The Necromancer's Knives

by Jen Kirchner

  “We are the earth… children are awesoooooome… Peace is so nice. Fighting sucks, so let’s not do iiiiiiiit…”

  There was a weird buzzing at the base of my skull. It felt like one of my knives was having an aneurysm.

  Are we hallucinating?

  I hope so.

  When I was dropped unceremoniously onto my feet, I knew that nonviolent retaliation had prevailed! I stumbled backward into the lab and had to grab the door so I didn’t fall on my butt. Death Radar clicked on with a single signal located halfway across the room: Luucas Son of Mikkel, third-channel magic user, age four hundred and seventy-two, death by blood disease.

  My roommate.

  I whirled around. He’d retreated to the table and was staring at me with an open mouth and wide eyes, as if I were the one acting weird.

  We’d met three months ago through a risky encounter orchestrated by my Seer mother. We’d bonded over a common enemy: an immortal voodoo master named Ruairí O’Bryne.

  Ruairí had turned Luucas and his youngest son immortal against their will. Only Luucas had survived. Although that had happened more than four centuries ago and Ruairí O’Bryne was now dead, I had a feeling Luucas had never gotten over it. Not that I could blame him.

  Today, he looked paler than usual. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. His blond hair was an overgrown, curly mop around his face, and he hadn’t shaved in days. His tweed blazer and jeans were typical conservator attire, but they were so wrinkled that he must have slept in them. I’d met Luucas when he was destitute in a parking lot, and today he looked worse than that. He must have been having a tough time at work. It almost made me feel sorry for him.

  But not quite.

  “Are you crazy?” I hollered. “What in the hell was that for?”

  “I’m the crazy one?” His Finnish accent was thicker when he yelled, which was often. “I attacked you from behind, and you did nothing. I thought you’d learned better after your encounter with Ruairí O’Bryne.”

  I did learn a lesson. It just wasn’t the lesson that Luucas and my knives had hoped.

  “I don’t engage in violence anymore, Luucas. I’m a pacifist.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I reared back. It wasn’t the response I’d expected.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yes, I am.”

  The vibration in the base of my skull intensified. Longy made a sound that was like telepathic gagging.

  I shook my head. This was not up for debate. The last time I’d fought back, thousands had died.

  I changed the subject. “Why is the basement trashed? Where’s my car? Where’s Nadia?” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder at the mountain of boxes behind me. “And what’s going on in my panic room? That room is off-limits. Don’t lie to me and say you don’t know—the knives told me it was you, and that my dad was here.”

  “I’ve been working a lot, trying to clean up the mess you left behind when you went on tour.”

  I felt my cheeks heat with fury. I opened my mouth to retort, but he was already moving on.

  “Your car gets better gas mileage than mine. I would have asked to borrow it, but you were traveling, and I didn’t think you’d care anyway. And I dropped off Nadia with Heraclitus. I’ve been working too much to take care of her properly.”

  I studied him for a second. I had to admit that he was right about the car—I would have let him use it. Also, taking Nadia to live with Heraclitus for a while was very thoughtful. Heraclitus was my family and usually cared for her while I traveled.

  “Okay, fine. What about the panic room?”

  He shrugged and looked away, almost casually, while brushing at a spot on his jeans. Like that was going to remove the crusty coffee stain… or mask the impact of his next statement.

  “I’ve started an investigation into Ruairí O’Bryne.”

  I stared at Luucas for a minute. Was he going crazy? “Um, Ruairí is dead. Everyone knows he was guilty. There’s nothing to investigate.”

  “Kari, we’ve done a lot of wild things to keep your identity a secret. The night you blew up Fast Food Row and revealed there’s a new, capable necromancer in the world, it was dark outside and you were cloaked in necromancer smoke. There were a handful of Immortals in a basement who might have seen your face, but Mikelis had rounded them all up within the hour and threatened them into silence. But there’s still one person who got up close and personal with you that night. Not only can he identify you, he can describe, in detail, what your magic can do and how it works.”

  Henri Boisseau. He’d been a conservator under Luucas, but also did dirty work for Ruairí, including attacking Brad’s dad. He’d turned Uncle Rick immortal and hooked him up to a voodoo spell that almost killed him. Like an idiot, I took Henri hostage. And that was when everyone found out that Eliana Rendon exists.

  See? Nothing good ever comes from violence.

  “I thought Henri was going straight to prison for attacking my uncle.”

  “We can’t link him to the crime without revealing your identity. But by opening a case into Ruairí, Henri was sequestered, because he admittedly conspired with Ruairí. I’ve had him under house arrest for two months. Ankle bracelet and everything.”

  I frowned. “Luucas, as much as I appreciate your help, people don’t want to rehash Ruairí O’Bryne.” Especially me. “Isn’t this going to put you in hot water?”

  “I already am, so I’m going for broke. Everyone knows I was with you when you set off that global magic killer. I’m being investigated by Immortal State Intelligence. Actually, your entire family is being investigated, and most of them are being followed. Their phones are tapped. My phone is tapped. Even Mikelis’s phone is tapped. If I give you up to Intelligence, I’ll either go to prison or Mikelis will kill me. I—”

  “Hold on.” I held up both hands, trying to pause his rant. “Phones are being tapped?”

  He nodded.

  “Who’s being followed?”

  “Everyone.”

  My head snapped back, as if slapped. “My parents?”

  He nodded. “Plus Marcus and Heraclitus.”

  That made sense. They were my dad’s oldest friends and my surrogate uncles. Marcus was also Brad’s and my lawyer, and he managed all of my financial accounts. Heraclitus taught me everything I know academically.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And The Fathers.”

  I felt both of my eyebrows skyrocket to the top of my forehead. The Fathers were my self-proclaimed grandfather and godfather. They were also the progenitors of the Immortal race. They were the oldest people on the planet and were almost deified within the Immortal State. This was unheard of.

  “Intelligence is following Moons around?” My voice was unusually breathy.

  “They’re trying to. Last month, he got mad and declared a Hobby.”

  I sucked in a horrified gasp. “Oh, no. Not that.”

  Luucas nodded and pursed his lips together. His hands were on his hips and his feet shoulder width apart, as if he were bracing himself for this, too. “He filed it with the Immortal State Tax and Hobby Office.”

  The Immortal State should create a pamphlet for people considering The Change, and the first item on that pamphlet should be the Hobby Declaration Law.

  In theory, what makes a human life so exciting is how much you can cram into a short lifespan. When they’re on their deathbed, what most people want is to look back fondly on the relationships they’d fostered and the amazing things they’d experienced.

  Reality is less exciting. The majority of people on Earth rarely pursue their bucket lists. The average person spends their day working a mundane job, then comes home to stare at a television. The cycle repeats, day after day. Sleep. Work. Repeat. It’s dull. Boring. Lifeless. Why these people think their lives would be fixed by becoming immortal, I have no clue.

  Historically, the Immortal State has had bad luck with an unambitious, bored populace. People who are bored become dang
erously unhappy. Unhappy people blame their mundane existences on the government. Blaming the government turns into anarchy. Anarchy results in full-scale civil war, as it had for the Immortal State two millennia ago.

  Now, all Immortal citizens are legally required to have Hobbies. Hobbies are declared on an official form and filed every year along with their taxes. Local conservators are supposed to spot-check citizens to make sure no one’s getting restless, bored, or planning a major uprising.

  Grandpa and Moons are exempt from this filing, partially because no one is brave enough to tell them what to do, but also because Moons feels compelled to do the exact opposite of whatever people want. Moons enjoys his personal space. Anyone who encroaches on said space winds up very sorry.

  “Okay,” I said, unable to stand the tension anymore. “Just tell me what his Hobby is.”

  Luucas paused, stretching out the excitement. All that was missing was the drumroll.

  “Pole dancing.”

  I didn’t want to envision it, but I did anyway: a four-thousand-year-old bald Assyrian man slinging himself around a silver pole. For some reason, I also imagined him wearing a red fireman’s hat and matching thong.

  I clapped my hands over my eyes, as if that could stop the unwanted vision. “Please say you’re joking.”

  “Three Intelligence agents have quit so far. An Immortal news station in Europe broadcast a video of him dancing in pink hot pants and matching pasties, and half of their sponsors pulled their ads.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Intelligence tried turning surveillance over to the local conservators. The Principal refused because she’s understaffed and overwhelmed with inexperienced new recruits and can’t afford to lose anyone over this. She’s the same one who told me about the phones being tapped. She has friends who are Council aides and gave me a heads up that it was happening.”

  “She isn’t afraid of me?” I asked.

  “Not really. Since you’re still human, you can only sacrifice other humans. Immortals aren’t a target unless you make The Change and become Immortal. Plus, she thinks you’d be a lot more cooperative if people weren’t trying so hard to kill you.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “I guess I forgive you,” I said. “But you can’t go into the panic room anymore. Those boxes have to come out. I don’t understand why you didn’t take those things to a conservator station anyway.”

  “This was closer.”

  There was no arguing with him. I waved my hand around the room as if to indicate the invisible mess of our lives. “So, is there a plan to fix this?”

  “Sort of. Marcus is in Stockholm, defending you in your trial against the Immortal State. He’s petitioned to make you the first human citizen.”

  “Whoa, really?”

  “It would be perfect if it worked. Fourth-channelers are considered an endangered species of sorts within the State. You get a lot of perks. You should see the tax breaks Mikelis gets. He’s almost a national treasure.”

  “Do you think Marcus can make it happen?”

  His gaze slid past me to the boxes cluttering the panic room. “It’s a long shot, but it’s currently the best plan we’ve got. With the phone taps and everyone being followed, it’s been impossible to coordinate anything else. We’re all left to our own devices at this point.”

  And if that wasn’t the most frightening thought, I didn’t know what was.

  Suddenly, my shoulders felt heavy. All I wanted was to sleep until all of this went away. I let out a long, slow breath, then went to close up the knife box and the panic room door.

  “Okay, well, it’s been a long day. I’m going upstairs to take a shower and a nap.”

  “No, you’re going to meet me back here in twenty minutes.”

  The mechanism inside the wall clicked and the door started to close. I stood and rubbed my temples. “I’m grateful for all that you’re doing for me, Luucas, but I don’t report to you.”

  He smiled, as if pleased I had said so. “Actually, you do. You’re on probation for going vigilante against one of my conservators and are therefore my slave labor.”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “We just talked about this, Luucas! Henri Boisseau attacked my uncle, turned him immortal, and almost killed him!”

  He jammed a long, accusatory finger at me. “You should have called me instead of kidnapping him and blowing up an entire block.” He turned and headed for the hall. “So go change into comfortable clothes and be back here in twenty minutes.”

  “What for?”

  As he disappeared into the shadow of the hall, his voice floated back to me. “It’s time to start your self-defense training.”

  I was mistaken. That was the most frightening thought.

  Chapter Five

  Two hours later, I decided to grace Luucas with my presence. He looked marginally better, showered but still unshaven, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. He was clearly irritated as I strolled into the lab carrying a tray that held two coffees and a half-eaten turkey and spinach panini.

  “I said twenty minutes,” Luucas said. “It’s been two hours.”

  “And I told you that I wanted a shower.”

  And then I needed food and a strong cup of coffee. When I found that my car was back in the garage, I decided to hit my favorite coffee shop.

  I added, “I was going to make a quick coffee run, but it took me almost an hour just to clean out my car. I know breathing is optional for immortals, but it smelled like a jock strap, Luucas. I don’t remember you asking if you could use my car, let alone live in it.”

  He pretended not to hear me and reached for the Americano sitting in the tray, but I pulled it out of his reach.

  A frown creased his face. “I already said I was sorry.” He paused. “You know, you weren’t supposed to be home for another six weeks.”

  And there was the real reason behind the disaster of my house and the panic room. Luucas thought he had time to put everything back before I found out.

  Whatever. I probably shouldn’t look deeper into this. After all, he was under a lot of stress for my benefit. Right? Above all else, Luucas was a public servant. He’d saved my life. I had no reason not to trust him.

  I set down the tray of coffee and wrenched out my nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte. “I got you an Americano with a half packet of sugar. And a fresh bag of dark roasted beans—that can of instant coffee has to go. Have some standards.”

  He grunted as he grabbed his cup and took a long drag. I could only assume that was the equivalent of a thank-you.

  After swallowing, he fixed me with his signature authoritative stare. “Let’s talk about your self-defense. You have some solid abilities that you can use to your advantage. You just need to choose wisely and quickly.”

  “I won’t do it if there’s violence involved.”

  “Trust me. First, you need to make a bulletproof protection spell, and you need to memorize it.”

  I felt my eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  Researching and testing magic happened to be one of my favorite things to do. If I had disposable income and Brad didn’t haul me out of the house to do band stuff all the time, I’d just hang out in my basement with my sacrificial knives and study magic.

  I don’t even care if that makes me sound like a dork.

  “This could take a while,” I warned him. Then I turned around and went to open the panic room door.

  The metal panels of the panic room door receded and slid to the side. I opened the knife drawer and waved away the tornado of smoke pouring out. Judging by the amount of smoke, the knives were having a heated debate.

  “What are you three talking about?”

  Nothing.

  I want TV.

  I told you not to come back without presents!

  I grabbed a pencil and the spiral notebook that had ꜱʏᴍʙᴏʟꜱ written on the cover, then flipped open the knife box and reached for Stubby. I used to swi
tch between Stubby and Mouth when I did magic work, but now that Mouth was gone, I only used Stubby. Longy had earned my distrust a long time ago, but I could use Longy if Stubby was in bad enough trouble. Touching Rambo wasn’t even an option.

  I picked up Stubby, closed up the box, and walked out.

  Not the underwear drawer! I was kidding about the presents!

  “You’re not going into the drawer. Luucas wants us to make a protection spell.”

  For you? That’s actually a good idea. I even know the magic power to use.

  “Really?”

  I tossed my ꜱʏᴍʙᴏʟꜱ notebook down on the table but kept Stubby in my hand. Luucas set his coffee aside. He slid the notebook in front of him and flipped open the worn cover.

  The lined notebook was filled with the excited scribble of my ten years of magic research: observations and test results from the magic powers I’d discovered and tested, with my theories and questions crammed into the margins.

  The airport customs agent was right about me when he said that I, Eliana Rendon, am different from other necromancers, but it wasn’t the whole truth. According to my knives, there are two kinds of necromancers. The first kind, which includes my dad and Mikelis, can use powerful fourth-channel magic. They have a lot of tricks up their sleeves that are backed by overwhelming magical capacity. They’re nigh impossible to stop.

  Then there’s my kind of necromancer. I can manipulate the magic of any channel. If another magic user casts a spell against me, I can steal their spell right out of the air and use it any way I want. I can even write new magic spells that use powers sitting dormant and unused by the channels, and then add those spells to a channel, making them available to any user of the channel.

  The downside to being this kind of necromancer is that I don’t have any magical reserve of my own. Casting spells takes forever because I have to build them from scratch. Instead of summoning up a quick and easy spell, I have to start by keying up coordinates to a singular magic power. From there, I have to fill in the appropriate spell parameters so it does what I want, and then hope it doesn’t backfire. In a fight, this ability is more than useless: by the time I finished writing a spell, the fight would be over and I’d likely be dead.