Page 22 of Death Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Tall. Broad shouldered. Viking-like was the perfect description, not because he wore a helmet, but because he had that carved-out-of-stone presence. Silver hair, a bit longer than most men his age would dare, pulled back loosely. Brown eyes intelligent and wary. He wore a dark shirt with rolled sleeves, forearms strong, hands marked with scars that looked like they came from hot metal and sharp edges.

His gaze landed on Faith first, then moved to me, then paused on Eve.

Something shifted. Not warmth, exactly. Recognition. Respect.

“Eve,” he said.

“Andel,” Eve replied.

His eyes narrowed slightly, then flicked behind us as if he expected a council entourage to spill into the alley. “This isn’t a social call.”

Faith’s tone stayed flat. “No.”

Andel’s gaze returned to Eve. “What’s wrong?”

Eve’s fingers touched her amethyst once, then dropped. “We have undead in the streets.”

Andel didn’t react right away. He just stared, then leaned forward slightly, like he needed to be sure he heard her correctly.

“Undead,” he repeated.

“Yes,” I said. “Walking corpses. Hungry. Fast. Not normal.”

His eyes snapped to me. “You’ve seen one.”

“Up close,” I said. “I don’t recommend it.”

Andel’s jaw tightened, and his gaze slid to Faith. “How widespread?”

“Enough that mundanes are filming,” Faith replied.

That got a reaction.

Andel’s nostrils flared, like he was trying to smell the truth in the air. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s very possible,” I said.

He looked at Eve again, and the wariness in his face deepened. “Who’s behind this?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Eve said.

Andel’s gaze pivoted. “You think I’m involved?”

Faith’s eyes stayed cold. “We think you know death magic better than anyone else in the coven besides Salima.”

Andel’s lips pressed together. “I don’t do that work.”

“You can,” I said, and regretted it immediately because it came out more pointed than I meant. “And right now, the town doesn’t care what you prefer.”

Silence stretched.

Then Andel stepped back, opening the door wider.

“Come in,” he said, voice controlled. “And keep your voices down.”

We entered.

The warehouse had been transformed into a workshop that felt half industrial, half ritual. Metal tables lined the space, tools arranged with obsessive precision. Stacks of steel rods, sheets of copper, coils of wire. In one corner, a forge sat dark but warm, like it had been used recently. The air held heat in pockets, the kind that seeped into your skin.