Deadly Desire (Riley Jenson Guardian #7)(19)

Then he smiled, and it, too, was a sweet thing. “I do not think we should explore what lay beyond that kiss.”
“No,” I agreed softly. I didn't need another attraction in my life. Didn't need him in my life. Not in any way, shape, or form.
Damn it, I didn't even really like the man, so why the hell was I even kissing him in the first place?
His fingers slid down my neck, then he slowly let his hand drop. “Till next we meet,” he said softly, and walked away. 
“If we meet again, your ass will be history,” I muttered, watching said ass walk down the path. The man moved with a fluid grace that in some ways reminded me of a vampire. A dangerous vampire.
Only he was all wolf.
And if I wasn't very careful, a whole lot of trouble.
Once he'd climbed into his car and driven away, I turned and moved back to the cellar to keep an eye on the zombie and his parents.
Mrs. Habbsheen was sitting up against the washing machine, her hands and feet still tied. Her husband sat beside her, talking to her softly, obviously trying to calm her. It wasn't working, if the hateful, angry look she cast my way was anything to go by.
“Keep those bindings tight,” I warned, and stepped over the pair of them to grab the axe. I wasn't about to leave it embedded in the wall, just in case she got loose. I took it out to the car and dropped it in the trunk. As I walked back toward the house, a Directorate car pulled up behind mine and three women piled out. I knew two by sight and one by name, having helped all three magi restrain a vengeful spirit.
“Marg,” I said, shaking the older woman's fragile-looking hand. “Sorry to drag you out like this, but I need to know if there's any way to trace the magic that raised the zombie back to its owner.”
“So Sal said.” She waved me forward. “We won't know until we feel the magic, but I very much doubt we'll be able to trace it. The best we can probably do is block it and let the poor boy go back to his eternal rest.”
“That would be better than nothing.” And certainly better than the option I would have used.
We single-filed through the house and down into the cellar. Mrs. Habbsheen hurled abuse our way as we passed, but her husband managed to restrain her more violent tendencies.
“What's wrong with her?” Marg asked, her gaze on the body laying on the bed.
“Refuses to believe that her son didn't come back to her, that it's a shell with no thought and no feelings.”
Marg snorted. “She'd believe soon enough once bits of him start rotting and dropping off. Most magic can only contain the decomposition of flesh for a limited amount of time, you know.”
“And how long would that be?”
She shrugged as she squatted beside the bed. “Couple of days, depending on the strength of the sorcerer.”
“Is there magic that can contain them longer than that?”
“Yes, but it takes very powerful—and very dark—blood magic to do it. More so than what you'd use raising fresh bodies.”
Great. So I was dealing with not only yet another nut, but an extremely powerful one at that.
I leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing my arms and watching as she ran a hand down the zombie's body. There was barely an inch between her hand and the zombie's cold flesh, but it was filled with a greenish glow that had a decidedly unhealthy look about it.
“Okay,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I can't trace the source of the magic. Whoever is behind it knows enough to muddy the signature. The best we can do is bind the body, so that her magic will not get through a second time and reanimate the flesh.”
“Do you need me here for that?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “The sorcerer will feel the threads of his or her magic pulling away, and may try to stop it.”
“Then I'll stay.”
“Good.” She glanced at the other two women. They pulled sacks out of their backpacks and began to empty candles, little packets, and God knows what else onto the floor.
Marg knelt down beside the bed and placed her hands on the body. As she did so, it twitched.“Shit,” she said, pushing back so fast she landed on her butt. “Riley, the sorcerer is contacting it.”
“Through magic?”
“I can't feel magic.”
Then it had to be via its mind, or what shattered remains there were of it. I reached out with my own psi skills, making sure my shields were as tight as possible. I had no idea how strong the sorcerer was and no intention of laying myself open to a possible attack. I dove down through the darkness that had once been the zombie's mind, feeling nothing more than the chill of death and a decaying emptiness. This creature might move and kill, but the spark of humanity had well and truly left for greener pastures.
But in the deeper darkness, something whispered. Words rolled through the void, unclear at first but gradually gaining strength as I drew closer.
An ache formed behind my eyes, and a droplet of sweat rolled down my cheek. I swiped at it without thought. Closer, closer … I pushed myself toward the voice, until the words were clear.
And they were chilling.
Kill her, kill her, slash her throat and drain her veins. There can be no mistake. She must die. Kill, kill, kill.
The mantra was repeated over and over, and the voice—though soft—was one that I knew.
It was the woman I'd heard in the old warehouse. The woman who could take the form of a crow.
But it wasn't only words I picked up. There was an image—a young woman in her midteens.
Enough, I thought, and pushed more power into my psychic probe, letting it spread and grow until it skimmed his ruined mind, wrapping it in a field of power through which nothing—not even the thoughts of a sorcerer intent on murder—would get through. It would warn the sorcerer that something was wrong, but at least this zombie was now out of action. For as long as I could hold this net, anyway.
“Move,” I said to Marg. “Do whatever you have to do to deactivate this thing.”
She scrambled back to her feet and began to chant. I ignored them, concentrating on the zombie, feeding energy into the net. Something hit it hard and power flared, a dark sensation of evil that crawled across my psychic barrier, as if seeking a break in the field.
The ache behind my eyes began to feel more like a stabbing pain, but I held firm. The probing darkness faded. Soon there was nothing but the chanting of the magi filling the shadows.
“Okay,” Marg said, what seemed like an eon later. “You can release it now.”
I did so, and it was as if all the energy drained from my body. Not only did my head feel like it was on fire, but I felt weak and shaky, and my knees refused to support my weight. I dropped to a squatting position, one hand on the floor, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths to stop the spinning. 
“You look very pale,” Marg said, squatting in front of me and offering me a drink.
I took it gratefully, and felt strength flush through my body the minute the cool, tart liquid flowed down my throat. “That isn't water.”
“No. But don't worry, it won't poison you.” She studied me for a moment, her gaze searching mine, then cupped a hand around mine. “Your fingers are cold, and you're extremely pale. Is it possible you're iron deficient?”
“I eat plenty of meat.” But I also had a vampire dining on my neck, so it was totally possible he was taking more than he should. Maybe eating red meat wasn't enough anymore.
Although given Quinn had over twelve hundred years of experience behind him, he'd surely know the limits of what he could viably take before it started affecting me. So if it wasn't an iron deficiency, what the hell was it?
I hoped it wasn't another indication that the drug given to me all those years ago was twisting either my DNA or my psychic talents in new and exciting ways.
“Might be worth taking iron tablets.” Marg's gaze dropped down to my neck. “And talking to your vampire.”
“I will.” If it was the problem. I rubbed a hand across my eyes. The ache was still there, but not as fierce. Whatever had been in Marg's potion seemed to be helping it. “I think I need to go home to rest. Can you take care of the rest of this now?”
She nodded. “We'll be fine.”
“Good.” I pushed to my feet but grabbed at the wall again as the room spun around me. “I wouldn't release the mom from her bindings until the body has been removed. She's a werewolf and more than a little violent.”
“She is a mother protecting her son—or what she believes is her son. It's instinct.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn't be pouring too much sympathy her way, or you might just find an axe in your skull.”
Marg's dark eyes gleamed. I wasn't sure whether it was amusement or determination or a combination of both. “She will see the truth by the time we leave, trust me on that.”
I believed her. Marg mightn't look much of a threat, but there was an amazing amount of strength locked within her spindly body.
I got out of there. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but my bed was calling and I had no intention of keeping it waiting.
ack called about eight that evening. I'd been up for all of five minutes, but I'd managed enough swallows of coffee to get the brain cells working.
“The zombie has been magically restrained and we're making arrangements with the parents to have him reburied,” he said, without preamble. “And there's been another murder.”
Oh, fuck,. “Not another teenager.” Please, don't let it be another teenager. I didn't need that sort of guilt right now.