Grave Magic (How To Be A Necromancer Book 4)

by D. D. Miers

  On a street in San Francisco, I stand in the middle of a crowd. A parade. It's a hot, bright day. There's so much noise, music, and laughter I can barely hear myself think. People fill the street, crowding around parade floats that are flatbed trucks and balloons, made festive by the garishly dressed men and women riding them. Women with flat tops and leather jackets escort the floats on the back of their motorcycles. Men in not much more than shorts dance in the street. Drag queens and trans women in full glittering burlesque regalia stride like royalty through the crowd or hang, waving, from the parade floats, smiling like it's their wedding day. Men in heavy boots and leather fetish gear sing army songs and move unified. There is so much joy here, but I feel oddly detached from it all. David Bowie is playing from one of the floats. A group of people carry a banner: Front Line of Freedom— June 28, 1981.

  I am just an observer. I am not one of them. But I hope they succeed. It would be the first time in my long memory that something really, truly changed. But disaster looms like a storm cloud on the horizon. Death stands beside the sick bed and walks among these people. I think they know it, too, and celebrate all the harder for it. I understand this at least—a desire to pack as much joy as possible into a life that is certain to be brief and difficult.

  I follow the crowd, listening to their chanting and singing. I want to remember this moment in case, as I expect it will be, this is all over and forgotten in a few years. Humans in large groups are terribly predictable things, and though the technology and materials change, humans continue to use them in the same ways for the same purposes. I've watched the cycles repeat over and over and brief, exciting deviations like this are vanishingly rare and almost always crushed soon after. I listen to them singing, and I hope it will last a while longer. A decade, maybe.

  A voice cuts through the crowd, singing along with the music, clear and bright as a bell. I see the singer, standing on the back of a float, a young man in his early twenties. His golden hair catches the sunlight and I catch his eyes. He smiles at me, and I feel a spark of interest. It's been a long time since anything has been interesting.

  The person in the memory smiles back at the young man and goes to speak to him, but I'm already being knocked loose from the memory by the realization that I recognize the smiling man.

  He's the man from the hospital room. E. Bellefonte.

  Time passed at a crawl, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. I had no idea who Bellefonte was or why he was in the memory. I now knew these were memories. I certainly didn't know enough about the 1981 San Francisco Pride parade to have dreamed of it in that much detail. All this had to be related to Aethon. Were they his memories? How could be possible? I knew Aethon was immortal, but I hadn't imagined him just . . . hanging out at parades, listening to music and talking to people. It didn't fit the image I had of him sweeping into the funeral home like a Saturday-morning-cartoon villain to torture me and the people I cared about.

  There was no way to measure days or hours, or to be sure they were passing at the same time here as they were in the real world. But I had a creeping suspicion, which slowly grew to an absolute certainty, that it had been a long time since Cole had come to see me. A couple of days, at least.

  Every second dripped past like Chinese water torture as I tried to keep myself entertained. I spent a lot of time talking to Mort or playing fetch with one of my shoes. Since this wasn’t real, there would not be any teeth marks. I lay on the floor, lost in anxious thoughts that ran around in circles with no solutions.

  I tried pushing myself to be able to at least hear through my body again but couldn't get close enough. Or maybe there was just nothing to hear. And every time I pushed, it felt like I got flung back further when I inevitably snapped back. I worried about the consequences of falling too far.

  I went looking for the door more than once but couldn't find it. Mort seemed uninterested in guiding me, despite all my goading and begging. As time ticked on, I worried something had happened out there, and I was alone. What if Aethon had made it through the bar's defenses? What if everyone was gone? What would happen to me? To my body? Would what was left of me just slowly starve to death? Would I be able to tell? Or would I just one day blink out of existence as my comatose shell expired? Or worse, what if my body died and I didn't? What if I was just trapped here in limbo forever?

  Gotta be honest, I spent a good day and a half freaking out about limbo until exhausted nihilism finally chilled me out. I was reminded of the first test of the blue door. Was the lesson to take control or to give it up? I didn't see any way to take control from in here. All I could do was accept there was nothing I could do, nothing I could change.

  I considered what I would do if I was trapped in here forever. I couldn't live like this. I was already losing it in here. The visits from Cole and the blue door had kept me going. Without them, facing the possibility of being trapped in an endless, empty void for the rest of my life . . . I remembered the time I'd tried to sleep in here and the terrifying sensation of dissolving. Maybe, if I became really certain there was no way out and I was alone, it would be better to go to sleep. It was a terrifying thought, and one I didn't think I'd be able to act on for a long time. But in a less immediate, existential way, it was far more frightening to imagine it wouldn't work, and I would find myself trapped here with no way out, not even death.

  Suddenly, with immense relief, I felt the slight, extrasensory tremor of someone arriving.

  "Cole?" I said immediately, scrambling to my feet from where I'd been languishing on the floor. I hesitated, perplexed, as I realized it was not Cole, but Julius. He looked around curiously for a moment before waving to me.

  "Hello, Vexa!" he said brightly.

  I burst into tears so suddenly and unexpectedly, it surprised even me. Desperate sobs shook my entire body. Julius's smile fell, and he hurried to me, distraught.

  "I'm sorry that I'm not Cole," he said, his hands hovering near my shoulders, clearly wanting to comfort me but afraid to touch. "I can go and get him—"

  "No!" I said quickly, and grabbed him, forcing will into my arms so that I could wrap them around him, hugging the older man tightly. "Please don't go! I'm just—" I interrupted myself with a hard, breathless sob. "I'm so glad you're here! It's been so long. I was afraid something had happened and you were all gone and I was alone!"

  "I'm so sorry, Vexa," Julius said, patting my head, and I felt his guilt, though more distant and indistinct than Cole's emotions. "I should have come sooner. I thought Cole was visiting you every day. When I realized he wasn't, I came as quickly as I could."

  I struggled to gain control of myself, while learning Cole really was avoiding me.

  "Is he all right?" I asked instead, my voice a rough croak. I forced myself to let go of Julius, though part of me was certain he would vanish the minute I did. "Did something happen?"

  "Everything's fine," Julius said reassuringly. "Cole is fine. You don't need to worry."

  I frowned, his tremor of unease faintly underlying his words.

  "You can't lie to me in here," I said, a little too sharply. "What's going on?"

  Julius swallowed. He twisted the rings on his fingers absently.

  "No one is in danger," he said at last, which wasn't comforting. "But there's been more signs of Aethon out there. Nothing as bold as the destruction from before, but there have been deaths among the magical community. Vulnerable people, taken for what seems to be ritual purposes, though we haven't figured out what for. And Cole has been avoiding everyone, not just you."

  "Why?" I asked, my stomach in knots. "God, it's my fault, I pushed him—"

  "I don't think it's that simple," Julius said, stopping me before I spiraled. "There's a lot going on with him. I think he tried to talk to his parents, and I overheard a conversation with Ethan. I'm not sure if I should talk about it. I shouldn't have been listening, but it's difficult for me not to be aware of anything happening inside the bar."

  "What happened?" I asked, my con
cern only growing. "No, never mind, just show me."

  I grabbed his arm impatiently and let the memory unfold.

  The perspective was strange, seeing from everywhere at once. My mind struggled to process it, refining it to something like standing over a dollhouse where I saw Cole and Ethan in one room, with the other rooms of the bar around it, filled with people and conversations and little dramas. I struggled to focus on Cole and Ethan, but in the memory, Julius had been trying to tune them out.

  "If you want to be with me, just be with me," I heard Cole say, his voice raw with emotion. "I don't . . . I don't want to be alone right now."

  "I know something is bothering you," Ethan said softly, using his fragile tone again, avoiding the subject. "We can all tell. If you want to talk about it I'm here, but—"

  "God! I'm so sick of fucking talking!" Cole shouted, frustration exploding. The tiny figure in the dollhouse pulled at his hair, kicking over a tiny, dollhouse chair. "I don't want to talk! I don't want to share! I just want to feel something! Can't we just have this without fucking psychoanalyzing it?"

  He reached for Ethan, pleading, and Ethan backed away.

  "I . . . I can't, Cole, you know I—"

  Cole threw his hands in the air, his gestures sharp and angry. Julius tried hard to focus on something else, but Cole's loud, furious voice cut through it all.

  "Of course you can't! Of course! Because why actually do something about the problem when you can just fucking wallow in it? Is that what you want? To just stew in your big, stupid tragedy till it kills you? You like guys!"

  "I don't—"

  "You do! Stop fucking pretending you can just ignore it and it'll go away!"

  "I'm not! I know I can't change it, I know what I am, I just—"

  "You just think it makes you a monster. And here we are fucking psychoanalyzing it again. Son of a bitch."

  "You can't ask me to just get over it, Cole. It doesn't work like that."

  "I can ask you to make a goddamn effort! But you won't! You'd rather die."

  "I am trying! For fuck's sake Cole, I'm here, with you, I'm trying."

  "Kiss me."

  "What?"

  "Kiss me. Right now. Stop fucking around and just do it."

  The two tiny figures in the dollhouse stood three feet away from one another, the space between them a measure of pain. Cole was almost begging. When Ethan looked away, Cole dropped his head in disappointment.

  "Cole . . ."

  "You want to fucking psychoanalyze it? Fine. Here's the point of your stupid-ass curse. It's not to suppress the monster. It's not even to embrace the monster, which is what you're trying to do now, trying to work yourself up to being with a guy like it's this horrible thing you have to do to survive because you don't have a choice. This part of you is broken and you don't have any other option but to let yourself be monstrous. The point, you oblivious fucking dumb-ass, is to admit there was never a monster to start with. Men who love men aren't monsters. You aren't a monster. What I want to do to you isn't monstrous. Kissing me right now isn't a sin that you've got to avoid or resign yourself too. It's just a kiss. It's just you. It's just me. So Ethan, please . . ."

  There's only silence. Two tiny dolls in a tiny room, reduced to this.

  Julius pulled away from me, ending the memory. He stared at me as I tried to gather my senses and process what I had seen.

  "I can see you've been learning a few things in here," Julius said, eyeing me. "You should be careful with that."

  "Well it's not like I have anything else to do," I complained, Cole's anger still bouncing around in my head. "You can't understand what it's like in here, knowing you're all out there, hurting and in danger, and I can't do anything—"

  "We're doing everything we can to get you out as quickly as possible," Julius said, trying to be comforting. It didn’t help. All I could think about was the pain in Cole's voice and Ethan's miserable resignation. I missed both of them so much it hurt. Julius’s concern radiated off of him like heat. Finally he spoke again.

  "Did you ever read a book called The Magician's Nephew?"

  "Of course," I answered. "I loved those books."

  "Do you remember at the beginning of the book," Julius said, "when Diggory and Polly find the space behind the walls that joins all the houses in their building?"

  "Yeah," I said, not understanding where he was going with this. "It was like foreshadowing for the Wood Between the Worlds."

  "Yes," Julius agreed. "But I think the one is a better metaphor than the other. I think you're in the walls, Vexa. I'm not sure how you got there, or how to get you out just yet. But I don't think you're quite in your own mind so much as in the space behind it, the space that connects it to something else. Someone else, maybe."

  I didn't like the sound of that. I looked out into the darkness, suddenly wary.

  "Just be cautious," Julius said. "This is uncharted territory. More than anything, you must hold onto yourself."

  "Easier said than done," I muttered. "You try 'holding onto yourself' when you're just a bunch of emotions floating around an empty void. I'm not exactly making friends in here! I don't exactly have any hobbies! I can't even use my powers!"

  "Is that not when you're most yourself?" Julius asks. "When all that is stripped away? Who are you underneath?"

  I frowned, wrapping my arms around myself. I wasn't sure I wanted to answer the question.

  Julius sighed, running a hand through his hair.

  "I need to go," he said, and the panic I felt earlier returned all at once.

  "No, don't!" I begged.

  "I won't be gone long," he promised. "But I can't solve this problem from in here. And I think I need to have a conversation with Ethan."

  I pushed down the urge to beg him to stay, the fear of being alone squeezing my chest like a vice.

  "Talk to Cole for me," I said instead. "Tell him I'm sorry. Please convince him to come back."

  "I'll do my best," Julius promised, nodding. "And in the meantime, consider what I said."

  He dissolved a moment later, leaving me alone in the dark again, my heart aching.

  Mort trotted up to me, leaning against my leg, and I patted his head.

  "Where were you during all of that?" I asked, scratching his ears. He panted happily, then turned around and trotted away. When he stopped to look back at me and barked, I realized he wanted me to follow.

  "This again?" I asked, wary. He barked in confirmation and started running.

  I looked back at where Julius had been before and bit my lip, remembering his words of caution. Then I jogged after Mort, deeper into the space between the walls.

  Chapter 12

  I followed Mort into the darkness, still playing over Cole and Ethan's argument in my mind, worry for both of them warred with guilt over listening to the argument. Forcing the memory-viewing thing on Julius had been wrong, an impulse born of anxiety and isolation, but using it to spy on private conversations, especially ones that private . . . Julius was right. This place was getting to me. I would never have done something like that before. Maybe this was the “real” me. The core of me, stripped of all other influences, was someone who would do something like that. Violate the mind of someone who'd been kind to me in order to invade the privacy of two people who trusted me. What kind of monster did that make me? I didn't even apologize to Julius, I was too busy panicking at the thought of being alone in here again. Maybe I deserved this place. Maybe it was safer for everyone involved if I was in here where I couldn't hurt anyone.

  I wasn't surprised this time when Mort disappeared up ahead and, in his place, the blue door appeared.

  "I don't want to do this again," I told the brass door knocker. "Can we just not?"

  There was no answer, as usual.

  "I'm tired," I pleaded. "If what you wanted was to make me hate myself, well too late! I get it, I'm awful. So can we just not rub it in today? Maybe?"

  The door creaked open, waiting for me.

 
I knew I didn't have to go through the door. But what else was there to do? Sit in the dark, thinking about how awful I was? Going over how much danger my friends and family and the entire damn world were in over and over until my head hurt? Lay there waiting for someone to take pity on me and come to see me, knowing that even if they did I couldn't trust myself not to invade their privacy or force myself into their most private memories? Jesus, I couldn't even touch anything without hurting them.

  So I opened the blue door and stepped through.

  It was almost as dark inside the door as it had been outside. But then my eyes adjusted, and I realized there was a faint light from no distinct source. Something moved next to me and I jumped with a surprised shout. It moved as well, and I scrambled backward, slamming into a cold, smooth surface. As soon as I stopped moving, the thing across from me did as well and I realized what it was.

  I was in a hall of mirrors.

  They lined every inch, including floor and ceiling, of a narrow hall which turned and split like a funhouse maze. I'd always hated that part of funhouses. I wouldn't go in the damn things if I knew it had them. Mirrors always made me uneasy, and mirrors in the dark even more so. I couldn't really explain why. It wasn't a logical fear. There was no practical reason behind it. But just thinking about it made my heart race and my blood run cold. It was probably a phobia.

  I could deal with them as long as there were lights on and I didn't stare into them too long. But in the dark, alone, already stressed out? This was a nightmare scenario for me. The first door was just a pain. The second was torture. This was hell. This was a finely crafted, personalized hell, designed to keep me in a perpetual state of sheer terror.

  I cursed myself for going through the stupid door again. I should have known it would only get worse. I pushed down the instinct to panic, but it felt like trying to hold a balloon under water. It took all my concentration, and it wasn't going to last. I walked forward quickly, trying to look at nothing, hoping I could find the solution to this and get out quickly before the anxiety attack building within me reached a boil.