Death Marked
Modern Necromancy Book 1
Justin Sloan
Michael La Ronn
Copyright 2016 © Justin Sloan and Michael La Ronn. All rights reserved. Published by Elder Tree Press and Ursabrand Media.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, dialogue, and incidents described in this publication are fictional or entirely coincidental.
No part of this novel may be reproduced or reprinted without permission of the publisher. Please address inquiries to [email protected].
Cover designed by Yocla Designs (www.yocladesigns.com).
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Chapter 1: The Ural Mountains
When Rohan’s fiancée died, he’d had no idea it would lead him to the snow-covered slopes of the Ural Mountains, searching for a way to speak with her one last time.
Closure, he told himself as he trudged through the snow—that’s all he wanted. Unless, as he’d hoped, there was a slight chance he could bring her back.
A gust of wind sent snow swirling around him, its chill reaching through his layers of long underwear, sweater, and parka. Ice crystals clung to his cheeks like small needles, biting him with their cold every time the wind blew. Yet, somehow, sweat slicked his back. None of it was anything compared to the burning in his chest, however, at the thought of seeing Senna again. To hear her voice, press his lips against hers…. There wasn’t anything that could dampen his excitement, not even this cold.
Howling gusts of wind brought a flurry of snow before Rohan. He tucked his head into the folds of his parka and focused on pushing forward, one step at a time. Suddenly, the wind changed direction and the wall collapsed, revealing craggy slopes that slanted upward into the white sky. Rohan stumbled as the ground shook.
Footsteps crunched behind him in warning before a hand gripped his shoulder. Altemus. Rohan nodded, wondering if he looked as haggard as this old man, his gray whiskers held together in clumps of ice. Heavy purple bags sagged from his eyes, barely visible under the skullcap that he wore beneath his parka hood. He still hadn’t explained the rifle slung over his shoulder.
“We’re almost there,” Altemus said, his voice thick with confidence.
“I hope you’re right,” Rohan said, rubbing his hands. They’d gone numb, and he couldn’t feel them through his gloves.
“We can stop if you like,” Altemus said, but his eyes had already moved to the gray mountain slopes, almost invisible in the darkness.
Every part of Rohan’s body begged him to say yes, but he resented the suggestion. Altemus did this kind of psychiatrist crap all the time—he’d say one thing when he meant the opposite. It might have worked on his patients, but Rohan wasn’t going to let the old man manipulate him. Clearly, the old man didn’t understand the extremes that Rohan was willing to go, the months spent in bed, staring at pictures of him and Senna, once happy. When she had left him, it was like she’d torn out part of his soul—he could never be whole without her. So he wouldn’t rest until they were together again.
Rohan shook his head and said, “Nothing can stop me now.”
“Excellent,” Altemus said, picking up the pace.
“I still say we should’ve left you behind,” said another voice with a Russian accent. A tall, muscular man marched past Rohan on the other side, pausing to give Rohan a glare. “You talk big, but I don’t think you’ve got it in you.”
Rohan’s teeth chattered too much for him to reply, so instead he marched after Altemus.
He hadn’t trusted the Russian since he’d met him at the hotel in Moscow. The first thing Lev had said when Altemus introduced Rohan was, “When you said you were bringing help, you didn’t say you were bringing a boy.” From that point, he knew they weren’t going to get along. Thirty-five was hardly a boy, especially after everything he’d been through.
While Rohan detested Lev, he had to admit that, if it weren’t for him, they would’ve had no chance of navigating the Russian landscape. Lev knew how to get around, and his language skills kept them out of trouble.
They began a steep ascent. Soon, their walking sticks became a necessity, and Rohan found himself wondering if he had been wrong in coming here. It wasn’t the first time since beginning the climb that he had questioned himself. But he’d made a promise to his fiancé Senna, and he meant to see it through. Even if it meant traveling to the farthest corner of the world. Nothing, perhaps not even death, would stop him from speaking with her one last time.
She had been taken from him before her time—both physically and mentally. In the end, she had killed herself, but he’d never let himself accept her gradual insanity. When the doctors had told him she was gone, he didn’t believe it. He refused. To this day, he still felt her there with him, in his heart. Their love had filled his world. Their love was the only thing he knew in this that was right. If bringing her back didn’t work, there’d be no point in carrying on.
When they’d first met, he’d fallen for her instantly. He had been drawn to her dark caramel skin, her short, cropped hair, and the fearless stud in her nose.
Three years later, she was dead, chained to a bed in the psych ward, her eyes recessed into their sockets and her skin as pale as the sheets that covered her.
It had eaten him alive, that memory.
And what came after it would change everything.
The funeral had passed like a hazy dream, but even after the rest of the mourners had departed, he had lingered. Rain pounded on the casket and the flowers hung limply in his hand. His moist eyes simply stared at her casket, unable to accept that it was really there, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. A voice told him it was going to be all right.
When he had turned to see Altemus, he felt a mixture of relief and trepidation. The man was Senna’s doctor, but something about the look in his eyes had always been off-putting to Rohan.
“When you’re ready,” the old man had said, handing Rohan a business card with nothing more than an address and phone number on it. “Your time with her doesn’t have to end here.”
For a long while, Rohan had simply stared at that business card, trying to process what Altemus had just said. How dare he? With each piece of the business card that he tossed to the wet grass, he cursed the man for even suggesting such a false hope as having Senna back.
But sadness consumed Rohan in the days that followed, and he returned to the cemetery, digging pieces of the business card out of the dirt. When he called Altemus for the first time, he asked if the old man could really reunite him with Senna.
“Only if you’re willing to do anything,” Altemus had said.
“Anything it takes,” Rohan had said. “No matter what.”
And now he was here.
Just like he couldn’t let her go back then, he couldn’t now. Not without closure. So he pushed on.
Whispers between Altemus and Lev carried on the wind, something about the temple being close. Altemus stopped just ahead on a rocky outcrop. The old man cupped his hands to his eyes and stared into a bowl-shaped valley. Rohan stepped up beside him and squinted, trying to see what lay ahead.
“You’re sure this is it?” Altemus asked Lev, studying the valley with a frown. After a nod from Lev, he added, “It’s not how I imagined it.”
“The temple?” Rohan asked, searching the night. His heart pounded in his chest and his legs ached. He was glad for a break.
Altemus assessed him before allowing a crooked smile. His breath came out in puffs of white air
as he leaned in close and said, “The easy part’s over, brother.”
The old man deserved a punch in the gut for that. The trek had been far from easy, with at least two near-death experiences while climbing the rocks.
But when Altemus pointed out their route, Rohan saw what he meant.
Below, a cave glowed with the faint flickers of firelight. He could just make out a footpath leading into the cave, jagged rocks sticking up around it like teeth. Near the entrance, pillars were carved from the rock, some sort of pattern chiseled into them.
For a moment, the snow let up, giving Rohan a view of spires and a faint outline of an ornate temple hidden in the rocks. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed it.
“Down,” Lev hissed.
Rohan looked at him with confusion, but felt the Russian’s firm grip around his collar, pulling him into the snow. Lev’s hand covered Rohan’s mouth, his other motioning toward the temple entrance as a shadow passed by one of the stone pillars—a man in thick robes. Another man joined the first, and something metallic glinted.
“They’re armed?” Altemus asked, sounding more annoyed than scared.
Lev pulled out a pair of binoculars. He observed the men for a beat, then nodded. “AK-47s. Does that change anything?”
“I knew there could be trouble,” Altemus said.
“And you know we need the skull,” Lev said.
“This is all about the skull.”
The talk of a skull that had the power to resurrect the dead had sounded crazy to Rohan at first, but as he watched the robed men patrol the pillared entrance to the cave, he wondered if Lev and Altemus were telling the truth. He had believed in it enough to follow them all the way out here, but he’d known it was more hope than actual belief. With them, that didn’t appear to be the case.
Altemus grunted and turned to Rohan. “And you? Not backing out, are you?”
Rohan took a moment, but finally said, “Never.”
Altemus led the way and they advanced, low to the ground so the guards wouldn’t see them. They descended the slope as fast as they could, snow sliding out beneath them with every step.
As they approached, Rohan studied the massive temple tucked into the mountain. Stone steps led up to the main entrance, flanked by a colonnade of rock pillars with demonic faces. Several parapets on the temple gave it the feel of a fortress. Helixes of smoke rose from chimneys into the cold night air, filling the area with the smell of burning wood and searing meat. Close now, Altemus ducked behind a rock pillar and motioned for them to do the same.
“We’re not going to get the skull out of there without using force,” Lev said, patting the pistol Rohan knew he had concealed under his many layers.
“What?” Rohan asked. “You told me we were going to ‘obtain it.’ You didn’t say anything about robbing or fighting them.”
Altemus turned, the curved bridge of his nose red with cold and inches from Rohan’s. “We only have one chance at this, and only one way it’s happening. You have a problem with it, speak up now.”
Rohan fumed. “You never said we were robbing a temple, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, now you know.”
Lev crouched, straining his neck to make out the guards.
“Okay, and here we are. So, what’s the plan?” Rohan asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Attack,” Lev said. “Now.”
And with that, he dashed out from their hiding spot and sprinted across the snow.
Altemus pointed to a parapet where the form of a guard was just visible.
“That one’s yours. Get past him, or go home crying.” The old man handed Rohan a knife, and then he too disappeared into the darkness.
Rohan wanted to kick himself. Standing alone in the freezing darkness, expected to kill someone.
He’d known this wasn’t going to be ethical to begin with, but how bad did he really want Senna back?
Pretty damn bad.
Rohan gripped the hilt of the knife tightly, feeling it as if it were part of him. He rushed forward in a kneeling run, darting to the nearest stone pillar in the direction of the parapet, then pushed himself flat against its base. With a heave, he pulled himself up onto the ledge, then swung around to see that the guard was near, walking toward him.
Rohan’s heart thumped hard—it was the moment: do or die.
The guard’s footsteps smashed the snow, the sound of boots crunching ice fading in and out with the howling wind. Then they stopped. If the man saw him first, Rohan was screwed. He stayed low, waiting, and then something caught his eye on the other parapet—a flash of light reflecting on steel, a guard’s body falling into the snow. Lev emerged from the shadows and looked in Rohan's direction before disappearing again.
Go time.
A light sweat formed on Rohan’s brow. He gripped the knife tightly, feeling its weight. His breath came out in quick bursts, but he focused his energy, telling himself it was all part of the act.
Screw that, he thought—before all this, he’d been a stage magician, a performer at birthday parties. He wasn’t set up to be a temple robber!
The crunching of snow and ice started again, growing closer. Rohan’s eyes closed and he wanted to cry out to Senna, to tell her he was sorry, but he couldn’t do this. He’d do anything for her, but taking a life? It wasn’t right.
He turned to go, but froze—the guard was standing there, staring right at him with a look of complete bewilderment. On instinct, Rohan held up the knife. He meant it more as self-defense, but the guard apparently didn’t see it that way, because he charged.
This was no longer about right or wrong, it was about survival. As the two of them struggled, Rohan pushed the knife toward the man, chest thudding and everything inside him screaming that his was wrong, and to somehow get out of it.
And in that moment, his better side one out and he went to drop the knife. Only, the guard countered and pushed the knife back on Rohan.
The two were locked in a battle of strength, the blade inching toward Rohan’s throat. They were so close now that Rohan smelled the onions and red meat on the man’s breath.
The guard hissed something in Russian, and then opened his mouth as if to yell for help. Rohan used the chance and kicked out the man’s legs, sending him into a nearby pillar.
Adrenaline surging, Rohan leapt on the man, landing punch after punch on his face. Instinct took over and he swiped the knife off the ground, raising it over his head for a killing strike. But he paused at the fear in the guard’s eyes.
Rohan gripped the knife handle, sweat making it slippery. His palms hurt. One strike and it would be over, but he couldn’t do it.
No, he couldn’t do it. He stepped back, annoyed and ashamed.
The guard stood and pulled a gun from his side, aiming it at Rohan.
Acting on instinct again, Rohan charged the man before he could pull the trigger. He thrust his shoulder into the guard’s abdomen, and the guard dropped the gun as he fell screaming over the edge of the parapet. The scream ended abruptly with a crack.
Rohan couldn’t bring himself to look down. When he finally did, he saw the man’s body lying broken on the rocks.
Rohan’s gut clenched and a sharp pain shot through his head—he’d made his first kill.
Or had he? A movement below gave him hope. Then, slowly, the man moved against the rocks with a low groan.
Rohan sighed with relief and looked at the knife in his hand, shaking his head. Thank God the man was alive.
A whistle cut through the air, drawing his attention to the temple again. Lev and Altemus were waiting. Just past them was what appeared to be a large courtyard with a sanctuary in the center. It had several spires and was made of red brick, scattered with square windows lit by candlelight.
Lev motioned to some nearby rocks that were just tall enough for them to reach the roof. “Better than the front door.”
Rohan cringed and imagined himself plummeting to his death. “That’s debatab
le.”
They made their way up, Lev in the lead, Rohan behind, and Altemus following at the rear. Lev quickly reached the top of the rocks, and climbed onto the shingled roof of the sanctuary. He leaned down, and Rohan took Lev’s hand so the Russian could pull him up as well.
“Not so bad after all, eh?” Lev asked.
Rohan grimaced. He turned to lend Altemus a hand, then paused as a low chant drifted through the night.
They moved to a skylight cut into the roof, which was propped open and gave them a view into the sanctuary.
Below, more men dressed in robes were gathered in a line leading up to a pulpit. The walls flickered with the dark yellow glow of a thousand candles. The air tasted of incense, growing thicker as the chanting grew louder.
In the pulpit, a bearded man in a purple robe knelt before a goat. With a quick motion, he slashed the animal’s throat. Blood poured freely, and the man ran his hands through it. He wiped his face with blood, and then the other men’s faces as he sang an eerie chant. When everyone had been marked, he bent over and disemboweled the goat. The chanting continued, growing louder as the man ripped the animal apart. At last, they all lowered their heads and prayed in Russian.
Lev climbed through the skylight and landed delicately on a rafter. “This way,” he whispered.
Rohan followed, balancing himself on the rafter. He tried not to look down. One wrong step and he’d be dead—no way he’d survive the fall. Even if he did, the men below would disembowel him like they did the goat.
Continuing along the rafters, they crossed out of the sanctuary and into the next room, a sacristy dimly lit with candles. The centuries-old keys, scrolls, chalices, and bones lay neatly arranged on wooden shelves, each marked with a tag with Cyrillic scribbles.
In the middle of the room, a skull sat on a raised metal casing. Some of its teeth were missing, and it had a dull gray sheen. Thick patterns were drawn along the plate lines, dividing the skull into squares that aligned with the plates. In each square was a written character like a hieroglyph. Rohan had never seen any of these characters before—they didn’t look Russian, and that unsettled him.
Death Marked Page 1
