Hereditary Magic

by Emma L. Adams

  “Er…” Questions bubbled to the surface and I sifted them over in my mind. “Who put that mark—spell signature—on your grave, when it wasn’t me who raised you?”

  “Absolutely no idea. As I said—I only just woke up.”

  “But you know the Lynn family.”

  “I do. And I know that the power you’ve picked up is potent and dangerous, too much so for you to access all at once.”

  “The book’s completely blank,” I told him. “How am I supposed to learn how to use its power if I can’t read it?”

  I shifted as his gaze roamed over my face—and I knew, when his eyes went wide, that he’d seen the mark. In the spirit realm, somehow, I couldn’t hide it.

  “So the mark doesn’t lie,” he mused. “You have an unfortunate gift, Gatekeeper.”

  “I’m not Gatekeeper.”

  “The gates of Death are open to you, Ilsa Lynn.”

  Ice trailed down my back. “Look, I have something important to do for the Seelie Court, and whoever’s sending the dead after me and my sister is getting in my way.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed at those words. “Yes, your family is known for its devotion to our… neighbours.”

  Of course necromancers didn’t like the Sidhe, or any faerie species. They believed faeries didn’t have souls, while faeries feared death like nothing else.

  “My family,” I said. “Not me. I’m not a necromancer either. I’m here to help my sister and for no other reason. Got it?”

  He looked aggrieved. “Being one of us really isn’t that bad. Modern language has caused people to forget the original definitions of magic, but ‘necromancy’ doesn’t literally mean ‘death magic’. It means conversing with the dead, not raising them.”

  “What, like we’re doing right now?” I rubbed my hands together in an attempt to warm them up. “Or am I a ghost?”

  He raised his eyes to the sky. “I retired from teaching a decade ago. If you want to learn basic necromancy, the guild might have a guidebook lying around somewhere.”

  I sincerely doubted the living Mr Greaves would let me wander away with the necromancers’ property. “Isn’t this a guidebook?” I tapped my pocket where the book was hidden.

  “Not for amateurs.”

  Now the dead guy was sassing me. Wonderful.

  “If I’m an amateur, then it’s because nobody at any point in my life decided to warn me that I have necromancer ancestry.” I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s why I got picked, right? No human can have the spirit sight otherwise.”

  “I’m glad to hear your mother didn’t neglect your education,” he said, in a bored voice. “I am not, however, the person to ask about that book. You’re a necromancer by all definitions, but that book of yours belongs to another type of magic entirely.”

  “Faerie?” I self-consciously touched the mark on my forehead. “How about the Grey Vale? Have you seen that place?”

  “Of course I’ve seen it,” he said. “All of us who’ve passed through Death’s gates in recent years have seen the part of Faerie where nothing and nobody ever dies.” He gave a frankly creepy laugh. “I’ve met a few spirits who talk of the horrors on the other side. There’s a reason it’s unwise to use necromancy on the Ley Line. And yes, that includes your magic, too, Ilsa.”

  He snapped his fingers. Everyone unfroze.

  “You must know we aren’t necromancers,” Hazel said to him. “So why blame us for bringing you back? Are you sure a ghost didn’t just sneeze somewhere and wake you up?”

  “Your impertinence does you no favours.” The spirit rotated on the spot. “I didn’t see who raised me, but their magic apparently carried your signature, if that mark is to be believed.”

  My signature. It should be impossible. But the living Mr Greaves’s forbidding presence made me reluctant to question him further. More to the point, Hazel apparently hadn’t heard any of the words we’d exchanged. Nobody looked shocked to have been frozen. Did they not notice at all? That spirit had some seriously powerful magic. Advanced necromancy, or something you could only do when dead.

  “That’s complete bullshit,” Hazel said. “Not only did we do nothing wrong, we were attacked on our own property. We’re peacekeepers, Graves, and whoever tried to kill us is threatening my job as well as my family’s lives.”

  “I can’t move from this spot,” said the ghost. “You’ll have to ask my successor if you’d like someone to look into your issues with the dead.”

  The living Mr Greaves narrowed his eyes. “I’m more inclined to assume the two of you are making up elaborate lies.”

  “We aren’t liars,” Hazel said heatedly. “Someone raised the dead in our mausoleum, too. Can’t you look into that?”

  “My people are already investigating the situation at the request of one Holly Lynn. I’d suggest you leave before you implicate yourselves further.”

  Well, damn. I’d forgotten Holly and the Winter Lynns might have words to say about the state of their dead relatives’ graves.

  “Neither of us was responsible for raising any ghosts,” I said. “But we can find out who did.”

  I didn’t add, or we’ll all be in a grave of our own by the end of the week.

  Chapter 10

  I’d planned to revisit the necromancers the following morning and demand answers, but Arden derailed my plans. I woke to a racket which sounded like a swarm of vultures fighting over a corpse. Pushing the curtains back from my bedroom window, I saw River pointing his sword at Arden, who flew overhead with a scroll clamped in his beak, squawking loudly. Oh, boy.

  “Hey!” I shouted through the window. “Arden, cut it out!”

  I just about had the presence of mind to grab a dressing gown before dashing downstairs into the hallway. Hazel got there first, opening the door and running outside.

  “Don’t stab the messenger,” she told River.

  River glared up at Arden, his blade extended in such a way that suggested it’d take little effort to cut the raven out of the air. Arden dropped the scroll on River’s head and flew off.

  “What the hell was that about?” I asked, smothering a laugh at River’s expression.

  “He sneaked up on me,” River said, lowering his sword and retrieving the scroll. “I apologise for disturbing you.”

  “Menace,” said Hazel, shaking her head after the bird. “What’s that note?”

  I took it from him. “It’s addressed to you, Hazel.”

  “Crap,” said Hazel, as I passed the scroll to her. “Winter’s ball… it’s the solstice. I forgot all about it.”

  I groaned. There were two events every year of immense importance to all faeries living in the mortal realm—the summer and winter solstices. Due to some bizarre tradition, each event came with a grand event held on the territory of one of the Lynns, and the summer celebration was held on Winter’s territory, while our family hosted the winter one. Probably because Summer’s power was at its peak right now and they thought it was unfair. Their timing couldn’t be worse if they’d tried.

  “What happens on the solstice?” River asked, sheathing his blade. His fair hair was dishevelled and if the shadows under his eyes were any indication, he’d spent the night sitting out on the porch again.

  “We go to the Winter Gatekeeper’s house and pretend not to hate each other for one evening,” I said. “Or rather, Mum and Hazel are supposed to go and deal with Holly and her delightful mother.”

  Holly and I had actually been friends once, until Mum and her fellow Gatekeeper had had a dramatic falling-out. I still wasn’t quite sure what they’d argued about, only that the result was a week of droughts and heat waves followed by blizzards and frost. Their feud came to an end when a contingent of Sidhe had appeared and yelled at everyone for using their magic for trivial purposes, then put another curse on us for good measure to stop us from murdering one another. We hadn’t really spoken since. Despite what the old ghost had said, I hadn’t seen anyone near the cemetery the day before,
so I’d assumed Holly had reported the state of the place to the necromancers and then left.

  “We can’t get out of it,” said Hazel, heading back into the house. “Maybe Holly has some pointers about dealing with zombies.”

  “You don’t think Holly might know about what’s going on?” I suggested, waiting for River to enter then closing the door firmly behind him.

  “Maybe,” said Hazel. “Perhaps Aunt Candice and Mum had another falling-out and she summoned the wraith in vengeance.”

  “If you suspect these people, I need to speak with them,” River said, as we walked into the living room.

  “You can’t attack our relatives,” I said. “I don’t see why they’d do this, anyway. All of us are bound in a truce that prevents any Lynn from inflicting damage on another. That’s the second part of our curse.”

  “But summoning wraiths doesn’t count,” said Hazel. “Not that they can do necromancy anyway. Holly’s an only child and all the magic she has is the Winter Gatekeeper’s. She and Aunt Candice are peacekeepers like us. Same goals, different Court.”

  “I’d like to speak with this other family of yours if possible.” Despite his polite tone, River seemed tetchier than usual. He also seemed to have borrowed the sci-fi paperback I’d been reading yesterday since it’d disappeared from the coffee table, but that was the least of my grievances. I’d hoped—ridiculously—that today would be the day we’d sort out this whole mess and I’d be able to go back to my old life. But leaving Hazel to face Winter alone wouldn’t be fair, especially with the slightly sticky issue of the Summer Gatekeeper’s ongoing absence.

  “Feel free to talk to them at the ball,” I told River. “But we can’t have them find out about Summer’s missing heir.”

  “I still think someone gave you the wrong information,” River said. “We should focus on bringing down whoever is out to do you harm.”

  “The last thing they did was raise a harmless old man from the dead,” I said.

  “That wasn’t the person who summoned the wraith,” River said, an assessing look on his face. “Apparently, it was the person who banished it.”

  Oh hell. Now would be a great time to lift the spell stopping me from speaking, Grandma. I’d tried to ask River some indirect questions about necromancy at dinner last night, but there was no indirect way to say by the way, a random sort-of-necromancy handbook that might or might not be evil picked me as the vessel for its magic. Whenever I got remotely close to mentioning it, my jaw would lock like I had a mouthful of thick toffee. I swore the bloody book was laughing at me by the time I retired early to bed in frustration.

  “There’s someone we could ask,” I said. “Agnes.”

  Hazel frowned, then her gaze briefly went to the place on my forehead where the mark remained invisible. The spell wouldn’t last forever, and despite what the old man’s ghost had said, I had no intention of walking around as a beacon to anyone with the Sight—spirit or otherwise.

  “Who?” asked River.

  “The most knowledgeable person in the village.” I rubbed the back of my head, realising I’d left the spellbook in my room. That’d explain the faint tapping sensation on the back of my skull. “We’ll leave in an hour. That okay, Hazel?”

  “Sure,” she said, though she shot me a concerned look. Wait… if I couldn’t mention the book to anyone outside of our family, how in the world was I supposed to explain the mark to Agnes and Everett?

  I’ll find a way. I retreated to my room, finding the book where I’d left it in the pocket of my hoody. At once, the ache in the back of my skull faded. “Attention seeker,” I told it. “I know you’ve been hidden in the mausoleum for years, but that’s no reason to—”

  I broke off with a gasp as the book glowed faintly, and something flickered on the page. My gaze caught the word amateur before the letters disappeared just as quickly.

  “You can talk to me?” I flicked through the book again, but no words appeared this time. Anger pulsed to my fingertips. “You’re just fucking with me on purpose, aren’t you?”

  Its silence was answer enough. I let out a low growl of frustration and tossed the book onto the bed. Then I showered quickly and shoved on a fresh outfit, stopping only to grab a breakfast bar on the way out of the house. Arden’s message had hammered home how easy it’d be to get ensnared in the Sidhe’s trap and end up stuck here forever, trapped in a never-ending cycle of quests, balls, more quests, ad infinitum. No thanks.

  The moment we stepped outside the house’s boundaries, rain began to fall. The grey sky sharply contrasted the sunny warmth of the Lynn estate, and Hazel grumbled under her breath as we walked. Living on Summer territory made genuine Scottish weather come as a shock, but I was used to it by now. We passed by the necromancers’ place and continued down the lane towards the main village.

  “Who exactly did you want to visit?” asked River. He didn’t wear his Court clothes but a knee-length grey coat that looked human-made. “I’ve spoken to the necromancers, but I can’t say I know anyone else in the village.”

  “Agnes is a witch,” I said. “Part witch, part mage, possibly. She won’t tell us. I need to buy some spells from her.”

  “I thought your magic was enough that you didn’t need hedge witch spells.”

  “Some of us, maybe.” There was an ongoing rivalry between the local witches and necromancers that the Gatekeeper had often had to step in to resolve, so River had probably heard some of the rumours. Witch charms were portable and most people with magic could use them, not just witches, so it was common for humans to be wary of them, but not someone like River. His sword wasn’t on full display, but I knew he must have it handy.

  “Have you considered there might be another supernatural from the village behind the attacks on your life?” he said.

  “Not Agnes,” I said firmly. “I thought you said it was almost certain a necromancer who did it.”

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t have accomplices. I don’t think it’s wise to draw any more attention,” River said.

  “You think the necromancers haven’t spread word about the old man coming back from the veil by now?” I said. “Besides, everyone knows who the Gatekeepers are. If it really bothers you, I’ll talk to Agnes, while you and Hazel go and… I don’t know, look for runaway zombies. Agnes isn’t a huge fan of necromancers or faeries, so it might be easier that way.”

  For a moment, I expected to have to argue. Then he nodded. “Fine, but don’t mention the wraith.”

  Sure I won’t. Getting rid of the mark was my priority, for now.

  Agnes and Everett’s shop was nondescript on the outside—off-putting, if anything, with cracked glass in the windows and what looked like claw-shaped gouges on the door. Agnes always said a dragon was responsible. I never did figure out if she was joking or not.

  River gave it a distrustful look. “There’s a lot of iron in that place. I can sense it.”

  “Look, they don’t like faeries,” I told him. “I’ll be out in half an hour.”

  I pushed the door inward and stepped inside the dark little shop. Despite feeling cupboard-sized, it was full of more shadowy corners than a small square-shaped room had the right to have. Shelves housed various artefacts—books carved with runes, glimmering jewels, and a million varieties of portable charms.

  A clap of thunder sounded and I jumped. Agnes appeared behind the desk, her white hair braided and a friendly smile on her lips. Both she and Everett were ancient—maybe even older than the head of the necromancers. Certainly old enough to have known Grandma when she was Gatekeeper. And they had enough magic between the two of them to set the whole town on fire if so inclined.

  Agnes’s hands folded on the counter. Chalk lines dusted her leathery skin, remnants of recent spells. I’d never been able to pin down the exact nature of her gift, but Agnes’s magical skills seemed to know no bounds.

  “Ilsa,” said the old woman. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Haven’t you heard?�
�� I’d assumed some of it would have reached her by now.

  “Heard what?”

  I drew in a breath and gave an abbreviated rundown of the situation. I didn’t try to bring up the book, but I did tell her about the undead and the necromancers, and the increasing suspicion that someone with necromantic powers wanted to bump us off.

  “Necromancers,” Agnes said. “That explains why I didn’t know. Old Greaves and I had a disagreement some months ago.”

  Agnes didn’t really do ‘surprised’. I’d long suspected the Sidhe themselves could walk in here and Agnes would offer them tea and her husband’s potently magical cupcakes.

  “Might Greaves be behind this?”

  “Not a chance. This is advanced work—dark magic, reanimating the dead within the Lynn graveyard.”

  A chill crept across my shoulder blades. “Yeah, well. Mum’s gone, and instead of telling us where she is, the Seelie Court sent us a bodyguard who also doesn’t know what’s going on. I don’t suppose you know when she’s coming back?”

  “No. She never said.” She frowned. “It seems to me that you’ve been singled out by someone with a grudge against your family.”

  “I figured,” I said. “There’s another reason I need your help. I have this mark on my face, and I’d like to cover it up.”

  “I thought that was it.” She tilted her head sideways, her gaze on my forehead. “That’s remarkable. Take the charm off.”

  My hand automatically jumped to the necklace around my throat. “You—know what it is?”

  “I don’t, but I can guess what it means. Those who attacked you weren’t regular spirits.”

  “Faeries.” Huh. So I could say that aloud. I looped the necklace over my head. “I didn’t know you could use necromancy on faeries.”

  She squinted at the mark in that penetrating way that made me feel like she could reach into my head and pluck out my thoughts if she desired. “They’re living beings, same as us. As for those foul wraith creatures, however, they’re an abomination.”