Naughty Necromancer (Reaper Collective Book 2)

by Riley Archer

  “I don’t know what you’re on, and as much as it pains me, you should probably sleep some of … whatever this is off before you do something stupid.” Damian got to work unlacing my boots. “Stupider than usual, anyway.”

  When the first boot came off, I went down like a floppy noodle.

  A nap can’t hurt, can it? I wormed my way up to the nearest pillow.

  Movement on the other side of me rocked me into a fuzzy consciousness. It took me a second to register that Damian laid on the other side.

  “I don’t think so, kinkmaster,” my protest was almost too soft to hear.

  “Shut up and stay on your side.”

  I woke from a dreamless sleep, fully warm and tucked in. Tucked into …

  My head was near an armpit, which was attached to a torso wearing a tattered black t-shirt. A t-shirt that had lifted during the night to expose a surprisingly sculpted abdomen.

  I saw one flash of his jaw and squealed. I scrambled away with as much force as I could muster.

  “No freaking way!”

  I grabbed the nearest weapon and whacked Damian’s bedhead with it. The weapon wasn’t as effective as I’d have liked, being that it was a pillow.

  He draped his other pillow over his face and turned. “I should’ve kicked you out and let you walk into walls on your way back to your dorm. That would’ve sobered you up.”

  I had the fluffy weapon primed for another hit, but foggy memories colored back in.

  Right. The Illusionists, the Moss Folk, the tripping out. I couldn’t believe I’d accidentally gotten high and ended up here. Sleeping next to him.

  “You could’ve taken the floor like a gentleman.”

  “Maybe saving you all the time has given you the wrong idea. I’m not a gentleman.” Damian sat up and cracked his neck. “Wanna tell me what you were on last night?”

  I wish I knew. My best guess was that I’d been drugged. I pressed around my hip and found the sore spot. “Not before you tell me what this is about.”

  When I exposed the invisibly-inked skin, Damian’s eyes popped and darkened. From him, it was basically an audible gasp.

  “This isn’t even a cheek. Since when are you prudish?”

  Damian ignored me and stared.

  “Are you ser—oh.” I glanced down and expected to see raised, red skin in the shape of scythes. Instead, I saw abstract shapes that now branched across the area with the dips and curls of a henna tattoo, although the lines were thinner and more intricate than I’d seen in most body art; they reminded me of the veins in a leaf. They pulsed slightly, as if alive.

  The mark wasn’t hideous—it was cooler than the original, without a doubt—but my brainwaves sent out a distress signal.

  Something isn’t right.

  I rubbed a finger over the mark, testing to see if it would smear, but it didn’t. I slapped it a little, seeing if I could shake it away like an etch-a-sketch. Nope.

  The unexpected additions tingled like harp strings made of nerves.

  “Ellis.” Damian fixed a gaze on me that was carved from stone. “Tell me everything that happened last night.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I attempted to disguise the tremor of panic that had whittled into my consciousness, but it clogged my throat. My heart gave a bout of erratic thumps.

  “Obviously.” Annoyance creased Damian’s forehead.

  “If you keep looking at me like that, you’re gonna get wrinkles.”

  “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, you’re gonna get dead.”

  “That’s boring. Come up with a new threat.” Giving him a hard time made me feel better, but his stone-cold features didn’t change.

  On the off chance he might know what his old pals had done to me, I told him about the Illusionists’ invite, the Yule ritual in the woods, and the fae-realm trickery. I was just about to delve into the details of my black-water pond dive when someone knocked on the door.

  “Hellooo?” Maven’s sweet twang called out.

  “Again?!” I whispered.

  “Just hide somewhere and be quiet,” Damian mouthed more than spoke. He slipped on a maroon robe. Louder, he said, “Just a sec.” He tried to smooth down his bed head on his way to the door.

  I glanced around for a good hiding spot. I considered under the bed, remembered Maven’s libido, and decided against it.

  I nabbed my jacket from the floor, which I didn’t remember taking off. Then, the lip of a cracked-open panel in the wall, right beside a wardrobe, caught my attention.

  Now that I was scrutinizing the area, the floor beneath the wardrobe had a trace of a scuff mark. Someone had moved it.

  That works.

  I pried the panel open and tucked myself in. The inside was pitch black. A chill wrapped around me as if I had stepped into a basement. I pulled on my coat and prepped my ear for eavesdropping.

  “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me. Is somethin’ wrong?”

  “No, not at all. I’ve just been working on lesson plans. Tough group this year.”

  I was bored already. I shoved my hands in my pockets, and my fingers caressed something dainty and rough.

  The finger bone necklace. I closed my eyes and my encounter with the tree creature formed behind them with crystal clarity. The image was like a sparkling photograph, one I could zoom in and out of at will.

  I barely registered Maven mentioning a student getting expelled when I saw—or remembered—something that was absolutely freaking bananas.

  The pattern of intricate lines that were now in my hip reminded me of something very specific: The limbs of the Moss Folk.

  It could’ve been a temporary stain, like Kool-Aid on a toddler’s lip.

  Or it could’ve meant I was turning into a tree.

  I held in a whimper until I heard Maven give up and leave.

  “Ellis?” Damian whispered. “Where …”

  A sudden rush of steps came my way. Damian threw the panel-door open and glared.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hiding like a mistress. Again. You’re welcome.”

  I didn’t know what his accusatory tone was aimed at, but I had a few ideas on where he could shove it. His eyeline did a microscopic dash to the area behind me.

  Big mistake.

  I darted deeper into the closet, Damian nipping at my heels.

  I could barely see where I was going, but I knew I was heading toward something he didn’t want me to see, which meant I desperately wanted to get there.

  Damian tackled me to the ground, and I landed on a latch.

  I fought for control of my limbs, which were crushed under Damian’s weight. I had just enough air left in my lungs to speak. “Doing some underground adventuring in your spare time?”

  Damian managed to flip me over. “You were more bearable when you were drunk.”

  I shoved my knees into his kidneys, hoping to make him retreat even an inch so I could kick him off. He didn’t even flinch.

  The bone necklace in my hands emitted a faint lime-green glow and we both paused. Our labored breaths danced together as we stared at it.

  “What the,” we murmured in unison.

  I took the opportunity to slip my knee between us and shove it into his chest. It didn’t create too much distance, but it gave me enough time to lift the hatch.

  I peered into an underground storage space, and a duct-taped face that was identical to Damian’s stared back up at me.

  Well, that was unexpected.

  Damian’s defeat loomed over my back.

  I smirked, just a little. “Hello. You must be David.”

  14

  The Dark Prince

  According to Damian, the real David Forrester returned to campus unexpectedly last night. And the first thing Damian did upon this unexpected family reunion was bind and gag the guy.

  “So, you’re holding your twin hostage.” I tapped my nail on the desk and stared at the psychopath across from me.

  “For the last time
, no. I’m just … holding him until I figure out what the hell is going on around here.”

  “No, holding is what you were doing to me in my sleep last night. Duct tape and rope might make you feel warm and fuzzy inside, but that’s not how it works for everyone else.”

  Damian blinked. “He’s fine.”

  “Okay, cool.” I pointed a thumb over my shoulder. “Then let’s bring him up for some tea.”

  Damian was immediately on his feet, ready to stop me from freeing his prisoner. I smiled. He lowered back down, and a long pause stretched between us; I could practically feel the gears in his head churning, trying to figure out another way to sidestep the truth.

  The more I learned, the less Damian’s backstory lined up. He was a rogue who hated Reaper Collective, yet his brother was gainfully employed by its most prestigious institution. His twin brother. Whose identity he’d been faking, and who was now locked in a hidden cellar.

  This was beyond family dysfunction. And since I’d just had my ass branded thanks to him, it was time for him to spill.

  “If you think I make your life hell now, lie to me one more time. I will haunt you so hard the ghost of Christmas past will weep.”

  “Christmas is in three days. Will you disappear after that then, too?”

  I did the most intimidating thing I could think of at that moment: I tied the finger bone necklace around my neck. If it didn’t work as a scare tactic, it was at least a token of confusion. Damian sighed into the chair.

  “All right. You asked for this.” His shoulders slumped. “Reaper Collective is a hierarchy, right?”

  “Right.” I stroked my creepy jewelry to coax him on.

  “Well,” Damian took out a paper and pen. He drew something on it and slid it over to me.

  “Nice triangle, Picasso.”

  He reached over and circled the tip. “My father is here.”

  If Papa Forrester topped the RC food chain, then he was something of a supernatural CEO. But CEO felt like the wrong description.

  I traced the triangle. “Your father is king?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Damian balled up the paper and threw it. “It comes with all the obligations, politics, and expectations of a royal family. And something like a court, too—families who treat RC like a family business. As humans, they infiltrate government agencies to manage Liaisons and Cleaners. Until the time comes for them to join the spiritual side.” Damian dragged his fingers across his neck.

  “No way,” I whispered like an insatiable gossip. “And what happened to you?”

  Wounded anger flickered in the depths of his gaze. It faded as fast as came. He flipped the pen around like he wanted to stab someone with it. “When daddy dearest thought it was time for me to promote, he did the deed.”

  I was able to keep my jaw in check, but my disobedient eyeballs popped in surprise. “He murdered you?”

  “Poisoned. Like a coward.” There wasn’t a hint of emotion from him this time around.

  “And David?”

  “No, poor David had the misfortune of being born six minutes after me. Dad didn’t appreciate David’s gesture when I refused to fall in line, though. We were both forced into the Academy, and in a futile attempt at rebellion, I created the Illusionists. It was fun for a while, but it backfired. When I faked a second death, Dad made sure the Illusionists lived on, only he warped it in such a way that made it seem like I’d done something to carry on the family legacy. David ended up as Academy faculty as a punishment for being a brown-nosing second-born.”

  My internal monologue morphed into a rambling mess. “You did what?!”

  “Shh.”

  “Don’t shush me!” I barked in a hushed tone.

  Silence stretched between us again, but there was enough noise in my head to fill the whole damn castle.

  I finally knew why Damian had freaked out when I amateurly blackmailed him—he really didn’t want RC to know of his whereabouts. He wanted them to think he was dead.

  No wonder Damian didn’t talk about himself. He could write a memoir about daddy issues. Now didn’t seem like the time to pitch it to him though.

  I sort of understood his bad boy, rebel with a cause thing, but I didn’t get why in the world he’d come back here.

  I tucked my explosive thoughts in a neat little box. “Why are you here now?”

  “Your situation is the closest I’ve come to real proof that my dad is corrupt, and so is his organization.”

  “So, you are following me.”

  “Sure.”

  “How are you keeping tabs on your secret society?”

  “I have a good source here.”

  “Does your source happen to be imprisoned in his own closet at the moment?”

  “No. I wouldn’t pretend to be him if I could just ask him questions. David hates me. I got sloppy when I got mixed up with you, and I’m pretty sure he started suspecting that I wasn’t actually dead. Maven is a childhood friend of ours. Her mother is a tracker for RC and, if I had to guess, she’s looking into me at his request. I’m on limited time.” Damian shifted in his seat; he wasn’t comfortable talking this much. He did his best to keep his cool at my downpour of questions, but I caught him clenching his teeth.

  “Do you think David is the mole? Or the Illusionists’ sponsor?”

  Damian shrugged. “Probably not. As I said, David hates me. Warped or not, the Illusionists are my doing. And David wants to please his daddy, not piss him off. Daddy dearest doesn’t like ambition that doesn’t serve him.”

  I opened my mouth to say something else, and Damian inhaled a breath of pure disdain.

  I lifted my hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. So, what now?”

  He pointed at my neck. “Tell me what that is.”

  After I finished the story about the Moss Folk and the finger bone crafts, Damian agreed that the strange design on my backside was probably temporary, but suggested I keep it under wraps. Which I supposed meant not wearing my eerie gift.

  I prodded Damian for information about his vanishing tattoo, and all he said was that the ink was some guilt-driven recipe he’d gotten from a witch—if someone believed they had betrayed the Illusionists, the mark would appear. It sounded like magic straight out of the Black Market.

  Before I got up to leave, Damian said, “Try to get more details on the Christmas masquerade.”

  I stiffened. “I didn’t mention that to you.”

  With all the batshit crazy stuff he’d revealed, I’d forgotten about it entirely.

  “Quit squinting at me, trust issues. I’ve infiltrated the staff, remember? I hear about these things. Anyway, a big event like that might be an opportunity for a mole to come out and play.”

  “Don’t forget to feed your prisoner.” I made my way to the incognito exit, gripped the doorknob, and paused. “Oh yeah. Welcome to the wicked royals club, Dark Prince.”

  Until that moment, I’d never been on the receiving end of a glare hot enough to sizzle my insides.

  Finally, he said, “Don’t welcome me to it. I own it.”

  15

  The Death Note

  I saw two things when I opened my door: a handwritten card smack dab in the middle of the floor, and a ghostly dominatrix lying across my bed.

  In a short struggle for my attention, the dominatrix won. And not just because she was violently sexy, which she was; her chocolate brown hair was buzzed a few inches from her scalp, her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and she was drenched from the neck down in shiny leather—so shiny that it reflected light even in its ethereal form. The only part of her that was not tightly contained or strapped with knives was her fully displayed cleavage.

  She was the most relaxed predator I’d ever seen.

  She picked up the magical cuffs and spun them around her finger like a lasso. “Nice to see you too, Criminella.”

  From the shitty nickname to the accent rolling through her vowels, it appeared this was my kitten spy.

  I ra
ised both brows. “Mari?”

  “Da.”

  “You sneaky little shifter.”

  She slinked to her feet and stretched. “I seek deal with you, reaper girl.”

  “What sort?” I bent to pick up the note. It was pretty low on the legibility scale, so my focus shifted to Mari again. I sat on the bed and set the card beside me.

  She reached down to touch her toes. A long tail suddenly fluttered behind her. “There is contract binding me to this place. Your lover, Forrester, he’s close with woman who keeps it.”

  “Not my lover but go on.”

  Ears popped out of her head; they twitched and settled like a bra shimmying into place. “Maven Wyatt has my contract. I was tricked into signing it, and I cannot destroy it myself. Will you do this for me, Ellis Kennicot?”

  I did my best to ignore the furry, spontaneous additions sprouting from her body. “Why ask me? Why not someone else?”

  “At first, I thought because I keep you and your lover’s meetings secret. Now, because if you do this, I vow to find the person who left this for you.” Mari’s tail flicked toward the note. “I am good at finding. And hurting.”

  Once I concentrated on deciphering the terrible handwriting, I read:

  I know your secrets. You should not exist. If you don’t leave Driftwood Academy by midnight the night of the masquerade, I will kill everyone you care about. If you don’t believe me, I will list who will die if you don’t do what I say: Otto Tanaka, prisoner and traitor. Ashlyn Carter, Advanced Collector. Jose Rodriguez, Advanced Collector. Erik Westbrook, illegal energy-broker. Gary Hearthstone, rogue traitor. I know where they are, and I know where you are. Don’t forget. I’m watching.

  My blood was almost boiling out of my skin by the last word. My burning eyes landed on Mari, who was a misleading docile cat shape once again. I couldn’t see her collection of knives anymore, but the thought of them pleased me to no end.

  I folded and slid the card into my pocket. I liked the idea of keeping my enemies close. “I’ll take that deal with an extra side of hurting. That contract and this bastard are going down.”