The Necromancer's Knives

by Jen Kirchner

  I could already tell this kitchen was going to be better than my old one. The new floors were multi-colored bamboo and now ran throughout the entire first floor. The cabinets were a gorgeous white wood and the center island a contrasting black. The sink and countertop had yet to be installed, but it was coming along. There were toolboxes and tools littered all over the floor, and an enormous wet vac stood in the corner. Aside from the construction mess, it was beautiful. The designer knew what I wanted before I did.

  I hauled my suitcase inside and let the kitchen door shut behind me.

  “Miss Nadia!” I called.

  I popped open the pantry door to the right of the cabinets. The pantry was bare except for three cases of water and an offensive jumbo-size container of instant coffee. A small bag of cat food sat in the corner next to a half-empty bag of cat treats. I grabbed the treat bag and shook it. My cat could hear that from anywhere.

  “Miss Nadia Boulanger! Treats!”

  I stood there for another few seconds waiting for the pitter-patter of her little furry feet, but she never came.

  First my missing car, now my missing cat. What was going on?

  I left my bags in the midst of the kitchen construction, grabbed my keys, and started my search. My house was minimally furnished. It was a byproduct of being raised by thrifty Immortal parents who budgeted for forever.

  My house also had few personal effects. That stemmed from a fear of someone getting into my house and figuring out I’m a necromancer raised by a group of very powerful and influential Immortals.

  Granted, my property was protected by a powerful access spell that dictated who could get in here. Very few people knew who I was, and to protect that, I kept all personal effects in a secure location. Maybe someday I’d be able to display family photos, but not in the foreseeable future.

  I thoroughly checked the upstairs, the main floor, and even the antique elevator. No Nadia. I’d have to check the basement.

  There were two ways into the basement. One was the antique elevator, which I’d already investigated. The other was through the secret bookshelf in the family room.

  The shades were drawn, so the room was pretty dark. Bookshelves lined three walls. A large brown sectional sofa dominated one half of the room. A baby grand piano nearly filled the other half.

  I went to the second bookshelf on the left and tipped back a signed copy of My Life with Liberace. The bookshelf next to it made a soft series of clicks and swung open on silent hinges.

  I jogged down the stairs to the bare concrete hallway and flipped on the light.

  Luucas’s bedroom door was closed.

  The small bathroom across the hall looked like a disaster and smelled even worse. The towel hanging on the rack was brittle and smelled funky.

  The laundry room was a small utilitarian space that Luucas was clearly using as a laundry hamper and a closet simultaneously. I wasn’t sure which piles were clean and which were dirty, but by the smell it was obvious that the clothes in the washing machine had been sitting there, wet, for a few days.

  How long had it been since Luucas had been home?

  I didn’t feel right about going into Luucas’s bedroom. When he moved in, we both agreed that we would respect each other’s private spaces—but what if Miss Nadia was trapped inside, desperately needing my snuggles and a treat? Luucas would understand, as long as I didn’t go poking through his things.

  I opened the door and called for Nadia.

  The stark white light from the hallway made a long slice across the concrete floor of Luucas’s room and spilled onto a faded green throw rug. Even in the shadows, I could tell the room was in the same state of disarray as the bathroom. Piles of clothes and papers were strewn across the floor, and files were stacked on a small couch. Crumpled sheets were balled atop the queen-size bed. On the right side of the room, a squat line of bookshelves created an office nook. The small desk light was on, and the desk’s surface was cluttered with stacks of books, files, and tiny trinkets that I couldn’t quite identify from this distance. A large cardboard box sat on the floor with the flaps open. Maybe he was researching something. Probably an investigation for the Immortal State. Official business. I closed the door.

  There was only one room left. It was at the end of the basement hallway, behind a sturdy fire door and secured with a heavy-duty deadbolt. Everything about the door screamed go away. It was the only room in the house, besides my bedroom, that I’d declared off limits to Luucas.

  Luucas had agreed to stay out of this room. So why was the door cracked open?

  As I neared, I could see scratches on the brassy lock made by someone with picking tools and a lack of finesse.

  I realized my heart was pounding. I threw open the door.

  A magical field of light gray, like static, stretched across the doorway, and I reached through it to flip on the lights. My laboratory was a study in white: white walls, white linoleum floor, white cabinets, white table. The back wall was covered with metal panels.

  Four black posts stood stalwart in each corner, like four exclamation points, each covered in a tangle of wicked-looking magic scrawl. They generated a magical field that only my necromancer eyes could see, and shielded the room from magic—no magic could get in or out.

  To my relief, the room looked untouched.

  I stepped inside my laboratory and through the static field. My necromancer senses instantly deadened. Death Radar shut off. My mind went blissfully quiet, save for the headache I’d been fighting for the last couple of hours.

  When I was young, being squished between two accomplished necromancers didn’t bother me as much because I didn’t have any magic of my own. Once I got a magic power, I could no longer slide comfortably between their collective magics. My mind felt like it was swimming through pea soup, and I couldn’t sense anything in the channel other than a massive headache with a side of brain cramp. It’s a good thing that there are only three necromancers on the planet.

  My gaze swept around the room, checking for signs of trespass, and immediately landed on a faint trail of dirt and tiny fragments of brown paper leading to the back wall covered in steel panels.

  Oh no.

  I ran to the back corner, where the cabinets didn’t quite meet the metal-plated wall, and found the faux electrical socket and the little red button hiding behind it. I mashed the button a few times. I knew it wouldn’t speed up the process, but I had no other way to express my distress. A muffled mechanical sound ground within the wall, then the middle steel squares sunk back and slid to the left, revealing a panic room with a second film of static across the open doorway. Four black necromancer posts sat in the corners of this room, too, although they were hidden in the walls. No one was allowed in this room except for me, and it was not how I’d left it.

  Cardboard boxes, identical to the one I’d seen in Luucas’s bedroom, were everywhere. Some were stacked in the back left corner, six high and three to four deep. The organization had ended there. A utility cart in another corner had been tipped over, and cheesy crime show recordings had scattered everywhere. More boxes were spread across the floor haphazardly, as if someone had opened the door and slid them inside as fast as possible without getting caught…

  Or before my sacrificial knives could say anything.

  I rushed into the panic room, tripping over boxes as Death Radar went into overdrive. Hundreds of people’s and animal’s names ran through my head like a spinning Rolodex. My brain couldn’t keep up with each name or genus, but it only took me a few seconds to know that every dead thing around me had died violent, unnatural deaths. The sensory overload sent all my internal alarms screaming. The emotional overload was a punch to the gut and stole my breath away.

  The front of my head started to buzz with a vibration that started out weak and grew in intensity. The vibration formed a telepathic word.

  Kari?

  I whirled in the direction of the voice, which was coming from a wall of built-in metal drawers inside th
e panic room. Whoever had built the panic room had intended these drawers for survival supplies, but I used them to store the secrets of my life.

  I yanked a drawer open so hard that the jumbled mess of items inside slid backward. Atop the clutter sat a plain wooden cutlery box with a metal latch.

  I flipped the latch and lifted the lid. A cloud of black smoke littered with glittering particles billowed up and temporarily smothered my face.

  Kari! It is you!

  You’re home early.

  You better have brought us presents.

  Normal necromancers can make up to three knives, as long as their skill level allows it. I made four.

  I made the first knife, Longy, because I was curious. I’d never made a sacrificial knife before, and Dad’s had been locked away. I wanted to know what they were like.

  I made the second one, Mouth, because I wasn’t using Longy to murder anyone and I wanted Longy to have some company. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  I made my third knife, Stubby, because I’m apparently some kind of glutton for verbal abuse, and I’d secretly hoped another knife would calm the first two a bit. Boy, was I wrong.

  Despite their temperaments and insistence that I indulge in random murder sprees, I enjoy their company. For a decade, we were one big, happy, dysfunctional family.

  Then, last year, I was overcome by a burning desire to make one more knife. I’d never had such an intense need before—like my necromancer biological clock was ticking and I was running out of time to make one. And so, Rambo was born.

  While Rambo’s general makeup is identical to my other knives—an onyx blade with wicked tangles of runes embossed on both sides and a black kidskin-like handle—there was no mistaking Rambo.

  Where my other knives have sleek, straight blades and handles that perfectly fit my grip, Rambo is the opposite. Rambo’s blade has deep serrations and a weird hook at the base. The handle is long and thick, almost as if it’s not even meant for my grip.

  It’s public record that the first three necromancer knives exist to teach their necromancer how to obtain bigger powers. There are no additional powers to obtain after the third knife. So, I have no idea what Rambo’s purpose really is. Necromancer logic says I’d have to touch Rambo in order to find out. But when I’d made Rambo, I was so intimidated by the knife’s appearance that I had used hot dog tongs to drop it into the cutlery box, and the knife’s been in there ever since.

  The four knives and I lived together for almost a year, but a few months ago I accidentally destroyed Mouth. I was devastated. I want to bring Mouth back somehow, but I have yet to figure out how. For now, I’m back down to three knives.

  To my relief, my knives were all accounted for.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I jammed a thumb over my shoulder. “What’s with those boxes? Did Luucas shove those in here?”

  Smoke wafted from Longy’s blade. Longy has a normal, conversational voice that sounds quite rational, but the knife is anything but.

  Yes.

  “Was he alone?”

  Smoke temporarily obscured my vision, but I didn’t need to see to know which knife was talking. Stubby sounds like someone who exists solely on a diet of caffeine and sugar: loud and high-pitched, and often without pause.

  You don’t trust us? What gives?

  Of course I don’t trust them. I have the power to create knives, but I have no control over their personalities and desires. Sacrificial knives are meant for one horrific purpose, and they only want that one thing—well, two, if you count watching a marathon of all twelve seasons of Coroner Cop. The only people who can understand a sacrificial knife’s speech are necromancers, or people touching a necromancer’s skin. Any non-necromancer who dares to enter this room alone risks succumbing to the knives’ siren song and having their body hijacked. And the knives wouldn’t use their newly-acquired body to turn on cheesy crime shows.

  “This isn’t about you,” I said. “This is about Luucas. He knows this room is off limits to everyone. It’s a matter of respect. So, was he alone?”

  A fresh coil of black smoke wound around Rambo. The knife’s monotone voice vibrated in my skull right between my eyes.

  Diaco Rendon was here a couple of times.

  I took a step back. “My dad was here?”

  That troubled me. A couple of months ago, after my dad had been voted off of the Immortal Council, my parents moved to a small Immortal settlement outside of Toronto. It was a few hours’ drive from here. Mikelis was Luucas’s best friend, and he lived a few minutes away. If Luucas was going to call another necromancer to supervise my knives while he was in the panic room, it made more sense to ask Mikelis.

  Unless you knew my dad. A couple of months ago, I’d introduced Rambo to Mikelis and my dad. Mikelis said Rambo was terrifying, which said a lot coming from Mikelis. My dad, on the other hand, displayed an intense curiosity that I found disturbing.

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Did he touch you?”

  Nah, he just stared.

  Total creeper.

  He wouldn’t even turn on the TV!

  I forced myself to smile, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. The knives and I knew each other pretty well.

  A thick, black snake of smoke swirled around Stubby.

  Why are you home early?

  I squelched a groan and rubbed my forehead. “Don’t get excited when I say this, okay? I mean it.” I took a deep breath. “Four weeks ago, one of our fans turned up dead after a concert.”

  Murder!

  Intrigue!

  This is your best tour yet!

  Their excitement tickled my skull. I gave my forehead another vigorous rubbing, trying to stop the sensation. “No, it isn’t. When they found the first body, the cops thought it was a mugging gone bad.”

  You mean there’s more?

  “Four people are dead now. The last killing happened in Brazil a couple of days ago. They’ve been following our band around. We called off the tour before the killer could strike again. The authorities have some leads, and the FBI wants to meet with us tomorrow.”

  I felt scrutiny from one of the knives, which was weird since they don’t have eyes. Smoke puffed upward from Longy, like tiny macabre cotton balls.

  Well, at least you don’t have to worry. You’ve got that telepath spell that connects to your dad, and you’ve got Brad.

  “Actually, I don’t. Since I don’t have to worry about psychotic voodoo masters anymore, the family decided I didn’t need Dad looking over my shoulder or Brad attached at my hip. Honestly, that’s been the best part of the tour.”

  I sensed discomfort and surprise, then irritation.

  I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  I shrugged at Stubby. “For the first time in my life, I have freedom. So do Dad and Brad. I took a taxi home alone, and I’m not going to lie to you—it was awesome.”

  You were outside without Brad or your bracelet? I don’t like that.

  “Unless you can give me a good reason why, I’m not going back to that.”

  The answers came quickly and without hesitation.

  There’s always danger.

  You’re a walking disaster who sucks in a fight.

  And you never know who’s sneaking up behind you.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. They didn’t often show concern, but when they did, it was kind of endearing.

  “Trust me. I’m perfectly safe.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, a shadow fell over me. Someone grabbed me from behind.

  Chapter Four

  I was jerked off my feet and shaken hard. Rocked around. My head bobbed in and out of the magic field, making Death Radar go haywire. My flailing limbs whacked the open drawer, sending the knives flying.

  Wheee!

  I was shrieking the high-pitched wail of a banshee. Instinct screamed at me to fight back and get away, but my body wouldn’t respond. Fear snaked down my spine and clawed its way through me like
a vicious parasite. Memories pushed to the forefront of my mind, unwanted. The fresh reminder that the last time I’d fought back, I’d killed thousands of innocent immortals. I’d had no other choice, but I’d decided that I’d never harm another person, no matter what. Even if it meant my own demise.

  I don’t remember Kari being so bad at this. Hey, Kari! Stab him in the knee!

  Stab him in the toe!

  Stab him in the sacral hiatus!

  My attacker, blissfully unaware of my knives’ unhelpful hints, began tossing me side to side, preventing me from telling Longy that the sacral hiatus is actually the butt and, given my current position, I couldn’t reach it even if I wanted to.

  My legs whacked against the wall of drawers. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! The sound was deafening, and it somehow only seemed to agitate the knives more.

  Sharp pain lanced across the right side of my body. Both of my shoes went flying off my feet. One of them went careening to the far side of the panic room and disappeared in the mountain of boxes. The other one landed on my head. I had to get control of the situation, but how? I wasn’t going to hurt anyone, but I wasn’t going to make this easy, either.

  I shot my legs out straight, locked my knees, and hugged myself. My attacker paused for a brief second, apparently confused at how to handle shaking a rigid, screaming woman. Or maybe they were trying to decide what my plan was.

  The truth was that I had no plan. I just wanted to stop and discuss our issues. Maybe even hug it out. The only thing I could think of was to sing. It soothed the savage beast, right? Sadly, the only peace-themed song that came to mind was the chorus of 1985’s pop hit “We Are the World.”

  One problem: my heart was pounding so hard I felt like I was about to have a cardiac arrest, so I couldn’t think of the words. I had to make up my own on the fly. While someone was trying to kill me.