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

by Matthew Buza

  He could hear her warbling broken voice. “Flowers…flowers…”

  He waved his hand and motioned for the woman to leave but she persisted. She stopped a foot from Lazarus and he could smell the tiny woman’s breath as she pressed out the flowers. She reeked of ginger and sesame oil. Her wrinkled faced stared up at Lazarus.

  “Flowers…for your lady?”

  “Move along. I don't want your flowers.”

  “They're pretty.”

  “Get the hell outta here. I don't need your stupid flowers.”

  She stopped and lowered the bundles to her side. Her back was hunched and she craned her neck.

  “What are you looking at?” he said.

  The woman's back slowly unhinged and she lifted herself up. The age seemed to fall away as her eyes leveled with Lazarus's face. The Chinese accent disappeared into perfect English.

  “A gift from the Emo to our dear Lazarus.”

  Lazarus's eyes narrowed.

  The woman continued. “What are you doing here?”

  She dropped the flowers and they fell out across the ground. Petals broke off the stems and scattered across the ground. A stream of tiny black spiders broke free and scurried across the ground trying to find protective cracks along the stone work. A few crawled up over the edges of Lazarus's boots and burned into a white ash.

  Lazarus never broke contact with the woman. “I'm here running an errand.”

  “Oh, now, now, necromancers running errands? That's something new. You wouldn't happen to be buying a spell in these parts? Natious knows you and we wouldn't allow any purchases. Your gold pieces are very valuable and I couldn't imagine you losing out. Your debt should be close, old crafter.”

  “Just an errand you witch.”

  Her lips peeled back and the pointed teeth shone in the dim lighting. “Yesss, it always gives me some pleasure to hear a man of high caliber, like yourself, say it. Www-itchh. Say it again and I'll take you myself. These old hips are still strong.”

  “I'm sure. Have you been drinking down on some longevity spell? What are you a hundred?”

  She moved closer and Lazarus could feel her hand move into his pocket. “That might be close.”

  His hand wrapped around her wrist. “I don't have any coins on me, so you can keep this to yourself.”

  “What if I was going in for touchies?”

  “Not for you.”

  “You're breaking this witch's heart.”

  “I don't think you have one.”

  “Oh, it beats alright, it beats very strong.” She pushed away from Lazarus as the flowers quickly lifted up off the ground. Her hand closed in around the bundles and the flowers grew out from the naked stems, first gray and then back to a brilliant assortment of color.

  “Tell her I said hello,” Lazarus said to the old woman.

  “Oh, she will be happy I saw you. I'll make sure to mention it. You never know, you might see her.”

  “I'm sure of it.”

  The woman slowly dipped back into a hunch and her broken English returned. “Your little apprentice is lost with the Mortem now.”

  “What?”

  She turned back to the unsuspecting crowds and raised up the flowers. “Flowers…flowers…”

  Lazarus stared at the witch as she melted back into the market. He checked his watch; it had been nearly thirty minutes.

  Lazarus rubbed his hands against his pants and set off down the shadowed hallway. He turned the corner and found the small light along the wall. His hands danced along the wooden facade looking for the crack between the siding. His fingertips felt the light draft. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He quickly swiped it against his pants and illuminated the hall. The wood was old and slowly rotting in the damp confines. Lazarus's finger pressed against the door as flakes of wood and old lead paint fell to the ground.

  Lazarus pulled out a small bag of white powder and dusted the door crack from ceiling to floor. The fine residue was barely noticeable. He lowered the Zippo and touched off the powder. At first, it burned a dull blue before it raced up the wood siding. The blue light gave way to a melting red. Small sparks and gooey metallic drops fell down to the floor and fizzled out. The fire traced up the side of the door and ended at the ceiling.

  Lazarus closed his Zippo and returned it to his jacket pocket. He reached out and pressed against the wall with his hands and the door fell and crashed into the spell shop. The impact sent a large plume of dust into the air and obscured Lazarus's vision.

  He jumped through the door and quickly ran up the side of the shop towards the front counter. It was empty.

  “Isaac! Isaac are you here?” He called out.

  He scanned the floor and saw the streaks of scuff marks and black slashes painting the ground. He noticed another set of footprints in a thin layer of dust. It was a set of women's heels.

  In the center of the floor, Isaac cleared a small space. He grabbed a piece of chalk off the counter and drew a circle on the ground. He quickly scanned the shelves. His voice mumbled as he thumbed through the vials. “Heart….heart….heart…..here.”

  He picked up the glass flask filled with a thin red liquid. He returned to the chalk circle and dumped the contents in the center. The liquid flowed out and filled the edges. Lazarus shifted to the ground and scanned the ground for hair. He found a number of strands along the cracks where he believed Isaac’s head was. He carefully picked them up and placed them into the liquid ring.

  He whispered, “Alright, boy. Are you still with me?”

  He kneeled and bobbed his head slowly over the red liquid. The hairs drifted over the floor by some unseen currents. “The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in him. Isaac trusts in him.”

  The hairs that floated shook and slowly began to pulse a bright red. The pulse was in rhythm to a heartbeat.

  Lazarus nodded, knowing that Isaac was still alive. He knew if they hadn't killed him yet they would be taking him to a ritual. Rituals take time. He closed his eyes as the red light flashed against his forehead. He saw the heel prints in the dust. A face came across his mind and he brushed it aside. He ignored what his mind told him and focused on the job at hand. He had time, time to find help.

  His hand flashed out and swiped across the floor, scattering the glowing hairs and liquid. He knew they would be coming back to the shop and he didn’t want to be here when they arrived. On his way out he scanned the shelves and pocketed a number of spells and potions.

  It was a quick exit and a short jog through the market to the black Lincoln. On his dash buried under the wiper was a city parking ticket. A moment later Lazarus mashed the gas and sped away tossing the balled-up ticket out the window.

  An Old Friend

  Lazarus drove north along the freeway like a streaking black demon speeding away from the emerald city. The skyline flickered in his rearview mirror with the Space Needle off to his left. Seattle was always beautiful, even when it rained. The thick clouds would stream in from the sound covering the building tops like a warm blanket.

  Lazarus mashed the gas to pass a slow-moving truck. Horns honked as he shifted lanes pressing the long Lincoln into tiny spots.

  The city was built on the edge of the Puget Sound along a steep hill that was slowly peeled off by nearly a century of development. From Lazarus's vantage point it looked like the city was a simple earthquake away from sliding into the deep dark waters of the sound. To his left streaking across the bay, he could see the expensive houses dotting Queen Ann Hill. The occult was popular in wealthy circles. It would be hard for him to name all of the clients he had in those homes. Politicians, business people, and wealthy retirees with idle time and a penchant for the dark and sexual. The long parties on those hills made him smile. They loved experimenting and he enjoyed a good show. It was a golden time for new-age thinking and dabbling in the occult arts. They had so much power, money and influence, but they knew so little about the world beneath their toes
.

  Lazarus was traveling north of the city to a small church near Bitter Lake. The church was built in stone pre-dating many of the 1930s homes that filled the suburbs now.

  The congregations were always small, never totaling more than twenty souls lining the thin pews. On the rare holiday where guilt swelled the ranks they would overflow, leaning against the cold stone walls. The small stained-glass windows caught any natural light trying to illuminate the nave. A large percentage of donations were funneled into candle purchases and eventually accent lighting along the edge of the wood paneling that wrapped the walls.

  The sanctuary was decorated in purple cloth that draped down to a red carpeted floor. An old wooden cross built from old growth Douglas Fir was suspended against the back wall and leaned down over the altar. It gave a menacing feel as if Jesus himself were looking down over the congregation and offering up judgment for their sins.

  Father Luke stood behind the podium using the visuals around him to magnify his message. Five individuals sat in the pews, gripped by the liturgy.

  He lifted his hands up mimicking the cross behind him and closed out his mass. “As it is proclaimed in Matthew.” He paused, letting the small group prepare the memorized words. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”

  Lazarus smiled hearing the familiar passage. He thought to himself, quoting Matthew today Luke. Always a strong move.

  “He said to his disciples, it’s peace I give you, now go in peace. Please share a word of peace with your neighbors.”

  Two old women shook hands with the three homeless men. Their soft murmurs echoed across the walls. Luke stared at the back and saw the dark figure of Lazarus. Lazarus rolled his hands indicating to Luke to end the sermon.

  “Thank you all. I hope you find peace in your life and share that with others. Go in peace as Mass is over.” His voice was rushed.

  Luke walked down from the lectern and made his way to Lazarus. The old and decrepit bodies slowly inched their way through the pews and exited out the side doors and into the dark night.

  Lazarus stood and shook Father Luke's hand. “Still doing late-night masses?”

  He gave a wry smile. “There’s always souls that need saving.”

  Lazarus nodded. “No truer statement.”

  “I haven't seen you in nearly a year, Lazarus. Not since…”

  Lazarus's eyes closed at the thought of Nathaniel. “I know.”

  “That was a good boy.”

  “He was. He has been missed. I can promise you that.”

  “Those that we put time into always form a bond. Human capital. It hurts to see that go.”

  “He was a friend too.”

  “That he was.”

  Luke motioned for Lazarus to follow him as they exited into a side office. The room was dusty and old and filled to the shoulder with stacks of papers and periodicals. The walls were gray and adorned with simple wooden crosses. Small black shawls draped over the crosses and hung against the wall.

  “You don't clean much do you?”

  “I always clean, it’s just that the clutter comes back so easily.”

  Lazarus picked up a paper. “The Resurrection; Myth and Legend. Just some light reading.”

  He nodded to Lazarus. “Research for a friend of mine.”

  “I know how that story ends.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a story, Lazarus. Even the damned ascend.”

  “That’s not how I heard it.”

  “This old priest still prays for you daily.”

  “Thank you, but I don't think he is listening.”

  “He is. I don't want to get into that endless debate with you. Did you come out of your cave just to say hello?”

  “I don't have a lot of time. You know I have a new apprentice?”

  “I heard.”

  “From who?”

  “People.”

  “Jalon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We were tracking a job and it took us down to Pike's. I sent the boy into Natious's spell shop.”

  “Into the shop? Why were you at Pike’s?” Luke said.

  “Nobody knows who the boy is. I thought I could use that to my advantage. I sent him to get information about markings we saw on a body. It took too long and I went in there. The boy was gone and so was Natious. There looked to be a struggle on the floor.”

  “Is the boy…”

  “No, no I checked. Still beating. They’re probably taking him to some ritual. I have time. But I don't know for how long. So I rushed here because I thought you could help.”

  “Who were you tracking?”

  “Some markings on a woman's body.” Lazarus pulled out the photo. “The woman wasn't anything special but the markings pointed to serious occult work.”

  “Eyes and crosses. But who was she?”

  “I don't know. I think some member or worse, some sacrifice. There are burns between the legs and small metal shavings. Like she slid down a metal cable.”

  “I haven't seen these markings before. Could the metal cable be an elevator shaft or something like that?”

  “I don't know. How many elevator shafts are there in Seattle? I don't have time to check. Do you know if there are any new groups making a name for themselves?”

  “There are always new people, maybe a couple that might be of interest. I heard of a group out on Vashon working with trees.”

  “Some druid operation?”

  “Possibly, I haven't checked them out yet. There's a group south near you called the Mortem.”

  “Mortem?”

  “They might be something to check out. I think they are south of downtown in the industrial district, just off the port.”

  “That’s where they found this woman’s body. I need to find this boy, Luke. I need you to help me. It’s always nice to have someone with me who knows the art. I don't know how much time I have left. I can't lose this kid.”

  “I'm a little past my prime, Lazarus.”

  “Hardly. What are you going to do around here? Sit around and give another empty mass?”

  Luke smiled and sat down in his chair. “It's late.”

  “I will get you some coffee. Come with me. I need to find him. My time is running out soon and I can't afford to start again.”

  “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You come to mass once a week. You come here.”

  “And listen to your boring liturgies?”

  “All of them. You take the sacrament, you pray, you confess, and we work through this.”

  A minor irritation came across Lazarus's face. “You know how I feel about that.”

  “I do, but I want you to do it anyway.”

  A long breath passed out of Lazarus's nose and he nodded to his long-time friend. “I want to sit in the back.”

  “Just be here in these walls and I will be happy.”

  “Fine you have a deal. But I want you and your gear.”

  “A deal then.”

  Luke spun around and reached behind the old wooden desk. He pulled out a long travel case and set it across his lap. He twisted the combination and it popped open with a click. The case was dusty and showed its age, but inside the items remained pristine. Rows of blades and daggers lined the velvet case. Each adorned with Latin engravings and crosses. He pulled back on the Velcro and lifted a long silver blade, and gently spun it in his hand. His fingers rolled and danced with great skill as the knife twirled and blurred. His hand tightened and the blade released a resonating ring.

  Luke's face brightened and a rush of memories came flooding back. “Shiny.”

  “Suit up my friend.”

  The Smoke Within

  Isaac sat alone like a hunched pillar in the center of the room. His hands and legs were bound to the steel chair by a braided rope that was pulled taut around his chest, pinni
ng him back. His chin rested against his chest and a slow bead of saliva inched down his chin and dripped on his knee. His chest pulsed, feeling that shock of life and he pulled in his first shallow breath in nearly a minute.

  The room was still under construction, as was the rest of the building. Unfinished Sheetrock and poor taping covered the walls. Just beyond was a low drum of a generator. Its hum powered the building and the small naked bulb that swung from the ceiling cast long shadows over the ground.

  The world struck Isaac like an avalanche and he snapped back gasping for air. The memories of the shop flooded back and Zinn’s toxic face burned through his mind. She was a poison in his body, killing everything that was good and whole. He desperately needed a cure, but was terrified of what form that would take.

  He pulled back against the bindings and let out a guttural cry. Zinn, Lazarus, and Jalon, all names that plunged him into rage. Isaac seethed in anger as thin ribbons of spittle flew out with each breath. He pressed with all his strength as his skin folded over the cordage, pressing out the color from his fingers and wrists. He released his muscles and his body collapsed sending his head and chin dropping again to his chest.

  It's hopeless, he thought. I'm going to die here.

  Along the side of his face, sweat collected and flowed down along the evening stubble. He pressed again and called out, “Hello!”

  His voice popped and echoed against the walls. There was no one there, just the faint sound of the generator and the sterile smell of unfinished drywall.

  He shivered thinking of Zinn and what she might do to him.

  Was that even her? How had she gotten out?

  His mind raced trying to explain what seemed to be unexplainable. An inmate had escaped and somehow found him in an obscure shop in the corner of Pike's. He wrestled with the probabilities. How could this happen to him?

  He could feel that first night with Zinn, as it flooded back with a fury. The rush of the room, James running out and the sound of the feet behind him. Then the blackness swallowing his memory. As if the lights were turned out and he was left in a solitary cell for dead. He could almost feel the urine dropping on his face.