The first to fall under the scientist’s knife was a man who had survived the Wings of Mercury. When he, the undead, took his first breath, they knew the experiment had not failed completely.—1914
—from the journal of L.U.C.
We left the truck where it was and walked up to the house. My feet had been running these paths since I was just a child, and I knew every bend and rock and rise.
Abraham didn’t have the same luck. But for a man who insisted he couldn’t feel his feet—or any other part of him—he did a remarkably good job of not stumbling.
We stomped mud off our boots before letting ourselves into the kitchen.
The light was turned down low, but a loaf of fresh-cut bread and a pot of roast and vegetables were left on the table, along with a note.
“Secret admirer?” Abraham turned to wash his hands in the sink.
I picked up the note. “Farmhand.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What romantic-nonsense age did you come from where a note has to be from an admirer? Wait—don’t answer that, Mr. 1492.”
He chuckled. “Did he quit?”
“Neds wouldn’t quit on a note. He just said Grandma turned in for the night and so did he.”
“That all?” He dried his hands on the towel, watching me.
It wasn’t all. Neds had also said he didn’t know what had taken us so long to feed the animals, nor what else we might have been doing. Plus, he said he hadn’t found anything useful in the basement. Which meant we had a big fat zero for ideas on how to stop House Red.
“That’s all.” I crumpled the note and shoved it in my pocket. “Make yourself a sandwich. I’ll put on water for tea.”
I traded places with him, washed my hands, and filled the pot with water before placing it on the stove. We cooked with electricity, since the pump house generated more than enough for our small farm.
Abraham wasn’t shy about putting a sandwich together. He sat at the table and was a few bites into it by the time I put down two mugs and poured water over the mint and chamomile.
I made a sandwich and sat at the table with a sigh.
“Rough day?” he asked, piling some vegetables on his plate.
“I’ve had worse. Much worse.” I took a bite and rolled my eyes at the flavor that burst through my mouth. Neds could cook, and even simple meals were a feast when he put his mind to it.
And he had cooked to impress tonight.
“For instance?” he pressed, already making up a second sandwich.
“Well, nobody died today. That’s a plus. How’s your wound?”
He swallowed tea and nodded. “Better than it should be. I don’t suppose you’d sell me some of that jelly?”
“You couldn’t afford it, Mr. House Gray.”
“I bet I could.”
“You mean your House could. It’s not nice of you to promise fortunes that aren’t yours.”
“I never said I was nice,” he said. “And I never promise anything I can’t deliver. Even though House Gray claims me?—”
“Owns you,” I corrected over my tea.
“—I am my own man. I can make my own promises and I can keep them.”
