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And the crowd of fifty or so people dwindled in groups of two or three.
“I’m safe,” I repeated every so often. “You can rest again. You protected me.”
As they cleared out, I saw one older man sit down and stare. He had a walking stick, ebony handle almost as dark as the night, in one hand. His suit was vintage 1800s, and his ring and watch were elegant. He was in his late-40s-50s, but notold.
“You canrest,” I said again, putting another push in the word.
He smiled. “No. I’m not going back.”
“What? I’m fine and you—”
“Girly, you don’t have the knowledge of a goose.” He shook his head. “What kind of hexen are you that you cannot put the rabble back?”
“Excuse me?”
“You need a hearing horn, too? Awkward things. I have a recipe to fix that.” He pushed to his feet and brushed dirt off his sleeves. “My luck to be summoned by a daft hexen.”
“Go,” I ordered, making a shooing gesture. “Rest now. Your work is done and—”
He stomped toward me, and I realized that in his time he must have been intimidating. “You’re a bungler if protecting you takes that many bodies,” the dead man grumbled. “You clearlyneedme, so my work is far from done.”
“I do not need you. Now,rest,” I demanded, shoving magic into the word.
He laughed, a rich chortle, and pointed his cane at me. “Ah, so you’re not aweakhexen, then. Good. I can teach you, Geneviève Crowe.”
Now, I’ve never been the world’s best trouble-avoider or problem-solver, but I usually have a plan even if it’s “stab someone.” In that moment, however, I was clueless. What exactly did one do with a dead man who refused to go back to the grave?
I paused.CouldI simply leave him there? Was that an option? Option B might just be shoving him in a mausoleum—or maybe I should see if I could kill him as I did with adraugr.He was far more sentient than mostdraugr,though.They were slavering biting messes more often than not.
“You cannot refuse to go back to your grave,” I started, figuring logic might be worth a try before I started slashing limbs at random.
“Ignatius Blackwood,” he said, thoroughly confusing me. It wasn’t like I needed his name to put him back. Typically. Maybe he was helping. . .?
I opened my mouth to start to try to send him back by power of name.
Then, he nodded toward the shadows.
“Master Blackwood.” Beatrice’s voice arrived before she did. “How unexpected to see you.”
Blackwood smiled, moonlight catching a fake tooth of some sort of metal. “Itisyou! Beatrice.”
She curtsied, and then glanced at me. “Had you wanted a Hexen Master, I’d have sent someone. You didn’t need to call Blackwood out of his retirement.”
The dead man chortled. “Being dead is . . .” He paused, titled his head. “Well, I have no idea, but no matter. I’m sure this is better.” He looked at Beatrice, then. “Aren’t your sort to be skulking, Bea? Instead, you are out here shinning around.”
“Bea?” I echoed. “Shinningaround?”
The rather austeredraugrpressed her lips together. “He means to say I move quickly. He’s out of his era. Significantly.” Then she turned to glare at him. “Perhaps,” she said sternly to the dead guy, “you ought to go back to the grave, Ignatius David Blackwood. Crawl into your grave.Now.”
The weight and magic in her voice was enough that I wanted to obey, and I wasn’t even dead.
“Ah,” he said in a laugh of a voice. “Youdidn’t pull me out of the grave, Bea, and I don’t think this one can put me back until I fulfill the mandate.”
Beatrice sighed, shoulder slumping slightly. “Now Iggy. . . “
“Bea . . .” Ignatius matched her cajoling tone and stared at her, increasingly cheerful. “Are you still the queen of the dead here?”
She nodded once.
