Free The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic by Peter Meredith

essence? Yeah, now that you mention it, I do.” He laughed high in his throat, looked miserable for a second and then blew out a deep breath; this was all the depression, sadness, anxiety and plain craziness he would allow himself.
    “So did anyone get Bob yet?” he asked.
    Cyn checked her phone and the answer was: no. Metzger, who had demanded help from his boss, was out looking with two FBI agents tagging along. Fathers Timmons and Jordan, along with a gaggle of local priests and Ignatius Gourman, the Bishop of Cleveland, were in the deep pits beneath Bob’s house, trying to break the ring of glyphs and free the trapped souls. It wasn’t as easy pouring Holy Water on the glyphs this time; these glyphs hadn’t been drawn by the hand of man.
    “Maybe you should go take a look at them,” Cyn suggested. “You’re stronger today, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, quite a bit. Maybe half-strength; stronger than I should be, but I should save it for Bob. When I catch that guy...well, we’ll see what happens. We’ll see if he’s learned anything from my...I mean from Truong’s book of spells. A part of me sort of wishes he has.”
    Cyn worried about that part of Jack—the part that could absorb the power of a dead sorcerer. She feared what it meant, she feared that it would be as addictive as necromancy was, and necromancy was ten times worse than any drug ever invented. Cyn had never cast a full spell and yet she could feel the urge and the need.
    She feared that the ugly desire colored her thinking; was it necromancy that had her suggesting they go to Bob’s house? “How about we just go look at the pits?” she said. “Maybe there are some clues as to where Bob might be hiding.”
    Jack agreed, and after a heavy, hangover reducing dinner, they drove out to Bob’s place on the edge of nowhere. They both went prepared for battle; however Bob didn’t represent the same sort of threat as Truong. They wore their armor, but their vests were on loose, their helmets left in the car and their weapons holstered or sheathed.
    As they entered the house, the stench assaulted them and they both felt the power of the spells in the air, though it was weaker than before.
    There were a pair of aged and exhausted priests sitting at Bob’s filthy kitchen table, their faces lined and worn. They had their elbows amongst stained and crusted plates and glasses. The wood tabletop was scored and splintered and there was ancient egg yolk petrified in the grooves and black ketchup splattered like blood. The two men ignored the mess—compared to the lower dungeons, the table was practically sterile.
    They seemed to know Jack and Cyn by reputation and their eyes narrowed. Jack’s narrowed right back. The burger he had eaten hadn’t been greasy enough to cancel his hangover out completely and Cyn could see his mood disintegrating.
    “Let’s leave them on their break,” she said and escorted Jack through the house. On Bob’s couch was a third priest, sprawled out in what had once been a white robe but was now stained with dirt and feces. He snored like a chainsaw, his mouth hung open showing a white tongue; even his breathing sounded tired.
    They made their way down the maze of ladders and deep into the pits where the darkness clung to them and closed in around them. The nearness of the spells was dizzying to Cyn and she was drawn to them, the necromancer in her screaming out to study the spells, to absorb them and then to slice open one of the priests and use his pure blood the way she was meant to.
    The temptation was so great that her hands were slippery with sweat on the rungs of the ladders.
    “H-How’s it going so far, Father?” she asked Father Timmons. The priest was standing facing the dirt wall, leaning his head against his arm. He took up most of the narrow passageway. The only light came from seven candles stabbed into the ground around him and it was as though he stood in a shifting golden puddle. The rest of him was angular