Tate was the one to man the door when Jeremiah and Misty Day arrived. He figured they were there for his mother's body again but this time, the teen was harboring a recent grudge against her. The reason had already faded from his memory, but the feelings remained, and he never questioned his feelings. That was Dr. Harmon's job.

When the witch rang the bell, Tate opened the door to them.

"Just the person we came ta see," Misty Day exclaimed when she saw him. The bones she had tied in her long gray hair rattled.

Tate peered cautiously through his curly bangs at the odd pair. "And here I thought you were coming after Constance again."

The witch smiled. "You make it sound so sinister. We want to restore her to life."

"Last I heard, she didn't want to be 'restored'," Tate pointed out.

He glanced at Jeremiah, but the man just stood there, a silent witness to the conversation. The guy was acting strangely in Tate's estimation, though it wasn't any one thing he was doing. It was a whole bunch of little things. The man didn't smile, which was unusual. He hadn't said a word, not even hello, which was also unusual. Jeremiah had always been friendly and chatty toward Tate, in any form Tate had taken around him. The holy man didn't seem angry, either. He was just sort of… there.

Being resurrected didn't seem to be doing the guy any favors. Tate was glad that he, personally, had evolved when he died. Being a living zombie didn't look fun.

"I can't blame her," he admitted, shifting his attention back to Misty. "She probably doesn't want to end up like the priest."

Did the guy flinch? If so, the look was gone so quickly, Tate couldn't be certain.

"What is goin' to happen to your mama is nothin' like what happened to him," Misty asserted in her stilted southern drawl. "Michael's work is unique to him. Our ritual is designed specifically for our kind."

"Your kind," Tate echoed. He leaned on the doorframe casually. "I always knew my mom was a witch when I was a kid. I just never knew how literally." He snickered to himself. Then: "Okay. Sure. You can have her."

Misty couldn't conceal her surprise at the easy capitulation. It made her leery. "We can?"

"Sure," Tate said with a smile. "Knock yourselves out. Just don't expect me to help you. She's up in the attic with Beau."

He vanished then, leaving the pair to head up to the attic by themselves.

—

They had to contend with Beauregard when Misty homed in on where Constance's body was located, with a spell of divination. As soon as she neared the steamer trunk, Beau charged at her. She was quick enough to side-step his first lunge, but he came at her again, in his rambunctious way. There was a determined edge to the way he dove at her, though, that had nothing to do with play.

Misty could sense the ghost's true nature, beneath the hostile display. It put her in a bind. She couldn't bring herself to hex someone so pure, but she couldn't have him bowling her over either. So she hit him with a fascinator spell instead.

It was a quirky cantrip of her own design, invented to entertain orphaned children who showed up at Mme Robichaux's Academy in New Orleans, when the world was starting its rapid decline. The spell was like a daydream: It ferreted out the target's desires and played it in their minds like it was real. She wasn't sure it would work on the dead, but the ghost stopped his attack and sat drooling and smiling.

After that it was just a matter of finding which trunk Constance's remains were in. Jeremiah did the rest.

Tate watched as they carried the blanket-wrapped body away. He expected his mother to show up but when he saw Michael's car parked haphazardly out in front of her house, he could guess that the local god was over there distracting her while his minions did his dirty work.

"Minions," Tate scoffed and locked the door behind them once they were gone.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was scoffing at. Something about the idea of the other guy having minions bothered him though. It seemed unfair to Tate that Michael should get minions. Tate never had minions or anybody who wanted to do things for him. Nobody would have ever built a church for him. As far as Tate knew, he didn't even have a grave stone.

Tate suffered a few long moments of jealousy before realizing he didn't want minions. They would bother him. He was happiest in small groups, preferably one-on-one. He could fully absorb the experience of being with a person that way. Individuals were like intricate puzzles, with all kinds of buttons and secrets. Crowds were just obnoxious.

When sulking got dull, the teen's thoughts turned to Violet. He missed her and wondered if she missed him too. He wished for the hundred-millionth time that phones worked. He eventually wound up on the hard couch in the great room, curled up with his hands tucked between his knees. He lost track of how long he was there, but he stirred when the room changed around him.

Chad's arrival was precipitated by the shift in décor. He entered the room, bearing a large box marked "ornaments". Tate sighed heavily.

"Nobody asked you," Chad answered back cheerfully. He placed the box on the floor near the coffee table then straightened. "If you're going to be in here, you have to help. Otherwise, go mope elsewhere."

"It's still November," Tate protested.

"It's December tenth," corrected Chad. "Well past time to get the tree up. This year I won't have Vivien's kitschy shit to contend with so we're doing things my way."

"We always do things your way," muttered Tate. He picked at a bit of dead skin on his thumb.

"You don't have to be here," Chad reminded, undaunted. He left the room to go get more festive decorations from the basement, humming Jingle Bells as he went.

Tate lay there a bit longer, trying to decide what to do. He thought about retreating to his room, but he didn't feel like laying in bed. He wished he still had his blood crows, but they had all flown off as soon as they learned how to fly. All except the sickly one, which had died and joined its brethren in the back yard.

He had liked having pets. He had never had any as a kid. Probably because of Beau, he reasoned. Beau would accidentally hurt a small, furry thing. Now, though, Tate was reasonably confident he could bring a pet of some sort into the house without fear. Not necessarily a typical cat or dog but maybe one of the mutant things. That way it could hold its own against Thaddeus if he decided he didn't like the pet.

Something about that plan didn't feel quite right but he didn't waste time analyzing what. He knew whatever it was, it couldn't make a mess or break things in the house. It was probably best, in fact, if it wasn't even alive. That way nothing could kill it and Tate wouldn't have to remember to feed it. Having a living dead pet would also mean it wouldn't poop on the $5,000 Arabian rug that Mrs. Nora cherished.

Inspired, Tate set out to find himself a new pet.

...

Author's Note:

I'm rounding the last stretch in my spring semester at college so I've been short on time lately. Please please forgive the loose editing on this chapter. I'll polish it up later after the heat's off.

So I guess Tate's getting himself a pet. An undead one. So not in my story outline. Hopefully next chapter things will be back on course.