His jaw tightens. “You be careful, Earnshaw. There are people who would pay a fuck-ton of money to know about this little secret of yours.”
I can’t read his expression. “Are you… Is that a threat?”
“It’s reality.”
Okay, here we go. I should have known he didn’t do this out of the goodness of his heart. He owns my secret now, which means he ownsme.
“I don’t have much money, so blackmailing me is pointless.” My legs wobble, and I grip the porch post to hold myself steady.
“If I wanted money, I’d sell you to the right people and get myself a payday.”
“So you want sex, then? And you’ll keep my secret in exchange?”
He’s glowering, looking absolutely thunderous. “You think I’m that kind of man?”
“I don’t know what kind of man you are. I’m grateful that you got me home, but I’m also creeped out that youstalkedme, first at church and then in the woods. Now you’re talking about how dangerous your family is and how you know where to sell me for a‘fuck-ton’ of money…and I’m supposed to think what? That you’re the good guy?”
“Fuck no. I’ve never been the good guy, and I don’t plan to start now.”
“If you’re not blackmailing me, why the cryptic warning? You can’t just say something like that and not explain.”
He fixes me with a defiant glare, then spins on his heel and stalks back to his truck.
I cling to the porch pillar, frowning, trying to figure out why on earth someone wouldpayfor me, why anyone would be interested in what I can do beyond medical research or something. Maybe that’s what he means. He’d sell me to the government.
It’s hard for me to believe that the guy who spent thirteen hours with me in the woods, gave me his socks, and carried me home would sell my secret for personal gain.
But most people are shit, so I guess you never know.
5
Heathcliff
When I get home to the Grange, I gag at the smell the second I walk in the door.
Hindley has passed out in his recliner, his foot resting in a puddle of his own vomit.
“Shit stain,” I hiss at him as I walk by. I grab paper towels from the kitchen and clean up the mess. If Hindley knew where I’ve been…if he knew that I’d found a banshee…
Banshees are like cash cows to necromancers. They predict death, which means if you got a banshee who can give you enough advance warning, you could take her to the person who’s supposed to die and use her knowledge to convince them they’re in danger. Then you take a down payment, create the matching tattoos, and resurrect the person after they die…which means more money. Buckland told me about a family of necromancers out in California who kept a banshee in their basement and got rich off her. He was always hoping to find one. Never did.
Hindley and the Coosaw Lockwoods would pay a lot for the name of the banshee I just discovered. They’d pay me enough moneyto leave this place. Flip side of that is, they’d never let me go because they need my abilities. If Hindley ever thought I was really fixing to leave, I’m pretty sure he’d fit me with a shock collar or something…anything to keep me here.
It’s all a moot point anyway. I’ve got no intention of telling anyone Cathy’s secret. Not sure why I feel so damn protective of her, but I do. She needs somebody in her corner, watching out for her.
Speaking of watching out for folks, I should check on our unconscious guest. Hindley finally told me the guy’s name—Ian Holcum. Not sure if it’s his real name, but it’ll do.
I flip on the light in the back room and survey the dark-haired man lying motionless on the bed. He’s still breathing, which is good, I guess. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. I did my work well, and as far I can tell, his soul went back into his body just fine.
But he’s still unconscious. It’s like he’s having trouble re-syncing to mortal life.
He’s not consuming anything, and he’s not pissing or shitting himself either. He should look shriveled and starved, but he seems perfectly healthy, like he’s in a weird kind of stasis. I looked into getting him an IV, but that shit’s expensive, and Hindley swore the money wasn’t coming out of his share. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t want to pay for it either, especially not when I remember how his soul felt, the wrongness of it.
I lay a hand on his forehead and close my eyes.
I can’t heal normal living humans, only those we’ve just summoned back from death. But Ian’s body was rebuilt with my energy and power, so I should be able to figure out what’s wrong with him.
Maybe this is happening because he was burned so badly when we found him. But that shouldn’t matter, as long as the tattoo was intact when he died.
