How to Claim an Undead Soul (Beginner's Guide to Necromancy #2)(11)

This whole happily-ever-after thing would be so much easier if fated mates were a thing, but the closest necromancers got were arranged marriages with ironclad prenups. “Have your parents ever mentioned picking a husband for you?”

“No.” Her slight hesitation made the room smaller, the air thinner.

“Ame.” I grabbed her arm and shook her. “Spill.”

“Okay, fine, so they sent out inquiries for Boaz. He’s the firstborn, and that means he gets stuck honoring familial duties. He must marry, and he must produce the next Pritchard heir.” She had to have noticed the blood draining from my face. “It was years ago, Grier. Before…” Atramentous. “Three families sent their eldest daughters to visit us for a week. He was maybe thirteen.”

I found breathing a smidgen easier considering his age and the fact he wasn’t engaged. “And?”

“This is Boaz we’re talking about here. What do you think he did?”

“I would say he charmed his way into their panties, but at thirteen, they were probably safe from all but visual molestation.”

Allowing it was a fair point, Amelie shrugged. “There was light fondling. He was a teenage boy, and they were gorgeous girls offering themselves up to him. Until he realized there was a catch, he was in hog heaven.”

Snorting, I had to shake my head. “This does not surprise me.”

“What pissed Mom off most was how he used his etiquette training against her. He told the girls they were beautiful, that a man would be lucky to have any of them for a wife, but that man wasn’t going to be him.” Her lips pulled to one side. “I haven’t seen Mom turn that shade of red since. He humiliated her in front of prominent Low Society heads of families by refusing those suits, and no one has offered for him since.”

“You make it sound like Boaz is still on the market,” I joked.

Amelie didn’t laugh. “He’s the eldest son of a Low Society matron, Grier. Think about it.”

“You mean anyone could come along and barter for his hand in marriage?” I tried wrapping my head around the idea and failed. “Would he have to accept?”

“He’s made it plain he won’t have his bride chosen for him, and most girls are smart enough not to want their hearts broken.” She fingered a stringy piece of lace on her skirt. “He’s got a few more years to select his own wife before our parents start applying pressure.”

That might explain Mr. Pritchard’s concern over our friendship. A match between a Woolworth and a Low Society sentinel, even a member of the Elite, was as likely as snow in Georgia in August. But he had to know his son had been the biggest obstacle. Given half a chance, five years earlier, I would have put a ring on it without a backward glance.

“What about you?” The Pritchards had three kids, after all. “Does that mean you’re off the hook? What about Macon?”

Macon was the youngest Pritchard sibling and still in his all girls have cooties phase.

“As long as Boaz produces an heir, yes.” A soft laugh shook her shoulders. “You’d think he’d have sired fifty by now, but he’s been careful.”

Boaz in all his promiscuous glory was never going to be my favorite topic of conversation. I could laugh about some of the highlights, sure. But the reality of his past was often a tough pill for me to swallow. I choked down my jealousy, I always did, but reliving his escapades still hurt.

“I should get to work.” I stood and hauled Amelie to stand. “Toilets don’t scrub themselves.”

She groaned as she settled back on her swollen feet. “Hey, you want to hear something weird?”

“Hit me.”

She cocked her arm and punched me in the shoulder then shrugged. “What? You had to see that coming.”

“Fine, Little Miss Literal.” Rubbing the tender spot, I scowled. “Tell me.”

“You know that flickering lamppost on Whitaker Street we always hint is a ghost trying to communicate with us from the great beyond?”

“Yeah.” There was a benign disturbance in the area, but it was too weak to do more than interfere with that lone bulb. “Victims love whipping out their EMF meters for readings there.”

The small devices measured electromagnetic fields, and ghost hunters used them to determine hotspots.

“No longer.” Her sigh carried. “I walked past there twice tonight, and there was nary a wink in sight.”

“That really is weird.” The city had rewired that lamppost, replaced the bulbs, killed the power to it on more than one occasion, all to no avail. Or so we told the tourists. The truth was probably that the neighbors complained about the light and nothing was ever done about it, allowing us to embellish how we liked. It was a dependable stop while on that route, and it had the bonus of being authentic. “Did you see that story in the paper about the B&B?”

“I overheard Mom and Dad talking about it. In loud voices. She’s not thrilled with the newspaper coverage, but he doesn’t seem to think anything will come of it.” She swished her way toward the door. “So, are we on for Mallow after work?”

“Yes, please.” A hot chocolate would rinse the bleach taste from my mouth quite nicely. “Go forth and scintillate.”

“Oh, I shall.” She bobbed in a practiced curtsey that had nothing to do with her job and everything to do with being Society born and bred. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”