as the case had been. “The Re-Animus have plagued us since at least the Middle Kingdom of Egypt. Dad thought they were evil spirits, maybe just one, maybe a whole legion. Grandpa van Helsing swore they weren’t demons, because he’d personally killed the last demon. Truth is, we don’t know, but what we do know is that they live through other bodies.” He flipped over a page. “This here, this is your average meat-skin. Some poor schmuck dead for a few days, grabbed by the Re-Animus just for fun. The body gets pushed around for a few hours to maybe kill a few people, and then dropped like a rock. We see these every freaking day in the field.”
He turned the page, and I slumped over next to him, letting the bourbon and his warmth spread through me. He caught his breath. Nice to know I still could have that effect on someone. “This is a shambler. If the Re-Animus spends enough time in a body, it starts changing, becoming stronger, and faster. When the Re-Animus moves on, the body will keep moving. It’ll do whatever comes to what’s left of its mind. Not intelligent, but plenty dangerous. The police won’t even shoot at them, because it might bring them running.”
He leafed over a few pages. Various body parts drawn in painful detail decorated it. “Here’s your friend. A Re-Animus doesn’t need a whole body. It can take a spare part or two and use it, though what one would do with a severed foot, I can’t really say. In Egypt I heard tell of ears and noses being animated, so go figure.”
In the middle of this madness, it almost made sense. A spare part, scratching around under the floor. On and on it went. Page after page of corpses that walked, and mummies, drawings of Re-Animus that made them look like clouds of evil, pages of folk charms.
The list of things that wouldn’t kill a Re-Animus would be shorter than the items Heinrich Carson said did. Salt for the foundations to keep them out, pine stakes to sap their strength, amber to poison them, alabaster to prevent them healing.
Brynner’s tone said he believed it, every last bit. Why not? It worked, for him. He reached his arm around me, and the bourbon in me smiled at him. He smiled back for a moment, then frowned. “Did my aunt give you something to calm your nerves?”
I nodded. Wasn’t it obvious from how I wasn’t challenging any of his assertions? Or the way I gave in so easily to the urge to cuddle with him? Oh, if there were a god, I’d have him make a man for me just like Brynner, only one I could keep to myself.
Like that, the charm on his face swept away. Brynner pulled his arm back and pushed me upright. “How many nerves did you need calmed?” He took the drink from my hand and set it aside. “It’s time for you to get to sleep.”
BRYNNER
I thought about the first time I met a co-org. Dad brought it home in a box and locked me in the room with it and a hatchet until I took care of business. I didn’t sleep for a week afterward. Grace, on the other hand, needed to sleep for a dozen hours at least.
She struggled up and off the couch, heading for the door. I snagged her hand. “Whoa, you aren’t going anywhere. I’ll make up the couch. Or you can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Grace rubbed one eye with her fist. “I’m going back to my motel room. I’m not going to be another woman who got drunk and spent the night in your bed.”
That stung. I didn’t need or want drunk women. If a woman couldn’t say she wanted me and for certain, I’d find another friend for the night. And in case she hadn’t heard, work women were at least somewhat strictly off-limits.
I looked to my aunt. “Give me a hand?”
She shook her head. “You don’t have any right to keep her here. If you don’t want her driving and she won’t stay, take her back to her motel.” She didn’t need to remind me to behave.
“You win.” With one hand under Grace’s arm and the other under her legs, I half carried, half dragged Grace to the truck. She sang most of the way home, a horrible rendition of “Friends in Low Places” that made it clear why she took up