Kiss of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 1)

12

“Malt vinegar.”

Maggie looked up across the table at the priest who had spoken. “Pardon?”

“Malt vinegar.” He smirked and gestured at the giant puddle of ketchup she had poured out onto her plate for her fries. “That’s what you want. Not that American tomato slop.”

“Isn’t malt vinegar a British thing?”

“Mmhm.” He sipped his coffee. It was nine at night, but he had still ordered hot coffee with his tuna melt. They had gone to a little diner to get some food, as she was starving. She had ordered a burger and fries, which was always her go-to favorite for comfort food.

And she needed some comfort. But at least quizzing Rinaldo gave her a momentary distraction. “Aren’t you Italian?”

“I’m a mongrel. Been everywhere, lived everywhere.” He shrugged. “Usually in my line of work, people don’t live as long as I have.” He pointed at a large purple blotch on the side of his jaw. He said it was courtesy of Gideon when Rinaldo tried to kidnap her. “They keep trying to get me to retire. Or take a desk job. I refuse.”

“Why?”

“I like my job. I’m not good at anything else.”

“Which is…what exactly? Hunting down monsters and killing them?” She frowned down at her plate. She was pretty damn sure she was on that list.

“Hunting down monsters and stopping them.” He smiled. “Or at least making sure they aren’t doing any harm. There are a lot of creatures in this world that just want to go about their merry, weird little lives. Met a bog witch once who just wanted to start an Etsy store and sell plants.”

She laughed at the idea. “I figured the church would have problems with monsters.” Like me. Jumping into the car with Rinaldo was probably not the smartest choice she had ever made, but at the time, she hadn’t known what else to do.

Harry was one of Gideon’s things.

He had known the entire time what was going on, and he had hidden it from her. All those nights spent sitting in his apartment, laughing, and watching movies. Sure, it had only been a few months of friendship—but it had felt real.

“Oh, it does. Or it used to. Things have changed a lot in the past decade. That bog witch? Vatican gave her a pass since she had no deaths on her hands. I helped her set up her internet and then left. Nice lady. I still have the cactus she gave me.”

“I’m so happy that a monster-hunting secret society of Catholic fighter-priests is learning to be more progressive.” She rolled her eyes.

Rinaldo laughed and leaned back against the pleather upholstery of the diner booth. A portion of the faded red surface had cracked over the years. Someone had tried to repair it with duct tape at some point. The tape was gone, but the sticky residue pattern still somehow remained. The split opened as he moved. “You’re a bitey one, aren’t you?”

“Keep your hand away from my face, and I guess you won’t have to find out.” She swirled another French fry through the ketchup and ate it. He was right, she supposed she was after the vinegar in the ketchup more than she was after the tomato. Probably why she always used so much of it.

“To answer your sarcastic jab, no, we’re not more progressive. At least not on paper. But what we are is dwindling. Can’t spend lives fighting things not worth killing. We don’t have the manpower we used to.”

“Why not?”

Rinaldo sighed. “There was…an incident here in Boston, a few years back. It caused a bit of a schism in the Order. Some stayed, some quit. I stayed. So, now we pick and choose our fights. If a monster isn’t doing harm? It gets a pass.”

“What kind of schism?”

He smirked. “It’s a long story, but a good one. I’ll tell it to you on the plane.”

“Whoa—hold up. Plane?” She shook her head. “No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He leaned his arms on the table and eyed her narrowly. “You know what Gideon is now. You know what he’s done. He’s been playing you this entire time—pretending to be your doctor. Pretending to treat you. Keeping you in the dark. If we stay here, you’re in danger. Besides. I need you to draw that thing you carved onto the table. We need to know what it is, and why it’s important. And to do that, we need to go to the archives.”

“Archives? Like…at the Vatican?” She arched an eyebrow.

“No, it’s in Tallahassee.” It was his turn to layer the sarcasm on thick. “Yes, the Vatican.”

She began to bounce her leg nervously. “Look, I—I don’t think that’s a very good idea. It won’t be safe for me. I think I’m…I’m…”

“Undead.”