snorted. " _He's_ lucky he hasn't been arrested."

"He hasn't done anything wrong."

"Yeah, this time."

Peter didn't even want to know. What had he been thinking, inviting a Guardian of all people to tag along?

The rest of the journey to Veronique's home was silent. They had nothing in common and even less to talk about. Not that Peter cared. As far as he knew, Aiden had come out of nowhere to take over as alpha of all of the shifters. He might have looked human, but he wasn't. That couldn't be forgotten. Peter regretted letting him ride along, but he had resources that a human couldn't get near. He would ditch him as soon as he had some clue of how to find whoever was bringing dead people to their feet.

"Know anything about voodoo?" he asked to break the silence.

"Why? I'm black and supernatural, therefore I must know about magic from the homeland?"

Momentarily stunned, Peter glanced at Aiden to see his grin. "Fuck you, man. No, because you're a Guardian. You've probably seen weirder shit than I have, right?"

"Definitely witnessed some of the strange. Haven't come across anyone who practices though. Hadn't come across a real zombie before either, for that matter."

"Let's hope that was the last time for both of us."

Aiden shivered. "Tell me about it. One scare a week is enough for me."

Peter frowned. If there was anything he had learned about shifters since he discovered the hidden part of the world, it was that they never admitted their fears. Seeing their alpha show anything other than a hard wall of immoveable strength had to be strange for them.

As if he realised what he had said wasn't the done thing, Aiden cleared his throat and turned his body away from Peter.

They drove through the city, and Peter wondered how the shifter thing worked, if Aiden knew all of them, if he commanded and they obeyed.

"So," Aiden said after a few more awkward moments. "You work for Koda?"

"On occasion."

"I should probably check in with him when we get to this woman's place. She's not going to unleash some voodoo on us, right?"

"She never said she practices."

Aiden glanced at him and grinned. "Would you?"

That was a good point.

Peter left Aiden by the car to make his phone calls. He gave a low sigh of relief at being alone for a minute. Something about the shifter set him on edge. He headed up an empty stairwell to Veronique's flat, the scents from her home hitting him from four flats away. As he reached her front door, it opened, and a young woman stepped out, wringing her hands nervously.

"Next week, okay?" she said to Veronique, her flat voice pleading. "You'll see me next week at the same time."

"Same time every week," Veronique said, taking the woman's hands and squeezing them until they stilled. "Remember what I said. This is the week to be brave."

Nodding, the woman edged her way around Peter, holding her arms close to her body as if afraid of so much as breathing in the same air as him.

Veronique leaned against the doorway and gave him a long, hard look. "Somehow I knew I hadn't seen the last of you. You're not alone."

"He's coming up in a minute." He jerked his head in the direction of the fleeing woman. "What was that about?"

"Customer. She a regular. I read the card, you know, tarot? Get in before you start scaring everyone away." She pinched his cheek hard, a twinkle in her eye. "Bad man that you are."

Grinning, he stepped past her. She followed him to the living room, leaving the front door wide open.

"Thought you were living under the radar," he said. "Tarot readings are a bit of a red flag, no?"

"I use a stage name, am par-tic-u-lar about client I take, and I mix a dash of truth with a big pile of bullshit."

He took the same seat again, sinking deep. "And they come back for more?"

"Ha! Nobody want _truth_." She relaxed on the sofa and picked up an emery board from the coffee table. She gestured wildly with it. "They want fantasy, so I give it to them. Tell them what they want to hear."

"But you know things. You have... a gift?"

"I don't have no gift," she said, sounding scornful. "I listen to my ancestor. They whisper to me, tell me all sort of thing. They see more than I ever could. I'm just a mouthpiece for them. I dream. All night long, I dream. Then there the waking dream. You could go crazy in a dream. But you learn to separate. How to deal."

"You having a dream right now?" he asked. "Your ancestors tell you anything about me?"

She doubled over, her face creasing as if with pain. He figured it was part of the show, but when she looked at him, her dark eyes were full of anguish. He clung to the arms of the chair, his heart racing with anticipation.

"Oh," she said. "Everyone whisper about you. So loud, I can hardly bear it. So much attached to you, trying to reveal itself. But it do you no good. You won't believe one word. Just know that cold heart gonna work against you. Some day, you gonna have to learn to trust somebody, or you'll lose it all."

He relaxed, seeing through her words. "I've nothing left to lose."

She looked straight at him then, and he could see so much in her eyes: wisdom and fear, love and hurt. "We gain new thing to lose all the time. You'll remember me some day. You'll remember what I told you, and you'll be sorry you didn't listen."

A knock at the door interrupted any words he might have formed. Her warning felt like a curse, and his distrust only grew. She could be the one making a fool of him. She could be—

"Come on in!" she shouted, startling Peter.

He felt silly then. His paranoia sometimes got the better of him and drowned out the gut instinct that told him to trust this woman. That she was the help he needed, not the enemy.

Aiden strode in, filling up the room. Peter had to admit it; the shifter had presence. His gut instincts hadn't quite decided on the shifter yet.

Veronique patted the seat next to her. "Come sit here, and let me look at you."

But when Aiden did as she said, she flinched and turned her head away from him, massaging her temples.

"The ancestors must be shouting at her," Peter said, grinning as she glared at him.

"Don't you dare mock the dead." She patted Aiden's arm. "You've a long hard path ahead. Make her proud of you."

Aiden's expression changed from placid to angry in an instant.

"Oh, calm down," she said, apparently unimpressed. "Now tell me what you've learned because you're not here for my body."

Aiden made a strange noise in the back of his throat.

"A lot of graves have been dug up," Peter said. "We've both met a zombie. According to the newspapers today, there's another somewhere out there. Lots of empty graves, mostly recent deaths."

"So a zombie came after both of you?" She frowned. "Interesting." She looked at Aiden. "Yours have a pouch, too?"

"Yeah," Aiden said. "Red smoke in mine."

"They don't want to be seen yet," she said. "Strange. You would think commanding the dead was the work of a big ego. Are the dead connected?"

"Likely, they all died around the same time. So far my people have confirmed that a bunch died together in a traffic accident," Aiden said. "My Circle have found others in different cemeteries. Some from the crash were cremated, so we don't have to worry about those. But there's a lot of missing bodies right now, mostly criminals."

"Not good," Veronique said. "Dead have some memory. Dark in life and dark in death."

"So we need to worry?" Aiden asked.

"I would worry," she said, cocking her head to the side. "If all of those bodies come to life, there will be mayhem."

"So why us?" Peter asked. "Why that woman in the paper? What does it all mean?"

"Maybe you're being called out," Veronique whispered. "Maybe somebody want you to go looking."

Aiden shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. Peter and I have nothing in common. And that woman was just some human."

Peter gave him a pointed look. "I'm also a human, remember?"

"But you work for the Council," the woman said slowly. "Maybe that's important."

Aiden laughed humourlessly. "He's not exactly official."

"Then you were the one called out," she said. "The other zombie? Just a cover."

Peter exhaled loudly. "We're missing a huge piece of the puzzle here. We can't just wait around to see what this person is going to do next. We need to find the source and stop whatever's going on."

"Only one thing for it," Veronique said. "You need to go to the place that sell the ingredient needed to command the dead. Not many place like that around here, let me tell you. But I can give you the name of a place in town that I hear supply the thing other vendor won't touch. I must warn you, they won't freely admit what they sell there."

"Can you find out for us?" Peter asked.

"I can't be seen there," she said. "It'll have to be you two."

"Want to check it out?" he asked Aiden, thinking that maybe the Guardian would have authority over a supernatural business.

The shifter shrugged. "What else can we do? We need to find this freak before more dead walk the streets. A shifter was involved—that puts it on me."

"Call me if you find out something," Veronique said. "Sometime this kind of thing don't end with the dead."

She wrote down directions and her phone number, and escorted both men out of her flat. They had been dismissed, but at least they had another lead, albeit a weak one, but then again, the entire thing was weak, as if somebody was pulling at their strings until they were ready to show themselves.

# Chapter Six

"What did you think of her?" Peter asked Aiden as they drove away from the flats.

"Interesting woman," the shifter said, but his voice was flat and his eyes cool. He checked his messages and made a kind of growling sound. "More interesting is the fact that 'zombie' was found already. No pouch, no powder, just a dead body laid out on a bench in a park."

"So a prank?"

"Weird timing for a prank," Aiden said, his upper lip curling into a snarl. "More like a game. We're being played, but for what? And why?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Peter said. "If we don't find this person first."

"What if it's Veronique?"

"It's not Veronique."

"But what if? She seems pretty sure of what this person's intentions are."

Peter released a scornful laugh, but his palms were sweating. A monster was doing this, not a human. "She said we were being called out for some unknown reason. That's not surety. It's a half-guess. She doesn't know anything, but she's a valuable source, so try not to piss her off with random accusations."

Aiden glanced at him. "To investigate this thing properly, we need to consider all of the options."

"Already considered and rejected that particular option. We go to this herb shop or whatever the hell it is, find out if they sold these bloody ingredients, and move on from there with whatever information we find." Peter took a deep breath. "And we hope that your people find the bodies before any more dead people start walking around."

"There are a lot of missing bodies, Peter. If they all come to life, people will see. It'll be impossible to put this shit back in a box. There'll be mayhem."

"Maybe if people knew the truth then—"

"My own father turned my sister and me away when he learned the truth," the shifter said sharply. "Imagine what strangers will do to each other. There'll be witch hunts all over again. We need to keep this under wraps. Look how you handled _your_ introduction to the supernatural." He turned his head to stare out of the window. "Humans are too heartless to trust with this."

Peter kept his eyes on the road, not trusting himself to speak. It was black and white to him, but sometimes he wondered.

Veronique's directions led to a salon that also sold hair extensions and nail supplies.

"I have no idea what this place is," Aiden said as they approached the building. "This isn't on my list."

"Your list?"

"I... have to keep an eye on supernatural businesses. Make sure everything is... okay."

Peter frowned. The shifter's tone said something wasn't legit.

"So this must be run by humans or else is an unregistered business," Aiden continued, glaring at the shop front as if it had personally offended him. "I'll have to deal with this."

"Yeah, later. _After_ they give us the info we need."

Peter glared at the shifter until he shrugged. Taking that as agreement, Peter got out of the car. Aiden followed, and they approached the building.

Handmade signs full of brightly coloured bubble writing filled the windows, making it impossible to see inside. There were no signs that anything other than beauty related products were sold there.

They stepped inside the salon and looked around. Customers received manicures on a counter in the corner. A dark-skinned young woman wearing a yellow kaftan and what looked like jewellery made from bone and shells stood by the cash register. Her brows raised as she watched the men enter. Laughter from the corner made the experience just that little bit more intimidating.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck as he reached the counter. The woman no longer looked friendly.

"We've been told this is a herbal shop," Aiden said, sounding as embarrassed as Peter felt.

The young woman glared back at him. "Get out of here," she said in a thick inner-city Dublin accent. "The likes of you aren't welcome."

"You don't know me," Peter said.

She gestured toward Aiden. "No, but I know of him. He isn't welcome here, and if you're with him, you're not welcome either."

Peter exchanged a warning look with Aiden. If the shifter started mouthing off or quoting Council rules, he was going to deck him, giant or not. But the shifter simply stared back at the woman, a strangely blank expression on his face.

"I have one word for you," Peter said to the young woman. "Zombies. Did you or did you not sell the ingredients that could possibly raise the dead?"

Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a couple of seconds, making him feel like an idiot. Maybe they were in the wrong place.

"Oh, bloody hell," she snapped. "I told him not to do it. Wait here." She stepped through a door and slammed it behind her. "Jamie!" she screamed, loud enough for them to hear clearly.

"Definitely in the right place," Aiden said.

"Yeah. And the likes of you? Did she mean shifter or Guardian?"

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on his feet. "Who knows?"

The women at the counter in the corner giggled loudly as they stared in the men's direction. A dreadlocked teenage boy opened the door and looked at Peter and Aiden.

"I take it you're Jamie," Peter said in a dry voice.

The boy nodded. He swallowed hard, raised his hands, and approached them slowly.

"Look," Jamie said under his breath, giving the women in the corner a quick glance. "I didn't raise any dead, okay? I sell things that people might buy, and that shit's been sitting there forever, so I was glad to get rid of it. You know?" He sucked in a breath, wary eyes on Aiden. "I know what you do, but we're just trying to make a living here. If any of it's illegal, I don't... I don't even know. It's imported, so customs wouldn't let it through if it was illegal, right? I mean, I—"

"Calm down," Aiden said. "We just want to know who bought the stuff."

"And what exactly they purchased," Peter added.

"He really raised the dead?" Jamie asked in a hushed voice. "My grandfather is going to kill me if he finds out."

"Hurry up and tell us what you know so we can stop it from happening again," Peter said, swiftly losing his patience.

"Okay." The kid took a deep breath. "Two weeks ago, a new customer came in and asked to buy some things. Said he'd heard a rumour this was a good place to go. As far as I know, he's staying in a hostel. From the way he talked, it seemed like it was nearby. The new ones always come here. I don't know, word gets around, and they want a piece of home, so we give it to 'em. People just want to be happy. Nobody wants to leave everything they know behind. And voodoo isn't bad like books and shit make it out to be. It's spiritual. There's no harm in that, right?"

Peter slammed his palm on the counter, making the boy jump. "Just get to the bloody point already," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Jamie rubbed his arms, his eyes wide with fear. Peter almost felt guilty. _Almost_.

"I'll... I'll get the receipt for you. I keep a record of everything I sell, so I remember what people are looking for. I mean, I don't know what all of this stuff is used for. I pick it up when people have no money and want to barter, or I get it imported, or..." He looked fearfully into Peter's eyes. "Okay, I don't know his name or which room he's in, but he looks harmless. The gold teeth were a bit much, but he isn't dressed... weird or anything. Well, the gloves are a bit odd, but I'm not gonna judge other people's style choices. My point is that he seemed nice. I mean, maybe it was an accident or something."

Peter's brows rose. "He accidentally stole a shitload of bodies from a graveyard?"

The boy scrunched up his face, making him look even younger. "Okay, so that sounds like it was on purpose. Just give me a minute." He left for a few minutes.

Peter glanced at Aiden. "He's just a kid."

"I know."

Jamie came back trembling. He scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it into Peter's hand. "All of the things he bought are here. Just don't tell him you got this from me. Someone like that... I don't even want to think about what he could do to us."

"I'll deal with him," Aiden said.

The boy calmed down instantly. "Well, yeah. I best get back to work though. Remember us if you need... anything."

"Next time be careful what you sell," Aiden said.

"Last time ever." Jamie held up his hands. "Swear. My sister's already going to kill me, so don't worry about that." He gave a watery smile and traced his fingernail along the counter nervously. "So, um, what does a real zombie look like anyway?"

Peter turned on his heel before the kid actually came out and asked for a slap in the face. He leaned against his car, his skin crawling. He felt eyes on his back, but when he looked, nobody was paying him any attention. That paranoia again.

Aiden followed him outside a few minutes later.

"Jesus Christ," Peter said. "Could he be any more clueless? What's he doing selling that shit anyway?"

"You heard him," Aiden said. "Trying to make a living and provide for his family. Trust me, I have a little sister. I know what it's like to worry about looking after family. She makes all of the mistakes and thinks they're learning experiences." He shook his head, a rueful smile hovering on his lips. "I pressed harder, and he gave me a pretty good description. The gold teeth and gloves combo alone might make him easy enough to find, right?"

"Time to check out the local hostels then," Peter said.

"Not all of them," Aiden said, frowning as he looked around at the busy market street. "Immigrants tend to stick together, and it sounds like he was straight off the boat. Or plane. Whatever. There's a pretty large African community around here, but only in specific hostels."

"Know a lot about it?"

"Honestly, we've been keeping an eye on what's been coming in. We have enough trouble maintaining the species that already exist here without suddenly introducing new ones."

"You just happened to let the man who can raise the dead slip by?"

"Cut us some slack." Aiden frowned. "He's a human who dabbles in the darker side of his religion. We can't prepare for everything. I can't be stronger than _everything_."

A bit of an emphatic statement coming from a creature who had to be stronger than everyone else to become their leader, but who was Peter to judge?

"Let's just get started," he said. "It looks like it's going to be a long day."

# Chapter Seven

Aiden's resources did most of the heavy lifting, calling around hostels to find a man who fit the description while Aiden treated Peter to a pub lunch on the Council's expenses.

"Not a bad job," Peter conceded.

"It has its benefits," Aiden said.

"I bet. So how many did you have to kill to get to the top?" Peter was joking, but Aiden looked like he wanted to vomit.

"Three." He threw down his fork. "Come on. The sooner we get to this arsehole, the better, and there's a hostel around the corner with a shifter porter. He's small-time, but he might know something."

Aiden hurried away to pay, leaving Peter alone at the table. _Three_. The cost of being a shifter or a Guardian?

He headed out to his car, calling Veronique while he waited for Aiden to come outside.

"We might have found him," he told her. He rattled off the full list of ingredients the man had purchased.

She barely contained a gasp. "Don't go in there," she warned. "Not just the dead he can control with the thing he bought."

"We'll be fine," Peter said. "We need to deal with this today, get the bodies back before the media pick up on even more zombie stories."

"Be careful then. The _coup de poudre_ will paralyse you. If you come into contact with it, back away in a hurry and try not to inhale. There are worse things than dead bodies walking."

"I get it," he said. "But he'll be arrested by the Council soon. No worries."

He hung up as Aiden approached, the shifter's face a careful mask now.

"Ready?" Aiden asked. "It's a few minutes away, but I can get a better feel for a story in person."

"I'm ready. Veronique reckons the ingredients lead to bad things. We're not to inhale any kind of powders, just in case."

The shifter looked anywhere but straight at him. "I'll keep that in mind."

They walked to a busy hostel nearby.

"Is Malcolm around?" Aiden asked at the counter.

A young woman looked up at him. "I'm so sorry," she said. "You're his friend, right?"

Aiden nodded.

"And you haven't heard?" The woman shivered. "He was murdered last week. Found in the alley outside. But they're still making us work, saying it had nothing to do with the hostel."

"But you don't think so," Aiden said.

She shook her head before glancing around anxiously. "I think he pissed off the wrong person."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked.

She waved a hand. "I'm not trying to speak bad of the dead, but Malcom was strange. He would turn people away even if we had rooms. For no reason at all. Said he had to trust his gut instincts. We rarely have trouble with our guests, but nobody likes being told no."

Aiden glanced at Peter, looking surprised. "Maybe you can help us then. We're looking for a man who might be staying here. His upper row of teeth are gold, and—"

"I remember him," she said. "Malcolm turned him away. He seemed like a nice man, but Malcolm refused. Made him leave. I gave the man the address of a hostel near by. I was so embarrassed. Malcolm disappeared the next day, was found a few days later." She gasped. "You don't think—?"

"Can you give me the address?" Aiden asked. "I really need to speak to this man. If you happen to see him again, perhaps you could call me." He dropped a business card on the counter.

The woman jotted down the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Aiden. "I'm sorry about Malcolm. He was a little strict, but he was always good to me."

Aiden nodded. Peter led the way outside, his stomach curling up with apprehension.

"You didn't know one of your shifters died?" he asked.

Aiden shrugged. "It doesn't work that way. He wasn't... close to the pack. He lived a pretty human life, didn't like the way we were getting so connected to the Council. And now he's gone. It had to be this bloody voodoo priest."

"We had better take a look."

"Yeah." Aiden sighed. "I'm worried about what we're going to find though."

They moved on, another step on a journey that had better lead to a good outcome, as far as Peter was concerned.

Peter didn't like the atmosphere at the second hostel. It tasted like hopelessness, like the life he lived when he didn't work, when he drank so hard in the hopes he could forget to think. They double-checked with the porter and were sure they had found the right place when they headed up to the room.

"Smells odd," Aiden said as he led the way.

"Like Veronique's flat odd, or... _dead_ odd."

"A little of both," the shifter replied, his eyes cold and hard. "Maybe we should wait for some backup."

"We're not the fucking police," Peter said, trying the door to find it unlocked. "Stay out there all you want. I'm going in."

"Jesus, can you not just... fine. Walk right in without even checking if the bad voodoo man is there. That makes sense."

"We don't have time to fuck around, and you're a shifter. You'd already know if he was here," Peter said. "For an alpha, you really doubt yourself a lot."

"Fuck you. I'm going to check around the back, make sure he didn't jump out of a window or something."

Peter shrugged and stepped into the room, leaving the door open. The room itself was tiny. One single bed, a rackety old wardrobe. A shared bathroom down the hall. The one thing of note was the makeshift voodoo shrine next to the bed. It seemed like a small box covered in red cloth, but the surface was full of candles, pieces of wood and roots, and bones and jars of suspicious looking liquid, amongst other things. A pattern had been spread across the floor in some kind of floury substance.

Peter stepped up to the pattern, shoes almost touching the powder. Maybe he shouldn't disturb it. He rubbed the back of his head, wondering if Aiden's heebie jeebies had rubbed off.

"Okay." Aiden's voice came from the doorway. "So he's not here."

"Nope." Using his sleeve, Peter opened the wardrobe. Empty.

"Think he did a runner?"

"He left the altar," Peter said, staring at the display. An old photograph was the focus. He squinted. "Does that look like Veronique to you?"

Aiden approached the altar. Peter held his breath as the shifter broke the pattern, but nothing happened. Aiden made as if to reach out and take the photo.

"Don't," Peter said. "I don't know. Just don't touch it."

The photo was splattered with blood. The image was of a much younger-looking Veronique holding a baby.

"This is about her?" Peter said. "Think he's after her next?"

"That blood smells fresh," Aiden replied. "As in a couple of hours old. So maybe the next zombie is for her? Did she mention anyone in her life dying?"

"Her daughter, but I got the impression that happened a long time ago. So if the zombies retain some of their memories then what did that zombie in my house have to do with me?"

"He must have known you somehow. Maybe someone from your past. I believe they're looking for something familiar. I mean, why else would a dead shifter come after me?"

"I don't know." Peter glanced around the room. "None of this makes a lot of sense. Why us first? Why Veronique now? And where are the rest of the bodies?" He shoved his hands in his pockets, rolling onto the balls of his feet. "A lot of people have scores to settle with me. It's possible my zombie knew me, and I just don't remember him. But if that's true, where are the others heading to?"

"Veronique's the only lead we have right now."

Peter looked back inside the wardrobe and pulled away a broken piece of wood from the back. He held it out and pushed at the items on the altar. "Veronique made it sound like he won't be content to just control the dead, so does that mean he can control the living, too? Oh, shit, look."

In the midst of the altar, almost unrecognisable because of the stains, there was a leaflet from the salon, the handwritten special offers darkened with blood.

Aiden ran his hands over his shaved head. "We don't have time to chase that up, Peter."

Peter frowned. "Because they're human?"

"Veronique's human, too. So is this... whatever he is. It's about dealing with the greatest threat. We can't protect everyone, but we can take this man out before he does any more damage."

"You have plenty of people to help you," Peter said. "And I don't play by your rules. This is the strongest lead we have. I'm going back to the salon to make sure everything's okay."

"We've been there already, Peter. We could trace him from here, find people who spoke to him. Do you really want to risk missing out on this man?"

"He could be there already."

Aiden shook his head. "I think it's too late for them."

"Well, then, I'll know, won't I? I'm going. If only to warn Jamie and his sister. You try and get in touch with Veronique to warn her. And see if any of those bodies have showed up yet. He has to be storing them somewhere. Your shifters must be close to sniffing them out by now. I'm out of here."

He didn't wait to hear Aiden's response. As far as Peter was concerned, the shifters were big and ugly enough to take care of themselves. The fact Aiden reckoned he didn't have time to check up on a human or two said volumes. The Council and their guard dogs might not be bothered, but that was on their consciences.

Peter headed to his car and drove back toward the salon, pulling up on the pavement with screeching tyres. He jumped out of the car, but he already knew. A crawling portent of doom had already twined its way around his heart.

The salon was dark, the closed sign clearly on display. People walked by as if they didn't see the place, as if they didn't care. And why would they? None of them were likely to know what really hid in the shadows. They feared the wrong things, but Aiden was right. Knowing the truth would just make their lives worse. They were better off not knowing.

He took a deep breath as he tried the door. Unlocked. Pushing it open, he walked in to see the shop floor was completely empty.

Looking around, he saw something. A streak of blood marred the door handle of the back room. He picked up a towel and used it to open the door, unwilling to acknowledge his fear of the substance, the memories it invoked when he wasn't the one doing the bloodletting. His own violence chased the fears away, but this was different.

He stepped into the middle of a red painting, a blood-rain storm. It took a long time for his eyes to adjust to the red patterns in the room, took him too long to find the bodies strewn on the floor, their faces still recognisable, the boy's dreadlocks glistening with blood. Jamie and his sister had been killed because a teenage boy had been intimidated into doing the right thing. They hadn't been protected, hadn't understood what they were dipping their toes into, had never stood a chance.

He knelt next to the girl. Her kaftan was completely blood-soaked, barely a trace of the fabric left in its original colour. The horror of it turned his stomach. He felt for a pulse. Nothing, but her body was still warm. The priest was seven steps ahead of them, and this girl who looked like a child in death had suffered because of it. His anger swelled and burned him from the inside out, his throat aching for a drink, just one taste of alcohol to calm the shaking of his fingers.

Bile in his throat sent him running out of the room, desperate for fresh air, to unsee what could never be unseen. A shadowy movement sent him on alert, his hands reaching for a weapon, ready to destroy anything that had survived the bloodbath.

But he didn't get a chance.

A sudden sound sent him back a few steps, retreating to prepare. A cloud of powder flew into his face. He shut his mouth too late, held his breath just a second too slowly. He wheezed as his limbs seized up, as the world grew smaller. His peripheral vision disappeared. Every muscle and sinew froze. He collapsed and hit the floor, barely conscious of the footsteps near his head.

He turned to stone, his entire body a brilliant reflection of his heart.

# Chapter Eight

He knew he was alive. He knew it, but he was trapped in his own body, a ready-made prison. He lay there for a long time, struggling to move and all the while silently cursing the shifters and the Council, Koda and Veronique. She had been the one to lead him to the salon, after all.

Every movement he attempted to make felt like it would bust his heart wide open, but his heart wasn't even beating anymore. He was encased in stone, in eternal undeath, and nobody was around to witness it. Veronique had warned him to be careful. He never bloody listened to anyone, that was his problem.

He had heard light footsteps after he fell, sensed someone close by, but then he recognised the sound of the door opening and closing. So why hadn't the priest killed him? Why had he let him live? It made no sense, but he was more concerned with making his body move. The dead bodies were in the next room, and he couldn't bear it.

Eventually, Aiden came to find him. Peter heard his footsteps, but he couldn't see him until the shifter knelt by his side, likely to press his fingers against Peter's neck.

"Shit," he whispered. "No pulse." He sniffed the air and followed what must have been the scent of blood. Peter heard Aiden speak on the phone, but he couldn't distinguish the words. His eyes were wide open on the floor, a permanent surprised gape as if his eyelids had been glued that way; his eyeballs couldn't move at all, and he couldn't blink, so dust motes filled his vision. He couldn't feel his tongue or his fingers or his toes. He didn't exist anymore. If he ever had.

Aiden returned to him, still sniffing the air. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I can do this. I'm the alpha. I can do anything."

Oh, great, the alpha shifter was having some kind of bizarre crisis of identity. Just what Peter needed.

Aiden gingerly took Peter into his arms and carried him to the car. He laid him on the backseat, stole the keys, and jumped in the driver's seat. Peter was going to kill him if he put one single scratch on his baby. As soon as the car swerved around a corner, Peter promptly fell off the backseat and landed on his face. Aiden didn't appear to notice or care, so Peter stared at carpet for the rest of the journey.

Aiden made a panicked call as he drove. "Is she okay?" he asked. "Good. Good. Stay with her. Yeah, I'm on my way now. He's in the back. I don't know if it'll help, but I have to try. No, no. I can't do that. How can I do that? What? Where? But we searched there already. I don't like it either, but until we know more, I... okay, just don't let Esther out of your sight. Thanks for this. I know. Me, too."

He ended the call, slapped the steering wheel, and swore. The car finally stopped moving, and he lifted Peter out, careless this time. He whacked Peter's head off the car door a number of times, but Peter didn't feel a thing. His own awareness only came from Aiden whispering sorry under his breath every two seconds. The shifter hauled Peter's stiff, lifeless body over his shoulder and carried him off and up a stairwell, past the same junkie who gave a lazy laugh before closing his eyes.

Peter recognised the smells coming from Veronique's flat. Aiden stopped walking and knocked on the door. Peter heard the door open, heard Veronique's greeting, and gave an inner sigh of relief when Aiden carried him inside. Veronique had to know what to do.

Aiden laid Peter on the living room floor, a little too roughly. "Is he okay? He has no pulse. He looks dead, but I can sense him still in there. Was I wrong?"

"Not wrong. It'll wear off soon."

"Good. I have to go, Veronique. They found some of the bodies."

"You mean he left the dead for you," she said, her voice trembling. "She has the protection of the Council?"

His voice deepened. "The Council will protect her. But we'll catch him first, Veronique. We have no choice. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He left, and the woman knelt next to Peter, humming to herself as she fussed over him. Her arms moved around him, something he couldn't see clearly falling between her fingers.

"The powder strike hit you, didn't it? But you didn't inhale as much as he wanted, so it shouldn't last long. You won't die. He gonna come here and drug you, but I have a trick or two. Try not to worry." She patted Peter's face. "I'm sorry if this is uncomfortable. I should have realised sooner, but I didn't want to believe it could be him. My daughter was married to a man who came out of nowhere, Peter. I knew he was wrong, but they all thought I was a jealous old mambo, wary of the one with more power than me. What we deal in is spiritual and clean. All about respect and giving and sharing. What he do is about taking and hurting and stealing life."

He tried to see her face, but she had moved out of that blur of awareness. She kept moving, circling around him. He realised she was making some kind of pattern, hopefully for protection.

"Oh," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "That man was a dark-blooded bokkor, using the black art to control my girl. He was more snake than man. She was dying from unhappiness. He wanted my power, knew well that my grandchild would inherit from me if I died. I had to take my daughter away when she told me a baby grew in her belly. But the darkness took my girl, too, and that man want his child back. As soon as I die, she gonna wake to her power. I've hidden us from him for so long. I don't know how he found me. Why he came here and tried to lure you to me. He hadn't found me until Aiden brought you here today. He made you his, took your hair to make a doll he can use to track you, to _hurt_ you if he willing. But the powder strike already on you, so it just take another step, and he'll control you, force you to kill me. Controlling the living is as big a sin as waking the dead, and I can't let him do as he will. I saw a room painted with blood. I know this is my final day."

She did something to his face that he couldn't feel. He struggled to move in his distress at feeling so powerless.

"I'm putting this in your mouth, under your tongue. He won't be able to force you to his will. He gonna kill me to get to her, so I made a deal with the Council. They'll track him down because of me. And they'll protect her from him. There's nothing you can do, Peter. You can't save me. But you can stop him. When all of this is over, he cannot be allowed to practice here. He cannot be allowed to spread his evil and infect the only home my granddaughter has."

She leaned back, sitting down and stretching her legs. "Where I'm from, we can connect with each other, mambo to mambo, bokkor to bokkor. Vodun is about connection, and we're stronger together. We find each other, exchange a spell, share how we practice, help each other. But every so often, darkness takes over a soul. This man, he crave power, and he want to take mine. Every death will make him that much stronger, push him that much closer to a darker god. I haven't practised here. I knew he would find me if I did. I left my home to escape him, thinking we would be free here, that we'd disappear. But everything got worse instead." She let out a low keening sound.

He wished he could move. Just a little, just enough to help her, but nothing happened.

"He won't be easy to kill," she whispered. "He doesn't have a heart and soul anymore. He an empty thing. He may help the dead walk, but something help him, too. The pouch that give the dead life, he wear one around his neck. He keep it close to his heart, and it keep him living. It don't matter what you do to the body. You need to kill the magic, Peter. The deal I made is for nothing if you don't stop him."

She got to her feet again, moving quickly. She glanced around her, her eyes wide, as if something lurked in the shadows. Her voice lowered. "I don't trust the Council. I believe they'll forget her at best, but are more likely to use her, so I need you to make sure that doesn't happen. Please save her from the darkness. Without me, she won't know not to succumb. She won't see the danger. You have to..." She clutched something to her breast then rose to her feet, crossing the room until Peter couldn't see her anymore.

"You're here," she said softly.

"Where is she?" a man's voice asked, but it didn't sound normal. It sounded like many voices wrapped up into one.

"Hidden from you. Hidden from even herself. She is protected."

"As if I care for this Council. There is no power in this country strong enough to keep her from me."

The voice thundered, splitting and morphing a million times. What looked like grains of sand hovered in the air before floating onto Peter's face. Something tugged at him, begged him to move.

"Stand." The voice was next to him and miles away. He ached to get to his feet. The bokkor laughed, but it was the least pleasant sound Peter had ever heard. "You think your games will save you?"

"No," she said. "But my blood spilled by him will be enough power to hide her forever."

He hesitated. "I can kill you myself."

"I know. But I won't let you take her so easily, too. I won't let you use him to take me."

"Your blood will show me the way, Veronique. I'll take her, and you won't be able to stop me."

She laughed. "You forget the gift she'll inherit. She'll be protected, no matter what you sacrifice. I've made sure of that."

She had practiced again. She had given up to save her granddaughter. Peter didn't even know the girl's name. And he was paralysed. How could he help? Frustration was the only real thing in his life right then. Their words meant nothing. He couldn't do a thing. All over again. The memories came flooding back uninvited. It felt like magic, like something had sent them to him, but he couldn't stop them either way. Only alcohol could help with that.

And then they were gone, the bokkor and the mambo. No matter how much he struggled on that floor, nothing moved, and he hadn't done a thing to help. Just like he hadn't helped his son, his girlfriend, and her parents. The supernatural world made him lose. Each and every time.

# Chapter Nine

He had been lying there for hours by the time his limbs began to twitch. He came back to life, one nerve ending at a time. But he felt as though he had been battered. Every inch of him hurt. He couldn't worry about that. He had to get up, had to find Veronique, had to finish off the bokkor who had taken an out-of-practice mambo. He couldn't let a monster sacrifice the woman, couldn't let him find her innocent granddaughter.

He practiced moving his fingers and toes. Then blinking. Blinking helped. His tongue didn't move, but his mouth felt arid. He heard his heart beat once, twice, quickly as the panic set in, and finally, it calmed to a regular beat. His skin itched, and the blood pulsing through his veins stung at first. But he was alive, and he had a job to do.

The front door burst open, and Footsteps sounded in the hallway. "Shit," he heard Aiden say.

He tried to call Aiden's name, but he barely made a sound. It didn't matter. He knew Peter was there.

"Peter?" he called. "You all right yet?" He stood over Peter who licked his lips slowly. "I'll get you some water. She said you'd be thirsty and weak for a while."

Aiden helped Peter onto the sofa and went to get him a drink.

Peter tried to stretch his aching limbs, but it was like relearning how to use his body parts. He was born again, except this time he was even more pissed off than before.

Aiden returned with water, holding the glass to Peter's lips so he could sip some water. "She's gone?"

"Took her," Peter croaked. Each sip felt like a piece of him restored. He drank the water eagerly, but he really thirsted for whiskey or beer or gin or anything with an alcoholic content. "Fucking took her as I lay there. He's evil. I don't know. You didn't hear him." He stuck his fingers in his mouth, trying to find what Veronique had placed under his tongue, but there was nothing. Maybe it had been a powder that dissolved. Whatever she had done, it worked. "She said he was going to make me kill her. That the paralysis is just the first step. He was going to turn me into a fucking zombie."

"The bodies were set up by the way. That powder caught a couple of Guardians before I could warn them. Plenty of living dead bodies in the Council right now. So he was here? In this room?"

"Yeah, can you catch his scent?"

"I think so. Doesn't mean I'll find him though."

"We could go to his hostel room again."

Aiden laughed. "You're not in a fit state to go anywhere."

"I'll be fine. We need to find him."

"We haven't a clue where he would go."

Peter sighed, already feeling frustrated. "I know. But it's a ritual for him. Every death is like a sacrifice, right? So he uses the deaths as a way to gain power, or to give power to whatever god he's working for. Veronique said some things, but they didn't make a lot of sense to me. My brain's not fully-functioning yet. Hold on. I'll call Eddie Brogan and see if he knows anything that could help."

Before Aiden could protest, Peter made the call. "Would a magic ritual need a special place?" he asked as soon as Brogan answered. "A place of power or—?"

Depends on the ritual," Eddie said. "Is this about the voodoo again?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure he's going to kill someone, but he's trying to find someone else. Like, sacrifice one to get to the other. So he needs the right place. Where would I go to find something like that?"

"It might be a place. Or an object. The Council holds trials in a place of strong magic. But there's power in my shop, too. From my books. Who knows what kind of relics are out there? Kerry has—"

"Somewhere close by then," Peter said, unable to hide his frustration. "What's your best guess?"

"A place of death," Eddie said slowly.

"The graveyard?"

"No, that's a place of peace. The dead at rest, as it were. He needs somewhere that has experienced violent death and blood sacrifice. Sacrifice is more powerful than anything else."

"What about an altar? Would he need one?"

"It helps. Speaking of help, is there anything I can do?"

Peter hesitated. "Not yet. I'll let you know." He hung up and looked at Aiden. "Get all of that?"

The shifter nodded. "I'll warn the Council to watch out. I'll have someone check on the hostel room and the graveyards, maybe keep an eye on Brogan's bookshop."

"That'll take too much time. _We_ need to do something right now."

"What's your idea then?"

"That salon. The way they died was vicious. The blood was everywhere. Maybe that's a kind of altar for him. Maybe he'll take her there because there's already power from sacrifice there, and he knows we're on his tail. He'll sacrifice Veronique, and he'll find her granddaughter."

"She's not important right now," Aiden said. "People are on their way to her. They'll protect her."

"From someone who can turn living people into his own personal zombie slaves?"

"It's the best we have right now!"

Peter took a deep breath. "I'm going to the salon. You can do whatever you want, but I'm going to try and save Veronique from him."

"She's already dead, Peter."

"Maybe. Maybe not. He's all about the ritual, right? And he set all of this up to find her, to follow us as we tracked her down. Everything he does has a reason and purpose to him, so what if we're not too late? What if he's so stuck on his rituals and sacrifice that he screws up and we get there before he's finished?"

He shook his head. "You're a crazy man, Brannigan. Fine. I'll come with you."

"First, I need to look for something harder than water," Peter said, not caring about Aiden's judgement.

The shifter looked at him with something akin to pity.

"Fuck you," Peter snapped. "You try being dead for a day and see how you feel."

"Your life. I'm going to make some calls. I'll meet you at the car."

Peter found some dusty spirit bottles under the sink. None of them helped quench the thirst. None of them took the fear away.

# Chapter Ten

"The bodies are coming to life," Aiden warned back at the car.

"What are you on about? I thought you said—"

"The bodies we haven't found. They're at the Council, attacking right now. Not enough Guardians there to protect—"

"All the more reason to get to the source," Peter snapped.

"But we won't have backup. We're on our own, Peter."

Peter glanced at him. "I'm always on my own. This was all part of his plan. He called you out, probably followed you, and used my stupidity to find Veronique. He knew who to watch, and we led him right to the woman he wants. So we only have one option left. We kill this bokkor, and all of his magic goes away."

"What if we can't kill him?"

"Then we're screwed. So let's get on this, Aiden. Are you with me?"

The shifter was silent for far too long. Finally, he agreed in a low voice.

Peter's tension was exacerbated by Aiden's on the way to the salon. He could be wrong. He could be too late. He could be a zombie before the night was over. Aiden looked as though a stick had been shoved up his arse. For an alpha, he held back a lot, seemingly unwilling to make decisions until forced. The shifters would eat him alive for that.

The car turned a corner, and the road filled up with walking bodies.

"Shit!" Peter swerved, trying to avoid the zombies guarding the salon.

"Fuck that." Aiden grabbed the steering wheel and pushed the car back into the path of the zombies. "Keep going, pull up as close as you can to the door, and we both sprint inside. He's here. He has to be."

His heart thumping in his chest, Peter regained control of the steering wheel and prayed his baby would survive ramming a few zombies. There were at least ten, all charging at the car, none of them as placid as the original zombie he had faced. He already regretted ever coming up with the idea to check out the salon again. The Council should deal with the mess, not him. But the thought of more innocent humans being hurt stuck in his gut. Somebody out there had to defend them.

"Ready for this?" Aiden asked.

"Nope. Let's go." Before he could give himself time to talk himself out of it, Peter braked hard, opened the car door and raced to the salon, praying it was still unlocked.

Aiden barrelled past him, almost knocking him over. Peter glanced over his shoulder to see the zombies gaining ground.

"Come on!" Aiden urged, yanking open the salon door. They both fell inside and slammed the door behind them, breathing heavily.

The zombies threw themselves at the windows, but none managed to open the door.

"He's here," Aiden whispered. "I can—"

A blood-covered young woman walked toward them, her legs unsteady. Her bone and shell jewellery rattled as she moved. Jamie's sister. Peter had felt her pulse, but what if she had been paralysed, just like him?

"Jesus," he said, rushing forward to help her. "Are you okay?"

She looked at him with cloudy eyes. Right before she opened her mouth and bit on the hand he stretched out toward her.

"Holy shit!" He yanked his arm back, but she came at him again, her teeth covered in blood. _Psycho bitch_.

"He's controlling her body!" Aiden cried. "Watch out!"

Peter jumped back as Jamie lunged at him from the right. "Shit! We can't go back outside! How do you kill what's already dead?"

"You can't," Aiden said as they backed away from the duo shambling toward us, the sounds of the zombies outside frighteningly loud. "You kill the puppet master. He's here. I can smell him. You have to find him, Peter. I'll hold these two off."

"They're just kids."

"They're already dead. I can't hurt them. Nobody can, except for him." He gripped Peter's shoulder. "They need you."

Swearing, Peter leapt over the counter to bypass the pair trying to kill him. He headed for the back room, looked back to see Aiden's eyes turning yellow as he ripped off his shirt, and threw himself through the door.

He slipped in blood as he slammed the door behind him. A big cat's yowl sent shivers down his spine.

Looking around in the darkness, he noticed another staircase and ran upward into a small flat. The sounds of a television blaring came from the closest door. Sucking in a breath, he opened it to see more blood, and an elderly man's body. As he stared, the body came to life. Swearing even louder, Peter slammed the door shut. The dead man threw himself at the door, but he didn't try to use the handle. Peter thanked everything that the reanimated dead didn't have any common sense. He fled down the small hallway, listening for any other signs of life. The television was too loud. He opened the next door, but the bedroom within was empty.

That's when he noticed the open staircase coming from what was likely the attic. Blood ran down the steps, ending in a dark puddle on the floor. He blessed himself and made his way up the stairs. This was it. Time to face the big, bad bokkor.

# Chapter Eleven

A drumbeat sounded with each step he took. The attic was dark, and the floor slippy, but Peter's eyes adjusted to the weak candlelight.

A figure knelt in the blood, huddled over Veronique's lifeless body.

No, not lifeless. Her legs twitched, and she gave a weak moan. Peter ran for the bokkor, not caring about the consequences. He froze to the spot as the priest held up his hands. The man turned to face him, his golden teeth gleaming in the candlelight.

"I don't think so," he hissed, squeezing the voodoo doll in his claw like fingers.

Crippling pain doubled Peter over. He rose in the air, his entire body shaking. The bokkor gestured, and Peter's body was flung back and pinned to the wall. His shoulders ached with pain as the bokkor shoved pins through the voodoo doll.

"Still playing?" Veronique whispered, drawing the priest's attention. "Can never finish what you start, can you, boy?"

The bokkor made a sound of rage and returned to her, the doll still gripped in one hand. Peter tried to speak, but he couldn't open his mouth. Veronique had been right. The priest controlled him, could do anything he liked with him. He was powerless to stop him without Veronique's help. He would see his family soon, but he wasn't ready yet. He still had so much to do.

The priest knelt next to Veronique and dropped the doll in a puddle of blood. Peter tasted the tang on his lips, felt the warmth of the blood christen him in a new kind of horror. The priest moved his hands quickly across Veronique's body, each movement followed by a moan of pain that grew quieter every time. He was cutting her with fingernails that were sharp as blades.

Bowls surrounded Veronique, and Peter realised with a great deal of horror that the bokkor was bleeding her out slowly. Peter did his best to concentrate, to move, to do anything but act like yet another useless human. His skin burned with the effort.

The priest backed away from the body with a gleeful laugh. He dipped his hands into the bowl by Veronique's wrist. He wiped his face with his bloody fingers, chanting all the time.

Dead chickens hung upside down from the ceiling, pools of blood gathering under them all. Peter's stomach roiled. So much blood. So much dark power. Other dead animals lay scattered around the pair, patterns drawn in their blood, too.

The air vibrated with a dark magic the likes of which Peter had never experienced before. Eddie Brogan's shop sometimes felt strange, he had met a witch or two who sent the hairs standing on his arms, and Veronique's magic had felt comforting and homely. This was different. This felt like hell on earth.

The chanting grew louder, and the walls shook with each word. Veronique had stopped moaning. Her chest didn't rise and fall anymore. She had died as Peter watched, and he could do nothing in return.

The bokkor traced lines in the blood on the floor, lifting a bowl and splashing the room with fresh blood. Smoke rose from the floor, and an awful moan came from somewhere. The priest cut his own forearms and raised his hands in the air, shouting in words Peter didn't understand, but he felt the meaning against his skin, knew it was almost too late. The priest cried out and kicked the doll away from him, out of the blood.

Peter was flung into the corner in a crumpled heap, feeling an invisible web holding him down. He pushed, his anger burning through his weakness. He stopped tasting blood. He touched his face, free to move again. He tried to stand, but his entire body felt weighted. He crawled to the bokkor instead, having no idea what he was going to do.

"You don't think to stop me?" the bokkor said. He had no accent, nothing familiar at all. It was as if he came from another world. "It's already done. Don't you feel the spirits in the air? The touch of the gods? No, you feel nothing because you do not truly live. I'm glad she saved you because you would have been a worthless sacrifice. Nothing to be gained from the death of one who does not live. Go away, boy. Run away home and lose yourself in your demons. You have no business here."

"You kill for power and think nobody will want to stop you?"

"Nobody _can_." He looked around then, his large, black _inhuman_ eyes staring right through Peter. "Your death might have been worthless, but you have something I don't. Something I could use. I say this old mambo didn't tell you what I can do for you. Everything you lost, restored. On this plane, all it takes is a sacrifice. There's great power in blood. It keeps vampires alive, and it sparks the greatest magic of all. Blood is the source of everything. Life for your kin, if you offered something in return. Just a soul. Something you don't even use. Isn't that right?"

"A soul? I thought blood was the power."

"It is, but a soul is a different kind of power. Would you like to see them again? The ones who are dead? I can do this. For a price, I can do this and more. You only see their deaths now, isn't that true? It's reflected in your eyes. The blood. I bet your home is a great source of power to you. I bet you don't even know what their deaths did. You can't move on from the blood, but I can take it away in a night. I can use it, and your reward will be more than you ever expected."

Peter crawled closer, still unable to get to his feet. "You can't help me. I don't want a zombie. A shell of a human."

"There is so much more I can do for the right price. Blood and spells might give me a zombie, but a soul would pay for a reunion. _See them_."

The memories rushed at Peter again, so hard, he couldn't speak. Lisa's body, endlessly waiting outside their son's room. Her parents, their arms wrapped around each other. And Emmett... Peter couldn't see _him_ at all, couldn't remember his face unless he stared at the photo he kept in his wallet. He carried his weakness with him as a reminder, and this man was offering to undo it, to take it all back, to reunite him with the only people he had ever cared about. And they would see him as a changed man, one they didn't recognise. They would see a hard, broken man, a killer, and they would flee from him.

With unexpected tears in his eyes, tears he couldn't allow to fall, he reached out to the bokkor, the man who could make dreams come true. For a price. Always a price for magic.

"Come closer," the priest said. "Let me taste your gift to me, and my gift to you will be waiting for you when you return home."

"They'll be there? Alive?"

"Alive and waiting," he replied, his arms outstretched, his dark skin shining red in the candlelight.

"What about the ones who killed them? What about their punishment?"

"Ah." The bokkor sounded amused. "Some gifts, I cannot grant without breaking a promise already made. My gift is your family and a life far away from blood magic."

In his mind's eye, Peter saw them, saw the family waiting for him. Saw them as ghouls, untouchable spirits who could never love him. His thirst for vengeance ate away at the image and left him angry and alone. Nothing was more important than the vengeance he sought. Nothing was more important to him than finding out the truth and doling out sufficient punishment. This bokkor couldn't or wouldn't give him his heart's desire. Nobody could give it to him. He would never be done, never be satisfied.

But he nodded, feeling warm tears fall. The bokkor closed the distance and hauled him to his feet. Up close, the priest's features were unrecognisable, but maybe that was the magic distorting Peter's vision. Those gold teeth glinted, but it was the long clawed fingernail the priest held up that caught Peter's attention. The priest dragged the nail down Peter's cheek, pressed against the wound, and licked blood from his finger.

"That's it," he whispered. "A deal signed by your blood."

Peter let the bokkor pull him into death's embrace. Two daggers were hidden in his sleeves. Two daggers pressed against his fingers. Two daggers found their way into the bokkor's heart, right in the place he was weakest, the place he couldn't rightly protect. The pouch that Veronique had warned him about bled and screamed when Peter stabbed through it. Stabbing the bokkor's body didn't count. It was all about destroying the magic.

Peter crouched over the fallen body. The bokkor's eyes were wide with surprise. The priest gripped Peter's collar, slid his fingers across Peter's face, but nothing was more powerful than Peter's rage. He stabbed the priest's chest, again and again and again, his fingers slippy with his blood. He didn't care that the man was dying, already dead. Didn't care that all he had needed to do was destroy the pouch, not the body. He couldn't see the priest's face any longer. He saw the monster who took his child. The monster who took his family, who took his only chance of happiness away. He took his vengeance on the bokkor, warm tears making it harder to see, but nothing sated Peter. Nothing at all. Nothing had for years.

Two strong arms grabbed his wrists and twisted until the daggers fell from his grasp.

"He's dead," Aiden hissed. "Enough, Peter. He's gone. It's over. It's done."

"It's _never_ done." His lips curled as he took in Aiden's appearance. "Get some clothes on, you freak."

Aiden dropped his arms and stepped back. "There's something wrong with you, Peter."

Peter jumped to his feet, slipping in the blood. He heard whispers, murmurs and wails, but he ignored them. He had been close to magic too many times. He already knew to shut out the things he heard. "The only thing wrong with me is the magic that exists in the world," he said in a low, steady voice. "It'll be done when every one of you monsters are wiped from existence."

He didn't wait for the shifter to respond. He left, went home, and drank himself into oblivion, ignoring the whispers that tried to haunt him.

He hated the supernatural world.

He hated himself all the more.

# Epilogue

Peter stopped into his local shop on the way to Eddie Brogan's bookshop. He queued behind two women he vaguely remembered as living nearby. He was deep in his own thoughts when he heard the name Patrick Talbot being mentioned.

"What did you say?" Peter asked.

Both women started in fright.

"Just that it's a shame he missed Halloween," the blonde said.

"You knew him?"

"Yeah, sure he lived... wait, weren't you his neighbour?"

"He was, yeah," the second woman announced. She adjusted her glasses, her green eyes widening. "But he wasn't at the funeral."

The women exchanged a knowing glance.

"He lived on my road?" Peter frowned, trying to place him. The zombie _had_ looked familiar.

"Until the accident," the blonde said under her breath. "He lived for Halloween, always had his house and garden decorated. I half-expected him to haunt the street as a ghost on Halloween night. He loved when the kids called to the door."

"Oh, of course," her companion said. "My kids said he had the best treats. Not like _some_ people."

A memory hit him. "Wait, the creepy man with the false teeth?"

Both women gasped.

"That's an awful thing to say," Green Eyes scolded, but the blonde desperately tried to hide her smile.

"And he's dead? Was he in that crash?" Peter screwed up his face, trying to remember the details. "The prison bus?"

"Of course he wasn't on the prison bus," Green Eyes said indignantly.

"But he caused the accident," the blonde whispered. "Had gone to get some new decorations. He must have filled up the car too much and something exploded because Tommy Meehan 'round the corner's cousin is a paramedic, and she said poor Patrick's glasses were covered in powder, so he couldn't see. He caused the accident by swerving into oncoming traffic. They found out there was a pomegranate, you know, a wine-apple, stuck under the brakes."

"Poor soul."

"Poor soul," the blonde echoed piously. They both blessed themselves and turned away.

Peter frowned. Maybe coincidences existed or maybe the bokkor had planned more than he had first thought.

***

Peter leaned against the counter in Eddie's bookshop, morose and dissatisfied. "So they haven't found her?"

"No," Eddie said. "She had already vanished by the time they reached her. Fionnuala assumes she was taken by... darker creatures to do their bidding. Whatever the case, she's ordered the girl to be arrested if she's spotted. Of course, it doesn't help that nobody knows a thing about her. Veronique hid her well, it seems."

"I promised her—"

"You've done everything you could. You protected the girl from her father, whether she knows it or not. For all we know, she went home."

"This is her home. She was born in Ireland."

"Still. Strange things are happening to her right now. She might go to the one place that would help her figure out the answers to her questions."

"I hope so," Peter said. "I just wish Veronique could have been saved, too."

"From what you tell me, she went willingly to her end," Eddie said, waving his hand dismissively. That was the problem. He didn't actually care. Nobody did. Except Peter. But caring led to weakness; that was a mistake he wasn't going to make twice. He would never trust a supernatural being again. Never. And anything that used blood for power? Dead on sight.

"I think someone was helping him," Peter said slowly.

"Really," Eddie said in a tight voice. "And why would you think that?"

"Something he said." Peter shook his head. "If not, then he had a lot of happy accidents. Plus, he had to have help moving all of those bodies, figuring out the storage, and all of that. He only entered the country recently. How could he have gotten everything figured out so quickly without help?"

"Years of planning."

"I understand that, but I think somebody was messing with the Council. Anyone who saw a zombie was somehow connected with the Council."

Eddie cleared his throat. "I thought that young woman was human."

"Yep," Peter said. "But I did a little digging. Turned out her ex-boyfriend died in suspicious circumstances, and her new boyfriend is a shifter Guardian. Add it all up, and you get answers. But it doesn't matter now. You're right. He's dead and gone."

"What else did he say to you? Is there something you haven't shared?"

"I told you everything already," Peter lied. Except for the offer the bokkor had made. He would never share that particular tidbit.

"He wanted to control me," he said instead. "To use me to kill Veronique. Is there anything I can do to stop that happening again?"

Eddie rubbed the tip of his nose. "Are you opposed to a tattoo drawn from magic-infused ink?"

"That's a thing?"

"Oh, I think I know of a little bird who owes me a favour. I'll make sure you get your protection. Of course, you'll owe me a favour, too."

Peter rolled my eyes. The story of his life now that he was mired in the world of supernatural creatures. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever it takes."

Eddie brightened. "Good. Now is there anything else I can help you with?"

Peter leaned his palms on the counter, desperate to kill something, anything, just to block out the memories for a little while longer. The bokkor might have been right about his house, but he was tied to the place, couldn't move on, so why should his home? The memories were in the walls, and he would never leave it, never leave the darkness and pain behind. He would be strong enough to deal with the painful reminders every night that encouraged him to keep going, keep looking, keep killing, and eventually, find his vengeance. Until that day came, he would work harder, and if creatures who used blood magic got in his way, that would just be an added bonus.

"Got any vampires who need ending?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Eddie looked at him and smiled. A dark smile, but he didn't use blood for power. Peter didn't need to deal with him. Yet.

###

Thank you for reading – for more information, check out Claire Farrell's blog or email the author.  Sign up to be notified of new releases or like the Facebook page for more regular updates.

Books by Claire Farrell:

Ava Delaney Series:

Thirst (Ava Delaney #1) – Free

Taunt (Ava Delaney #2)

Tempt (Ava Delaney #3)

Taken (Ava Delaney #4)

Taste (Ava Delaney #5)

Traitor (Ava Delaney #6)

Awakening (Ava Delaney Volume I – Books 1-3)

Cursed Series:

Verity (Cursed #1) – Free

Clarity (Cursed #2)

Adversity (Cursed #2.5 – Free

Purity (Cursed #3)

Cursed Omnibus (Entire Cursed Series)

Short Story Collections:

One Night with the Fae

Sixty Seconds

A Little Girl in my Room

Other:

Death is a Gift

Stake You - Free

Coming Soon:

Soul

Tested

Make You

