Page 64 of The Sin Eater

It’s about impossible to distract myself from dread.

Damon must have knocked off work early, because at about five thirty he texts me that he’s outside my building.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks as soon as he sees me.

I lift the little bag I’m carrying. “Got my relics right here.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.” I keep my expression light, as if I’m joking. I’m totally not. Gotta think snipping the nails off a corpse is against some rule or other, no matter what my rationale.

The address isn’t much more than half a mile away, manageable on foot despite the rain. It’s too cold and wet to talk much, and as if by unspoken agreement, we leave Cat and the obituary for later.

If we have a later. The weight in my gut gets heavier with every step.

Our destination turns out to be an old Victorian, complete with gingerbread and a turret, and near the door there’s a small plaque.

SPAM Headquarters

TTGB Division

Damon points at it. “What?”

“Fuck if I know,” I say, and I ring the doorbell.

Micah answers. His smile is warm but his eyes are wary. He’s in full rockabilly mode; tall hair, Western shirt with embroidery and pearl buttons, and biker boots. “Come in. Brandon’ll be here in a minute.”

He leads us past an empty reception desk and into a decent-sized conference room. There’s a single table, its turned legs and art nouveau flowers carved into the apron dating it to about the same year as the house. The chairs are more utilitarian, wooden with squared edges and leather seats. The walls are mostly bare, there’s an anemic-looking tree in a pot between two of the windows, and the place smells like wax and nervous sweat.

A light-skinned Black man sits at one end of the table. His eyes are green and his posture says he’s the one in charge. Micahintroduces him as Geordi. “He hasn’t seen Brandon work all that often and asked to sit in. I hope that’s okay.”

Damon and I share a glance. “Sure,” he says, since I’ve apparently lost the use of my mouth. Some unseen threat has me about ready to crawl out of my skin, and for once I want to heed Jett’s advice and follow my heart right on out of here. This Geordi dude and Micah are in on some kind of joke that Damon and I don’t share, and I don’t like it.

I can’t leave, though. Next to Geordi is a faint shadow. The murdered woman is hovering, almost visible, a reminder of why we’re doing—whatever it is we’re doing. Damon takes a seat so I grab the one next to him, accidentally-on-purpose edging close enough to feel the heat of his thigh against mine.

Another man comes in, a classic tech bro with a button-down shirt and hair that could use a trim. He gives Micah a guarded hello, then leans over to shake Geordi’s hand. “Surprised to see you here.”

Geordi smiles wide. “Wanted to see my main man work.”

The guy’s cheeks go pink, which amuses me. Micah introduces him as Brandon, and once Brandon chooses a seat, Micah takes one too, on the corner closest to the door.

I can think of a couple reasons he’d want to sit there. None of them are good.

With everyone in place, Geordi takes charge. “I’d like to welcome our guests and thank you both for bringing SPAM this interesting problem. As you probably know, Brandon is a necromancer.”

Nope. Didn’t know that. I didn’t even know necromancers were real. My eyes get wide but I manage to keep my expression otherwise calm.

“He has the ability to raise the dead and ask them questions,” Geordi continues. “With his skills and a little luck, we’ll be able to help you.”

Damon’s never going to believe that I DID NOT KNOW Micah’s friend was an actual necromancer.Fuck. I’m going to have to talk so, so fast.

“So,” Brandon says, laying his hands flat on the table. “Who do you need me to raise?”

Micah nods at me, so I take out the small box where I’d been keeping James Smith’s trimmings. “His name was James, and he passed away a few weeks ago. The thing is, he killed a woman back in the ’80s, and we’re trying to learn who she was.”

I slide the box toward Brandon. He rests a hand on it, his expression going blank. Or blanker. “What’s in this?”

“Nail and hair clippings.”