Necromantia: Vol. 1-3 (Three Book Set)

by Matthew Buza

  In the corner of the barn stood a frail woman clutching a piece of lace fabric to her nose. She quickly dabbed away the tears that threatened to freeze on her cheeks. Jalon and Samson lifted the girl into the air, her wrists and feet bound with thick rope. The girl's father blankly looked on, still holding the metal chains in his hands.

  “Both arms and legs.” Jalon’s voice reached out and seemed to grab the man by the shoulders, flinging him into action. His hands shook from nerves and he clumsily locked the cold metal around the young girl’s wrist and ankles. His face contorted, holding back the tears as he locked his daughter in the heavy irons.

  Jalon and Samson lowered the girl to the ground. She knelt in the dirt before quickly scrambling back towards the wood pyre and away from the angel and necromancer. Her back struck the rounds sending bark cascading down over her worn clothes. Her eyes screamed out for help as she pleaded with her father. The old man was conflicted and stood paralyzed, staring down at the daughter he once knew. He gave up, hope slipping from his mind, and scurried back to comfort the woman weeping at the barn entrance. He grasped the old woman, his arms wrapping around her narrow shoulders. The girl cried out and her voice echoed in the barn. She was alone, abandoned by the only two people she trusted. From the edge of the barn the two sets of blank eyes stared back at what was their firstborn.

  Jalon lowered his body. The girl struggled and turned her face as if recoiling from some festering and putrid smell. “I know you are scared and I know what is in you, but please pray with me.”

  The tears dropped like rain over her cheeks. She was consumed by the emotion and pain of the past month.

  “Say it with me,” Jalon said.

  She shook her head violently, resisting the angel's call. She could feel the smoky darkness welling up inside threatening to boil over.

  “You know the Lord’s prayer. Say it with me.”

  She shook her head and coughed out dark whisps of vapor.

  “I can’t protect your soul if you don’t let me in. I’m here to help you and I can bring you peace. There’s a cost. Now…say it with me.”

  The girl froze, locking her green eyes on the towering man. Jalon’s wings were tucked back in a folded embrace. She could see them, the feathers shaking in the light breeze that now flowed in from the open barn.

  Jalon’s voice dropped to a whisper, but it cut the silence like a knife. “Say it.”

  The girl hesitated for a moment, knowing that any intervention may kill her. It was her only hope, this angel, a creature of God, was reaching out to her. She relented and let loose the muffled and familiar cadence. Jalon joined her, as did Samson. Her parents still fraught with terror dropped to their knees and spoke the Latin.

  “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

  The prayer ended and Jalon stood gazing down at the girl. He repeated, “And…deliver us from evil.”

  He turned and walked towards the barn doors, reaching up and slamming them shut. The barn was carefully lit by hanging torches that perched above the thick wood beams that ran up to the roof. Each flame danced in the draft, casting their wicked shadows across the grim scene. Jalon plucked a torch from above the grieving parents. Small embers showered down onto the dark brown dirt floor. With the sharp end of the torch, he dug into the dirt floor forming a crude circle around the girl and pyre. At the top of the circle he drew out a large cross that finished in front of the girl. He crossed himself with his powerful hand and whispered to the girl, “Amen.”

  In the center of the dirt cross Jalon jammed the torch, sending sparks flying high into the barn's rafters. His large frame collapsed, his knees plowing into the dirt as he lifted his arms up. His eyes rolled back and he spoke in Latin, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  There was a tremor along the ground that sent small plumes of dust rising into the air. The floor continued to shake, creating a light fog along the ground.

  The young girl stared blankly at the angel, her neck twitching slightly. She could feel him coming, the fire burning deep now threatened to overflow onto the ground. She spasmed, and shook violently. Her mother screamed out as if sharing the pain with her daughter, the tender and loving child she had once known.

  The old woman cried out for her daughter, “My sweet Camille, oh Lord help her.”

  Camille's joints popped, her knees flexed out and her abdomen pulled high into the air, her lovely brown hair dangling towards the ground. She floated for a moment, hovering in space like a landscape painting of a nightmare.

  There was no sound. The angel's arms still pressed high into the air.

  “I call out and tell him to bring forth your worst, In the name of Christ you will meet me.” Jalon dropped his arms and stared at the convulsing child. “Camille, let him come. Do not fight it.”

  Her legs and arms fought the thick ropes. The chains clanked against her as she hopped and bounced in the dirt.

  Jalon turned to Samson. “Cut the ropes. He's here. I want to see him.”

  Samson moved quickly, pulling a knife and swiping at the binds. Camille was free and as if a dam had broken loose, the girl's body lunged towards Jalon. The chains caught against the beams sending an echo ringing through the barn. Her body hovered over the ground, her face level with the angel's. She was ashen and empty. Lines cut across her nose and mouth as she slowly vomited a black sludge. It oozed out of her lips and dripped down onto the floor below.

  “Christ…is…good.” Jalon released the slow breath into Camille's face. The softness of his voice was lost in the white noise of the ringing chains. He gasped, smelling the foul scent coming from the child. His voice thundered. “I said! Christ…is…good.”

  All innocence had left her body. What was once a playful child had now become a sick plaything of another world. The pool of filth grew below her, threatening to break the circle. She continued to float in the air, her body pulling against the chains. She opened her mouth and released an otherworldly sound. “Christ…is…shit! Christ…is…vile! Christ…is…nothing!”

  Jalon continued unfazed. “Christ is here with us. His light burns through us all.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Christ is in us.”

  The voice now taunted him. “Ja-lon.”

  “God will protect us,” Jalon continued.

  Her voiced popped as she struggled to speak. “Protect you, Ja-lon? He doesn't love you.”

  “Christ loves all. You will leave her.”

  The head turned. Camille spoke, “No.”

  “I will take you back.”

  “To home? Oh please take me.”

  “You are going back to hell.”

  “Please promise you will. I would like that.” She let out a passionate breath as if an orgasm had swept through her body. “Will you, please. Ja-lon?”

  “Leave her body and I will take you there myself.”

  She smiled. “Oh, my dearest Ja-lon, we have so much to do. So much to catch up on.”

  “Leave her and I will make you feel Christ's light.”

  “I will have you as my own. I will wear your body on the burning hill. The ash of your feathers stretched out across my face releasing its sweet perfume through the air.”

  Jalon was silent. Camille's eyes were cloudy black and swirling. Jalon crossed himself. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  “Your Christ is not here. You are so far away from home. Just a pawn in a game. A sacrifice to Him? Will you sacrifice yourself to Him? He won't weep when I kill you. Your spot will be filled by another seraphim. Another body in His army. And you sacrifice everything for Him? To Him?”

  “For Him, always,” Jalon responded.

  The girl's head snapped back in laughter. The perverse glee f
illed the barn, sending dust falling like a mist from the ceiling and blanketing the macabre scene.

  Camille's eyes and head dropped. The chains dug into her wrists as her limp body fell forward, suspended above the ground by the taught chains. A short quiver ran up her back and her mouth opened as if prepared to release whatever contents lay in her stomach. Her hips bucked once and she was still.

  From her nose, a slow black vapor bled out. The smoky wisps danced across her cheeks as if blindly searching for something or someone. It flowed out across her eyes and over her forehead, threatening to consume her face.

  From the corner of the barn two terrified sets of eyes watched as their innocent daughter expelled the putrid evil. The father lifted his head and pleaded to Jalon, “What is happening to her?”

  Jalon was silent. He stood resolute and focused on the girl.

  “Please,” the father cried.

  Jalon barked out, “Silence you fools!”

  Her mother whimpered and continued to pray. All eyes focused on the smoke flowing around the little girl’s head.

  As if on cue Jalon stood quickly and placed his hand on the girl’s neck. The smoke quickly swirled around his wrist and grabbed hold. From beneath the blackness, a blue light glowed. Jalon's hand gripped harder.

  “Samson, light the fire.”

  “Now?”

  “YES, now!”

  Samson rounded the fire pit holding a torch. He placed it against the wood, kindling, and dried hay. The material quickly caught fire and ripped through the stack. The heat poured out across the barn.

  “Samson, Lazarus! Pull the chains!”

  From behind the far column, Lazarus emerged and sprinted to the chain locks. He and Samson pulled against the metal and began to lift the little girl into the air, Jalon's hand still holding the girl's neck. His wings began to pulse kicking up dust and swirling the flames in the fire.

  The slack left the chains and the girl hovered in a star position above the fire. The blue light flooded the ceiling above Jalon. His arms and face struggled as the smoky black vapor crawled up his arm.

  “Samson now!”

  Samson pulled a canvas bag from his pocket and flung the packet into the fire. The bag ignited, sending up a green flame that engulfed the two bodies floating above the pyre. Jalon's wings stopped beating and his body fell into the fire. The smoky vapor poured out of the girl's face and was dragged into the green flame chasing the seraphim down.

  The fire extinguished leaving the barn in the dark. The torches slowly re-ignited. The girl hung limp swinging gently above the burnt wood. Samson and Lazarus lowered the girl back down to the ground and her parents rushed to her side.

  The mother was still overcome with tears as she wiped the soot from her daughter's face. “My love. Oh, my love come back to us. Please come back to us.”

  Samson stood and placed a hand on the father's shoulder. “She will be fine. She will sleep for a few days, but in the end, she will be fine.”

  “Praise Jesus. Thank you. Thank you.” The man lost control and wept over his daughter.

  Samson turned to Lazarus. His eyes burned with a fiery urgency. “We haven't much time. Outside now.”

  Both men slipped out of the barn and back into the punishing cold. Small snowflakes flurried about their heads.

  “You have to assume Jalon is always listening. You hear me. He can hear if he wants. But right now, he is on the other side. I can tell you that black beast is strong.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Right now, I don't know. Where he is going we are not allowed. Mainly for our safety. I am sure right now he is on the road to hell dragging that demon along.”

  “Is that where he is taking him?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What was that smoke?”

  “It was the demon. Something we do not mess with. That is your first lesson. Jalon and his type are equipped to deal with them, we are not. Regardless, he’s not listening. I don't know you, I don't know why you did it, but you upset some important people. Jalon described two ways to get to be a necromancer. One by work and one by choice.”

  “Yes.”

  “You come to this by choice. I have been a necromancer for nearly two hundred years. I came into this life through training, working as an apprentice. In all my years I've never seen a necromancer make it to the end who was put there through choice.”

  "What do you mean?”

  “I mean those necromancers die before the end.”

  “But that means…”

  “Yes, you don't get to heaven. You'll never make it there, kid. What I am telling you is treason, but I'm nearly at the end of my time. I've had good friends that were there by choice and never made it. Every apprentice I've gotten has been through work, never by choice.”

  Lazarus nervously looked around. “But I…it was just an accident.”

  “I know, but it is your fate.”

  "Can't we talk to Jalon about this?”

  “Never speak to anyone about this. Jalon will be back soon. I will never speak to you about this again. You will be a necromancer soon. Work hard, push yourself and when the time is right, seek out a man by the name of Cilas. Tell him Samson sent you and he might be able to help you.”

  “Cilas?”

  “Don't forget the name, Cilas. I won't speak of this again.”

  The River Bends Hard

  Berlin, Prussia

  1856

  The rain fell gently against the roof of the coach. Outside Lazarus heard the click of the horse hooves against the cobblestone as they made their way through the city. It had been a silent trip since they left the station. A coach had been waiting for him on the platform along with two guards and a woman. The men were tall and brooding and wore dark black suits that were lined with purple vests. He was told to look for purple when he got off the train. It wasn't hard when he saw her. The dark plum dress and a black shawl flowed in the light breeze. The satin fabric folded and bent with her curves. She held a small umbrella, just large enough for her brunette hair and face to stay out of the rain. Her beauty shook him as he stared longer than he should have. Lazarus let loose a nervous smile as she guided him to the coach.

  It was warm inside with the four bodies breathing heavily. Lazarus looked from face to face, each one staring out the window as if trying to avoid conversation. They wound their way through new streets bordered by towering cream plastered buildings. It was his first time in Berlin.

  Lazarus looked at the woman. His voice was deep. “Do you have a name?”

  She continued to focus on the window with a blank and somewhat stern face. Her eyes slowly counting each raindrop that struck the small window. Her thick red lips curled, playfully teasing Lazarus. They seemed to dance as she spoke. “My name is Malusha.”

  “So, you do speak. Thank you for breaking your vow of silence.”

  “You haven't asked me anything.”

  “It is your city and coach. I was just being respectful.” Lazarus swallowed and dug deep to pull what courage he had left. His mind raced for a topic. “Your accent, are you Russian?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was music that gripped his mind. “And you are French?”

  “South of France. Yes.”

  “In the Alps or Pyrenees?”

  “Just outside the Alps. I lived for a while outside of Lyon.”

  “I visited there once. Walked through the wheat fields in late summer. That was before Napoleon came.”

  That name stabbed Lazarus and for a brief moment he saw Claude's face and felt the stinging cold against his arms. He couldn't tell her age. She had walked through Lyon seventy years ago and that would make this woman at least one hundred years old. “Are you of the order?”

  "I am, like yourself.”

  “How long have you been part of it?”

  “I think when you pass fifty years, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “I know. It feels like you’re a tree frozen in time and the world’s m
oving past you.”

  Malusha smiled at Lazarus.

  “I take it you have been around a while? I haven’t heard of you, but it seems you have a good perspective on the job.”

  “I’ve been around. I’ve kept busy, so I don’t have much time to travel.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “How did you come by the position? By choice or work?”

  “Now, now, Mr. Lazarus, here we don't ask those types of questions. We all work for the common goal. It doesn't matter how we got here.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve only met a few within the order. So I’m not aware of any taboo. I’m just trying to understand you. It's always nice to meet another.”

  “There’s no offense. But do know that that question is a personal one.”

  “I understand.” He paused for a moment. “Do you work for Cilas?”

  “Cilas.” She smiled and motioned to the coach, “Everyone here works for Cilas and while you are here, if Cilas asks you to work, then you work. It doesn't matter who you are.”

  “He directs other necromancers? Isn’t that the job of your seraphim?”

  “That is true. Typically…true. But we've been without one for a while.”

  “I didn't know that was possible.”

  “Well, we operate with some leniency, but we do march in the right direction. We often take a different route. It does allow us some freedom, and likely the reason you are here.”

  “I wasn't aware of that. In France, my guide is Jalon.”

  “Ja-lon.” She dragged out his name, in a way that flooded back memories of the barn on that first night. He could still see that little girl strung up by the chains. His arms flushed with goose pimples. “The one thing I know about Ja-lon is that he will be there with you in the end.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’ll be there for you and with you. He’s a strong seraphim, very close to the Christ. We all know him here. Does he still like to flash his wings?”

  “How so?”

  “Does he quiver his feathers so that they shine?”