May, 8 years ago

I head to George Mayhew’s place, a longtime client of mine and one of the best necromancers out there. The man is addicted to pixie dust, and he’ll bargain away his services in an instant for his next fix. Unfortunate for him, convenient for me.

I appear in Mayhew’s living room. A split second later, Hugh Anders’ bloodless corpse manifests as well, landing on his coffee table and scattering a mostly finished box of pizza and toppling a beer.

“Holy shit!” George jerks back on his couch, his game controller flying from his grip. “Hey, what the fuck, man?” he says, catching sight of me.

“Resurrect him,” I command, jerking my head to the body.

“Dude, you ruined my dinner.”

Like I care.

I glance around his place. George’s apartment smells like a pet store, thanks to the rodents he breeds. Necromancy is, at its core, blood magic. It takes lifeblood to bring something back from the dead, and George, like most necromancers, doesn’t like cutting himself up for the job when he could cut up a fluffy little creature instead.

“Do you want another supply of Dust?” I say. “Resurrect him.”

He looks at me obstinately. “I’ve been calling you for weeks now and you’ve been ignoring me. Why should I help you now?”

“Fine,” I say. I snap my fingers and the body lifts off the table. “I’ll find another necromancer.”

George stands a little too fast. “Wait-wait-wait.” He wipes his greasy hands off on his shirt.

Classy guy.

“How many grams?” he asks. His eyes have a greedy shine to them.

“Enough,” I respond.

He runs his tongue along his lower lip, pretending to actually consider it. Finally he nods. “I’ll do it,” he says.

I gesture to the body. “Then have at it.”

George stands, his attention moving to the corpse. One moment he’s a junkie, the next, a professional. He circles Hugh Anders, tilting his head as he inspects the dead man.

“Sleek looking asshole,” he comments. “What’d he do to get offed?”

I ignore George’s question.

When he realizes I’m not going to answer him, he raises his palms. “Alright, man, no questions.” He returns to the task at hand. “Beer?” he offers.

I glower at him. He and I both know he’s trying my patience.

He shakes his head. “Just trying to be polite.”

George lowers himself to his knees, grabbing one of Hugh’s arms. “Still warm,” he says to himself. He bends the appendage. “And rigor mortis hasn’t set in—this is a fresh one. That makes this easy.”

He stands, turning off his T.V. and the game I interrupted. He then heads over to his entertainment system, opening a cupboard situated next to the T.V. From it he pulls out little baggies of various herbs, several candles, and a packet of matches. Setting the candles on the floor around the coffee table, he lights them one by one.

After he does so, he flips off the living room lights and heads to his bedroom, returning with a hairy spider cupped in his palm.

I fold my arms and lean against the wall, idly watching the necromancer, my blood simmering. What happened to her … it had been going on for years. My mate had been victimized, and I had no fucking idea. I work my jaw, letting my anger turn cold and hard.

Still holding the spider captive, George begins to sprinkle the herbs around the body, reciting an incantation as he does so. Finally, he takes the spider he holds and, pulling out a pocket knife, slices the creature open.

Normally necromancers need a bigger blood supply, but since Hugh Anders is freshly dead, it only takes a spark of magic to call his spirit back to his body, hence the sacrificial spider.

A moment later, I feel the heat of George’s magic rush through the room as he converts the creature’s blood into power. The candles around George flicker. Then, all at once, they snuff out.

In the darkness I hear a gasp, then the sounds of heavy breathing.

George’s voice rings through the room. “According to the bylaws of the Seven Necromantic Accords, it is my duty to inform you that—”

I flick my hand, muting the necromancer’s voice. George clutches his throat, glaring at me.

I stride towards Hugh, my boots clinking against the floor. “You don’t know who I am,” I say, stepping up to the man. “And you don’t know where you are, only that it’s not hell.” I crouch in front of him. He can’t see me in the darkness. “Unfortunately for you, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to return you there.”

I cock my arm back and sock the seer in the face. His head snaps back, out cold.

George stumbles away in shock, making a raspy sound that is his version of a shout. For a man who kills bugs and little rodents for a living, he sure doesn’t have an appetite for violence.

I haul the previously dead seer over my shoulder.

What are you doing? George mouths. I’ve brought him many bodies in the past, but almost always they were people someone else paid me to revive. The necromancer has never seen me go rogue.

I jerk my head, and ten bags of pixie dust manifest out of thin air, each falling onto George’s coffee table. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

And then Hugh and I are gone.