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“What am I, Rinaldo…?” She leaned back against the seat, now being careful not to crush Algernon. “Am I…am I like Harry? I feel alive. I like—do—living, biological things.” She didn’t know how else to delicately describe going to the bathroom.

“No. You’re not like him. You’re not an animated skeleton with an illusion taped over it.”

“But…what am I? Am I really, actually, undead?”

“Life is a bit like a spectrum. People think it’s binary—you’re either alive or dead. But it’s not that simple, never is. Truth is, we don’t know what you are. You’re a mystery to us. We barely have any record of you. If you left any kind of trail, he’s worked very hard to destroy it over the years. We don’t know why he made you, or what he’s after.”

Someone sat down at the bench next to her. “You realize you could simply ask and avoid the theatrics.”

Gideon.

Rinaldo jerked, reached for his gun, but a second person sat down next to him. Harry.

Her turns-out-he-was-secretly-undead friend glared at Rinaldo. “Cool it, priest. You know it won’t work on either of us.”

Maggie shrank into the corner of the booth, trying to get as far away from Gideon as possible. He noticed, and his expression flickered to frustration and hurt for a moment before shifting back to a cold, dour stare at Rinaldo.

The priest was stiff, his jaw twitching, and he was glaring right back at the two men. “What in the name of the Holy Mother do you think you’re doing here?”

“Having a conversation. That is all. I don’t enjoy the idea of murdering an entire diner’s worth of civilians in a brawl. Do you? Or does your kind not worry about that sort of thing, clinging to some ‘greater good’ narrative nonsense and all that?” Gideon had his hand resting on the top of his silver cane, and he rotated it idly beneath his palm. “We can either dispense with the politics and get to where I murder you and every living soul in this godforsaken cesspit of an establishment. Or we talk. Your decision.”

“You’re here to talk.” Rinaldo snorted. “Please. You came to take the girl.”

It was Maggie’s turn to glare. “I’m not a girl. And nobody is taking me anywhere I don’t want to go.” She gripped her knife and hid it under the table, just in case. It was stupid. One of them had a gun. Another one was a reanimated skeleton. Another one was a necromancer.

And she had a dull piece of silverware.

Whee.

“I’m not a girl,” she insisted, silverware weapon be damned.

Rinaldo rolled his eyes. “You came to take Maggie.”

“No, I have not.” Gideon eyed the vulture atop his cane. “Marguerite may choose to come with us if she likes. It is now, and always has been, her option whether or not she accompanies me.”

“Mags,” Harry began, pleading with her quietly. “You’re not safe with this goon. Please.”

“And I’m safe with you? You—you lied to me. This whole time. How long have you been like this?” She fought to keep her voice down.

He frowned. “A long, long time. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. How was I supposed to start that conversation, huh? ‘Oh, yeah, by the way, I’m super dead. Hope you don’t mind. Still up for a movie tonight?’ You would have freaked out.”

“I’m not freaking out now, am I?” She began bouncing her leg again. She hated how anxious she always was. “I’m close. I’m super close. But I thought—I thought I was insane. All those dreams, all those memories, and they were real.” She turned her attention to Gideon, who was watching her with a sort of forlorn emptiness. “What am I?”

“You are, ah…complicated.” The necromancer sighed and looked away. “It is a very long story and one that is not told in a greasy diner and mixed company.”

“First, I told you to stop calling me ‘complicated.’ Last warning. Do it again, and I’m going to fucking stab you. Second, tell me anyway.”

“No.” The doctor’s grip on his cane tightened. “You aren’t ready.”

“I’m not ready? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He shut his eyes briefly before taking in a slow breath as if he were bracing himself for something terrible. “How many deaths can you recall?” When he reopened his eyes, there was so much time in them that it froze her anger in its tracks. But it wasn’t just time she saw reflected in the depths of the quicksilver surfaces—it was pain. Years and years of pain. Of loss. Of suffering.

And she knew that it was more than just his that lived there.

It was hers.

She might not be able to remember her past…but it was clear that he could.