“Blood to trigger, blood to power,” The apparently undead fey continued. “Never another spell cross.” His head turned until he was looking at the ceiling.
“Die, stay dead,” I hissed as I glanced over my shoulder. Nash could come back any moment. Turning back to the not-so-dead fey, I added another order. “Rest and walk no more.”
But his eyes were already closed, and the necromancy was crawling back to where it lived, having scared me enough for one day.
“I keep telling them to restock, but they don’t listen,” Nash grumbled as the door whooshed open and then closed again.
Blood pounded through me. The fey looked dead, but did a zombie really look that different from a corpse if it wasn’t moving?
“Pine?”
What if he wasn’t dead? What would I do then? Narzel. I had to study that book tonight.
Nash suddenly appeared between me and the zombie fey. Or was it dead again? This was so confusing.
“Do you need to sit down?” His brows pulled together, and he examined my face. “You look pale.”
“Um.” I blinked, trying to figure out what to say.
He cupped my elbow and turned me away. “I forget not everyone is as comfortable around the dead. If you can hold it together while I make these samples for you, we can leave.”
“Sure,” I said faintly, holding back a manic laughter with everything in me. If anything, I was too comfortable with the dead. You know, just a normal problem for a twenty-four year old witch.
I did my best to hold it together while Nash prepared the samples. My necromancy stayed quiet, and I escaped without him asking again if I was feeling okay. Given the not-as-dead-as-he-should’ve-been fey, that was as good as it got.
The drive back to work took all my attention, which helped stuff the fear back to where it belonged. After dropping the new blood samples in the fridge, I went out for a long lunch. By the time I returned, my nerves had settled enough for me to work some very normal, no-necromancy-needed spells.
I blocked out everything, well, everything related to necromancy, and immersed myself in a complex bit of casting. Using all the blood samples Nash had provided, I crafted a new tracking spell. This one had strict instructions not to look for blood with similar features, which was where the other samples came in, but for the source of it.
The end result didn’t look much different than the other ones, but the disk of wood had three times as many runes etched into its surface. When everything pulled together, the spell didn’t point toward the morgue or directly to the house, but to the west. Unless my next early morning call was for a dead deer on that side of town, I wasn’t sure I trusted this spell, even though it should have been correct.
That doubt was enough to shatter my focus. Werewolf, undead, and necromancy. There wasn’t enough space left to even think about the words the fey had passed along or why it had needed to say those words, never mind being alert enough to hunt a werewolf with blood magic.
Even if the spell was working properly, which I had some doubts about considering the direction it was pointing, I couldn’t go hunting today. I had to read the grimoire and figure out how to stop all this accidental necromancy.
Rather than calling, I sent Mitchell an email. After that, I spent a few hours tiding up work that required more time than thought before heading home. I picked up a burger on the way and ate it sitting at my dining room table, trying to work up the courage to do what had to be done. A grand way to spend Friday night, especially since I expected to work through the weekend.
After tidying up the kitchen and checking the front door locks twice, I couldn’t put it off any longer. The grimoire slid out of its box like it wanted to be in my hand.
Our last encounter hadn’t filled me with optimism, so I gave the book a good look and a light probe. If there were any active spells, they were beyond my ability to detect.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the book. A swirling script had replaced the runes.
Daughter of Nekro,
It seems you came to this book without proper introduction. I do hope you can understand the spell is intended to protect you and the rest of our blood. I apologize for the discomfort.
Do not be ashamed of your powers, and do not fear them. You come from fierce and strong women who wielded their power over the dead. The knowledge we would have shared was rejected, and we were hunted.
That is the history they want you to know. Of how we were evil creatures, too connected to the dead and not connected enough to the living. But it is not the full legacy. We brought peace to the living, spared their lives, and let the dead die again. Without us, the great battles of years past could have destroyed entire races. We were the instruments in preventing death.
Now that heritage has come to you. Choose your legacy. Turn away, and you can never return. Accept your heritage and revel in power unmatched by any other witch. Betray your blood and feel the wrath of your clan.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
I do hope you continue, for in the powers of the Nekro, you will find marvels unlike any magics you have seen.
Kelsey Nekro
My fingers hovered over that name. A woman who had come before me, who had shared my power, and who had been crafty enough to lay a protection spell—or perhaps vengeance would be a better term—in the pages. A witch who had had an unparalleled control of her power.
My hand trembled as I turned the page, but all it showed was a table of contents. I skipped past The History of the Nekro to The Basics of Making a Necromancer. The Foundation of Raising the Dead would be my next stop.
I found the page and started reading. The answers were here somewhere. I just had to find them.
Three pages into The Basics of Making a Necromancer, I understood what my mother had done to me. Raising the dead required a connection to death, or more power than any three witches had naturally. That’s why she’d deadened the nerves in my leg.
The two wells of power didn’t seem to be common, but a single line noted it could result from a witch’s necromancy being bound. When the block against necromancy ended, it was normal for the two wells of powers to need integration. The book neglected to mention how to mix the two types of power.
Typical.
Even after nearly killing me, it was too much for them to hand over clear answers. Just once, I’d like to pick up a truly useful grimoire.
The Foundations of Raising the Dead was far more helpful, if not overflowing with good news. Like other magics, necromancy could be done with runes or will and focus. It wasn’t the easiest way, but it was possible, and it fit with what I’d done, however unintentionally. Bubble I’d willed back to unlife. Jameson, well, desperation was a type of will, and I’d regretted his death and needed help. Similarly with the fey, I’d wanted answers the fey would know.
On the bright side, I knew how to block magic acting out of will. That lesson had come early in life, but I’d never extended the shield around my necromancy. The new shield scratched at my mind, but the feeling would fade as it became second nature.
Nine pages later, after reading through the basics of raising, controlling, and laying the dead using runes, salt, steel, and herbs, my brain hurt. Centuries old writing, with its flourishes and nonstandard spelling, didn’t make for the easiest reading.
My temples throbbed, and I stowed the grimoire in its hiding spot. Tomorrow, I’d do more reading. Right now, I needed some fresh air, and I hadn’t collected my mail today. Or yesterday.
As I headed down the stairs, information swirled around my head. The dead, types of undead, and the runes for raising or laying them. I’d figured out I already had the basic supplies. So that was another bit of good news.
At my mailbox, I tugged the letters out one by one, stopping when I found an all-too-familiar printed label.
Could I not have one day without problems piling up? Just one where I could sleep till my alarm and not worry about the dead coming back to life, a surprisingly sophisticated flesh-hungry werewolf, or my stalker.
I ripped into the envelope. Two slender strips of paper fell into my hand. The edges were uneven and dotted with fragments of printed characters, like they had been cut out of a much longer letter.
Was I not pretty enough for you? If I put on tight pants and braid my hair will you look at me the way you look at that elf?
First that man drives you home. Drives Fabian! Then you go out with that elf? Neither are your species. You can’t have a real relationship with them!
I read those words over and over, taking in the font, the size, and the bits of type from the rest. Nothing about the page or the print was unique. The anger in the words was new. As was the direct acknowledgment that he was following me, watching me.
My heart raced. I’d likely seen him this week but hadn’t known it was him.
A distant part of my brain knew the statistics. I’d learned them at college not long before the first letter and had heard them again in training. It had always been more likely than not that I knew the stalker.
Faces of men I’d known since childhood flashed through my mind, as did those of near-strangers. One of them had sent me these letters.
“Kelsey? What’s wrong?”
Pale hands plucked the strips of paper off my palm.
“I see.” Randolf’s voice could’ve shattered ice. “Come with me.”
He gathered up my mail and guided me down the stairs to his domain. His hand was cold against my elbow.
Randolf settled me into a chair, tucking a blanket around me. He moved into the kitchen at vampire speed and then was back. He held my hands in his, creating points of cold I could focus on. Distantly, a kettle whistled.
He zipped away again but was back in moments with a steaming cup of still-brewing tea and a flask. He wrapped my hands around the warm cup and waited.
When the cup was too hot to hold comfortably, I set it on the table between our chairs. “He never said anything like that before.”
“He said enough to scare you.” He uncapped the flask and poured a healthy amount of whiskey into the tea. “You showed me the first letter, and others.”
“But none of them were like this. They were always complete letters. Why would he cut out portions unless he was afraid to send me the rest?” I snatched the mug off the table and took a sip, wincing at the temperature. The whiskey chased it down my throat, adding heat of a different kind.
Randolf frowned and bolted to the kitchen. He came back with an open tin of chocolate chip cookies. “I don’t know, and neither do you.”
“But it would be your guess too.” The cookie was so soft and deliciously chewy.
“What I know and guess are different. I know you should file another report, keep the case open.” He slipped the flask in his pocket. “Guesses? I have many, none of which are likely to help.”
The whiskey was starting to do its job. It didn’t take away the fear, but it blunted the feeling. The stalker hadn’t said he would hurt me, not that they always did, and it was a long way from this letter to the types of things I’d studied. “Maybe, I should, but what if it’s like the others? I stopped adding to the report because there wasn’t any evidence. Not so much as a stray fingerprint.”
“Anger can cloud judgment. This could be the mistake you need,” Randolf countered.
“Maybe.” But it had the same feel, as if it was cleaner than should’ve been possible. And, now that I had a bit of distance—and whiskey—between the surprise and me, I had bigger concerns. “He could be a danger to you or the other residents. When I finish with this case, I’ll renew the perimeter spell.”
“That would be wise.” He patted my knee. “I will stay sharp when I’m awake.”
“Thank you.” I set the mug down and took Randolf’s hands in mine. “Thank you for being the friend I needed.” As well as the quasi-father, protector, and guardian. I swallowed, trying to push back tears that were too close to the surface.
He squeezed my hands. “That is what friends do.”
I gave him my best smile, which right then wasn’t that wonderful. Maybe it was the stalker, or the raging werewolf, or the necromancy, or even all three that kept the smile from going all the way to my eyes.
