Rattle Read online

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Olivia R. Burton

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-410-4

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Katelyn Uplinger

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This book is for me because it’s been a sucky few years.

  RATTLE

  A Preternatural PNW novel, 1

  Olivia R. Burton

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  Finn liked to refer to himself as “drop dead sexy” but he’d never before meant it literally. Even when Mrs. Beatrice Elwood let out a burbling death rattle in the middle of his striptease, he just assumed she was really enjoying herself.

  Giving his narrow hips another wiggle, he jiggled his shoulders like a showgirl, flicked open the top button of the salmon shirt Beatrice had bought him, and whipped around to catch her eye as he circled his middle finger in a whorl of chest hair peeking through his collar. Mrs. Elwood remained stubbornly still at the show he put on, and Finn frowned—pouted really—giving his ass another shake.

  “Come on, love,” he begged in his flavorful Irish voice, “give us a wink.” In case she needed a demonstration, he winked her way, dropped both hands to his belt and tried to draw her gaze up to his pale baby blues. She remained hunched to the side, her line of sight focused somewhere around his upper thigh. He couldn’t blame her, really. Finn felt he had pretty shapely thighs.

  He started to realize something wasn’t right as he yanked the belt through the loops of his trousers, folded it in thirds, and slapped that same shapely thigh. She didn’t react.

  “Bea? You all right?” Still no response. “Love?”

  He probably should’ve known immediately what the issue was. The dead were his specialty. Well, one of them. Finn liked to talk of how he had a great many talents—from the art of seduction to picking pockets—though he would admit raising corpses to do his bidding fell somewhere at the far end of the spectrum. If he was being perfectly honest—something he only ever did with himself—he had much more success using his hands on living bodies than on the dead.

  He’d been bitten and chewed on a great many times, but only the living left him with marks he wanted to show off.

  Death hadn’t been part of the plan. He would never have agreed to kill Beatrice Elwood. He’d just been hired to seduce her, gain access to her safe, and bring back her valuables to the woman in charge. Now he stood in front of a corpse, his shirt unbuttoned to his navel, his belt in his hands and, after a few more seconds of silent contemplation, with his oversized pants plummeting down around his ankles.

  “Bollix.”

  Taking a deep breath, Finn considered his options. He could always be honest with Angelina, let her know that he couldn’t finish the job she’d sent him on because of the sad happenstance of death. She’d have to understand, Finn thought. She knew very well what he looked like, knew exactly how attractive he was with his pale skin, dark hair and slim build, angular features and long fingers. Any woman who could see him—straight or not—would understand that his looks were serious business, that he was a weapon if used incorrectly.

  Really, Bea’s death was Angelina’s fault. She should’ve found someone a few shades less attractive to send in to play sex toy for the old woman. Perhaps she’d even apologize to Finn if he gave her the chance.

  “Oh sexy boy,” Finn intoned in his best impression of an American accent, “I shouldn’t have sent you in there. I should have kept you to myself, tied up in my own bed.”

  Finn paused, giggling to himself at the image and then shook his head. Wouldn’t work. Angelina was a businesswoman. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the power of his charm, but they’d made a deal and he’d failed to keep up his end of it. If he didn’t step out of the house either with the old lady on his arm or with a bag full of riches, he was going to be in trouble.

  They’d let him run around shopping and dining at the country club with Beatrice Elwood for five weeks, but his deadline had been three. The last time he’d snuck out to meet Angelina to give her an update, she’d threatened to cut off his—well, he didn’t want to think about that, but it would’ve seriously ruined the rest of his chances at seducing Beatrice into giving him access to her safe.

  Finn rolled his gaze back to Bea’s slack face, feeling a small pang of sadness for her. She’d been nothing but good to him in the month they’d been together. She bought him clothes, fed him well, and left him to himself during the day while she indulged in her hobbies or met with her bevy of accountants and lawyers. She’d been smart and kind, canny enough to warn him up front that if he thought he was going to get his name in her will he had another thing coming.

  He should have told Angelina after week one that he couldn’t get her what she wanted, but he’d decided to push his time with Bea as far as he could before Angelina came sniffing about.

  “And now you’re a goner, aren’t you, love?” Finn crouched in front of Bea, ran his gaze over her hunched, plump body and considered his options. Angelina would want to pick the place clean, sending her burly goons and alluring lieutenants to pull everything off the walls, drill into every secret compartment, and grab every shiny bauble in sight for themselves. She’d been looking for something specific—she wouldn’t tell him what, and he hadn’t asked—but that wouldn’t stop her from ripping off the old lady’s corpse if he gave her the chance.

  Finn frowned at the idea, wishing better for the elderly woman who’d taken him in and bought him nice clothes. Wishing better for himself, come to think of it.

  “You got some twine, Bea?” Finn asked, pushing to his feet. It was only five in the evening; he had a few hours until Angelina would expect him to report in. If he got moving, he might be able to save both himself and Bea’s shiny baubles.

  ****

  Pile of purple yarn at his feet, scissors dangling from his pinky finger, Finn tied the final bow around Beatrice’s neck, giving her round face a small pat with his palm before leaning back and admiring his work. He’d folded her skirt up just enough to reveal her shins, though not enough to make her indecent, tied a loop around both ankles, both wrists, and finally around her throat, though that had taken some doing. Rigor hadn’t set in, and her head kept flopping forward, her chin bumping his knuckles.

  “Gimme a minute, love,” he mumbled, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear him yet, and slid the handle of the tiny sewing scissors off his pinky. He really hated the next part, but it had to be done. Steeling himself, he slurped up a deep breath, held it tight, and jabbed the delicate points into the tip of his middle finger. He cursed excessively while waiting for the blood to well enough, and he reached forward to blot each string with a drip, making sure the purple string darkened with his life force. Once her strings were done, he moved on to the loops he’d tied around each of the fingers on his right hand.

  The air snapped around him with every dab and he let out a shaky breath, tucking his finger into his mouth to suck at the wound.

  It felt like a violation to bring her back, even temporarily. The dead sometimes minded, sometimes not. He’d come across a fair amount of corpses old enough that they could barely form a sentence, let alone raise a fuss about Finn stuffing his magic inside them and making them do as he pleased. Bea hadn’t been dead thirty minutes, though, and they’d been friends, lovers, and she’d cared for him in her own way.

  “Up you go,” he mumbled, half to himself before getting to his feet, lifting his hand and clearing his throat. Nerves jolted through him, as they usually did right before the dead came to, and he mumbled the words he’d been taught as a child, jerking his middle finger up with each one. “Rattaa. Istell.”

  A vibration ran through Beatrice as something tugged at Finn’s heart like a string. He stepped forward with the force, letting out a small grunt at the unnatural feeling, and found himself toe-to-toe with the dead woman as she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

  “Brian,” she said, blinking as she caught sight of him. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

  “Bad news, love,” Finn said, crouching down to bump his knees against hers—she wouldn’t feel it—to get level with her. “You’ve died, passed away, kicked the bucket. Good news is that I’m here to help.”

  “Died?” Bea’s spotted face went cynical. “Dear, is this one of your games? You know I don’t like roleplay as much as you do.”

  “No game. You’re dead. Just try to move your arms.”

  Bea watched him for a moment, still convinced he was playing with her. It was his fault, really. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d pulled down her curtains and draped them over his shoulders to surprise her in her bedroom wearing nothing but, swishing about pretending to be royalty there to seduce Princess Beatrice.

  But this was serious. She really was dead and she was going to have to get used to that pretty quickly if he was going to get out of the place in one piece.

  Or at least with the piece of himself Angelina had threatened to cut off.

  He felt the change when Bea realized somethin
g was wrong. It was always this way with the dead. Once his magic had slid inside to animate them, he could feel the subtle changes in their mood, figure out their motivations before they acted on them. Worry tinged Bea’s features and she dipped her head to look over her still form.

  “Brian,” she repeated, her voice hard. “What have you done to me?”

  “What do you last remember, love?”

  “Don’t call—”

  “Beatrice, please.” Leaning in, letting her get an eyeful of his pretty face, he put his free hand to her cheek. “Have I ever hurt you? Have I ever lied to you?”

  The answers were “no” and “yes” respectively, but as far as she was concerned, they were both “no.” He let the question take a moment to sink in before he felt her worry shift toward something else. If he was lucky, it would land on acceptance.

  “You remember my little dance, yes? I’d just about gotten to the good part—you know,” he winked. “Where I take off my trousers? And you slumped over, maybe had a heart attack? A stroke?” He waved his free hand through the air. “It’s past, we need to move on. You’re dead, love. But I need your help.”

  “I can’t move,” Beatrice said, her gaze dropping to her legs once again. “I can talk, but I can’t move.”

  “I can fix that,” Finn said, giving her an encouraging smile, gesturing carefully with his right hand. “But you’ve got to promise not to bite me.”

  Her eyes snapped to his once again and her lips quirked up slightly. “You adore when I bite you.”

  “That I do, but in your current state it can get a bit messy.”

  “You’ve had a dead person bite you before?” she asked, her tone wry. She was still not quite there, hadn’t stepped through the door of acceptance, but he could feel her closing in. Just another step, maybe two and he could shove her over the threshold.

  “You know that scar on my arse?” He stood, twisted enough to give a little wiggle in case she needed reminding. And, since he was honest with himself, because he enjoyed it. “It wasn’t the kind of biting I usually enjoy. It was a dead man, though he’d been gone a fair bit longer than you.”

  Beatrice let her gaze hang for a moment, before she brought it back up to his face. Finn recognized her small smile as one she often gave when joking about her impending mortality, but there was a crease in her brow that made her look sad rather than playful.

  “Well, I’ve always told you I must’ve sold my soul to get lucky enough to meet you. The devil’s just finally come to collect.”

  “He’ll be after me next if I don’t get something from you.”

  She sighed, and Finn wondered if she questioned the action, seeing as how she didn’t need to breathe, and all.

  “You want my money.”

  “Not all of it,” Finn assured her, crouching down again. Careful not to wiggle his right fingers, he set both hands on her knees, smiling into her face. “Just, you know, some things around the house I might be able to fence. I’ve got, ehm, some less than savory people after me. It’d be a big help if I could, you know, take some jewelry or some cash. Maybe you’ve got a priceless, you know, something-or-other you wouldn’t mind parting with?”

  He recognized her expression, even without feeling the pity behind it. She felt sorry for him, thought him stupid. He’d seen that face many a time, though he usually didn’t mind it much. People underestimate stupid. Angelina had.

  “All right, sweetheart. Let me up and I’ll give you some things to take with you. But you need to let me tie up some loose ends first.”

  “You’re a peach,” Finn said, leaning in to kiss her thin lips. They hadn’t even gone noticeably cold yet.

  Chapter Two

  Finn had emptied the contents of Bea’s safe into a duffle bag, crammed as many of his nice new clothes as he could fit into his ratty old backpack, and waited Beatrice out as she wrote some notes on her computer. He’d encouraged her to keep the notes brief, to make sure they didn’t look like she’d known death was coming, but she’d brushed him off. At eighty-seven, she’d told him, you can’t help but figure Death’s hanging around the yard, just waiting to climb in the window and take you out.

  On one last look around the bedroom he’d called his own for a month, he sighed, wished he’d had more time. It was a good gig, having a sugar mama. He was sad he hadn’t thought of it on his own. Maybe he’d try to find another once he was free of Angelina’s crosshairs.

  “You ready Bea?” Finn asked as he stepped down onto the landing. The bags were loaded in the trunk, Bea had put on her best dress, and Finn was ready to play his part in front of Angelina’s goons.

  “As I’ll ever be, I suppose,” she said with another sigh. He realized he was going to miss her, too. Not just the fancy house and the consistent access to food—something he hadn’t always been blessed with—but her. She was stern, but she cared.

  That was something else he hadn’t always had.

  “Let’s go then, love.” He twitched his thumb and pinky, letting life—for lack of a better word, he thought—flow into her legs, and gestured toward the far hallway. “We’ll take the Lexus, if you don’t mind.”

  “I would have thought you’d go for the Ferrari,” she said as she passed by him, her movements just a touch stiff. For once, it wasn’t due to age. “That’s your favorite. I’d give it to you if I hadn’t already promised it to my great-grandson.”

  “And I appreciate that, but I do need to keep a low profile. Come now. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

  “I know you will.”

  ****

  Fully aware that Angelina’s man Rutherford—she did like to give them fancy names, even when they were too stupid to spell them—watched him intently, Finn snuggled up hard against Bea’s corpse. She was gone, fled from her body the second he’d untied the string round her neck, but Rutherford didn’t have to know that.

  As far as the beefy oaf was concerned, Beatrice and Finn were just sharing a moment on a park bench, huddled against the cold in dim light. Finn wasn’t worried Rutherford might not notice that it was only Finn’s breath that fogged the air.

  Tucking all five of Bea’s strings into his inner breast pocket, Finn prepared for his big performance.

  His first instinct was to ham it up, to really flex his acting chops until they snapped, but he resisted. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself any more than he had to. He needed to get into the car, make it look natural and then peel out of the park before Rutherford could get back to his own nondescript sedan and follow.

  “Oh you’re cold?” Finn sat up, keeping his eyes on Bea’s face. She looked older in the poor light from the street lamp and it nearly made him falter. “No, no, love. I’ll get your other coat.” He smiled as if she’d said something sweet, winked at her, and leaned in to pretend to kiss her nose. He didn’t dare touch her face; he’d made sure she was bundled up tight before setting her free, but if his kiss made her head loll back, the jig would be up.

  “You stay here, I’ll be back in a flash.” Hopping to his feet, he flicked his gaze toward Rutherford, watched the big man shift in the shadows. Finn let himself jog a few steps before faltering and turning as if he’d heard Bea say something. He smiled, laughed, shook his head. “You’re terrible, love. Just stay bundled up, I’ll be back.”

  Despite the fact that he wanted to run as fast as he could, slide over the hood like an eighties movie cop, and throw himself into the driver’s seat, he took his time, knowing Rutherford was watching, knowing the bald idiot was suspicious already.

  Finn went to the trunk first, digging around in the decoy paper sacks he’d tucked in to hide his getaway bags and then stood, eyeing the trunk as if it confused him. Slamming the trunk, he stepped around to the passenger’s side, leaned in as if searching for something. He took his time, making it look as natural as he could, keeping an eye on Rutherford through the back window. When the bigger man seemed to settle back against the tree, his lighter flicking to life at the end of a cancer stick, Finn climbed all the way into the car, leaving the door open to give himself extra time, and dropped his sexy ass right into the driver’s seat.