Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  © 2021 Genevra Black

  All Rights Reserved

  LIFE-IN-DEATH Press, August 2021

  v. 200801

  GenevraBlack.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, institutions, families, punk-rock bands, or skeleton priests is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  Print ISBN: 978-1951328023

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Adam Einan had spent a lot of time and effort trying to forget his past. Unfortunately, despite two decades of running, his past wasn’t as keen to forget him.

  Even before he’d run away at seventeen, he’d known there was something inside him, huge and destructive and trying to claw its way out. It wasn’t until he’d started squatting in Alphabet City that it had bloomed into anything more than a feeling.

  What it was, exactly, was hard to describe. A strange, cold energy; an odd feeling of comfort and healing in darkness. Sometimes he could make things happen just by thinking about them—make the air around him cold, dim the lights, force someone to blush. For a brief period, it had seemed like a gift … something that set him apart from others, protected him almost.

  Twenty-five years, and he’d long since learned it was the opposite.

  He wasn’t sure what else he was capable of. He wasn’t even certain if any of it was real or if he was crazy—and he wasn’t anxious to find out. You didn’t play chicken with a curse.

  After that honeymoon period, he’d covered it up as best he could. Brushed it off. Ignored it. Making his apartment in C-Squat livable had almost been a full-time job, and everyone was high off their asses anyway, so people didn’t notice if something wasn’t quite right. New York City’s underground punk rock scene had kept him safe from himself; with all the pills and shows, he’d only had to endure a few vaguely lucid years before Death Benefits had sold out to a record label. Like bitches, most of his ex-friends would certainly add.

  They could talk about art and keeping it real all they wanted, but to a twenty-year-old with no family and no future, the dollar was king. Or, at least, what he could get with the dollar was. K-holing every night made it easy to forget and compartmentalize the unexplained incidents that had plagued him since his teens.

  But the drugs were gone now. The money from DB’s tours and albums was pretty much dried up. Adam was getting older, and it was getting harder and harder to deny his nature its due attention.

  The band’s breakup had sucked, but Mikey’s overdose had been devastating. That whole night was a blur of trauma, and after it, the dark feelings had gotten exponentially worse. Music still helped a little. It always had. Even strumming his guitar idly on his bed, as Adam was doing now, calmed the waves of power beating against his skin.

  The all-black Ibanez Genesis RG521 had been a gift from his stepdaughter, a tribute to the original RG550 he’d played with Death Benefits. Before the Genesis, he’d never understood what musicians were talking about when they went off about their One Instrument; he had always just picked up whatever was available and played. Now, he understood. As soon as the Genesis was in his hands, two became one.

  And dabbling in songwriting was a good break from his work, though it didn’t make him much money. He glanced at his desk, where his pro tablet monitor was still open to a work in progress. After a torturous stint as a cubicle drone and a failed marriage, he’d finally quit to fulfill his new dream of becoming a digital artist. It hadn’t made him rich, and he’d had to suffer freelance clients and plenty of nights eating cheap noodles, but his webcomic now had a decent fan base and made pretty good money.

  He’d worked so hard, and he’d managed to carve out a tenuous little bit of happiness in an unforgiving world. The thought of whatever was coming to the surface washing it all away shook him to the core.

  As the years flew by, he became more and more frightened of his own thoughts and reactions to things. The doctors said it was OCD. He wasn’t sure.

  Adam brushed a bit of hair behind his ear and tried to focus on the melody he was creating. It would sound like a real song if he could find a good time to plug in without incurring the wrath of his downstairs neighbor. When worked, the Genesis was an angry lady, but she could be gentle, too. How something could be so loud, clear, and soft all at once was like magic. He leaned to the side to wake up his laptop, then erased the last line of notes in MuseScore and replaced it with something lower to show off the guitar’s tone.

  As he did, the distinct sound of the front door opening stopped his heart for a split second, a reaction he still hadn’t shaken after over two decades out of his father’s house. The rational part of his brain reminded him of reality a beat later: his stepdaughter was home from hanging with her friends.

  Elle was now over half his own age but still in dire need of parenting. Her mom’s bizarre blend of strict but arbitrary moral codes and several subsequent marriages had bred an exuberant, attention-seeking kid. When Adam had first met her, she’d done everything she could to needle him into resenting her, but he’d persisted. Slowly but surely, they had formed a rapport.

  He must have done something right, at least, because she’d chosen to keep visiting him after the divorce—and she was spending the summer here, not at her mom’s. She still acted out, but against all odds, she was alive and in college and sober.

  She was a good kid. Maybe he was especially equipped to see through her silly facade, even if her wounds weren’t as visible as his. Unconsciously, he touched the scar that sliced through his right eyebrow and disa
ppeared into his hairline.

  Out of force of habit, Adam slung his guitar over one shoulder before he went out to greet her, so that it was resting upside down against his back. He entered the kitchen just as she tottered by, head tipped back with a hand over her nose.

  “Ready for Madison Square Garden, dweeb?” she teased good-naturedly as she leaned over the trash can. When she removed her hand to paper-towel her nose, he could see blood dripping from her nostrils.

  He frowned. “Another nosebleed?”

  Elle shook her short, wavy blond hair out of her face. “The air is really dry out there.”

  Adam glanced at the kitchen window, his heart sinking when he saw how hard it was snowing. It was almost August, for god’s sake. When he’d read that a blizzard was about to hit NYC, he hadn’t really believed it. A rare light snow in summer was one thing, but this . . .

  “I’ve got a humidifier you can put in your room,” he said, tearing his eyes away to focus on her. Though he kept his tone even, concern gripped him, and not just because of the weather. Elle’s recent trend of unexplained nosebleeds could very well be something serious. “You should really go to the doctor.”

  She trashed her bloody paper towels and groaned. “If I find out something’s wrong with me, it’ll be something expensive to fix.” After a pause, she added wistfully, “I can’t wait till we live in the Mad Max world. All the downsides of our current society with the upside of it being socially acceptable to shoot a bazooka from my wasteland tank.”

  As she mimed aiming various heavy weapons at him, he deadpanned, “Or you could just go because your mom’s insurance covers it.”

  “Karen doesn’t want me using her stuff,” Elle said, setting her bag down and leaning against the kitchen counter with a pout. “You know I’m right.”

  “I really don’t think that’s true. Promise me you’ll go?”

  It took a moment of earnest staring, but finally, she caved. “Fine. I’ll call tomorrow...”

  With a smirk, Adam went to the sink and turned on the hot water to soak the dishes there, mumbling, “I should have done these earlier...” If only his OCD was the kind that made him sterilize everything. At least then he’d get a clean house out of it.

  Before he could fall down that rabbit hole, Elle approached, rolling up one sleeve preemptively. “I can help. Or,” she added quickly, as if he’d blindly approve of her suggestion if she said it fast enough, “we could get takeout and watch Sailor Moon until 3 a.m. again.”

  Adam laughed and handed her a sponge. “I already thawed chicken. If you wash up, I’ll cook.”

  With a long-suffering sigh, she manned her station in front of the sink.

  He didn’t bother taking off the Genesis. If you could jump around a dark stage coated in fake blood with an electric guitar strapped to your back, you could do just about anything. He barely even remembered it was there as he moved to the fridge and fetched ingredients for an uninspired dinner of chicken, veggies, and rice.

  Enough soy sauce and he might even cover up the taste of freezer burn. He might be a good dad, but he was still a disaster of a human being.

  “So,” Elle said from the sink, already elbows deep in suds, “what’d you do today?”

  Adam grabbed a knife from the block and started to trim the chicken. “Worked on a commission in the morning. I usually wouldn’t, but some indie game dev offered me a shitload of cash for some pretty promo art.”

  “How’s the comic coming? You know people are going to kill you if you don’t get Part 5 out soon.”

  He cracked a smile and answered coyly, “I’ll get to it.”

  “Considering you left Prince Argon stuck in Spiritstorm Cairn, you better.”

  “I’m done working for the day, slave driver.”

  Elle glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “We can still watch Sailor Moon. The original? Or we could co-op Stardew Valley. Or I could destroy you in Mario Kart as usual.”

  “Sure, whatever you want.”

  His heart warmed as he walked up beside her to begin chopping veggies. Between her and Karen, their little “family” was small and unconventional and broken, but it was the only one he found worthy of the word. Like music, caring for Elle soothed him, made him feel grounded. Almost normal.

  Sometimes, it felt like Fate had brought them together. Though hopefully not for any higher purpose, considering most of their time was spent eating dumplings and playing video games.

  Adam oiled up a pan and threw the chicken in, but when he went to throw away the packaging, it barely fit in the trash. With a sigh, he turned back to Elle. “Hey, do you mind taking this out?”

  She looked over her shoulder, whining when she saw he meant the trash. “But I’m washing dishes! My hands are all wet!”

  “It’ll just be a second, and I need to start on the veggies.”

  “But—”

  Unmoved, he tied the bag and hoisted it up, offering it to her with a quirked brow. She huffed but nevertheless dried her hands, took the bag, and went to the back door. Their fire escape was more like stairs, and it led right to the dumpster out back. She slipped on her shoes, wedged the doorstop in place, and stepped onto the landing.

  Adam had already turned back toward the chicken when he heard her cry of pain. When he spun to face her again, Elle was teetering on the edge of the landing; the trash bag had fallen at her side, and she clutched her head with both hands. Blood dribbled from her nostrils, down her chin.

  He knew what she would do before she did it, and before he had time to stop it. On instinct, she dropped to her knees … but there was no floor to catch her. Instead, she went tumbling headfirst down the icy steps.

  Adam barely registered that he had moved toward the back door; the next thing he knew, he was on the landing, watching just as she reached the cement at the bottom of the fire escape with a final thud.

  “Elle! Ellie!” His feet carried him over the ice with preternatural haste, the Genesis thumping against his back each time he descended a step, matching the tattoo of his heartbeat.

  When he reached her body, he sank to his knees and cupped her rapidly paling face.

  As he did, a shiver rushed up his arms. Somehow, he could still feel a spark of life within her, and his energy—that part of him he usually tried so hard to keep under wraps—reached out to it. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt the life of a dying person.

  Just like Mikey, Elle was hurt bad, but there was still hope.

  Trying not to succumb to panic, Adam leaned in, desperate to bring her spark of life closer. Somehow, he knew if he could figure out how to hold onto her light, he could keep her alive long enough to call for help.

  But he struggled, trying to move his energy into the right shape. It couldn’t find purchase on anything, couldn’t find any layers to crawl under. And the slower her heart beat, the faster his breath came, the more panicked his thoughts—the harder it was to hold onto her.

  Finally, he was able to latch on, but the light was growing smaller by the second. The full force of his power was almost too much, her soul like a tiny flame, fed by oxygen but snuffed out by a harsh wind. He pulled back and tried again, and again couldn’t quite figure out how to get a hold of the even fainter spark.

  Hold on to her, idiot. Save her. Do what you were too weak to do last time.

  And then, without warning, the spark was gone. As Elle’s body went limp, a final breath of air left her lungs, and their tenuous happiness left along with it.

  Too late. Not strong enough. Just like with Mikey.

  Before Adam could react, every nerve in his body came alive, like someone had plugged him into an amp. Every hair stood on end as energy rushed through him like a river, and the senses that were usually content to lie low sprang to attention. Fluttering shadows and tremulous whispers clouded his head; a sickeningly familiar coldness spiraled through him and burst from his back like a lance of ice. Darkness enveloped him for a moment, his eyes open but unseeing as insubstantial g
ray figures rushed past and through him.

  When he finally came to, everything was just as it had been. The warm little spark of life that had been nestled in Elle’s chest was dormant as a dead coal.

  Pain hit him like a train, rending him under its wheels. He let out one inhuman wail and cradled her body as eddies of snow whirled around them. Shaking hard, he buried his face in her shoulder and let tears, boiling against his freezing skin, flow.

  “Adam?”

  A frantic voice just over his shoulder dried the tears at once. Sorrow was replaced with terror. The voice, abrupt and stark in the silence, was unmistakable.

  Elle.

  Adam pulled away and looked down at her lifeless body. It remained completely still. Dead. But then where—?

  He looked over his shoulder and inhaled sharply at what he saw.

  Chapter Two

  FOUR DAYS EARLIER

  The snow in Anster had slowed down in the past couple days, with only dingy little piles remaining on the sidewalks, but the air was still unseasonably wintry as Edie took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  As if stoked by the cold, magic thrummed through her body, rendering even the darkness behind her eyelids busy and anxious. She clenched her fists around her vibrating fingertips, shoved them in her pockets, and opened her eyes again to look at the unfamiliar street in front of her.

  Edie felt older, she realized. Much older than her twenty-three years. And though her powers were slowly but surely coming more naturally—and they had saved her more than once since her escape from Indriði’s dungeon—she felt powerless to stop whatever tragedies were yet to come.