“What the hell was that thing?” My lips trembled with the words.
“An assassin from our realm,” Jax said. “Its tail carries a toxin that can paralyze a demon even as strong as Ewan. Fatal for a human. You’re lucky. Once fully paralyzed, the Frerac devours his victim alive.”
“Lovely.” I slowly pushed myself onto my knees. “Why didn’t the people in the park run and scream?” During the fight, people had pushed their strollers and rode their bikes, oblivious to the man with a sword facing off against a bat thing or Frerac or whatever.
“We can glamour human perception of reality for a short time. They see a bench, a tree . . .”
Ewan stood, and I noticed his pale face and the exposed flesh of his wound. I reached out to him, then pulled back, unsure.
“Worried about me?” He smiled, but I could see the pain flash across his eyes. I bit down on my lip as he said, “Jax, I’m losing my arm here.”
“I’m on it.” He hopped up and lifted Ewan’s arm, causing him to grimace. They moved to a spot behind me. I almost turned at Ewan’s loud groan, but kept my eyes averted, giving him his space.
“You can turn around now,” Jax said.
I stood and let my legs adjust for a moment, feeling like a newborn calf teetering on stick legs after emerging from its mother’s womb. Jax’s eyes flashed while he eagerly licked Ewan’s blood from his lower lip. I tried not to act grossed out. Jax is a demon. This was normal for him.
“The poison’s that yummy?” I asked.
“The blood is. The poison doesn’t affect me when I drink it, but if the Frerac had speared me with his tail, I’d be laid out on my ass like Ewan here.”
Ewan flexed the muscles of his injured arm. The strain around his eyes had lessened, replaced with something more feral. His body shone from his exertion. He looked barbaric covered in blood with muscles heaving against his ripped clothes.
I shivered at the savage impulse in his eyes. An impulse that strained against his control and burrowed into me to snag at something buried deep—something primal. I took a step back and swallowed, rubbing my neck with my hand, making sure it was still attached.
Seeing my reaction, he squeezed his eyes together. He placed the sword on the ground and drew in a jagged breath riddled with barbs.
“Well, Marchois, you haven’t lost your touch.” Jax eyed the bat, his expression grim.
Why did Jax call Ewan “Marchois”?
When Ewan looked at me again, the tension had eased from his face and muscles, telling me he’d tamed the demon, for now. I stepped closer to him, close enough to feel his heat, far enough to feel safe, and dared meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
His gaze softened, the glaze dissipated as if my words had pulled him fully back to civilization.
“The portal breach?” I asked.
Neither demon responded.
“How did it get through?”
“With the help of someone from this side,” Ewan said.
“Another demon?”
Ewan studied the bat. It had almost killed us. The unsteady glint in his eyes told me he was thinking the same thing.
Chapter Five
I bent to plop onto the bench, then straightened, thinking I’d avoid benches for a while. I observed the people pacing the marble courthouse hallway, fingers twitching while talking on their cell phones, their nervous energy becoming a palpable buzz in the air. The whispers of attorneys huddled in small clumps with their clients to talk defense strategy drifted up and down the hall.
Malthus’s law firm represented humans, but specialized in supernatural representation, a way to keep supes off the human radar. I wondered how the heck anyone defended a vampire or any supe in a human court. Your Honor, the defendant owns a large dog that escaped on the night of the full moon . . .
Malthus emerged from the courtroom across the hall, impeccably dressed in a navy suit and shined shoes, almost forties old-fashioned with a handkerchief tucked in the jacket pocket. He chatted with the younger attorney accompanying him and then approached me.
“Success?” I asked him.
“Success was a given,” he replied. “I had the mayor call in a favor.” Our footsteps echoed across the polished floor until we exited onto the street.
I darted my gaze around us, fisting my hands on my jeans.
“You don’t have to worry. No Frerac will attack you today.”
“And tomorrow?” I squinted my eyes against the glare of the sun on the concrete. He didn’t answer.
“So you’re in with the mayor?” I asked.
The demons living in our realm had integrated easily into human society, becoming successful businessmen, lawyers like Malthus, musicians, etc. I never realized their reach extended to politicians. I was impressed when I received more than a form letter from one.
“Well, we did contribute nicely to his reelection campaign.” He directed me to a small diner down the street from the courthouse.
“Did you defend a supe today?”
“Yes.”
“I thought supes tried to avoid entanglements with law enforcement?”
“Try, but don’t always succeed, and some, unfortunately, seek out criminal activity.”
“Are all your attorneys demons or supes?”
“Not all. The ones that are not supernatural take care of the regular cases, completely unaware that their boss is a demon.” He smiled, as if pleased with his deception.
“Is Ewan an attorney?”
He eyed me, his brow furrowed, his smile gone. “No, but we aren’t here to discuss demon legal defense and my attorneys.”
We took one of the booths next to the window. The green vinyl of the seat exhaled when I sat down. I read and reread the listing of salads on the menu while trying to ignore the smell of frying onions. I noticed a couple seated behind Malthus bite into juicy burgers. I fingered the napkin holder—no diner would be complete without one—and caught my distorted reflection in the metal.
The waitress stopped at our table. I settled on the chicken salad, and Malthus ordered a bacon cheeseburger. His choice surprised me, coming from a demon that usually ate foie gras, but he’d chosen the diner, making me wonder what other guilty pleasures he hid.
“How’s Ewan?” The question had been burning my tongue since the courthouse. I’d called Ewan last night. We’d talked for a while, and he’d assured me he was fine, but I wasn’t sure if that was the demon macho bullshit talking.
“His wounds are healed. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Sore ankle. Why did the Frerac attack me?”
He folded his hands on the table. “When these creatures enter the human realm, we can never be sure of their motivation. Some simply come to spread chaos.”
“It sought me out. It called me necromancer in old Latin.”
“We don’t know for sure you were its intended target. I don’t know what is going on, and I plan on discussing the breach with my demon peers. I don’t want you to worry about inter-demon politics.” He paused. “I hope the attack has not negatively affected your decision.”
The experience with the Frerac, watching Ewan fight him off, had flipped a rusted switch within me. He got hurt saving me while I sat helpless. I don’t think I could live with myself if I retreated to my cubby, to borrow Kara’s words.
“On the contrary. I’ll try—emphasis on try—to bring Adam back as my revenant. Just this once.”
“Very good.”
I shifted in the booth, uncomfortable with the gleam in his eyes. “I have my conditions. You need to be straight with me about your knowledge of the killings and about my grandmother.” I studied his eyes, but they didn’t reveal a thing.
“And?”
“If things get squirrely during the raising or after, I’m out.”
“Squirrely?” He raised an eyebrow. “Very well, I accept your conditions. We have a deal.” His eyes glinted, and I suddenly pictured myself standing at the crossroads, shaking hands with the devil, or
in this case, demon, although I’d claim they were one and the same.
The waitress brought our food, and I stabbed the salad with my fork. After a few bites of the wilted lettuce, I lost my appetite. I wiped my face with a napkin and pulled out Cora’s journal.
“She mentions that to raise a supe revenant, you need to include the source of the supe’s power in the ritual, but—” I pointed to the perforations in the journal. “—pages are missing here.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said, his voice a steel wall, giving me nothing, not even a small foothold on its slick surface.
“Do you know what happened to these pages?”
“I gave you the journal in the same condition that I received it.”
More steel wall. Interpreting demons was maddening, but I decided not to pry further. “How am I supposed to know what ‘source’ means?”
Malthus set his mug on the table. “The source of a supernatural’s power is a figurative way to describe something that enhances your power or complements it. For example, during a full moon, a werewolf’s power surges, compelling the wolf to emerge and take control.”
“How do you harness a moon’s power—” I tapped my thumb on my chin. “—unless you performed the raise during a full moon?”
“Exactly.” He leaned closer to me over the table. “You are more necromancer than you care to admit.”
I shoved more lettuce into my mouth, despite my earlier loss of appetite.
He sipped slowly from his coffee, gaze penetrating. “What do you suppose is needed to raise a witch?”
I had to think more on that one. All supernatural power is born from within, but like Malthus said, it’s connected to something that can enhance it, direct it for a specific purpose.
“Think, what do witches sometimes use to store spells, often unique to themselves?” asked Malthus.
“Their charms.”
“No. Witches use charms to store elemental power, which is then used to create a spell.”
I should have paid attention when Kara shared tidbits about her power. She once showed me . . . “Arcane diagrams,” I said.
This time he gave me the widest smile I’d ever seen cross his face. I’m sure he thought to show his pleasure, but his smile elicited spasms in my throat. I sipped on my coffee, letting the warmth relax the muscles. To raise Adam, I’d need a diagram he used for spells, one he created himself.
“Are you ready to do this?”
The spasms attacked my mouth this time, forcing a laugh, which I held, causing me to spit out a quasi giggle-burp. Ready? What a joke. I sipped more coffee.
“I suppose,” I said finally. “Were you present when my mother raised the revenant?”
“No.” He finished, wiped his hands, and tossed the crumpled napkin on his plate.
“Do you know why she did it?”
“I think you know the answer better than I.”
“Seems odd Cora agreed. She’s usually more cautious.”
“Yes, but she was still a necromancer. She was unable to raise a supernatural revenant, no matter how hard she tried. She lived that experience through your mother.”
His mouth drooped. “Your mother was talented, but reckless. Quite the opposite from you.” He regarded me, tilting his head. “You try to deny your interest in necromancy, but you and your mother are a lot alike.”
“We are nothing alike.” My tone could have turned the air a putrid green. “I don’t want or need the power.”
My gut twisted into a tight knot, tying down my emotions. My mother had prized her necromancer ability over most things in her life, and at times, that included me. In high school, I’d searched the bleachers for her during my basketball games until I gave up, dejected.
Why was he bringing up Mom? I searched my brain for another question to ask, to switch topics, and remembered the mention of power spheres from the journal. “What do you know about power spheres?”
“Ah, you read that in Cora’s diary.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know much about them. The last necromancer who created a power sphere killed many people. He wanted to create a powerful sphere and needed corpses, lots of them. He was quite mad.” He sounded as bored as I did when I gave a lecture on a topic I didn’t much care for. Seems the story of a mad necromancer on a killing spree would engender more passion from him, but I’m not sure what could extract the passion out of him, if he even had any buried under the calculating demon.
“Did Cora try to make one?”
“No.” He pierced my eyes with his. “She knew better.”
I bit into an olive and took my time chewing the last bite. I wiped my mouth. “How do you suggest I get my hands on Adam’s spells?”
“I’ll contact Matilda and arrange for you to visit the coven tomorrow afternoon. Ewan can take you.”
I tightened my hand around the coffee mug . . . alone time with Ewan?
I pushed the thought away and asked, “Where is Adam’s body?”
“The witches are guarding it.”
Being a necromancer involved uncomfortable logistics, visits to the morgue or cemetery at night. The cliché stuff. Fortunately, supes dealt with their own dead when possible, not wanting to expose supe bodies to inspection by human forensic doctors, sparing me from breaking out the shovel.
He drank from his mug, peering at me over the rim. “I’m happy you’re helping us, but I want you to understand something. The old necromancers were very creative in how they used reanimated corpses. Zombies and revenants are boring compared to their exploits. Much of that knowledge has been buried, and many are glad to see the knowledge lost. Your abilities are immense and, if used carelessly . . . dangerous.”
* * * *
Malthus offered to drive me home, but I declined, preferring to take the BART. While waiting for the train, I called an old acquaintance. Greg was a police detective and knew about my family. He and my mother had embarked on an ill-fated relationship. When Cora died, I’d contacted him, and he’d looked into her accident, calling in a favor to one of the New York detectives. I wanted pick his brain for more details, or maybe I just needed to connect with someone who was on the outside looking in.
Not many riders filled the train, so I stretched across two seats, resting my head against the window. I read the advertisements for the new mummy exhibit at the science museum.
Humanity has grappled with death for countless ages in an attempt to preserve it, fight it, return from it. After my mother died, many of the supernaturals thought we’d try to raise her. The thought of raising her corpse and screaming at her did cross my mind, but a necromancer raising her own kin treads Stygian territory. It’s hazardous, like saying Bloody Mary three times in front of a mirror in a dark bathroom. Most likely nothing funky would happen, but why take the chance?
I sat up at the sound of a cackle. A man shuffled down the aisle, his long coat tattered and stained. He clutched a red toy viewfinder in his fist, which he pointed and clicked away at people.
“Smile for the camera,” he said, his voice worn from too many cigarettes, judging from the heavy smell of smoke wafting off his body. “I can see who you are. See if you’re a true person. I’ve seen the beasts.”
I observed him while the other riders hid behind their newspapers or shut him away, their ears plugged with headphones. Who knew what the homeless saw on the streets in the dead of night? I certainly knew what beasts existed alongside us in this world.
He pointed the red toy at me and pressed the lever. Click. He froze. He slowly removed the viewfinder from his eyes, now rounded with fear. He backed towards the door leading to the next car, shielding himself with the viewfinder. He opened the door, letting in the earsplitting shriek of the train’s wheels skimming the track. I shifted in my seat and scanned the other passengers for any strange stares directed my way. I clutched my briefcase to my chest, his words echoing in my head. “I’ve seen the beasts.”
Chapter Six
When I talked to Greg on the phone, he tol
d me to meet him at the Musée Mécanique. He and my mom had loved to pass hours at the museum playing the arcade games. It’s the last place I expected he’d suggest.
Residing in an old warehouse squished amidst the tourist fare at the Wharf, the museum harkens back to the days of old carnivals and beachside boardwalks, housing a collection of antique arcade machines, some dating back to the 1800s, all in working condition.
I have a schizophrenic fascination with the fortune-tellers, made especially famous for turning a young boy into Tom Hanks in the movie Big. I’m drawn to the secrets of the universe hidden behind their wooden eyes, but they creep me out. Even when they offer a good fortune, their endless stares predict a more sinister fate. The vibe in the museum is weird and wacky and fun, punctuated by the laughter of the patrons and the rings, clicks, and bells of the machines, but I’d hate to spend a night alone in this place.
The back of the museum opens to a walkway that juts against the bay. I spotted Greg standing past a World War II submarine, now a tourist attraction. I stepped onto the walkway, but a voice to my side stopped me mid-stride.
“You notice half the games deal with either sex or death.”
I half turned to look, not sure who was talking, yet the voice was familiar. A glimpse of wire-rimmed glasses tipped me off. Brad. I ran into my students often and didn’t think much of the encounter.
“I can’t say I’ve given it much thought, but I guess you’re right. You come here a lot?” I asked.
He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “This is my first time.”
Brad’s clothes aren’t unlike the other students on campus, but he never acts comfortable in them, always adjusting his shirt or hoodie. Today he didn’t twitch in his black vintage bowling shirt and loafers. He gave me a blank look, the same blankness I saw on my other students, but never on him, and I suddenly felt awkward discussing arcade machines and sex and death with one of my students.
“You should check out the old pinball machines,” I said, pointing to the corner of the museum.
The Necromancer's Seduction Page 5
