Page 66 of Death Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

A cold wave rolled through my gut.

Cal had called earlier. He said something was calling the weak. He said the egg was in peril.

Nishi lifted her phone, thumb flying over the screen. “I’m calling him.”

She hit dial.

No answer.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

Faith didn’t swear. That was worse than swearing. Her silence was weighted. “If Cal is flying...”

Eve’s voice went tight. “Or he may be fighting something he tracked.”

Tegan’s fingers tightened around the tracker. “Or the masking spell is interfering with communication. Like the suppression grid did.”

Greyson’s voice cut in again, urgent. “Tell Cal to get here. Now. We need him present if the egg is destabilizing.”

Faith’s eyes narrowed. “He isn’t answering.”

“Then get here and we handle it without him until he arrives,” Greyson said. “Just move.”

Faith ended the call and stared out the windshield as if she could will time to speed up. Nishi drove as if she had a personal grudge against traffic laws.

The city blurred past, lights smearing on the wet pavement. My mind tried to hold too many moving pieces at once. Zombies multiplying, a relic hidden behind a three-mile blind spot, and now an egg that might turn to stone if we failed to keep it warm.

I kept thinking about the word Tegan’s mom had used.

Calling.

Calls the dead, doesn’t control them.

Calls the weak, too.

The SUV pulled into a quiet neighborhood where houses sat behind hedges and winter-bare trees. Greyson’s place looked like him. Practical, renovated, sturdy. A craftsman-style home with a porch that had been repaired instead of replaced, boards that showed real wood grain instead of glossy perfection. Warm light spilled from the front window, and ward lines shimmered on the glass if you knew how to look.

Greyson opened the door before we even reached the steps. He stood barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, dark hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it too hard. His gray eyes flicked over all of us, a quick count, then narrowed.

“No Cal,” he said.

Faith brushed past him. “Not answering.”

Greyson’s mouth tightened. “Of course not.”

Inside, the house smelled of sawdust and coffee. The entryway held a tool bag by the wall, as if even home couldn’t convince him to stop working. A coat rack leaned slightly because someone, probably Faith, had shoved too many jackets on it without caring about balance.

Greyson led us through the living room to a narrow door under the stairs.

“This is my fault,” he said as he walked. “I told myself the safe could ward anything.”

Faith shot him a look. “Not your fault.”

Greyson gave her a flat stare. “Do not comfort me.”

Eve muttered, “Now is not the time for flirting.”