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I snorted. The chances of us getting lucky right now were about as good as the chances of me ever having kids. "Where's the girlfriend?"
"Second bedroom down the corridor," Cole said, returning his attention to the broken vase. "Her name is Anna.";Okay," she said, pushing to her feet. "I can't trace the source of the magic. Whoever is behind it knows enough to muddy the signature. The best we can do is bind the body, so that her magic will not get through a second time and reanimate the flesh."
"Do you need me here for that?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "The sorcerer will feel the threads of his or her magic pulling away, and may try to stop it."
"Then I'll stay."
"Good." She glanced at the other two women. They pulled sacks out of their backpacks and began to empty candles, little packets, and God knows what else onto the floor.
Marg knelt down beside the bed and placed her hands on the body. As she did so, it twitched.
"Shit," she said, pushing back so fast she landed on her butt. "Riley, the sorcerer is contacting it."
"Through magic?"
"I can't feel magic."
Then it had to be via its mind, or what shattered remains there were of it. I reached out with my own psi skills, making sure my shields were as tight as possible. I had no idea how strong the sorcerer was and no intention of laying myself open to a possible attack. I dove down through the darkness that had once been the zombie's mind, feeling nothing more than the chill of death and a decaying emptiness. This creature might move and kill, but the spark of humanity had well and truly left for greener pastures.
But in the deeper darkness, something whispered. Words rolled through the void, unclear at first but gradually gaining strength as I drew closer.
An ache formed behind my eyes, and a droplet of sweat rolled down my cheek. I swiped at it without thought. Closer, closer... I pushed myself toward the voice, until the words were clear.
And they were chilling.
Kill her, kill her, slash her throat and drain her veins. There can be no mistake. She must die. Kill, kill, kill.
The mantra was repeated over and over, and the voice-though soft-was one that I knew.
It was the woman I'd heard in the old warehouse. The woman who could take the form of a crow.
But it wasn't only words I picked up. There was an image-a young woman in her midteens.
Enough, I thought, and pushed more power into my psychic probe, letting it spread and grow until it skimmed his ruined mind, wrapping it in a field of power through which nothing-not even the thoughts of a sorcerer intent on murder-would get through. It would warn the sorcerer that something was wrong, but at least this zombie was now out of action. For as long as I could hold this net, anyway.
"Move," I said to Marg. "Do what ever you have to do to deactivate this thing."
She scrambled back to her feet and began to chant. I ignored them, concentrating on the zombie, feeding energy into the net. Something hit it hard and power flared, a dark sensation of evil that crawled across my psychic barrier, as if seeking a break in the field.
The ache behind my eyes began to feel more like a stabbing pain, but I held firm. The probing darkness faded. Soon there was nothing but the chanting of the magi filling the shadows.
"Okay," Marg said, what seemed like an eon later. "You can release it now."
I did so, and it was as if all of the energy drained from my body. Not only did my head feel like it was on fire, but I felt weak and shaky, and my knees refused to support my weight. I dropped to a squatting position, one hand on the floor, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths to stop the spinning.
"You look very pale," Marg said, squatting in front of me and offering me a drink.
I took it gratefully, and felt strength flush through my body the minute the cool, tart liquid flowed down my throat. "That isn't water."
"No. But don't worry, it won't poison you." She studied me for a moment, her gaze searching mine, then cupped a hand around mine. "Your fingers are cold, and you're extremely pale. Is it possible you're iron deficient?"
"I eat plenty of meat." But I also had a vampire dining on my neck, so it was totally possible he was taking more than he should. Maybe eating red meat wasn't enough anymore.
Although given Quinn had over twelve hundred years of experience behind him, he'd surely know the limits of what he could viably take before it started affecting me. So if it wasn't an iron deficiency, what the hell was it?
I hoped it wasn't another indication that the drug given to me all those years ago was twisting either my DNA or my psychic talents in new and exciting ways.
