Chapter 10

Isobel had been locked in her room for two days.

Two days of punishment handed down by her grandfather, who'd stood waiting for her on the stoop when she got home from Chris's place.

The worst part? She'd known she was in trouble the moment she pulled into their driveway. Sunshine bathed the property everywhere but over their house. Sitting right atop the structure, angry and dark, a storm cloud brewed.

A sign of the mood within, but she wasn't about to flinch or back down. She exited her car and held her head high even as Grandfather's voice boomed.

"Where have you been?"

"Out."

"Out?"

"Yes." Offering excuses or explanations wouldn't help her case.

Lightning crackled overhead.

"What did I say about leaving this house unattended?"

"Who says I was alone? Eva was with me." Eventually. And her sister's presence hadn't stopped the kiss.

"She's not with you now, though, is she?" His ire was so great his mighty brows almost sat atop his head like a toupee. "You could have been ambushed on the road. Taken hostage by my enemies."

"What enemies? I thought you controlled who was allowed in your domain." Sassily spoken, and not well received.

"Your impertinence is not welcome."

"Then maybe I should leave." Surely Eva would let her sleep on the couch.

Arms crossed, beetled brows drawn in an uncompromising angry line, Grandfather declared, "You are not going anywhere. Not anymore. I hereby banish you to your room."

"You can't banish me."

"Watch me." With a swirl of his hand and a guttural word spat into the air - which hung and glowed for a moment - he did exactly what he said. A haze covered her, a purplish cloud that she couldn't see through. When it dissipated, she found herself in her bedroom.

He'd bloody translocated her. Not a magic used often given you had to really know the location you were sending someone to, and distance was an issue. The farther the translocation, the bigger the drain on a wizard's powers.

Too bad he'd wasted it. She wasn't sticking around. She marched over to her door and tugged on it. Tugged and tugged and then pounded. Locked in. No matter, her room had more than one escape route. However, it didn't take long for her to realize that he'd not just locked her in. He'd sealed the room with magic, blocking every exit.

Grandfather had grounded Isobel as if she were a child.

I am a grown woman! He can't do this to me.

Apparently, he could, and Isobel lacked the magic to fight it. All she could do was sit and stew and think about Chris.

Think about the kiss.

Imagine how angry Grandfather would be if he knew what had really happened.

She wished he'd show up just so she could tell him.

But no, he stayed far away. Everyone did, her food being delivered by magic rather than by anyone opening her door.

The bacon piled high on the plate by the staff along with fresh raspberry tarts did nothing to soothe her ire.

Around suppertime on the second day, her mother came to let her out, too late. Isobel had reached an epic point of anger with her mother, her family, everyone. Even Chris, mostly because she'd kissed him to prove a point to her sister and now she couldn't forget it.

"Have you learned your lesson?" Mother said, not sounding at all contrite at what had been done to Isobel.

Lying on her bed, refusing to look at her mother, Isobel snapped, "Do you mean the lesson that is supposed to teach me I'm nothing more than chattel with no freedom to act as I please?"

"Your grandfather is only trying to keep you safe."

"He's a dictator ruining my life. I'm not an animal to be caged, nor an idiot that can't make her own decisions."

"The family has enemies."

"Yes, and some are closer than you think," Isobel muttered, tossing her mother a dark look.

Mother chose to not address the deliberate barb, instead asking, "What's wrong with you, myshka? You are not acting like yourself lately."

"You mean not doing what I'm told all the time? Actually thinking for myself? Imagine that." She rolled her eyes as she jumped off the bed to pace her room.

Her mother, dressed elegantly in loose dress pants in a cream color, perched on the bench at the foot of her bed. "I understand. You're feeling restless."

"No, I'm feeling disparaged. As if my wishes aren't important." She whirled and glared at her mother. "How can you let him treat me like that?"

"He just wants to keep you safe."

"By locking me up? I'm his granddaughter, not his enemy," she shouted. Which caused her mother to recoil. Isobel never shouted.

Until now.

"You've been behaving so strangely lately. Eva thinks - "

"Don't mention my sister. We both know she doesn't have to live by the same rules as me. Which isn't fair. How come she gets to leave the house and do what she wants? And don't you dare tell me it's because I have no magic. I don't need magic out there." She waved a hand in the air. "Why can't I have a normal life?"

"Because you are special."

A sneer pulled her lip. "Reminding me of my use as a breeding mare and bargaining chip to bring the family power is not the argument you should use right now."

"You know your grandfather loves you. He would never do - "

"Never marry off one of his precious ??????s to a man they've never met?" Her sarcastic riposte ended in a bitter laugh. "We both know that's a lie."

At that, her mother's lips pressed into a tight line. "You say that as if it were a bad thing. You seem to forget mine was an arranged marriage. I do know what you're going through, but I will remind you that if I'd never married your father, I would have never had you or your sister. Had I rebelled, I would have never met and fallen in love with your dad."

A ghost that still loved his wife so much put an ethereal hand on her shoulder. It brought tears to Isobel's eyes, and not wanting her mother to see, she turned away. But Isobel's voice held a thickness to it when she spoke. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps fate would have still found a way to bring you together? That your love was meant to be even without the meddling of Grandfather?"

"Perhaps. But we'll never know for sure."

Isobel did because she could see that theirs was a love that transcended death. Surely, it was always destined to be.

"You and Papa got lucky. We both know that is not always the case. Remember Aunt Ivanna?" She'd poisoned three of her husbands before the family thought it best to leave her a widow.

Mother's lips pursed. "Your aunt encouraged those matches. Apparently, she liked the attention of the wedding and funeral but wasn't crazy about what came in between."

"Eva doesn't want to get married."

Her mother shrugged. "No. She doesn't. But she will do her duty."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"This isn't about your sister, though. You're the one I'm worried about right now, myshka. This rebellion of yours, is it because of that man you met?"

"What man?" Isobel asked, perhaps a little too lightly.

"The one from the cemetery. I know you returned to see him. Has he soiled you?"

"Mother!"

"It's a valid question. Your sister claims he is attractive."

How dare Eva notice. But even worse. . . "Eva told you!" The traitor. She'd plot revenge later. For now, Isobel needed her mother to veer her attention from Chris - lest something unfortunate happen to him. "Well, whatever she told you is wrong. He's nothing. Nobody."

"A nobody you went to see. Why?"

Isobel held up her chin. "Because I thought he might help me investigate the zombie rising."

"You thought to ask for help from a human?" her mother declared with clear disdain.

"He's not a human. He's - " According to him, the Antichrist. False, and yet he'd managed to shove her and Eva out of his house using some kind of power. "He's special."

"So was your cousin Ivan after the incident. Appearances can deceive. Good-looking on the outside doesn't mean he isn't seriously addled up here." Her mother tapped her head.

"Mother, that's an awful thing to say."

Her mother appeared unaffected by the rebuke, but then again, her mother wasn't a very nice person. "I forbid you from seeing this boy."

"I will see whomever I damned well please," Isobel retorted.

"Don't make me lock this door again." Her mother stood and planted her hands on her hips.

"Go ahead. Be a tyrant instead of my mother."

At that, her mother's ire peaked. "Insolent child. Perhaps you need a few more days of introspection."

With that, her mother sailed out of the bedroom, and the door slammed shut behind her.

Click. Isobel knew there was no point in trying to open it. The lock couldn't be undone from the inside. She'd find no escape there.

Just like she knew the dumbwaiter that served her food from the kitchen wasn't big enough for her to wiggle down in, not since she'd hit her teen years and grew boobs and hips.

But what her mother and grandfather didn't know was that this old house had old passages. Hidden spaces within the walls that she and Eva had discovered as children. And while her mother might have locked the door, the magic shield around the room remained down.

For how long, though?

Packing a bag, grumbling under her breath about bossy mothers who didn't love their daughters, Isobel grabbed everything she needed to run away. It sounded childish for a woman in her twenties, and yet, it had to be done.

No more would she allow herself to be used as a pawn for her family.

Isobel was done being the good daughter.

The bookcase opened on silent hinges, revealing a hidden passageway. She slid into the slim aperture and moved in a sideways shuffle, going as fast as she dared to. She managed to move a few rooms down from her own, far enough that, when the magic shield returned, she remained outside of it.

Her first victory. Like a mouse, she crept through the forgotten spaces, brushing against webs, attracting dust, baring her teeth at things that dared hiss at her in the darkness.

The ladder at the end of the passageway, slats of wood nailed at intervals leading down, brought her to the main floor, where she waited until the crack of dawn when everyone would be asleep - because those with magic preferred the nocturnal hours to play.

The tunnel she hid in let out into the kitchen pantry. She slipped out the back door while Cook was buried in the fridge looking for ingredients. Given the amount of staff coming and going and preparing the house for the day, the magical alarms would never notice one more body.

Wondering if her car had a tracking system built into it, she eschewed her usual mode of transportation and fired off a text before she started her trek through the woods. An hour later, legs tired, wishing she'd grabbed some bacon to sustain her, she spilled from the forest onto a road where Evangeline waited on her motorcycle.

"Thanks for coming," Isobel said.

"You're lucky I hadn't gone to bed yet," Eva grumbled as she tossed a helmet at her.

"I couldn't stay there a moment longer."

"About time you rebelled." Eva smiled and winked. "Welcome to the wicked side. Hold on tight."

Isobel had no sooner laced her hands around her sister's middle than Eva fed her bike gas and they took off in a scream of tires.

Inside, Isobel's behaved self squealed at the speed and danger, but the new Isobel, the one that had finally found her backbone, chuckled.

This is freedom.

However, freedom didn't mean Isobel could hide out at her sister's. It would be the first place they looked. Isobel needed to stay out of their clutches long enough to prove she could handle herself. That she didn't need them mollycoddling her. What better way to get them to recognize her abilities than to solve the zombie mystery on her own?

If I find the culprit and bring him or her in, then they'll have to accept the fact that I don't need babysitting.

But where to start? She needed information.

Less than half an hour after her escape, Eva dropped her off at the library, with a snort and a taunt. "At times, it's hard to believe we're related. You do know runaways are supposed to find abandoned buildings and beg on the streets. Not read books."

Except she wasn't a runaway. Isobel was a woman on a mission. Her determination to find the necromancer hadn't changed, and what better place to browse obituaries, news articles, and periodicals than online using a library computer?

Problem was, the library didn't open until ten, which meant slouching in a coffee shop, sipping a latte while eating powdered donuts.

When the doors eventually opened, she left the restaurant and headed on in.

What she didn't expect to find was Christopher already there.

Spotting his distinctive raven's-wing hair and broad frame, she froze in her tracks. She said not a word, and yet, his head turned, turned a little more than a human head should. He blinked. Then smiled.

A devastating grin that just about melted her into a steaming puddle of incoherence.

"Duckie." How could such a stupid word emerge so sensually? "Just the woman I was hoping to see." And was it her, or did his eyes undress her as he spoke?

"How did you know I'd be here?" she asked, dropping her knapsack on the floor and sliding into the seat beside him.

"I didn't. But I was wishing I had some help, and here you are."

"Help with what?" she asked while wishing her heart would stop pounding. Just seeing a man shouldn't cause shortness of breath and heart palpitations.

"Finding out who my real parents are."

His words emerged weary and resigned, prompting her to ask, "I thought you said your dad was the Devil."

"About that. . . I visited my mom in jail to ask her some questions."

"Jail?"

"Yeah. She is, I mean was, a murderous psychopath serving a few life sentences."

"Was? Did she die?"

He nodded, grief overtaking his features. In a low voice that barely sounded like the brash man she'd come to know, the story spilled out. From his upbringing to his mother's arrest to her violent death and reanimation.

Isobel listened and didn't speak. The things he'd gone through explained a lot about his attitude and actions. It made her understand him better. She knew of the arrogance that came with believing in one's own superiority. Look at her sister.

"So the woman you thought was your mother possibly wasn't. But in a twist, your real mother might be some kind of real badass."

At her summary, he paused then laughed. "Badass? Yeah. I guess so. I mean, how else to explain what happened when my mom, I mean, Clarice, died?"

She reached out and put a hand on his knee. "You can still call her Mom. No matter who birthed you, she did raise you, if a tad dysfunctionally."

"A tad?" His brow arched.

"Trust me when I say I know about strange upbringings." He might have gotten glimpses of orgies, not much because, according to Chris, his mother tucked him into bed, but Isobel had actually pranced naked around more than one bonfire.

"You?" He scoffed. "You're a perfect little princess who probably grew up in a nice house with all the best clothes and food and most likely went to private school."

"I did. But that doesn't mean my life is perfect."

"My mother was jailed for murder."

"Only one?" She arched a brow.

"Actually, she was up to a half-dozen, given she kept going even behind bars."

"Killing to stake her place in the prison hierarchy?"

"No, so she could read their guts and predict the future." His nose wrinkled.

She laughed. "Sounds like something my family would do."

"Are they cult followers, too?"

"Worse. I come from a long line of witches and sorcerers. And not the nice kind. My grandfather had to flee Russia because of his crimes. You see, we might look prestigious and cultured on the outside, but I promise, we're no saints. We just don't get caught." She winked.

Christopher laughed. "What is it about you that makes me feel so at ease?"

"Kindred spirits?" she offered. But she knew what he meant. The more time they spent together, the more she found herself drawn to this complex man.

"So, you never said what brought you here."

"You're not the only one trying to find out the truth."

"Yeah, except mine is probably pretty hopeless, given my mom died. It's not like I can ask her, and I've never been able to find my birth records."

"Why not ask her?"

"I can't. She died, remember?"

"I know, but that doesn't mean you can't get answers. Why not have a sŽance? Talk to her spirit."

At that, he laughed, a rich baritone that sent a shiver through her. "You never say what I expect."

"I should hope not. That would be rather boring." She grinned, flirting with him with an ease she'd never known.

"You are not what you seem, Isobel."

"And neither are you. The more I find out, the more interesting you get. Cool move, by the way, with the power shove the other day. I didn't know you had magic."

His big shoulders lifted and dropped. "Me either, and I haven't been able to repeat it."

"Practice. It's the only way to harness any internal magic you have."

"But how do I have this power? Where does it come from?"

"The question you need to ask is who does it come from? One of your parents obviously had magic. And given those with power are not as plentiful as humans, that narrows down the choices."

"I don't know where to look." He sounded defeated, and she knew that feeling. Knew it and was determined to not let it control her anymore.

"But I do. It sounds like we both have a mystery to solve. Care to join forces?" She held out her hand.

"You mean work together?" He looked down at her outstretched fingers.

"Yes, work." And maybe more since she couldn't forget that kiss. A kiss that was forbidden, which made it all the more tempting.

"I'm not good at working with people. They find me strange."

"I like your strangeness. Keep in mind I'm not exactly normal either. So, what do you say? I help you, you help me. Will you be my partner?"

"You've got a deal." As he said the words, he clasped her hand, a flesh-to-flesh contact that had her sucking in a breath. His eyes widened, and she could swear she heard the crack of thunder. She definitely felt the earth move, probably because the building shook.

Shook hard.

Someone screamed, "Earthquake." A vigorous one, too, that kept going as she and Chris held hands and blinked at each other.

Books fell from shelves. People, the few wandering around at this time, hollered and sobbed. Because that would help.

Isobel snatched her hand from Christopher's and rose from her chair. "We should probably exit to safety."

The rumbles subsided, and yet the librarian could still be heard shouting, "Evacuate the building."

"Since we're screwed for research, want to grab some food?" he asked. "I know a quiet place we can picnic not far from here."

"I'd like that." She grabbed her bag, and when he laced his fingers through hers, she didn't pull away, even when the aftershocks hit, sending a tremor through her. Odd how no one else reacted to the tiny quake.

The food he'd mentioned came from a street vendor- hot dogs smothered in mayo, mustard, cheese, and bacon - the only way to eat them, he declared. The quiet place for a picnic turned out to be a museum, and Christopher knew a back way of getting in to avoid paying an entrance fee.

"Isn't this like stealing?" she asked as they snuck in through a door marked Employees Only.

"Yes. I try to make sure I sin a little every day in case my supposed father is looking." He tossed her a wink that never failed to send a tingle through her. Just like every time he grabbed her hand, her heart pattered a little faster.

He dragged her down a hall filled with crates and oddly shaped mounds covered in canvas tarps. They only encountered one old man, and Isobel thought for sure they'd get outed and tossed. Except Christopher knew him.

From his knapsack, Chris pulled out a flask and tossed it to the old guy.

"Thank you, milord."

"You'll be rewarded when I rule the world." A grandiose claim that didn't sound so ridiculous anymore. Chris just had a certain air about him that made it work.

The old fellow tilted his head in respect. "I look forward to your reign of darkness. And, by the way, you might want to stay out of the west wing. Jerrard's working that section today, and you know he's a prick."

"Thanks, Stan."

"How do you know him?" she whispered as they kept moving along.

"Back when I lived with my mom, Stan used to come to our house with copies of ancient texts. The cult my mom used to run with was big on research."

"Researching what? What were in those texts?"

"I was a kid and didn't really care back then." He shrugged. "But from the snatches I heard, they were really into end-of-the-world prophecies."

"There are a lot of those." Her grandfather had many of them in his personal collection. She'd come across a whole section as a young girl and worried about it until her father found her amidst a pile of books, sobbing, and said, "Why do you cry?"

"These tell of the end of the world. We're going to die."

Papa had tucked her onto his lap and soothed her. "Everyone dies eventually. And these are just words. Many prophecies will never come true. Some are false, the mad ravings of so-called seers. The few true ones will depend on the choices of individuals. Those in charge of religions don't like to admit it, but the future can be changed."

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Christopher replied. "So the future isn't set in stone or on paper?"

Hair flew as Isobel shook her head. "Not according to my papa."

"Good to know. Not that I know of too many doomsday prophecies. Despite all their research, most of the stuff they got their hands on was stupid. Recipes for old tinctures. Lists of names for families long gone."

Isobel frowned. "I thought the coming of the Antichrist was already clearly laid out. Aren't there supposed to be signs?"

"Yes, but there are arguments on what those signs are. And it depends on which version of the Bible you read. The most commonly used one is from the Book of Revelation. It speaks of the arrival of the Antichrist, followed by war, famine, plague - "

"Aren't war and the other things supposed to be brought by the horsemen?"

"The four horsemen of the apocalypse. Although, if you ask me, horses might seem kind of outdated in this day and age. You'd figure a prophecy would know that, in this time, the agents of war, famine, death, and the plague would use modern conveniences to travel."

"For a guy who readily believes he is the Antichrist, you're awfully skeptical of other things." She couldn't help but tease him.

A smile pulled his lips. "It's hard to believe in old legends when you never see any signs. And despite what the cult thought, my bowel movements weren't a gift from the Dark Lord himself requiring ceremony before disposal."

She snickered. "You had an interesting childhood."

He grimaced as he opened a door and peeked his head through. "Interesting is one way of putting it. What was yours like?" He dragged her into a room set with pedestals and art on the wall.

"The version I tell normal people, or the truth?"

At that, he stopped moving and looked at her. "While I usually love a good lie, I am curious about the truth."

"The truth is my sister and I spent most of our youth tutored at home. We didn't start our education at five like normal kids. Ours began at birth. I was reading by the time I was two. Doing multiplication by the time I was six. During our formative years, we learned all the basics children learn in public schools, math, English, science. We also took courses on politics."

"That's not weird. Overachieving, yes, but I'll bet plenty of rich folks do it."

"They do, but that just scratches the surface of our education. We were also taught how to bribe officials and not get caught. How to blackmail policy makers into doing our bidding. The art of subtle manipulation to get others to do what we want."

"That's fucking cool. My lessons on ruling the world boiled down to - just do it."

Isobel laughed. "I guess if you're the leader, then that works. My lessons were more on how to influence those in leadership roles. Then there was the potion-making class, the botany class, the study of Cryptozoids."

"The whata-zoids?"

"Cryptozoids, creatures thought to be myth and yet actually exist, hidden under humanity's nose."

"You mean like unicorns and fairies?"

"Elves and dragons, demons, and more. Some have become extinct or have withdrawn because of the encroachment of humans. Others hide in the summer lands maintained by the fae. Still others choose the hinter plane."

"You say that like it's true, and yet, I'm going to be the skeptic that says, where's the proof?"

"I've seen them."

"How is it you know all these things and yet seem so normal?" he asked.

"I was raised by a family of witches and sorcerers," she corrected. "Far from normal."

"So you do magic?"

At the question, her nose wrinkled. "Not really. Nothing like my grandfather, mother, and sister can do. It's why they think they can boss me around. They think I'm weak."

"They're wrong." At his vehement words, she turned a startled gaze on him. "You're amazing. I saw you fight off those zombies. You kicked ass."

His praise made her smile. "My father made sure I knew how to protect myself when they realized I hadn't inherited my mother's powers."

"Was your dad like you?"

"I guess. I mean, I don't know. Papa rarely did magic in front of me, but you could tell he was strong. People deferred to him." She'd asked her mother once what her father's skill was, but her mother just turned sad, and Isobel hugged her. Then, as time passed, it didn't seem important. Whatever her papa could do, she'd not inherited.

"You speak as if he's gone."

"Yes. And no. Papa disappeared when I was around eleven years old. His ghost now haunts our house."

Chris didn't question the fact that she claimed she could see her father. He just nodded. "He's looking after you. Cool."

It was cool, and the fact that he accepted it, accepted her, warmed.

They wandered from the exhibit of fine art into one of artifacts, things on loan to the museum from Egypt. Pottery and statues. Ancient parchments with glyphs. Ancient things for a civilization long dead.

They paused in front of a sarcophagus. He still held her hand. "I'm kind of jealous of your upbringing." His words emerged on a wistful note. "At least you had a family. Once my mom went to jail, I had no one. None of the foster homes kept me for long. I was a troublemaker. Never fitting in. Refusing to follow their rules."

"You hoped your antics would draw your father."

He laughed, only a hint of bitterness in the sound. "I guess. I mean, here I was, a kid told he had a destiny. That I was the Antichrist people had been predicting for centuries. As a kid, that kind of thing makes you feel powerful."

"But?" she prodded because she sensed there was more.

"But am I? Look at me now. A laborer in a cemetery, who never even went to college. Who doesn't know who his parents are. Why would I be chosen to rule anything?"

"Blood."

"What?"

"In government, politicians are chosen by vote. It's a popularity contest that has nothing to do with worth. It's a stupid method." Or so her teachers claimed. "In the olden days, that kind of democracy didn't exist. Those with wealth controlled things. But before that, before humanity overran the planet, those with power, true power, ran things. They didn't rule because of a vote or money. They ruled because of the blood running through their veins. Even today, our genes decide our destiny."

"For you maybe. You know who you are descended from. Me? I thought I did. But it was a lie."

"And?"

"What do you mean and? If my mom lied to me about being my mother, then she probably lied about my father, too. If that's the case, then I'm not the Antichrist."

"But you're still someone important." She clasped his fingers and forced him to turn to face her. "Someone mundane wouldn't have been able to shove me and Eva out of his house. Especially Eva. I mean, you should have seen the surprise on her face." No one outmagicked her sister.

"What if that was a fluke? What if I can never - "

Hearing the doubt pouring from his lips, the truth so raw and earnest, had her stretching on tiptoe. How could she ever have thought this man crude and unworthy? The brash veneer hid a man searching for himself, looking for answers.

She brushed her mouth against his and whispered, "You are special. I think you're special." She sealed the claim with a kiss.

She'd meant it to be a reassuring embrace. A soft touch to say, "I am here. I believe in you." But it turned into so much more.

His arms wrapped around her, strong and yet not crushing. He lifted her so that she didn't have to crane, allowing him to take over the kiss, to plunder her mouth with fervent passion.

He parted her mouth with his tongue, the strangeness of it quickly forgotten in the heat it evoked, the sensual passion unfurling within her.

The need.

It burned inside her.

He ignored the ropes that sectioned off the Egyptian coffin that he might press her back against it. He inserted himself between her legs and pushed against her, rubbed against her woman's mound, and a gasp escaped her.

"Oh, Chris." She shortened his name as she moaned, and he growled.

"I want you so badly. To make you mine."

Funny thing, she wanted it, too. She kissed him harder, trying to show him how much he aroused her. But people didn't understand the fire that combusted between them. Someone tried to interrupt with a shouted, "Get a room, perverts."

At that rude exclamation, Chris tore his mouth from hers and snarled over his shoulder. "Go away."

Yes. Go away. Couldn't they see she was busy?

Chris turned back to her, a fire glowing in the depths of his gaze, a flame that almost hypnotized. "Shall we go somewhere a little more private?"

Did she dare?

She kissed him in reply.

And that was when the sarcophagus behind them rattled.