Queen of the Dead (30 page)

Emily hung onto her pant leg as she had to mine. Her face had been washed, and somebody had found her fresh clothes. They looked about four sizes too big.

But at least she was smiling.

“Will?” my mother said again. She was staring at me, as if absorbing the sight of me like a sponge.

“It's me, Mom,” I said, choking a little on the words.

“You…” Her voice broke. After a moment, she swallowed and tried again. “You've gotten taller.”

Then she threw her arms around me and began to sob.

I'd wondered what those arms would feel like. Now I knew.

They felt like
home
.

The Queen of the Dead bathed in the camera flashes. She stood smiling atop the dais, the very same dais whereupon her carefully laid plans had been ruined by a single teenage boy. Now she had to start all over again, come up with a new way to advance the
Malum
cause. Months of work destroyed in a single moment by a display of ridiculous heroics.

She'd lost Pierce, and far worse, the anchor shard had been taken from her. Getting another would be costly and difficult in the extreme. Her only consolation was that, try as they might, no possible way existed for those—whelps—to determine the nature and potential of the treasure they'd stolen.

They lacked the wisdom.

The Queen said into the microphone, “Two days ago, a young boy…who has yet to be identified…made a daring and dramatic appearance on this very spot, throwing his body in the path of an assassin's bullet. His heroism and sacrifice is an inspiration to young people everywhere and a shining example of the integrity and strength of spirit of the good people of Philadelphia.”

But the most galling part of the latest Undertakers debacle was having to be
here
, with the governor and the governor's wife beside her, saying these words:

“What exactly happened in the hours after this brave boy was rushed to the hospital may never be fully explained. By all accounts, he was declared dead en route only to disappear when the ambulance reached the medical examiner's office. The circumstances of this disappearance remain a mystery and seem, in many ways, as miraculous as his appearance had been.

“Personally, I would like nothing more than to see this young hero come before me just for a few moments so I could shake his hand and thank him for his selflessness and courage.

“However, as that isn't possible, the governor, first lady, and I have invited back some of the children who were present two days ago. As witnesses to the mystery boy's amazing feat of bravery, they are here to act as surrogates of sorts…and to shake our hands in his stead.”

With that, Lilith stepped to the edge of the dais and reached down to take the first of the waiting palms. One by one, she and her two distinguished guests moved along the line of middle school children, smiling for the cameras and shaking hand after hand.

Oh, how she loathed them! How she longed to rip their little arms from their little bodies, tear into their slender throats with her teeth, to taste their blood and flesh. But instead, she smiled and posed and went from boy to girl to boy to girl to—

At one of the boys, she stopped. He was slender, his head covered by a heavy hoodie. But there was something familiar about him. Something about the look in his eyes.

It
can't be!

Will Ritter, his face expressionless, offered his hand up to the Queen of the Dead, who paused in her tracks, glaring at him. For several long seconds, she had to fight to control herself, to prevent her fingers from locking around the wretched boy's throat. Too many cameras. Too many witnesses. And he
knew
that. That was why he'd come. He knew she couldn't touch him!

But she
could
speak to him.

Lilith accepted the offered hand and squeezed hard. Will winced but not much—not nearly enough. But she didn't dare apply more pressure, didn't dare break his hand.

Using the Ancient Tongue, she spoke directly into his mind. He was an Undertaker, so he alone would hear her words. It wasn't much, but it was the only weapon she had.

“You. Won. The. Day. Boy,”
she said, locking her eyes on his.
“But. I. Am. Not. Booth. I. Am. Still. Here. Do .You. Understand. Me. Boy? I. Am. Still. Here!”

She knew he could See her as she truly was, See the rotting Corpse who clutched his hand. She waited for the terror to shine in his face, waited for him to pull away in panic. And she would let him go; after all, what choice did she have? But at least she could savor that reaction, revel in the horror that must be burning into him, consuming every corner of his child's brain.

But it wasn't there.

No terror. No revulsion. Instead, Will Ritter met her hard gaze with one of his own, filled with a confidence beyond his tender years. There was strength there. And determination.

And wisdom.

“So am I,” he said.

Then, with a slight smile, he withdrew his hand from hers and melted into the crowd.

The Queen of the Dead looked after him, the expression he'd worn burning into her, consuming every corner of her stolen body.

And for the first time in her long existence, she was afraid.

I do a lot of research. I'd like to thank the city of Philadelphia for its cooperation and for helping me stand where Will Ritter stood and see things through his eyes. A particular thank-you goes out to the good folks at Eastern State Penitentiary, Philly landmark and prison-turned-museum, for answering my many questions. Their kind patience allowed me the freedom to poke around, soak in the mystery, and let my imagination soar.

On April 3, 1945, twelve prisoners actually
did
escape from that formidable place by digging a hundred-foot tunnel under the prison walls. The tunnel has since been sealed at both ends, though at one point it was reopened and a robotic camera sent in to have a look. Bottom line, I may have taken some liberties with the details, but the tunnel, my friends, is still
there
.

It's difficult to express the depth of my gratitude to Ann Behar, my amazing agent, whose steadfast belief in the Undertakers warms a writer's heart. My thanks and affection also go out to Kay Mitchell, the Sourcebooks publicist who has done so much to get the word out about the Undertakers and their adventures.

To my wife, Helene (the
real
Helene Boettcher), you are a joy and an inspiration. It goes without saying that none of this would have happened without you.

And last but never least, to MTB—four of the best friends any writer ever had. To say that you guys rock doesn't even begin to express it.

Ty Drago is a writer, editor, publisher, husband, father, business analyst, shaven Sasquatch, born Quaker, old guy who looks good in hats, friend to all, enemy to none, and—by nature—a storyteller.

His published works include a YA historical mystery called
The
Franklin
Affair
published by Regency Press in 2001;
Phobos
, a science-fiction noir published by Tor Books in 2003; and of course, the
Undertakers
series. He is currently busy with the third book in the series,
The
Undertakers: Capitol Corpses
.

In addition, he edits and publishes
Allegory
,
www.allegoryezine.com
, a premiere online magazine that features short stories and articles from around the world.

The proud parent of two grown children, he makes his home in South Jersey with his wife, Helene.