Dead Man Rising

He gave me a brilliant, unsettled smile. Well, what do you know. Claustrophobia strikes again. "It's okay. I kind of like it. What did you find at Christabel's? Anything?"

I snorted and hauled myself to my feet, scooping up the other shovel. "Nothing I didn't already know. Let's get to work." And I walked toward my grave with sweating demon hands and a sour stomach.

"Chango love me, girl." Jace used his forearm to wipe sweat from his face. "You buried this fucker deep."

"Only way to stop the dead from rising." I tossed the shovel. It was a passionlessly accurate throw, ending with the shovel neatly stowed up on the surface, out of the way. The second shovel followed, its blade chiming against the first. I laced my fingers. "I'll give you ten up and hand it to you."

The deep gloom of the hole meant I saw the gleam of his teeth and the whites of his eyes as he gri

"Me too."

He stepped into my fingers and I lifted him easily enough, careful not to overshoot. He caught the edge and levered himself out.

One good thing about demon strength, I never would have been able to do that before.

Then I lifted my coffin, an old-timey footlocker from before the Seventy Days War. Hefted it with more ease than I'd lifted him. Something chinked inside, and the sound made a cold shiver trace all the way down my spine. I bit back a moan, it died as a strangled gasp.

Jace dragged it up out of the hole. Then I leapt, catching the lip just like the side of a swimtank, hauling myself up. "Sekhmet sa'es," I hissed between my teeth. "I hate this. I just started this hunt and already I'm six feet deep and sinking fast."

"Keep paddling, baby." Jace yawned. "We go

"We'd better." I rubbed at my forehead, feeling gritty grave dirt clinging to my skin. "Let's get it over with so we can wash up."

"We could probably use some di

He went still, looking down at me.

"You go on up, get washed up. Get something to eat. I'll be up in a few." I don't think either of us believed I was dealing with this well.

"I'll help." He shook his golden head, stubborn, his face streaked with dirt.

"Come on, Jace." I took the path of least resistance. "I'm hungry. This way, by the time I get up there I can take a shower and eat something. Okay?"

He examined me for a long moment. "Kay," he said finally, just like a pouting little boy.

"Thanks." Impulsive, I went up on tiptoe and kissed his dirty cheek. What else can you do for the man that just dug you up out of your grave?

He scooped up his sword. When he was gone the entire cellar seemed to close around me. The darkness seemed full of exhaled danger, my nape prickling, my breath coming short and harsh.

I picked up the shovel, considered it, set it down. The hole mocked me. The dirty, rusty footlocker mocked me. My sword, riding my back, mocked me.

I lifted my right hand. It was actually doing pretty well, not cramping or seizing up. Maybe holding a sword was all it needed.

Instead of using the shovel, I started pushing at the pile of dirt with my bare hands, like an animal. I pushed and pushed, scooping great armloads of sterile earth, shoving it, kicking it. My lips pulled back from my teeth. The dress's bodice, never meant for this sort of treatment, tore. One of the laces snapped, and it took me a few moments to undo my rig and shuck myself out of the dress. Piling my weapons to one side, I tossed the fall of silk and velvet into the hole and continued to fill it in. My new golden skin didn't bruise, but I felt as if it had, all the way down to my bones. My hands shook again, so badly dirt spilled between them, dry pebbles clinking and grinding together. It wasn't until I stamped the earth down with my booted feet that I realized I was making a low throaty noise of rage. My left shoulder throbbed dully and the vanished scars on my back felt as if they'd broken open, bleeding phantom blood. A collage of scars. An art statement made of suffering.

And I laughed.

I had, after all, survived everything I'd buried. I had fought so long and so hard, I had taken bounty after bounty, taken on the Prince of Hell himself. What was down here that I needed to be afraid of?

I collapsed on top of the disturbed mound of lifeless dry dirt, laughing until I choked, my knees grating against small pebbles. My teeth clicked together painfully. I hugged myself, bare breasts pressed together, hunching over until I presented a small target. Naked except for my boots, I hugged myself and shook like a rabbit, tasting shock bitter and flat against my tongue as I screamed with dark hilarity.

After all, it was a child's fears I was feeling. There was no longer any need for me to huddle in the corners sobbing, like I used to.

Rigger Hall. Goddamn.

How old did I have to be before the name itself didn't make me shiver? Who did I have to be grateful for—Doreen, who had taught me how to be vulnerable again? Japhrimel, who had taught me that love was not strictly a human phenomenon? Gabe, whose friendship had never wavered? Or Jace, who was still teaching me about who I could trust?

I was grown-up now. Rigger Hall could no longer hurt me.

Then why was the child inside me still screaming? Hadn't I grown past that, fought past it?

It was a long time before I heard footsteps again, Jace's stiff knee giving his gait a familiar hitch. He didn't say a word, I pushed myself up, and thankfully he didn't try to help me, just waited until I got to my feet and offered me a robe I dragged on with shaking hands as I shuddered with tired laughter. I felt like I'd just run through five sparring matches and fought in all three theaters of the Seventy Days War without a break as well.

He'd scrounged a ladder and pushed me up it, then dragged me upstairs. I wasn't unwilling, I just let him lead me. He didn't bother trying to get me in the shower. He just slid the robe off my shoulders and pushed me into bed, worked my boots off, then shucked his clothes, dropped down and held me.

He was not Japhrimel, but he was warm and he was human. I took what comfort he offered gratefully, his naked skin against mine, while every tear I had swallowed during eight years of Rigger Hall broke out of its black box and leaked out of my eyes, shaking me as if an animal made of grief had me in its teeth yet again.

Chapter Eighteen

He slept heavily, lying on his side, his face relaxed without its shield of good humor. Dirt smudged his cheekbones and his forehead. His hair was stiff with dry sweat and dust. Grime worked into the small, thin wrinkles that were begi

I lay on my side, my leg hitched up over his hip. He was sweating, grime clinging to both of us even though I never seemed to sweat; I traced his cheekbone with a gentle fingertip. Black molecule-drip polish glinted in the dim light from the hall.

The curve of his lower lip unreeled below my touch. His breathing didn't alter. He was out cold, it had been a long day. And whatever else he was, Jace was no longer young.

I pressed his hair back, gently. Traced his eyebrow, drew my finger down his cheek, the rough stubble of his chin made my mouth twitch. He smelled of human, of decaying cells and honeyspiked Power, of grave dirt and sweat.

I can't be what he wants, I reminded myself for the thousandth time. I don't even know what it is he wants.

Then again, I'd never bothered to ask him, had I?

I took my hand away and moved, slowly, infinitely slowly, until we were chest to chest, my face inches from him. His breath mingled with mine, a heady brew of demon, Necromance, and Shaman.