Chapters (50)
- Cover
- Roc Books by Jacqueline Carey
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
Talman Brannigan’s last living descendant moved with startling dexterity, grabbing Jen around the neck with his left arm and positioning her between them, his gun to her temple. “I’d say it’s a standoff, Officer. Why don’t you drop yours?”
Jen let out a faint squeak, her dark eyes wide with terror and helpless fury, showing the whites. Cody hesitated.
“Oh, God,” I whispered, the blood running cold in my veins. “Jen, no!”
There was another sound, a whooshing sound, as one of the figures atop the roof vaulted over the edge, the panels of a long coat flaring like dark wings, briefly blotting out the streetlights overhead. Someone let out a shriek as the figure dropped like a stone. A highly cinematic stone. Clancy Brannigan swung his pistol and fired at it, the gunshot echoing loudly along the street.
“Missed me.” Bethany Cassopolis landed in a three-point stance, straightening to adjust the folds of her long Victorian frock coat. She showed her fangs. “No one fucks with my brother and sister, creep. Not anymore.” Brannigan lowered his pistol and fired on her at point-blank range, but a bullet to the chest barely even slowed Bethany down as she fell upon him with inhuman speed, wrenching the gun from his hand as she jerked him away from Jen and sent him stumbling in Cody’s direction. “Count yourself lucky I don’t drink you dry, asshole!”
Cody slapped a pair of handcuffs on Clancy Brannigan. One psychotic mortal down, one possessed zombie skeleton to go.
Okay.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Stefan, everyone, just hold on!” I addressed the Tall Man’s figure. “Mr. Morgan, I want to parley!”
The helmeted skull turned toward me, eye sockets filled with blue fire, blue fire crackling along its bones. Grandpa Morgan was listening. Opposite him, Stefan braced his hands on his knees, keeping his grip on his sword, taking deep breaths. Blood was running down his left arm, dripping from his wrist.
“Let Talman Brannigan’s spirit go,” I said. “He committed a terrible crime. Don’t let it happen again. That can’t be what you want.”
Blue flames surged in the hollow sockets. “Let my grandson go, she-devil!” It was a different voice, not as booming, but creaking with sharp, rusty edges. Well, that and a Jamaican accent. “That’s all I ask. Give me my grandson, and you and your cursed bloodclot of a town can have your murderer’s bones!”