Our Final Rest


“Found him.”

I made my way to where Finch stood, hands on hips, looking down. “Are you sure that’s Thomas?”

He snorted. “How many skeletons you think there are out here?”

“Dunno. I’ll bet more than one.” It was an ideal dumping ground, actually, close enough to a gravel road that you wouldn’t have to carry a corpse far, but far enough from civilization that you could perform the task without once being seen. “Could be bodies all through these woods, going back decades. Maybe—”

“Fine, fine. But this is him.”

“It’s me, Ben.” The voice came from the skull, though there was no movement. There was no jaw to move, or lips or tongue, and yet…

A cold chill ran down my spine; I hissed at Finch, “Jesus, don’t do that. You always… Can you warn me before you cast the spell? Can you do that?”

“Well, not now I can’t, it’s done.”

Sorry if I startled you, Ben.” The skull intoned, in that familiar voice. “Seriously.”

“Whatever, let’s get on with this. Who killed you?”

There was a pause, before Thomas’ skull finally said, “You don’t know?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be—”

“It was Finch, Ben.”

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