She was still cleaning up the detritus of spell-casting when Mauritz appeared in the doorway. “Ah, you’re here. Have a seat. Anywhere’s fine.” It was Mauritz’s house, after all: she wouldn’t fret over the stains or smell.
Mauritz’s zombie lumbered over to the couch and settled onto it, bits of flesh sloughing off onto the upholstery.
He needed marching orders, direction. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Maury.” There was still one more order of business, the locator spell.
Mauritz, suspicious, had wisely invested in revenge. Mauritz’s wife had bought his death, but alas for her, not its permanence.