Victoria Cage Necromancer: The First Three Books (Victoria Cage Necromancer Omnibus Book 1)

by Eli Constant

It’s too early for bed, but I get washed-up and changed anyways. I surprise myself when I hit the pillow and feel like I can fall asleep in a blink.

  And I do.

  A dreamless wave of nothing. Exactly what I want. I feel like I could stay there forever. It’s uncomplicated and oddly wonderful.

  A crashing sound startles me awake. I don’t feel like I’ve slept long, like I’ve only had a chance to doze, but I can see the outside is midnight dark on a waning moon. I move to the kitchen. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. My coffee cup from a few days ago is still sitting next to the coffee pot unwashed. There’s an opened sugar packet on the table. Tiny particles of white are spread across the wood surface.

  My throw pillows are in place, just so. The newest one with the tiny row of mice and the grandfather clock that says ‘tick tock, you blind bitches’ has replaced, momentarily, one of my very favorites.

  So what woke me up? What’s wrong here?

  I stand like an idiot there in the middle of my apartment and I can’t find any damn thing wrong. Nothing. Not a freaking thing…

  Except for the soft glowing light slinking into the apartment from beneath the front door. It’s a pale shine, the kind of luminescence I’d seen during a night-long TV binge of some nature show. I can close my eyes and see the darkest, deepest part of the ocean with all of its strange creatures radiating with their own natural brightness.

  Slowly, I move towards the door in a cautious daze. My fingers tingle as I reach for the bolt, then turn the doorknob. I never once consider not opening the door, not looking at whatever’s gleaming beyond the doorway. I don’t ignore things. Well, not important things.

  I might ignore an extra pound after a binge night of bad food.

  I might ignore a bill a few days past its due, which is terrible business acumen.

  But I don’t ignore really important things.

  Like possibly-supernatural-under-the-door-glowing.

  Deep breath.

  Open the door.

  I open it swiftly, ripping the bandage off as it were. There’s nothing sitting at the top of the stairs, nothing slinking up the stairs. Nothing on the ceiling or walls.

  No, it’s the actual door that’s glowing. It’s covered in symbols. In runes. In glittering, sparkling, neon. And it’s just like the Light Court writing that was on the double doors to Jim’s bar. Scouts. And this, I’d hazard a guess, has no possibility of being a coincidence.

  There’s also no doubt in my mind how the Light Court has finally found me. Braeden has made good on his promise. I wonder what will happen now. Will Oran, my would-be wedded-bliss, show up at my door, toss me over his shoulder, and carry me away?

  Maybe it would be easier. I’d be out of reach of Braeden. Bonneau wouldn’t be my responsibility anymore. A hellmouth could do its worst. Witches could kill and maim and embed Lazarus Eyes in their brethren.

  It wouldn’t be my circus anymore. Not my damn monkeys.

  I run my hands across the fairy markings. I wonder what they mean.

  Liam. Liam, I need you.

  Leaving the door open, I go to my room and get my phone. Before I can dial, fingers tap on my window. I turn, and can’t help but smile. He’s supposed to use the front door. That’s the rule.

  But he’s perched on the outside of the house, looking graceful. And it’s windy outside, and he’s in his full fae glory with pale white hair flying around his face. His skin shimmers, as if drenched in starlight. I’m caught in stasis as I observe, until he raps again and his expression changes to one of amusement… and possibly a touch of sadness. I can’t blame him.

  Mixed signals. Always mixed signals.

  I unlock the window and slide it upwards. He climbs in without a sound.

  “You called?” His gaze looks down at the phone in my hand.

  “I was actually going to call Kyle,” I finish dialing and am about to hit send, but Liam’s hand on my wrist stops me.

  “Do not wake your bear, Victoria. He is still unwell and needs his sleep.”

  “You checked on him, didn’t you?” A soft smile moves my mouth. Genuinely, his care for Kyle was the most romantic thing he could do for me. And I doubted he realized. He could hear my thoughts, and be hundreds of years wise, but getting to the heart of a person takes something beyond.

  “I did. I find that I’m restless. There is too much going on that I cannot control. I worry about what is coming. I have seen many times of darkness in my life. Experienced great joy. Knowing you, for some reason it…” Liam’s voice trails off; he takes a breath, “It was easier to check on Kyle than to sit at home with my thoughts.”

  “Thank you again, so much. I know it can’t be easy caring for Kyle.”

  “Why would it not be easy?” He asks nonchalantly, but also gives me a small quirk of the mouth to show he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  “Right,” I clear my throat. “So, I called you for a reason.”

  Liam’s walked away from me and is stood in the hall just outside my room. “Yes. I can feel it from here. I can feel the touch of them.”

  He walks swiftly and I follow a little clumsily.

  As soon as he’s in front of the door, he’s whispering Elvish. The writing is no longer shining against the dark wood of the door. When he is done speaking however, it lights afire again, like a lighthouse beam focused on our faces.

  Liam releases a shaking breath as he studies the writing. “It’s for the bear. They’re simply tracking the bear.” Looking more relieved, and less sure of himself than I’ve ever seen, he moves to the couch and sits directly on my clock-and-mice pillow. “It is only a matter of time, before Oran finds you. I cannot shield you forever. With so much going on… so much.”

  “So, what you’re saying is,” I close the door gently, locking it, and then OCD checking the locks five more times before turning to face Liam, “right now’s an inconvenient time for me to meet my future fairy husband King… person? That maybe matrimonial bliss would be better post-Hellmouth situation?”

  “I do think that one complicated situation at a time is preferable, my Queen.”

  “Don’t call me that.” I move to him and squash down more pillows as I sit cross-legged on the sofa with my back against the furniture arm.

  “You will be though. It’s inevitable. You will be Queen of the Blood, Queen of the Court.”

  “Nothing’s inevitable. No one can force me to accept any role I don’t want, Liam. I don’t care how big and powerful Oran is. I don’t care if there’s some ancient fucking agreement that I’ll marry into this court or that court. I am not some pawn in a fairy story book.”

  His smile is definitely sad now, melancholy playing across his face. “You will not have a choice when the time finally arrives, Victoria. You will see. You do not simply say no to destiny.”

  “I make my own damn destiny.”

  We sit there then, silence lapping around us like waves against the shore.

  And in that quiet that lasts too long, I force myself to believe that my fate is still my own. That I make choices every day that change my future, because free will matters.

  That fate wasn’t the supreme ruler.

  Yet, every reassurance I gave myself felt hollow.

  Chapter Twenty

  I wake up on the sofa. The decorative pillows are neatly piled on the floor and the plaid blanket I keep in the linen closet is draped over me. I don’t remember falling asleep, or Liam leaving. I only remember the feeling of realizing that my life, in many ways, was no longer my own. How my brain had swirled around that fact with tornado intensity.

  No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that I was still the supreme ruler of my life, it felt like I was being dishonest. And you can lie to everyone around you, but you can’t lie to yourself. Not for long anyways.

  Liam’s gone. Of course he is, because that’s what fairies do, right? They flit around and disappear and leave sparks in their wakes.

  As coffee is brewing, I text K
yle. His responses are fast. Direct. And for some reason they make me a little uneasy.

  How are you feeling? Are you okay? The coffee pot sputters noisily beside me.

  Fine. Still a little sore. Not going to the bar today.

  Want me to come over? I want him to say yes, to want me around, because it makes him feel better. But, honestly? I want him to want me around, because it would make me feel better. Even the most unselfish person is selfish in some ways. Not that I’m unselfish. I’m the opposite really.

  No. I’m okay. Liam came by and treated me again. I’m good for a while.

  Are you sure? I don’t mind. Come on, Kyle. You don’t need to be macho. Just say yes.

  I’m sure. Just going to sleep.

  Okay then. I hesitate before I send the last, resisting my urge to write more and push the issue. I remember what my grandmother used to say though, when I was worried about a boy or had been stood up for a date.

  “If boys will be boys, my darling, then we girls must be women. Be strong. My granddaughter does not beg for attention from anyone.”

  So I place the phone down. I want a run, and then I want a hot shower. Then I should probably figure out what the hell day it is and if there’s any actual work to be done. Everything’s been such a blur lately.

  ***

  I run as fast as I can down the road towards Mrs. Downing’s house. I see her in her kitchen window, a stark white cat I don’t recognize walking across the back of her sink as she washes dishes. She doesn’t look up. We haven’t talked as much lately—not since the whole body in the lake, heart earring in the fish she gave me, thing.

  I’m faster than I used to be, thanks to the self-defense classes and a pushy Terrance. I don’t even have a stitch in my side when I reach my typical turn-around place. I could go further now, push harder, but I don’t. A little sliver of me knows that if I keep going forward, I might never turn back to my home, my business, the life that has gotten so damn complicated.

  I walk back. Mrs. Downing is no longer at her window. The driveway to the Victorian seems longer than it should. The house stares at me. And I feel judged for some reason. Or maybe I’m just judging myself. I can stop worrying about Oran and Braeden. I can take control by making Liam take me to the Light Court.

  But I’m not ready.

  And besides, there are murderous arsonist witches on the loose and a town to save.

  “Dean!” I yell as I open the front door to the business rather than taking my home side entrance. “Are you here?”

  I wait a moment and then I hear him. “Downstairs! Can you hear me! I’m downstairs!” His voice is faint, which probably means he’s elbows deep in the storage room at the furthest back of the house. Which is where I store my journals and grandmother’s things now… including the creepiest book known to man. Made of skin. Bits of hair still embedded. All that jazz. Not the sort of thing you find at a local library. Everything’s hidden well now though. A few months ago, at Liam’s behest, I had a safe installed behind one of the old, awful paintings my grandmother used to have hanging in the funeral parlor. It’s madly macabre and disturbing. A graveyard scene with a woman knelt beside an angel-shaped stone. She’s crying. The moon is shining brightly down on her.

  And there are several ghosts floating in the air staring at the woman.

  Not exactly what I’d want to see whilst planning a loved-one’s farewell. Though, not nearly as bad as this one hotel I stayed in driving cross-country in my late teens. Every room had been decorated in a different array of clowns.

  Clown sheets. Clown lamps. Clown pictures.

  I still shudder thinking about my sleepless night in that place.

  I take the stairs down to the basement two at a time. He’s been hardcore cleaning already—the door to cold storage, as well as the embalming room, are wide open and everything smells like bleach.

  “What are you doing in here?” I question before I’ve entered the back storage room, which is also open, but in contrast smells distinctly old and musty.

  “There used to be a glass bowl thing on the table near the front door. It held the business cards and stuff. You remember it?” Dean coughs as he stands up and comes into view from where he’s rummaging in a box. “I mean, I’m dusting too. This place is a mess, but then I remembered the missing bowl.”

  “Oh, god. I broke that months ago,” I admit as I move further into the room and find myself suddenly surrounded by displaced piles of neatly-labeled boxes. I see my grandmother’s name everywhere. My father’s also. His shirts and books, and random wonderful things I couldn’t bear to give away. In a sealed, professional box, inside a plastic tub, is my grandmother’s wedding dress. I think of it now. I wanted to wear it when I married Adam. I still want to wear it…

  And I wonder if that would be allowed by the ‘oh great king’ of the Light Court.

  “You know, we could use some extra business storage if there’s anything in here you could part with.” Dean’s made this same comment off-and-on for as long as he’s worked for me.

  “Nope, not a thing.” It’s my usual response.

  “Not even this?” Dean holds up a large rat by the tail. It appears to be long, long dead. I suck in a breath and take a step back. “Dead bodies all day long, but rats and spiders are your Achilles heel.”

  “Dead people don’t move.” I have to keep myself from laughing, really freaking hard. Because of course, when I’m the mortician, dead people might do more than move. The might speak. Or dance. Or walk the hell out of my funeral home looking for unfinished business.

  I’m trying so hard to control myself from hysterics that I feel my power begin to warm inside me, pushing through the layers of myself towards the skin, where it hovers just below the outermost rim of me. It wants to be released. So badly. Lately, with learning more and testing my abilities—some old news, some fresh and scary surprises—I seem to be ready to release magic at a second’s notice.

  The rat dangling from Dean’s grip gives the smallest of wriggles. Dean yelps and drops it on the ground.

  “I could swear that thing was dead,” he says and swipes his hand along his jean pants. “I mean, it’s got to be dead. The freaking eyes are gray and goopy.”

  “Ugh. Thanks for the visual.” I don’t feel like laughing at all now. “Don’t worry about in here. Let’s just put all the boxes back and deep clean it some other time. And I’ll find something new for the business cards. I totally forgot about that.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he murmurs. But he’s still staring at the dead rat.

  I’ve got to be more careful.

  ***

  “We need business,” I breathe out as I close my date book. There are only two funerals on the calendar this month. And the first is two weeks away. “We’ve never been this slow.”

  “Yeah, you’d think with all the people dropping dead, we’d get a few bookings.” Dean is sitting across from my desk, his feet propped up and his head back. I didn’t use to allow this, but with Max having quit, Dean and I have gotten more casual around each other.

  “Well, we got the family from town.” And a tiny paycheck to go with them. Which isn’t the important part… it’s never been the important part to me. The money. Of course, being noble wouldn’t feel so great when I had to close shop for lack of business.

  “Yeah, because it was a county case and the coroner’s on vacation. That won’t keep the lights on.” Dean chews for a second on his nail, and then drops his hand quickly as if nail-biting is an old habit he thought he’d kicked, yet still cropped up in certain situations of anxiety.

  I nod. “Yep. It’s a fraction of an actual booking, even when I’m discounting things.”

  “About that… maybe you shouldn’t discount coffins and such so much. I mean, I don’t understand how you can ever be in the black with how you operate.” He twirls his thumbs and then quirks an eyebrow. “Hey, speaking of money—some guy stopped by trying to sell us new windows. Kept going on about how most of the wind
ows were original and we must be draining the bank with our electric bill.”

  “A salesman? For windows?” I’m a little surprised by all this money talk. Dean’s never voiced his opinion on how I run the books. I’ve been showing him that side of things lately—the operational costs, coffin retail values, and such—but I’ve not invited him to shit all over how I do things. Of course… the kid has a point. No cash for new windows. “Good thing we’re in the South. Drafty windows aren’t such a big deal.”

  “Yeah, he was a weird guy. Wouldn’t leave until he pulled out his ladder and checked the window sills for… hell if I know what. He was banging the frames with a hammer saying they weren’t secure and pointed out a few cracks here and there in the glass. Thought he might full-on break one with the way he was carrying on.” Dean shrugged, and sighed. “I was going to call the police, but I figured the guy probably lived off commission and was trying to make a sale. That sort of thing is why I hate car shopping. You know? The pushing to make a paycheck.”

  “I hope traveling salesmen aren’t becoming a thing again. I mean, the bible thumpers that came through last month filled my quota for unexpected visitors pushing product. It’s not the worst job though I guess, and people need to make money.”

  Dean cocked a smiled. “Maybe remember that next time someone calls to book services? Discounts are a buyer’s friend, not the sellers.”

  Yeah. I’ve had enough of that for now. I might have to pull back on the ‘be friendlier with Dean’ bit. “The first time you run into a family whose baby has died, and they can’t afford a decent funeral, you tell me how you handle it.” I link my fingers together and place my hands against my lap. “We’re in one of the most emotionally-hard businesses in the world. We have to make money, but for me compassion comes first.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.” Dean pulls his feet from the desk and sits up. “It’s just that… this is the only job I want, Tori. This is what I’m going to do with my life. I need to make enough here to stay, and keep pursuing my goal.”

  “I get that, but your needs don’t come before the client.” I exhale, and take a thoughtful pause. “But, I’ll be more mindful of keeping your employment secure. Okay?”