The sight of a necromancer on my sidewalk has never been a good thing. Now, a dozen or so are lining the walk. They stand in between the road and my walkway, and—perhaps more importantly—they block access to the ward that surrounds my house.
What little hope I had left shrivels.
Malcolm doesn’t bother to brake. He lets the car coast to a stop. It does so directly in front of my house. There, Orson is standing, and everything about the well-tailored suit, the starched white shirt, and the polished dress shoes exudes smugness. This is a man who knows he’s won.
“Huh,” Malcolm says. “He looks like crap.”
He does? I mouth, “Really?”
“Look at his hair. It’s a bad dye job, or maybe Grecian Formula. He’s lost weight, but not in a good way.”
I look again, and beneath the shiny exterior, I see
