Fifteen

ONCE MY STOMACH HAD something in it—even a candy bar — exhaustion took over. I wasn’t a sleep long before the dreams came—nightmares of never finding the guys, of Mrs. Enright killing Aunt Lauren, of Tori hog-tying me and leaving me for the Edison Group to find….

I awoke to the sound of voices. I leaped up, breath jamming in my throat, searching the darkness for men with guns.

Beside me, Tori was snoring.

“Liz?” I whispered.

No answer. She must have been out on patrol.

After a moment, I decided I’d dreamed the voices. Then the sound came again—a psst-psst-psst, too faint to make out the words. I strained to hear but could only catch that papery whisper. I blinked hard. The unending darkness became a landscape of black jagged rocks—boxes and crates. Only a pale moonglow made it through the thick grime coating the windows.

I caught a whiff of something musky, animal-like. Rats? I shivered.

The sound came again. A papery rustling, like the wind through dry leaves. Maybe that’s what it was.

Dry leaves in April? When the nearest tree is hundreds of feet away?

No, it sounded like a ghost. Like the scary movie version, where all you hear is a wordless whispering that creeps down your spine and tells you there’s something lurking just around—

I shook myself, then stood and stretched my legs. I scuffed my sneakers against the cardboard carpet a little more than necessary, hoping Tori might stir. She didn’t.

I exhaled, cheeks ballooning. I’d been doing well so far, facing my fears and taking action. This wasn’t the time to bury my head and plug my ears. If my powers were abnormally strong …

Uncontrollable …

No, not uncontrollable. Dad would say that everything can be controlled if you have the willpower and the will to learn.

The whisper seemed to come from the next room. I picked my way through the maze of boxes and crates. As careful as I was, I kept knocking my knees against them, and each rap made me wince.

With every step I took, the whispering seemed to move farther away. I was clear across the warehouse before I realized the sound was moving away. A ghost was luring me.

I stopped short, my scalp prickling as I peered through the darkness, boxes looming in every direction. The whisper snaked around me. I whirled and crashed into a stack of crates. A sliver jabbed into my palm.

I took a deep breath, then asked, “Do you w-want to talk to me?”

The whispers stopped. I waited.

“No? Fine, then I’m going back—”

A giggle erupted behind me. I spun, smacking into the crates again, dust f lying into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. As I sputtered, the giggle turned to a snicker.

I could see enough to know no living person was attached to that snicker.

I marched back the way I’d come.

The whispers followed, right at my ear now, escalating to a guttural moan that made goose bumps rise on my arms.

I remembered what the necromancer’s ghost at Lyle House had said—that he’d followed me from the hospital, where he’d been dealing with ghosts pestering mental patients. I guess if you’re a sadistic moron who’s been stuck in limbo for years, haunting mental patients—or young necromancers—might seem like a fun way to pass the time.

The moaning turned to a weird keening, like the wailing souls of the tormented dead.

I wheeled toward the noise. “Are you having fun? Well, guess what? If you keep it up, you’re going to find out that I’m a lot more powerful than you think. I’ll yank you out of there whether you want to show yourself or not.”

My delivery was pitch-perfect—strong and steady—but the ghost just gave a derisive snort, then resumed keening.

I felt my way to a crate, brushed dust off the top, and sat. “One last chance or I’m pulling you through.”

Two seconds of silence. Then the moaning again, right at my ear. I almost toppled off the crate. The ghost snickered. I closed my eyes and summoned, careful to keep my power on low, just in case his body was nearby. I might get some satisfaction from slamming him back into his rotting corpse, but I’d regret it later.

The moaning stopped. At a grunt of surprise, I smiled and amped it up, just a little.

The figure started to materialize—short, chubby guy old enough to be my grandfather. He twisted and writhed like he was caught in a straitjacket. I pulled harder….

A dull thump nearby made me jump.

“Liz?” I called. “Tori?”

The ghost snarled. “Let me go, you little—”

Another thump drowned out the nasty name he called me—or most of it. Then came a weird skittering noise.

“Let me go or I—”

I closed my eyes and gave the ghost one big mental shove. He gasped and sailed backward through the wall, like he’d been thrown out of a spaceship air lock. I waited to see if he’d return. He didn’t. I’d cast him to the other side, wherever ghosts live. Good.

Another thump. I scrambled to my feet, the ghost forgotten. I crept past a stack of crates and listened. Silence.

“Tori?” I whispered. “Liz?”

Um, if it’s not them, maybe calling their names isn’t such a bright idea.

I eased along the crates until I reached a gap. Through it, I saw the pale rectangle of a window. The grime was smudged, like someone had haphazardly rubbed it away.

The scratching sound came again. Then the smell hit, like that musky odor in the other room, only ten times worse. The skittering came again—like tiny claws on concrete.

Rats.

As I pulled back, the window darkened. Then thump. I looked up too late to see what it was. Was someone throwing stuff at the window? Maybe the boys, trying to get my attention.

I hurried forward, forgetting the rats, until I saw a dark blob on the shadowy floor, moving slow, like it was dragging something. That must be what I smelled—a dead animal that the rat was taking back to the nest.

When something brushed the top of my head, I yelped, clapping my hands over my mouth. A shadow flew past and hit the window with that familiar thump. As it fell, I noticed thin, leathery wings. A bat.

The dim shape flapped its wings against the concrete, making a scratchy, rustling noise. Weren’t bats supposed to fly by echolocation? It shouldn’t hit a window trying to escape.

Unless it was rabid.

The bat finally launched itself again. It fluttered away, weaving and bobbing like it was still dazed. It headed for the ceiling, then turned and came straight at me.

As I stumbled back my foot slipped, and I fell with a bone-jarring crack that set my injured arm on fire. I tried to leap up, but whatever I’d stepped on was stuck to my sneaker, sending me skidding again.

The thing on my sneaker was slick and cold. I pulled it off and raised it into the moonlight. Pinched between my fingers was a rotting wing. The bat I’d seen still had both of its wings, so there must be another one in here, dead.

I threw the wing across the room and frantically wiped my hand on my jeans. The bat swooped again. I ducked, but my foot slid out and I fell. As I hit the floor, a horrible smell enveloped me, so strong I coughed. Then I saw the bat, less than a foot away, teeth bared, long fangs white against the dark.

The cloud cover shifted, the light streaming into the room, and I realized I wasn’t looking at fangs but at white patches of skull. The bat was decomposing, one eye shriveled, the other a black pit. Most of the flesh was gone; only hanging bits remaining. The bat had no ears, no nose, just a bony snout. The snout opened. Rows of tiny jagged teeth flashed, and it started to shriek, a horrible garbled squeaking.

My shrieks joined it as I scrambled back. The thing pulled itself along on one crumpled wing. It was definitely a bat—and I’d raised it from the dead.

With my gaze fixed on the bat creeping toward me, I forgot about the other one until it flew at my face. I saw it coming—then saw its sunken eyes, bloody stumps of ears, and bone showing through patchy fur. Another zombie bat.

I slammed back into the crates. My hands sailed up to ward the bat off, but too late. It hit my face. I screamed then, really screamed as the rotted wings drummed me. The cold body hit my cheek. Tiny claws caught in my hair.

I tried to smack it away. It dropped. As I clapped my hands to my mouth, I felt something tugging at my shirt. I looked down to see the bat clinging to it.

Its fur wasn’t patchy at all. What I’d mistaken for spots of bone were wriggling maggots.

I pressed one hand to my mouth, stifling my screams. With my free hand, I swatted at it, but it clung there, rows of teeth opening and closing, head bobbing like it was trying to see me.

“Chloe? Chloe!” Liz raced through the outside wall. She stopped short, eyes going huge. “Oh my God. Oh my God!”

“G-get it off. P-please.”

I whirled, still swatting at the bat. Then I heard a sickening crunch as I stepped on the other one. When I wheeled, the one clinging to me fell off. As it hit the floor, Liz shoved the top crate off a stack and it fell on the fallen bat, the thud drowning out that horrible bone-crunching noise.

“I—I—I—”

“It’s okay,” she said, walking toward me. “It’s dead.”

“N-n-no. It’s …”

Liz stopped. She looked down at the bat I’d stepped on. It lifted one wing feebly, then let it fall. The wing twitched, claw scratching the concrete.

Liz hurried to a crate. “I’ll put it out of its misery.”

“No.” I held out my hand. “That won’t work. It’s already dead.”

“No, it’s not. It’s—” She bent for a closer look, finally seeing the decomposing body. She stumbled back. “Oh. Oh, it’s — It’s — ”

“Dead. I raised it from the dead.”

She looked at me. And her expression … She tried to hide it, but I’ll never forget that look—the shock, the horror, the disgust.

“You …,” she began. “You can … ?”

“It was an accident. There was a ghost pestering me. I—I was summoning him and I must have a-accidentally raised them.”

The bat’s wing fluttered again. I dropped beside it. I tried not to look, but of course I couldn’t help seeing the tiny body crushed on the concrete, bones sticking out. And still it moved, struggling to get up, claws scraping the concrete, smashed head rising—

I closed my eyes and concentrated on freeing its spirit. After a few minutes, the scratching stopped. I opened my eyes. The bat lay still.

“So what was it? A zombie?” Liz tried to sound calm, but her voice cracked.

“Something like that.”

“You … You can resurrect the dead?”

I stared at the crushed bat. “I wouldn’t call it resurrection.”

“What about people? Can you … ?” She swallowed. “Do that?”

I nodded.

“So that’s what Tori’s mom meant. You raised zombies at Lyle House.”

“Accidentally.”

Uncontrollable powers …

Liz continued. “So it’s … like in the movies? They’re just empty, re-re— What’s the word?”

“Reanimated.” I wasn’t about to tell her the truth, that necromancers didn’t reanimate a soulless body. We took a ghost like Liz and shoved her back into her rotting corpse.

I remembered what the demi-demon said, about me nearly returning the souls of a thousand dead to their buried shells. I hadn’t believed her. Now …

Bile filled my mouth. I turned away, gagging and spitting it out.

“It’s okay,” Liz said, coming up beside me. “It’s not your fault.”

I looked at the box she’d shoved onto the other bat, took a deep breath, and walked to it. When I reached to move it, she said, “It’s dead. It must be—” She stopped and said in a small, shaky voice. “Isn’t it?”

“I need to be sure.”

I lifted the box.