Necromancy is a rare talent.
Before The Rising, only a few Necromancers were born each generation and most never realized their powers. With violence on the rise, that was bound to change though. When the third world war sprang into being, the Earth was quickly colored by death. Blood soaked into the ground like crimson tendrils, reaching down to the core of the world and igniting. Unseen fireworks heralded the coming of a new era.
Every casualty of war equaled power, a type of power that called to a singular type of person.
A person like me.
So much death magic going unused… it caused an awakening. The deeply buried genetic coding for the necromancer sprung to reality in person after person. And the new necromancers didn’t understand their power. They didn’t have control. Blood and death magic called to bone and rotting flesh.
The dead began to rise. Hundreds at first. Then thousands.
Thousands of reanimated corpses without true masters to keep them from turning into the nightmare monsters that crave flesh.
It didn’t take long for the world to realize what was happening.
For them to discover a solution to the problem.
The war ended. Countries united under the banner of a singular, focused purpose. Kill the necromancers. End the plague of undead.
My kind was hunted, slaughtered.
Slaughtered.
The humans now impose a test at birth to determine if a child carries the gene. And if they do, God help them. My parents were careful. I was born in a clinic beneath Columbia, in the seedy underbelly of the city where ‘doctors’ were less than reputable and you can get legal papers for the right price. I’ve never been tested. Never ended up in the hospital where my blood might be scrutinized. I’ve been lucky.
The Preternatural Prevention Agency was established after the war ended, after the necromancy threat was quelled. Only a short time ago, President McKay put a bill before the reestablished Congress to dismantle the agency, saying the threat was eradicated and the country needed to move forward, use the funds for continued rebuilding.
The bill had been shot down by a unanimous vote. The fear was still so strong.
I know that we caused The Rising, that the people the zombies killed… those deaths lie upon our shoulders, but to kill children, children who have merely the potential to become what I am… it is wrong. That is the great abomination. Not me. Not us.
Necromancy is a rare talent.
Because those who carry the gift are always killed.
Except for me. I’ll survive, by hiding the truth of what I am from the world. I don’t always do a good job of it—staying out of the line of fire—because I can’t turn my back on my power completely. I even help the police sometimes, pointing them in the right direction. They think I’m just a ‘sensitive’, the kind of person who sees ‘things’ now and again. A psychic—God, fake mediums still make crazy money, what with people being obsessed with death and the afterlife. But I’m not accepted? My kind is the plague of the world? It’s funny how humans can tolerate a modicum of unusualness, but they persecute the truly different. I’m not sure all the cops of Bonneau like me of course, but I know at least one does—and having one person I can show a sliver of my true self to is a relief.
Still though, it’s stupid to take the risk. And, yet, I keep taking it.
Running a funeral parlor in a small southern town might seem like an awful way to stay hidden too, but it’s worked so far. And I pray every damn day that my luck holds.
Bonneau, South Carolina in Berkley County was just a small town—farmland and houses with folks going about their daily, rural lives—before the third war and The Rising. Now, it’s much the same, but… also changed. It’s different in a way that’s not easily explained. If you pay attention closely though, you can see the small alterations, like one of those puzzles where you’re challenged to ‘spot the differences’ between two seemingly identical pictures.
Like the graveyard.
It looks the same until you lean in close and see that there is no grass growing above the graves now. Some opt for artificial turf, but most let the gray hard surface beyond the tombstone be exposed. It gives them peace, to know that their loved ones will never rise through the chains and poured concrete.
And prejudice and fear still exist, which amazes me. How can a world go through such a damning War and not be changed for the better? But that’s the cloth of it. Prejudice and fear will always live on, like a cockroach at the end of the world. The focus of it will only change.
Blacks versus whites.
Heterosexual versus homosexual.
Human versus necromancer.
The weather is always shitty in Bonneau now. The clouds came one day and they stayed. It’s like The Rising left a permanent haze over the world. And it’s worse here, in my little town. There’s more spiritual activity than most places. Too many shadowed secrets. Too many bodies. Sometimes it feels like the very epicenter of gloom looms over my head.
People here are still unkind and kind, whichever strikes their fancies. The population of Bonneau is a bit larger than before the last war, thanks to the bomb that was dropped on Charleston necessitating relocations during the rebuild. Many returned to their original homes once things were back in order, but some stayed.
There are new businesses and old businesses. Family names that have been here since before the first war and others that are still considered outsiders. The Cages settled here not long after the second war ended. We are neither original to the land nor so new that people do not accept us.
I say us. But I am the last, as far as I know. The final person of my name to carry on this legacy of death and decay.
Death will always embrace me like a lover. That is a truth that will also never change.
My name is Victoria Cage. Mortician. Funeral Director. Lonely, overweight girl. Necromancer. Whatever the hell you want to label me as.
Isn’t life grand?
Chapter One.
My arms are crossed over my chest and my hands grip my upper arms tightly. If I hold myself firmly enough, maybe I’ll be safe. Maybe.
I look through the glass of the window in front of me. It’s dirty, desperately in need of cleaning, but wiping away the grime will not brighten the day outside.
The expanse of Lake Moultrie can be seen from the second floor of the large Victorian that houses both my business and my apartment. My mind reaches out to it and I find it clear and without a voice. That’s why I love it so. It’s not the body of water that eats at my mind and plagues my soul with its constant calling. About twelve miles away is Little Hellhole Bay. A dumping ground of refuse and murder.
It’s a pillar of human immorality, murder sunken within the boggy water. Sometimes, at night, I can hear the mournful screaming of the long-deceased. It’s things like that, reeking of disposed bodies and trapped souls, which make it hard for me to hide my power.
Of course, I also literally see dead people for a living. That was never going to do me any favors in the ‘keep my powers secret’ department.
Sighing, I turn away from the waters beyond the window. I head towards my kitchen and the coffee pot still sputtering out dark, hot liquid. Coffee always makes things better.
But there’s someone blocking my path. She is small, her eyes wide and pleading. We stand regarding one another for what feels an eternity. The space between us is a cavernous wasteland. Finally, when I can stand her staring no longer, I nod and a single tear runs a path down her see-through cheek.
There is nothing so heartbreaking as a ghost crying.
My phone is on the passenger seat as I pull away from the house. I debate calling Terrance and letting him know where I’m going. He doesn’t like it when I do things without his knowledge. I’m a ‘civvy’ and I don’t carry a gun, legal or otherwise. Terrance has also been at me to take self-defense courses. So far, I’ve succeeded in putting him off, even though I know he’s right.
I need to lear
n to fight. I can only protect myself so much with the knives I carry into these sorts of situations. They’re sharp, but despite me being intimately familiar with human anatomy, it would likely be luck that kept me alive, not the blade.
I can’t blame Terrance for being concerned. God, the man had taken a bullet for me because I’d gotten too deep in the shit to get myself out. A lot of people question why the Bonneau Chief of Police tolerates my meddling with cases. He doesn’t anymore though. I’ve given him too many good leads. We’ve saved people together. And he’s okay with… not being too curious as to how I know things. I worry that will change some day. Of course it will change some day.
I just hope that day is a long way off.
It’s a slow drive to my destination. I take my time, wondering what words to use. It doesn’t really matter how I ask the questions though. Nothing will bring the little girl back to life.
She’s not in the car with me, yet I can feel her.
A small reminder against my skin of how fleeting life can be.
***
“Vodka on the rocks.” My words sound like something out of an old black and white gangster movie. I sound ridiculous; at least I believe I do. I’m not the kind of girl that can pull off the tough act, despite the little knife strapped to my forearm that peeks out each time my blouse sleeve sneaks away from my wrist. It’s nothing fancy, but the right weapon doesn’t have to be fancy.
It just has to be effective.
I push a wad of bills across the stained mahogany of the bar countertop towards Jim, the owner of the establishment I’m sat in. He doesn’t pick it up. He never picks up the money immediately.
When he does take the money, I begin nervously thrumming my fingers against the once-dark surface of the counter. There are so many water rings on the wood from sweating glasses that I’ve lost count each time I’ve tried to number them. It’s a Monday afternoon. Late afternoon, with wisps of early evening starting to color the day. The room around me is pretty much filled with the types of people you’d expect to be drinking their troubles away in the middle of a day.
I’m always out of sorts when I’m here. The bar sets me on edge. No, not the bar… it’s the people. They’re unsavory. I can smell rot and decay seeping through their pores, like the finality of death is only a heart’s beat away. Most of them have nicotine-damaged lungs and livers about to give up the ghost.
Pun intended.
“Just took a delivery of lemons. If you’d come in an hour ago, you’d be shit outta luck.” Jim knows how I like vodka, even though I don’t order it very often. Lemon twist at the bottom of the glass, ice on top. Liquor last. The portly man with the scraggly white beard and too-intelligent brown eyes moves deftly behind the counter, pouring me my usual. “Crappy day?” Jim puts the glass in front of me, pocketing the crumpled money instead of putting it in his cash register. He quirks an eyebrow, noticing that what I’ve laid down is too much for one glass of vodka. He thinks I want information. He’s right.
My shoulders tense as I feel a slight chill race across my neck. I’ve pulled my hair over one shoulder, leaving my back exposed where the thin sweater doesn’t cover. I don’t say anything. I don’t turn around.
Yet I know she’s there. Moving within the shadows between the pendant lights hung above the booths and pool tables.
“Yeah. Crappy day.” I answer him, my voice pitched low, and I press the glass to my mouth. It’s cold, like frozen peas on a busted lip. “I need to know if you’ve heard anything about a Donald Mayer.” I drink deeply now, letting the liquid burn a path down my throat. Despite the cooling effect of the ice, the drink is hot enough that I think it might scorch my stomach. I don’t really go for alcohol often, but you don’t go sit in a bar and order water. You just don’t.
Jim doesn’t say anything at first, but the skin tightens around his eyes in a way that makes me know that he’s got something to say, and it’s not something I’m going to like. “I’ve heard of him.”
I wait, patiently. And that says a lot about my relationship with Jim. I’m not a patient person, not unless I have to be.
“He done something bad?” Jim swipes at a damp glass with a white towel.
“Bad isn’t the word I’d use.” I take another drink, feeling the fire from the first sip wearing off. I find that I’m actually craving the alcohol today. Not the taste, but the life-affirming fire it sends racing through me. A soft whimper sounds in my head. She’s crying again.
God, I hate it when they cry.
I swallow and start talking once more. “The police think he’s leading a child trafficking ring in the area. Five girls have gone missing and all of them had social media contact with catfish accounts that lead straight back to good ole’ Donny boy. Only one girl’s been recovered.” Again, I want to sound tough, ‘bad guys will run’ tough; my voice is cracking too much for that though.
“Recovered alive?” Jim’s face lights with hope and it crumples as I reply with a shake of my head. “The police don’t come to you, Tori. You go to them. That means you’ve already got some pretty stiff info on him.” He glances away from me, to a man huddled around a nearly-empty glass.
“Yeah. I’ve heard some things, given them a few clues that point his way.”
“Shit.” He walks away, taking a glass away from a patron on the other side of the bar that looks like he’s seen better days. Jim’s voice is low when he speaks to the man, but I can hear him just fine. “I’ve got to cut you off, Samuel. Go home to your wife and kids. Whatever’s eating you can’t be that bad.”
“You don’t know that, Jim. Sarah will never forgive me.” God, the man’s voice is so broken.
But he’s alive. The living have no right to sound like that, not when they are still breathing and can still dream about the future.
Jim reaches over and pats the man on the shoulder. “You’ll be surprised by what a wife can forgive, if you really want the forgiveness.” It’s deep and real, his advice to the man, and it surprises me. Jim lives the bachelor life now, but he’s been divorced three times- not exactly a testament to a successfully married man who can give good marital advice.
The man named Samuel swipes at his eye with the sleeve of the disheveled business suit he wears. He nods and gets up. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Jim smiles as the man reaches into his pocket to pull out some money. “On the house tonight, Sam. Go home. Cab will be out front in a bit.”
Tears are free-falling down the man’s face now, rain cleaning off whatever burden he carried. “Thanks again.”
Jim watches the man leave and then picks up a set of car keys that have been left behind. He turns to the back of the bar and hangs them on a little rack. A sign is above it: “Too drunk to drive? I’ll call you a ride.”
I don’t ask Jim about the exchange when he comes back to me after calling the man a taxi. It’s little things like that—his real concern for the people that come into his bar—that makes me trust him, despite the time he’d once served in jail and the way he advertised his establishment as a ‘safe’ zone for less-than-legal activity. He didn’t condone the big stuff though, the stuff that put kids in danger or left elderly folks dead after a burglary-gone-wrong. Even lawbreakers have a code about how far they’ll cross the line.
“Don’s a petty criminal, Tori. This doesn’t sound like him.” He rubs a hand roughly across his face before leaning against the counter. “Look, you know I don’t mind talking to ya, ‘cause you’re not like one of the blue boys. You ain’t a cop. But, shit, girl, it’s not escaped my notice that half the guys you come in here questioning me about end up laid out on a table in your basement.”
My fingers play with a half a peanut shell that’s sat lonely near a well-used coaster. The coaster’s got the old bar logo on it, from before Jim bought it. He’s too cheap to buy new ones.
“That’s true.” It’s all I say. We’ve been down this road before, but eventually he’ll tell me what he knows. This time, little girls a
re involved. He won’t want that kind of blood on his hands, even if he has killed in the past for whatever reason. I can always smell the taint on people—that fresh-turned earth, covering a deposit of decomposing food, scent. But, I also feel the goodness in him, the thing that makes me trust him.
“Little girls have gone missing, huh?” Jim’s voice sounds a little broken.
I nod.
“Dammit.” He hits his fists against the countertop. It’s loud enough to startle the two other patrons still in the bar. Despite it being many hours before closing time, they both take that as their queues to stand up and place money on the bar before walking out swiftly. Jim’s has a reputation for fights, no matter the time of day. He breaks the brawls up quickly with a shotgun mounted under the bar though.
“So what can you tell me? I’ll only pass along the information that’s helpful. If I can be sure it’s not him doing it, I’ll do my best to point them in the right direction.” I move my drink a little, listening to the tinkle of ice against the glass walls.
“Don didn’t used to be a regular, but lately he can’t get enough of the place. He meets some friends here and there, has a drink, then pays and leaves. Been going on for more than three weeks now, was even in here yesterday.” Jim’s gazing over my shoulder, a faraway look. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he’s thinking he’s facilitated kidnappings and the death of a little girl. “Some money’s usually exchanged. Always looks like a fair amount.”
“But he hasn’t been in today?” I finish my glass of vodka and place my hand over the top of the glass before Jim can try to refill it. “You know I can’t handle my liquor. Should have gone for the rum and coke today rather than the real stuff.” When I order a rum and coke, Jim leaves out the rum.
“I know you can’t, little miss drunk off a teaspoon of tequila.” Jim gives me a lopsided grin. He can be an ass. An ass I care about, but still an ass. His smile fades though when he confirms that Don hasn’t come into the bar today. “Yeah, he’s not been here today. I just don’t believe he could have done it though, Tori. He’s not at that level. Believe me; I’ve seen the ones that have it in them to hurt kids.” His hands are resting against the countertop. They’re balled into tight fists, his knuckles going ashy in protest.
Red Eye | Season 1 | Episode 1 Page 10
