by Richard Amos
—because a body didn’t talk, not even with necro power.
What. The. Fuck.
“Did you just—”
“Help…”
Necros could use dead bodies as weapons, to do things for them, but not for making conversation. Couldn’t even project their own voices through the dead mouths.
“Help…” He came a step closer.
I pointed my spear at him. “Don’t fucking move!”
My phone. I needed to—
“Help…” The man fell onto his knees, bone cracking on the clear steps of my stoop. He didn’t give one bit of reaction to the impact. “Help…”
He stayed like that, staring up at me with dead eyes.
Yes. He was dead. There was no question about it.
“Jake?” Luuk was on his doorstep. “What’s going on?”
“Do you mind popping into mine and asking Soph to come out?” I called back, needing help and not wanting to move or shout to frighten Lou. Plus, I didn’t want her left alone.
“Sure.”
We had a back route that linked our gardens—handy for emergencies and not having to use the front if need be.
Soph appeared by my side moments later.
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Just wanted to check.”
“Help…” The man seemed more than happy on his knees. He was dead, so what would he care anyway? There was nothing inside him to give an emotional response about where his knees were. He could be on fire and he’d not notice.
He was an empty shell.
An empty shell with a voice.
Shit.
“Is there a spell you can do to check for nerco magic?”
“There is,” Soph answered. She mumbled magical words I’d never understand, being of the non-witchy persuasion, and blue energy flashed.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
The man’s skin went from dead gray to blue, back to gray.
“Help…” he said again.
Soph was thrown backwards in a sudden jolt through the partially open front door, crash-landing in my hallway.
“Shit!” I yelled, charging after her.
I slammed the door behind me. Fuck the corpse for now.
She was on her back, still consciousness, green eyes blinking up at me. “My head.”
I checked her as Luuk came bounding into the hallway, Lou on his heels.
“Sophie!” my daughter cried.
“No damage on the outside,” I said as Luuk helped her sit up. “What happened.”
Luuk’s hands were all over her, checking every inch, his pale green eyes loaded with love and concern and panic.
Lou ran at me, and I pulled her up into my arms, resting her on my hip. “We should get you to hospital, Soph.”
The witch shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“I’d rather you saw a doctor,” her husband responded.
“No, I’m—”
“Outvoted,” I said. “You need to go get checked out.”
Luuk nodded. “But what happened?”
“So much power,” she whispered. “Necromancy…like I’ve never experienced before.”
Ugh. “I was afraid you were gonna that.”
“Help…” the voice of the man came through the door. Another bang—the wards repelling him again.
“I guess I’m calling Deathwell. Get to the hospital. I’ve got this.”
“We can’t leave you,” she protested.
“Seriously, go. We’ll fall out if you don’t get checked out. I know it’s a pain to travel, but please.”
“Come on, Sophie,” her husband told her softly. “I’m worried about your head.”
“I do feel dizzy.”
I got her tangled up in this. Ah, here came some guilt. Hello, old friend. Nice to see you again. Not!
“Go,” I insisted. “Please.”
She gave in, Luuk whisking her away.
I had some necros to call.
MR. Z. NO OTHER NAME. That was it.
He wore a black turtleneck jumper, black leather trousers so tight there couldn’t be any blood reaching anything in there, shiny black shoes, and a black beret. His face was painted white, his lips rouged for the gods, and he smelled of roses.
Mr. Z.
The head of Deathwell, Amsterdam. He didn’t talk, didn’t shake hands, just let his assistant, Marie, do all the talking for him. She was a red-faced French woman, also dressed in black, cropped brown her slicked back, looking really harassed and desperate to not let it show.
Pretentious arsehole bosses would do that!
He’d write everything down on a notepad and then hand it to Marie. Even something as simple as hello!
Ugh.
We were standing outside, the dead man still on his knees, still pleading for my help. There were other necromancers, all in black, forming a half-circle around their master.
The skinny necro had just handed another piece of paper to his assistant.
Marie read from it straight away. “Mr. Z says there is great power here.”
Duh!
“An untrained skill,” she continued. “Whoever this necromancer is, they must be found.”
That was it? Stating the obvious much?
Mr. Z took the notepad and wrote some more.
For fuck’s sake! “What sort of power would he or she need to be able to do this?”
No one said anything until Mr. Z had finished writing.
This was getting on my tits! “This person isn’t in the area, we can’t see their magic, and this dead man can speak. What’s happening? Have you heard of this before?”
The necro boss handed over the paper.
I wondered how a round of having his stupid face repeatedly dunked in the snow would go down.
Lou was inside, under a blanket, watching her favourite Jupiter documentary. With Soph and Luuk gone, I had no choice to but leave her alone. I kept telling myself she was only a few feet away, that she was safe.
She was fine in herself, content, knowing I was only outside talking to some people for work. I did think she knew better than that, because this was her life. And the fact she promised not to go to the window. There was no curiosity there. She knew bad things didn’t need her eyes.
I wanted to tell all of them to take this dead man and fuck off. I kept coming close to it, but also kept biting my tongue
Shame. Would love to rattle Mr. Fucking Z!
Marie cleared her throat, her boss shooting her a disgusted glance. She shrank under his evil glare, going redder than she already was, then straightened herself up. “Mr. Z says an investigation will be conducted, and that this has happened before. There are necromancers in the world who bring voice to bodies, but they are normally only released into the open under extreme circumstances, and after years of training to suppress the power. It is a problematic skill that has no value.”
She handed the pad back to Mr. Z.
I folded my arms. “What does that mean?”
Mr. Z wrote and my patience broke.
“Do you know how annoying that is?” I blurted.
His pen paused and he gave me the same look he’d offered Marie. He wrote something down furiously, handed it to Marie.
“Mr. Z says you would do well to mind your manners if you want his help.”
“Then maybe he should—” I didn’t finish. My mouth got me in trouble a lot. Not so much nowadays, but it was still there, making shit for me. “I’m sorry. This is frustrating and this is my home. I don’t want this on my doorstep, especially with my daughter inside.”
The necromancer continued to scribble.
I needed to call Dean at some point. I hadn’t so much as texted him, which was pretty crappy. But when things were going a bit bonkers these things just slipped through the net.
I went for my phone just as another slip of paper was handed over to Marie and she started to speak, no throat
clearing this time to wind her dickhead boss up.
“Necromancers with that much power have a tendency to die young. Most do, which is a tragedy. But power as potent as that is a terrible strain on the body, and there is no use for a corpse to speak. It means nothing, only a ghost harbours the true voice of the dead person. Those necromancers who are lucky to survive for some degree of time are locked away in safe houses around the world, enduring punishing physical and mental training. It is not just control over a dead body, but control at great distances. A regular necromancer does not have that ability, and being in close proximity to a corpse is commonplace and must be respected to reduce the risk of chaos. Nobody wants to see bodies walking the streets with no evident control around them. Also, this dead man speaking is the necromantic magic affecting his final desire. He wanted help. He’ll need to be taken and studied. We are constantly testing the reanimated corpses used by these types of necromancers. I will have my people contact the police should they need more access, along with you and your partner.”
“Blimey. Okay.”
“It could be that he or she has escaped from a facility,” Marie continued reading, “or that we have a new power here in Amsterdam. I will examine our records of the twenty necromancer who boast this ability, but I have not received word of a breakout. I’m leaning in the direction of a new power.”
So was I.
If only we could talk to the ghost of this guy. Way too late for that now. There isn’t a specific timeframe for a ghost remaining on this plane, but they didn’t hang about for more than an hour, and some ghosts won’t play ball if they do stay as long as that. That was why we didn’t really consult the necromancers in murder cases, and neither did the police. Only occasionally. They could only help if the ghost was there. When a ghost moved on, they left a shade—and echo—that were nothing than empty energy. In murder cases the trauma could move the victim’s ghost on quickly, as if they needed to seek the comfort of whatever lied beyond. I’d like to think I’d hang around as long as I could to get justice, but that’s not how it works, and I’m not dead. Not something for me to comment on.
What else was there left to say? “You’ll get back to me as soon as you know anything?” I asked.
Rather than write, Mr. Z nodded.
“Thank you. Is there anything else?”
He shook his head.
“Okay. Well, we have something to go on. I need to call my other half and fill him in on this.”
As if by magic, my phone rang.
“I need to take this.”
Mr. Z nodded, clicking his fingers at his necromancers to take the dead man away.
“Hey.”
“Jake? Are you okay?”
“Boy, have I got stuff to tell you.” There was something in his tone. “What’s happened?”
“That dead body, his name’s Sander…it got up and walked away. Straight out of the morgue. No one saw him walk, he—“
“He’s here,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, Dean. There’s been drama here.” I explained everything. “I was gonna call, but you know how these things snowball.”
He was calm. “I’m coming now.”
“They’re taking Sander to the Deathwell now.”
“Get them to wait.”
“Dean—”
Mr. Z broke his cool and silent image by letting out the most ear-bursting shriek ever. I almost dropped the phone.
“Jake?”
“The head necro guy. What the fuck?”
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.”
Why were they backing off from Sander like that?
“Jake?”
“Something wrong.”
“Be careful!” Marie yelped.
“What’s happening?”
“The—”
Sander spun round. His eyes blazing red, his hands balled into fists.
“What the—”
He lunged at me. I dropped the phone. No time to get my spear out, I swung a punch, smacking him in the centre of the face. Being dead, he didn’t register the pain, and the force hadn’t been strong enough to knock him on his arse.
Sander grabbed at me, rambling like he was speaking in tongues. Every other word was ‘help’ and he clawed at my clothes, trying to wrestle me to the ground. I kicked his legs out from under him. He went down, but grabbed my left leg, tugging hard on the denim. He was pretty strong for a corpse.
Those eyes! They weren’t his. Some fucked up demon shit. What had this super-necro done to him?
With my right foot, I kicked Sander in the face, breaking his jaw. Still didn’t stop him. He had a, well, death grip on me.
“You want to fucking do something?” I barked at the watching necros.
Mr. Z was standing right back, a hand covering his shocked mouth.
What a useless prick!
I kicked Sander again.
“The specimen!” Mr. Z shrieked. His whole image was crumbling.
“Then get it off me!”
One of the necromancers reacted and came to help. At least someone had broken out of the weird spell Sander had them all under, then another until they were all pitching in. It took four of them to get the dead guy off and restrain him.
This whole necro lark was one weird setup. I made a mental note not to approach them first for help whenever I was in a pickle.
Idiots!
Sander was dragged away, still calling for help between the rambling, still kicking and also going in for some biting. Mr. Z and Marie were still standing a few feet away, watching this poxy spectacle.
I dug into the snow, fishing out my soaked phone. Dead. Cold. Shit.
“Marie? Can I have that notepad please?” I asked, stuffing my poor phone into my jeans. I didn’t do well with keeping phones or Lord of the Rings mugs safe.
Talk about cursed! Still, I had a spare and hopefully the sim would still work.
She handed over the pad and pen, much to Mr. Z’s horror.
He really wasn’t in the place to act any way but ashamed of himself for being a total wuss. Head of the necros of Amsterdam? How did that happen?
I wrote down my email address, as well as my phone number. “We’re done here,” I handed the pad back to the harassed assistant. “Send me over any details.” I turned and headed back indoors before the prick could start writing some shitty reply.
“Vaarwel,” Marie said.
“Bye.”
I closed the door, resting my back against it, taking in some much needed deep breaths.
So fucking done.
“Daddy?”
“I’m coming, hun.”
It was twenty minutes later that the front door flew open. I leapt off the sofa, diving into the hallway, bracing myself for an attack, my mind screaming that the wards had suddenly failed, along with the necros, and Sander was back to sink his teeth into me while demanding help.
But it was Dean, panting, hands balled into fists.
The relief was better than an orgasm. “Oh my God.”
He ran to me, grabbing me in an uber bear hug. “You’re safe.”
“Yeah, fine. Are you alright?”
“Now I know you are, yes.”
“Papa!” Lou called, charging into the living room. “Papa! Papa! Papa!”
Our hug ended as Dean scooped her up. “Hello, darling.” He gave her loads of kisses on the cheek.
She giggled at every peck.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said.
EIGHT
DEAN
Saying the day had not gone to plan was a huge understatement.
“I’ll need to get back out there soon,” I said to Jake over a cup of coffee. “If that happened to Sander, then there’s a risk the same thing will happen to the latest victim.”
I was doing my best not to shake as I brought the cup to my lips, still reeling from my run home. I’d been a creature possessed, tearing through the snow while high
on fear and adrenaline, my brain conjuring the bad things, my heart on the edge of exploding with terror that something had happened to my family.
But they were safe and sound, and I was at the table drinking coffee with the man I loved, while my daughter was busy with some new drawing at the living room coffee table.
They were okay.
Not injured.
Not dead.
Not tangled up in any of the scenarios flashing across my mind.
Jake took my free hand. “We’re fine. I promise.”
He knew all about my issues, having seen me through some really bad nights. And I hated that he did, that he’d witnessed me broken. I was supposed to be his protector, his fiancé, his rock. I needed to care for him, to shield him and Lou against the worst storms the universe could throw at us.
Being broken in the head was failing them. Even when Jake told me I was being ridiculous, that I was conjuring some unnecessary pressure to put upon myself, I couldn’t change my headspace. I loved him and Lou so much and hated my weaknesses. What man wanted to have these thoughts of his dead loved ones all the time? What kind of man was I?
A failure.
I gave his hand a squeeze. They were fine. “This is good coffee.”
“It’s the new stuff I found in the supermarket. So going back there again.”
“Please do.”
I loved the way he smiled at me. “Do you want another one before you head out?”
“No. Better not. Too much to do.”
“Shit. I’ve left it all on you.”
“You haven’t, baby.” I put the cup down and took both of his hands in mine. “You really haven’t.”
“But—”
“Please. Don’t think that.”
He went to say something, then stopped himself. I knew what it was—that I should take my own advice and not think the way I did all the time.
“I wish it was that simple,” I said.
“You knew what I was gonna say.”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.” He sighed heavily. “I’m an insensitive dickhead.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I wish I could take all those bad things away.”
His eyes glistened with tears. “Oh, baby. Don’t cry.” I scraped the chair closer to him, taking him in my arms.
“Sorry.”
I rubbed his back. “I’m okay, Jake. I’ll get there.” No matter how down on myself I was, I had to get there. For him and Louise, for my own sanity.