Resurrection (9 page)

“Tea's ready,” Eve announced. “You drink it black.”

“And as hot as possible,” he replied. “So it burns as it goes down.”

Her hand trembled as she poured the boiling water into a white china cup.

Seattle: Dr. Temar

“Oh, my God,” Dr. Temar murmured as he watched the EKG blips on the monitor attached to Kari Hardwicke, who had been dead for months.
She's coming back online,
he thought giddily, because he couldn't make his mind say the real words:
It's finally happening. She's coming back to life.

He was wearing a pale blue scrub cap, scrubs, booties over his shoes, and gloves, and he glanced from the monitor to the small, still form beneath the sheet on the hospital bed, then back again. The heartbeat was
stronger. Should he do a quick EEG scan? He wanted to see her brain wave activity.

He licked his lips and took a step toward her bed. In the dead of night, during a rainstorm, he had moved her shipping crate to the basement of his Queen Anne home. He couldn't guarantee enough privacy at the university. Experimenting on cats was one thing, but if someone had discovered a human body in his lab, how could he have explained it?

His house had been left basically intact during the fires and floods—a few windows had cracked; the attic was destroyed. He put up tarps, and continued his quest.

Sweat broke across his forehead. He was ecstatic, and terrified. For centuries, millennia, science had tried to do what he had done.

And practitioners of magic, too,
he thought.
Rose and her people are waiting to hear my results.

And then, it was done.

She's alive.

His fear evaporated and he raced to her side. Her face was dead white, with slight blue lines running beneath the skin. Her veins. She had never turned the dark purplish black associated with livor mortis. But she wasn't rosy-hued, like a living person.

Maybe she's not going to make it all the way back,
he thought anxiously, remembering the cats he hadn't succeeded in resurrecting. He'd named his one success
Osiris, after the Egyptian God who'd risen from the dead.

He didn't want her to be frightened by the five electrodes attached to her body, so he gently pried the two off her shoulders, shifting the layers of gauze to get at the ones on her sides and midsternal areas. He felt her cold skin through his surgical gloves. He had kept the room temperature low to stave off infection.

There, done. He wanted to clean off the jelly and adhesive necessary to make the electrodes work, but he didn't want to startle her. He placed the green, brown, and white discs on the gunmetal gray equipment cart and pulled the sheet back over her body.

Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes stayed closed. He dropped down to one knee and reached beneath the sheet for her hand. Her fingers jerked and she grabbed him, squeezing hard.

“Kari, it's Nigel.” His voice caught. “You were…you've been sick. You're in Seattle. You're—you're safe.”

She grimaced.

“Are you in pain? I can give you something.”

“Headache. Bad. And my…heart.” Her hand moved in his grasp. He blanched. He didn't want her to find out what had happened to her, not quite yet. He was worried about what the shock would do to her. All his prepared speeches evaporated from his memory.

“Oh, Kari,” he murmured, so in love and filled with joy that he thought he would faint. “Kari, it's all right now.” He pulled down his surgical mask so that his face would be the first thing she saw.

“Nightmares,” she went on. “Hell.” A tear ran across her temple.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

She turned her head and looked at him. He was chilled to the bone. Her eyes looked…dead. Robotic, or like a bad computer graphic. There was no spark of life in them. Had he done something incorrect? The cats…

There's a lot wrong with the cats,
his inner voice whispered at him.
And you knew there might be something wrong with her.

“You're tired,” he said.

Her hand caught in the sheet and pulled it down over her collarbones, and halfway down her chest. Thank God he had bandaged her, wrapping layer after layer of gauze over her torso after he had pieced her heart back together—and tried to rebuild her rib cage, gluing the pieces back together like a jigsaw puzzle.

“You had some terrible injuries,” he said, remembering his prepared statement. “A friend of yours summoned me. Rose.”

Her expression changed. Her mouth smiled.

But her eyes did not.

“Rose, in London. And she helped me bring you back here, to get well…. We thought it for the best. And you had some severe wounds,” he continued. “You had to have heart surgery. And…a few other things.”

He wouldn't tell her. Ever. If any of her old friends came looking for her, he would tell them there had been a mistake. She hadn't died.

“I'm free.” It was her first sentence. Her smile grew, and he quaked. Her eyes—

“Yes. You're free. Go back to sleep,” he urged.

“I…nightmare.” A shudder went through her.

“It's all right,” he said. “I'll be here.” He turned around and grabbed the chair he'd placed by her bedside. He'd been so nervous he'd forgotten it was there. He made a show of bringing it near her bed and sitting in it. He smiled at her. “There, you see?”

She said nothing. She glanced down at her chest, then slowly lay back down. He pulled the sheet up to her neck.

“Good?” he asked her.

“Cold,” she whispered.

“I'll get a blanket.” He pushed back his chair and walked across the lab to an old-fashioned armoire. He heard a rumble of thunder, followed by a crash of lightning. He prayed the floods were really over. He didn't want to have to move her. He wanted her here, safe, warm, protected.

“This will do the trick,” he said as he got the fluffy light blue blanket and turned around.

She had gotten out of the bed—he didn't know how she'd done it so fast—and she was wedged in a corner with her arms pressed flat against the wall. She was naked, except for the heavy bandages that covered her from beneath her arms to the bottom of her rib cage.

Hecate and Osiris sat facing her on the floor, gazing up at her. He had no idea how they'd gotten there.

“I died,” she said. “I died.” Her voice was flat.

“No,” he soothed. “That was a bad dream.”

“I was in hell.”

She gazed down at her chest. “I want to see.”

“Later. They're still healing.”

She pushed from the wall and staggered forward. He came to her side, still holding the blanket.

“Kari,” he began, but she brushed past him, mummy-like. As his grad student, she'd been to his house many times, and she knew the layout. He realized she was headed for the bathroom. He joined her.

“You've had a shock.”

She ignored him. She put her hand on the doorknob to the bathroom and stared down at it for a beat, then opened the door and flicked on the light. She turned to the left, staring at herself in the mirror over the sink. She stared at herself with her blank eyes.

“I died.” Her voice was flat, emotionless.

“Kari,” he began.

“I died.” She leaned toward the mirror.

He cleared his throat. “You need to go back to—”

“
And I'm still dead.”

Scarborough: Tommy, Amanda, Nicole, Owen, and Richard

Tommy stood on the porch of Moore House as Nicole and Amanda built a snowman. Bundled up until he looked like a stuffed animal, Owen was snuggled on Nicole's back, waving his mittened fists.

The steam from Tommy's tea wafted into the gray, snowy air, and he listened to the two sisters laughing and chatting. But their conversation was forced, and the laughter was awkward. They were scared. Maybe even as scared as he was.

Things were not quiet in Moore House. Things were…walking. Or waking up.

Beneath bright pink earmuffs Amanda's hair streamed across her shoulders. His heart caught as the sun glinted off it. Then he shut the door and went in search of Richard, who was in the great room, checking his guns. Four Micro Uzis and at least a dozen pistols were arranged in four neat rows on a dark blue tarp that he had spread over the hardwood floor. Boxes of ammunition towered beside them. Tommy was supposed to memorize their makes and models, and which ammo went with which weapon.

But ever since the birth of Owen, Tommy had developed a phobia about guns. Nicole herself had asked her father to put them someplace more secure. Owen was no toddler; he wouldn't be able to get to the guns, much less accidentally shoot one, but Tommy agreed with her. He wished they didn't have them at all.

“Tommy,” Richard said, smiling in greeting. He was preoccupied, worried. “I think we need to have another round of target practice. How about now?”

In the months since the five of them had moved into House Moore, Richard had been drilling them on shooting. Tommy didn't like it, but he agreed with Richard that they had to be prepared for anything and stay on alert. But what he wanted most in the world was to take Amanda away from all this and find a tranquil place to grow old together. There had been too much death and mayhem in their lives, and he was done.

“First, sir,” Tommy began. He took a deep breath. “Sir, you know that Amanda and I are in thrall. That means there's a special magical bond between us.”

Richard cocked his brow and laid down the gun. “Is there something wrong?”

“I think our bond would be strengthened if we got marri—”

The floor beneath his feet vibrated, just a little. He blinked and looked down at his athletic shoes, then
back up at Richard. The Vietnam vet set his jaw and rose silently from his chair. The floor vibrated again, a little harder, and Richard grabbed two of the four submachine guns. He was all business as he handed one to Tommy.

It might just be an earthquake,
Tommy thought.
Do they have earthquakes in England? Or a sonic boom.
It had never ceased to amaze him that the normal world—the world that knew nothing of witches, or covens, demons, or spells—continued on its path. He wished he were as ignorant.

“You two want to get married?” Richard asked, without looking at Tommy. He was scanning the floor, tracing a visual path with the tip of his gun. He began gliding across the floor, as silent as a snake.

The floor shook again.

“It's coming from the basement,” he said over his shoulder. “Is that what you're saying?”

This isn't how I pictured this,
Tommy thought, his heart thundering. “Yes.”

The veteran soldier had his back to him, his head cocked as he continued to sweep the area with the barrel of his Micro Uzi. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

Tommy swallowed. “Asking.”

“You want my blessing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Richard half-turned around. He smiled at Tommy, and he looked younger than he had in years. “That's a nice show of respect.”

“I respect you,” Tommy said simply.

“And I respect you.”

They shared a moment. Was that a yes? Unsure, Tommy cleared his throat. “They're in the front yard. If something's going to happen—”

Richard nodded. “Go to them. Take them to the caretaker's cottage. And, son, the answer's yes.”

Like all the other outbuildings, the cottage stood empty. According to the lawyer, upon the death of James Moore all of the servants had vanished overnight. Literally.

Tommy nodded and hurried to be abreast with Richard. The black-and-white marble felt more substantial than the wood. Richard reached out and clasped him on the shoulder, and Tommy smiled briefly, then headed for the door. Richard crept past the stairway. Behind it there was a door to the basement, with a plain set of stone steps leading down into the darkness.

The boiler's down there,
Tommy thought.
Maybe there's something wrong with it. What if it blows up?

He was five feet from the door when the marble squares ahead of him suddenly buckled and cracked, as if someone had placed too heavy a weight on top of
them. Tommy reared back, aiming his weapon. His mind flashed ahead to an image of Nicole, Owen, and Amanda coming toward the door, and being hit by stray bullets.

“Richard!” he shouted.

“On it.” Richard hastened to get up beside him, and the two fanned the area with their weapons.

“If they come through the door—Amanda, I mean—”

“Get them. Tell them to make sure their magical wards are intact. Something's in the house.”

Tommy darted to the right, gasping as he passed into frigid air that turned his breath to mist. Then the air shimmered a deep purplish green, extending the length of the foyer. It was blocking him from the door.

“Amanda!” he shouted; then regretted calling out. He didn't know where Richard was, and he didn't want to alert anything to their presence.

“Come back, son,” Richard bellowed, but Tommy stayed where he was. The purple-green light danced like sparks along his skin. It was thickening, like a sheet of ice.

“Tommy!” Richard shouted.

If Tommy hadn't shouted for Amanda, he would have retreated. Shaking, he made his mind still and called to her:
Stay away. Run
.

The light hardened. He realized only then that it was coating his face, too, and if it closed up his mouth and nose—

Richard grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backward. Tommy wiped his mouth and eyes, spitting on the floor; then he looked back up to see the purple pulsating and changing color to a deep, vibrant red.

“What the hell is it?” Richard said.

“A portal?” Tommy took another step back.

There was a huge roar, and the crimson light shattered. The house rocked on its foundations, throwing Tommy and Richard to the floor. The marble began to crack as a fissure formed, separating the foyer into two jagged halves. Tommy and Richard rolled toward the stairway as smoke and steam erupted from the crevice, followed by the shrill scream of some kind of animal—