Deadtown

pushed over there?”

“Vicky’s practicing fighting left-handed,” Juliet said.

“Cool!” Suddenly Tina was all smiles. “Can I watch?”

I was going to say no. I probably should have said no, and sent Tina on her way. She needed to study demons for a full year before we moved on to fighting techniques—I’d studied books and books and more books for all those summers before Mab let me even look at a sword. But I felt bad about letting Tina down. Or maybe I’m just a pushover for teenage zombies with accusing eyes.

“Okay. But stay out of the way.”

I picked up the sword and hefted it. My left arm was less sore and, I thought, getting stronger. Because of our flexible forms, shapeshifters’ muscles are more responsive than those of humans. Results that would take a human six months of hitting the gym, I could get in a week. With each thrust and parry, I was getting a little stronger. And I was starting to feel it.

I went through the routine again, slowly, explaining each move to Tina. Juliet offered some pointers, too, tips that “Jock”—the great Giacomo di Grassi (I still couldn’t get over that)—had told her more than four hundred years ago. Talking it through helped. My movements began to make more sense to me, and soon they were flowing almost naturally.

“That’s a cool sword,” Tina said.

“It’s called the sword of Saint Michael,” I explained. “My aunt gave it to me when I completed my training. Sort of a graduation present. It’s got a bronze blade—”

“Because bronze is lethal to most demons.” Tina smiled, proud of herself. “I read that in the book you gave me.”

“That’s right. And a golden hilt to represent purity of purpose. Before a battle, I prepare the blade with sacramental wine and bless it. When a demon appears, the sword bursts into flame.”

“Awesome. Make it do that.”

I shook my head. “Not here. It’d set off the sprinkler system. Anyway, it’s not dark outside yet. No demons around to light it up.”

Tina seemed disappointed, then she brightened. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you pretend to fight me? I mean, you’re doing really great and all, but in real life, demons don’t just stand around and watch your moves, right? They, like, come right at you.”

“Tina, it’s too early to—”

“She has a point,” said Juliet. “Jock said more or less the same thing: Even the most elegant swordsman must be able to stand against an opponent, or he’s nothing.”

I considered. It actually wasn’t a bad idea. When Difethwr’s master let it loose, that Hellion was going to put everything it had into destroying me. It wasn’t about to give me a handicap because I had to fight left-handed. I glanced at Tina, who was watching me hopefully. She couldn’t shoot fire out of her eyes (thank the gods), but maybe she could help me see and react to unpredictable attacks, blows coming at me from any direction. But Tina had zero fencing experience. And it really was too early to start her on swordplay.

I turned to Juliet. “I don’t suppose you’d . . .”

She shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “I might break a nail.”

Yeah, let’s focus on the important stuff. I sighed. “Okay, Tina. We’ll give it a try.”

The young zombie bounced up and down with excitement as I opened the weapons cabinet. “Wow,” she breathed as she examined the array of swords, knives, crossbows, and guns. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

“Some of it’s been passed down through my family. Some of it I had custom-made in Wales. A few pieces”—I picked up an automatic pistol—“I got locally. The modern stuff, mostly. There’s a shop in Allston where you can buy all kinds of occult weapons. It’s mostly for witches, but the owner also keeps an eye out for gear I can use. He sold me the dream portal and the InDetect I use to find Drudes.”

“You mean that clicking thing you point around?”

“That’s the one.”

Tina’s face lost its eager expression as I got out two wooden swords. I smiled, remembering I’d reacted the same way when Mab first taught me swordplay. “These are for practice,” I said. “They can’t do much more damage than a splinter.”

“But I wanted to use that one.” Tina pointed at a huge claymore taller than she was.

“Uh-uh. I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

“I can’t get hurt. I’m already dead.”

“Yes, but if I slice your arm off, will you grow a new one?”

“No.” She sulked for a minute, then brightened. “Okay, we can use the kiddie swords, I guess. It’ll still be fun.”

And it was. Tina was a little stiff, as zombies tend to be, but she was a fast learner and put her heart into it. After half an hour, I was panting for breath.

“Nice work,” I said. “You have a talent for fencing.”

She beamed. “You sit down. Rest. I’ll put the swords away.”

I gave her mine and flopped onto the sofa. The phone rang. “Ah, that must be dinner,” said Juliet. “I’ll get it in the kitchen.”

Tina looked hopeful. “Did she order takeout?” I shook my head. “What, then?”

“Don’t ask,” I said.

Not only did Tina put away the practice swords, neatly closing the cabinet doors, she single-handedly moved all the furniture back into place—including the sofa, with me on it. Zombie strength could come in handy sometimes.

Juliet came back in the living room. “Dinner at eight,” she said cheerfully. When she saw that the furniture was back where it belonged, she turned on the TV. I got up, and she settled back into her regular spot on the sofa to watch the local news.

“I’ve got to go to work,” I said. “And you”—I pointed at Tina—“need to get ready for school.”

“Yeah, yeah. So when do I get another lesson?”

“I can’t make any promises right now. I’m on a long-term assignment, and there’s a very nasty Hellion around that wants to kill me. Once I get those little matters sorted out, I’ll let you know. And,” I added, “it’ll be a book lesson. No more fighting for a long time.”

“What’s a Hellion?”

“Look it up in Russom’s. Chapter twenty-four.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you all about it next time. Whenever that is. I hope it’s soon!” Tina’s face glowed, as much as a zombie’s complexion can. It was good to see her so happy. “Have you got any chips or cookies or anything? I’m starving.”

I went into the kitchen and found some chips. Back in the living room, I tossed her the whole bag. She polished it off in about ten seconds—no wonder they don’t let zombies enter hot-dog-eating competitions—then started bundling up to go outside. It was nearly sunset, but zombies couldn’t be too careful when it came to sunlight.

“Hey, look,” she said, pointing to the TV. “It’s about the parade.”

On the screen, norm anchorman Tom Cody sat in front of a picture from last year’s parade—people in cheesy vampire and devil costumes or rubber masks of famous politicians mugging it up for the camera—as he began the story: “Ghosts and ghouls galore will march in Boston’s annual Halloween parade tomorrow night, but you won’t see any zombies.”

The picture behind him changed to show a group of real-life zombies with a big red nosymbol slapped across it. “The court has turned down an appeal to issue Deadtown’s previously deceased humans a group permit that would have allowed them to enter a float in the parade. According to the mayor’s office, no permits will be issued for the previously deceased to leave Designated Area One at any time on October 31. The Council of Three has sent a formal letter of protest.”

“Big whoop,” said Tina. “A letter of protest. The mayor’s being so not fair. I think we should crash the stupid blood-bag parade.”

“Tina, don’t talk like that,” I said. “You don’t want to risk being picked up by the Removal Squad.”