Please Don't Tell My Parents | Book 7 | Please Don't Tell My Parents I'm Queen of the Dead by Roberts Richard

Author:Roberts, Richard [Roberts, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Superheroes | Supervillains
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2022-01-04T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

“Who wrote ‘No No No No No’ on the ceiling?” asked Peggy, her head craned back.

Smiling with the blissful joy of being alive, I, Alicia Blackheart, answered. “Ah rathah suspect the ghost room has had bad experiences with powahful necromansahs.”

Chris frowned, suddenly puzzled, and Sue gave me a haunted look, no pun intended, followed up with, “You sound funny.”

“Ah do indeed, but theah’s no time to explain if ah’m to save this ghastly woman.” I’d wasted precious seconds just enjoying having a body again.

No more lollygagging, Alicia. I stormed up the steps in the middle of the crypt to the sarcophagus. My right hand held the fistful of wretched fragments of the harridan’s ghost, so I grabbed the staff and pulled it from its socket with my left.

Oh, my, feel that bracing cold. This was a high-quality magic battery, and fully charged. Everything I’d hoped, and desperately needed.

Although the decoration on top was the most trite and ugly thing ever. I whacked it against the base of the sarcophagus, shattering the bird skeleton.

Annie let out a horrified squeak, holding her fists to her mouth. I smirked at her, trying to reassure her with how little I was concerned. “Don’t fret, sugarplum. Being old doesn’t make things better.” Sighing loudly, I added, “Case in point….”

Gears clicked and rattled on the surface and sides of the sarcophagus. As if I’d pulled the key from a lock, which I more or less had, the gears slid away and apart, unlocking around the edges of the lid.

The lid of the sarcophagus heaved up, then fell over the side to clatter loudly on the steps. Cold, dry air, air that had marinated in ancient and threadbare sorcery for centuries, puffed out. The dusty bone hands that had pushed off the lid gripped the sides, pulling a skeleton in a silly winged and crested helmet upright.

He was tall, and his skull turned to glare down at me, eyes burning with blue fire. He stank with the peculiar noxiousness of hate-infused magic.

Singularly unimpressed, I answered by drawing power out of the staff, letting it swirl inside me, and looked him in the glowing eye sockets. “Go ahead, pumpkin pants. Start it, and ah’ll finish it.”

The skeleton did still wear a ragged pair of the bulging, puffy orange pants, as if someone felt compelled to make bloomers even sillier. In the face of my lack of respect or intimidation, he gabbled something in Spanish and stumbled out of the coffin, running across the crypt and out the door into the museum basement.

And of course, I had no idea what he’d said. Darling Avery didn’t have a translator ghost on hand, or even a poltergeist. Had no one taught this child any of the basics of necromancy? Honestly.

I could ask Horse Skull Kid what the undead conquistador had said, but the translation would not be worth listening to the rest of our relatives whine.

Instead, I flicked the staff in the direction of the departed and thoroughly unmourned…what was his name? Who cares? “Alice, shut the door.

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