Page 40 of Death Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

My fingers shook.

The undead snapped, sudden, furious, straining against the nails hard enough that the concrete around them cracked. The nails held, but the force behind the corpse surged as if it had been fed.

I hissed, breath catching.

Faith’s hand shot out, steadying my elbow. “Hey. Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” I snapped, though my voice came out thinner than I wanted.

I tried again, pushing harder, forcing my will into the dead threads.

The corpse’s head turned again, slower, like it was fighting through mud.

I felt resistance. Not from the body itself. From whatever was controlling it.

It was like trying to steer a car while someone else yanked the wheel in the opposite direction.

My stomach clenched. Sweat broke out along my hairline despite the cold air.

Eve’s voice cut in, tight. “Salima.”

“I know,” I said through my teeth. “I’m working.”

Mina’s camera crew kept filming, and part of me wanted to scream at them to stop recording my struggle as if it were entertainment. Another part of me knew this footage mattered. If mundanes believed it was staged, maybe fewer people would die.

I forced my focus down, deeper.

I found the seam.

Not the caster. Not the source. The seam between the corpse’s dead threads and the external pull.

I grabbed it like a rope and yanked.

Agony spiked through my skull, harsh enough to make my vision blur.

The undead man’s thrashing stopped.

It went still, held in place by the nails and my will, head angled toward the camera as if it had been posed.

Mina’s face lit up. “Yes. That’s it. That’s the shot.”

The undead woman jerked harder, her tether flaring against mine like a living thing. My control slipped on her.

I staggered half a step, nausea rising.

Faith caught my arm. “Too much.”

“It shouldn’t be,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone. “It shouldn’t be this hard.”

Because it wasn’t supposed to be.

I had controlled undead before. Not armies. Not like this. But enough to know the shape of the work.

This was different.

Something was still interfering with my power, pressing back, tugging at the dead threads like an angry hand refusing to let go.

Delia’s gaze locked onto me, cool and intelligent. “Someone is contesting you.”