"It needs our deaths," he says, like he's turning the words over, and that— that's something. That tracks with his fledgling theories of necromancy, and it leans heavy against the grand, terrible migraine looming in the back of his head. "It's killing us and bringing us back, over and over, because killing us conveys some benefit."

There's a terrify kernel of an idea in him, something he doesn't dare examine, felt like a pang: Can I do that?

John nearly pours himself a drink to drown it out, but of course all he's got is blood, hot and mocking. He blows out all the breath in his chest, leans in to lace his fingers over the table.

"Okay. Alright. Hate to say it, but that does track. Any ideas why?"