The Necromancer's Knives

by Jen Kirchner

  The Necromancer's Knives

  Jen Kirchner

  Copyright © 2020 by Jen Kirchner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Tom Kirchner

  Cover design by Seedlings Design Studio

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Also by Jen Kirchner

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The jet I’d stolen was the newest and most extravagant of Embraer’s catalog. This particular model, the Lineage AG4300, was designed for someone whose idea of opulence is a Vegas casino. The walls were dark with gold trim, each compartment had a crystal chandelier, and the front seating area was filled with white leather captain’s chairs. Just past the bathroom was a lounge with a curved bar in polished mahogany, fully stocked for service. No one felt comfortable setting foot into the bedroom in the back. I was pretty sure I’d seen a red thong peeking out from under the bed. Given the reputation of the jet’s owner, I wasn’t going anywhere near it.

  The jet belonged to A-list actor Cody Springer, twice voted “Sexiest Man Alive.” According to our three-month ironclad dating contract, if Cody wasn’t using his jet, I could use it. However, since we were beginning our sixteenth hour of mandatory in-flight music—a perpetual loop of Cody performing ’90s pop-rock hits on a keytar—I could only assume Cody was going sour on our contract. Especially since I’d left him behind in Brazil.

  Unfortunately, Cody’s pilots weren’t wavering on the music.

  “It’s part of our contract,” I said into the gilded phone. It was on the wall next to the minibar, of course, and connected us directly to the cockpit.

  “Kari—” The pilot caught herself and cleared her throat. “I mean, Miss Hunter.”

  I cut her off so I could explain further. As if my request weren’t self-explanatory. “Cody didn’t want the plane, so technically it’s free for me to use. I called my lawyer to confirm.”

  Actually, my lawyer wasn’t available, but an eager paralegal went over the contract, line by line, and promised me that I wouldn’t go to jail for the heist.

  And that the pilot couldn’t turn the plane around to reunite it with its rightful owner.

  “Miss Hunter, I—”

  “I’m not asking you to break the rules. I’m asking—no, I’m begging—”

  “Miss Hunter!”

  Her sharp tone forced my words back into my throat, and I gulped a breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I can’t turn the music down.”

  “Not even one notch?”

  She huffed into my ear. “Can’t you sit tight a little longer? We’re almost there.”

  That was painfully incorrect. We weren’t almost home. We were two hours away, and I didn’t need aircraft radar to tell me. I knew it was two hours because twenty minutes ago my tiny magical consciousness was squashed between the collected magics of two superior necromancers.

  Unlike other magic-born, a necromancer's magic powers are stored inside a repository that we call the fourth channel. The fourth channel is vast and spans the world. When necromancers are close, we can feel each other's powers in the channel. That's how I knew I was close to home. Only three necromancers exist in the world, and at the moment we all live in North America. I know the other two well, and I'm used to the feeling of their powers crowding the channel.

  In any other circumstance, two hours would be bearable. In this circumstance, I was damned to listen to Cody in a never-ending loop while staving off a supernaturally-induced headache. Someone should recommend this torturous setup to the CIA.

  “No,” I said. “We’ve taught ourselves all of Cody’s songs and have even worked out an acoustic rock version of ‘MMMBop’ with a tight four-part harmony… and we’re starting to like it. It’s anarchy back here.”

  “I’m sorry. I could get fired. Mr. Springer’s instructions were very specific, and I really like my job.”

  My shoulders sagged, and I tapped my forehead against the pristine white-and-gold striped wallpaper. “I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t. I hung up the phone and turned around.

  The plane was empty except for my quartet and a smattering of the luggage and instruments we’d grabbed as we fled our band’s worldwide comeback tour under the cover of night. We were camped out in the lounge, sprawled out on the couches and club chairs. We’d cleaned out the snack bar hours ago. The bottles of booze had gone untouched, except to assemble a makeshift drum kit.

  “No-go on the music?” Ryan, our bass player, asked. He was slumped on one of the couches, leaning at a precarious angle, with an acoustic guitar across his lap. He wore a cheerless gray sweatsuit. His chinstrap beard had been downgraded to a chin thicket.

  I shook my head and plopped down on the adjacent couch, next to a pile of blankets.

  “Mmph,” the pile complained.

  Brad, our band leader and my cousin, had taken our band’s new situation the hardest. As soon as we’d worked out the harmonies for “November Rain,” he’d retreated back to his protective cocoon of blankets and extra T-shirts from our canceled tour, the Come Alive World Tour, which we now all agreed was sadly ironic and inappropriate.

  The latest song ended, and there was a pregnant pause. We held our breaths. Even the pile of blankets stilled.

  The music came back with a vengeance, backed by a canned drum track. Cody’s enthusiastic Chicago accent declared that he wanted to sex us up.

  Everyone groaned.

  “I’ve already told you guys, I’m not singing this song,” I said.

  “I’ll do it.” Our drummer, Nicolas, stood up. He slid one of his drumsticks into his back pocket. The other one became his microphone. Even I had to admit that our black-clad tattooed drummer was hilarious as he strutted around the plane singing songs by Color Me Badd.

  “This is adding insult to injury,” the blankets mumbled.

  “Could be worse,” I said.

  As if on cue, the overhead music abruptly shut off. The cabin’s speakers made a click-click-click, and the pilot’s sultry voice filled the void.

  “Just a quick update from the cabin: We’re being rerouted from our original destination at the private airfield to the Rochester International Airport for a full security inspection. I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure you haven’t heard the news, since you’ve been out of the country for nearly three months, but the search for that necromancer, Eliana Rendon, has really stepped up.”

  Nicolas’s and Ryan’s heads snapped in my direction. The pile of blankets and T
-shirts went flying, and Brad sat straight up. The pilot continued speaking, but I didn’t hear a word she said.

  I was too busy freaking out.

  I have two identities. The first is Kari Hunter. Human. American. Keyboardist and lead singer of the rock band Vis Viva. My driver’s license and passport state with certainty that I was born a non-magic user.

  My other identity is Eliana Rendon, necromancer. My family and I worked hard to keep this persona a secret. There’s very little public information about it, but what’s out there is damning. Three months ago, I blew up a whole block of Immortal property in spectacular fashion. There was no mistaking the magic signatures and abilities that I’d displayed. From that moment on, everyone on the planet knew that there was a new necromancer in the world.

  No one was happy about it.

  My magic had fallen out of favor with polite society a long time ago, and I couldn’t blame anyone for feeling that way. Every necromancer I’ve heard of obtained their magic by sacrificing people and exchanging their souls for power. I’m the exception to that rule. I only have one power, which enables me to grab objects and send them flying, and I got it by tripping and falling on top of it. Polite society is safe from me. They just don’t know it.

  I’m a pacifist. I will never harm another living thing ever again. Full stop.

  So far, my saving grace has been that no one has managed to connect Eliana Rendon to Kari Hunter. The night when I’d blown stuff up, it was dark and I’d been surrounded by necromancer smoke. Everyone who could identify me had been threatened into silence. It wouldn’t conceal my identity forever, but it was the best plan we’d had when I left for the tour.

  The pilot continued from the cockpit, unaware of the shock rippling through the cabin. “Anyway, Homeland Security’s ordering all international flights to go through major airports for a thorough security screening. We still expect to land on time.”

  The speakers clicked off. Cody’s voice resumed, this time crooning a love song that he probably recorded while gazing at himself in a mirror.

  “What did you do?” Brad demanded.

  I reared back. “How am I supposed to know?” I jammed a finger at him. “I’ve been stuck on tour busses with you for the last two months. If I’d done anything to warrant this kind of reaction, you’d have known.”

  Nicolas held up a hand, putting a pause on our back-and-forth. “Have your parents said anything to either of you?” He frowned at our awkward silence. “You haven’t talked to your families at all, have you.”

  Brad and I shook our heads no.

  “We’ve been on the road for nearly three months,” Nicolas said. “Neither of you thought the lack of contact was odd?”

  Brad shrugged and looked away.

  Three months ago, we’d had a family meeting, and everyone agreed that I should go on tour and lie low until the public forgot about me.

  We also agreed that the old threats to my life were finally gone and I no longer needed to be chaperoned everywhere. So, I put away my bracelet with the telepath spell that connected me to my dad. And Brad was no longer required to be attached to me day and night.

  But, just three weeks into our tour, Brad and I had each received the same voicemail from our attorney. He’d told us not to call or message anyone in the family under any circumstances.

  I admit that I hadn’t made a lot of effort to reach anyone anyway. If I were honest with myself, I’d say that I didn’t actually want to know what had happened this time, and I was hoping my family would smooth over the situation by the time we got back. The last two months had given me my first taste of freedom, of life without Brad constantly beside me and my dad watching over me, and I was reluctant to go back to the way things were.

  If Brad’s expression was anything to go by, he was reluctant to give up his newfound freedom, too.

  Nicolas’s dark brows pinched together. “When we left, no one seemed to care that there was a new…” He paused and glanced around, in case the pilot or copilot had suddenly emerged. “…necromancer.”

  “People cared,” Ryan said. “But no government wanted to take responsibility for her.”

  We all stared at Ryan.

  “What? I can’t use magic, but I watch the news. 60 Minutes had a feature about defending yourself against necromancer attacks. I figure I have nothing to worry about since Kari’s sacrificial knives didn’t even want to stab my finger.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “So now what?” Ryan folded his hands behind his head. “We’re landing at a public airport. Kari, if anyone figures out you’re the necromancer they’re looking for, they’ll kill you on sight.”

  Brad glared. “Did they say that on 60 Minutes, too?”

  “They said worse. There was a segment on how to kill a necromancer.”

  My throat went dry. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I knew how people felt about necromancers.

  “He’s right,” I said. I glanced over my body, partially covered in loose pajama pants, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and sandals that exposed my toes. In a public airport with a crowd of strangers, these clothes were a death sentence. If someone bumped into me and brushed against my bare skin, they’d see things only a necromancer can see. I’d be dead. “I’m going to need a new outfit.”

  Chapter Two

  Upstate New York only has two seasons. In the winter, the lake effect snow bombs rural areas with varying degrees of nastiness, stranding unfortunate commuters on highways and preventing pizza drivers from delivering in one hour or less or your pizza is free. In the summer, the heat reaches sweltering temperatures and the humidity is choking. The state has a single month that’s actually tolerable, and this month wasn’t it.

  Stepping onto the tarmac of the Rochester International Airport in the early morning, the weather was already insufferable. It felt like you were staring into the Ark of the Covenant and your face was two seconds from melting off. The guys emerged from the plane dressed for the late summer weather in shorts, short-sleeved T-shirts, and flip-flops. I was disguised as a terrified necromancer-in-hiding in jeans, boots, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a red plastic trench coat that Brad found in the jet’s master bedroom. He’d also found a pair of black silk gloves, which I had stashed in a pocket just in case I needed them. I was a fedora away from looking like Carmen Sandiego on the run.

  The jet had parked in a lot for small private planes. It was one hundred paces to the airport. No one spoke on our march to the terminal door.

  Ryan opened the door for me and let me inside first. I rolled my carry-on bag to the steep, concrete staircase and let the air conditioning wash over me. I didn’t open my jacket to cool off. I could hear the crowd of passengers upstairs. It was too dangerous.

  As I stared up three narrow flights of stairs, debating whether I even wanted to go up, Brad came around behind me, dropped his duffel bag at my feet, and grabbed my carry-on in one hand. He had a guitar case in the other. He lifted both like they weighed nothing, then glared at my outfit.

  “You look ridiculous,” he said.

  “She does have a condition,” Ryan said. “The condition is called ‘Brad Kasen,’ who will make a scene if anyone tries to touch her. We can’t afford that right now, so the outfit’s probably good.”

  Nicolas gave me a once-over and shrugged. “Everyone thinks Kari’s a diva and she pretends to have a weird skin condition that breaks out in a rash whenever you touch her.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was helping my case or not, so I snatched up Brad’s duffel bag and stomped up the stairs. The entire way, I could feel Brad burning a hole into the back of my head.

  “You’re overreacting,” I called back to him.

  “Overreacting?” he snapped. “You heard what the pilot said: worldwide manhunt. Maybe you should be more concerned.”

  “Calm down,” I ordered. I lowered my voice. I was near the top, and I didn’t want anyone overhearing us. “The only way to get through this is to act natural—”


  My words died on my lips as I stepped into the tiny airport. Two dozen black-clad commandos, armed to the teeth with sleek weaponry, were patrolling the terminals. Half of the commandos had German shepherds who strained at their harnesses, their noses twitching as they attempted to sniff out my necromancy.

  A recorded security message blared over the speakers. “Your attention, please. Welcome to the Rochester International Airport. Smoking and the use of firearms and magic are strictly prohibited…”

  There were travelers hurrying about, but the ratio of armed commandos to travelers was at least two to one.

  Brad dropped my carry-on bag on the carpet next to me and gave me a steely-eyed glare. “I’m glad no one’s overreacting.”

  Before I could respond, he slid his duffel bag off of my shoulder and stomped off toward customs.

  The Rochester airport was so small that you could stand at one end and see the opposite end, so it was a quick walk to the customs area. Nicolas and Ryan flanked me while Brad led the way. I kept fingering the gloves in my pocket while I followed Brad through an archway that indicated the customs receiving line.

  And then we all came to an abrupt halt. Ryan whispered a curse in Italian.

  The FBI’s Most Wanted List spanned half of the right-side wall. Enormous black-and-white mugshots stared lifelessly at us. Names and faces were arranged in two rows of five. I was seventh on the list. My competitive nature kicked in and I had to remind myself that it’s not always good to be number one.