Victoria Cage Necromancer: The First Three Books (Victoria Cage Necromancer Omnibus Book 1)

by Eli Constant

  We weren’t equipped with a crematory in my dad’s time; it’s something I’ve added to be more competitive. The body is burned in the furnace upstairs, rolling into the flame whilst being witnessed by the family, and the ashes fall down into a holding container. It’s also a much, much cheaper option than the whole ‘chain and concrete them’ thing.

  The cremation system I opted for means I never have to worry about the remains of more than one individual being mixed. I can feel it, you know. When parts of two bodies, empty of souls or not, are mingled. It gives off a bipolar, manic aura that is wholly unpleasant.

  Placing my hands on the steel door that leads to the holding room—which is also locked like the one at the top of the stairs—I feel what lies beyond. The girl is inside, both in body and spirit. She is doing what so many do—studying her body and wondering what her life might have been like. If a person has unfinished business and stays behind, it doesn’t matter how young or old they were at time of death, they always think about the same thing. The future.

  Turning the lock, I pull the door open. I only catch a glimpse of the girl as she vanishes. She has realized that I can do nothing for her. There is no magic that will reanimate her truly and for keeps.

  I could have let her go back into her body again and risked what might happen. She might have surprised me, lasted longer than most her age. It would just be a cruelty though.

  Children seem to lose themselves faster than adults, succumbing to the void and turning into what people call zombies. My theory is that they have less to hold onto, less to glue them to the world of the living. The older the person, the more memories they have to keep them ‘alive’. The younger the person, the fewer memories.

  So they eat through the images and recollections of their time alive until they reach the part where their blanket of life unravels. Their death.

  And then their eyes go pale as a swan’s feathers, humanity finally gone.

  If a necromancer doesn’t have control, then they can go rabid. And they are strong, not held back by the prospect of pain or dying. That’s what happened during the peak of World War Three. A true world war, every country involved. So much crimson wetness soaked into the ground. So much blood power calling to so much death magic.

  People who would have otherwise lived their lives without the awakening of the necromancer gene suddenly found themselves fraught with power. Cemeteries near their homes would be emptied, the long dead forced back into decaying bodies. It wasn’t on purpose.

  Usually, it wasn’t on purpose.

  The Rising put an end to the war. Zombies united the world under the banner of a common enemy. In a way, necromancers should have been thanked. They weren’t of course. They were slaughtered. The youngest had been ten. The only documented case of the gene awakening in a child.

  Most were killed easily. Some fought back. Others went into hiding. I was only a baby when the war ended.

  When my gift had fully surfaced, Grandmother Sophia had given me her world-worn journals. They were filled with stuff only for necromancer eyes. What we could do, what we shouldn’t do, what might happen as our powers advance.

  Grandmother had also given me another thing- a large book that was the color of skin. A redhead’s skin, to be exact. Pale with various patches of slight discoloration and a spattering or two of small brown freckles. The pages inside are absolutely blank, but I keep it hidden now, in the basement anyways. Grandmother always told me that when I needed the knowledge, the words would come. Or at least that’s what she’d been told when she inherited the tome. It had never revealed itself to her.

  I hate that she’s not around now, to help me continue to hone my control and discover the nuances of what lies inside my body.

  The little girl’s coffin is atop a long table. I place my palm against the cool wood, careful not to disturb the thick circle of salt on the floor that surrounds the table. My finger twinges as it meets the hard surface. A band aid covers a shallow wound. The pain turns my gaze to the wonky blood cross painted on the casket lid. I’ve bound the body through blood magic, kept her spirit from getting too close to the salt line. Some ghosts, in the past, have gotten close enough to create a small wind, disrupting the salt. The extra measures make it harder.

  I can reach into the circle because I am the one that invoked it, because I am the one that can break it.

  It is something a shaman taught my grandmother Sophia in the old country, before the war. A way to refuse spirits reentry. Shamanism is not a natural-born gift. It is learned, passed down to people who are called to the art by a dream. The chosen person learns to perceive the spirits, to manipulate them- even so far as to harness their afterlife abilities for personal gain. I know very little else in the art of the shaman, although sometimes I would like to.

  The tip of my stocking-clad foot inches toward the salt line and for a moment, I have the urge to swipe away the white particles and create a little gap in the circle. Would it really hurt to let Lilly feel her body one more time, before the end?

  Would it really hurt to give her one more taste of… life?

  Yes, I knew it would.

  Chapter Four.

  The service is nearly over, the pastor consoling several attendees. I’m stood in a corner beside pink flowers arranged in a white vase atop a tall, carved pedestal. The mother is crying; her body bent over the coffin, her fingers clutching onto the ragged teddy. The blanket and book have already been lovingly placed inside the casket next to Lilly’s beautiful body. I am holding back my own tears. I will find whoever is doing this.

  I’ve not wanted to ask the girl, not wanted to make her relive the story, but I’m going to have to. Before she’s gone. I hope I have not waited too long. This funeral may give her the closure she needs, the peace to disappear and move forward to whatever awaits her on the other side.

  “She looks beautiful.” An older man is in front of me, trying to get my attention. I hadn’t even seen him approach, so swallowed was I by the vision of the mother saying goodbye.

  I focus on his face. “She was a beautiful girl.”

  “She looks just like mother at that age.” His voice is brittle, ragged around the edges. Grief made into sound.

  It takes willpower to keep from jumping when the little girl’s spirit appears at my side. “Grandfather, can you see me?” She reaches out, tugs on his jacket sleeve. The old man’s face goes white, his left hand moving to his right. He’s felt her.

  So many people are sensitives, having just the touch of openness to feel and hear what lies across the veil. I suppose that’s good, because it gives me a thin cover for when I do answer to my power’s call.

  The man smiles, his face angelically soft. “Lilly-Ann used to tug on my shirt sleeve to get my attention. I know it’s silly, but I can still feel her doing it sometimes.”

  “It’s not silly.” My eyes go from his face to Lilly’s. She’s crying. Yes, spirits cry. It’s the most heartbreaking sight in the world.

  She begs me. “Please tell him not to worry. Tell him I’m okay and… tell him that I always knew that he hid the coin up his shirtsleeve. I knew it was never magically in my ear.”

  I swallow. This is the hard part. Refusing to help them when they need me most.

  “The service was beautiful. It was nice of your minister to drive out here.”

  The grandfather nods. “He was surprised we didn’t have the main service in the church. My daughter wanted it here though, said it felt right.”

  The dead are drawn to me. And through them, the living.

  “There’s no right way to say goodbye to someone.” I swallow; the little girl is holding his hand now. His fingers are flexing minutely, as if they know the memory of her. “Will he be coming to the cemetery?”

  He nods. “Yes.” A loud, shaking sob pulls his attention back to his daughter. “Please excuse me.” He rushes over, half-running, to Lilly’s mother. As soon as his arms encircle her shoulders, she collapses.

  �
�Mom’s going to be alone now.” The little girl’s voice is so sad; it sends little shooting pains through my chest.

  “You didn’t have any siblings?” I can’t stop my hands from balling into fist. The grief in my belly is slowing mutating into anger, hot and pure. I move away from the corner, making my way out of the open double doors and into the foyer. Lilly follows me, continuing to speak.

  “No. I did. I mean, I was going to, but mom said she lost the baby. I would have had a brother.”

  A mother with no children. I couldn’t imagine.

  “And your father?” I pitch my voice quieter, my lips only moving a little.

  “He died too.” Her response is so faint that I have to strain to hear her. “He was in the army.”

  A widowed mother with no children.

  “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Lilly. I promise.” If I have to choose between sadness and anger. I’ll choose anger. Every damn time.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Lilly’s voice is so quiet.

  I glance down. She’s beginning to fade.

  “Just tell them that I’m okay. Please? Tell them that I’m fine.” It sounds too grown up coming from her small face. “Maybe it’ll make mom stop crying.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t do that.” I shake my head.

  “But why?” A question again. Children ask so many questions.

  “Because I can’t, Lilly.” My voice is still quiet. I try to be firm. I will her to understand, but she doesn’t.

  “I don’t understand.” Lilly whispers, her words as ghostly as the translucent leftovers of her spirit.

  “I’m sorry, Lilly.” The words aren’t enough. They’ll never be enough. I’ve become the type of person who prioritizes my survival over doing what my gift demands of me—helping the dead.

  She’s nearly gone. So transparent now that I can make out every nuance of the wallpaper behind her.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Lilly’s face lightens, a small smile spreading her mouth. There is no sadness or fear in her expression now. I see… hope.

  “What is, sweetie?” I don’t want to rush her, but I also do. She’s going to disappear before I get any answers and a few people have started wandering into the foyer from the service room.

  “What comes after this.” Her little hand is reaching forward, trying to touch something that only she can see.

  I nod. “It will be pretty, for you.”

  “There’s a little boy. He looks like me.” She is reaching her hand out, towards some person that I cannot see.

  “Lilly, who did this to you?” I’m going to lose her before I’ve asked what I must. I should have asked her the first day, when she’d woken up on my table confused and disoriented. After what she’d been through… how do you ask a murdered child to relive their awful death? “Sweetie, who did this to you?”

  Lilly flickers, her form going in and out like a radio with poor reception. “Who did what?”

  “Who took you, Lilly? Who kidnapped you?” If she were an adult, a living adult, I’d take her by the shoulders and shake her, shake her until the facts spilled out.

  Confusion is written in her eyes, but it’s slowly swiped away like an eraser across a white board. “I heard the name Dan… or Don.” She shakes her head roughly. “He grabbed me when I was riding my bike. I was only in front of the house. I didn’t go past the safety cones. That’s mom’s rule. Stay on the driveway, don’t go past the cones.”

  “You were a good girl, Lilly. You did everything right.” I want to murder the bastard that did this to her.

  “It was a black van with some sort of writing on it.” She’s facing towards the beautiful place. She no longer has eyes for me.

  “And this man that took you, he’s the one that hurt you?” I will her to stay out of the ether for a little while longer.

  She shakes her head, glances at me for only a moment. She’s fighting back the euphoria of the afterlife. “No, he didn’t hurt me. He took me to a house. We were in the van forever. He took some pictures.”

  “But who hurt you, Lilly?”

  The radio flickers again. In and out. The world beyond the veil calling her spirit.

  “Lilly, please tell me who hurt you.” My voice is no longer quiet. I hear someone murmur behind me and I glance around. The foyer is a swirl of activity. I’ve been lost in conversation and didn’t notice. But I need the answers. I need them. “Lilly, who hurt you?” I lean towards her, desperation seeping through my pores.

  Lilly focuses on me and her eyes come back to the land of the living, the glassiness clearing. “It was the second man. The one who gave him money. He had on a red shirt and sunglasses and a car that looked like… like when you clean your paint brushes in your cup at school and all the colors sort of mix and glisten. But it wasn’t only him. He didn’t kill me. I…” Her eyes begin to die again. “don’t know what killed me.”

  A specialty paint job. And Don is definitely involved.

  “Do you remember anything else, sweet—”

  But she’s gone.

  I look up; remember once again the living world that is with me in the foyer.

  Only one person is staring. A tall, slim-built man leaning against the wall opposite me. His dress shirt hugs his chest perfectly, not too tight or too loose, the faint lines of a six pack pushing through the fabric. It is the body of a man with athletic power, not over-muscled meat. His tailored and expensive-looking jacket is pushed to either side, his forearms holding it back whilst his hands are shoved into the pinstripe slacks that cut perfectly around his hips and thighs. His shoes are cognac brown to match the color of his hair.

  I meet his eyes. They are an intense, a solid rich green that is vibrant even across the distance that separates us.

  I’ve never seen him before, yet he stares at me like we are two lost souls come together at last.

  Chapter Five.

  “Can I help you?” I’ve supervised the loading of the casket and made sure the cars left in the correct order. I need to follow in the last car, bringing up the rear and making sure no one loses their way going to the cemetery.

  But I can’t lock up the house because the strange man with the emerald eyes is lingering near the front of the service room near the table that held Lilly’s casket. The service is over. Family and friends have filed out, but he has stayed behind.

  “Will you be going graveside with the family?” I move a little closer and am taken aback as the scent of cologne washes over me. It’s heady, and not in an unpleasant way. On closer inspection, his face isn’t as perfect as it appeared from a distance. There’s age there and tiny scars that race from his chin to his forehead—like a particularly sharp-nailed and minute creature attacked him and sought to ruin his good looks.

  “No.” A single word, but it floats towards me and into my ears like a concerto, high notes and low notes and the waiting period in between. It was the promise of heat, raw animal sex, but teasing at the corners, like it would never exit foreplay into fact.

  And he’d just said a single damn word.

  “Okay. Um.” I hesitate, biting my lower lip. His eyes flick to it and his mouth quirks, like he’s fighting a smile. The movement is a flash though, so quick that I’m unsure if it’s actually happened. Surely the frown is permanent on his face. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave then. My assistants have taken the casket to the cemetery with the family following and I need to be there to take photos and offer my final condolences.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. Turning away, he moves toward the table that is now empty, the coffin and body gone. He places his palms against the table and pure white cloth that covers it. His fingers flex, gripping the material and bunching it up. It wrinkles against his touch, folding and scrunching.

  “Can you please leave that alone? It’s a nightmare to clean and iron out all the creases. That sort of satin doesn’t play nice.” I walk forward, wanting to place myself between the man and the table. It proba
bly would seem silly to anyone watching. He’s not doing anything except mussing up a tablecloth.

  Again, he doesn’t hear me. Or, as I expect now, he’s ignoring me.

  “Seriously, I need to leave and so do you.” I reach out and my hand grips his wrist. Something like an electric shock courses up my arm and rockets into my heart. I’m a kid, too curious with a fork and an outlet. “Shit!” Releasing him, I step back. “What the hell was that?” I hold my hand against my chest. An aftershock is moving inside my body, working its way to each organ and leaving behind tiny, earthquake-like sensations. Now, he does give into a real, no-chance-it’s-illusion smile, like he knows the reaction my body is having to his touch.

  “Perhaps,” he pauses, pulling the material fully off the table to reveal the scattered salt and blood cross I placed on the table before the service to prevent Lilly from awakening—to keep her bound from her body. “I should be asking you what the hell this is instead.” Now that he’s spoken more than a singular word, I hear the accent—it’s warm and deep, moving up and down in a masculine way. European, not American. Although, there’s a hint there… of something else, making me wonder if the accent is affected.

  “I’ve no idea. Never seen anything like it.” I tense, backing up another step.

  “Tsk, tsk.” He turns to face me, waggling a finger. “You’re a poor liar, Victoria. You should work on that.” He drops the now-wrinkly satin cloth back onto the table. The impact of the material causes a salt storm to swirl across some areas of still-exposed wood. “You should also work on hiding your abilities a bit better. Anyone with the slightest eye for the preternatural would have picked you out in a heartbeat. I’m surprised you’ve escaped the human hunters with their ridiculous PPA badges.”

  My pulse quickens. It thunders in my body like wild horses. “Who the hell are you?”