Harold made another swipe.
Sometimes there was just no reasoning with dead people.
Griffin was halfway home when Jemma’s scream pierced his consciousness. His muscles seized. Pushing through the murky haze of her panic, he tried to zero in on the source of the threat against Jemma. It came to him. Not in a mental image but a phantom scent. His stomach pitched. “Oh, fuck no.” Fear surging through his bloodstream, he stomped on the gas pedal, nearly fishtailing on the wet asphalt. His heart remained lodged in his throat for the excruciating eight minutes it took to reach home. Screeching to a halt in the driveway, he threw the Pathfinder into park and leapt from the vehicle.
The front door of the house stood wide open. He thundered into the entry and was greeted by the crash of breaking glass echoing down the hall. Adrenaline pumped to high gear, he raced toward the sound, barely registering the muddy footprints leading to his bedroom. The zombie had Jemma pinned to the wall with a ThighBlaster, of all things. With a strangled roar, Griffin hurtled over the splintered shards of mirror littering the carpet and knocked the corpse to the floor. He flattened himself against the flailing creature and slammed its head down. Angry growls rumbled from the zombie as it chomped through the carpet fibers.
Griffin risked a quick peek in Jemma’s direction. Other than looking terrified out of her skull, she seemed to be in possession of all her body parts. “Is this the only one?”
Jemma remained frozen in place. The corpse beneath him bucked wildly, howling.
“Damn it. Jemma, are there any more?”
“N-no.” She took a step forward, her teeth chattering.
“Good, then go get me a shovel out of the garage.”
Fortunately she didn’t wait around to ask why. The second she scurried from the room, he gripped the zombie’s head in both hands and snapped its neck. Relieved he didn’t have to explain to Jemma how he managed that feat so effortlessly, he sat on the zombie’s torso. The corpse still fought for dominance but at least having no control of its neck muscles slowed it down.
Jemma sprinted back into the room a few seconds later, a spade clenched in her fist. “I couldn’t find a shovel.”
“Doesn’t matter. Bring that here.”
She did and he grabbed the handle. He gave her an apprehensive look when she didn’t back away. “Sweetheart, I doubt you want to see this.”
“W—what are you going to do?”
“Sever its head. It’s the only way to completely stop it.”
Her complexion went as white as chalk. Gulping, she turned and stumbled from the room. Griffin stood. Planting his foot in the middle of the zombie’s back, he hacked the spade through the corpse’s neck, putting a permanent end to its second lease on life. He tossed the garden tool aside and went in search of Jemma. She was perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her upper body and trembling violently. Loping to the couch, he scooped her into his arms. She leaned into him, still shaking, and he rocked her gently until the tremors quieted.
Her hand curled into his shirt, and she clutched him like he was her last link to reality. “What the hell is going on, Griff? Dead people don’t come back to life and attack their relatives for no good reason. That sort of stuff only happens in Stephen King novels or low-budget B movies. Right?”
He stopped stroking her back as her statement registered. “Relative?” Tipping his gaze down, he caught the disbelief swimming in the blue depths of Jemma’s irises. “Are you saying that zombie was a family member?”
“It was Uncle Harold.”
Oh shit. He’d just lopped off her uncle’s head. Sure, not like he’d had any choice, but this definitely wasn’t a story he planned to recount at the next Finnegan family reunion. He extricated himself from Jemma’s limbs. “I think you need a drink.” Actually he did too, but there was a good chance they’d be taking a long road trip in the immediate future, which meant he needed to stay sober.
He crossed to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. After pouring two shots into a glass, he returned to Jemma. She took one look at the offering and shook her head. “I’d like to keep my wits about me in case any more of my dead relatives decide to stop by and say howdy. Or bite off my ear.”
“You’re safe for the time being. It’ll take at least a couple hours for the next grave to be unlocked and at least twice that long for its occupant to pick up your trail.”
She gaped at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He averted his gaze and instead stared out the adjacent window at the soggy landscape. This all had to be more than her mind could process, and it’d only become more overwhelming once she heard the whole story. But better for him to lay it on her now, before taking her to Clarissa. The Beaumont coven mistress didn’t have the patience to slowly ease people into anything.
Returning his attention to Jemma, he nodded his chin toward her glass. “Drink. You’ll need it for what I have to tell you.”
“Nothing’s going to shock me at this point. Compared to having my dead uncle try to take a chunk out of me, pretty much everything else pales in comparison.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Heaving a frustrated breath, Jemma took a sip from the whiskey and nearly choked on a rasping cough. “God, that’s awful.”
“Give it a sec.”
“Griff…please, I just need to understand what in the world is going on.” She looked at him, pleading, and his insides turned to mush. He’d always been her willing slave, incapable of denying her a damn thing. No point trying to change that status now.
“Jemma, you’re not who you think you are. You’re not what you think you are.”
Frown lines scrunched toward the bridge of her nose. She plunked the glass onto the coffee table. “What do you mean?”
“Your parents told you they adopted you from a young unwed mother. That’s only partly true. They didn’t tell you that the girl was living with a band of gypsies at the time and she wasn’t your actual mother.”
She stared at him mutely, her mouth hanging open.
Hell, if he didn’t know the entire truth, he’d find it unbelievable too. “Your real mother’s name was Lillian. She was murdered during an attempt to steal you. Lillian’s people put you in the care of the gypsies. They tried their best to protect you in the beginning, but it eventually became clear you needed a better cover.”
“A better cover for what?”
“Who you are.”
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth before shaking her head. “But I’m just me. Not anyone particularly important.”
Christ, she couldn’t have it more wrong. She was everything. And that was just in regards to him. Aside from that, her importance to the world was staggeringly scary. “You come from a long line of very powerful witches. Trust me, the untapped potential within you is mind-boggling.”
Her nose twitched, a tried-and-true warning that Jemma had an argument in the brewing stage. “Where are you coming up with this shit? So help me, if you’re fucking with me right now, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I’m not. And I know this stuff because I was assigned to watch over you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Griff, I’ve known you since college.”
“I was assigned to you then. Now do you want to know who you are or continue arguing instead?”
“I’m not argu—” She sighed, apparently clued in by the arching of his eyebrows. “Fine. Continue.”
“You were born Jemma Beaumont. Your grandmother—Rose Beaumont—was the founder and leader of the Beaumont coven in Savannah, Georgia.” He searched her face for any spark of recognition. Though Jemma had been separated from her coven sisters for nearly twenty-nine years, the magical connection she shared with them was strong. It wasn’t unheard of for coven members to mentally interact with each other over time and space. Perhaps she’d subconsciously communicated with them without realizing it.