Death Weeps Part 1

Death Weeps.

The Death Series.

by Tamara Rose Blodgett.

For Levi~ Who has great ideas and an old soul.

Thank you.

CHAPTER 1.

ten months ago.

The Judge looked at me, really looked at me. For once I didn't have a smart-a.s.s comment. They were there though, swirling around in my head like brain fog.

I stood beside my lawyer, who represented me in my case.

I was in trouble for using the dead as a weapon.

Bad monkey.

Gramps, Mom and Dad sat behind a thick bal.u.s.trade made of dense wood from a hundred years ago. They'd never use trees for that now.

It was easy for them to prove Death Intent. That I had it, that I'd used it.

Ya see, the courts had Empaths, all they had to do was give the accused a skin test and they knew the flavor of somebody's thoughts. Now, you'd think that the Empath could maybe lie about the accused. Nope. Cross-check, there was a second Empath from another district keeping them honest, as Gramps would say.

"Young man," the Judge began, his loose jowls flapping as he spoke, "you are aware of the seriousness of these allegations as they pertain to you, and the greater majority of paranormals?"

I nodded and his brows rose in question, waiting.

"The accused will respond with a yes or no answer," the Judge prompted.

"Yeah, I get it," I said.

"Yes or no," the Judge repeated in part.

"Yes," geez, bust my d.a.m.n b.a.l.l.s.

My attorney (a fancy pants dude my dad had snagged from the legal team that defended his company) stiffened beside me. Everyone was so tense, the reporters were barred from the proceedings because I was emanc.i.p.ated but still a student. They couldn't get inside; which meant they couldn't cover everything to death. They especially couldn't blow it out of proportion and then spew the c.r.a.p to the world.

Currently, they were outside the eight foot tall solid wood doors of the courtroom writhing around in their own bath of nosiness.

I got the crooked mouth thinking about it.

My attorney looked at me in horror.

Before the hysterical urge to Laugh at Inappropriate Times began, the courtroom door slammed open and Garcia, Gale and Clyde came in.

Immediately I felt calmer.

It's funny what having a corpse around will do for someone that's AFTD like myself. Five points plus. Life-transference was no longer a theory but a reality. Yeah, that's me. Sucking the life out of ya was no longer a turn of phrase.

It could happen.

It had.

The consequence of it was breathing down my neck. I saw the havoc of my decision every day in school.

Before I could think about it all the Judge nodded his head to the prosecuting attorney and said, "You may call your first witness."

The Prosecutor, who looked like he had something jammed up his a.s.s, turned to Officer Raul Garcia. "I call Officer Garcia as my first witness."

I rolled my eyes in a Tiff-worthy way. Wonderful. He was the arresting officer, he hated Clyde, he had a hard-on for Parker... he and Gale were on the outs.

I turned, watching Garcia walk up toward the small, swinging gate made of ancient old-growth wood, his eyes meeting mine with neutrality, the warmth, gone. You'd have thought that all eyes would be on his contained, six feet of measured athleticism as he strode to the witness chair, but they weren't.

Everyone was staring at Clyde. He was something to stare at, his hand entwined with Gale's, looking alive, so very alive. His mode of dress looked beyond wrong for the current era, a feeling of otherness moved around him, pus.h.i.+ng the very air of the room away, causing a rift of unnaturalness to those who were close, to those that knew.

Clyde was dead. He'd been dead since 1929. But here he was in the courtroom, called as witness. A brave Empath gunned for his inclusion based on her read. It had told her he had the higher reasoning to be called.

An undead witness. It had set a global precedence.

Finally, the eyes of the courtroom found their way back to Garcia, seated gracefully in the oversized chair that was stationed slightly below the Judge's podium-as-desk but higher than where my accused a.s.s was perched.

I sat there, my legs thrown out in front of me, slightly slouched in the chair, my b.u.t.t bones hurting from the unyielding wood of the chair (it had molded a.s.s divots, not that it helped). I wanted more than anything to release my neck from the bondage of the tie but left it where it lay. Appearances, ya know.

I could feel Clyde like a warm pulse at my back, soothing my raw nerves. That's what a few days in a cell will do for a guy.

Luckily I didn't fl.u.s.ter easy.

The Prosecutor made his stiff way toward Garcia, his beady eyes pegging him to the chair. Like Garcia would ever ruffle... he was an unflappable dude, that one.

I watched the prosecuting attorney fold his hands behind his back, his suit fitting him awkwardly across the shoulders as he began to pace back and forth in front of Garcia.

"Officer Garcia," he began, "please state for the jury in what capacity you serve the Kent Police Department."

Garcia took a deep breath and began, "I'm lead homicide in the Paranormal Crimes Division with a specialty in Juvenile."

Prosecutor smiled, apparently this was marvelous, I thought. His toothy grin looked a little like alligator-mouth from my vantage point.

"Excellent. Are you acquainted with the accused?"

"Yes," Garcia stated easily.

"In what manner?"

"I responded to a call from a juvenile about two years ago."

"What manner of call?"

Garcia's dark eyes flicked to the twelve people in the jury then answered, "Cemetery call." Two words, tersely delivered.

"Why would you go to the cemetery?"

Garcia wiped his hands against the perfectly creased uniform pants he wore. "There'd been a zombie sighting. The caller a.s.sumed she saw a corpse."

"Were those allegations valid?"

Garcia tensed. "No. We saw no proof to that effect."

"Yet," Prosecutor whirled, throwing his palm out.

Towards Clyde.

"There the undead sits. Clearly, zombies are a new reality."

"Is that a statement or a question?" Garcia asked Prosecutor.

My crooked mouth, held in check, broke into a grin. Garcia was getting snarky with old crocodile mouth.

Prosecutor narrowed his eyes on Garcia, having to rethink his supposition that this was a dumb cop he was dealing with. Garcia was a few things but dumb wasn't a part of his package.

The Judge turned to Prosecutor. "Exactly where are you going with this counselor? We are aware that zombies exist. Clearly the accused, as a 5-point Affinity for the Dead, is keenly aware." He c.o.c.ked a bushy eyebrow, the hair in so many directions it looked like caterpillars were above his eyes.

Yeah, I was pretty aware.

"Humor me please, if you will, Your Honor."

"Be quick about it then."

Prosecutor inclined his head, turning to Garcia once more. "There is a trend with Mr. Hart perpetrating crimes which involve the undead, then your subsequent response to those crimes."

"Objection!" my attorney called out. "Alleged crimes."

Prosecutor smiled, his big teeth gleaming with a yellow cast under the old-fas.h.i.+oned fluorescent. Grandfathered bulbs, I thought randomly.

"Alleged," he conceded.

"I will ill.u.s.trate and tie together the sequence of events which will clearly show Mr. Hart's premeditated crimes."

"Objection!" my attorney said, leaping from his chair, the sound of it sliding backward grating across the floor, blaring into the silent courtroom like a mechanical shout.

The Judge turned to Prosecutor, his crawling eyebrows jacking down over his eyes.

Uh-huh. Prosecutor p.i.s.sed in the Judge's Wheaties.

He swiveled that stare to the stenographer, "Strike that last, Eileen."

"Yes, Your Honor."

Silence fell on the courtroom. Prosecutor turned again to Garcia. "Please outline each instance when you responded to a call in which Mr. Hart was involved."

Garcia did. I watched the jury go from bored witnesses to engaged and curious. They looked at me.

They looked at Clyde.

When Garcia had finished, the courtroom was quiet then the Judge turned to Garcia. "You're free to go Officer Garcia."

He slammed his gavel down on the solid wood of his beefy throne and said, "Next witness."

"The people call Clyde Thomas."

Clyde rose from his position, and I turned to catch his eyes.

They were already on me. Deeply green, muddied, like moss on the forest floor, he stared into mine.

Then winked.

A grin broke over my face and as Clyde came forward a surge of death energy rolled over me, embracing me in its familiar comfort. The anxiety of being here, accused of Death Intent and the "lesser" atrocity of using the undead as a weapon, rolled away under the weight of my ability.

Affinity for the Dead.

Clyde was so graceful but there was something that lurked underneath the surface of his body, the rot-gone. The zombie strength boiled where no one could see it, his intensity and strength underscored by his focus as he strode to the witness chair. He turned, pivoted smoothly and sat, running a hand down the front of trousers that looked like some kind of itchy wool blend. Prosecutor had backed up when he came and now he pressed forward.

Clyde gave him untroubled eyes while the Judge outright stared.

It was worth that. It wasn't every day you'd get a zombie in your courtroom as witness.

Prosecutor turned to the Judge. "Some lat.i.tude Judge?"

"Very little, counselor," the Judge said, his eyes like raisins pushed into fleshy dough, trained on gangly Prosecutor.

Prosecutor frowned. Then he turned those baleful eyes to me. "I would ask that Caleb Hart compel his zombie to be fully truthful so that we may have an unfettered and true account of the events of two weeks ago."

"Objection!" my attorney ranted. The crooked mouth was so hanging around for the duration because he was so lawyer-in-a-box about the whole deal.

"I'll allow it," Jowly Judge said. I had to tip my head to my breastbone to keep a hysterical fit from starting. I bit the inside of my mouth. When I looked up Clyde gave me a knowing Mona Lisa smile.

It about did me in.