Right then, the Dark Lord himself. No wonder Max was eager to get going. In the years Finnegan had spent ridding the world of various supernatural threats—both alone and on Max's team—he'd encountered a tremendous amount of bad stuff. Vampires, insane covens, ghouls, but he'd never had to deal with the boss from bloody downstairs. This was big.

He finished his coffee as the others got up. Outside the coffee shop, he put his hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Hold up, lad."

Taking a few steps to bring himself in front of Jack, Finnegan began to pull back his left coat sleeve. Several tattoos adorned his forearm.

"I'll bet you're twisting yer head sideways trying to find a way to bind something whose blood doesn't pump. I think I might be able to help you." He pointed to a circular design close to his wrist. "Got this some years ago. Prevents a couple different types of reanimation once I kick th'bucket. Needless to say, we're not gonna tattoo the bloody thing, but you might be able to scale it up, hold it in place 'til we figure everything out. I'll text ye a picture of it on the road."

He looked up and raised his voice slightly to address everyone: "Now, does someone want to give an old man a lift to our destination?"