WarmBodies Read online

  Warm Bodies

  J.K. Coi

  “He who makes wishes of the damned must accept the consequences of releasing them.”

  Returning home from the Great War, Graham longs for something he fears he no longer deserves—Anna, the love he left behind three years ago. When a mysterious old woman begs him to retrieve a trinket, then disappears, Graham is compelled to rub the tinderbox and make a wish. He wishes to have Anna by his side…and she suddenly appears! They want the night to explore and pleasure each other.

  But the tinderbox’s black magic is powerful and brings a price—a horde of walking corpses that will stop at nothing to sate their craving for flesh.

  Additional wishes can’t drive the ravenous dead back into their graves. They only succeed in raising an army of zombies that will destroy everyone in their path—starting with Graham and Anna.

  A Romantica® paranormal erotic horror romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Warm Bodies

  J.K. Coi

  Chapter One

  Bedford, England, November 1918

  There was no one waiting for him.

  Standing on the train platform with cold, misty rain falling on him for the last forty-five minutes hadn’t changed that, only intensified his homesickness.

  He’d been the only passenger to disembark at this stop, and no one had arrived to greet him. He kept looking down the lane, hoping to see someone rushing toward him, but the muddy street heading into the small village of Bedford was deserted. Abandoned. Just as he had apparently been abandoned. Not quite how he’d envisioned his homecoming.

  With a grimace and a heavy heart, he readjusted the sling cradling his arm to his chest. Then he flipped up the collar of his all-weather greatcoat, grateful he’d not yet changed into civilian clothing because his suit wouldn’t have endured the rain as well.

  He tried not to believe that no one had cared enough to welcome him back. It was much more likely that the wire he’d sent had gone astray and not reached his father. In fact, it wouldn’t be the first time something like that had occurred. Communication from London had been unpredictable, to the disappointment and heartbreak of all the troops, but especially in the last six months of his duty assignment. He’d stopped getting any response to his messages home. In fact, only one letter had reached him at the outpost right after his injury—the one with news of his father’s remarriage to a mysterious woman Graham had never met.

  As always, he’d included a note for Annabelle in the last missive home, with instructions to pass it along. Truthfully, he’d been half-hoping she would be waiting with his father when Graham descended from the train, although he had dared not expect it. After all, they hadn’t seen each other in three long years and she’d only been sixteen when he left, almost eight years younger than him.

  Even so, her face had stayed with him long after the violence and blood had put a permanent stain on his hands and his soul, and he’d remained optimistic. He hadn’t given her any promises—not verbal ones, anyway—since he couldn’t have said for sure that he was going to return home. But they’d kept in touch, at least in the beginning.

  For a while he’d received letters from her, which he’d cherished. Because their fathers were both likely monitoring their correspondence, she’d spoken mainly of the everyday goings on of village life, but those messages had been warm and filled with her infectious verve and sparkling wit. It had come right off the page and wrapped him in memories and hope, sometimes so bittersweet he’d felt the pain of it in his chest.

  But then he’d stopped getting anything. The loss of those notes had hurt more than he’d expected it to—almost as much as showing up today and finding himself alone. It had hurt even more than not hearing from his father, whom Graham assumed was simply caught up in the excitement of his new marriage.

  Intellectually he’d assumed the lack of communication was simply the result of an unreliable postal service. Emotionally he’d wondered if everyone had forgotten about him.

  Like today.

  Maybe they knew what war had made of him and didn’t want to associate with someone who could do such horrible things. But surely his father would want to see him…

  Married.

  My father…married.

  He’d been surprised to hear of the wedding. The Earl had never indicated a desire to remarry. After the death of Graham’s mother ten years ago, there’d been no monetary reason to do so. The woman must be very special, and no man deserved happiness more than Graham’s father.

  It must have been a whirlwind romance and he looked forward to hearing about it. But before that…there was no use standing here in the rain any longer. He hefted the strap of his duffel over his good shoulder and stepped off the small station platform into the puddles that had swallowed up the dirt road heading into town.

  He squinted up at the unrelenting gray sky. Miserable day for such a walk. After so long away, he just wanted to be home already. Would he even be welcome at home? Hill House—the family seat—was at the edge of town. The other edge of town. Granted, Bedford was a small country community, but in the needling rain even that distance felt as long as the march into Damascus.

  He started walking, but was stopped before too long. “Hello, good soldier!”

  Turning around, he was startled to realize he’d passed the old woman without even noticing her.

  Now that she’d called to him, he wondered how he could have missed her, considering the three massive hounds at her side. All black, each with a broad snout that wrinkled up at him in matching snarls, showing off pointed yellow teeth like jagged mountain ranges in their mouths.

  “Good afternoon.” He smiled politely at the woman’s stooped form. She was draped in a thick black cloak, her deeply lined face peeking out from a wide cowl around her head. She held out her hand and the dogs backed down immediately, although they still looked up at him as if waiting for the opportunity to indulge in a satisfying mid-afternoon snack.

  Graham’s hopes fell when he failed to recognize her, having hoped for a familiar, friendly face at last.

  The old woman smiled, flashing blackened and crooked teeth. She took a step toward him and tripped over her long cloak. He took her hand to steady her. Her skin was dry like the pages of an ancient scroll, but hot as well. Hot as if she suffered from a deep sickness that was burning her up from the inside out. He stifled a grimace of distaste.

  All three dogs growled as soon as he touched her, baring those very pointy teeth once again. The hackles on their shoulders stuck up like prickly tufts of grass on a hill. He froze, giving each one of them his cautious attention. Thankfully, they didn’t leap for his throat, only glared with dark eyes that seemed extra big and round.

  “Thank you, sir.” The old woman straightened and turned to shush the hounds. She shifted when he moved to step back so that suddenly she was holding onto his hand. The heat in her touch intensified, as if she might actually brand him with the mark of her hand over his. The longer she maintained contact the more unsettled Graham became.

  The dogs sat back on their haunches but continued to stare him down, contemplating which of his limbs to rip off first. He couldn’t get over how big their eyes were.

  “Don’t mind my darlings, they’re quite protective of me but won’t act unless I instruct them to.”

  Graham winced before tugging against her grip. The woman finally let go. He swiped his hand in what he hoped was an inconspicuous manner on his hip.

  “It’s fortunate that you have them. They seem to be very capable and fierce protectors. And no doubt excellent companions as well,” he replied, pushing a hank of wet hair back off his forehead. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, but I had best continue on my way.”

  The sudden urge to leave as soon as possible was stron
g, almost overwhelming, and generated a twinge of guilt as well. Did the poor woman have somewhere to go to get out of the rain? Of course she must. This wasn’t a rich community by any means, but no one would be left to go hungry and homeless while his father was lord.

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I wondered if you might help me before you go?” she called after him as he turned away.

  Irrationally, his first reaction was to say no, but he bit his tongue on the word. “Of course, I would be happy to.” He turned back to her. “What sort of help do you need?”

  She pointed to a nearby tree. He glanced up. The monstrous oak had marked the edge of his village for more years than he’d been alive on this earth. “I’m afraid my tinderbox is stuck up in the tree,” she said.

  A tinderbox? Who carried such a thing anymore?

  He peered through the rain and into the shadows made by the dense foliage. Just then the rain started to come down much harder and thunder rumbled through the sky, shaking the ground beneath his feet. “How the bloody hell did something like that get up there?” He glanced sharply back down at the old woman. “My apologies, madam. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No apologies necessary, m’dear.” She chortled, a curl of red hair slipping from the cowl over her head. She tucked it back behind her ear quickly but it struck him that she perhaps was not quite as old as she looked—which thought only elevated his guilt. The unfortunate woman had obviously led a very hard life to have aged so horribly before her time.

  “I carry the box with me always. But a trio of rambunctious young lads—” Her smile twisted and her eyes flashed. She reached down and patted the head of the hound closest to her. It let out a barely audible little whine before tilting its head up to lick her fingers. Graham couldn’t help the shudder that went through him. “Accosted me. They snatched my keepsake from me and scampered up into the tree. They’ve lodged it among the branches and obviously, I can’t get it down.”

  “How long ago was this?” He looked around at the empty street. “Where have the boys gotten to?”

  She waved in dismissal. “Oh, they’re long gone now. But would you be so kind as to climb up and retrieve the thing for me? I’m afraid I simply can’t leave it. An heirloom, you understand. It’s very dear to me.”

  Could she not see the binding on his arm? Granted, the wound was mostly healed. If the doctor hadn’t insisted he keep the sling on another few days he would have torn free of it long ago, but climbing trees was still not quite on the agenda.

  He thought of asking what could make a tinderbox so special, but decided against it. That was the old woman’s business and none of his concern. “Yes, of course I’ll do my best to get it for you.” He walked to the oak. Truthfully, he’d scrambled up this tree a thousand times as a child. Shrugging his pack off his shoulder he left it at the base of the trunk before removing the sling from his arm as well.

  “Truly?” Her eyes widened with obvious shock. Had she asked others before him and been refused, he wondered? Perhaps they hadn’t been willing to risk their necks to climb a tree in the rain for an old woman.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t either?

  “You’ll do this dangerous, selfless thing for a stranger? For a crusty old woman like me?”

  He sighed. “If it’s that important to you, then how can I possibly refuse?”

  The trunk was thick and gnarled, and the first tree limb higher than his shoulders. A flash lit the sky, followed by another roll of thunder that seemed to go on and on.

  The rain would make this task slippery and dangerous indeed. In fact, he was very likely to break his fool neck if he didn’t get struck by lightning.

  She stood there with a smile twisting her face into a mangled mess of white lips and black teeth and deep wrinkles. He turned and jumped for the first branch, biting back a groan of pain as the barely healed muscles in his arm stretched and then tore. This wasn’t a good idea.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the old woman, but she seemed to have no intention of calling him back. Her look sent a shiver running through him, giving him second thoughts about the entire situation. He shook it off. Just get it done and over with. Once he pulled himself onto that first large limb it would be easier.

  Adjusting his grip and taking a deep breath, he swung his body up until his stomach rested on the horizontal limb and he could pull his legs onto the branch. He balanced there for a moment, gazing into the tree.

  High up in the foliage—about three feet higher than he’d be able to get to safely—was a dark spot. A dead spot. There was no point calling down to the old woman to ask her where the boys had stashed her precious tinderbox. He felt certain it was there, where the leaves had all died and the wood was black with rot.

  He swiped water from his face before reaching above him for the next branch. Carefully, he made his way up.

  At one point he came to rest and glanced all the way back down to the ground. Nope, not a good idea. He clenched his teeth against a little wave of dizziness and readjusted his gaze to the tree branch jutting out in front of him. He tightened his grip on it.

  Although he didn’t see the old woman, her three hounds were circling the trunk of the tree, stopping every few steps to stare up at him. He could tell that drool dripped from their muzzles, and their eyes looked big and round even from his position above them. “I must have lost my bloody mind,” he muttered, pushing himself upward once again.

  The climb became more treacherous as the main tree limbs branched apart, getting thinner and thinner. Even though much of the rain couldn’t penetrate the foliage, everything he touched was wet.

  Holding onto what was little more than a twig with one hand, he put his foot on another…and slipped. The crack of the branch breaking echoed in his ears. He fell, scrabbling for purchase. From below, he could hear the dogs start barking.

  His fists closed on nothing but leaves that scraped through his grasp until his shin hit a tree limb and slowed his descent. He hooked his good arm over another branch and stopped himself, but not before something that felt like a knot poked hard into his back, at the base of his spine.

  He shifted, pulling himself into a sitting position in the cradle of two large branches. God’s teeth that hurt. He groaned, muscles tensed into balls of pain. His side stung. His arm was on fire. A glance confirmed that he’d torn his shirt and a long red scrape marked his torso.

  “Oh dear! Don’t hurt yourself on my account.” The old woman’s voice filtered up, but he could detect no real worry or guilt in her tone. In fact, he couldn’t help but think she sounded rather amused at his expense.

  “If you have to give up,” she called. “I suppose I could wait until someone else comes along who is more capable of attempting this task.”

  Now the witch was just outright baiting him.

  He’d fallen halfway back down through the tree. The only thing to do was start again.

  This shouldn’t be so hard. He’d been to war and back for Christ’s sake. He’d crawled through the muck of countless blood-stained battlefields. He was in better than average physical shape for a man who’d suffered a bullet wound and almost lost his life to fever. It was just a tree, after all. That the task was practically killing him only made him more determined to get it done and prove he was back to his old self.

  His side burned when he moved, but he pushed forward. The urge to rush was overwhelming, but he forced himself to go slowly, testing each branch and footing before trusting all of his weight to the next step.

  He’d be damned if he let a ridiculous thing like climbing a tree mark the end of him.

  Finally he reached the dead part of the tree once again and stopped to rest. It looked even larger. Earlier, it had seemed about the circumference of a musket ball, but now he realized it was as big as a carriage wheel. Whatever illness affected this tree was surely killing it. Too bad, since it had stood on this spot like the village’s own sentinel for generations. Soon there would be nothing standing in its place bu
t a rotted stump. He should warn his father in case the disease was the type to spread. Maybe they could take some preventative measures before all the trees in the district became infected.

  He was about to yell down to the old woman that her keepsake wasn’t up here, but then he saw it. An oblong container made from tin had been jammed in a small hollow of the tree. It was definitely old, probably hadn’t seen a polishing cloth in decades. The leather strap of the tinderbox was dry and cracking and the lid had a dent in it.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, needed to have it, in fact.

  Leaning forward, he stretched out his arm, but the thing was just out of reach. Shuffling forward along the thin branch that groaned and cracked beneath him, he held onto it with one hand and stretched again, inching a little closer. He would have the box.

  Holding his breath, he strained as far as he could, every muscle in his body tight. He was ready to leap through the tree if that’s what it would take to get his hands on the tinderbox, but then his index finger grazed the strap.

  He flicked it again, drawing it just a smidge closer. Close enough to grab hold!

  Pulling it free of its resting place, he held the box up and squinted through the dim light to read the engraving on its side. The words were written in Gaelic, of which he knew only a little.

  He who makes wishes of the damned must accept the consequences of releasing them.

  That couldn’t be right. Who would engrave such cryptic nonsense into something so unassuming and utilitarian as a tinderbox? He must have misread it. Highly possible, since the scratches were practically illegible, as if someone had cared enough to polish the metal religiously at one time and almost rubbed the words right away.

  That’s what he should do. Clean it up. He tugged the hem of his shirt from his trousers. It wasn’t very clean either, not anymore, but it would work to rub away some of the stain so he could read—

  “Have you found my keepsake, good sir?”

  He frowned at the sound of the old woman’s voice. He’d forgotten about her entirely. He’d also forgotten where he was, perched precariously on a narrow tree branch at least two dozen feet above the hard ground.