The Necromancer Page 2

  “So?”

  “So. It means I don’t know what this is yet.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

  “Oh? And how can you tell?”

  “You’re not the only one who can read auras, honey.”

  My cheeks flushed bright red. Aaron and I hadn’t spoken nearly as much as I would have liked us to—we were both busy a lot of the time—but that kiss we shared on the highway? Oh Gods. Fantasizing about Aaron’s return had become a nightly thing. Christian Grey can eat his baby-faced heart out. No amount of sex toys can measure up to the primal appeal of a man rocking rugged stubble and powerful shoulders you could sink your teeth into.

  “Yeah, well, why don’t you go read someone else’s aura?” I asked.

  “Maybe I will, but first you’re going to do something for me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He grinned. “When you see him, give him an extra kiss for me and tell him I say hi.”

  “Fuck you!” I said and I shoved him toward the pavement in protest, but I couldn’t hide the redness on my face or the sparkle in my eyes. What Frank didn’t quite catch was that the sparkle served to hide a quiet hole in my chest. Every day it grew wider as niggling insecurities gnawed at its edges like rats, and I had no way to stop them from feasting. Only Aaron coming back to me could save me from eventually imploding.

  And he wasn’t here.

  CHAPTER 2

  My walk home was a little odd. The fading blue of the sky was somehow richer and more vibrant than it should have been, despite the late hour. Eliza had just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. It seemed like no time at all had passed since she gave me the news that she was pregnant and, now that it was over, I felt like I was waking up from a dream.

  And what a perfect vista to wake up to. Never before had I seen a sunset quite as stunning. So, fearing that I never would again, I snapped a photo of the landscape as the western horizon stole the star’s circular shape millimeter by millimeter, and then took a deep breath of fresh, crisp air. Only the air carried an aftertaste I didn’t enjoy. Bitter. Like a shallow sip of beer where all you get is froth.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and circled around myself. I was in the suburbs about ten minutes from my home. Apricot Drive, this was. Mostly families with at least one or two kids lived here, white picket fence kind of folks that work in air conditioned offices and host dinner parties every weekend for their friends. The kind of people who buy a Mercedes Benz or a Lexus as well as an SUV simply because they don’t want their kids staining the expensive upholstery, and never you mind that stupid carbon footprint nonsense.

  Apricot Drive was a privileged neighborhood for the upper middle class. Well policed and maintained. All pretty gardens and trimmed hedges. Blue and brown and red doors, swing-sets on the front lawn, children running around with reckless abandon. But today, Apricot Drive was littered not with kids, but with dead birds.

  All around me I saw them scattered along the road, pavement, and gardens like candy fallen out of a broken piñata. The melodic rock music blaring in my ears would have made sure I hadn’t heard them hit the ground, but I also hadn’t seen them come down. Had they always been there? It didn’t matter, because now I could smell them. The poor things were twisted and dead and reeked of death, but it wasn’t their fault.

  I pulled the earbuds out of my ears and approached one of the birds, a blackbird. With a single finger to its chest I checked in vain for signs of life, but found none. Oddly, I couldn’t find any marks on the bird either. No signs of injury or electrocution. I glanced up at the sky in search of clouds or anything to suggest a drastic change in the atmosphere that could have caused this, but was met by an azure mantle of sky littered with twinkling stars.

  Poison, then?

  The thought didn’t sit well with me, but it was the only explanation I had. Someone killed all these birds. They didn’t just up and die of their own accord. And that meant that someone would be round to pick them up soon. Animal control, most likely. So I stood up, wiped my hand on my thigh and continued on my way home with a silent prayer for the little creatures echoing in the back of my mind.

  But first there was the matter of the front door to my house. In recent months, my house had become a hub for people and things that didn’t belong in my life; namely the entities and parties that showed up unbidden after having found me using mystical means—or, you know, a phone book. Every day I would come home to one nasty memory or another, and every day just as I passed Mrs. Lancaster’s freshly trimmed hedges—which were usually cut in geometric shapes, like triangles and squares—and onto the stone path leading up to the front porch of my house, I found myself slowing down and wondering.

  What may be waiting for me behind my front door?

  The thought had crossed my mind to move, or at the very least re-paint the front door. But this house was mine, thank you very much. And I didn’t want to go through the effort of painting or re-arranging anything. I had enough hard work keeping the bookstore the way I liked it, and I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my free time changing things around at home.

  So the door remained its dull brown with the golden ram—the only thing I did change myself—for a knocker, and I approached. Slow and steady, my pulse began to quicken. I reached into my bag for my keys and fumbled around until my fingers clasped the metal bunch. Then I stepped to within arm’s length of the door, slotted the key into the keyhole, and turned.

  Click.

  I turned the knob, pushed, and the door groaned open. Inside, my house was quiet. What faint light remained broke past my body and threw my tall, looming shadow over the front room; but that was the most foreign thing about the place. My heart relaxed. I closed the door, and dropped my guard.

  “I should move,” I said aloud.

  But I wouldn’t.

  Where would I go? How would I afford it? And why would I want to leave a house that my parents had already paid for anyway? So the house had a few uninvited guests at times—big deal. I’m a True Witch. If an enemy wanted to find me they would manage it even if I were living in some freakishly remote part of the world that even FedEx won’t deliver to.

  I could, at the very least, take myself off the phone book. Mental note.

  But that would be another day. I kicked my shoes off and let them fall near the front door, then crossed to the kitchen, turned the kettle on, prepared a cup of green tea, and headed into my bedroom with my phone in hand.

  A few swipes of a touch screen later and I was video calling Aaron, and my stomach was tingling. The nerves were unreal! I checked myself out on the screen and pulled stray strands of copper hair from out of my face, but nothing seemed to relieve the shaking. They were good shakes, though. Excited shakes. My body was literally buzzing with joy at the thought of seeing him and speaking to him, and all he had to do to give me my release was pick up.

  Pick up, pick up.

  Connecting.

  Moments, and Aaron’s face filled the screen. I beamed him a smile—the cuteness of which I could verify on the tiny window to the right of Aaron’s face—and he returned it. It was already dark where he was so all I could see were the highlights of his chiseled face; his nose, cheeks, lips and chin; but boy if that’s all I needed to get me going.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey to you. Where are you? It’s so dark.”

  “Sorry, I’m in the den. Hold on.”

  Aaron stretched—click—and a dim yellow light glowed into full luminescence. There he was! A blond/ brown stubble had encroached upon his entire jawline, his cheeks, and the upper reaches of his neck. The hair on his head was messy, but it wasn’t much longer than he usually kept it. And his eyes—Gods—they shined bright and blue even in the harsh light coming off the desk beside him.

  “That’s better,” I said.

  “I could say the same to you,” Aaron said, shuffling around to get a better camera angle on his face. “How are you?”


  “I’m great. I have news, actually. Eliza gave birth today. A girl.”

  “That’s awesome! Did they name her?”

  “Nah, not yet. At least not that I know.”

  “Were you waiting long?”

  “Just a couple of hours. Eliza’s baby is happy and healthy,” I beamed.

  “I’m happy to hear it.”

  He said happy, but he didn’t seem it. Was he tired? Had he only just woken up?

  “Are you alright?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Aaron said, “I’m sorry, I’m just a little beat.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s fine. My arms are sore, that’s all.”

  “I wish I could rub them for you.”

  Aaron smiled. “Me too. Soon, though.”

  Soon? My heart started shot from zero to sixty in less than three seconds. How soon was soon? Tomorrow? Next week? Today? “How soon?” I asked.

  “Ummm.”

  Umm? I didn’t like umm. That meant he didn’t know, which also meant that it wouldn’t be tomorrow. But my heart continued to beat hard and fast in my neck, holding on to the shred of hope that he may say tomorrow or already be at my door or something.

  “Less than a week’s time,” Aaron said, “I’m getting ready to move out today.”

  A week. Another week. I could accept another week, couldn’t I? It had already been a while, what was another week? My heart sank, and the sinking allowed it to slow back down to a regular pace. Save the fluttering and the racing for later. A week wasn’t long.

  Only that it was when you were expecting something.

  “A week,” I said, “Okay. I can do a week.”

  “Can you?” Aaron asked, shifting around so that his back was up against the backboard.

  “I… think so? I mean, it’ll be tough. It’s been tough.”

  “How tough?”

  My cheeks were starting to flush. Just what was he trying to accomplish here with that seductive grin of his? “Very,” I said. “How tough has it been for you?”

  “I can’t even begin to describe it… but I’ve been dreaming about that kiss we shared before you left.”

  Beaming again. “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I can’t wait to get to you.”

  I sighed. “Me either, Aaron. It feels like it’s been forever.”

  “It won’t be long now. Then you can catch me up on everything that’s been going on.”

  “And you can tell me more about… you… the new you.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.”

  “Show me? You can… do that?”

  Aaron flashed a grin. In the harsh light it was hard to make out a lot of his features, but I could swear I saw his teeth elongate in his mouth right in front of me. I swallowed hard as my heart began to race again and my body warmed.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Less than a week,” Aaron said, “I promise. I’m coming home to you.”

  I nodded and we disconnected, though I didn’t get to tell him that I missed him and would feel the absence of those words for the rest of the evening.

  Living without Aaron had been difficult, not only because of what I knew about him or because of the kiss we shared. But mostly because Raven’s Glen hadn’t felt safe ever since that first attempt on my life.

  I didn’t need Aaron to protect me. But for that brief moment when we held each other on the street at the edge of town I felt a glimmer of hope caress my cheek. For the first time since this whole thing started, I didn’t fear anything or anyone.

  What was one more week of fearing?

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time my alarm went off I was sitting up and watching the first hints of morning break through the shades in my room. So at nine in the morning I slipped out of bed, showered, changed into a long black dress—loose at the shoulders, long at the hem—and sat down at my kitchen table to eat a bowl of cereal and a small bunch of grapes.

  Dawn was still yawning over the trees by the time I left my place, which was unusual. The warm sunlight bouncing off the dew on the tops of cars and buildings made the world glisten around me like it was made of glass, but in the back of my mind I found the image of Lily—Damien’s sister—creeping in, muting the colors and sounds around me like clouds on a sunny day.

  Why her? Why now, after all this time, had she clawed her way out of the recesses of my mind to show me her face? She was cold and pale—much like a corpse—but her eyes were vibrant and exaggerated, alive with intelligence and passion. Was she trying to contact me from beyond the grave, or had I dreamt about her in the night and forgotten?

  I figured the latter, given that I had woken up far earlier than I normally would have this morning. Sleep had become easy in recent nights, or at least it had been before the end of Eliza’s third trimester peeked its head over the horizon. Fact is I was no stranger to nightmares, even the ones I couldn’t remember. The ones I could remember, though, were always the same:

  The sheriff’s knife through my abdomen.

  Aaron’s blood in the snow.

  The demon’s disgusting hands in my mouth.

  But of all the things that had happened to me, the demon’s intrusion into my body was the one that had left the biggest impression upon my psyche. I felt dirty for days after. Sullied and unclean. No ritual of cleansing or steaming hot shower could relieve me of what I was feeling. Of how I was feeling.

  In my recent dreams, the demon lingered at the corner of my perception. It laughed as the sheriff plunged his blade into my gut. Cackled as Aaron fell into the snow—lifeless—beside me. And chuckled as I walked away from the burning building believing I had defeated it. But of course, they were just dreams now.

  And dreams couldn’t hurt me.

  Houston Boulevard was still waking up as I walked through it. Men and women dressed in different variations of black and white uniforms, each belonging to a different café situated on the high street, were setting up chairs and tables on the promenade. They worked diligently to beat the morning rush, propping up boards with specials and menus written on them for walkers to see as they passed and wiping down every last available surface until they sparkled against the morning sun.

  For a tiny place, Raven’s Glen sure did have a large number of cafes and bistros one could enjoy a croissant and a coffee in. But my favorite haunt was Joe’s. His restaurant was tucked away behind Houston Boulevard, on Rosella—the street where my bookstore sat. But the location handicap wasn’t as bad as most other little shops in my area.

  With its freshly baked doughnuts and sugared churros in the morning, their inexpensive-yet-hefty lunch and dinner menus, and impeccable personal service, Joe’s place came plenty recommended. And since I had been a loyal customer even before the hype began, Joe gave me extra special care and attention whenever I came round. It was only a free latte in the mornings, but the gesture was enough to keep me coming back every lunch time.

  So I was pretty surprised when I tried the door to Joe’s and found it locked. A delicious, warm aroma strong enough to slip through even the metal front door wafted out into the street, but I couldn’t see anybody inside. What the heck?

  “Morning, Amber,” Joe said. I caught him crossing the road toward me.

  “Hey Joe,” I said, “You closed today?”

  “No, sorry, I just closed up for a minute. Just been down your street with the police.”

  “The police? What happened?”

  “There’s a whole bunch of dead birds down there. I called the Sheriff in to have a look.”

  Dead birds. I had almost forgotten about seeing them last night along Apricot Drive. Were they there this morning? I couldn’t remember.

  “Oh… wow,” I said.

  Joe fished his keys out of his pocket and went to unlock the door to his restaurant. “Yeah,” he said, “Sheriff doesn’t know anything about it. He’s just calling up animal control now.”

  “Alright, thanks,” I said, without m
uch thought. I had begun walking toward the crossing. Joe had tried to say something else to me, or maybe at me, but I had already crossed the road.

  Why I hadn’t paid attention on the way here? Were there dead birds on Apricot? I didn’t think so. I would have noticed. Wouldn’t I? There were so many there last night. But I also hadn’t checked the news out to see if it had been reported. I needed to start paying more attention.

  Then I saw it.

  The bird was tiny, no larger than the size of my hand, and completely stiff with rigor mortis. I stopped, knelt by it, and inspected its tiny body. Its plumes were a glossy dark blue and it had a white underside that was streaked with the same shiny blue. Its feathers seemed to shimmer depending on how you looked at it and its bill was so tiny and pointed I could have cried. The bird was beautiful, but it was also dead. And in death the colors on its body seemed somehow muted. The shimmer was fading fast and the white of its chest was turning into an ashen gray.

  The bird didn’t seem damaged or injured. It hadn’t flown into a wall or a lamp-post. It had just dropped from the sky, dead. So I picked it up and cupped it between my hands before continuing along the sidewalk toward the bookstore. I couldn’t see the sheriff’s car anywhere—maybe he had already left—but there were dead birds alright. Swallows, mostly, but many of them, scattered all over the sidewalk and the street. On top of cars and bins. It was like they had been shot out of a leaf blower in no particular order.

  It was ghoulish.

  I opened the bookstore, searched inside for an empty box—of which there were plenty in the back room—and went out into the street again to collect as many birds as I could. My heart broke for the little things. I hadn’t picked any of them up last night and I had no idea where they were now. For all I knew they had been tossed into a fire.

  These, however, I wanted to bury properly. In my garden. That was the right thing to do. It was the wiccan thing to do. From nature, to nature. So after I had picked enough of them up I took the box into the back room, stuffed the top with spare polystyrene foam and bubble paper, and sealed the whole thing up with duct tape. The back room was cold and dark. They would be fine in there until closing.