Why is Coming Back from the Dead Always Such a Hassle?
Harper
A good detective prepares for anything.
Bloodthirsty monsters, homicidal maniacs, foes with supernatural strength and deadly intent, none of it rattles me. As an Alpha werewolf and longtime detective, I’ve seen and done it all. Tracked killers through the seediest parts of supernatural cities, hunted down demons from literal hell dimensions. I’ve taken on murderers, liars, and every monster imaginable.
And I’ve certainly been in worse positions than this one. But at the moment, it’s hard to remember anythingeverbeing more annoying than Kevin ‘Dodger’ Williamson.
“Hey. Can you hear me?”
Dodger and I sit across from each other in the drab breakfast nook of a budget-friendly chain hotel, trapped in a purgatory of beige walls and framed prints of forgettable landscapes.
The company isn’t any better.
“Hey, the building is on fire,” I announce. “We need to evacuate immediately.”
No response. Headphones are stuffed over his ears, drowning out everything but his music. Head down and totally closed off, his long black hair falls over his eyes as he eats. Noway in hell is the cereal that interesting. Every choice here is off brand, the toast could double as cardboard, and the coffee machine sputters like it’s on its last gasp.
Being patient is part of the job as a detective. But this isn’t some perp I’m waiting out until he cracks. I’m doing him afavorby keeping our business off the books. Dodger doesn’t seem too grateful. Didn’t anyone teach moody necromancers manners?
“Hey,” I say for the third time, waving my hand directly in front of his face.
He scowls up at me like I’m interrupting something of vital importance. “What?”
“Sugar?” I ask.
He huffs, giving me an eyeroll so huge it can be seen from space as he pushes the sugar toward me and cranks up his music even louder, retreating back into his self-imposed exile.
It’s going to be a long day.
How did we end up here? I ponder that as I dump way too much sugar into the sludge passing for coffee.
I was supposed to haul accused killer Marlow Maddox back to Brighton in cuffs. Simple fugitive retrieval, until I tracked him to Concordia and discovered he wasn’t a murderer after all. His supposed victim, Kevin “Dodger” Williamson, was sitting across the table, very much alive and slurping the milk from his cereal, annoying the hell out of me. Dodger faked his death and staged it to look like an accident. Nobody was supposed to take the fall for it. Clearing Marlow’s name is the only reason he surfaced at all. But Dodger refuses to return to Brighton, insisting the real danger—my police chief—still lurks there. According to Dodger, my boss is corrupt to the core.
Now I’m stuck with a feisty, fledgling necromancer who’s about as easy to get information from as a brick wall. Snapping my fingers near his head and generally being aggravating eventually gets him to take off his headphones so we can talk.
“Tell me what happened,” I say.
Dodger gives me a look that could wither a cactus. “I already told you everything, like, ten times.”
“Tell me again.”
He rolls his eyes. “I ended up in Brighton by mistake, okay? Just passing through, minding my own business, trying to get a handle on these powers of mine that are a total downer.” He glances up, eyeing me. “Is being a werewolf fun? It seems fun. You run and growl and howl at the moon. It’s like a free vacation where you get to be a dog. Meanwhile I’m stuck with death and monsters.”
“And Asher Rowan?” I question, ignoring the attempt to get off track. “How does he fit in?”
He sighs and swirls his spoon through the milk in his cereal bowl. “It turns out that Brighton wasn’t the friendliest place for a practitioner of theillicit dark arts.ButRowan said he could help me.”
“And you just believed him?”
“Hey, I need to control these powers and nobody else was offering. I thought he was alright at first.” He huffs and stares down into his bowl. “But then I went over to his place for a book and he wouldn’t let me leave.”
“Why not?”
