by Lisa Daniels
“True,” she conceded. “We don’t need to sacrifice living people. Unless you’re the Maryland Master.”
Maryland Master. He snorted.
“Unless you’re planning to kill your servants and raise them as corpses, then no, you’re not a Maryland Master.”
“I hope not,” she replied. “Or I’m doing something wrong.”
“Gravely wrong,” he said, and when she burst into sudden laughter, he realized the pun he’d made. “Okay, I’ll give you that. You’re no servant killer.”
Her laughter died off, and she gave him a sad smile. “I only hope you’ll forgive me for what you might see.”
Now that her eyes were locked upon his, he saw the resemblance again. Maybe there were subtle differences. Morgana didn’t seem to feel a need to prove herself, or to flaunt her magic. But she was brave, like that little girl. She had that same set to her jaw, high cheekbones, but was a woman fully realized, rather than a promise of great beauty.
He swallowed thickly, and said to break the staring, “I’ll try my best. After all, for better or worse, we’re stuck here together now.”
Chapter Three – Morgana
“Password?” Yellow eyes gleamed at Morgana through a rusty metal slit. She thought she heard the sound of sharp fingernails scraping along the steel.
“Ectoplasm,” she said, and the slit shut, blocking her from the eyes. The sounds of bolts and chains being removed and unlocked filled her ears, until the door opened with a ghastly squeal.
“Come in.” The yellow-eyed man watched Morgana and Theon shuffle through, and took a long, admiring glance at Theon’s bulk. “I ain’t seen you before. Betting or fighting?”
“Fighting,” Morgana said with a grim smile, trying to appear confident, brazen, and careless all at once. She pointed at the backpack Theon wore. “My fighter’s in here.”
“Going for bonemeal? Those tend to be weaker than bodies,” the man said. “More effort to keep bones together.”
“I have my reasons,” she replied, and the man grunted.
“Dunno what part of the world you hail from, but you’re in for a bad time tonight. We got some of our best game on.”
“All the better for me to make an impact and earn my pay,” she said, before the man pointed her down the narrow, steep stairs, which seemed to her like an accident waiting to happen. She walked down slowly, furiously thinking over Rosen Grieves’ briefing. They’d spent considerable time and effort to secure the location of this place, brokering deals and slotting in a few bribes here and there. The main priority was Montgomery’s bones and possible spirit, but there was a possibility they might not be here, or if they were, not to be used in a fight tonight. Morgana would need to become a regular, and Beverly Heath’s spirit was willing to help her in the bout.
“Creepy place, isn’t it?” Theon remarked, his eyes scouring the mold peppering the ceiling, pungent odors wafting past his face as they walked through a haze of smoke that smelled suspiciously of marijuana. A roar of sound hit them, and there must have been dozens of people crammed into the space, maybe even several hundred. It resembled a large basement with a small fighting pit, about the size of a wrestling or boxing ring. There was a small booth where people were making bets, seats where people smoked, their heads lolling against the backrests and allowing the wisps to plume upwards from their mouths and joints. It was stuffy and uncomfortable, clearly lacking decent ventilation.
Two people were climbing into the deadring, both followed by the risen dead. Morgana watched in hawk-eyed interest, noting the state of the corpses beneath the spirit aura that buffed them out. Both seemed recently deceased. Clearly they preferred fresher meat. She’d read that the fighters had that firm belief that only fresh bodies would do: more cost-effective and a stronger connection between the body and spirit.
That, in her honest opinion, was absolute bullcrap. Clearly there weren’t enough necromancer schools for these people to attend. Theon stood by her side, observing the fight with her, ignoring the odd stares coming their way.
Corpse One was a man, and he seemed to be clutching a dagger in his hand. A jerk of surprise hit Morgana. They allowed weapons. Corpse Two was a bigger, strapping male specimen, who looked as though he had probably had a slight accident with a car hitting him, judging by the corpse’s ugly bruises along its front. The second corpse also held a dagger, though it was longer than the other man’s. So it didn’t seem like they bothered balancing the fight much. A referee from the sidelines announced the necromancer’s names as Turntable and Corpsesinger, and counted down the fight, and when the bell rang, both corpses lumbered toward one another. Not so many people were watching, so Morgana figured it to be fairly low profile. Not what people wanted to see.
Both bodies were jerky in their movements, and neither seemed to have any defensive capability or orders—they hacked, stabbed, and grappled, the daggers plunging into their dead flesh over and over. Neither body made a sound beyond the snarling and spitting of the spirits bound within them, and they did a rather clumsy pirouette before the second corpse managed to dump the other on the ground and pin it in place long enough to get a dozen or so stabs in. The owner of the first corpse was sweating, working overtime to heal the additional injuries of his spirit, until with a gasp, he slumped and dropped unconscious. A few raucous cheers filled the arena, and the second necromancer raised up his hands to bask in his victory—perhaps his first.
Corpsesinger seemed to win, but Morgana was not impressed with the skill level she’d seen. Neither was Beverly Heath, whom she felt tickle her brain with her presence. Heath was on the first level of the Other Side, very willing to help, not suffering from the classic corruption that tended to permeate so many old spirits.
“There’s just no elegance to it, is there?” Heath accused, close enough to Morgana’s side of the veil to be heard. Morgana smiled.
“I agree,” she said, which caused Theon to look at her in a puzzled manner. The poor bodyguard seemed so out of place in this area, though at the same time he definitely drew attention their way, so she saw his merit.
They headed over to the booth where everything seemed to be happening, with Theon helping to clear a path. Mean squints came their way, and the noise of banter, as if this were just a casual, normal night out, rather than something clandestine and illegal.
“Hundred dollars up front if you’re going to register as a fighter,” the man behind the counter said in a bored voice. There was a card machine, and Morgana reluctantly offered up her card for registration.
“Will I get a chance to fight tonight?”
“Against one of the other newbloods, yeah,” the man said, scratching at a whiskery nostril.
“What would it take to fight someone big?” she said, plastering a confident smile upon her face. “I want to make a name for myself. Cause a splash. How do I do that with fighting bugs like what we saw just now? They were like drunk teenagers.”
There were a few titters from the crowd, while others, perhaps finding the necromancer they liked insulted, cracked their knuckles and generally looked more intimidating than before. She felt Theon bump into her, and was reassured by his bulk, his expansive presence. She’d need to treat him to something later, just to take their minds out of this relentless darkness they were now exposed to. Though they might have a tough time of it, because these places liked to get their little hooks into someone’s soul and keep them pinned.
“You’re a cocky bitch, ain’t you,” the man said. “I don’t like cocky.” He fixed his eyes upon someone in the crowd. “Yo, Ragehand, you wanna take this slut down a pace or two?”
The person called Ragehand snorted. “I’ll get peanuts for it.”
“Or you just don’t want to lose against a slut,” Morgana replied, taking the insult and using it for her own benefit. “If you bet on me, you’ll get some easy cash.”
“The mouth of this one,” Ragehand said. “What you calling yourself then?”
Morgana h
ad discussed this with her sister and Theon. Something fairly dramatic for the likes of these people. Also something that was one name for easy talk. “Crimson.”
Ragehand snorted further. “Very original,” he said, looking at her hair. “Very boring. Alright, let’s thump you.” He made a show of flexing his muscles, though those weren’t the muscles that would be used in the match. Morgana caught a few anchor tattoos, and a hand enveloped in flames.
Like Ragehand was any better.
“Crimson,” the man behind the booth said, writing it down. A moment later, her name appeared under the Wildcard heading against Ragehand on the whiteboard strung up for all to see. “Wildcard match will start in an hour, or after the next three fights conclude.”
“Is it unarmed, weapons, or anything we can think of?” Morgana said. “I saw daggers being used in the last fight. The last deadring I was part of only had unarmed combat.”
The man regarded her a moment. “It’ll be hands only for a Wildcard match.”
Morgana and Theon shuffled away, seeing people stare at the new names added, and also witnessing a great deal of them laughing with Ragehand and the boothman.
“He can’t be the top dog in this place, can he?” Morgana whispered to Theon, once they found themselves a set of chairs not yet commandeered by anyone.
“He’s popular, if nothing else,” Theon answered. “But I don’t think he’s the top.”
“Be interesting to see what kind of spirit he’s using.”
“You can tell?”
“If I’m channeling, I can,” she said. “Trouble is, the spirit might not even match the body. They might just dump a foreign soul into one and have some dumb superstition about the strength of the body or bones.”
She huddled with Theon as the next match took place. This time, both were using just bones, and the pulsing auras of the spirits thickened enough to make the bones translucent beneath. This fight lasted much shorter than the former one. The bodies seemed more fluid, but the necromancers holding onto them seemed to collapse within a moment of the bodies taking damage.
“Why is that?” Theon asked. “Rosen claimed she could get several bodies walking if she wanted to. I heard you guys talking. Why do they collapse so fast?”
Morgana was chewing absently on her thumbnail as he spoke. “With multiples, you’re only giving simple Commands and then leaving them alone, really. You can let them fall if they take damage or let them heal up, though that takes more energy to keep repairing their damage if they have any wounds that would stop them from being able to move in their bodies. Here, they’re getting hacked up like paper. And the necromancer needs to heal them fast, rather than slow, because I’m guessing they can’t be on the floor for long before they’re out. So you have this speed healing going on, all this energy being poured into the spirit, giving it much more complicated instructions… no wonder they collapse. Look,” she said, pointing at one of the bodies that had just fallen, and watching a referee count down. “He’s trying to repair.”
The body upon the floor only managed to fix one of its arms before the referee announced the standing spirit as the winner. The losing necromancer let out a bitter snarl as his spirit finally reformed. It stood there dumbly as he clambered into the ring to punch the spirit a few times.
“Someone’s unhappy,” Theon remarked. “Not that doing something like that will hurt it.”
“The spirits hurt,” Morgana said quietly. “They just have a higher pain threshold.”
That seemed to sober the giant up. “This is torture for the spirits, then?” His voice was low, hostile in disbelief.
“It can be. Some, however, I’m sure, love the opportunity to fight. Take Beverly Heath, my one. She wants to help. She’s excited to do so. Some people want those old, mean, bitter ones, because they’re more vicious. I wanted someone like Beverly. Old, but still pure in many ways. Because that’s a sign of great spiritual strength. One that has weathered the storm for many years and yet has remained unbowed and unflinching.”
“Beverly,” he said, his voice now a rumble. “But you only have bones. Won’t you lose fast?”
Morgana smiled. “We’ll see.” She closed her eyes and slipped lightly to the Other Side, seeing Beverly standing there, distinct and far more solid than other souls she’d stumbled into.
“First fight in an hour,” she told Beverly, who formed her essence stronger, becoming the shape of a woman, small but toned, already beginning some thrusts with an imaginary sword. Her footwork was impeccable, her movements like water.
“I’ve been practicing long enough,” Beverly said with a grin on her ghostly lips. “It’s about time I can be of use.”
“Do you plan to move on soon, Beverly?” Morgana asked. “Although with everyone else I’m acting like I’m happy to have you, I’m honestly confused that you’re so intact. You must be close to two hundred years old.”
“Hmm.” Beverly stopped with her movements. She fixed Morgana with bright blue spirit eyes. “I told you. I made an oath. I do not rest until that oath is fulfilled.”
That made no sense to Morgana. “That’s what a revenant does. They swear an oath. Vengeance. Hatred toward the circumstances of their death. Who did you even swear an oath to, anyway?”
“I can’t remember.” Beverly Heath smiled, and there was something awfully compelling about this old soul. Compared to the noxious presence Morgana had felt when dealing with hostile souls—and she felt quite a few of them in the vicinity, all bound by their bodies and their necromancer masters—this one felt more… concentrated, somehow. Like a pool of crystal-clear water that could be seen down to its very depths, light and without secrets. The first time she had sensed Beverly’s spirit, it was on the first layer of the Other Side. The one with friendlier spirits, usually animal souls, and weak but easily malleable ones. Necromancers seeking fighting spirits naturally skipped those levels, going deeper to locate more hostile ones.
Yet here was this wayward fae soul, eager to help when Morgana approached her. Maybe it was just something to do with the way she was a Changeling. Changelings were human in appearance, but with enhanced everything else, and sooner or later found out about their original family connection. Morgana didn’t really know what went on with Changelings afterwards.
“I’ll figure you out, sooner or later,” Morgana said. Preferably by doing lots of research, since Beverly clearly didn’t know much about who she was either.
“Please do.” The spirit smiled, with a hint of mischief. “See you shortly.”
Morgana slipped out of the Other Side and found Theon supporting her, one big arm around her frame. “You fell,” he whispered when her eyes met his amber ones. “I got worried.”
“M’fine,” Morgana said, cheeks flushing from the sudden closeness of him. She felt a little dwarfed in Theon’s presence, but he wasn’t that much larger than her. Just… bulkier. He had a distinctive, woody scent to him that made her think of the dappled woodlands back in Ireland, of the sloping banks, the sycamores and oaks and pine trees that dominated the ecosystem. It made her think of fall and helicopter seeds, and she felt an inexplicable comfort in that moment.
Which was nice, given their whole location.
“Please warn me the next time you decide to go off and do your thing,” he accused. “So I know what to expect.” He gave her a small smile, and she imitated it.
“I’m sorry. I’m just used to doing this by myself.” Her attention became arrested by the black body bags strewn alongside one section, each with what seemed to be a label plastered on it. People stood guard over them, so she assumed she wouldn’t be able to have a look at the corpses, though she could spend longer dipping into the Other Side. However, she needed to save her energy. The Other Side was no guarantee that the spirit matched the original body, so she wanted to keep things low-key.
The next two matches in the deadring were a little more exciting. Both sets came from two full bodies, who spent time dodging each other’s moves
, circling like predators, with considerably more grace than the last ones, which were like stiff-limbed zombies attempting to murder one another. These had the fluidity of almost-human movement, benefiting from complex instructions that showcased the skill of the necromancers and the connection they shared with the spirits. All the spirits were borderline hostile and lacking that warmth and compassion which appeared in a stable soul.
Watching their performances made Morgana feel a little less confident. If Ragehand ended up having a similar sort of skill, she wasn’t sure just how exactly she might match up to him. After all, these people had probably had ages to train. Morgana had her official necromancy lessons, her strong bonds with spirits and Commands, but she was still unfamiliar with Beverly Heath. Just had a good feeling about her.
Theon wandered off to check how the bets were going between her and Ragehand, and to place a bet of his own. He came back with the depressing odds: forty to one. People might get a lot betting on her, but Ragehand was something like two to one. They were pretty confident he’d win, which pissed her off on a level.
“Do you actually think you can win?” Theon whispered, wary of all the prying eyes upon them, upon him and the backpack with the bones. “Or should you have had more practice?”
“I’ve had official training with my energy,” she replied. “More than what some of these people have. I should be fine. Unless he’s good at his Commands,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “I might be completely out of my depth. And then everything we’re trying to do… pointless. If I couldn’t even beat one of these stiff-bodied losers.”
Theon snorted softly, but didn’t contradict her point. With her match approaching, she sent a few prayers to whatever might be listening out there, and ventured into the deadring, telling herself that next time she came here, she’d have a mask, like some of the necromancers. Her nerves jumped inside like grasshoppers, and the sandwich she’d eaten earlier threatened to come right back up again.
