Free Death 07 - For the Love of Death by Tamara Rose Blodgett Page A

anyone was home. Thought the entire family was MIA.”
    I have to ask, “What were you doing?”
    His eyes never leave mine. “Getting pizza.”
    It's funny really. Your siblings killed because of a pizza run. His face isn't funny. It's etched with sadness.
    “Cory was still alive when I came in.”
    “Your brother?”
    He nods.
    “What did you do to the men?”
    Mitchell puts his hands on his hips. “I beat one of them until his brains came out.”
    I grasp my hands. I know how hard the human skull is.
    “Weaponless?” I clarify because I have to.
    He raises his hands, waving them side to side.
    I gulp.
    “Then I cut the guy's dick off that raped my sister.”
    I gasp and retreat a step.
    Mitchell stares at me.
    “He took a while to bleed out. I took my time with him.”
    I raise a palm. I can't. I just can't hear anymore.
    “I know you’re young. But you asked… Deegan.”
    I nod. I did.
    “How old were you?”
    “Nineteen.”
    “How old were you when…” I don’t finish my question.
    “Twenty.”
    I think. “How come they, how come—ugh.”
    A sad smile tweaks the corners of his mouth. “I didn't get in trouble for the murders.”
    My eyebrows hike.
    “They threw me in a nuthouse.”
    I laugh. It's such an inappropriate term for people with mental illness. Gram would have a turtle over it.
    I'm instantly sad at the reminder and feel my smile slide off my face like melting candle wax. I remind myself Mitchell is from another era. He died almost forty years ago.
    Pre-paranormals.
    “There was a big ass public outcry: Save the orphan. Of course, the doctors thought I acted vengefully.”
    “Did you?”
    His answer is instantaneous: “Yes.”
    I can’t blame him. But a human being has to have a certain disposition to… retaliate in the way Mitchell did.
    “How can you make me alive?” he asks, deftly changing the subject.
    He doesn’t tell me how he dies. Okay.
    “After you—ya know, died.” I flick my eyes to him. He returns my stare. “My grandpa is a scientist, and he found anomalous markers on the human genome.”
    His eyebrow pops.
    “Atypical,” I explain.
    He nods, a smile ghosting his lips.
    “Then a pharmaceutical mogul gets involved, makes a chemical cocktail that can make these… powers, manifest.”
    Mitchell palms his strong jaw.
    It occurs to me right then he’s kinda hot, which introduces a mondo-awkward moment.
    He’s dead, Deegan.
    Thankfully, he’s not paying attention to my discomfort.
    “So Grandpa found what kind of genes?”
    I swallow, scrambling. “Paranormal.”
    He laughs.
    I frown.
    “What?” he asks. “I know what you are.” He taps his temple. “It’s in my brain. Necromancer, Mistress. I know you rule”—he puts a thumb to his chest—“us.”
    I shake my head.
    “Not all. I can only raise murderers.”
    Now he really laughs again.
    I don't.
    “You're shitting me?”
    I smile despite the circumstance. “I shit you not.”
    “Can I say that's not the best ability, or whatever it is you have.”
    “Yeah,” I agree, my self-pity begging for a party. I refrain, in the face of his tragedy, I don't think I have the luxury.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Caleb
     
    The Skopamish move in on the suits, and I let them. Feels like old times.
    I turn to Gramps, and he’s struggling to get up. I pop my hand out; he grabs on, and
    I jerk him to his feet. He only sways a little. Tough old bird.
    We survey the murderous Native Americans.
    “Good thing Jade stayed home,” Gramps comments conversationally.
    “Yeah, she was really jonesing to come.”
    Gramps gives me a sidelong glance. “Would’ve been bad.”
    Yeah.
    The AFTD in the middle of the road throws a wallop of death energy at the Skopamish.
    Tomahawks fall, and their mouths open in silent screams.
    Gramps makes a low grunt. “What’s this?”
    “Another five-point.”
    Arrogant walks over the tops of my zombies, and I charge. I let every bit of what I have go.
    It bottoms out, leaving me in a mudslide