Dark Thread

by Crymsyn Hart

  Darria tried to fight the enchantment her other half had over her, but her words were true. The thought of raising corpses to protect herself had crossed her mind since the werewolf tried to kill her. Accepting her darker power curled her toes. She had controlled a grim reaper. Who could claim that feat? No one. It was forbidden, and she had accomplished it.

  “Yes, we accomplished it. We’ve touched the harvester with our power. He tastes good. Doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Darria admitted. She loved the tang of cloves and jasmine on his lips.

  “Sampling his power was wonderful. We can have more of it. Just give in.”

  A sharp jab of pain hit her chest. The statement about feeding on Oliver snapped her out of the stupor her darker half had lulled her into. She glanced down, and a hand was buried up to the elbow inside of her chest. Her other half’s fingers gripped her heart tighter. When she raised her hand to pull the other hand from her chest, Darria’s skin had grayed and recessed into the bone. Her fingers felt cold and dead.

  “No. This isn’t what I want,” Darria growled.

  “Of course it is,” the necro crooned, trying once more to seduce her. “You want to take over the world. We’ll do it slowly, so no one suspects. I’ll even be good to the harvester. Maybe fuck him a couple of times before I drain him dry. Then, we’ll be unstoppable.”

  Darria ignored everything the necromantic side of her uttered. Everything she had done weighed on her soul. She glanced at her wrist, where a green vine wrapped around the faint scar she had dragged a blade across. The tattoos on her hands were fading. The open poppies were withering and dying. The darkness of her skin had spread. Her darker half tried to dominate, but Darria wouldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t lose herself. All of her mistakes, taking over Oliver and lashing out at Gerry, had been motivated by anger. I have no desire to rule the world.

  If she caved, she would lose Oliver. Her undertaking position would be ripped away. Darria latched onto the hands, ignoring the pain, and yanked them out of her chest. Once she was free, Darria spun around to face the darker side.

  “Don’t like what you see?” The other side grinned.

  Darria glanced at her hands, but they hadn’t changed. “You won’t rule me. I love Oliver. I love my job. I won’t keep fighting with you. We can’t do this, or we’re going to constantly be at war.”

  “You’ll be at war. I won’t be. You and I are going to be one, one way or another. This is how it’s going to be. I will win and take control of our body.”

  “No.” Darria gripped her fists until her nails cut into the flesh of her palms. How could she integrate the necromantic part of her into her life without becoming a dark sorceress who fed on the dead? She thought of Oliver’s touch, and she couldn’t lose that. Love for him filled her soul. Hot tears snaked down her cheeks. They remained at a stalemate. A shadowy void opened up inside of her, where this dark half thrived. She crumpled to her knees, defeated, and stared up at the bleak, black sky. It took all her effort to push the darkness away. “Please,” she said to no one, hoping someone or something would hear her.

  Her other half hissed in laughter.

  “I need help. I can’t do this by myself.” The desperation she swam in nearly drowned her. Darria had never been so alone, without help. If embracing her necromantic power meant she would become that dark thing, she would give up the ability. How could she do that without ripping out a slice of her soul?

  “You don’t have to do it alone.”

  Darria looked up through blurry tears. The woman before her glowed in the ethereal light that surrounded her. Her shape was similar to Darria’s, only she was shorter and more stacked on top. She wore her favorite blue dress. The lines around her eyes were more pronounced than they had been when she was alive.

  “Mom?”

  “Hello, Darria.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You asked for help. You allowed me to break through. I’ve always watched out for you since I died.”

  “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t see what....”

  Her mother placed her hand over Darria’s mouth. She kissed her forehead. Her mother walked over to the darker side and touched the necromancer’s shoulder. “Would you pull me from the spirit world and lock me in a body?”

  Darria’s other half did not strike at her.

  “Answer me,” her mother demanded. The harshness of her tone made Darria jump. It had been so long since she had heard her mother irritated that it took her by surprise. The silence in the already static world stretched on. Darria held her breath. Her mother put her hands on her hips. Her mother’s good nature only lasted so long. If she was too drunk, it became all rage and nothing of the kind mother Darria had wanted.

  “No,” the necro answered through gritted, black teeth. “I wouldn’t trap you in a corpse.”

  “At least you’re honest. Why do you hate your other half?”

  “She lets me out when she needs something and abuses the power. I want all of it: the body, the life, the glory of what we do.”

  Darria couldn’t believe how her mother pried the necro open to be so straightforward. “I never meant to do the things I did. I got angry, and it happened. I never asked to be a necromancer. I hate what I did to Oliver and to Gerry.” Tears threatened again, but she couldn’t keep crying over the guilt. “This ability is ripping me apart.”

  “Power can be used for good or evil. You’re two halves of the same coin. You can’t land on one side or the other. There’s too much at stake. Don’t you both know that?” her mother said to them.

  “Who cares about what’s at stake?” Darria’s other half lunged at her, but she stood her ground. Her mother placed a hand in the center of her darker self’s chest.

  “You should care.” Her mother’s voice grew stern. “If you two squabble and don’t work together, then the world will end. It won’t matter who gets the power. Actually, it’s probably helping their cause. The longer you’re gone, the more time they have to plan and gather their resources.”

  “What do you mean?” Darria asked.

  Her mother’s words seemed to have gotten the other’s attention. Her mother removed her hand from the darker half’s chest. Darria took a peek at her right arm, and it remained blackened. The sight sickened her. She had to figure out a way to come to terms with the necro.

  “You were chosen for a reason. Hekate hasn’t revealed herself to an undertaker in her line for centuries. Neither have any of the other council members. You’re the only one standing with a direct link to the council. If you fall, then things will unravel. Corpses that the undertakers processed are coming back and rising.”

  “No one but a necromancer has the power to do that,” her darker half growled. “Bodies can’t rise once again if they’re turned to ash unless someone has great power. A necromancer like....”

  “Like you,” her mother responded. Her tone had lightened.

  “That power ... I—” The things her mother said made sense. If she and her dark half kept on fighting, they would get nowhere. “We experienced that power with the werewolf. It kept avoiding our grasp. Do you know who it was?”

  Her mother shrugged. “For you to find out, you have to be whole. You have to use your power without fear. Without guilt. You must come together. Can you do that?”

  Darria studied the necro. She felt something for her other side. The flesh on her arm tingled. “I think so, but I can’t walk a dark path. There must be some part of you that isn’t just darkness.”

  “Necromancy is meant to be done in the dark of night, under the dark moon, worshipping the great Hekate. If you wish to come together, we must come to terms.”

  “What terms?” Darria asked.

  “Complete integration, so you understand the darkness with my power. No more calling me a monster. We are necro and undertaker.”

  “Okay. I can deal with that, but no feeding off death energy, and Oliver has to be a part of our lives.”


  “I can learn to love the harvester, but no forcing the magic. It must come naturally, even if it goes against your holier-than-thou attitude when it comes to spirits. If the souls come back with the bodies, then they will be dealt with.”

  “No more wrenching spirits from purgatory unless they deserve it,” Darria commented. She didn’t like negotiating, but if it were the only way, she would do anything. Darria looked down at her hands. They had returned to normal, and so had her tattoos.

  “Fine. I can discern between them. One more thing.”

  “What is that?” Darria said through clenched teeth.

  “When we find out who is doing this, we make them pay. I want to know who has that kind of power.”

  “Only because you want to know how to do it yourself,” Darria remarked.

  Her other half smiled with brown nubs of teeth. “Of course. Being a necromancer means you thrive off power. You can siphon off the energy of the dead and use it to do wonderful things.”

  “We won’t be doing that.”

  “I know that. There’s more to it than raising the dead and sending spirits to their rest. Being a necromancer means you rule the dead. Marie can show us more about it. It’ll be easy to pick up now if you’re ready to deal with me.”

  Darria hugged her mother. The warmth of her spirit radiated within her as much as her love did. She was solid and wore the same Lilac perfume she always wore. Her mother released her and stepped back.

  “I’m here because of you. Your power allowed me to step through the veil. At your core, you’re good. I’m always watching over you. No matter what you do or what path you choose, this is the road you’re supposed to walk. Don’t be afraid of the darkness. Fear twists them into the gnarled creatures you hear about. Marie’s beaten it because she embraced her abilities. I have faith in you. You’ll do great.” Her mother stepped away.

  Darria was terrified about what would happen. Her heartbeat echoed in her chest, and then, it got louder. Don’t be afraid. Easier said than done. The darker half of her waited for her to make the next move. Would she end up looking like death warmed over? Could she still be an undertaker? Oliver flashed in her mind. Her love for her mother and Oliver gave her the confidence to do what had to be done.

  “How do we do this?” The dread in her voice horrified her, but she tried to banish it from her mind.

  “You’re afraid of me. That’s good.”

  “No.” She straightened up. “I’m afraid of what might happen if we do this, of what we will become. I don’t want to end up looking like I crawled out of the grave. You reek, by the way.”

  “You’re the lighter side of the power. I’m the darker side. Put us together, and who knows what you’ll get. You won’t lose who you are. You’ll be gaining me.”

  “So you don’t know how to be a necromancer?” Darria asked.

  “I might be the necro side of you, but I know what you know and what I can do innately. The spells and the things we can do with our power is beyond even me until we learn them. Marie will teach us.”

  Darria nodded. It was time to accept what was happening to her. “How do we do this without you totally taking me over?”

  Her other half’s smile curled around, so she could see the inside of her mouth and her black tongue. It made her shiver. “Come into my arms, and we’ll become one. A simple bonding, being put back together before Hekate sliced us apart. This time, I won’t be the lingering monster you loathe.”

  Darria glanced back at her mother, who nodded her approval. Darria undid the clasp for the cloak and dropped it to the ground. Her other half mirrored her. The slashes on her other half’s right wrist were deeper where Darria had tried to commit suicide. The ravens on her arm were monstrous versions of themselves. The vines of the morning glories were black against her skin and dead on the vines. No poppies dotted her arm, which showed that she had never been marked for an undertaker. Darria glanced at her arm and saw the incantation swirled into her skin. Oliver had gotten it from Azrael to help cross over a human spirit who had gotten stuck if a harvester wasn’t present. The whole lesson was for her to learn that her necromancy was not all bad. There was some good to it. It wasn’t all about resurrecting the dead or controlling them. Darria held on to the feeling of knowing she was not walking the dark path.

  If she were afraid of what she would become, then Darria would lose everything she had worked for. Stopping Medusa and Sophia would all go to waste. Saving the world from the banshee invasion would all go down the tubes. Omar believed in her, and so did Gabbie. So did her mother.

  The most important thing of all was that she had to believe in herself.

  Their palms touched. Darria winced. The other’s eyes widened, and her smile died. Darria tried to pull away, but their skin was combined. They were glued together. Their enmeshing became a dance. With each step, they drew closer and closer until the energies of their opposing auras sparked. Darria spun so fast with her other half that when she tried to separate, the momentum kept her going.

  Each time she whirled around, she gained weight. Eye to eye, she peered into the darkest part of herself. It was flat and lifeless. Her other half cackled, and the agony started. She took in a breath, and it seemed like she had swallowed in a mouthful of something solid. Laughter erupted around her and within her. They spun faster, and the distress grew. Pressure on her entire body made it hard to concentrate. This time, she was smooshed together, pressed into a vice until it seemed like her head would explode. The noxious bouquets of decay and death filled her nose. Her stomach turned, and she couldn’t see past the darkness that consumed her. Her bones melted together. A cold burn stung her entire body. Darria held on to the idea that not all necromancers were evil. The dark road was not one she walked.

  The gray between life and death was her destiny.

  Chapter 8

  Darria opened her eyes. She found herself in the center of the cement circle in Oliver’s graveyard. Her cloak was balled up next to her. Hekate, her dogs, and her mother were gone. Was it a dream ... a nightmare? Was all of it a hallucination triggered by Oliver’s kicking me out of the boneyard? If it had been, then at least she had gotten to hug her mother.

  Her joints cracked and popped when she grabbed her cloak and wrapped it around her. As she lifted it, something clattered onto the cement and rolled on the concrete. The glint of metal caught the moonlight. She picked up the needle that had been in her right arm. In her dream, Hekate asked her to remove all the objects from her flesh. Underneath her cloak, she found the safety pin and the feather. She placed those back on her left arm. As they sunk back into her skin, she waited to see if her flesh would darken, as it had been in her dream, but it remained pale with a few brown freckles. Darria worried her bottom lip and glanced at her right arm. The ravens and the morning glories stayed the same. The poppies thrived. Two more had opened, leaving two of the ten closed. A cold chill crept up her back.

  She searched around for the key.

  If she didn’t have the key, then she couldn’t open the Wunderkammer or the doorways to where she needed to go. It was part of her being an undertaker. Am I even an undertaker anymore? Darria scoured the cement and shook out her cloak a few more times, but nothing fell from the folds. Panic set in.

  “Looking for something?”

  Hekate stood with one of her black dogs at the corner of the crossroads.

  “It was real.”

  The goddess flashed her a sly smile. “It was real, and you passed with flying colors.”

  “You split me in two.” A mass of twisted emotions wrapped around her, ranging from gratitude to anger to plain horror. Hekate had violated her. Her fury increased. This time, her power didn’t writhe out of control. Instead, it anchored her.

  “I pulled you apart because it was the fastest way for you to confront your other half without the months or years of training under Marie’s tutelage. I needed you whole now. You have a job to do. Even if you can’t understand that now or feel h
atred toward me, it was for the good of everyone.” She spun the key around on her finger. “You brought your mother through. If you were completely dark and had no heart, she never would’ve been able to appear, and you wouldn’t need this back.” Hekate placed the key into Darria’s palm. It shifted back into the original skeleton key she had come to know, but it had some added weight it hadn’t had before.

  “What did you do to this?” Darria asked.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d notice. It’s been a while since it’d been recharged. I made sure it was supercharged, and I added a little bit of something else.”

  “What did you add?” Darria studied the key.

  “It’ll help you in ways you may need. If you need to find me, unlock a door with it, and it will bring you right to me.”

  “Omar always told me it would unlock anything.”

  “Correct. Don’t think of it as a literal key; it can also be used metaphorically.”

  She nodded. “Can I ask you one more thing before you run away again?”

  “One more question, then.”

  “You’re the ruler of necromancy; any pointers on how I deal with this? Is there some spell book you can recommend? I know Marie’s here to help me, but I can’t depend on her forever. All the books I’ve read have said that necromancers are evil, and they turn out like ... like my other half.”

  Hekate put her hand on Darria’s shoulder and closed her eyes. A weight settled over her soul. It seemed like she was being pulled together or pushed apart. It was hard to know which. She opened her eyes, and the burden moved off Darria’s soul. “You needed a little bit more squeezing together. I wouldn’t do this, except that you are needed for what’s to come.”

  “What’s to come?” Darria asked. “From what you’ve told me, you’re hooked into Fate.”

  Hekate flashed her a coy smile and faded away. A silver scythe of a moon hung in the darkened sky. Her instincts said it was a reaper’s moon and that the harvesters were out gathering souls. The night seemed alive around her, more so than it ever had before. The implications of what it truly meant made her shiver. Darria glanced around the boneyard. Shining wisps of light hovered over each grave, and some floated along the paths. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of souls that Oliver had taken. She had never been able to see them before. Their presences burned against her like bonfires on a cold night. Each one called to her, but the storm that once raged within her had died down. She had no desire to rule these souls or use them for power.