The Necromancer's Knives

by Jen Kirchner

  Luucas was right. I needed to be able to get another protection spell around me.

  My gaze drifted to the panic room door…

  I had to take Stubby with me. It was an insane idea, but I felt I had no choice. To keep the knife quiet, I’d simply wrap it in a monogrammed thong plus seven additional layers of ugly underwear. None of my knives liked to draw attention to themselves while looking so ridiculous. An assortment of lace and sequins would do. Maybe also one of my sports bras for good measure.

  I opened the panic room door. The dim overhead lights of the steel room flickered to life.

  …and that’s why we should start sacrificing people underwater. It’s very feng shui.

  I stepped inside the room, pulled open the knives’ drawer, and opened the lid of their wooden box. The knives gazed up at me expectantly.

  At least, I think they did. I should try adhering a set of googly eyes to their blades as a new form of punishment.

  “Good morning.” I didn’t wait for their responses. I was in a hurry. “Stubby, I need to take you outside. It’s for protection only, in case Immortal Intelligence shows up again and tries to kill me. We’re going to a band meeting. The FBI will be there, so you need to stay silent the entire time. Understand? No talking. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  The knives’ emotions pricked the back of my mind: one of elation, one of concern, and one of frustration. Just before my fingers touched Stubby’s soft handle, the knives erupted in smoke and yelling. I was so startled that I jerked my hand back. Stubby was yelling at me to get going, Longy was yelling at Stubby for being an impulsive doody-head, and Rambo was yelling at Longy for being wrong—about what, I wasn’t sure.

  I tried cutting in a couple of times, but no one listened to me. So, I just reached through the smoke and grabbed Stubby’s handle, preparing to take the knife and go.

  Longy’s piercing mental shout brought everything, including my arm, to a halt.

  YOU NEVER TAKE ME ANYWHERE!

  The shock wasn’t so much from Longy’s volume but the anger and frustration in its words. I waved away the choking cloud of smoke and blinked down at the box.

  “What?” I coughed.

  I’m the first knife, and you haven’t increased your necromantic power beyond my tutelage. You’re not ready for the second knife. Therefore, I’m the one you should turn to!

  I stared at Longy for a second. “Did you really just say ‘tutelage’?”

  Longy turned sheepish. A faint trail of smoke puffed from the tip of the knife’s blade and spiraled all the way down to the end of its hilt.

  I never get to go anywhere interesting, and you never ask me for advice. You always listen to Rambo, and you pick Stubby for everything.

  The longing in the knife’s mental voice was overwhelming.

  I sighed. “Longy, I don’t touch you because of what happened the first time I picked you up. Do you remember?”

  To this day, I still remember the mental image that Longy had forced into my head that detailed exactly how to make my first sacrifice. The vision was vivid and was accompanied by a flash of color, scent, and sound. I felt myself hacking through cartilage and bone.

  It’s the only time in my life I’ve ever dropped a knife—and I did it on purpose because it was the fastest way to make the images stop.

  That wasn’t my fault. We’d just met. I didn’t realize your intent was to be the world’s crappiest necromancer. I can be good! I don’t have to teach you things. I just want to go out and see some action.

  “Hopefully there won’t be any action. I need Stubby because Stubby knows how to make the protection spell. That’s the only reason.”

  I can learn the spell.

  That was true, but I still wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I’m sure my expression reflected that.

  Come on. You always say everyone deserves a second chance. What about me? Where’s my second chance?

  Longy had me there. I really believe everyone deserves a second chance, no matter what. After all, Mikelis used to be an angry killer, and look how he turned out. Willing to murder someone if they deserve it, but he’s mellowed out so much that he hasn’t killed anyone in at least a century.

  Unless you count that time three months ago when we were attacked inside Cody Springer’s building.

  Whatever. I considered it progress.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m taking you outdoors today, and you know the rules: When I touch you, don’t try to teach me anything, and say nothing until we’re back inside the house. One peep out of you…” I shook my head and gave the knife my most threatening glare. “I swear, I’ll devise a punishment so bad it will make the underwear drawer look like a vacation. Agreed?”

  I agree! I’ll be even better than Stubby!

  Not exactly setting a high bar, but I’d take it.

  I set Stubby back into the box and reached for Longy’s handle. Black smoke and glittering particles floated up from the blade and swirled around my trembling fingers. The front of my skull vibrated from Longy’s excitement, which grew as my outstretched fingers neared. Even Stubby and Rambo were silent with anticipation.

  My fingertips brushed the cool black handle for two seconds. I panicked and jerked my fingers away. But nothing happened. My mind was free of murderous details. I sucked in a deep breath and reached out again, slipping my fingers around the perfectly shaped handle. I held the knife up.

  Now I am the resident stabber!

  I let out a breathy laugh, releasing all of my tension. “Okay. If all goes well, when we get back, you might get those presents you asked about.”

  Yes! Don’t screw this up, Longy.

  We’re counting on you.

  Before leaving the house, I created another protection spell so that Longy could learn the coordinates and help me if I needed another one on the road.

  So far, Longy had lived up to the promise of behaving better than Stubby. While we created the spell, not once did the knife yell at me, demand to stab my ear, or shout “Cowabunga!” before puncturing my skin. It was a very professional affair.

  Afterward, I wrapped Longy in a pair of hideous yellow granny panties and a couple of hand towels and stuffed the bundle into my bag. I was just wrapping up when Mikelis messaged me to say he was waiting in the driveway. He was going to drop me off at the band meeting. I didn’t need an escort back since I was going to ask Nicolas for a ride and a new access spell.

  I locked the deadbolt on the front door and started jogging down the porch steps. I hadn’t even reached the bottom when Longy let out a headache-inducing scream.

  HEY, YOU! HEY, YOU!

  I was so startled that I tripped down the last stair and nearly wiped out, face-first, into the grass.

  YOU! YOU! I SEE YOU! I SEEEEEEEEE YOOOOOOOU!

  After I righted myself, I whirled around, frantically looking for an intruder, but there was no one on my front lawn. Only Mikelis was in his car, idling in the driveway. Death Radar was also clear, but Longy was still screaming louder than I’d ever experienced a knife scream before.

  RUN AWAY! RUN AWAAAAAAAAY!

  I did. I charged back up the wooden stairs, flew across the porch, jammed my key into the lock, and rushed into the house. I was so upset that I got halfway down the hall before realizing my keys were still dangling from the front doorknob. I had to run back and grab them so I could open the lab.

  “I can’t believe you! We weren’t even outside for thirty seconds before you were screaming your presence to the world!”

  Yes, my reaction time is amazing!

  I was too furious to respond. I seethed all the way down to the panic room. I opened the panic room door, pulled out the drawer, and opened the cutlery box. Rambo and Stubby were completely silent. I didn’t tell them what happened. I let my expression say it all, and tossed Longy inside.

  I didn’t even close the knife box or the drawer. I left them open, in full view of the television, which was turned off, without a single tel
evision show playing, just so they could all think about what Longy did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ryan’s living room was enormous, yet not big enough to accommodate seven people and the intense irritation of the two FBI agents sitting across from us. They stared at me, incredulous.

  “So,” Agent Ganning snipped, “Brad Kasen isn’t coming today, and you don’t know where he is.”

  Everyone knew I was lying. Everyone also knew I wasn’t going to change my story about Brad’s whereabouts. I tried to shrug, but Nicolas and Ryan had crammed themselves onto the leather couch on either side of me. We’d always huddled together for support in times of trouble.

  “Sorry,” I said, clearly not sorry.

  Our assistant, Pasha, was pacing behind our couch. I could hear the soft tap tap tap of her heels against the hardwood floor. It paused. Her Indian accent was thick. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Is this meeting about Brad or about the murders? We can follow up with him later whenever we see him again.”

  My gaze slid to our new band manager, Johnnie Joplin, in case he wanted to help us out and move this conversation along.

  He sat in the high-backed leather chair like a king observing the proceedings, in an expensive Italian suit whose brand name I couldn’t afford to pronounce. The darkness of his skin made the whites of his eyes seem brighter and somehow able to drink in every little detail. But he wasn’t feeling very conversational just then.

  I turned back to Agent Ganning and her sour puss. We’d met her two weeks ago when one of the murdered fans turned out to be an American who had traveled to Argentina to see our show. She looked weathered and weary. Tired suit, tired bun in her hair, tired lines around her eyes. She had seen a lot of ridiculous things during her long tenure, but today I clearly took the cake.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you know about the Let’s Rock spell before he cast it?”

  “No.” I was starting to sound like a broken record. “I already gave my statement to the authorities.”

  “You gave it to an Immortal State conservator.”

  The way she said it made it sound distasteful.

  “The conservator I talked to is Brad’s dad—my uncle. I was upset about Brad’s attack, and Uncle Rick said he’d pass along an official statement on my behalf. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

  The man sitting beside her, Agent Aponte, stirred. He didn’t strike me as a field agent. His shoes were too polished and his hands were manicured. Like Brad’s. A profiler, maybe?

  “Has Brad been seeing anyone new?” he asked. “New friends or girlfriends?”

  “No. We’ve had a very intense tour schedule. There hasn’t been time for personal relationships.”

  Agent Aponte pressed, “So maybe Brad’s been seeing someone, but you’ve been too busy to notice?”

  Nicolas’s foot started tapping the floor, fast. His knee knocked against mine. “Is there a reason you two are wasting our time about Brad’s dating habits?”

  The agent shrugged. “We have reason to believe Brad’s seeing someone new.” He paused and let his gaze roam over the room, as if analyzing our reactions. “We believe it’s Eliana Rendon, the fourth-channeler.”

  Nicolas’s foot stopped moving. Ryan coughed into his hand.

  Agent Ganning waved her hand dismissively. “That’s a far-fetched theory, and not everyone shares it at the Bureau. Agent Aponte can pick this up with Mr. Kasen when he returns from his… trip.” She rolled her eyes on the last word.

  Her hand slid under her jacket, flashing a black gun in a nylon holster. She produced a worn, black notepad and a pen from an inside pocket. “Let’s get to the reason we’re here. First of all, on behalf of the FBI, we appreciate your cooperation in canceling your concerts until the killer can be found.”

  We all nodded and murmured our agreement.

  “Do you have any leads?” Ryan asked.

  “None that can be shared. The only reason I’ve been authorized to disclose anything is that we’re ready to take the next step and we need your assistance.” She flipped open the pad and set it on her lap. “What I’m about to tell you can’t be shared—especially not with the press or the families of the deceased.”

  She waited for us to nod our agreement. Her tone was all business, like she was reading a menu.

  “There’s a link between the murders. Two of the deceased are members of your band’s South American fan club and won prizes from the same club contest. According to the fan club organizers, each of you gave away personal items, mostly clothing that was worn on previous tours or in videos.”

  Again, she waited for our dutiful nods of agreement, which we gave. We’d given away the items to drum up excitement for our latest album.

  Nicolas looked annoyed. “And it took you this long to figure that out?”

  Agent Ganning pinched back a glare. “Two of the victims were recipients of Kari’s giveaway items. The third received one as a gift, and the last victim purchased the item on the Internet, so we couldn’t confirm it until recently.”

  Pasha, standing behind the couch, put her hand on my shoulder.

  Agent Ganning read something off of her notepad. It took a second for the initial shock to wear off before I realized she was reading the four items that I had donated: a shirt from a previous tour, a fancy gown from an awards ceremony, a pair of boots from a video, and a cluster of bracelets that I had worn on a red carpet next to Cody Springer. Pasha had made the bracelets herself.

  “So, the killer was stealing Kari’s stuff?” Pasha asked.

  “We can’t locate any of the items, so it’s possible that’s what the killer was after. There is something else that the victims are missing, and it’s cause for serious concern—each of the victims is missing a different body part. They were severed post-mortem, so we know the killer took them.”

  I knew about this from the knives’ crime shows. These killers were called collectors.

  “But,” I said, “I thought collectors only need one trophy. Why would they collect a body part and the giveaway item? That’s two trophies.”

  Everyone’s heads swiveled in my direction. The two FBI agents stared at me. When Ryan elbowed me in the side, I realized how bizarre my comment sounded.

  I cleared my throat. “I, um, watch a lot of TV.”

  Agent Ganning sat back. “I wish it were as easy as it looks on television. Anyway, all four people with your items have been killed.”

  “So, now they’re done killing and they just go home?” I asked, feeling hopeful.

  “No, this is when a killer typically escalates. I’m sorry, but we expect them to go after you. We believe they’re working their way across the U.S.-Mexico border, if they haven’t already done so.”

  I looked between her and Agent Aponte, waiting for more. When nothing more came, I clenched my hands into fists. I was sick and tired of leaving plans to other people only to find myself on the most-wanted list and given forty-eight hours to agree to start World War III. It was time to start taking matters into my own hands.

  “Well?” I demanded. “What’s the plan? You have one, right? One where you use me as bait, lure the killer out, and catch them. Right? When does that happen?”

  Nicolas sat up straight. “That’s a great idea. When do we do that?”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” Pasha said. “Brad will be furious.”

  Ryan didn’t say anything. He looked conflicted. He slunk deeper into the corner of the couch like he was trying to find the gateway to Narnia and escape our situation entirely.

  I twisted around to look at Pasha. “Brad’s not here, so he doesn’t get a vote.”

  “And we need to end this,” Nicolas added, “before Kari ends up dead.”

  “That answers our next question,” Agent Aponte said, and gave Johnnie a sly nod. “We’ve been talking about setting up a trap. We’ll need a high-profile event. A venue that the killer can’
t resist.”

  I deflated. We didn’t have the kind of star power that could magic up an instant A-list invitation.

  To my surprise, Agent Aponte gestured at our manager. “We’ve been talking with Mr. Joplin and we have a plan.”

  Johnnie placed his elbows on his armrests and steepled his fingers. “I have connections to the Fashion Bash in Las Vegas, and they’ve agreed to keep this under wraps. You will walk the carpet and perform a short set during the cocktail party.”

  Pasha let out an excited squeal.

  I twisted around again to look at her. “Really? A second ago, you were worried that I’d get shivved.”

  “The FBI will be there to protect you. And if they don’t, the Fashion Bash is worth it.”

  For those who live and die by the latest fashions, the Vegas Fashion Bash was the event of the year. Every A-list actor on the planet walked the Bash red carpet. Our names and pictures would be everywhere.

  “The Fashion Bash is in three days,” Ryan said, making everyone turn to look at him in astonishment. Since when did he care about high fashion?

  “Yes,” Johnnie said, “but we’ll need to be there the day prior for rehearsal and sound check.”

  I had to keep myself from clapping my hands like an excited idiot. Norayr Hakobyan had given me forty-eight hours to respond. But if I could ninja out of town…

  I cleared my voice and tried to maintain an even tone. “It sounds like we’ll need to leave tomorrow.”

  Ryan tried freeing himself from the couch and failed. He frowned. “I can do that, but what about our gear? Most of it’s still on the way here from Rio. We’ll never make it in time.”

  Johnnie smoothed his lapels with one hand and gave Pasha a curt nod—his way of issuing an order. “I agree, you should leave tomorrow. As for your equipment, I’ve already made arrangements for your gear to be in Vegas when you arrive. The event organizers have their own sound and stage tech, so all you’ll need is a session musician to fill in for Brad.”

  We stared at him in awe. If this had happened with our previous band manager, we’d be in a panic, trying to scrounge up any equipment we could get our hands on. But Johnnie sounded confident, as if this was a nonissue.