Ryon posed the question in all of their minds—What the fuck is he?

The love child of Criss Angel and Adam Lambert? Jaxon tossed back.

His friend gave a soft snort that might’ve been a laugh. With a little Nikki Sixx thrown in, sure.

He couldn’t hear the others’ thoughts, only Ryon’s since he was the Telepath, but he imagined they were pretty much in agreement. He couldn’t tear his eyes off the kid, who was now searching the headstones. Carefully, Black picked his way up one row, down another. Oddly enough, he’d stop every so often, crouch, and trace the deceased person’s name that was carved into the granite. Sometimes the date of death, too, but never the date of birth. Weird.

What the hell was he looking for? It was almost as if he was considering each for some purpose, and was discarding them one by one. Yeah, that’s exactly what he was doing, but they’d have to wait to find out why.

This process continued for almost a half hour, the pack keeping as close as possible from their cover. Finally, Black’s fingers paused over the name of one Henry Ward, recently departed from the world. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and then let go of the stone to kneel beside the fresh grave. They watched in rapt fascination as he removed some items from the backpack and arranged them in a circle over the mound. Then he opened a vial, sprinkled a white powdery substance over the circle, and put the small container back into his pack. He began a low chant, hands spread palms-down above the mound.

At first, Jaxon thought whatever floats the freak’s boat. But in his profession he should’ve known better than to be so quick to dismiss the kid, especially given the power he wore like a mantle. After about fifteen seconds the earth began to tremble, vibrating the ground under their paws and shaking the very leaves on the trees. Jax and his brothers exchanged uneasy glances.

Tell me he’s not doing what I think he is.

But none of them could reassure Ryon that his suspicions weren’t on the money. Especially when the soil on top of the grave began to rise like a cake baking in an oven, splitting in the middle, the items that had formed the circle rolling down the sides. Through the split a hand appeared, gray and withered, gnarled from age and death. Then the skinny arm, followed by the head and shoulders of an old man with only a few silvery wisps of hair clinging stubbornly to his scalp.

My God, Jaxon projected to Ryon. The kid’s a Necromancer!

Oh, yes, but he’s much more than that.

Jaxon was afraid his friend was right, but they didn’t have time to speculate further. The ground seemed to give birth to the old man in a gruesome manner as he clawed from his former prison and sat on the edge of the seam in the earth, staring blankly at his liberator.

Still kneeling, the young man waved a hand at the corpse in a slow palm-out motion, and spoke, his voice ringing with authority. “Henry Ward, I command you to speak with me, to answer all of my questions truthfully so that I may return you to your eternal rest. State your full name for me so I know we’re ready to begin.”

Jax and his brothers were riveted to the scene.

The corpse blinked at him, the eyes little more than gooey pewter marbles in his skull. “Who . . .” The old man’s voice cracked and he coughed, apparently from using vocal cords that were never again supposed to be in working order. “Who are you? Why have you disturbed me?”

The Necromancer sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why do they always answer questions with questions?” He looked at the old man, redirecting him. “I’m Kalen Black. State your name, please.”

“Humph! Henry Allen Ward.” Henry glanced around, his confusion apparent. “Where am I? My daughter is expecting me for dinner and I’m going to be late.”

“No, Henry,” the young man said gently. “She’s not expecting you. Someone hit you over the head three weeks ago as you were walking home. Do you remember?”

Jaxon wondered where this was going. Had the kid killed the old man for his wallet or something, and now he needed to find out who might’ve seen the crime? But that didn’t seem right.

“I . . . Wait. Yes, I do.” The old man paused. “I bought milk and bread, and walked home. I had just enough time to get home and get ready for dinner. My Tina makes a great stroganoff.” He gave a gummy smile that was decidedly macabre in his hollow face.

The kid didn’t react to the sight. “I’m sure she does. But I have to ask you about what you saw right before you were hit on the head. You lived in a semirural area outside Cody, correct? Close enough to walk home but not many other houses on your road?”

“Yes.”

“And as you walked home that afternoon, your path took you past a side road where you saw something and went to investigate.”

“I did.”

Black leaned forward, intent. “What did you see, Henry? This is very important.”

The old man thought. “A truck—No, a van. Dark blue. Pulled into the trees. Thought it was odd cuz I never seen it before, so I walked that way. Maybe somebody had car trouble.”

“But they didn’t?”

“Nope. Two men were comin’ from the woods when I got to the van.” He frowned. “One had blood on his hands and I thought maybe they’d been hunting, but they didn’t have guns. The other man had a shovel. I asked what they were doin’, he swung it at my head, and that’s the last I knew.”

So the kid hadn’t done in the old man. Who had and why, and why was the Necromancer investigating the killing?

“Henry, can you describe the men?”

“Oh, middle-aged white fellas. In good shape, I guess. The one with the bloody hands was average-looking with dark brown hair. The one with the shovel had sandy hair.”

Not much help.

“Can you recall anything about how they were dressed?”

“Nah. Except one had on a blue polo shirt with something stitched above the pocket in white thread.”

“What was it? Think, Henry.”

“Uh, letters.”

“Like initials?”

“Yes. With a logo,” he recalled. “Three letters and under those, two hands holding a heart.”

“What were the letters?”

“Don’t know. Can’t remember.”

The young man blew out a breath. “Can you remember anything else, Henry? Anything at all?”

“No.” Henry looked at him, expression blank. “Can I go now? Tina’s expecting me for dinner.”

Jesus, it creeped Jaxon out how the dead man kept repeating stuff, and he felt sorry for the poor victim’s confusion, as though he couldn’t grasp his situation. Apparently it affected the Necromancer the same way, because he was looking at Henry in sympathy, his caring for the man’s plight etched on his face.

“Yes, Henry, you can go. And thank you.”

Black waved a hand, murmured a few words in a different language, and a translucent green smoke drifted toward Henry, swirled around him. The old man stiffened, and then mechanically lowered himself through the seam in the grave, bit by bit until he’d disappeared from sight. The kid repeated the procedure over the grave and more green mist shrouded the ground. Once again, tremors shook the earth and the dirt began to push inward, filling the seam, and in moments, the scar was repaired and nobody would be able to tell such an amazing thing had ever taken place.

Holy shit, I’ve never seen anything like that in my entire life.

Considering some of the shit Ryon had seen, that was saying a lot.

“Rest well, old man.” Pushing to his feet, Black brushed the dirt off the knees of his jeans and then suddenly turned without reaching for his backpack, his posture deceptively relaxed with his hands at his sides, and gazed directly at the spot where Jaxon and the other wolves were hidden in the darkness.

Or so they believed.

“Did you enjoy the show? Afraid I’ll find out who you are and why you murdered poor Henry? Or maybe you were just passing through the graveyard in the middle of the night, out on a romantic stroll.” The words were tossed as a challenge, laced with a touch of sarcasm. One thing was for sure—the kid wasn’t one bit afraid of who he might face.