Page 159 of Dead Vengeance

“Just you concentrate on finding some energy for me.”

Edgar flaps off in the raven equivalent of a huff while I force the shovel deeper into the earth. This is harder than it looks on television. I suppose those people are usually digging up fresh graves. This dirt has been settling for five solid years, grown through with thick roots that I have to stab the shovel into several times over to break them.

It’s as dark here as it ever gets in London, lights blazing beneath a reflective cloudy sky. Too bright for grave robbing. Again, not like in the movies.

Also, this place is riddled with ghosts. Unsurprisingly. I’m doing my absolute best to pretend I can’t see them. A few have shouted at me, one of which was quite scary. Good thing they don’t seem to have poltergeist powers. A sizeable group has formed all around me, watching, wondering, a few of them having a great time poking fun at the progress I’m barely making.

It took me forever to find the grave. It’s marked only by a metal stake with that UID number on it. An otherwise plain patch of grass in a sea of others. If I were capable, I think I’d dig them all up. Ask these people what happened to them. Let them get their own revenge, depending how they died.

But it’s not practical, and truly, who even knows who these people are? They could be villains, the lot of them. It’s not something I should be messing with. But then this isn’t something I should be messing with either.

I’ve had time to get a little philosophical about the situation, working up a sweat here in the middle of a cold London night. Am I personally changing ‘fate’? Or is this fate? Was this always supposed to happen?

All of that brings me, over and over, back to Tezcatlipoca. This whole night, everything I’m doing… Am I just a thoughtless pawn in some greater plan? Was this always going to happen to me?

And does any of it matter anyway?

I’m a few feet down when I catch the flash of a new ghost out of the corner of my eye. Blue. Then the scent of cigarette smoke hits me, and I chance a look up.

Disdainful as ever, Simon taps his phantom ashes onto the pile of dirt I’ve been busy amassing for hours now.

I concentrate on the shovel digging into the ground and, under my breath, mutter, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Liam’s fine,” he breathes out on a puff of smoke.

Then he just stands there, watching me struggle, judgemental eyes digging into me like daggers until I spit, “You could help, you know?”

“Who’s ’e talkin’ to then?” shouts one of the onlookers.

“Talkin’ to ’imself most probly,” another responds.

“Looks mad as a hatter to me,” adds another.

Simon, like me, ignores them, stating, “I’m actually not inclined to rush you to your death, believe it or not. It’s very boring on this side as it goes. Most days.”

As quietly as I can, over grunts of effort, “I’m going to do it whether you help me or not. If your concern is conserving my energy so I don’t die when I try to resurrect him, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

“I think you’ll pass out before you reach him,” he muses. “Sleep it off, get thrown in prison in the morning for grave robbing, then be out by noon.”

What a simple idea he has of the situation. I don’t think he can have any real understanding of the repercussions of me ending up behind bars and in Marsden’s hands, even after everything he witnessed in Marsden’s office.

I wonder if Simon could break me out of prison. He’s incredibly powerful. Powerful enough to do that?

But I won’t pass out. I’m going to push on, push through this. Do this for Liam.

The thought of him at home in bed propels me. Imagining him still blissfully asleep there. Daydreaming that he’ll sleep right through, wake up in the morning, and before he’s even properly opened his eyes, I’ll be knocking on his door, bringing his brother home after five long years.

Hmm. Wonder if I should not just spring this on them. Could be quite a shock. Jem won’t have aged a day if I can do this right. It’s probably, really, quite a lot of trauma…

Better than dead.

So long as he comes back right.

What if he doesn’t come back right? What if I do something wrong rebuilding all his neural pathways? What if I can’t get his soul back? What if I raise a zombie, and Tezcatlipoca won’t give him up?

I did bring ropes. Ropes to tie him should he be in such a state. To take him back to my place, a new nightmare for my attic, until we can get that mirror in exchange for his soul. That’s another thing I can’t tell Liam, of course. Imagine the horror of him finding his brother’s soulless, revived corpse in my attic…

I fear I genuinely am the worst possible boyfriend sometimes…