How much do you think you’d have to be paid to be a security guard at a cemetery? I asked Maggie.
I’m a jinn. I’m not really scared of the dead.
Not even the undead?
Only ghouls. They’re undead jinn.
Oh, that’s a pleasant thought. I considered the small amount of Maggie’s power she was able to use from within the ring and decided I didn’t want to see that in the hands of a vengeful undead.
Mean bastards, Maggie said. I’ve never had to tangle with one myself, but I’ve heard a pack of them can kill even the strongest ifrit. Ifrit were a class of powerful infernal spirits – a type of jinn to which Maggie was closely related.
I was about to reply when I felt her ring nudge me down a side path toward the northeast corner of the cemetery. I dodged another security guard, and within minutes I was standing before a marble mausoleum about the size of a one-car garage. I checked over my shoulder, then risked my Maglite.
The mausoleum was tucked into a space off the beaten path and behind several large trees. It was overgrown with moss and ivy, the lettering above the iron-grate door so worn it was impossible to read. Upon closer inspection, I found the door wasn’t locked or even closed all the way. A chain lay on the ground just inside the entrance, its links snapped rather than cut.
I took a hesitant step inside the mausoleum. There wasn’t a lot of space – just two stone sarcophagi in a dark, damp interior. It looked like something out of a vampire film, except with way less space. An old-fashioned light bulb sconce hung from the center of the ceiling. I couldn’t find a switch to turn it on, so I relied on my Maglite.
The sarcophagi had matching marble lids. One had the name Trevor carved into the top, while the other said Jacob. They were born in 1798. One died 1874, the other 1877.
Twins, I’m guessing, I said to Maggie. I wonder if that made it easier for the necromancer to raise them both. I did a quick examination of the lids and found scratches where lid met base. Definitely the right place. I set my Maglite on one sarcophagus and emptied my pockets beside it: a bag of draugr dust, a wooden stake, a two-pound iron ingot, and a thin piece of sturdy cord. I eyed the assortment dubiously. You sure this is going to work?
Oh, not at all. It’s not like I’ve tried all this shit out before – I found it in a book.
You’re really doing great things for my confidence. I leaned on the lid of the opposite sarcophagus and began to work it open. It scraped and screeched until I’d managed to get it as far off as possible without it falling off the side. I grimaced at the sound and listened carefully for either Maggie’s warning or the shout of a security guard. Taking a deep breath, I snatched up the Maglite and shone it inside.
The draugr lay peacefully in repose, arms stretched out at its side. It looked like a fairly ordinary corpse at first glance, but a closer look revealed that the flesh clinging to its bones was far too robust, the skin almost pink rather than black with age. An inexperienced eye would claim that the body laying before them had only been dead a short time, not a hundred and fifty years.
It says here, Maggie intoned, that draugr raised by a powerful necromancer are impossible to kill permanently unless you find their resting place.
What the hell are you reading from?
It’s called The Weary Dead, and it’s by some court physician. Fourteenth century, I think. It says that draugr will grow in strength each time you destroy its physical form. By virtue of its master’s magic, it will reassemble itself in its grave and become stronger and stronger each time it does so. By the third time it rises – which will be in a couple of days – its flesh will appear almost human, and it will have access to black magic, including shapeshifting, the force of wind, and control over lesser animals.
Okay, then. We should kill it ASAP.
Stop interrupting; I’m almost finished. The draugr’s fury will increase each time it is destroyed, blah-blah-blah, and it will stop at nothing to accomplish its master’s will so that it may be released to terrorize the world. Huh.
So that explains why they tried to kill me even with Nick being locked up and out of the picture.
Yup.
All right, let’s do this. I leaned over, wooden stake in one hand, and tapped the draugr on the forehead. It didn’t move. You sure it’s not getting up?
Not until we make it.
Good. I set aside the stake and picked up the cord, reaching underneath the lid to feel with one hand along the draugr’s shin, ankle, and foot. I grasped him first by one big toe, then by the other. This is really gross, I said.
You’re fine. It’s just an undead body.
Undead bodies are gross.
Maggie began to hum the way she does when she’s absently flipping through the pages of a book. Hey, this is cool. John D. Rockefeller is buried here.
The oil tycoon? I asked.
One and the same.
No kidding. Jesus, this is hard to tie.
The guy who invented the Salisbury steak is buried here too.
I should stop and pay my respects. I ate nothing but microwave dinners for most of my childhood.
That explains a lot.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Ah! Got it. I successfully finished looping the cord around the draugr’s toes and tied a one-handed knot before extricating myself from the sarcophagus and dusting off the sleeve of my hoodie. I took the iron ingot and laid it on the draugr’s chest. What now?
Now we wake him up.
A cord and a piece of iron are gonna keep him from trying to rip my face off again?
We should need only one of them, but I figured insurance wasn’t a bad idea.
You know he has hands, right? He can just untie the cord and move the ingot.
Not according to this. Trust me, this kind of thing works on all sorts of Other.
Man, magic sure is dumb sometimes, I said. I took one of the bags of draugr dust and sprinkled it on the body – along with bits of my ruined truck and some road gravel – then took Maggie’s ring and pressed the ruby against the draugr’s forehead.
The draugr immediately took a long gasp, like a man coming up for air after a long dive. It began to tremble violently, rasping and hissing, and I leapt back against its brother’s sarcophagi and let the creature thrash. Thanks to the narrow width of its resting place, it was able to do little more than flail its bony arms upward. I pointed my Maglite at it and took a cautious look inside to see that it indeed remained pinned to the sarcophagus floor by the iron. Its eyes fixed on the flashlight. Eyes. Those were new.