Yasmine Galenorn - Crimson Veil

Dedicated to:

Diana Terranova

One of my loyal readers, who is as dedicated to wiping out diabetes as I am.

She made a sizable donation to Brenda Novak’s Annual Online Auction for Diabetes Research for this dedication, and she has my gratitude and respect for her participation.

Bright Blessings, Diana. You deserve them. Yasmine Galenorn

Thank you to all my usual suspects: Samwise, my number one fan and the best husband I could hope for. My agent, Meredith Bernstein. My editor, Kate Seaver. Tony Mauro, my cover artist. My personal assistant, Andria Holley; my fan mail assistant and Street Team leader, Jenn Price; and my social media assistant, Marc Mullinex. To my furry “Galenorn Gurlz.” Most reverent devotion to Ukko, Rauni, Mielikki, and Tapio, my spiritual guardians.

As always, the biggest thank-you goes to my readers. Your support helps keep the series going. You can find me on the Net on my site, Galenorn.com, and on Facebook at facebook .com/AuthorYasmineGalenorn. You can also find an Otherworld Wiki on my website.

If you write to me via snail mail (see my website for the address or write via the publisher), please enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope with your letter if you would like a reply. Lots of fun promo goodies are available. See my site for info.

The Painted Panther

Yasmine Galenorn

War does not determine who is right—only who is left.

BERTRAND RUSSELL

In war, there is no substitute for victory.

DOUGLAS MACARTHUR

The sky was clear for once, though rain was forecast before morning. The moon glimmered, her faint sliver shining down over the cemetery. Soon she would be new, dark and hiding her face. A steady flurry of gusts shook the trees, their boughs shaking like tall sentinels sounding the alarm. It was the perfect night for a funeral. A funeral none of us wanted to be at.

We were gathered at the Seryph Point Cemetery, around the open grave. A small group we were, there to send our friend off to the afterlife. There was me, Menolly, and my wife, Nerissa. My sisters, Camille and Delilah, stood beside us. Derrick Means—my bartender. And Tavah, Digger, and Kendra—all from the Wayfarer. Chase had joined us, as had Mallen. We had asked the guys to stay home and keep watch over the house. As I said, we were a small group, but everyone in attendance had cared. Everyone was there because they wanted to be.

Chrysandra’s casket rested in front of us, over the grave on the device that would lower her into the earth forever-more. Her body would return to the Mother, even as we consigned her soul to the long nights of eternity. At the service—which we’d held in our house—Morio and Shade had worked their magic to seal her body in her grave. Nothing save the most powerful necromancer could ever raise Chrysandra’s remains. She’d be free from the threat of being raised as a zombie. She’d never come back as one of the undead. Her soul was long gone and her body would undergo its natural breakdown, undisturbed from the machinations of sorcery.

We had said our good-byes at the house. We had bade her farewell. Now we were simply here to stand witness to the final act. To the last chapter in our friend’s life. Chrysandra Jones had been a waitress at the Wayfarer since I first came Earthside. She’d stayed on as I moved from bartender to owner. She’d helped me out, done her job and then some. But Chrysandra had been a private person. We still knew nothing of her family. It was like she’d left every trace of her past behind her, put it in a safe box, and buried it somewhere to keep it hidden. Even now, in death, all we had left of her were these—her mortal remains.

I’d gone through her effects, helped Chase clear out her apartment after the fire that had destroyed my bar and the lives of eight people caught in the flames, including Chrysandra. We’d torn the place apart, but there had been nothing to indicate that she’d had any life before she first came to the bar. I was beginning to suspect she’d been in the Witness Protection Program, but if so, they seem to have left her unsupervised. Whatever the case, Chrysandra had died as she had lived—a private person, a loyal employee, and a woman I considered my friend.

As Gage, the funeral tech, lowered the casket into the ground, I closed my eyes. I’d cried myself out. I’d cried when I realized she was dying, in such horrible pain that she couldn’t even scream at the hospital. I’d cried as I sucked the life out of her burned and crisped body, ending that pain. And I’d cried till my bloody tears left irremovable stains on my sheets. Now, the tears were gone, and I just wanted to punish the arsonist responsible for Chrysandra’s death, and the deaths of the others who had perished in the flames.

Gage glanced at me. The tech might as well be nameless and faceless, for all I knew him, though I knew he was a werewolf. He worked for the funeral home where we’d made Chrysandra’s arrangements. We’d limited our transactions with them to buying her casket and paying for her care.

She had told me once she wanted to buried in a simple pine box, unprotected from the elements. She didn’t want her body to outlast time. So we’d ordered a hand-carved coffin that was untreated, that would give her up to the earth as it broke down. We’d arranged for Gage to lower the casket, but we’d taken care of the service ourselves. The funeral director was a Supe, and he understood. He didn’t try to push us into buying an armored casket that would last forever.

Silence hung heavy, like fog soup, as he slowly lowered the casket into the waiting grave. Delilah and Nerissa threw roses on the coffin as it descended into the ground. Derrick stared straight ahead, trying not to let anything crack his gruff demeanor, but I knew the werebadger was taking it hard. He and Chrysandra had gotten on, and I suspected they’d been on their way to a romance.

Tavah and Digger might be vampires, but they had also been her friends, and now they watched the proceedings bleakly. Camille stepped forward and gave me a nod. I took hold of her hand as we recited our prayer for the dead.

“What was life has crumbled. What was form, now falls away. Mortal chains unbind and the soul is lifted free. May you find your way to the ancestors. May you find your path to the gods. May your bravery and courage be remembered in song and story. May your parents be proud, and may your children carry your birthright. Sleep, and wander no more.”

The words echoed in the night, punctuated only by the sound of the casket as it disappeared from sight. We stepped back and formed a circle around the grave, holding hands. And then, as a cloud passed over the face of the moon, Gage pushed the button on the portable stereo, and “Shuffle Your Feet,” by the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, echoed into the night. It was Chrysandra’s favorite song, and it was the last time it would ever play for her in this world.

I recognized the strains of the Stone Temple Pilots echoing out from the crowded club. As much as I’d wanted to hole up with my sisters and wife at home after the funeral, I had an appointment to keep. Roman was waiting for me. With what had gone on this past week, there would be no downtime for any of us—not for the foreseeable future.