Necromancer's Dating Service (Magis Luminare Book 1)

by J M Thomas

  It didn’t matter if life was pulling some cosmic rug out from under my feet, or if the guys at the office were behind a prank, my life felt like a joke right now, anyway. I got into my car and locked the door behind me.

  I put on a little eyeliner and some berry-colored lipstick, using the visor mirror to check the application. It was my war paint, just enough to show off my features without covering my freckles. Dangit, they were already fading with the time I’d been spending indoors.

  I checked my hair, deciding it was as good as it was going to get. The deep brown, unruly mass wanted to be worn down today, showing off the blue-dyed tips I’d tucked into a bun for the interview. Once you’re in, you’re in, and your hair’s funky style can show through.

  Very funny, guys, but you’ll see—I’m already none the worse for wear. I bared my teeth at the mirror, then steeled myself for a long day.

  Chapter 4 – Razor Wire Coils

  I’d expected to be creeped out by the police department’s morgue.

  The dim, fluorescent lights humming and flickering overhead only enhanced the atmosphere created by unfinished cinder block walls and concrete flooring. It was cold, not just with artificial chill, but with an unfeeling damp. The pressure of being below ground weighed on me, and a vague, embalming fluid-laced scent oppressed the stale air.

  The metal door to the morgue wasn’t labeled, but it didn’t have to be. The only other door had a sign reading “janitorial,” leaving no doubt to be had. I checked my list again, not because I had to, but to stall for a second and gather my wits before knocking.

  Patrice had warned me that, though Ethan McGrady was “good people,” he didn’t get along with the living much. My own twenty-second conversation with him pretty much confirmed every word.

  I was bracing for the worst and raising my knuckle to tap on the door when it opened from a foot pushing it. A pair of dark, almond-shaped eyes peeked out from behind surgical garb and a plastic face shield.

  “Miss Grantham, yes?” came the soft, resonant male voice I recognized from the phone.

  I nodded. “Mister, um… Doctor McGrady?”

  “Yes. You can call me Ethan. One minute, I’ve got a couple sutures to finish up. Can you wait here, please?” He released the door to swing closed before I had a chance to respond.

  Ok? I forced a smile for the door’s sake, then leaned against the cinder block, letting the rough, porous texture scritch a little circle over my tense shoulders. I’d almost managed to relax when the door opened wider to admit me.

  Stepping through, I found a larger room with more of the same. Only this time, it also had a couple operating tables and a vast array of equipment on dull, off-white counters. A single chair had been pulled up to a scratched but tidy white desk.

  Ethan was putting something away in a cabinet, his back facing me. He’d lost the surgical garb and seemed to be making last-minute notes, so I scanned the room while I waited.

  For some reason, I’d expected a brightly-lit laboratory with white walls and chrome equipment. What I found looked at least several decades old, dingy with age, and well-used.

  “So, this is where the magic happens, huh?” I asked, flashing a smile.

  The pathologist, a man of average height and Asian features, wore dress clothes and was halfway through donning a fresh lab coat. He raised a dark eyebrow at me but said nothing.

  As I waited patiently, he turned to the scratched-up sink and scrubbed his hands thoroughly, wiping them on a threadbare towel before turning back to square off with me. He was slender with a little bit of a stoop in his shoulders from so much time spent bent over a table.

  He had dark brown hair clipped into a fashionable fade, with plenty of natural thickness, though it didn’t seem styled at all. His lab coat seemed to swallow him up as he put it on over his work clothes. As he turned from the sink to step back to where I waited, he had a stiff gait, like he’d stood in one place too long.

  “You can call me Ethan,” he repeated, his voice soft as he met my gaze. If he caught that he’d said the same thing twice, he didn’t let on. “I believe you had questions for me.”

  “I did!” I nodded, probably a little too eagerly. “I’m hoping to revive the necROMANCE server and update it to provide better services. To do that, I’m getting to know the people who signed up for the server the first time.”

  “And your questions?” Ethan sat heavily on a creaky rolling chair, looking suddenly tired.

  I nodded. “I’d love to know what your job is and what your day looks like!”

  “You would?” His eyes grew wide. There was a long pause as he mulled over my offer. The prospect seemed to brighten him a little, and he stood again, his hand outstretched toward his desk workspace. “Over here is where my day gets started.” Ethan showed me a bent clipboard with a grid of lines, several names listed on it.

  How exciting. A clipboard. I had to work hard to pretend I was interested in that one.

  Ethan’s interest, on the other hand, was genuine bordering on enthusiastic. Like someone had switched on a light, he went from closed off to pouring out a steady stream of information.

  “Necromancing forensic pathology isn’t that much more lucrative or involved than regular forensic pathology. I start like any other in my field would—ensuring all the paperwork is in order and consent is signed for any internal or astral work before I get started. After I complete my examination and document any physical evidence, I inquire of the departed if they have anything else to share.”

  I wondered if the man ever paused to breathe, or if anyone had ever asked him a second question about his work before. I leaned in closer, giving a cursory glance at his precious clipboard, noticing the signature fields and his handwriting, a doctor’s scrawl with only “CEMcG” legible of the whole name.

  Ethan slid the clipboard back into its bin. “Sometimes that means a long, boring conversation with a soul that isn’t tied enough to this plane to make much sense. Sometimes it’s listening to the same sentence over and over for half an hour. Sometimes it’s blessed silence.”

  He straightened his glasses. “Occasionally, I’ll get useful information from a conversation, something that will shed new light on my findings from the physical exam.”

  The thought crossed my mind that his enthusiasm for his job was likely because he had nothing else in his life that brought him that level of joy. Well, if this was where his joy was… I supposed I’d meet him there.

  “That’s quite the stack of papers,” I commented with a tilt of my head. “Can I flip through it, or is there a confidentiality thing?”

  Ethan gave a slight shrug, then handed over a paperclipped stack. “Here’s a blank set.”

  Forms weren’t ever going to make it on my list of favorite things, but these almost looked like they were written in gibberish. After the name field, it quickly turned into medical-ese with mile-long words. My mind swam a little, my gaze searching for a familiar term I could grasp onto, anything that could be a question.

  Finally, I had to settle on “What’s ‘medicological?’ It sounds like meteorological… but isn’t that about weather? Is it how long the body’s been out in the rain?”

  A confused look passed over Ethan’s face, and he leaned over the page, his finger finding the word. “Ah. I see your mistake. Medicolegal, like medical and law.”

  “Oh, okay!” I flashed a smile. “So, what’s the word for how long the body’s been in the rain?”

  “Postmortem interval,” he said without so much as pausing to think. “That’s how long between the present and the time of death. Conditions do influence the rate of decay…” He paused here, flashing me a look I couldn’t quite place. “Though the effects of rain are a bit less straightforward than, say, the sun bloating the corpse.”

  “That makes sense,” I replied with a flip of the page. “When a fox got into our chicken coop, the birds we lost inside didn’t start smelling nearly as fast as the one that got out in the sun and died.�
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  Ethan’s nod became less formal and more enthusiastic the second I followed him into gross-ville. “Precisely. Hot, humid climates create the quickest decay. An area like you describe, likely with plenty of flies and therefore presence of maggots…”

  “Lots of those.” I wrinkled my nose at the unpleasant recollection, but bit back the word disgusting. Instead, I wracked my brain for a follow-up question that didn’t involve maggots.

  My mind lit on methods I used to use for sexing chickens, but I stowed that one away for if I needed to one-up him in the gross department later. There had to be an unwritten rule about talking about chicken sexing in the first interview. Finally, I had another: “Do you guys really have to use dental records, like in the movies, to tell who someone is?”

  “Only if we have to. The portrayal of forensics in film is atrocious bordering on ludicrous. I rarely see a John or Jane Doe—most have had positive identification from a friend or family member.”

  I realized halfway into his second sentence how bad the movies treated his line of work. For the first time, I actually appreciated forensics and was genuinely interested in learning more. How awful it must be to go digging around someone’s dead face to determine the state of their teeth, though. I supposed he couldn’t mind too much, since that was his job and his—I stifled a shudder at the idea—source of joy.

  “Huh, I never thought of that before.” I returned the clipboard to him so he could put it away. “There’s so much here. A lot goes into this job; you must be very proud.”

  “Indeed.” He returned the clipboard to a drawer, then crossed his arms over his chest and turned to me. “Shall we get to your other questions?”

  Success! I felt like I’d just picked a lock and sneaked in past his defenses. Like a kid getting a reward out of the treasure box at the worst dentist office of all time, I consulted my list of questions. “What do you think a dating service could do better to help connect necromancers to potential partners?”

  Ethan gave a dark laugh and leaned against the cabinetry. “Have potential partners at all.” The smile on his face looked almost irregular, like it had to work against gravity. Once it settled in, it wasn’t half bad.

  He continued, “I signed up, waited six months without a match, then canceled my subscription. At least the standard sites gave me matches, albeit bad ones. I’d have better luck registering an ad with the Wachenta Necromancer’s Guild, and that’s not a compliment.”

  “Yes, having enough participants is a challenge I’ll do my best to overcome. I’ll make a note of it. Do you have someplace you go to meet new people?” I was genuinely curious about this one, and it showed.

  He shook his head, the smile waning. I missed that smile when it was gone. His stern face looked as cold as this room when there was no expression to warm it. I wondered who I would pair with a guy like this. No one immediately came to mind.

  I felt a little sad for him. He was clearly a decent fellow, just a little awkward. No, more than that, he needed someone to teach him to trust again. I bet he approached his whole dating life like his clipboard. “Does this partner meet the requirements? No? Not interested.”

  “What do you do when you’re not at work?” I asked, adding it to the list of questions I’d ask everybody. This was valuable research, and I hated coming in here half-cocked.

  He hesitated a moment before answering. “I’m an in-home caregiver for my mother in the evenings and on weekends.”

  There was so much tucked behind so few words. Now I had no doubt as to why this man was unaccustomed to conversation. He had the dead and the dying as his only companions.

  I determined more than ever to find a match for him, someone for him to talk to. He didn’t need much—just a person to warm the cold and make his smile peek out a little more often.

  But first, I had to at least get some connection to some other necros. No server was ever built on a single interview, least of all this one.

  “Would you mind going over my list and seeing if I missed someone I should talk to? Patrice mentioned the Wachenta Necromancer’s Guild as a place I might connect with people, but I didn’t see a contact option on their website.” I halfway hoped he’d spot an old flame on the list as I passed my phone to him and watched him scroll.

  Instead, a frown darkened his face, deepening the contrast between his dark hair and fair skin. “Don’t bother with this one.”

  I scratched down number six on the list, then marked an X next to his name. “Did he move away? Finding contact information has been impossible. I thought about asking the guild for help.”

  Ethan shook his head. “He’s not a necromancer; he summons demons from the underworld who pretend they’re the spirits of the departe…”

  He cut himself off to press his lips into a hard, thin line as his index finger came up in a halting gesture. “Considering how you’ve run me down at my place of employment to harass me with questions, I won’t be the one to give you guild contact.”

  As I marvelled at how easily he rejected my perceived request and wished he would teach me how to do that myself, Ethan’s attention returned to the phone in his hand.

  “Hmm, let me see…” he said. “Scratch off that one, and that one.”

  I followed his movements, noting the names as he went down the list. “Why the first?”

  Ethan fixed me with a steely glare. “If you must know, he sacrificed the living to reap their energy. It took a dozen trained magicians and a coordinated strike team to catch him and bring him down.”

  My eyes widened. I remembered the scandal—a serial killer in my home state. But none of the reports had mentioned necromancy. I wasn’t sure whether this news was disturbing or plain sickening. As I considered whether to inquire about the second name, Ethan answered before I could ask.

  “The other’s reason is more mundane.” A dark smile tugged at his face for a moment. “He has joined the dead himself. I’m certain you can find someone on your list willing to speak to him for you, if you value his opinion. I would require a sample of his DNA to do it.”

  “Um, no thanks.” I had to force a smile once again, glancing around the cold, dimly-lit room to avoid his gaze. “You mentioned rules…”

  Ethan gave a grave, slow nod. “We can have our permits to practice magic within city limits revoked if there is sufficient evidence of engaging in death magic with intent to harm others.”

  “How can you practice necromancy and not do any harm? It seems a bit… I dunno.” I waved one hand.

  His posture immediately closed off, like he was irritated or trying to protect himself. His walls flew straight up, as uninviting as razor wire coils. He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes.

  This frightened me a bit. My gaze darted to a nearby table as I pretended to be entranced by a tray of implements, most of which looked like a more aggressive version of clay modeling tools. Neither of us said a word for an agonizingly slow minute.

  “You’ll do well,” he finally said, words clipped, “to learn a few things about our trade before conducting more interviews. Some research into what it is we do and… don’t do would be advantageous to your position.”

  With a nod of my head I hoped he didn’t catch, but had no doubt he did, I rushed toward the door, almost forgetting to thank him for the interview. “If I have any other questions come up, I’ll let you know!”

  “Any time.” Implying the opposite, he waved me off, already turning his back on me toward his work. After a pause, he added, “But you’ll have to ask me over a drink.”

  I froze in my tracks, watching his back for a few seconds before leaving. It almost sounded like he meant to add, “if you dare have a drink with our kind” behind the statement. It was an implied threat mixed with the faint hope that one day, maybe, someone would respond with “I’d like that.”

  Two steps into the hallway, I realized the whole reason why the necromancy server had been failing all this time. No one wanted to believe these were
ordinary people who happened to speak with the living and the departed.

  No one, including me.

  I clutched my notebook and phone to my chest, hugging it tight. If nothing else, I’d already learned so much I needed to think about. I couldn’t wait to complete these interviews, compile my data, and make something work for these lonely souls who needed some life injected into them.

  Setting my jaw, I hopped into my little hybrid car and headed for my next stop—the hospital. I wondered if it’d even be worth my time to swing by there. Without someone to make introductions and no contact information for whoever this Aeron was having me meet, I had to at least try.

  If he wasn’t there, I did my best. But as much as I’d learned already, I still found myself with nowhere to go after this. I didn’t want to think my career could be over so quickly.

  Chapter 5 – A True Blind She

  As I pulled into the visitor’s parking at the hospital, I was immediately met with an intimidating figure wearing a familiar thick leather jacket. Aeron leaned one shoulder against the wall, not two feet from where he’d parked his black motorcycle.

  “Well, flip me over and call me a slab of bacon,” I whispered under my breath, picking a parking spot from the few empty spaces left on this level.

  Aeron gave a pointed nod when he noticed me pull up, then gestured to the door the second I got out. “Beginnin’ to wonder if you’d show. I told ‘im you’re comin’.” He looked away. "Ask for Arcsburg, ‘e works the ambulances and shit.”

  “Are you coming in, too?” I asked as I dumped my keys and phone into my purse, hoping he’d say no.

  The stars aligned in my favor. “Nah, I’ve got a call to make, but I’ll follow on the ovvers.” He pulled his phone from his pocket.

  I paused, twin thrills of hope and dread tracing their way up my spine. Others? He knows more than one?

  “Well, run along. We ‘aven’t got all day.”