Dead Harvest

By Jeanette Battista

Someone’s been raising the dead and it’s J’s job to find out who. As a detective operating in the Underworld, J—with her powers of shadow manipulation—is uniquely equipped for the job. What she isn't counting on is the help of an escapee from a mental institution who seems to attract trouble just by existing.

It’s up to J and T—two very unlikely allies—to find the necromancer and bring him before the Underworld Balance Magistrate for judgment before the human world gets wise to the dead walking among them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanette Battista
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301709304

Jeanette Battista

Jeanette Battista is the award winning and Amazon best-selling young adult author of The Moon Series, These Violent Delights, and the Books of Aerie series. She received her MA in English literature with a concentration in medieval studies. She’d been a technical writer, a software release project manager, and a freelance educational writer. She’s taught college freshmen how to write and occasionally still talks writing with high school and middle school students.Her household includes several humans and three cats, one of whom is missing an eye. He is unfortunately not named Odin, a choice that will haunt her forever. When she’s not writing, she’s having the crap beaten out of her in a ring during Muay Thai class, reading anything she can get her grubby hands on, and playing Unstable Unicorns. She lives and works in North Carolina.

Book preview

Prologue

Shawn Barnes sat at the kitchen table doing his homework. His mother bustled behind him, rushing to get dinner on the table. Shawn would have rather been doing his homework in the living room, books sprawled all over the coffee table and the television on, but this was a weeknight ritual his mother insisted upon. Him being in the kitchen, she said, made sure she got to spend some time with her only son and offer help with his homework if he needed it while still being able to get dinner on the table at a decent hour.

At the ripe old age of eleven—almost twelve—Shawn knew this was just his mother’s way of keeping tabs on him, making sure he stayed on top of his assignments. He didn’t really mind it much; ever since Grandma Cat had passed, it was just the two of them. He figured he could put up with it for another couple of months—if he did so, maybe the chances of his mother letting him come home from school rather than going to the Y’s afterschool program once he turned twelve were better.

How’s it coming, baby? Brenda Barnes slapped three ham steaks into the cast iron skillet before turning her attention to the green beans.

I’m not a baby, Mom. Shawn got up to get the dishes to set the table.

I know, I know, his mother answered, shaking her head. You’re growing up so fast, but I still see my baby boy in there. She smiled at him. With a deft turn, she flipped the ham over and the porky perfume filled the small kitchen. Anything giving you problems?

Shawn grimaced, setting the plates down on their respective woven placemats. Fractions again.

You come by it honestly. I hated fractions. She bent over to retrieve a tray of biscuits from the oven, dumping them into a napkin-lined bowl. We’ll take a look at it after we eat.

The doorbell rang. Mother and son looked at each other. They had moved in with Grandma Cat after Shawn’s father left, and while the small house was in good repair, it bordered a neighborhood that was in the throes of gentrification. There was always some community ruckus going on—a petition to sign, covenants to look at, a meeting to attend. Grandma Cat had refused to deal with all such nonsense, so it had fallen to Brenda to nod and listen politely to whatever the people on her doorstep wanted before kindly sending them on their way.

Now it fell to Shawn. I’ve got to get this ham out of the pan. Just tell them we’re sitting down to dinner and to come back later. His mom dipped a spoon in the rice to check its doneness.

Shawn trudged to the door. He peeked out the front window and saw an older woman standing on their front porch. She was a little off to the side in the shadowed area by the rhododendron so he couldn’t get a good look at her, but there was something about her that seemed vaguely familiar. He took the chain off the door, unlocked the deadbolt, then opened the door halfway.

Grandma Cat stood before him, backlit by the setting sun, her arms outstretched in the semblance of a hug as she shambled towards him. Her skin had sloughed off in large patches and her eyes were gone. She made a gurgling sound as she tried to speak from a throat decayed after months underground.

Shawn screamed and slammed the door in his dead grandmother’s face.

Chapter One

In a padded cell on the high-security third floor of the Westwood Mental Health Facility sat a young woman with stringy auburn hair. She wore white hospital-issue pajamas and a matching straitjacket, and she was concentrating all of her energy on trying not to drool.

According to the voluminous medical file residing in the slot beside the door to the cell, the woman’s name was Tiramisu Plumley, she was 21 years old, and her preliminary diagnosis was schizophrenia, for which she was receiving 45 cc of clozapine administered twice daily. Tiramisu’s primary physician, Dr. Lorraine Parsons, and the psychiatrist who had signed the Westwood admission forms, Dr. Robert Bruce, had noted in the file that while the dosage was fairly high, the patient’s tendency toward violent outbursts required aggressive intervention. Thus far, no severe adverse reaction to the medication had been recorded, and overall, the patient remained in good health. Whether or not the clozapine would be successful in bringing her delusions under control was still unknown.

It was Robert’s considered opinion that Tiramisu Plumley—whose six-year history of anti-social behavior and occasional violence had resulted in multiple school suspensions, expulsion from high school, one previous involuntary commitment to a mental health facility for observation, and a brief stint in juvie—had finally suffered a psychotic break. He was quite sympathetic to Miss Plumley’s family, who had seemed relieved to have a diagnosis and a course of treatment that promised results, and he was grateful that they seemed more than willing to trust him with Tiramisu’s welfare. He only wished that the patient in question was as trusting—but it had only been two weeks, the disease had been progressing for God knew how long, and it often took time to get dosages right. Robert remained hopeful that he would soon see signs of progress in his patient.

The doctor checked his watch as he made his way to the high-security portion of Westwood for a final check on Tiramisu. It was 7:00 p.m., and his wife had already left an irritated voicemail reminding him that he had promised to be home by no later than 7:30 this evening, as they were having guests for dinner. Robert retrieved the Plumley chart from the slot next to the door and thumbed idly through it, noting that Tiramisu had received her second dose of clozapine at 6:30 p.m. The timing was unfortunate—one of the side-effects of the drug was drowsiness, and it was likely that Tiramisu would be too out of it to respond to his questions this soon after receiving her meds. Still, he needed to do some sort of assessment.

Robert peered through the observation window, and saw that the straitjacketed Plumley was seated Indian-style in the far right-hand corner of the room. Her head drooped forward, lank strands of hair obscuring her features. The doctor sighed. He had a feeling that this meeting wouldn’t be productive at all. On the bright side, it probably wouldn’t take long, and he might have enough time to stop off and buy that nice bottle of Pinot Noir he’d been thinking would go well with tonight’s meal.

He signaled to the night nurse—a six-and-a-half-foot slab of humanity known to him only as Carl—to open the door. Carl lumbered over to comply, and the doctor felt compelled to fill the silence with small talk.

Everything going okay tonight, Carl? Robert didn’t really expect an answer; Carl was definitely the strong but silent type, good for keeping the rowdier patients under control and for following orders, but not much for idle chit-chat. Therefore, Carl’s reply came as a bit of a surprise.

Goin’ okay, I guess, Doc. But I’ll be glad when we get this one outta here.

Dr. Bruce turned his attention from the patient in the room to Carl. What do you mean? Did Miss Plumley give you any difficulties with the medication?

Carl shook his head. Nope. She just gives me the creeps, that’s all, with the staring.

Staring?

But Carl seemed to have exhausted his supply of conversation, and his only response was to remove his key from the lock and open the door for Robert. There ya go, Doc. I’ll be out here keepin’ an eye on things.

Thanks, Carl, but Carl had already moved to the ready position, placing himself between the doctor and the hallway so that any patient with ideas about escaping would be discouraged. Carl acknowledged him with a nod, then closed the door firmly behind him. The knowledge that Carl would be observing this conversation made Robert feel inexplicably better.

The room itself was rather small, the padding and fluorescent lights serving to make it seem as though the walls were closing in. Robert had always thought that if you didn’t already suffer from paranoia, a room like this one would push you right over the edge.

He cautiously approached the small figure in the corner. Plumley was only five-foot-six, 135 pounds, but she had managed to put six burly men in the hospital bare-handed—and one of the six was still in a coma. Robert had heard stories of psychosis-induced rage fueling incredible feats of strength, but if he hadn’t seen those men with his own eyes he would have put the entire story down to exaggeration.

Robert stopped about three feet away from his patient and squatted down in front of her. He subscribed to the notion that it was always good to put yourself on their level—you couldn’t build trust from a position of power and control. If Tiramisu had heard him enter, she gave no indication, remaining in the same position she’d been in since he arrived.

Gently, he cleared his throat. Tiramisu, he began in a calm, even voice, it’s Dr. Bruce—Robert. I’ve come to check on you. How are you feeling this evening?

With a sudden fluid motion, Tiramisu’s head snapped up and a pair of angry light brown eyes fixed on Robert’s face. The gaze was notably clear, the girl apparently unfazed by her recent dose of medication. Being on the receiving end of that stare felt a bit like being a snared insect examined by a spider. Robert fought unsuccessfully not to flinch from the anger in those eyes, and he found himself doing an awkward involuntary backward shuffle. If she’d been staring at Carl like this—well, the guard had been right. It was creepy.

Tiramisu blinked, and her gaze and her expression smoothed into blandness. Then she replied in a slightly hoarse voice, Well, for someone who’s been bound and drugged into next week I guess I’m doing okay. How about you? This last bit was accompanied by a smile that was all teeth and no feeling.

Robert cleared his throat again. Yes, well, we’ve discussed that, Tiramisu. This is for your own protection, until we can make you well again.

I know what I saw.

I’m sure you saw something, Tiramisu, but we’ve talked about the ways in which brain chemistry can get mixed up and send improper signals, which then get interpreted improperly…

Yeah. Except that if I were crazy, wouldn’t all these drugs you’ve been pumping into me have fixed that by now?

It doesn’t work quite that way. Memory is—

Tiramisu cut him off. A complicated thing. Yeah, yeah. Well, I’ve been thinking. Obviously this isn’t working. So now what? Different drugs? More of the same? Because I’ve gotta tell you, I’m really tired of the drooling. I hate the drooling. It’s unsanitary.

Dr. Bruce was confused. The what? Drooling?

Brown eyes narrowed, and the girl spoke slowly through clenched teeth, as though every word was an effort in self-control. Drooling. A side-effect of clozapine. It makes me drool, I can’t wipe my chin, and I end up sitting in a puddle of my own spit. It’s unsanitary, and that irritates me. I mean, there’s no excuse for poor hygiene, you know? None.

Robert was beginning to feel as though he was losing control of the conversation, but he soldiered on. Well, all side-effects diminish with time. And if you demonstrate that you’re no longer a danger to others, you won’t be restrained any longer, and you’ll be free to handle your own hygiene again.

How long? demanded Tiramisu.

What?

Until the side-effects diminish? How long?

Uh, well, it all depends on the dosage and the patient and…

Robert trailed off as soon as he realized that he was babbling, because it was a nervous habit, and he didn’t want Plumley to pick up on his discomfort. Something about this entire visit seemed off, and he was becoming gripped with the urge to put this strange girl with her unsettling fixation on saliva on the other side of a bullet-proof metal door. He stood as quickly as he could without seeming panicked, and threw what he hoped was a reassuring smile in Tiramisu’s direction.

Why don’t we continue this conversation tomorrow when you’ve had some rest? he asked, resisting the urge to wipe now-sweating palms on his slacks when he saw the girl’s brow furrow and her expression darken.

No, came the reply, I want to talk about this now. I am perfectly sane, I want out of this straitjacket, and I don’t think it would be too much to ask for someone to provide me with a handkerchief.

We’ve discussed that, began Robert, taking a step backward.

No, we haven’t. You’ve been condescending and you haven’t answered my questions and I’m still sitting in drool and it’s really making me cranky!

Now look here, I think that given the circumstances, we’ve been very reasonable. You are an extremely ill young lady, and you’ve hurt people! We cannot let you out of the restraints until we’re sure you won’t hurt anyone else, and that’s the end of it. Robert sighed, and took a step back toward Tiramisu. Look, I’ll see what I can do about the drool, okay?

They weren’t people.

Another shift in conversation, and Robert’s head was starting to spin. "What?’

You keep saying I hurt people. They weren’t people.

What were they then?

Monsters.

Tiramisu, we’ve talked about this. There’s no such thing. Robert watched as the girl’s head dropped forward again, shoulders slumped. He sighed. Obviously they were going to have to switch medications. He’d get on that first thing tomorrow, but in the meantime there was no sense in staying any longer. The doctor turned to leave, directing his final comments more to the door he was approaching than to his patient, I’ll be back in the morning. Get some rest, okay?

There was a creaking noise, followed by several sharp snaps and the sound of fabric tearing. Then Tiramisu’s voice was in his ear, and there was a heavy iron grip on his arm.

Monsters are real, she hissed. Wanna know how I know?

Carl burst into the room, syringe of sedative held ready. Robert felt the grip on his upper arm release and a hard shove on his back, which threw him directly into Carl’s path. His momentum caused the syringe’s needle to enter his stomach and he watched as Tiramisu’s left hand—which now seemed strangely broader and flatter-looking than he remembered—closed over Carl’s and depressed the plunger. She used her right hand to shove Robert aside and he bounced off the padded wall and slid to the floor, the sedative already taking effect. Blearily, he watched as Tiramisu brought the heel of her foot down on the top of Carl’s shoe hard enough to cause an audible crunch, and then, as the bigger man doubled over in pain, she knocked him unconscious with one sharp uppercut. Then the doctor felt his lab coat being grasped, and he was lifted up and shaken roughly. He forced his eyes wide open and found himself staring again into an angry brown gaze. Before he lost consciousness altogether, he heard Tiramisu Plumley’s voice:

I know there are monsters, because I think I am one.

*****

Tiramisu dropped the unconscious Dr. Bruce and turned toward Carl’s equally still form. There was a surveillance camera in the room’s ceiling, and she knew that there were others in the hall. She needed to move quickly if she wanted to get out of there.

She swiped her forearm across her mouth in disgust as she knelt to retrieve the keycard that the guard carried. Even though the drugs they were giving her had stopped making her sleepy and disoriented days ago, they were still making her drool. And she hadn’t been kidding about it making her cranky. Tiramisu had rules, and one of the most important was that cleanliness was next to godliness.

On her way out of the room she paused to give Dr. Bruce a sharp kick in the ribs, smiling grimly as she felt something give way under her foot. One of her other rules was that it didn’t pay to be condescending.

Tiramisu closed the door to her room firmly behind her, making sure that no evidence of the scuffle had strayed into the hallway. Now she needed to concentrate on getting out of the Westwood Mental Health Facility. Tiramisu was on the third floor, and while she had Carl’s keycard, she doubted that she would be able to nonchalantly share the elevator with hospital staff, and then waltz past the front desk while clad in a tattered straitjacket and copious amounts of saliva. She also knew that it wouldn’t be long before someone decided to actually pay attention to the surveillance cameras located in each patient’s room and discover the two unconscious men who were in hers. When that happened, Tiramisu figured the facility would go into full lockdown mode, and that would be that. She needed to find an alternate route.

The night nurse’s station—formerly manned by Carl, and now deserted—was directly across the hall from Tiramisu’s room, and there was a map of the floor marked Evacuation Route posted on the wall next to it. She stepped closer, locating herself at the little red You Are Here dot. Black dotted lines indicated the route that the patients were to take in the event of a fire or other emergency.

According to the map, the ward was horseshoe shaped, with elevators located at the bottom of the U. Each arm of the horseshoe held patient rooms as well as another nurse’s station. The emergency stairwell was at the end of the right arm. Tiramisu’s room was located on the left arm at the end of the hallway directly across from the nurse’s station. In the event of an emergency, the patients on Tiramisu’s side of the hall were to make their orderly way to the stairwell at the other end of the ward. They could do this by taking a shortcut through the pharmacy, which was located halfway up the hall and opened onto both sides of the ward, or by traversing the entire ward. The map didn’t indicate where the stairwell emptied out. Tiramisu could have used that extra bit of information, since the only parts of the hospital she had seen were the intake ward and her current room, but she figured she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Tiramisu jogged quickly down the hallway to the door marked Pharmacy. She gingerly tried the knob. It was locked, and there was no keycard pad outside the door. It looked like she was going to have to take the long way around, then. She crept quickly to the end of the hall and stopped to peer around the corner. The elevators opened onto the main nurse’s station, which would be the busiest part of the ward. If she wanted to get to the stairs and out, she was going to have to cross in front of the main nurse’s station and the elevators. Awesome.

Tiramisu took a deep breath to steady herself, then dropped to a crouch, wondering why it was suddenly so difficult to fold her body into a less visible shape. Her limbs felt heavy and unmanageable, but Tiramisu forced herself not to think about it. It was too much like a repeat of the experience that had landed her in Westwood to begin with—and now was definitely not the time to stop and wonder about how she’d managed to tear a straitjacket into ribbons or take down a 300-pound man with one punch.

She took a moment to study the highly polished stainless steel elevator doors. They weren’t quite as good as a mirror, but they were shiny enough to let her make out the blurry movements of one indistinct figure seated behind the counter. He—the night nurses on the third floor were always male, political correctness be dammed—was probably working at the computer. Tiramisu carefully shrugged out of the remnants of her tattered straitjacket so that the dragging fasteners and fabric wouldn’t give her away by getting snagged on an object or scraping against the ground. Then she flattened herself into a prone position and inched her way around the corner. She paused for a moment, barely breathing, but the blurry figure hadn’t moved. She began to slither slowly forward, hugging the wall that the nurse’s desk was on and keeping her eyes on the elevator doors.

Tiramisu moved in short bursts, pausing after each one to try to discern whether her movements had been heard. Time seemed to drag interminably, although she knew that it had probably only been about three minutes since she had kicked the doctor and left her room.

Finally Tiramisu was able to peer around the corner to the other side of the ward. At the end of the hall a glowing EXIT sign marked the stairwell. The hallway was deserted and there didn’t seem to be anybody at the far nurse’s station. Tiramisu carefully maneuvered into a crouch and scooted around the corner, keeping her back against the wall. She scuttled