The guy on the floor starts to stir. He’s still slick with his own blood, but he’s alive. He’s moving, sitting up, wiping gore out of his eyes, staring around like he can’t believe the mess. Spatters of his blood decorate the coffee table, the couch, the drapes.
I raise the bottle to him. “You’ll have a hell of a cleaning bill,” I say. “But you’re alive. Best money you ever spent, huh?”
“Shit,” he exclaims. “I remember…some guys came to the door, just barged in and attacked me. God, it hurt.”
I lean forward in the chair, offering my whiskey glass to him. He accepts it and drinks gratefully.
A wave of weakness rushes over me, turning my limbs watery. I’m gonna need an ass-ton of food after that resurrection, and there’s no way I can eat until I get out of this house.
“We should go,” I tell Hindley. “I need to eat.”
“Wait, you’re just gonna leave?” exclaims Rockford. “What about the mess? What about the guys who killed me? What if they come back? I’m gonna need another tattoo.”
“Naw, man,” I tell him. “It’s a one-time thing. Can’t happen again.”
“So if I die next time, I just stay dead?” Rockford’s voice rises an octave, his eyes bugging out.
“Most people do,” I respond dryly. That’s just like humans—ungrateful bastards, all of us. This guy’s got himself another shot at life, and now he’s bitching about being mortal? He’s lucky I’ve got no energy right now, or I’d give him a good right hook to the jaw to remind him to be thankful. Gratitude, man. It ain’t that hard.
I’m about to rise from the chair and insist Hindley drive me to a diner when I feel a buzzing burn along the left side of my abdomen.
I yank up the hem of my T-shirt, even though I already know which tattoo it is.Whoit is.
It’s Cathy.
It’sCathy.
I keep saying it in my head, trying to grasp it.
Cathy’s tattoo is buzzing, burning.
That means…
That means Cathy…my Cathy… She’s…
I’m out of the chair in half a second, my fist crashing into Hindley’s face. His nose cracks and he chokes, dazed. I grab a fistful of his shirt, holding him still while I jam my fingers into his pocket and grab his keys. Didn’t have time to ask nicely for them. He’d have said no anyway.
Out the door I charge, into his truck. I roar out of the driveway and careen onto the road.
A wave of dizziness hits me, and I retch. My stomach is hollow, my body empty, my energy reserves bone-dry.
The timing is too fucking perfect. Somebody planned this. Someone wanted me down for the count, didn’t want me to resurrect her.
Who, though? Her dad? That snivelly Linton kid? But they don’t know what I am, what I can do. Somebodyknew, and they had Rockford butchered on purpose, to keep me from bringing Cathy back. Maybe that Ian bastard. I still don’t know what his deal is.
I can sense which direction I need to go to find her, sort of like she can tell where the people are that she’s supposed to mourn. It’s a bone-deep instinct, passed down through generations.
Her body is somewhere to the southeast, about two hours away.
A raw sob cracks through my throat.
Cathy.
“Don’t leave me.” My voice grates through my clenched teeth. “Don’t you fucking leave me. You stay close, baby. Don’t go so deep into the Vague that I can’t find you.”
My trembling fingers can barely grip the wheel. Much as I hate it, I’ve got to eat, or I’ll pass out before I get there.
Twenty minutes later, I’m speeding down a dark lane. I barely remember pulling up at the first open drive-thru I found and demanding half a dozen burgers and the biggest Coke they had, but somehow I’ve got the protein and the sugar, and I’m fueling up while driving as fast as I dare.
