Mom slips her soft hand into mine. Her dainty fingers are warm and slightly clammy. She gives a gentle squeeze, the way she always has since I was little, and things got too tense.
Gray takes my other hand with a firm grip, eyes pinned forward.
My dad clears his throat and begins to chant, pushing the alpha bass into his voice as he commands the dead to rise.
“Circle sealed. Gate undone.
Breath restored, no more than one.
Jeremiah, bound to clay,
By blood, by sigil, I bid you stay.
Not as corpse, and not as rot,
But a mind returned to what is not.
Rise and speak what needs be said.
Then rest again amongst the dead.”
Dad lifts his athame and slices a shallow cut across his palm without flinching. Blood beads along the line, gathering to drip slowly down his wrist. He holds the ceremonial dagger up to the light, showing the blood left on the blade, his mouth moving to chant the final words before stabbing it deep into my uncle’s chest.
Right into his heart.
A bright burst of emerald light erupts from Uncle Jeremiah’s body, spilling across the room and reflecting off the polished table setting and glass cabinets filled with hideous old china. For a moment, the entire room is alight with a magical green glow, highlighting the need for a good dusting. My dad quickly reaches out, grabbing my mother and Chad’s hands to complete the circle
We all join in, repeating the chant three more times, sounding like a fucking cult.
All this pomp and ceremony is completely unnecessary. One sentence spoken with a little necromancer magic would’ve been more than enough to raise my uncle. The dagger, the blood, and the chanting are all traditional ritual components that are basically useless, but look mystical to outsiders.
And we all know that nothing makes my dad happier than a properly executed ritual ruled by tradition.
The viridescent magic takes hold quickly, Jeremiah’s chest jerking as if someone shocked him with electricity. His fingers twitch against the silk lining of the casket, and his eyelids flutter. He inhales sharply, the sound filling the room as his eyes snap open, instantly clear and focused.
Also deeply annoyed.
“Oh, no,” he groans, voice rough with disuse. Being dead isn’t easy on the vocal cords. “I just escaped the living. What the hell am I doing back here?”
My dad’s eyes flash with annoyance, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. “Jeremiah,” he says calmly, “we only need you to confirm your will. As soon as that’s done, you may return to whatever it is you were doing in the afterlife.” He gestures vaguely at the lawyer holding the video camera. “You know how this works. You attended our father’s funeral. Your spoken words need to be on record.”
“Iknowhow this works,” Jeremiah huffs haughtily. “I also know that the video I recorded before my death would’ve sufficed. Why did you raise me, Asher?”
My dad’s expression tightens, but he keeps his emotions in check. Can’t have strangers thinking anything bad about the Graves family. We might as well be politicians for how fake we act when people are watching.
“We need you to explain your decision.”
I have no idea what decision he’s talking about. Not much affects my father, but clearly, my uncle did something with his will that he doesn’t approve of.
“I know Father never wanted an omega as a son. You were his perfect heir. His firstborn. His alpha son. Future of the family business. I was the mistake that should’ve been swallowed.”
My mom gasps at his crude wording.
“That was decades ago,” Dad says stiffly, maintaining his aloof air.
“Yes,” Jeremiah replies. “And somehow you still sound exactly like him.”
Dad winces. It’s subtle, but there.
