Damning the Dead

By Kerry Blaisdell

Hyacinth Finch's life-after-death just got more complicated. High on her to-do list: Stop Satan from stealing any more of Archangel Michael's powerful relics, marshal her Dead Army of two thousand souls, and recapture dozens of escaped Hell Demons, to prevent six thousand dead Nazis from wreaking havoc in the world. And on top of all that, her onetime ghost boyfriend has hijacked the body of a former German militant, which has its ups and downs for their relationship.

Then, just when things seem to be under control, her nephew Geordi's powers start leaking out, and Hyacinth's own begin to change. She must discover where their abilities originated. But as she digs deeper, will the truths she uncovers do more harm than good? And more importantly—can she figure it out, before Satan escapes from Hell and takes Geordi for himself?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509238842

Book preview

Suddenly, I caught a movement and a flash of white in the trees. I stepped closer, squinting into the gloom, then jerked back, adrenaline rocketing through me.

It couldn’t be…

I forced a deep breath, then approached the trees again. All was silent, except for the normal forest sounds of rustling leaves and sighing pine boughs. I waited, expecting any moment to see again the figure of a man—one I’d last seen vanishing into a lava pit on his way back to Hell. An oily, dark-haired man with a Mediterranean tan, wearing a white suit that emphasized his bulk—far too large to vanish completely, and so silently.

Unless he was a figment of my imagination. That must be it—sleep deprivation combined with hypoglycemia. I gave myself a mental shake.

Then a twig snapped and I whirled, thinking Eric had returned after all.

But the forest remained empty and a cold shudder settled low in my gut. Who’s there? Sieg? Liam?

Nothing.

Even the birds and other critters had gone preternaturally silent.

I made a slow circle, peering at the edges of the clearing. Surely just an animal. Which might be worse—were there bears in these woods? Or wolves?

I heard a loud rustling and spun to find Liam a few yards away.

Something wrong?

No, I said, relief making my reply sharper than intended.

I moved past him into the trees, and a moment later, he followed. My own personal buffer against whatever lurked in the woods. Animal? Or demon?

I shivered again and quickened my pace.

Praise for DEBRIEFING THE DEAD (Book One of The Dead Series):

I really enjoyed this book! If you’re looking for a paranormal that’s a little different, then this is it!

~ Kerrelyn Sparks, New York Times

& USA Today Bestselling Author

Praise for WAKING THE DEAD (Book Two of The Dead Series):

Fans of television shows like ‘Constantine’ or ‘Supernatural’ will absolutely love this book.

~ InD’tale Magazine

A very engrossing romantic and fantasy blockbuster of a tale…sure to keep readers turning the pages from cover to cover…. I would highly recommend WAKING THE DEAD to fans of high drama and high stakes action-romances, atmospheric fantasy adventure writing, and for enthusiasts of quirky darkly edged fiction everywhere.

~K.C. Finn, Reader’s Favorite

Damning the Dead

by

Kerry Blaisdell

Book Three of The Dead Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Damning the Dead

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Kerry Blaisdell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3883-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3884-2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

Thanks to Kaye for your incredible moral support, and to Maddie for the biology help; to Carol (and friends) for the language checks; and to my awesome beta group: Becky, Molly and Carol (again!).

Thanks also to my readers─especially for your patience throughout this long process. I hope to never be finishing a book during a global pandemic, ever again!

Chapter One

In the world to come, I shall not be asked, ‘Why were you not Moses?’ I shall be asked, ‘Why were you not Zusya?’

~Rabbi Meshulam Zusya of Hanipol

(1718-1800)

The alarm on my phone went off at noon, just like I’d told it to, and I rolled over to hit the snooze option, thinking I’d cuddle in the warm coziness of my bed a little longer before facing the world. But when I snaked my arm out from under the covers, the sudden biting cold alerted me to the fact that my bed was two down jackets laid out on hard, rocky ground, with two more spread over me for warmth. And it wasn’t even my phone blaring loudly, which I discovered when I fumbled it closer, unable to locate said snooze button. Then, when I finally shut it off, the rumble of male voices nearby told me the world needed me now, not later.

I considered hibernating anyway. But head-burying never solves anything, so I sat up, hugging one of the jackets close, and the low conversation stopped. I didn’t turn around because I already knew who’d been speaking, and I had even less desire to face them now than I’d had earlier.

Unfortunately, they had other ideas.

Frau Finch— Yvo began, at the same time that Axe Man said, "Mon ange—Hyacinth—" and they both moved into my line of sight.

Two of my best minions, and I didn’t want to see either of them, but especially not Axe Man—er, Eric. I didn’t even know his real name.

If you’re wondering, that’s because the guy I knew as Axe Man—beefy and Black Ops to the core—died a few hours ago, and the ghost I’ve been dating, Eric Guilliot, a former French police detective, appropriated his corpse and moved in. I think. My own situation is complicated enough, without considering his.

Also in case you’re wondering: I’m Hyacinth Finch, former graverobber, former antiques dealer—okay, I was a fence for the über-rich backstabbing Marseille elite—and former dead person myself. But only for a few hours before reinhabiting my own corpse, becoming a magnet for other dead folk, and launching my second—third?—career, sorting freshly minted souls for my new boss, Archangel Michael, to whisk up to Heaven, or down to Hell, as appropriate.

Which brings us to earlier today. When I realized what had happened with Axe-Man-now-Eric, I dismissed all my other minions—long story—then decided a nap was in order. Which isn’t as weird as it sounds, since I’d been awake for more than a day by then. I lay down where I was, in a forest clearing on Mount Barnacken in Germany, telling Axe-Eric and Yvo, who’d refused to leave with the others, we’d talk when I woke up.

Yvo is a twenty-something gun-for-hire who used to work for a rich couple named Heinrich and Rachel Burke, who held me and mine hostage for awhile. But Yvo and some of his comrades defected to our side when they discovered the Burkes were raising an Army of the Dead for Satan. Many dead soldiers also defected, and now Yvo’s my top living minion. He found me the coats and loaned me his phone, and though not happy about it, moved a respectable distance away to let me rest, keeping one eye on Axe-Eric, the other on me.

Frau Finch, he said now, cutting Axe-Eric off. "He says he vants to join our side, und because he is trusted by ze ozer side, he can spy on zem for us. If vee set him free, of course, vich I do not zink is a goot idea."

Did I mention he has a heavy German accent? It makes me feel like I’m in a high school production of Springtime for Hitler. Without all the singing and dancing, but still.

I struggled to stand, dusting off my jeans to buy a few more seconds. Ostrich head, meet sand. Okay, I know that’s a myth, and in any case, it didn’t work.

Mon ange—

Yvo rounded on Axe-Eric and fired off something in German, which I don’t speak, but which clearly translated to, "How dare you call her that, you so-and-so!"

Mon ange is Eric’s pet name for me. It’s French, in which I am fluent, for my angel. It’s how I’m certain he’s Eric, as there’s no way Axe Man would call me that. He—Axe Man—also worked for the Burkes, until Satan turned them, literally, inside-out. But instead of joining us, he went off with his buddies, later showing up dead, with Eric’s spirit in residence.

Yvo worked with Axe Man, but never met Ghost Eric, and knew nothing of the mon ange significance. He continued shouting in German, getting in Axe-Eric’s face, until Axe-Eric got a cold, calculating glint in his eyes that I’d never seen in Eric’s before, and I blew out a breath.

Enough! Yvo, I appreciate your concern, but I really do need to talk with…

I paused expectantly, and Axe-Eric suddenly looked panicked.

Oh God—he didn’t know his own name.

In times like these, I tend to get bubbles of hysteria that are both inappropriate and annoying. But the absurdity of the situation the Burkes set in motion—dozens of Hell Demons and thousands of resurrected Nazi war criminals on the loose, plus my upstanding cop petit ami now in the body of an unscrupulous private mercenary—it was all too much, and I covered my mouth while my shoulders shook.

Yvo unwittingly came to the rescue. "Sein Name ist Sieg—Siegfried Sauer. Or so he says."

I still wheezed with suppressed laughter. Wh-what’s that supposed to m-mean?

Axe-Eric-Siegfried blinked, then said drily, "SIG Sauer. It is a Swiss-German gun brand. Ses parents—that is, my parents had a sense of humor."

I shook harder, belly clenched, and then I laughed in earnest, because why not? I couldn’t help it, and an ironic smile crept onto Eric-Sieg’s face.

Yvo regarded us with suspicion. "I do not trust him. He vas very close viz Herr Burke. If you must speak viz him allein, I vill vait over zere in ze trees. I vill even turn my back if you insist. But I vill not go so far zat I cannot hear you yell for help."

Erm, yes, that works. I sobered, because really, none of this was funny. Thank you. For everything. I’ll be okay, but I’m glad you’re nearby, just in case.

Yvo cast a final glare at Eric-Sieg, then moved a short distance into the trees. The rest of my troops must also be somewhere close by—a dozen living men, plus twenty-five hundred of the Dead, so I felt reasonably safe.

Not that they could help with this, but still.

On the other hand, the Burkes’ men who hadn’t joined us—roughly half their original retainers—also lurked in the woods, along with six thousand of the opposing Dead Army and their fearless leader, Hans. Though dead himself, he’d barely waited for the last bloodied chunks of his former bosses to hit the ground before assuming command and launching his own campaign against us. We’d fought off his first attack and were now at an uneasy standoff while he plotted, and I dealt with this.

I faced…Eric. He might look wildly different, but it was him on the inside, so I might as well get used to it. I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

His expression was a little sad. Surprise!

Yeah. You could say that. I gestured at his left side, where a small bullet hole and dried, caked blood showed in his black t-shirt. Do you need medical attention?

"Non. It is not serious." His dark eyes clouded. "Mon ange. I understand this is much to take in. When we discussed la possibilité, it was theoretical. The reality must be très différent."

Hysteria threatened again, and I shook my head to clear it. It’s just… It’s weird. I’m sorry. Probably not the reaction you hoped for.

He gave one of his Gallic half-shrugs, the gesture so familiar, I relaxed a little.

"Eh bien, I did not know what to expect, myself. I can hardly fault your reaction. He lifted a hand uncertainly. May I…touch you?"

"I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We need to talk, about, well, this. And…other stuff."

Like that while the Burkes’ dead soldiers were manhandling him, I’d made out with our mutual friend, Jason Jones, in an underground prison. He’s another of my minions. Sort of. He was my neighbor back in France, but then it turned out he’s some kind of cousin to my seven-year-old nephew, Geordi Dioguardi, who I’m raising, since my sister Lily and her scumbag mafia husband were killed by the High Demons who killed me. Only unlike me, they—Lily and Nick—stayed dead.

And then I found out Jason and Geordi are both infected with demon blood, which was introduced into la familigia eons ago by a corrupt Catholic priest. But supposedly, some Dioguardis are good demons, fighting against Satan and his minions.

Anyway, Eric knew most of the above, and even that I had feelings for Jason. But not about the recent making out, or that Jason had absconded with Geordi again—it’s a bad habit he has—and we needed to find them, pronto. Or that earlier, while Eric was busy corpse-hopping, Geordi and I accidentally unleashed the aforementioned chaos on the world, and now I had to contain-slash-eliminate it.

In other words, lots to discuss.

Disappointed, he dropped his hand. Of course. You must have questions. Ask.

I took a deep breath. "Does it feel weird? Like, are you you, or do you feel like him, but also yourself?"

He watched me for a beat. Jason always said Eric had his own agenda, and even at our best, he’d only shared what he deemed absolutely necessary.

"I cannot explain it. C’est moi—truly. And yet, this is not my body. When I move— He stepped toward me, demonstrating. —I am awkward. Like I must relearn the use of my limbs."

Huh. During the short time I’d been body-less, I’d barely learned to control what Michael called my non-corporeal limbs. How would it feel, having spent months mastering an ephemeral existence, only to have the limitations of a body again? A taller, broader, heavier one than before?

"I lift an arm, comme ça—" Again, he demonstrated. —and it is harder than expected. But, I have greater reach. He shook his head. "Bah. I cannot complain, for the choice was mine."

Speaking of which… You said you wouldn’t appropriate a corpse without permission. I get that, absent the original owner, you might assume squatter’s rights. But…

"You wish to know how Siegfried Sauer felt, regarding my use of his corpse, is that it? For that, I cannot say. He is dead. I did not see where he went. Down, I presume. Moi, I saw only a body—fresh, young, whole—and empty. I had no time—the decision must be made tout de suite. And so, I chose."

He’d been inching toward me as he spoke. I saw the bruising on his neck, where Sieg must have been choked before getting shot. Or after—who could say for sure?

He was near enough to touch now, if I wanted. And part of me did want to. The few times we’d attempted intimacy in his previous form, my brain had flipped out, knowing he had no body, despite how he felt under my hands. Talk about a disconnect.

But now…

True to his word, Yvo still had his back to us. No one else was nearby, so before I second-guessed myself, I stepped toward Eric and took his hand, lacing my fingers through his.

The connection was instantaneous. I felt him—his thread, his energy-light source—except it became more. His eyes lit and he pulled me to him, holding me tight and burying his head in my neck.

Mon ange… He murmured it over and over, stroking my back, arms, everywhere, as though to memorize me. "I—to touch you—hold you, solid and real, not as a ghost. This is what I dreamed of—why I made the choice. Can you understand? Please?"

His heart beat beneath my cheek—not in Eric’s trimly muscled chest, but the broad bodybuilder one Siegfried had honed—both familiar and different. And the smell of him—not bad, just that I could smell him—previously, my single constant reminder that he lacked a body.

I breathed him in now. He smelled wonderful. Manly and clean, despite his recent outdoor activity, and getting shot, and whatever else had happened to him.

And yet… That smell was not Eric. Could never be Eric. Like riding in someone’s car that’s the same model as yours—the interior looks the same, but it just doesn’t feel right.

Except in this case, Eric looked different, but felt the same. Mostly.

I stepped out of his embrace. I think so. Really. But I need time to adjust. It’s just so…. I gestured helplessly, but he understood.

"Bon. I am not going anywhere."

I glanced again toward Yvo. He hadn’t changed position, and yet… I felt someone’s eyes on me. A quick check of our surroundings showed no one in sight—living or dead—but the forest brooded, dense and menacing, and I shivered and lowered my voice.

We’ll have to be careful. This isn’t something we can announce, even to the Burkes’ men. They know about the Dead now— That surprised him, but I added it to the explain later column and hurried on. —but they may not like that their former comrade was hijacked, even if it’s by one of us.

There was a sudden flurry of activity in the woods. Yvo raised an arm in greeting toward someone, and I said quickly, I’ll have to call you Sieg in front of the others. I hope that’s not too weird. And… I hesitated. I’d only just gotten him back, but his situation presented a unique opportunity. Were you serious about that whole double-agent thing—what you told Yvo?

He drew himself up, at once alert and purposeful. "Ouais. Of course. Siegfried’s plan—I overheard him and his comrades, before he died—was precisely as your friend Yvo suspects. He asked his friends to shoot him in a non-fatal place, so that he could pretend to defect to your side. Alors, now I can continue that pretense, while spying on them instead."

Are you sure? What if they figure it out? Won’t they kill you for real?

Mon ange. Though the rough voice was Sieg’s, Eric’s natural cynicism was beginning to bleed through. "I can hardly die again. I am already dead."

"But what if they kill you in this body and Michael shows up? He’s an archangel—he’ll notice your spirit is from a French cop, not a German militant. I paused, suddenly struck. Did he guide Siegfried? If you were there, how did he miss you? Or did someone else do it?"

I now knew I wasn’t Michael’s only sorter—a living person, able to sense whether dead Christians, Jews or Muslims should go up to the heaven of their choice, or down to the Bad Place.

Yet, no one came to guide Eric, a devout Catholic.

I mean, I was there. But I never got the sense he should go up or down, that I got with other souls, and the discrepancy bothered me. But in this case, maybe Siegfried was an atheist, and not Michael’s business.

My head spun with all the ins and outs, and it was a relief when Yvo and the two dead men who’d joined him headed our way. Another thing I’d learned—apparently, the Dead can make themselves visible to the Living sometimes, which simplifies things.

Of course, the rest of the Living know who’s dead, whereas I can’t distinguish the two to, er, save my soul. And I still didn’t know why Eric had never been taught the skill, by the Dead he’d met. Or maybe he had, but it hadn’t worked? Which led right back to, why not?

The newcomers were François and Henri, who’d helped Ghost Eric escape the Burkes’ Dead Army, and who I’d later sent on the fruitless errand of retrieving Jason and Geordi. Was that really mere hours ago? Time flies.

Speaking of which… Was I worried about Geordi?

Yes…and no.

Whatever the Dioguardis wanted with him, Jason would never hurt him, and in fact, would risk death to protect him. That’s not hyperbole—it’s literal truth, as evidenced by previous actions. So, while it irritated the snot out of me that I had to chase after them again, I knew deep down Geordi was safe. Possibly even safe-er than here with me.

I hate it when Jason’s right.

François was the older of the two dead men—somewhere near sixty, if his close-cropped gray hair was any indication—and wore a timeless ensemble of gray factory-issue coveralls and heavy black boots.

The younger man, Henri, looked like an anxious puppy. Early twenties, with pale hair and eyes. He wore loose-fitting jeans, a faded flannel work shirt over a white tee, and a nondescript baseball cap. To my knowledge, Henri had never spoken, and true to form, François did the talking now.

Mademoiselle Finch, we have information about your two living friends. They stole one of the Burkes’ buses and drove, we believe, to Horn-Bad Meinberg.

Where’s that?

"Roughly one and a half kilomètres to the northeast."

I blinked. "There’s a town, a mile from here?"

"Oui. Mademoiselle Vezinet’s scouts say it is peut-être six kilomètres, end to end. Perhaps fifteen thousand inhabitants. We crossed the road to it when we chased Hans’s army to the bend in la rivière, but in the commotion, it is understandable if you missed it."

I blinked again, feeling like an idiot. "There’s a road—and we crossed it?"

Duh. The Burkes’ cavalcade had to drive up here on something. But I’d pictured a gravel road leading to the dirt track via which I’d seen the buses arrive. That impression, plus the heavy forest surrounding the clearing in which the Burkes’ helicopter had landed, led me to conclude we were isolated, with getting back to civilization high on my list. But apparently, if we didn’t want to copy Jason and steal a bus, we could just walk for twenty minutes, and find hot food, showers, even beds. Which sounded heavenly.

Except…I had no plan. It seemed important to do something with the twenty-five hundred souls in my Dead Army, and get a bead on what, exactly, Hans had in mind, before I found a nice Airbnb. At least I could rent a room. Horn-Bad Meinberg probably didn’t have enough Dead Hostels to support an influx of our size.

Still, if that’s where Jason took Geordi, then that’s where I had to go.

Gah. Priorities. Everything was top priority, which paralyzed me as I agonized over what to tackle first.

Eric sensed my distress. He’d shown no surprise that my living friends were gone, or that we weren’t lost in the woods after all, so maybe he already knew both.

"Mon—that is, Frau Finch. Please—I can help you figure out what Hans is up to, if you let me. Then you can make a decision regarding him, at least."

I heard the slight hitches in his voice as he tried not to pepper his speech with French. I didn’t know if the original Siegfried spoke English, let alone French, as he’d been the Strong Silent Type. But from Yvo’s frown, I had to guess not. He took a step toward Eric-Sieg, while François and Henri eyed them both warily.

Before things got out of control, another of my living minions came from the trees. I recognized him as one of the men Yvo trusted, a tall, muscled guy, late thirties-ish, with pale, freckled skin, medium red-brown hair, and green eyes.

Ms. Finch, he said in a clipped accent that identified him as possibly British. We’d best move. Someone’s here.

Someone…?

Were the Hell Demons back already? Or Hans’s army? I glanced at the trees. Where were my troops? Should I marshal them? What did that even mean?

What if we were under attack, and they all died—or whatever decimation happened to those already Dead? They were here because of me, but I couldn’t protect them. My heart pounded and sweat slicked my palms.

The man must have seen my panic because he said hurriedly, No—it’s only a family.

A…family?

Yes. Man, woman, two young children. On a picnic. Only, I thought…

He trailed off, unable to voice his concerns for a family with young children, on a picnic, at the very location where twelve thousand dead Nazi war criminals had recently been loosed on the world, along with several dozen demons, plus however many living men who, apparently, wished to continue the Burkes’ evil deeds, post mortem.

Well, hell. So much for my downtime.

Chapter Two

Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.

~Arthur Koestler, Hungarian British Author

(1905-1983)

At least now prioritizing was easier. Number One: Move.

I said to Yvo, Are the men—the living ones—nearby?

Some. A few are keepink vatch on Hans, but zey are due back, to give zeir reports.

Great. Keep them away from the picnickers—maybe put them by the fissure, like they’re camping, and that’s their fire pit?

I pictured a dozen black-clad mercenaries, pretending to be mates on a camping trip. Then I imagined the still-smoking, violently-cracked fissure, where we’d melted two thousand Nazi Death’s Head rings—and where Satan tried to claw free of his prison—as a marshmallow roasting pit. But it was all I had, and Yvo nodded and took off.

I turned to François. Can you find Sabine—Mademoiselle Vezinet? Tell her to designate some, er, generals, in charge of maybe a hundred souls each? So roughly twenty-five of them? They should…. Crap. I’d just sent Yvo off—my best bet for strategizing location. Never mind. Just ask her to come to me ASAP.

He stared blankly, so I translated, Tout de suite, and he left, Henri trailing behind. Meanwhile, Yvo’s pal hovered nearby—not literally, as he was alive—eyeing Eric-Sieg.

It’s okay. He’s with us now. I’d hoped to sound so confident, he’d just believe me, but he frowned.

I wouldn’t trust him, and that’s a fact. Some of us worked for the Burkes purely for the money. He did it for love of the job—and of them.

Great. How would I ever convince any of them not to kill Eric-Sieg the second my back was turned?

I asked, What’s your name?

William Oliver. But you can call me Liam.

Okay, nice to meet you. I’m— He raised an auburn eyebrow, and my face heated. "Right. Everyone knows me. Anyway, you’ll have to trust me. Sieg is on our side now."

Come on, you’re smarter than that.

How so?

He stepped closer to Eric-Sieg, reaching for him.

Hé! Lâche-moi! Eric-Sieg’s big hands fisted, but he caught my eye and clamped his jaw shut.

Liam twisted the shirt out of the way, indicating the small wound in Sieg’s back, on his lower left side,