by Jana Oliver
“Like?”
“Some people call the circle into existence by invoking the names of the Archangels, others use football teams. It’s the intention that counts.”
Intention. “Ohhkay.”
“A necro’s power is strongest at night, so you have to reset the circle each sundown. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining or whatever.”
“What happens during the day?” she asked.
“The cemetery has volunteers who sit vigil during the daylight hours.”
“Ah, does that cost anything?” she asked. Money was more of an issue than ever before.
“The Guild pays for it. They don’t have enough funds to cover twenty-four/seven. They figure the family will be here at night.”
“Got it.” She puzzled for moment. “Why didn’t a necro come for Dad before he was buried?”
“From what I understand, if a necromancer summons the deceased before the first sundown, the spell doesn’t work right.”
“Oh. So, how does this all work?” she asked, growing more nervous by the minute. What if she screwed something up?
Simon looked down at the booklet and then pointed at a gallon plastic jug. “Run a line of Holy Water just inside the candles.”
Riley broke the seal, twisted off the cap, and dribbled the water as instructed. Hunched over like a gnome wasn’t a comfortable position, so by the time she’d made the entire circle her back was beginning to cramp.
“Now you do it again in the other direction.”
Riley groaned and did as he asked.
“These aren’t ordinary candles,” she said, studying one. The wick looked more like a coiled metal rope than twisted fiber. The candle was short, like a votive.
“No, they’re special. The cemetery has more of them if you want to expand the circle. They don’t charge for them, but they would appreciate a donation.”
He went back to the instructions. “Move the candles onto the circle of Holy Water. Make sure they’re the same distance apart.”
More bending. When she stopped to rest, Simon urged her on. The sun was almost gone.
“Perfect!” he said. “Now light every other candle, clockwise, while I recite the invocation. Once you’re done, light the remaining candles in the opposite direction. Don’t pause in between. And whatever you do, don’t say a word until I’ve completed the invocation.”
Riley sort of freaked, trying to remember all the instructions.
He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll do okay.”
“What are you going to say?”
“The Lord’s Prayer.”
She took a deep breath and began to light every other candle. Her hand kept shaking, the demon bite causing her fingers to cramp. The wicks flamed in a sudden burst, then settled into a clear white light. Behind her, Simon’s strong voice filled the night air, slowly intoning The Lord’s Prayer in English and Latin.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis,
Our Father, which art in heaven,
Santificetur nomen tuum …
Hallowed be Thy name …
He didn’t stumble over the Latin, but sounded like he was born to it. After she’d lit all the candles Riley went still, afraid of doing something stupid and ruining everything.
Simon raised his arms to the heavens. “By the blessing of God, His Only Son, and His holy angels, let all inside this sanctified circle be safe from harm. Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispered and then grimaced. She wasn’t supposed to talk. Had she messed it up?
To her relief, a brilliant flash of light leapt from candle to candle until the entire circle was blazing. The flames shot high in the air like torches, then sent fiery tendrils above her, creating a glowing sphere around them. She felt a strange tightness, and her ears popped. The sphere shimmered for a few seconds, then the flames sank to ground level, dimming to a soft ethereal glow.
“Wow! It’s like magic!” she exclaimed.
Simon shook his head. “It’s God’s love. That’s stronger than any magic. As long as it flashes like that you know you’ve set the circle. If it doesn’t, you redo the invocation.”
“How do I get outside the circle without breaking it?”
“Ah, good question,” Simon replied. “You walk up to the candles, clear your mind, and visualize yourself walking through the barrier without disturbing it.”
Huh? “But what if I kick over a candle?” she said.
“That would be bad. Here, I’ll show you.”
Simon rose, walked to the circle’s boundary, murmured something under his breath, and stepped over the candles.
“Okay. So how do you get back in?”
“You have to give me permission to enter.” Before she could ask how, he pointed at the booklet. “Page five, last paragraph.”
Riley found the passage and read, “If you mean no harm, then pass within.”
Simon stepped across the candles and returned to his place on the sleeping bag.
“And if you were a bad guy…”
“The circle would not let me in.”
“How does it know who’s a bad guy?”
He shrugged. “It’s a lot like a Holy Water ward. Evil things stay away.”
Sounds really iffy to me. But if Simon and Beck believe in this circle thing, there must be something to it.
“What if I accidentally break it?”
“Then you start all over, right after you set the candles. Oh, and every night you have to move the candles away from the original circle of Holy Water. Most folks make it a bit smaller.”
So many things to remember. “What if it rains?” she quizzed.
“Rain won’t break the circle, neither will wind, for that matter, though you will feel it. What’s important is that the circle remains intact and that you state its purpose clearly.” He sat on the sleeping bag, popping his knuckles one by one, clearly pleased with himself. “Now we wait until sunrise.”
“That was a lot more work than I realized,” she said, plopping down next to him. This would have been way hard if he hadn’t been here.
“Once you’ve done it a few times it’s no big deal. It’s harder when you’re on your own.”
She looked over at him. “How did you learn all this?”
“I come from a big family. Someone’s always dying, so my uncle taught me how to do the invocation. He’s a priest.”
A big family. What would that be like? There’d only been her. Her mom had always joked that after you achieved perfection, why try again? Riley had always figured there was something more to it.
“I’m an only,” she said, then grimaced. He knew that.
Simon didn’t act like she’d said something stupid. “I wanted to be sometimes. I have four sisters and three brothers.”
“What’s it like with that many bodies in one house?”
“Like living in a beehive. We had a schedule posted on the two bathrooms. My sisters were the worst.”
Riley chuckled, wondering if that was true. His hair looked too good for a quick shampoo and blow-dry. She rearranged her coat so it would cover her legs. Luckily there was no wind. Or rain. Wouldn’t hurt the candles but it would be way ugly for the person stuck in the circle. In the distance a pale haze hung over the city. She could see the skyscrapers in downtown Atlanta, at least the few still lit at night. The high-pitched whine of the MARTA train heading east echoed around them.
She waited for Simon to say something. He just stared out into nothingness. It was going to be long night if he wasn’t going to talk.
“How old are you?” she asked, desperate to avoid the silence.
“Just turned twenty. You?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re a little younger than my sister Amy. She got married last summer.” He paused and gave her a quizzical look. “So what are you going to do now that you’re on your own?”
On my own. “Don’t know. There’s only my mom’s sister left. She lives in Fargo.”
“You
could continue your apprenticeship there.”
“She wouldn’t go for that. She blames my dad for Mom’s death, like he personally planted the cancer in her or something. Nasty woman. I can’t live with her. No way.”
“Then who will you stay with?” Simon prodded.
“I don’t know. There is no one else.”
“Well, I’m sure Beck will help as best he can.”
There was the sound of footsteps. The man approaching them was as short as he was wide. His trench coat almost reached the ground, and he wore a fedora.
“Is he a necro?” Riley whispered.
“I’d say it’s a good bet,” Simon replied. “Be on your guard. They can be tricky.”
The man stopped just outside the circle of candles and tipped his hat.
“Good evening to you,” he said.
“Good evening,” Simon replied. He was polite to everyone, even someone who sold corpses for a living.
“My name is Mortimer Alexander and I am a licensed summoner,” the newcomer announced proudly.
“Darn. I’d hoped you were the pizza delivery guy,” Riley quipped.
A skiff of a smile crossed the man’s face. “No such luck.” He sobered instantly. “First, I wish to offer my sincere condolences for your recent loss.”
“Ah, thanks.”
“However, now is the time to be practical. Your loved one resides in a better place,” the necromancer continued, vaguely waving toward the sky. “His earthly shell, however, can be put to use for a better society.” He dug in his pocket and consulted a piece of paper. “I see that Mr. Blackthorne would occasionally donate to charity. Perhaps we can reach an arrangement where I will contribute a sum in his name and in trade he will act as a paid domestic for a specified period of time.”
“Ah, well,” Riley began. Why had she been warned against these guys? This one sounded so reasonable. Her dad was always for the underdog. Wouldn’t he want to help out even now?
“Riley?” When she didn’t respond, Simon joggled her elbow. Then he shook it. “Riley!”
“What?” she snapped.
“He’s using persuasion magic. They’ll do anything to get to your father.”
“Got it,” she said. Simon relaxed and his hand retreated. She wished he’d left it there.
The necro shuffled papers. “I understand your sacrifice and am prepared to make monthly payments into an account to cover the … inconvenience of having your loved one exhumed. At the end of a year, we agree to inhume him in a dignified ceremony and pay all expenses required to do so.”
Riley remembered the Deader on the street toting packages for the rich lady. What if that had been her dad? She shuddered.
“No way,” she said, crossing her hands over her chest in defiance.
“Ah, I see that you have some reservations,” the necromancer continued. “That is expected. It is a big step and—”
“Not happening. Now go away.”
“Please,” Simon added. She wondered if he was that nice to the demons when he trapped them.
Mortimer looked crestfallen. “I understand. You should be aware that I’m the most ethical of the summoners you’ll meet before the full moon. It earns me no end of grief from the others, but I feel honesty is important.” He placed a business card at the edge of the burning circle. “In case you wish to contact me.”
“Not likely,” Riley replied.
“I understand. Thank you for your time. Again, my sincere condolences.”
Then he was gone, walking slowly up the path while consulting his pile of papers. When he passed the cemetery office, he cut west toward the parking lot.
Riley sighed in relief. “Well, that’s over.”
Simon shook his head. “Like he said, he’s the first of many.”
“Why?” she asked, surprised.
“Rich folks like to collect unique things. In this case, it’d be a famous master trapper as their servant. No one else would have one, so that would make him very special.”
Damn. “No wonder people have the corpses cut up.”
Simon shot her a horrified look. “No! What you did was right. Mutilation is unholy,” he retorted, then appeared chagrined at his outburst. “Sorry, it’s a hot button for me.”
“Really?” she jested.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “At least you’ve only got twelve more nights of this.”
Riley rolled her eyes at the thought. Twelve loooong nights filled with lying necromancers, a cold butt, and no sleep.
Thanks a bunch, Dad.
ELEVEN
“Whatcha want?” the bartender asked, his tattooed bicep announcing to the world he was “One of The Few. The Proud.”
A Marine. Beck had never really liked the Semper Fi crowd, but at least he knew how they’d act.
“Shiner Bock,” he replied. “Start a tab.”
“Need to see some ID.”
Beck frowned. “I’m legal.”
“Don’t doubt it, but it’s the law now,” the man replied. “Gotta card everyone, even if they come in here using a goddamn walker.”
Beck fished out his driver’s license and tossed it to the bartender. The guy gave it a quick look and handed it back. “You look older. I’d have figured you for thirty.”
“Ya can blame the Army for that.”
“Where’d you serve?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Shit,” the man replied, grinning now. “No charge for the first beer. I was over there, too.”
The bartender placed a bottle of Shiner Bock on the bar. He reached for a glass, then changed his mind.
“Good call,” Beck muttered. He raised the beer in the air. “To those who didn’t make it home.” He took a swig and then raised the bottle again. “And to Paul Blackthorne. Rest in peace.” Then he downed half of it in one long gulp to ease the ache.
“That the guy who died down in Five Points?” the bartender asked.
“Yeah. He was good people.” Good people always die sooner than the assholes.
“You a trapper?” the man asked, eyeing him.
No reason to deny it. “Yeah.”
“I don’t hold much with trappers.”
“I’m not fond of jarheads, so we’re even,” Beck replied.
The bartender snorted. He picked up a glass of Scotch from the back bar and raised it high. “To those who made it home.”
“Amen,” Beck said, raising the bottle again, then downed the rest.
“No trouble, you hear?”
“None planned. Just wanna get drunk, maybe get laid. In that order.”
“Sounds good,” the bartender replied. “You want another?”
“Hell, yes.”
This was his second bar. Beck had started the evening at the Six Feet Under Pub & Fish House, the trappers’ favorite watering hole. He’d stayed there for a couple of drinks to honor Paul, as was custom, then decided he didn’t want be there anymore. Didn’t want to be around if anyone accused him of not doing right by his friend. Not that any of them had. They all knew better, but that didn’t mean they weren’t thinking it. He was, so why wouldn’t they be doing the same?
This bar wasn’t one of his usual haunts but they had his favorite beer. By the time he was on his sixth bottle, there were two voices competing for his attention: Paul’s was nagging about how he should be working, not drinking. How he had responsibilities now, at least when it came to Riley.
Responsibility wasn’t as strong a message as the anorexic redhead sitting next him, talking dirty. Real dirty. It was firing him up, and that he didn’t mind. It kept him from thinking about anything that hurt deep down.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. Take me to your place,” she urged, moving her hand a bit closer to where it counted. Her hair was a mix of brassy colors, and her eyes glassy from too much booze. Not that he cared.
Beck’s Rule Number One: he didn’t take any girl to his place. At least not one like this. If she was real fussy, they’d get a room at one of
the cheap hotels. If not, his truck did just fine.
“So what’s yer name?” he asked, feeling he should know something about her before he screwed her.
“Does it matter?” she said, laughing.
“Yeah.” Sorta.
“ Jamie.”
“Whatcha do for a livin’?”
“Nothing much.” She grinned as if that wasn’t a big deal. “I meet nice guys who buy me drinks.”
“And…”
“Then we go somewhere and fuck.”
Beck’s hackles rose. “Ya put out for drinks,” he said flatly.
She giggled. “Don’t we all?”
It was the wrong answer. This could have been Sadie a couple of decades earlier, working some guy for drinks and a night in the sack. Beck had been the product of one of those nights. No way he could go with this one now, not without conjuring up a lot of really bad shit.
He lurched off the bar stool, eager to be away from her. Too many memories were floating through his head, the kind that made him want to hit something or someone.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, tugging on his arm. It was the injured one, and the pain cleared his mind.
“The damned whole thing,” he growled. He threw money on the bar to cover their tab and headed for the door. The girl called out to him but he ignored her. As he reached the exit, he turned, hoping she wasn’t following him.
It wasn’t a problem. She was already pawing another guy, one who didn’t look like he was going to say no.
* * *
On a scale of one to ten Beck knew he was about a seven when it came to being drunk. Decent buzz, but not too loaded. He’d learned how to handle the booze in the Army. You wanted to be intoxicated enough to feel good, but not too trashed to show up for roll call.
Except right now the feel-good thing wasn’t working out so well, not with that flashback to the bitch everyone else called his mother. He slammed the truck door and turned the key. The radio blared. He turned it off. A moment before he put the truck in gear he spied an Atlanta cop sitting at the corner in his patrol car, scoping the street.
“Shit.” He didn’t dare drive, not in his condition. The pigs came down hard on drunk driving: It was a lucrative bust, what with that new law. Not only did they toss you in jail but they took your vehicle and sold it to pay the towing and court costs. A thousand-dollar fine and a five-thousand-dollar truck? Somehow the bankrupt city never bothered to pay you the difference.
