Home Improvement: Undead Edition

one day be able to afford a corporeal servant.

The nervous wizard slowly descended the circular staircase to the first floor, then stopped abruptly when he saw the burglar in the foyer. Broahm pressed his back to the wall, clinging to the shadows. Moonlight streamed in from the small round window in the front door, barely illuminating the crouched figure. The burglar’s head was wrapped to hide his identity, only a narrow slit in the fabric for the eyes. Soft leather boots. A short, fat sword on his belt.

The burglar had yet to move beyond the foyer. He kept looking through the loupe, scanning the floor, looking up at the ceiling. What was he looking for?

The eldritch lines, Broahm realized. The burglar knew there was a security system, and the fact that he couldn’t see the eldritch lines was confounding him. Soon the burglar would stumble upon the truth. The stupid homeowner had simply not activated the security. And when the burglar figured this out, he would move into the rest of Broahm’s home and loot all of the rare and expensive items Broahm had just spent a small fortune replacing.

Unless Broahm acted fast.

He began uttering the words to a flame spell. Fry the son of a bitch.

He bit his tongue.

No. It was a common offensive spell. A burglar with a wizard’s loupe would know what he was up against. Likely he had some protective shielding. There was no way to know this, naturally, but Broahm would have one chance at surprise, and he needed to make the most of it. The dagger suddenly felt very heavy in his hand.

Broahm was not accustomed to wet work. One of the distinct perks of being a wizard was that in combat situations, at least in the very few battles in which he’d participated, he could cast his spells from a distance, far from sword points and bone-crushing maces. But Broahm’s dagger, in this situation, might be the best bet. He’d had it for years, and it was spelled against armor and eldritch shields and had the best chance to penetrate.

The burglar turned his back, examining the front door with the wizard’s loupe.

Now! While his back is turned! Go! Now!

Broahm flew down the stairs, the silence spell muting his footfalls. He nearly tangled himself in his robes, righted himself, and hit the first-floor landing at a full run, dagger in front of him ready to strike.

The burglar turned and saw Broahm running flat-out toward him. His eyes went big in the fabric slit of his mask as his hand fell to his sword.

Broahm swept the dagger forward with everything he had. The tip sliced through the burglar’s throat. A garbled yell died in the rush of blood. The blood—

—sprayed—

—drops landing in the open mouth of the silver wolf’s head on the door.

Panic flashed up Broahm’s spine. No!

Intelligence. One had to have the right sort of brain to be a wizard. Intelligence, yes, but not just any ordinary sort of intelligence would do. A wizard needed to take in a situation, appraise, analyze, decide, all in an instant. Broahm was at least above average with this sort of intelligence, and so he saw immediately what had happened and what it meant. The blood had sprayed, droplets scattering in an arc. Droplets landing in the mouth of the wolf’s head.

Not Broahm’s blood.

The burglar clutched his throat, blood oozing between his fingers as he went down, flopping on the ground, kicking, trying to stop the blood flow coming from his open throat, but it just kept coming, and he was on the floor of the foyer, the blood pooling and flowing out like it might never stop.

But all Broahm could see were the few drops that had sprayed into the wolf’s mouth, the droplets that would activate the house’s security system. The blood of the person who’d be safe. Not Broahm’s blood.

Broahm was screwed.

He panicked, went for the front door, grabbed the knob. It burned his hand, and he jerked back. Just like that, the security system had been activated.

His house. Against him.

Not thinking, he walked backward into the foyer, backing away fast from the front door, hand going up to his mouth. He sucked the burn, wincing, and even in that split second remembered the house’s defenses, the security he’d paid big gold for only a few months ago.

He wrenched his hand from his mouth and spat the syllables for the iron skin spell a split second before the poison darts launched. The darts bounced off his face and arms with metallic tinks, his skin turning iron just in the nick of time.

Flustered, he stumbled into the kitchen and thrust his burned hand into a bucket of cold water. Relief brought clarity. The house. What was next? It would detect that he’d survived the darts and activate the—

“Grrrrrraaaaaaaaarrrrr . . .”

Broahm spun to see the zombie lurching toward him.

Broahm had thought it funny at the time. What were the odds? A zombie bear. The hulking beast came at him, claws out, eyes vacant, mouth and fangs ready to rip him to shreds.

Broahm dove to the floor as the claws raked the counter where he’d been a moment before, splitting the bucket in two, splashing water all over the kitchen floor.

Now Broahm did cast the flame spell, hand extended toward the zombie animal, flames shooting from his fingertips, curling around the creature, the patchy fur that remained on its body catching fire. The zombie bear roared but turned on Broahm and kept coming.

Broahm ran from the kitchen, back through the foyer and up the stairs.

Two things. The zombie bear behind him, and whatever the security system would do to him on the second floor.

The zombie bear came after him slowly. As Sulton had promised, it had been purchased secondhand and was almost worn out to begin with. Broahm paused on the staircase to look back at the creature. It lumbered up after him, patches of mangy fur smoldering. It was, frankly, a pathetic sight, but if it got hold of him, it would tear his arms and legs and head off.

What spells were left? The thing had survived the flame cast, and in other circumstances, Broahm would have been glad to get his money’s worth. As it was, the wizard sort of wished the thing had gone down a bit easier. He went through the list of the remaining spells in his head.

Sleep? No, you couldn’t put a zombie to sleep. The undead do not slumber. He had three other spells to choose from: Voice. Light. Shatter.

Shatter might do the trick. It was meant to destroy armor and swords, but maybe it would do the same to the bear’s patchy skin and dried bones. The more Broahm thought about it, the more he thought it would work. He turned, mouth falling open to utter the words, hands raised to weave arcane symbols in the air.

Slam!

The zombie bear was already upon him, barreling into him headfirst, butting the wizard backward, arms flailing into the main area of the second level. The iron skin spell kept his ribs from cracking.

The zombie bear knocked Broahm over a plush divan. “Shit!”

Broahm scrambled to his feet just in time to see the undead animal knock the furniture aside to get at him again. In a thousandth of a second, this minor debate unfolded in Broahm’s brain: I can cast the shatter spell now. He’s coming right at me. It’s a point-blank shot. Or I can take a deep breath. There’s no time for both.

He took a deep breath.

At the same moment the four brown ceramic toads placed around the room began to belch a thick, pea- green fog. It filled the room at alarming speed. Broahm turned and sprinted for the next staircase leading to the level above. He had to stay ahead of the fog. Breathing in any of it would send him instantly into a deep coma.

A distant part of his brain registered that the iron skin spell had worn off.

Broahm hit the stairs hard, turned his ankle, and yelled in pain. He made himself go on, every other step upward sending a shock of agony lancing up his leg past his knee. His lungs were already burning for air. Broahm