The Necromancer's Betrayal

by Mimi Sebastian

  I felt partly responsible for Kara’s current precarious position in the coven. She and Matilda, the former coven leader, or Wiseacre, had supported the decision to bring Adam back as a revenant, and after Matilda’s assassination at the hands of Cael, the coven had collapsed into a power vacuum—one a nasty witch named Sybil hoped to fill. If the power hungry and morally deficient Sybil ascended to Wiseacre, it would be bad news for all the supes, especially Kara, who Sybil despised.

  I studied the tableau of student faces seated before me, assessing them for any lunatic twitches, wondering which one would tie me up with bike chains in a bowling alley and threaten to feed me to his zombies. My eyes flicked back and forth between the four guys wearing glasses. One even had brownish hair and an earnest face, like Cael. My heart accelerated, and dizziness threatened my balance. I steadied myself on the desk’s edge.

  Stop. Stop.

  This was insane.

  Or was it me who was insane?

  The more I considered my mom’s relationship with her ability, one she valued over her relationship with me and Cora, the more I realized she may have been driven by an impulse too strong for her to resist. After all, she’d had more demon DNA than me. After I’d successfully raised two supernatural revenants and created a power sphere, it became easy to dismiss that I’d ever believed my power could bring danger and uncertainty. But both my mother and grandmother had met their deaths at the brutal hands of their power.

  The same would probably happen to me, yet what choice did I have? I needed to find the Big Bad I knew existed, despite Ivo’s disbelief. There was no way Cael had commanded enough strength and savvy to kill a werewolf and two witches. Although a posse of fairly healthy zombies could muster enough undead fervor to overwhelm a supe, Cael had only amassed a sufficient number of zombies to pose a threat at the end. I padded my argument with the fact that Malthus had also agreed another demon had to be involved, or had that been an attempt to hide some hidden agenda? His own involvement? I didn’t want to believe him capable of such acts, but how well did I really know him or any of the demons, including Ewan? A chuckle from one of the students snapped me back to attention.

  I let them whittle away the last few minutes of the period catching up on reading. When class ended, I fled to the inner courtyard of campus. But even the things that had brought me comfort in the past—the tree leaves swooshing in the early fall wind and chattering students—failed to minister the same reassurances as before. I crossed the courtyard to the building where the tenure review committee waited.

  When I stepped into the lecture room, I smirked when I noticed the chairs arranged in a semi-circle before the podium where I was to make my presentation. Install some marble columns and steal some throne-like chairs from a museum, and I’d be back in front of the demon council. While no human institution could surpass demon prowess for conceit and convention, universities had their own branding methods—titles, offices and professional associations, all with the intent of upholding the academic hierarchy.

  I arranged my notes on the podium and booted the computer connected to a projector screen so I could show off my PowerPoint brilliance. The committee members arrived and settled themselves in the chairs, and the dean nodded at me to begin. I heard my voice drone on, but my mind had disconnected completely. Fortunately, my topic on how astrology influenced tribal culture in sub-Saharan Africa was so familiar, I could give this presentation in my sleep.

  I paused to switch from the PowerPoint to pictures of Dogon villages in Mali. The Dogon had somehow discovered the Sirius B star, a star not visible to the naked eye. It was a fascinating topic, really. I just wish I was more into it. I guess my trips to the demon realm had diminished my enthusiasm for our own earthly mysteries. When I swiveled to face the committee, all I captured in my gaze were their eyes. Eyes staring at me. I almost jumped when one of the professors tapped his pen sharply on the table in an imitation of Naala’s clicking pincers.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Montagne?” one of the demons asked.

  I shook my head. Okay, so he wasn’t a demon, but he might as well have been one. Professor Claybourn, or “call me Tom,” was a slimy jerk who’d skimmed the line of sexual harassment with me on more than one occasion. I was tempted to sic Myyr on him. I bit back a smile and continued my presentation.

  When I finished, I responded to questions, none of which taxed my knowledge of the subject matter. After the last question, the committee members shook my hand, Tom’s lingering too long for my comfort, and dispersed.

  The dean approached me and smiled. “Good job,” he said. “I’ll call you in an hour or so, but I’m confident your presentation garnered sufficient scores to meet the tenure requirements.”

  I thanked him, left the Social Sciences Building, and spent a few hours in my office, catching up on paper grading before venturing out. I stopped on the sidewalk, causing a texting student to plow into me. “Shit. Sorry.” He gave me a mildly apologetic look before resuming his furious tapping.

  “They should extend the ‘no texting while driving’ laws to walking.”

  I turned at the familiar voice belonging to my former lover and archeology professor, Steve. Kara called him apple pie. His tousled brown hair and baggy khakis definitely gave him a homey, yet rugged look. He bent over and kissed me on the cheek. “You look great. Very vintage, like a sexy professor from the forties.”

  Before class today, I’d spent almost an hour rummaging around in Cora’s closet. Unsatisfied with the offerings of my own wardrobe, I’d raided hers and met with success. The black-and ivory-striped vintage dress I now wore, with a keyhole opening on the chest, was perfect for a gangster’s girlfriend and my presentation.

  “It was Cora’s, if you can believe.”

  He laughed. “I can. I know what you need. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched him walk to the coffee truck parked on the curb. We’d dated until I’d chosen Ewan’s risky passion over Steve’s familiarity and safety. I’d always been risk averse and after the events of the past few weeks, I could understand why.

  Moments later he returned with two lattes. “Any Baileys in there?” I asked, grasping the hot cup from his outstretched hand and inhaling the soothing mix of milk and roasted beans. He was a man after my own heart, but he’d had his chance and he hadn’t tried. Neither of us had.

  He gave me a small, wistful smile. “That bad?”

  How was I to answer that question? How bizarre it was to sit here, sipping a latte, the world spinning normally on its axis when I’d just returned from another realm, bearing a chagur, and had relinquished any possibility of a relationship with a demon warrior. Now, here I was, talking to a handsome professor who was probably perfect for me, a guy who had absolutely no otherworldly debt pact hanging over him, but had never stirred anything in me beyond a fond attraction.

  “Ah, the sorrowful eyes,” Steve said.

  “You think our—” I fluttered my hands—“whatever we had, would have gone somewhere?”

  He widened his smile, but his eyes seemed sad. “My male ego was convinced you couldn’t live without me, but I could never spark your passion.”

  Indeed. Goddamn. Why couldn’t I want what Steve had to offer? He was a good guy—funny, sexy in a professor-wholesome way, smart—and the sex had been good. Good sex. Not the fuck-fueled passion that threatened to engulf my soul in flames. Not demon sex. Ugh. I needed to stop thinking about him, and focus on finding the Big Bad.

  Thankfully, Steve changed the subject. “So, what else is going on?”

  “I’m awaiting the verdict.”

  He looked confused, then realization set in. “Your tenure presentation? It was today?”

  I nodded.

  “You seem so bummed. Did your presentation tank?”

  “No, actually, it went pretty well.”

  “So, w
hy the dour look?”

  I stared at him. Once, not too long ago, I found comfort in the creases spreading from the corners of his eyes. Now they seemed unfamiliar to me. My phone vibrated in my backpack. I dug it out and glanced at the screen. “The moment of truth,” I said.

  I answered the call and listened to the dean tell me that everyone enjoyed my presentation and unanimously recommended me for tenure. Now all I had to do was publish two research papers and I’d be official.

  I tucked my phone away and gave Steve a small smile that bore no real emotion. “Passed.”

  “I had no doubts. Congratulations.” He hugged me and gave me a small kiss on my forehead. He lingered for a moment, his face only inches from mine, before pulling back. “I’ll see you around campus then?”

  I nodded. We waited another moment, as if trying to decide if either of us should bother with an attempt to rekindle our affair, maybe suggest getting a drink, which might lead to dinner, and then sex, following the same pattern as before, ultimately leading nowhere. But even if a part of me wanted to seek out the tidiness of such an arrangement, I’d be subjecting him to possible death by demon creature or undead stalker. My days of things being tidy had zoomed out the door. The most I could strive for these days was organized chaos, and today had actually exceeded that. I still had enough wits to know my life had been permanently altered, demon brand or no, but I could afford today, one day of illusion. One day talking with Steve. One day without demons, without witches, without dead bodies.

  That was, until Kara called.

  Chapter Seven

  OVER THE PHONE, Kara had asked if I could rush over to her bookstore now instead of at six o’clock as we’d previously arranged. Her guarded tone failed to completely buffer the urgent undercurrents in her voice. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to head for the Mission as quickly as the limits allowed.

  Her family had owned the bookstore specializing in the occult forever, minus the few years when her father sold the store after her mother died. Kara still avoided most discussions about her non-supernatural father. When I’d commented that, at least she knew her father, she’d muttered that sometimes not knowing was better. Kara had managed to buy the store back and shared the upstairs apartment with another witch, Olive.

  The taxi deposited me in front of the store, squeezed between a diner and vintage clothes boutique. Bells hanging on the door clanged when I swung it open. For whatever reason, maybe because I’d watched way too much television as a kid, I’d expected to find lots of candles, incense, and walls colored in deep shades of red the first time I’d checked out the bookstore. But Kara had decorated the shop in clean, modern lines and colors. The bookstore was uncluttered, but comfortable, with large couches and coffee tables to accommodate the browser. She did keep lots of candles, but that was typical of witches, given they derived their power from earth elements. Many often stored a fire device, sand or plants in their houses. Not one corner or windowsill in Kara’s apartment lacked a plant or flower. I gave up on plants a long time ago. Even cacti refused to flourish under my black thumb. I suppose it wasn’t surprising, given my ability.

  Kara swept past me, locked the entrance, and flipped the open sign to closed. Fortunately, the store was empty, eliminating the need to shoo away any customers. She hadn’t offered much detail over the phone, but judging from her swollen eyes, I knew something really bad had happened. Without speaking, she directed me to the back storage room lined with shelves full of books and antique apothecary bottles and jars colored in blues, reds and browns. She waved me to the corner. I walked over and stopped when I reached a cot shoved against the wall. My hand flew to my mouth, stifling my gasp. “Fuck, Kara.”

  I stared at Olive, a pretty blonde with a face sculpted by high cheekbones, now shadowed by death’s pallor. I’d spent many a night with the two witches over ice cream and wine, watching Buffy re-runs. They’d lived together for as long as I’d known Kara. “What happened?” I whispered.

  “I came home and found her.” Kara pressed her fist to her mouth. “Someone had sat her on the chair, and when I approached her from behind, she looked normal. I spoke to her, and she didn’t answer. Then I walked around and saw—” Her voice ended on a repressed sob.

  I hugged her. She clutched me tightly. We used the physical contact to exchange what little strength we had in the face of Olive’s death, until we regained our composure. We finally pulled apart and wiped the moisture from our eyes.

  “This reeks of Adam,” I said after a few more sniffles.

  “Is it starting over again?”

  The witches had suffered the highest body count during the Cael debacle—Adam and Matilda—and now Olive.

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry.” I extended my arm around her slumped shoulders. One side of Olive’s face sagged. A ragged gash on her forehead still dripped blood. I inhaled the smell of death, a mix of rotting vegetation and disgusting sweetness, and instead of holding my nose in revulsion, I breathed it in, let it assuage my power’s cravings. Then I immediately balked.

  “I need a minute.” I fled the storage room and fell onto one of the couches at the back of the store, breathing heavily. I’d wanted to fill Olive with my power and savor the exhilaration her death provided.

  A few minutes later, Kara curled up next to me. “What happened to you in the demon realm?”

  I groaned and told her about the demon council meeting.

  She motioned to my arm, and I showed her the mark. She peered closer. “It almost resembles one of those old smallpox vaccine scars,” she said.

  “Except mine’s some sort of Kangaroo Court vaccine. And to top it off, Ewan’s been playing escort to a female pain demon named Portia.”

  Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Why didn’t you tell me Ewan was into BDSM?”

  I half-smiled despite myself. It seemed rude, talking about anything but Olive’s death, but both of us needed the momentary distraction from the tragedy lying on the cot in the next room. “He’s not, at least, not with me.” I shook my head. “I think, as part of his service, he has to please some of the female demons, with Malthus’s permission, of course. And maybe before, I mean, who cares, right? Why complain about sex with gorgeous pain demons?” I was babbling. It was just . . . all of a sudden the dam burst, and I couldn’t stop. It felt good to unload.

  “Are you okay?” Kara asked.

  “No. We both know we can’t be together, but until now, we hadn’t really broken up.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kara reached out. We hugged, and it felt good, very good, and I didn’t feel so alone. I broke the hug and wiped my moist eyes. “I’m done with heartache. I can’t keep—” I choked on the words. “I’m done.” I rubbed the mark on my shoulder. “Do you have any idea who might have had it in for Olive?”

  Kara bowed and folded her hands over her face. “If it’s not related to the other supernatural deaths, then I’m worried someone in the coven might have killed her. She openly supported me and my bid for Wiseacre.” Her voice broke. “I wouldn’t put this past Sybil, but if she didn’t kill Olive, then once word hits the street . . .”

  “They’ll demand answers from Malthus and me.”

  “We need to find out who did this to her.” She stared at me, her gaze more intent than I’ve ever seen before.

  A potent mixture of dread and anticipation tickled the back of my neck. I hadn’t dared use my necro ability since creating the power sphere, and was even less inclined now that I had the chagur. But it had been thrumming inside me like a live wire, especially now that death was near. Still, when Kara asked for help, it never ended well. I sometimes wished my best friend would ask me to help paint her nails or shop for a new outfit. But no. Kara’s appeals always started and ended with a dead body.

  Still, I had to help her.

  She lifted her head. “You know what I�
�m going to ask.”

  I nodded. “I’m with you on this. We need to find out what happened, if Olive’s death is the start of the Big Bad Part Two.”

  I saw my worry reflected in her eyes. She gave me a grim smile. “I guess we’ll find out.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I know this is hard. After Adam, I wouldn’t normally ask—”

  I stopped her with an arched eyebrow.

  “Okay, I would,” she said unapologetically.

  The thought occurred to me that she might want me to raise Olive as a revenant. No way. Not again, even if I could. “I can’t, won’t, make her a revenant.”

  “I know. I’m not asking you to. Just reanimate her.” Concern suddenly creased her brow. “Will this hurt you?” She pointed at the chagur.

  “It shouldn’t, not according to the demons.” The demons may be tricky bastards, but they didn’t lie. They just very artfully evaded the truth. Even so, I shared her concern. But there was no time like the present to test it out.

  She nodded slowly. “We only need ask her a few questions.”

  I sighed. “If she’s of the mind to answer them.” It was never easy, in fact, impossible to anticipate how a corpse would react when they came back to life. Or know if they remembered anything about their deaths. Some remembered way too much and could drown you in terrible memories.

  “We have to find out anything we can. After this, I’m going to have to report her death to the coven,” she said.

  “And Sybil will use Olive’s murder against you, me and the demons. I’ll have to tell Malthus.” I sucked in a breath, dreading that conversation. Then I shook my head. “Hopefully, she’ll give us some ammunition, something to fend off Sybil.”