Dead Ice
Page 33

 
 
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NOW THAT THE cow was safely dead and not going to trample anyone, I had Dino get MacDougal and stand him behind the tombstone, so he’d be in the circle but out of the way while we cast it. The tombstone wasn’t much to look at, just a weathered white chunk of marble, softened by the centuries until it looked like a piece of candy spit out of a giant’s mouth with the lettering worn away. I’d seen all the paperwork assuring me this was the right grave, but if I’d had to rely on the stone for name and information I’d have been out of luck; all the readable info had been sucked away by time and weather. Normally I just take the much smaller bowl of blood, or even the whole beheaded chicken, and walk the circle by myself, but I was going to need help to carry this big a bowl. I could have brought the much smaller bowl that I used when I killed a goat, and that would have been plenty to sprinkle for casting the circle, but it had seemed wrong to waste that much of the cow’s lifeblood on the ground. If I needed a bigger death to raise the older dead, then wasn’t part of that using more blood? I wasn’t sure of the metaphysical logic, but I was stuck with the huge bowl now and I couldn’t carry it in one hand with the machete in the other, so I had needed a lovely assistant, or in this case a handsome assistant.
We’d lost another two history lovers, apparently overcome by the sight of more blood than they’d ever seen before, or maybe it was seeing something slaughtered in front of them. People will eat meat, like Mrs. Willis said, but that’s nice, safe meat in plastic wrap at the grocery store, or behind the butcher’s window. It’s not real, not a dead thing, just meat, just food. One of them had run off into the gravestones and was throwing up rather noisily. At least they’d moved far enough away and downwind so the rest of us couldn’t smell it. I really appreciated that. The rest of the huddled group had exclaimed everything from “Cool” to “Oh, my God,” but they didn’t argue when I had Dino and Nathaniel move them back to the gravel road. I didn’t want anyone drawn into the circle by accident. I’d given the orders distractedly, already staring down at the grave. My necromancy pushed at the boundaries I’d set around it like it wanted to expand to fill all available space. Usually it was like opening a tightly closed fist, a relief to let go, but it didn’t push at me like this. I hadn’t been raising as many zombies as in years past, because Bert, our business manager, could get more money for my time than anyone else at the firm, which meant I didn’t always raise the dead every night. I spent a lot of time doing police work now, so that worked out, but it meant that my necromancy wasn’t getting as much use as normal. Like Manny and I had discussed, if you don’t use it on purpose it finds other ways to leak out. Raising the dead wasn’t a choice for me. The only choice was how and when I’d do it.
The bowl didn’t look so big in Nicky’s hands. He carried it easily; now all I had to decide was, did he walk backward or beside me as I dipped the machete in the blood and sprinkled the circle into being. I chose beside me, because walking backward carrying a big bowl of blood seemed to be asking for a mess.
I was used to using a beheaded chicken to walk the circle—that sprinkled blood along my blade—but when I dipped my machete in the bowl it came out black, coated like some kind of evil candy apple. The last time I’d tried dipping into a bowl half this size I’d ended up sprinkling myself as much as the ground, so I was cautious as I dripped the blood onto the grass.
“Hmm,” Nicky said, more an involuntary sound.
“What?” I asked, glancing up at him.
“You usually use more flourish.”
“If I do my usual body English we’ll both be wearing cow blood. Trust me, when there’s this much blood on the machete you have to be careful swinging it.”
“Yeah, you can get really messy when you use a machete,” he said.
I studied his face for a second. “You’re not talking about using a machete for casting a circle, are you?”
“No,” he said.
We looked at each other for a few seconds. He gave great blank face, but then most sociopaths do. I debated whether to ask, or how, and finally said, “Animal, or person?”
“Person,” he said.
“Defending your life?”
“No,” he said.
“Mine was.”
“You bothered that mine wasn’t?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, this isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Okay then,” I said.
“Okay then,” he said.
“Is anything wrong, Ms. Blake?” It was Mr. MacDougal, patiently standing behind the worn tombstone.
I shook my head. “No, nothing wrong, just filling in my assistant on a detail or two. I usually walk the circle alone.”
“It’s a big bowl,” he said.
“It is that, Mr. MacDougal, it is that.” I dipped the blade back in the cooling blood and started walking the circle like I had a purpose.
 
 
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WE WALKED THE circle together, Nicky finding just the right height to hold the bowl so that I could dip the machete in without spattering us, or even hesitating as we moved. He anticipated me in this as he did when we had sex, so that we fell into a rhythm that was almost a dance. It made it more of a ritual, some sort of liturgical dance, but with more blood than I assume the monks use during theirs. It was so smooth, so . . . something I had no word for that I was shocked when I looked down and saw blood on the grass ahead of us. One more sprinkle of blood and we’d close the circle. It didn’t seem like we’d walked that far. Nicky offered the bowl to me one more time; I dipped the long blade in, pulled it slowly out, and let the thickening drops fall to touch the blood already on the grass. The moment the fresh blood hit the first drop we had cast down, the circle closed. It closed with a rush and a roar of power that left every hair on my body dancing. It pulled a gasp from my throat.
“Oh, my God,” Nicky whispered. I looked into his face and found his eyes wide and his own skin reacting to the power.
It was hard to breathe through the power. My chest was tight with it. What the fuck?
Nicky whispered, “That’s more power than I’ve ever felt when you’ve put up a circle.”
I nodded, swallowing hard to be able to whisper back, “I haven’t used a death as big as a cow in a while. I think it was more battery power than I needed.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this is going to be a really kickass zombie.”
“What?”
I shook my head and it wasn’t until a sound came from inside the circle with us that I turned and saw MacDougal. He was standing behind the tombstone where we’d told him to stand. He looked a little pale in the moonlight, mouth open and gasping as if he’d been running. I hadn’t thought to ask if he was psychically gifted. He couldn’t be very gifted, or I would have sensed it, but his reaction said clearly he wasn’t a null. They felt nothing when you did magic around them. Mac Dougal sure felt something.
I started walking toward him, and Nicky stayed at my side as if we’d planned it. “You okay, MacDougal?” I asked.